Tyler went back to the station, where Sergeant Gough greeted him immediately, coming round from the desk. Tyler thought for a minute the sergeant might even embrace him, he looked so concerned.
“I’ve got a pot of tea freshening, sir. I thought you’d need it.”
“I need a bloody stiff drink, that’s what I need.”
“I took the liberty of purchasing a medicinal bottle of whisky. You can add it your tea.”
In spite of the situation, Tyler almost laughed. How a big, tough-looking man like Gough managed to come across as the perfect valet, he didn’t know, but right now he appreciated it.
“Thanks, Guffie. Give the lads the same treatment, will you, when they come in. I think Eager is all right, but young Collis was looking green at the gills. They’ve taken the body to Dr. Murnaghan.”
“Was the lassie murdered, sir?”
“No doubt about it. She was strangled. Murnaghan is getting to the post-mortem immediately so we may have more information later today. The rooks had got to her and some animal had chewed off her foot.”
Gough cleared his throat with a polite cough. “Saw a lot of that on the Transvaal, sir. Over there it was jackals and hyenas, nasty brutes.”
Tyler gaped at him. “I didn’t know you fought in the Boer War.”
“Two years of it. I was a mere lad when I signed up. Needed my head examined I would say, gave me a broken nose and a leaky gut and I don’t know that it did anybody else any good. When you come to think of it, the Boers were only defending their own land, weren’t they? Same as we are doing now. Three bloody wars in my lifetime. Will we never learn? Animals behave better. They only kill for food.”
“But you go to church on a regular basis, Sergeant. Doesn’t that …” he waved his hand, not finishing his sentence. Gough understood him.
“I sing in the choir, sir. I like music. It calms the savage breast.”
Tyler made a mental note to take his officer out for a beer soon. He had no idea Gough was capable of such depth. That’d teach him to take people for granted. Next thing young Eagleton would be telling him he was writing poetry.
“Are you going to enlist help from A and B divisions, sir?” Gough asked.
“Probably … oh shite, I don’t know. You get too many men on the case and they trip all over themselves and they’re more of a right hindrance than a help.”
Even to himself, the excuse sounded thin. Of course, more manpower could be an asset if they were organized properly. The problem was, he wanted to hog the case to himself. He didn’t want anybody else interfering.
“I’ll decide tonight when we see if the reservists come up with anything. Bring in the medicine, will you, Sergeant?”
He walked back to his office, picked up the phone, hesitated, and replaced the receiver as Gough came in carrying a tray. Without being asked, he poured out a cup of dark strong tea. There was a whisky bottle standing beside the cup.
“I’ll let you add to it, sir.”
Tyler felt like dumping the tea and filling the cup with whisky but he restrained himself and poured in two large shots.
He sipped. “Ah. Heaven. And that’s where you’ll go, Guff. I personally will recommend to God that you get a place of honour in Heaven for such thoughtfulness.”
“Thank you, sir. I wasn’t aware you had the ear of the Almighty but I appreciate the offer.”
Tyler took another swallow. “I’m going over to the hostel to talk to the warden. Ring me there if there are any new developments. I’m not sure how long I’ll be.”
“When will we notify the girl’s next of kin, sir?”
Tyler sighed. “Now, I suppose. There’s no point in putting it off. We’ll have to get one of the London bobbies to do the dirty.”
“I’ll put you through right away, sir.”
“All right, just give me two minutes to finish my tea.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gough’s talents were wasted in this backwater, thought Tyler. He drank down more of the hot whisky-laced tea and felt the warmth flood his belly. It was almost unbearable to imagine how Rose’s parents would take the news. First they were rendered homeless, now this. And Mrs. Watkins was injured. The intercom beeped and he pressed the on switch.
“I have Scotland Yard on the line, sir,” said Gough.
39.
CLARE’S CAR SKIDDED A LITTLE AS SHE NEGOTIATED a sharp turn, and she realized she was driving too fast. The tall hedgerows made it impossible to see if any other vehicle was on the road. She checked her speed. It was as if she were trying to outrun her own thoughts.
“Damn you, Tommy Tyler,” she said out loud. “Stop comparing me with that young girl I once was. She’s gone a long time ago and will never return. We can’t go back, Tommy. We simply can’t.”
She raced the MG over a rut in the road with such a thump she was afraid for her axle. She slowed down, not having noticed that her speedometer had crept up again.
She reached Whitchurch and turned on to the long, secluded driveway that led to the Old Rectory. The sentry was new, and he examined her identification carefully before opening the gate. She parked at the rear of the building and let herself in through the heavy wooden door. The office was on the top floor, and she climbed the stairs, panting a little as she reached the top.
The secretary, Miss Nicholls, was at her desk in the anteroom typing with great speed. She looked at Clare over the top of her spectacles and reluctantly stopped what she was doing. She reminded Clare of the headmistress of the school where she’d boarded as an adolescent. She had been the bane of Clare’s life, always critical, rigid about the rules to the point of mummification. Clare’s hand went automatically to her hair to smooth it down into an acceptable tidiness.
“I wasn’t aware you had an appointment today, Mrs. Devereau.”
“I don’t. It is quite important.”
“He has a rather severe toothache and I’m trying to keep his appointments to a minimum. But if as you say it’s important –”
“Yes, it is.”
The secretary frowned suspiciously. “Please have a seat. I will tell him you are here.”
She flipped the switch on her intercom and, leaning close to it, whispered her message. Clare couldn’t hear the reply but Miss Nicholls nodded at her.
“He says you can go right in. Try not to tire him out.”
Clare went over to the connecting door and did as ordered. The director was behind his desk, which was the only place she had ever seen him. He was smoking his smelly pipe and his desk was strewn with papers.
“I didn’t expect you today, Mrs. Devereau.” He didn’t add, “This had better be as important as you say,” but he might as well have.
He reached inside his mouth and touched his gum tentatively, then withdrew it quickly. In spite of herself, Clare felt sympathy. He looked wretched; his usual pasty complexion was worse than ever.
“Your secretary says you have a toothache. I’m sure it would be worthwhile to visit a dentist, sir.”
“It’s not serious. I’m attempting to wait it out. I suppose I’m a coward where dentists are concerned.”
Clare was rather taken aback. Perhaps he was human after all.
She instinctively clasped her hands in her lap. “There is something I thought you should know, sir. It has to do with Thursday morning.”
Herbert Grey had walked over to his window, and he watched as Clare backed up the MG and drove away. In public, he never swore or took the Lord’s name in vain; in private, he often vented his feelings with a string of choice words.
“Stupid, bloody woman. Sometimes I think women are more sodding trouble than they’re worth. Christ, what was she thinking of?”
He snapped his teeth around his pipe stem and winced.
40.
TYLER HAD CONSTABLE EAGLETON COME WITH HIM to the hostel.
“I hope you never get used to delivering bad news, lad, but it is part of the job and you might as well have the experience. You don�
��t have to say much, let them talk if they want to. Oh, you’d better put your bike in the back of the car. I’m not sure how long I’ll have to stay at the manor.”
Violet answered the door, took one look at Tyler’s face, and whimpered, her eyes filling with tears.
“ ’Ee’ve found ’er, haven’t ’ee? And she be dead.”
“I’m afraid so, Violet. Her body was discovered this morning.”
Violet wiped her eyes on the edge of her apron. Her head bent, she said, “Did she have a peaceful death, Mr. Tyler? She was a sweet gal and I hate to think of ’er end being anything but peaceful.”
God, what the hell could he say to that? Rose had been strangled. Rarely a fast death. He squeezed Violet’s arm.
“She died instantly.”
“But somebody killed ’er, like Miss Elsie?”
“Yes, it appears so.”
The maid crossed herself. “May the Lord have mercy on ’er soul.”
“Keep her room locked for now, will you Violet? I’ll take the key.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve come to tell Miss Stillwell. Is she in?”
“Aye. She be in a meeting with Mr. Trimble. Shall I fetch her or do ’ee want to go into the common room where they is?”
“Are any of the girls at home?”
“Just Miss Florence, who is poorly. The others decided to go to the fields. It be harvest time and a lot to be done.”
“I’m sure. Violet, this is Constable Eagleton. Just announce us to Miss Stillwell, there’s a good lass.”
“Come this way, sir.”
Miss Stillwell and Trimble were seated at the table, papers spread in front of them. Like Violet, she realized at once why Tyler was there.
“Inspector? You have bad news?”
Tyler wasn’t sure if he wanted to deliver this in front of Trimble, but he supposed in the long run, it didn’t matter. He’d find out soon enough.
“We’ve found the body of Rose Watkins. I regret to say that she appears to have been strangled.”
The warden turned white. “Poor, poor Rose. Where was she?”
“In the Acton Woods.”
Miss Stillwell was struggling to control her tears. Tyler was aware of his young constable shifting uneasily behind him.
“Do you have the culprit?” Trimble asked. He too looked stunned.
“Not yet.”
“First Elsie, now Rose. What is going on, Inspector?” Miss Stillwell asked him, her voice shaky.
“I don’t know at the moment, ma’am, I wish I did.”
She stood up slowly. “I suppose the best thing to do would be to get the girls. I don’t think we can wait until they return. They are all upset already.”
“I can fetch them, ma’am, if you like,” said Trimble. “I know where they are.”
He hurried off.
The warden addressed Tyler. “They aren’t far away today. We can have them here within half an hour. Does Rose’s father know?”
“Yes.”
“I should talk to him at once. Excuse me, Inspector.”
Miss Stillwell went off to make the telephone call. Tyler beckoned to Eagleton to come outside with him. They walked a little way down the gravel driveway. The hostel was surrounded by flower beds. Bright flowers and shrubs, birds chirruping and pecking for worms in the lawn belied the darkness that had descended on this old house.
Tyler offered the constable a cigarette, which he declined.
“Doing all right, are you, lad?”
“Yes, sir. As you say, I hope I never get used to this.”
Tyler shrugged. “There’s a war on. You might have to. Anyway, you did the right thing, which was to keep your mouth shut.”
He puffed on his cigarette for a moment. “The sooner we find out where Rose’s body was in the hours before she was found, the better chance we have of getting some clear evidence. Her body must have been hidden somewhere because she wasn’t in the Fort on Friday. At least not during the day.”
“Shall I attempt to retrace her footsteps, sir? The maid last saw her walking out of the gate up the road.”
“Good idea, Eager. Let’s take a guess here. She was intending to go to Mass at the camp but she was already late. What if she took a shortcut through the woods? That would save her ten to fifteen minutes. There’s probably some kind of path. See what you can find. Walk like a Red Indian. I’ll stay here until the girls return, then I’ll go back to the station.”
The constable set off and Tyler went back into the house. There was nobody around and he decided to have another look in Rose’s room.
It was exactly as it had looked before, but this time with a terrible emptiness. It seemed to Tyler that a layer of dust had already settled over everything.
He descended, and went out to the stable yard. Clare’s MG was not there.
41.
THE AIR WAS HEAVY. ANOTHER STORM WAS THREATening and the V-shaped black clouds were like eyebrows scowling down on the camp. At least that’s how Dr. Beck rather saw them. The camp was quiet. Out of deference to the observant Jews, all activity was curtailed on the Sabbath. No football, no chess, no poetry being bellowed through the tents. He was sitting on a canvas chair in the “reading room,” where he had more space than beside his tent, which was cheek by jowl with the others. Beck often yearned for the privacy of the bed-sitting room that he’d rented from Mrs. Swann in the centre of Birmingham. He’d even started up his therapy practice again, and had three patients undergoing analysis when he’d been arrested. He hoped they were all right. He’d barely had time to relocate them with his colleague, Dr. Binswager, a fellow German who had been in England for some time and whose papers were quite in order.
Beck sighed. He should write to his wife but he’d already sent one of his two allowed letters to her. She had remained behind in Dover while he was establishing himself in Birmingham, and she too had been swept up in the surge of fear about aliens. Margareta wasn’t a strong woman and she was finding the quarters where the women were interned very uncomfortable. Understandably, as they were incarcerated in the old Holloway prison for women, a relic of the Victorian era. He was looking forward to seeing her when they were all sent to the Isle of Man. Surely, they’d be released soon.
He took his notebook from his box, wrote the date in one corner of the page, then chewed on the pencil. A shadow fell across his paper. He hadn’t seen Hoeniger approaching.
“Good afternoon, Doctor Beck. You are looking far too serious. Shall I disturb you or go away and leave you in peace?”
The seminarian was smiling at him mischievously.
“By all means disturb me. I am completely unproductive today.”
“I see you have your writing box with you. What are you working on today?”
“A paper for the London Journal of Psychoanalysis. It may or may not see the light of day but it keeps me occupied.”
“And the topic?”
“Do you really want to know? It’s quite esoteric.”
“I have already benefited from being in this camp with so many brilliant men, a little psychoanalysis would be a nice addition.”
Hoeniger plopped himself down on the grass, tucking his long soutane under his knees as a woman would. His gold cross glinted in the sun. Beck often thought the religious restrictions Father Glatz placed on the young seminarian might be oppressive, but Hoeniger always seemed agreeably compliant.
“All right. You asked for it. Perhaps explaining it to you will help me clarify my thoughts.” He pressed the tips of his fingers together. “I am exploring the role of the analyst when presented with what appear to be paranoid delusions on the part of the patient.”
“Ah … will you explain that?”
“Certainly. Some more orthodox practitioners believe the analyst must under no circumstances break the bubble of delusion. That the patient will eventually come to see the reality if one simply continues with the psychoanalytic process … Others think that the patient must be presen
ted with evidence that his beliefs are delusional, rather like metaphorically dousing them with cold water to bring them to their senses.”
“What view do you side with?” asked the seminarian.
Beck chewed more on the pencil. “It requires a lot of patience to wait out the paranoia, and sometimes, especially if an underlying psychosis is present, the delusions are never relinquished. What I have always taught my students is that trying to force the patient to face their own paranoia is a mistake. They will often end the analysis in a state of what we call negative transference, and the delusions will continue and proliferate.”
“This is all going over my head I’m afraid, Doctor. Can you give me an example? I do better with examples.”
“Certainly. Look at Professor Hartmann. It was imperative that he felt his, shall we call them, delusions were not being dismissed.”
“You mean when he was convinced that Herr Silber is a German spy?”
“Exactly.”
“Maybe he is a spy? If not Silber, perhaps somebody else in the camp was coming and going. Maybe the professor wasn’t delusional.”
“Believe me, the poor man is in a severe fugue at the moment. I’m very concerned that he might not come out of it. On the other hand, you’re quite right. There can be a grain of truth in even the most outlandish belief.”
Hoeniger looked alarmed. “Oh dear, I was just playing the devil’s advocate. That’s a rather frightening thought.”
“Paranoia grows like a disease in times of war. But we cannot abandon trust and common sense. You should know that as a good Catholic.”
Season of Darkness Page 23
