by James R Benn
Fields and woods thick with oak trees flowed by as I got used to the BMW and let it go at its own pace, not gunning it but not holding back either. Everything else fell away until there was just the motorcycle, the road, and me. Once you got down to basics, things were simpler. The low cloud cover had given way to light fluffy clouds and blue sky, and I could feel the sun on my back. I passed the Red Hart and kept going straight, feeling my worries melt away with the miles. I wondered why I hadn’t gotten one of the thousands of office jobs in this war. Everywhere I went, I saw guys pushing paper, stamping paper, filing paper, carrying files of paper. That was supposed to be me. Those guys worked a full day, five or six days a week, but they didn’t have to worry about murderers and spies, and coming up with answers for Ike. I knew guys in the combat outfits would have it rough, but, hell, I had already been shot at, and as of right now, not a single GI had even fired a rifle at the Nazis!
I was getting myself all riled up and almost missed the next pub. I calmed down, and took a left at the King George Inn as I wondered if it was the same King George we had given the heave-ho to at Bunker Hill. It was almost midday by the time I had nearly reached the very small village of Greenchurch. I saw a large round stone, like the wheel from a windmill, propped up in front of a low whitewashed building. The Miller’s Stone. I turned around in front of a church-it wasn’t green-and pulled the BMW up in front of the pub. There were a few bicycles leaning against the wall. Not a single car. Real quiet little town. Houses with window boxes overflowing with flowers lined the street. Across from the pub was a small white building, its plain front broken by two doors, one marked POST OFFICE. The other led to a small store. A dog sleeping in the sun on the stone step leading up to the store entrance raised his head, gave me the once-over, then laid his head back down, unimpressed.
I figured that since I had to ask directions to Victoria Brey’s house, and since I was also hungry and thirsty, it would be the most efficient use of my time to visit the pub. That actually made it my patriotic duty. I dusted myself off and went inside.
It was a small village pub, low ceilinged and dark. There were just a couple of tables, a bench along one wall, and the bar itself on the right side of the room with a few stools along it. I sat down and nodded to two old gents who were nursing pints that looked like they’d been pulled when the place opened. Neither said hello, but one of them pointed his pipe at me.
“Now what kind of uniform is that?”
“You mean my United States Army officer’s uniform?”
“So you’re a Yank, are you? About time. I haven’t seen one since 1918!”
They both thought this was real funny. I turned my attention to the barkeep, or publican, I think they called him here.
“A pint, and what do you have for food?”
“A ploughman’s lunch is all today.”
“OK, but hold the onion. I’ve got to see a lady this afternoon.”
I smiled, he didn’t. I decided he really wasn’t such a bad sort when he brought out bread still warm from the oven, a slab of cheese, and a homemade pickle in place of the onion. Along with the ale it was a meal fit for a king.
After he brought the food he ignored me, which I guess was better than lecturing me on the late arrival of the U.S. Army. After I had inhaled about half the meal, I slowed down and half turned in my seat, speaking to both the publican and his customers.
“Do any of you fellows know where Victoria Brey lives?”
At the sound of her name, the old fellas looked at each other and just shook their heads. Not at me, but just at the mention of her name. “Sad, so sad,” one of them said. The barkeep walked over, drying a glass in his hand.
“Why do you want to know?” The expression on his face said he’d be glad to bean me with the heavy glass if he didn’t like the answer.
“Just some routine army business. About her transfer, just some paperwork to finish,” I lied.
“She’s in the ATS, not the bloody American army.”
“Yeah, but we’re all on the same side. Right?”
“I don’t know you, mate. I don’t know if you’re trouble or not, but I do know Victoria’s had her share. More than her share.”
“I’ve known her since she was a babe,” the old guy said. “So sad.”
“I just need to talk with her a bit, that’s all. I know she’s had it tough, with her husband missing in action.”
“Have a care with her. She’s still not well. And she’s well liked ’round here, so don’t cause her any problems.” The barkeep walked back to the bar, carrying the well-dried glass. He had made his decision, but I could tell he didn’t like it much. Or me.
“Take the first right up by the church. Then take the left fork. Her place is on the left, a small stone cottage.” The barkeep put the glass on the bar, loud enough to punctuate the sentence. I didn’t say anything about the implied threat. I could take a hint. I finished up, paid, and left. No one said good-bye.
I found her place easy enough and her, too, for that matter. She was sitting on a worn wooden bench in a small garden in front of her cottage. It looked like a house to me, but I figured it was one of those English things. I pulled the BMW into the drive and switched it off. The driveway was packed dirt with weeds sprouting out of it, wildflowers forcing their way through the hard surface. She looked over at me as calmly as if Americans on motorcycles showed up every day. I took off my goggles and Parsons field jacket, and attempted to make myself presentable. I brushed the dust off my pants, put on my fore and aft cap at just the right angle, and walked into the garden. She sat still, gazing at the flowers.
“Nice garden, Mrs. Brey.” She nodded, ever so slightly, and looked up at me with moist eyes. She was twisting a handkerchief in her hands, limp and damp from her tears.
“Yes, isn’t it? They’ll probably all die now…”
“Now that you’re being transferred?”
“No. Now that Richard’s… gone. He always tended them. Said a home needed flowers blooming around it first thing in the spring. He always looked forward to springtime.”
Her head swiveled back to look at the flowers. She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief she held crumpled in one hand. I could have jumped on a broomstick and flown away for all she cared. She was someplace else. There wasn’t another chair and I had to make eye contact, so I knelt down in front of her.
“Mrs. Brey?” Her eyes wavered and finally found me.
“Yes? Who are you?” That was progress.
“Lieutenant Billy Boyle, ma’am. I’m investigating the death of Knut Birkeland at Beardsley Hall.”
She laughed. The laughter seemed to break the spell for her and she focused on me as she smiled.
“That’s terribly funny.”
“What is?” I asked.
“One old man dies and they send a lieutenant. Thousands die in the air, at sea, all over the world, and then who do they send? No one.” She laughed some more. At first, I thought she was crazy, and then I thought it over. It really didn’t add up, did it?
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant Boyle. I’m not usually so distracted. I haven’t been back here since Richard… disappeared. The memories were… I’m afraid I’ve been rude.”
She wiped her eyes and tried to smile again. There wasn’t a lot of happiness to work with, so it wasn’t a big smile. She was pretty in a plain English country-girl sort of way, and even that frail grin lit up her face. Her hair was dark brown and pulled back, showing off a long and graceful neck. Her skin was flushed from the heat and a tiny bead of sweat worked its way down her throat and vanished beneath her pale green sundress, open at the neck and cinched tight at her waist. The curves of her hips and breasts were noticeable under the light material.
“Come inside, and tell me why you’ve traveled all this way.”
She stood and walked toward the house, glancing over her shoulder at me. She caught me looking, and smiled. It was quite a change, as if she had awakened from a trance. She offered
to make tea, but it was too hot a day for me. She poured lemonade, and we went into her front parlor. She sat in an armchair and I took the couch. I was nervous. I was thinking about her body and the look she had given me over her shoulder. I thought about Diana. I thought about getting the hell out of there. Instead, I got down to business.
“Mrs. Brey, you’re in the Auxiliary Territorial Service, rank of subaltern, correct?” I tried to sound like your typical uninterested cop.
“I’m sure you know that, Lieutenant, don’t you?”
“Ah, yes, I do. Just checking.”
“Tell me how I can help you… did you say your name was Billy?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, if I’m going to call you Billy, you must call me Victoria. But not Vicky. Only Richard calls me that.” I looked up on the wall behind her at the framed photo of a young man in an RAF uniform. He stood next to a bomber, a wide smile on his face, the RAF roundel showing in back of him. Both man and machine long gone.
“Victoria, I don’t mean to pry into your private life, and I want you to know that I’m not compiling a written report or anything… .”
“My goodness, Billy, whatever are you going to ask me about?”
“I understand that you were in Jens Iversen’s room early, very early in the morning on the day Knut Birkeland died.”
She nodded. “Yes, I was.” Calm and cool. No embarrassment, no anger at the question.
“And he escorted you from his room back to your room?”
“Part of the way. He didn’t want to be seen, so he took me down his hallway, down the staircase, and then turned back.”
“I should tell you, Victoria, that Jens didn’t tell me your name. I wouldn’t want you to think he betrayed your confidence.”
“Why would I care what that little worm thinks?”
Whoa. That took me by surprise. I had thought they had a hot romance going. How did Jens get to be “that little worm”?
“Weren’t you and he… close?” I asked.
“All he wanted was sex,” she said disgustedly. “He pretended to be my friend and to comfort me, but all he wanted was to get his hands all over my body.”
I had noticed that whenever women talked about some guy getting fresh with them, they would unconsciously put their hands over their breasts in a protective gesture, checking buttons or pulling at something. But Victoria sat there, one leg crossed over the other, with her hands resting flat on the chair arms. Something was really wrong here.
“I got the feeling he was devoted to you.”
“I thought so, too. But evidently not. Did you come here to ask me about Jens?”
“No, no. I’d like to know who or what you might have seen on the way to your room that morning. Anybody or anything out of the ordinary.”
“Am I a suspect, Billy?”
“Did you kill Knut Birkeland?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then you’re in the clear. Did you see anything?”
“I don’t remember. It was very early and I was tired. Do you like music?”
“Yeah, sure, but think back…” She got up with a bored look on her face and walked to a record player.
“Can you stay for dinner, Billy?” I hadn’t yet thought about dinner, but I got the feeling she wanted me for dessert.
“No, I need to get back.”
“Back where?” She flipped through a stack of records but settled on the one already on the turntable.
“To Beardsley Hall.”
“That dreadful place? It’ll be after dark before you get back. Stay here tonight. It’ll be good to have a man around the house. I’ll cook us a nice dinner.”
That gave me the shivers. There was no us, and I didn’t intend on being part of her fantasy. But I also had the feeling she knew something, and wasn’t going to give it up easily.
“Maybe. But we need to finish this first. Think about what you saw that morning.”
“Do you like Irving Berlin?”
“Sure, who doesn’t?” She put the needle down on the record. Hissing and scratching came out of the record player. This platter had been played a lot.
“Let’s dance. Then I’ll tell you everything, and you can decide if you want to stay.” She held her arms outstretched in front of her, a slight innocent smile on her face. One little dance, I thought, in pursuit of the truth. Can’t hurt.
“OK.” I got up and held her as the music started. She folded my hand holding hers into my chest and rested her cheek on my shoulder. We danced slowly. Her body felt warm, and I could feel her breasts press against me as she breathed. Her hips moved against mine. The words from “I’m Getting Tired So I Can Sleep” drifted out over us. I’m getting tired so I can sleep
I want to sleep so I can dream
I want to dream so I can be with you.
She sang the words in a sad, quiet, high voice. A wish to see her man again, even in a dream. She looked up into my eyes, her eyes only inches from my face. Her cheeks were wet with tears, but she wasn’t crying right now. I could feel the heat from her whole body rising up, or maybe it was the heat of the room. Or maybe it was me. My heart was pounding and I felt her chest rise and fall with each breath, a thin layer of sweat glistening against her white skin.
She canted her head and pushed her lips against mine, her mouth open and the dampness from her tears and sweat combining in an unholy alliance against the little willpower I had. My mind said no, my heart said no, but my body was saying, Go right ahead, boy, this dame’s delicious.
“Victoria, I can’t…”
“Call me Vicky,” she said in a small, breathless voice. She took my hand and pressed it against her breast. It was full and her nipple was at attention. So was I and it was getting really tough to stay in control. I want to dream…
I felt like she would break into a million pieces if I let go. If I didn’t, I’d break a promise I hadn’t even made yet. I had to buy some time, and I still had to get some answers. I tried to be a cop and think of her as just another civilian I needed something from.
“Vicky.”
“Oh yes, darling!” She smiled, her eyes still closed and her hips thrust against mine.
“Vicky, tell me about the morning you left Jens’s room.”
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
“I don’t either. But we have to. Who else did you see, on the way back to your room?”
“Another man.”
“Who, Vicky?”
“If I tell you, will you stop asking questions? So we can sleep?”
“Sure.”
“He was always very nice to me. Kind. He didn’t take advantage, like the others.”
“Who was he, Vicky?”
“Anders. Major Arnesen. I saw him on the main floor.”
“In the corridor near the map room?”
“Yes, I think so. We smiled at each other, but didn’t say anything. He must have a girlfriend. I’m glad.”
“Did you see anyone else?” The music ended and she stopped dancing. The needle made a quiet hissing sound as the record went round and round and we both stood there, frozen. Her dreamy smile faded into nothing as she came back from that place she had retreated to. Then awareness crept into her face. It was like someone waking up and remembering what they had gone to sleep to escape.
“That’s all you want, isn’t it?” There was a fury in her eyes that denied any lie I could tell. Her carefully constructed fantasy had just fallen apart. Without wanting to, I had just thoroughly humiliated her. There was only one answer I could give.
“Yes.”
I let go of her hand. I was smart enough to not say anything else. She walked over to the record player and raised the needle from the turn table.
“Get out.”
“Please, Mrs. Brey, just tell me if you saw anyone else. Lives may depend on it.”
“Lives? How dare you lecture me about lives! I’ve already given one life to this damned war! The people you’re talking a
bout are still alive! They can walk in the sunshine, eat dinner, make love, hold hands… what do I care about them?”
Her face crumpled as she tried to hold back a torrent of tears. She raised her hand to her mouth as she made an anguished noise, tears running over her hand and onto the wooden floor, clean little splashes on a thin layer of dust. She fell to her knees and I thought she might actually be sick. I knelt down beside her and put my hand on her shoulder. She trembled as she covered her face with her hands.
“I’m not really a bad person,” she said between sobs. Her nose was running, too.
“Me either.”
“Don’t look at me, please. You must think I’m a hussy.”
“Mrs. Brey, you just want to be with your husband, that’s all.”
She nodded, but she wouldn’t look at me. We just sat there for a while. She shuddered a few times as the tears came and went. Finally she took a deep breath and rubbed the back of her hand across her nose.
“Anders was the only one I saw.”
“Thanks.”
“Is it important?”
“It might be. It just might be.” She still didn’t move and leaving my hand on her shoulder was beginning to feel awkward. I moved it and she clutched at it, as if she was afraid I’d get away. I tried to think of something to say.
“You shouldn’t blame Jens for the transfer, you know. I think he was trying to help.”
“Jens?” She sniffled. “What did he have to do with my transfer?”
“Huh? Didn’t he…”
“No. Anders issued the order. He said he needed me at the Norwegian Brigade base in Scotland. I was glad to go. I just wasn’t prepared to come back here, to all this.” She gestured at the room, the house, the memories, everything.
Anders. Anders had been up early in the morning and transferred the only person who had seen him far away from Beardsley Hall. Anders. That made me rethink things. He had been a distant third until now, but this put him tops in my hit parade. Leaving the key in his own room was a nice touch, I had to admit. I hoped Daphne had been able to get his orders to Norway cancelled. That made me think of getting back to the hall. I looked at my watch.
