A Simple Country Mystery

by Blythe Baker

  “Perhaps nothing that extreme, but nevertheless, if you are going to be investigating this case, then allow me to help. That’s all I’m saying,” he said.

  I knew deep down that I was wounded because he was, in fact, correct about what would have happened if he hadn’t let me go along to the camp. I likely would have gone out there all the way on my own, under some guise that was entirely made up.

  He was also correct that trouble seemed to find me wherever I went. I wasn’t sure what it was about my move to Brookminster, but it seemed that ever since I arrived, my ability to attract unwanted problems was only ever increasing.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “You’ve become rather quiet.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, perhaps a bit too sharply. “I think you’re right, you know,” I added a moment later, in a gentler tone. “Trouble does seem to follow me around.”

  “You aren’t the only one,” Sam said. “I’ve had my fair share of it as well over the years. There are just some people who unfortunately are created to be able to handle it better, and we are the ones who end up seeing the world for what it really is.”

  I pondered his words as we made our way outside of town, through the rolling countryside. Despite the looming rain overhead, and the darkening skies, sheep were still out in the vibrant green hills, their only concern being whether or not to eat the grass where they stood, or whether the grass nearer their friend was better.

  The camp was further outside the village than I expected. As promised, Sam asked me about Mr. Fenton and Miss Harmon, and I gave him the account of what I’d seen once again in detail.

  “I’ll go and speak with Mr. Fenton, but something tells me this is going to lead to yet another dead end,” Sam said. “Which is frustrating, since I had hoped this Mr. Smith would be the one to help us unravel everything, given the secretive tendencies of Mrs. Lowell.”

  “Well, perhaps he still might,” I said. “And he might be able to tell you more about Miss Harmon as well.”

  “A jilted lover is nothing new,” Sam said.

  “Yes, but the way she despised poor Mrs. Lowell, it simply makes me wonder if – ”

  My thoughts died away as we crested a hill…and found a fortress nestled at the foot of a steep knoll.

  It looked far more like a permanent structure than a camp, or a farm, despite its large size. High fences encircled the entire plot of land. There were tents and military vehicles all throughout, as well as small huts that looked more stable. Fields spanned out on all sides of the compound, likely where the prisoners were put to work every day.

  When we approached the farm, we found a checkpoint, along with a gate, before we were even able to cross into the perimeter.

  The soldiers standing guard at the gate held their rifles, and looked none too pleased about a visitor.

  One of the soldiers approached the car. He couldn’t have been older than twenty, perhaps twenty-one.

  Sam rolled down the window of the car.

  “Name and business?” the soldier asked.

  “Inspector Graves of the Brookminster police,” Sam said. “I’m here on an investigation.”

  The soldier at the car straightened and looked over at a corresponding guard beside the gate. It was as if they were having a silent conversation before he bent back down to look at Sam. “And her?” he asked, nodding toward me.

  Sam glanced over at me. “My stenographer,” he said. “I need her to transcribe my conversations, as well as utilizing her as a witness.”

  The soldier shifted on his feet, looking down at his boots. He sighed, but didn’t protest the inspector’s words. “Badge?” he asked.

  Sam obliged, pulling his out from his front pocket. He showed it to the soldier.

  The soldier took a step back from the car, and gave a signal to the gate keeper. Two soldiers moved to part the gates, and stood aside to allow our car through.

  We entered a road that likely would have led to the farm at one point in time, but now was lined with wire fences that were topped with barbed wire coils.

  Peering through the fences, I saw there were tents and huts that were surrounded by even more fencing.

  “You cannot look in any direction without seeing a soldier,” I said.

  “Indeed,” Sam said. “This place is well protected. It’s been some time since I’ve been up here to see the progress of things. It appears to have grown since I was here last.”

  At the end of the road, we were approached by another soldier, who directed our car off to the side of the farmhouse, which seemed to be working as the camp’s headquarters.

  As I stared around at all of the security, I wondered if this was simply a fruitless errand for us. How could anyone escape a place like this?

  We were escorted to the front porch of the charming home, which had a porch swing and a pair of terracotta planters that looked as if their flowers had seen much better days. We were quickly rushed over the threshold, which made me rather sad. This house used to belong to a family, and likely had many happy memories attached to it. How had a home so lovely fallen into use as a prison camp?

  There were just as many soldiers inside the house as we were led back through the narrow front hall, past a darling sitting room decorated in yellows, and back into a home study nearer the back of the house.

  The soldier leading us knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?” asked a nasally voice from behind the door.

  “There is an Inspector Graves here to see you, sir,” said the soldier.

  The sound of something being slammed down greeted us, as well as the sharp scraping noise of a chair being pushed back.

  The door was yanked open a moment later, and a sour looking bald man with a greying moustache and sharp brown eyes stood before us.

  “What do you want, Graves?” the man asked.

  Sam, who stood nearly a head taller than the man, didn’t flinch in the slightest. “Sergeant Crow,” he said. “How nice to see you again.”

  “I certainly do not agree,” Sergeant Crow said. “What in the world are you doing here so late? It’s very nearly eight o’clock. Come back tomorrow during more reasonable hours.”

  He brushed past us both.

  Sam gave me a dark look, and pursued the Sergeant down the hall.

  “I think you know why I’m here, Sergeant,” Sam said as we followed him into what looked like a dining room, but had more recently been converted into a meeting room. Maps stretched across the walls, tacked haphazardly into place, and filing cabinets stood on either side of the cherry curio cabinet, which still held pretty china.

  “To be perfectly honest, Inspector, I couldn’t care less why you are here,” the Sergeant said, snatching a manila file off the table, giving Sam the briefest of glances before turning right back around and heading toward the office.

  “I understand that you wouldn’t want this whole business to reflect badly on you,” Sam said, following after the Sergeant as if we’d been asked to. “Truly, I do. But I have every reason to believe that the article published in the newspaper was nothing more than the rantings of some nervous person who – ”

  “Well, then why did you need to come all the way out here, then, hmm?” Sergeant Crow asked, his dark eyebrows bent in a V shaped crease across his tall forehead. “If the whole thing is false, then you are doing nothing more than wasting my time.”

  “You know very well that I have to do my due diligence and follow up, just as you would have to if you were in my shoes,” Sam said. “I am here on authority, as you know. I am simply doing my job.”

  The Sergeant glared up at Sam. “You do realize that this article has already invoked the wrath of my superiors?” he asked. “I received a call before noon about the accusations of the lack of security around here. It was stated that if any of these things ended up being even remotely true, that many of us here might be discharged. Can you imagine what that would do to my men? To their families?”

  It pleased me to see so
me humanity within the Sergeant. These men had lived through a great deal, and it was no wonder that he’d become as hardened as he was. Nevertheless, it soothed my nerves ever so slightly to hear that he cared about the men under his command.

  “I understand that,” Sam said. “Which is part of the reason why I came here. My hope is to verify that these accusations are false, and to do that I am going to need to speak with some of the inmates.”

  The Sergeant leaned forward on his desk, much in the same way Sam had back at his office. Two men in similar roles, both carrying great burdens.

  He looked up at Sam, his eyes narrowing. “I suppose you can speak to a few of them,” he said. “Though I’m not sure what you will be able to discern from them.”

  “Leave that to me,” Sam said.

  The Sergeant finally glanced over at me. “And who is this that you’ve brought with you? I’m surprised you would have brought a lady to such an unsafe place.”

  “She’s my stenographer,” Sam said. “I am hoping to get some direct statements from the inmates to use in a rebuttal article tomorrow morning.”

  “I see,” Sergeant Crow said. “Very well, she may observe your conversations, but she is not to sit with you in the same room as the prisoners.”

  “I agree,” Sam said, looking over at me. “It wouldn’t be safe.”

  “She can, however, follow with us, and I will take her to the observation area,” Sergeant Crow said. “I hope you are both ready for a tedious evening. Translating for these soldiers has proven…well, cumbersome.”

  “We can be patient,” Sam said. “You need not worry about us.”

  12

  The Sergeant led us through the parts of the camp where the soldiers would travel. We learned that most of the prisoners were from Germany, but there were also some Ukrainians, and even one French soldier who had deserted his own troops.

  “And what do they do all day?” I asked as we walked toward one of the more substantial looking buildings that had been constructed.

  “Work,” Sergeant Crow said. “Out in the fields, mostly. They’re all watched over by armed guards, though, to ensure they don’t run.”

  “Every soldier is watched at all hours of the day?” Sam asked.

  Sergeant Crow nodded. “There are always several sets of eyes on each group of prisoners.”

  I jotted that down on the small notepad, just like I had when we had visited Evangeline. The possibility that one of the soldiers had somehow slipped away and killed Mrs. Lowell was becoming less and less likely by the moment.

  We entered the building, which was significantly cooler than the outside, despite the chill in the air already, as the sun had now likely set. It was bare, sterile, and depressing. No art hung on the walls, and there was no color aside from the drab grey of the walls and the floor.

  “This way,” the Sergeant said.

  He directed us down another hall lined with doors, all of which had sizable locks on them. A chill crawled up my arms. Was this where they kept the prisoners?

  “In here,” Sergeant Crow said. “This is where you can watch the interrogations, Miss…?”

  “Lightholder,” I said, choosing the truth as opposed to making up a name.

  “Lightholder?” the Sergeant repeated, his thick eyebrows furrowing once again.

  For a moment, I thought for certain that he was going to say something about knowing Roger, and my heart jumped into my throat.

  The moment passed, though, and he showed me inside.

  It was a cramped space, and very dark. The right wall, however, was mostly taken up by a thick, glass window. It didn’t look outside. Instead, it peered into the room beside it, which was just as barren as the rest of the building. There was nothing in there apart from a metal table, and two chairs positioned on either side.

  The interrogation room.

  “Wait here,” Sergeant Crow said. “I’ll take Inspector Graves – ”

  “One moment,” Sam said.

  He gently laid a hand on my shoulder and guided me over to the corner of the room. Bending his head lower, he whispered to me.

  “Just take down whatever seems relevant, all right?” he asked. “I think we both know how this is going to end tonight, but if there is even a chance that one of these men here killed Mrs. Lowell…”

  I nodded. “I agree. It’s best if we’re thorough.”

  He nodded as well and straightened. “I won’t be able to communicate with you through the glass,” he said. “But if you see me…oh, I don’t know…let’s say rest my hand on my cheek, and tap my finger three times, I want you to pay extra attention to what the prisoner is saying.”

  “Very well,” I said. “I will watch for that.”

  Sergeant Crow grabbed one of the soldiers from the hall to stand inside with me and guard the door, and then guided Sam back out into the hall.

  I let out a heavy sigh, wrapping my arms around myself to maintain some of the heat being leeched from my body in that cold room.

  The door on the other side of the glass opened a few moments later, and Sergeant Crow showed Sam inside.

  Sam didn’t appear uneasy in the least, even though he was about to be speaking with some of the country’s enemies. He took the seat on the right, adjusting his tie.

  “I’ll go get the prisoners lined up,” Sergeant Crow said.

  His voice came through a little speaker set into the corner of the room. It made it sound as if I was hearing him through the receiver on my telephone at home.

  “Make sure they’re unbiased choices, Sergeant,” Sam said. “I need to make sure.”

  Sergeant Crow studied Sam for a moment, but nodded, and disappeared out the door once again.

  Sam then turned to the glass. “You all right in there, Lightholder?”

  I nodded, and then realized that he couldn’t see me.

  “There’s a communication box right there,” said the soldier who was guarding the door on my side. He pointed to a small, metal square with a red button on it.

  I walked over to it and pressed the button. “Yes, I’m just fine,” I said, and then released the button.

  He nodded. “Good. We will get the information we need, and then I’ll make sure that we get back to the station.”

  I swallowed, my throat becoming tight. This was not at all how I had expected my day to go. It was starting to seem like several days, given the level of exhaustion I was beginning to feel, especially in my knees and my head.

  But I didn’t want my weakness to show, so I stood straight in front of the glass, my notepad poised in my hand, ready to be written upon.

  It wasn’t long before the door on the opposite wall opened, and two soldiers entered with a third man who was handcuffed between them.

  The soldiers deposited him in the chair across from Sam.

  He was young. I wasn’t sure why I expected to find someone who was much older, as most of the soldiers who were walking around through the camp here were young, as well. He couldn’t have been older than a teenager.

  Another man stepped into the room, dressed in a brown suit, and stood off to the side.

  It took a moment for the soldiers to get the prisoner situated, but when he was, he simply sat there, staring across at Sam with a look of curiosity and distaste.

  Sam glanced at the man in the brown suit. “I assume you are the translator?”

  The man nodded. “Yes. I am Mr. Bower.” He held out his hand to Sam. There was a distinct accent in his words, and I couldn’t quite place it.

  “Inspector Graves,” Sam said, shaking. He then nodded toward the prisoner. “And who is joining us this evening?”

  “This is Johan Schneider,” said Mr. Bower. “He was captured about six months ago, brought straight here when he attempted to infiltrate the border.”

  It was hard to imagine someone like him trying to cross over into England, likely searching for information. Maybe he would be good to question, given his abilities and skills for espionage and stealth
.

  Sam cleared his throat, turning to the young man.

  Johan likely couldn’t understand what was being spoken between the two men, yet he looked back and forth expectantly.

  “Mr. Schneider…good evening, my name is Inspector Graves. I have some questions that I would like you to answer. They are not for you, specifically, but about all of the prisoners here at the camp.”

  He waited as Mr. Bower quickly rattled off his translation to the young prisoner in German.

  Johan nodded, and responded, maintaining eye contact comfortably with the inspector.

  “He says that he will answer your questions,” said Mr. Bower.

  “Very good,” Sam said. “There are claims that one of the prisoners here at the camp somehow managed to escape and made his way to the nearest village some miles from here.”

  He waited as it was translated, and Johan responded.

  “He says that he has no knowledge of anyone escaping this place,” said Mr. Bower. “And he says that he himself has never tried.”

  “I would certainly believe that,” said the soldier behind me in a low voice.

  I glanced over my shoulder at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Johan is one of our best behaved prisoners,” said the soldier with a shrug. “He never complains, never argues, always does what he is told precisely when he is told to do it…” He shifted on his feet, adjusting his grip on his rifle. “Which is why he always has us so on edge. Why is he so complacent? It just feels rather unnatural is all.”

  I looked back at the room, studying Johan’s face more closely, managing to catch the tail end of Sam’s next question.

  “ – and claims that one of the prisoners managed to kill a local woman while away from the camp. If such a person remained at large, some might think that his entire disappearance was covered up to conceal a hole in the security of this camp,” Sam said, arching an eyebrow as he studied Johan as intently as Johan studied him.

  Johan listened to the translation, shook his head, and leaned back in his seat, his hands still outstretched on the table, locked in place. He answered, his voice calm, and the translator listened.