Deal with the Devil

by J. Gunnar Grey

  Stoner glanced at the bottle, then refilled Bruckmann’s glass. “Now I know how to uncork your thoughts.” He topped up his own, but when he glanced at Jennifer, she shook her head without meeting his eyes. He sighed and set the bottle down; she was listening all too closely. Sooner or later, this would require a discussion, one which would disappoint her with him personally, rather than his assignment or commanding officer. “Jack, how do you suggest I break him?”

  She flinched at the word, her eyes closing briefly. Stoner looked away.

  “Well.” Bruckmann paused for another sip. “Perhaps we should try destroying the basis of his confidence.”

  Precisely his own thought, after reading Captain Clarke’s report: undermine Faust’s still-secure position as a loyal and honorable German officer. He’d conveyed as much to Brigadier Marone in the morning’s dispatch, which Jennifer had typed. Judging by the dawning horror in her eyes, she now understood those notes in her marrow.

  “Any specific ideas?”

  “Not a one.” Bruckmann smacked his lips. “Grows on you, doesn’t it? I suppose whiskey simply isn’t it for me.”

  More of Margeaux Hall’s roof appeared to have fallen, and the mess requiring cleaning seemed even larger. Stoner was bruised in his soul. He’d received confirmation of his plan. But the cost could prove to be Jennifer’s esteem and, even to contribute his best to the defense of England, it could prove too high.

  “And here I thought a staff meeting a poor way to use a good Médoc.”

  But his sally only caught her eye for a brief moment. When she turned her head, not even the rich garnet glow of the wine could lift his heart again.

  As it stood, round one went to the Wehrmacht.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  the same evening

  the Abbey Arms in the hamlet of Patchley Abbey

  From the amount of khaki crowding the Abbey Arms, Hackney judged the local Home Guard drilled that night. He wound past farmers with hard begrimed hands, shopkeepers and clerks still trim from their day within doors, all in smart battledress and all with American-made Browning automatic rifles on the floor at their feet. The low-ceiled room was dark and smoky, the air dense with the blackout shutters closed, and a cheerful rumble from those crowding the tables and benches rattled the mismatched prints on the walls.

  At first he thought he was the only man in civvies; even Homer Owen, behind the bar, wore khaki. Then he realized the women, too, wore uniforms. Many were in the green coats and skirts, red blouses, and flat green hats of the Women’s Voluntary Services. But in one corner half a dozen Women’s Land Army girls, their felt hats pushed to the backs of their heads, showed off their loose-fitting fawn breeches and long woolen socks by standing and putting their brogues up on their chairs. For a moment, Hackney let himself be diverted by the sight — not something a man saw every day, that — then he spotted Arnussen. His detective sergeant was seated in the corner behind the girls, his glasses on his nose and two tankards already on the table, one full and one empty. The pile of papers before him was an inch thick.

  “I’m ready for it.” Hackney had walked from Margeaux Hall, letting Arnussen take the car earlier, and he’d kicked up a thirst. He set the rolled maps on the table, the paper sack containing Faust’s boots on the floor, and drained half the pint before sitting down, his attention lingering on the young legs. But it seemed vaguely disloyal to Carolyn, not in her grave a year and here he was ogling some immodest young things carrying on. He sat and opened his briefcase atop the table, positioning it between himself and the Land Girls, blocking the view.

  “I’ve got the statements from the soldiers at Margeaux Hall and the photos from the first crime scene.” Arnussen moved his stack of papers aside and tugged off his specs. “And upstairs I’ve got the three bootprint plasters from the chicken farm. The fingerprint report and the serology on the handkerchief should both be ready tomorrow sometime.”

  “Good work, Axel.” Hackney pulled out the file Dr. Harris had given him. “And here are the autopsy reports and photos from the second crime scene.” He piled more papers atop the file. “And the statements from Margeaux Hall’s officers and non-coms, the clerks, the nurse, the doctor, and the German prisoner of war.” He paused for another slug of dark stout. “Good brew, that. We missed the butler, the gardener, the housemaid, and the cook, so if we’re going to assemble a complete picture of Saturday night and Tuesday afternoon, one of us must go back.”

  “The publican makes his own.” Arnussen picked up the stack of statements and sighed. “Can we miss the cook and housemaid? They’re women, right? Not likely to be a rapist, either of them.”

  “I can’t say they were directly involved, no.” Hackney drained his tankard and dug in his pocket for change. “But the cook is Pamela Alcock’s sister and the murdered girl’s auntie. If anyone was following Grace or being cheeky, she might know it. And the housemaid was Harriet’s close friend, so we can’t miss her, either.”

  Arnussen leaned back. His hand, full of papers, fell into his lap. “Think it’s going to be so simple?”

  Hackney shook his head, gave the empties and change a hopeful push, and opened Dr. Harris’ file. “Are they still serving, do you know?”

  “One way to find out.” Arnussen slipped his glasses into his pocket, grabbed the tankards and coins, and waded through the sea of khaki toward the bar. The Land Girls cleared a good-natured path for him, then returned to peering over their tankards at the pile of papers sprawling across the table. A pub wasn’t the best place for a meeting of this sort and not only the Land Girls were surreptitiously watching them. But at least there wasn’t enough light for them to read anything, even if they were too close for discretion, and Hackney reminded himself to keep his voice below the level of the general roar.

  The autopsy reports were on top. Hackney skimmed the summaries.

  Harriet Stoner, aged seventeen, had been dead for about thirty-six hours before her body was found; lividity was completely established along her back and rigor mortis was just beginning to pass off in her eyelids and jaw. There was serological evidence of sperm within her uterus, but due to the rapid start of decomposition in the August heat, it was impossible to determine whether the sex was consensual. The direct cause of her death was massive trauma to her chest, best interpreted as approximately fifty stab wounds inflicted by a short-bladed knife, sharp on only one side of the blade. In addition, she had been beaten severely about her face, and her nose, jaw, and left cheekbone were fractured. Finally, there was a contusion on the right posterior of her occipital lobe, with dirt and vegetable matter rubbed into it. A single dark brown hair, less than three inches in length and readily identifiable as human, had been found beneath her left index fingernail. It was presumed to have been torn from the head of her attacker and the high degree of pigmentation suggested a perpetrator between thirteen and thirty years of age.

  By contrast, Grace Alcock, aged fifteen, had been dead no more than two hours prior to being examined and conclusions could be drawn with much more certainty. Rape in her case was definite and savage with multiple tears to the vaginal wall. The direct cause of death, again, was a frenzy of stab wounds to the chest, in her case approximately thirty blows, also with a one-sided blade three and one-half to four inches in length. Her nose and left cheekbone were fractured, with moderate to severe bruising over the remainder of her face. She too had been struck on the back of her head, although as this attack had taken place within doors the wound was clean. Trace evidence included blood and tissue beneath all ten fingernails, as well as the sperm in her uterus, analysis of which indicated an attacker with type A+ blood and a secretor.

  Hackney forced himself to examine the grisly photos from both crime scenes. When Arnussen returned, a tankard in each hand, he started to set the photos aside with a guilty twinge of relief. But when he glanced up, one of the Land Girls, a pretty imp with red hair braided down her back, straightened and turned away too quickly. Irritated, he flipped the
photos face down, and the reports, too, for good measure.

  “We’re in luck.” Arnussen slid into his chair. “One of these ladies is the housemaid at Margeaux Hall and the publican’s niece. She’s agreed to see what’s in the kitchen and then come speak with us while we eat.”

  Hackney recalled Kettering’s American Revolution war story and smiled, his irritation vanishing. “God bless the ladies. We’ll never win this war without them.” He pushed the photos and reports toward Arnussen. “What do you think?”

  Arnussen paused to put on his specs. He glanced through the photos but read the autopsy summaries with a concentration line between his eyes, then removed his glasses and chewed the stem. “Surprise attack. Hit on the head from behind. Overpowered, perhaps stunned, by the facial blows. Then stripped, thrown to the ground or bed, and raped. Then — ” He replaced the glasses and squinted again at the reports. “This reads like Jack the Ripper with a pocket knife.”

  Hackney nodded, shuffled the photos and reports back into the file, and slid it into his briefcase, still open on the table between them. The red-haired Land Girl turned away again, her mouth in a moue, and the one standing next to her dug an elbow in her ribs.

  “Tell me about the boot prints.”

  “Constable Mercer and I looked over the entire chicken farm together after you left for Margeaux Hall, but I didn’t find anything he hadn’t already.” Arnussen folded his glasses and slid them into his breast pocket. “Along with the prints which belonged there, we found three sets which don’t, either males or decidedly large females. One set had a tread pattern I’ve never seen before, but it stayed out next to the wall, along the roadway, and never came near the house.”

  “That supports what the German prisoner told me tonight.”

  “You got his boots?”

  Hackney handed him the paper sack. Arnussen slipped his glasses back on, drew one of the lace-up ankle boots from the sack, and examined the sole, his head tilting back as he squinted. “I can’t say for certain, but they look right.” He returned the boot to the sack and the sack to Hackney. “The other two sets had tread patterns like our own army or air force boys’ boots, but the wear marks and scuffing are pretty definite and I don’t think distinguishing them will be difficult. One set overstrode the German’s boots at the wall then ran all over the place among the chicken runs, finally approaching the front door and vanishing in the lawn about the house.”

  “That would be Sergeant Tanyon,” Hackney said. “I’ll get casts made of his boots, too.”

  “The other set, presumably the killer’s, approached from the Dark into the lawn at the back of the house.” Arnussen shrugged and chewed his glasses again. “The grass, of course, isn’t going to show us anything.”

  Hackney planted his elbows on the table and leaned. It sank beneath him, but not enough to convince him to back off. “Both girls were nude. What about Harriet’s clothing? We found Grace’s dress hanging in her closet but I can’t find any mention of the sprigged yellow muslin Major Stoner described.”

  “Constable Mercer and the local Home Guard looked in the Dark but found nothing.”

  “That would be an awfully large and indiscreet trophy for the killer to take away.” Hackney tapped his teeth with his thumbnail. “Doesn’t seem likely, does it? Keep after the dress, Axel; there’s something wrong there.”

  “I can’t use the Home Guard any more; they’re all suspects. How about Kettering? How serious a suspect is he?”

  Hackney shrugged. “Check his blood type and make certain he’s not A positive, then use him and every soldier he’s willing to contribute. The more of them who are out there looking as a group, the less likely the killer, if he’s among them, will take the chance of hiding evidence.”

  “In a crowd, he’d be seen and have to explain it.” Arnussen put on his glasses and made a note. “We’ll ring Kettering first thing in the morning.”

  Hackney drummed his fingers on the tabletop. Years of sloppy drinkers had tattooed it with dark rings, overlapping and crowding each other beneath Arnussen’s pad. “The killer’s clothes — what about them?”

  The sergeant looked up from his notes. “Blood stains, you mean?”

  “You might be able to bash a woman about the face without getting more than a spot or two on you, and you could pass it off as your own, from shaving or what-not. But you can’t go into a frenzy and stab her until your arm gives out without marking yourself.”

  “Definitely on the cuff, perhaps splashes on the front.” Arnussen made another note. “Or on the back, if he lifted his arm over his head and sprayed himself.”

  “So what did he do?” Hackney paused. “Did he strip as well, after the assault but before the rape and murder?”

  “Must have.” Arnussen looked up. “Another handkerchief at the first site, do you think?”

  Hackney nodded. “Something like that, which means our killer has used and disposed of two in three days. He can’t have an inexhaustible supply.”

  “We’ll get on that tomorrow morning, as well.” Arnussen glanced toward the bar. “Here comes chow.”

  Hackney followed his glance and saw a slender young woman in WVS green and red carrying a tray toward them, sashaying between the tables and circling the Land Army girls, her chin down and eyes averted. He scrabbled the remaining documents into his briefcase, closed it, and moved it to the floor. She set thick sandwiches and steaming bowls of soup on the table, then sat down herself with her back to the room and the tray cradled on her lap.

  “Love, I could marry you for this.” Arnussen shook out his napkin, then set out his steno pad and grabbed a pencil. Hackney had seen him take notes and eat one-handed many times.

  “He’s lying.” Hackney smiled at her, his heart aching. She looked so forlorn, like all the other grieving friends he’d interviewed through the years. “What’s your name?”

  “Sally Owen.” She smoothed her uniform jacket. “Harriet was me best mate.”

  About nineteen, Hackney decided, her figure trim in the bulky uniform, with loads of black hair around an oval face worth coming home to. Her eyes, dark but colorless in the pub’s low lighting, were puffy and red-rimmed as if she’d been crying, and she rolled the tray in her lap as she spoke.

  “You knew Grace, too?” Hackney asked.

  “Not as well, her being so much younger. And she spent most of her time practicing her music and I didn’t care for it. Me dad, Jerome Owen, that is, he farms the land across the road from Mrs. Alcock’s chicken runs. Before I went to the Hall, I lived near there.”

  “You’re now housemaid at Margeaux Hall?” The soup was all vegetable, thick with bits of potatoes and carrots and turnips, and the spicy sauce had a tomato base. Before rationing, the recipe might have included ham or beef.

  “Started out as parlor maid two years ago. There were five of us then.” Sally shrugged. “But then the old squire died and the new one mostly shut up the house. And then the war came. Now I’m the only one left.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “Cleaning and carrying. Rooms and clothes and dishes and floors. Breakfast in bed and meals in her room for her ladyship the squire’s sister,” Sally’s voice took on a sarcastic edge, “her who can’t hack the war effort. Meals to the dining room for the soldiers, then clear up after. I help Mrs. Alcock — she’s the cook — put together trays for the prisoners on the third floor, but the soldiers deliver them. And I cleaned the German officer’s uniform this afternoon.”

  Hackney glanced at Arnussen, who looked up from his notes and soup spoon with a smile. He turned back to Sally. “And you volunteer as well?”

  She shrugged again. “Just doing me little bit. All my friends joined, so I did, too. Harriet had just joined.” She bit her lip. “She hadn’t gotten her uniform yet. Her birthday was only two months ago, you know.”

  Another tiny piece of Hackney’s heart died. He set down his sandwich. “How long had you known her?”

  “The Stoners moved
here last summer from Oxford. Jennifer’s closer to my age and she’s nice, but she’s awfully serious and reads poetry and stuff. So I took up with Harriet. She’s — I mean, she was always fun.” Sally closed her eyes, her lashes trembling. “Wednesday afternoons — that’s my half day — we went to the films in Patchbourne and stopped at a tea shop right near the market. We’d fetch tobacco and cigarettes for the major from his shop, although he won’t let us smoke, and we’d collect books and stuff he’d ordered. He hasn’t done that for a while now. I guess he’s busy, with the war and all.” She opened her eyes and blinked a few times. “And he never said a word about her going about with the housemaid — never used the word slumming, not to me nor anyone who’s spoke to me. He’s got to be the nicest man around.”

  “Tell me about Saturday night.”

  “Worst night of me life, it was. I’ll never forget it.” Sally heaved a deep breath, her green jacket rising and falling. “Mrs. Mercer organized the dance for the soldiers at Margeaux Hall, and the pilots and mechanics at RAF Patchbourne, and she asked all us girls to show so they’d have someone to dance with. Everyone but Jennifer came, and it was fun for a while.”

  Hackney glanced down at his sandwich. He’d put on forty pounds since the cancer took Carolyn and had probably dined sufficiently. But it was a good sandwich. “Do you remember anyone who danced with Harriet?”

  Sally smiled through her tears. “Harriet was a good dancer and they lined up for her. She mostly danced with the pilots — she wanted to marry a pilot — but saved a few for our own soldiers. The ones from Margeaux Hall, I mean. I saw her dance with Reynolds, and Peckham, and Norris, and I think Pym.” She paused, dabbing beneath her eyes. “Yes, I’m sure she danced with Pym, too, although she wouldn’t touch Sloane because he’s always a bit greasy, and Ellington’s clumsy. Glover stayed at the Hall on duty, which is a shame because he’s a good dancer and she said she missed him.”