by James R Benn
“I bought her lunch, and she’s willing to help if we need it. Here.” I handed the slip of paper to Payne, glancing at the names as I did so. I hadn’t had the time to look before, and I figured the names wouldn’t mean anything to me anyway. I’d been wrong.
“One of these is Ernest Bone,” I said.
“The sweet shop fellow?” Payne said.
“Yes. I stopped by today, and asked him if he’d heard of Stuart Neville. He said he hadn’t.”
“And what brought you to interview Mr. Bone? Or do you have a sweet tooth?”
“I get all the Hershey bars I need at the PX,” I said. “It was a long shot, but I thought there might be some connection to the missing girl. A stranger in the area, either known to her or not.”
“A stranger who might have bashed in Neville’s skull, you mean?”
“I know it sounds farfetched, but I keep thinking about the canal. It’s a quiet getaway route, for either a killer or a kidnapper.”
“Or both,” Payne said. “These are small towns, Hungerford and Newbury. Kintbury is merely a village. We don’t have gangsters running about. There’s some logic to one villain as opposed to several. But no evidence, more’s the pity.”
“Do you know the other name Miss Gardner gave us?” I asked.
“Stanley Fraser, Atherton Street,” Payne said, reading the other name. “Yes, Fraser is a solicitor, does quite well for himself. Not surprising he’s getting himself a new place.”
“Ernest Bone seems to be barely hanging on,” I said. “I wonder what he’s up to. And why he said he didn’t know Neville.”
“You know, I believe he did mention something about renovating his shop,” Payne said. “I’ve been in there a few times; the missus likes her sweets well enough. We got to chatting. He lives upstairs, and said he needed the room. He’s quite keen on making the sweets himself, the old-fashioned way. I have the impression he has some money, and the store is more of a hobby. Not a bad business, if he can hang on. Once the war is over and rationing is a memory, sweets will be an affordable luxury. Tell me, did you show him the picture, or give him Neville’s name?”
“I didn’t show it to him. It was more of an offhand remark.”
“We’ll have to ask him again, but perhaps he simply forgot. Chap from the bank comes around with paperwork about your mortgage application, you might not pay much attention to his name,” Payne said.
“Unless you don’t get the mortgage,” I said.
“Right. Then you go and bash the bloke’s head in. Nice try, Boyle. Ah, tea.”
Constable Cook set a tray on his desk and we poured ourselves tea. He had sugar out, but knowing how hard it was to come by, I passed. We drank in silence for a few minutes, and I was glad of the warmth of the cup, if not the taste of the milky brew.
“I got the report back from Broadmoor,” Constable Cook said to the inspector. “No escapes.”
“What’s Broadmoor?” I asked. “A prison?”
“More or less,” Payne said. “The Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum is about thirty miles east of here, in Crowthorne. I thought it worth checking to see if any of the inmates had broken out.”
“It’s good to know I’m not the only one with a weakness for long shots,” I said.
“The inspector’s been known to go the long way around to solve a case or two,” Cook said with a grin. “But no pleasure men have gone over the wall.”
“Pleasure men?” I didn’t know what that meant, but it wasn’t uncommon for me to not understand plain English spoken by a Brit.
“Many of the inmates are charged under the Criminal Lunatics Act, which sentences them to incarceration until His Majesty’s pleasure is known, as the law states. Hence, pleasure men. And women, as well. It is effectively a life sentence.”
“A nutcase on the loose is the last thing we need,” I said.
“Hard enough finding one body while looking for another,” Cook said. “But an escapee would at least give us something to go on. We’ve caught runaways before, and sent a few there as well.”
“Any ideas?” I asked. They both shook their heads.
“We haven’t had any other reports of missing girls,” Payne said.
“Not from the Berkshire force,” Cook said. “But she could have been a runaway. From Oxford, Bath, even London. We’d not hear a word of her.”
“Wouldn’t it be more likely for a young girl to run away to those places, not from them to Hungerford? No offense, but this place isn’t exactly bright lights and big city.”
“No offense taken, Boyle,” Payne said. “We like it that way, don’t we, Constable?”
“Aye. And not to offend you, Captain, but she could have been following a boyfriend around. Mainly Yanks on our patch here, so that’s who comes to mind. And remember the current; it could have carried her from Newbury or beyond.”
“True,” Payne said, sipping his tea. “She could have been put in last night east of Newbury and gone unnoticed in the dark. Tangled in the weeds as she was, we could have missed her for days.”
“The question is, did Sophia suffer the same fate?” I said.
“As soon as word gets out, every family hereabouts will keep their daughters close,” Cook said. “From your description, the two girls are about the same age. Not a good sign.”
“No,” Payne said. Silence slipped into the room as we considered what that meant, for Sophia and possibly other girls.
“Inspector Payne said you were interested in the Tom Eastman murder.” Cook spoke quietly, as if not wanting to intrude on our thoughts about the girls.
“Yes. I’m looking into it for a friend. Unofficially. Anything you can tell me would be appreciated. I don’t mean any disrespect to Constable Eastman. I know I’d be suspicious of anyone snooping around a closed case back home.”
“I’ll tell you this,” Cook said, leaning forward. “Your chaps from CID were plain lazy, if you don’t mind my saying so. Once they got Private Smith on the brain, that was all they wanted to hear.”
“You know his nickname,” I said.
“Indeed. Any man called Angry bears watching, I decided, when I first heard of him.”
“Did he cause any trouble for you?”
“Not really. His friends stopped a fight outside the Three Crowns once. I was told it took three of them, and Private Smith wasn’t all that riled up. But the occasional fisticuffs among soldiers is to be expected.”
“The fight was between two Negro soldiers?”
“So I heard. Can’t say who it was, the talk was more about the effort it took to restrain Private Smith. I’ve seen him a few times. Strong fellow, he is.”
“Do you think he killed Tom Eastman?”
“It’s possible,” Cook said, considering the question. “From what circumstantial evidence I saw, and knowing his temper, he could have done it. And there was bad blood between Tom and him as well. You know about Rosemary Adams?”
“Tom Eastman’s sister, and wife of Malcolm Adams,” I said, pulling the names out of my mental notebook.
“Yes. Tom was very protective of Rosemary. Had to be, with a brute like Malcolm for a husband. I can think of no man who was grieved less when we thought he’d been killed.”
“Eastman didn’t like a Negro keeping company with his sister?”
“Tom Eastman was a fine man,” Cook said, his voice firm and his eyes on mine. “Finer than many Americans I’ve seen who treat these colored boys like dirt. He may have called Private Smith a few choice names, but that didn’t mean he objected to his entire race. When Rosemary thought Malcolm might have been killed, Tom told Smith to stay away until they got official word from the army. He was protecting his sister, and rightly so.”
“But Rosemary and Angry didn’t listen to him.”
“No, except that they kept things quiet. Tom knew, of course, and when word came that Malcolm had been wounded, not killed, he became quite upset. He knew that Malcolm would make life horrible for poor Rosemary. He blame
d Private Smith, when he should have blamed both equally. But that’s a brother’s love, isn’t it?”
“How did they meet?”
“His company was on a march and passed by the Adams place, so I heard,” Cook said. I got the impression the constable heard everything that went on around here. “She has a little garden and a coop with some chickens. The fence was down and the chickens were wandering out into the road. They gathered them up, and Rosemary brought out water from the well. Smith offered to come back and repair the fence, which he did. Not the first time one of these chaps offered to help out the locals. Farm boys miss the soil, don’t they?”
“Well, I miss the sidewalks in Boston, Constable, but I’m not offering to walk your beat.”
“Different with country fellows. Anyhow, that’s how they got to know each other, and things were proper like until word came that Malcolm was dead. Rosemary did her best to put on a show of grief, but everyone knew what a blighter her husband was. Truth be told, most were glad to see a kind man around the house.”
“So you don’t think he’s guilty.”
“As I said, he could have done it. But no, I don’t think he did.”
“But Angry Smith didn’t get along with white people, as I understand. He could have turned that rage onto Eastman.”
“Ah,” said Cook. “It’s your lot he doesn’t like. American white people, that is. He told me Hungerford was the friendliest town with white people in it he’d ever been to.” Cook grinned at the memory. He seemed to have taken a liking to the man named Angry.
“He was thinking of staying on, after the war,” I said, remembering his letters, and what Tree had told me about being accepted as a human being, and what a novel experience that was.
“We could use men like him,” Payne said. “With all the losses from the last war, and those already dead in this one, we have too few men about. The Royal Berkshire Regiment took heavy losses at Dunkirk, you know. And with the invasion coming any time soon, there’ll be more mourning done before the end.”
“You don’t think a Negro and a white woman would have a hard time?” I asked. I knew they would back home.
“We have our faults, to be sure,” Payne said. “But we weren’t brought up to believe these sons of Africa are the devil’s spawn like so many of you Yanks. The smashing of glasses in the pubs, that said more about the white soldiers than it did the Negroes. Thank goodness someone saw the light and rescinded that order. No one was looking forward to the louts who did that coming here on leave.”
“Have you seen the sign Horace put up at the Three Crowns?” Cook asked. We hadn’t. “It says, ‘This place for the exclusive use of Englishmen and American Negro soldiers.’ That about sums up the feelings in town.”
“Okay, I get it. But back to Tom Eastman. If Angry Smith didn’t kill him, who did?” I thought there had to be a more personal connection with Tom, but I wanted to see what the cop on the scene thought.
“There’s got to be something about where the body was left.
That points to a local person who knows the family,” Payne said.
“Any candidates?”
“I would have looked at Malcolm Adams, if it weren’t for his legs,” Cook said. “He can move about, but he has to use a cane. If Tom had been left where he fell, Malcolm would be on my list. But the coroner said he’d been killed elsewhere, and brought to the gravesite.”
“And Malcolm couldn’t manage that?” I asked.
“No, not without help. And Malcolm isn’t the type to have friends who would do such a favor.”
“What do we know about the father? Samuel, wasn’t it?”
“Sam Eastman was a decent man and fine a police officer,” Payne said as Cook nodded his head in agreement. “Taught me the ropes, he did.”
“What?”
“Sergeant Sam Eastman,” Cook said. “He ran this very nick for more than ten years. Started as constable after the Great War. That’s his photograph, behind you.”
“Tom Eastman’s old man was a cop?” I stood to study his picture. The elder Eastman was square-jawed with mutton-chop sideburns and a look that said he might arrest the photographer if he didn’t get on with it. He had the hardy look of a cop who had to handle things by himself. “And Tom was found dead on his father’s grave?”
“That’s right,” Payne said. “And before you get hot under the collar, of course we looked at the old files. Sam passed away in nineteen thirty-nine. Heart attack, in this very room. We went back to when he joined the force, and every villain he sent away on serious charges was accounted for. Dead or still in prison, every one.”
“What about that track, from the rear of the cemetery? Where does that lead?”
“To the parachute training school at Chilton Foliat. Your Hundred-and-First Airborne has a facility there, qualifying soldiers for their parachute wings,” Payne said.
“Mostly non-combat types, I think. Chaplains, physicians, that sort of thing,” I said, recalling what Tree had told me. “Could that have been the route the killer took? It would be hidden from view.”
“Partially, yes. But it does go directly through the training facility at one point. It would be hard to carry a dead body and not be noticed.”
“I don’t suppose the CID agents looked at that?”
“No,” Cook said, shaking his head. “I showed them, but they weren’t inclined. They already had their eyewitness to Private Smith being in the area without a pass.”
“Who was that?”
“Rosemary Adams herself,” Cook said. “That night, her husband Malcolm had gone down to the local pub, the Wheatsheaf. He took his bicycle, which he had handled well enough once or twice since he’d been back. He came home late, his face bloodied and one leg badly bruised. He refused to say what had happened, and was in a foul mood the next day as I heard. Rosemary was afraid Smith had confronted him that night. So when the CID men came around asking about him, she said he’d been with her.”
“To protect him.”
“Aye. Malcolm had blackened her eye two days before, and that’s what she thought he and Smith had fought over,” Cook said.
“But it was all for naught,” Payne said. “We found Malcolm’s bicycle in a ditch. He’d taken a fall and hurt himself, and was too damned obstinate to admit it. That much I can understand. It’s only a short stroll to the Wheatsheaf, really. It must have been a blow to his pride.”
“The one thing he has too much of,” Cook added.
“Constable Cook, if there’s no one else to consider, I’ll get going. Thanks for the tea,” I said, hoisting myself out of the comfortable chair, wondering if the elder Eastman had breathed his last in it. “I wish we had more to go on, but thanks for the background. I’ll wait until the morning to hear what the coroner has to say.”
“Drop by if you need anything,” Cook said. “I’ll likely be here.”
PAYNE DROVE ME back to my jeep, which was still at the Dundas Arms. It wasn’t far from the Prince of Wales Inn, where Big Mike, Kaz, and I were supposed to rendezvous tonight. I was tired and hungry, and in a few minutes I could have been sitting with friends in a warm pub, hashing things over. But I was restless, worked up by the lack of clues, the unexpected body, and the eerie image of a dead son on his father’s grave. I found myself back in Newbury, drawn to the canal again. I parked on Bridge Street and walked along the embankment. It was dark, but a half-moon cast its distant light on the water, giving me a clear path. The blackout was still in effect, so that was the only illumination to be had, but it was enough. I strolled past the rear of the Miller place and heard laughter from inside. Maybe Sully was there with Lucky Strikes and coffee. The muted sounds of a family in their kitchen struck me as unattainable, a sad reminder of how far away my own family was. I glanced at my wristwatch and began to calculate what time it was back home, but I never finished.
Something exploded at the side of my head and I heard a noise. I was cold, very cold, and I realized the sound was my body hitt
ing the water. I struggled to get out of my Mackinaw before its sodden weight pulled me under. I saw the moon, floating above me, and then the pain went away, and so did the moon.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I WAS COLD. My bones shook with it, my teeth clattered, and my hands were blocks of ice. I heard voices, splashes, then felt my body roll and sink, as if a giant had shoved me beneath the surface. Something grabbed at me, lost me, then pulled and pulled again until I was somewhere else where it was even colder. My whole body quivered as I tried to gulp air but couldn’t. Panic assaulted me, even as hands pulled at me, turned me over, and I felt foul dirty water gushing out my throat until I could drink in heaving gasps of air.
I saw the moon again, then it faded away, and the shivering seemed to go on for a long time, in some distant place, far away from dark and dangerous canals. I saw an eyeless body drift by, and prayed I had dreamed everything, but I hadn’t. I had a glimpse of my room back in Boston, and heard my mother’s voice. I knew that wasn’t real either, and began to worry that I was dead, which didn’t worry me as much as it should have. The shivering receded, until all that remained was a cold, certain calmness broken by an occasional tremor.
“Billy,” I heard a voice, insistent and alarmed. I didn’t know what the fuss was all about, and couldn’t open my eyes to see, so I let sleep take me away.
“Billy,” the voice said again. I recognized it this time. It was Diana. Worth opening my eyes for.
“Hey,” I said. It wasn’t much, and it took a lot of effort.
“Billy, you almost drowned,” Diana said, cradling my face in her hands.
“Where am I?” All I could see was Diana, her wide eyes, light brown hair, and red-rimmed eyes.
“At the Prince of Wales Inn. The doctor said you were fine, that you just needed warmth and rest, but I’ve been so worried, Billy. What happened? Did you fall into the canal?”
“I don’t know,” I said, trying to recall. “Something hit me, I think. Or someone.” I felt the back of my head, and found a bump. A sore bump.
