The Rest Is Silence

by James R Benn

  “They bring me in now and then,” he said, accepting his whiskey and soda from Edgar with the kind of nod you might give a decent bartender. “After two decades in India, I do have some knowledge of the area, Burma and China included. I have retired from the Indian Civil Service, but it is rewarding to continue to be useful.”

  “Edgar was telling me he’s back from India as well,” I said.

  “Yes, he is,” Sir Rupert said, turning away and addressing the ladies. It was time for dinner—not to mention a new topic of conversation.

  CHAPTER SIX

  DISTRACTED SOMEWHAT BY the mussels in white-wine sauce, I watched my fellow diners. I had been expecting decent enough food by wartime standards, but it was clear rationing hadn’t put a dent in the Ashcroft kitchens.

  “Not bad, eh?” Sir Rupert said as he tucked into his own bowl. “We have a fellow on the staff who used to fish for a living. Gave it up to manage the grounds here when the war began. He still keeps a small boat. Brings in a good catch when it’s safe to go out into the Channel.”

  “Safe from Germans?” I asked.

  “No, safe from the weather and the American navy, Captain!” Sir Rupert said with a grin. “Crawford’s boat’s only little, no match for gale-force winds or those big wallowing landing craft. But if it’s a calm day and he can avoid the larger vessels, he’ll go out just beyond the mouth of the River Dart. Dartmouth, if you understand. We all benefit, so I don’t begrudge him the time.”

  “We spoke to some fishermen in Kingsbridge today,” I said. “It seems as if the war has taken its toll on them.”

  “Along the Channel coast, certainly,” Sir Rupert said. “Crawford says the fish are plentiful, so perhaps it will be better than ever once the war is over.”

  As the first course was cleared, I leaned back and surveyed the table. Sir Rupert at the head, of course. I was on his left and Kaz across from me. Meredith and Edgar sat next to Kaz, while to my left were Helen and then David. Great Aunt Sylvia faced Sir Rupert at the other end of the table. The arrangement allowed David’s ruined face to be hidden from his wife, who spent most of her time talking across the table to her sister.

  Edgar offered to pour more wine for Great Aunt Sylvia, but his was the only empty glass. David looked uncomfortable, and I wondered whether Helen had made the seating arrangements. The conversation was animated, but I noticed that Meredith and her father had not exchanged a single word, or even looked at each other. I caught Kaz’s eye, and he gave the tiniest of shrugs, telling me he sensed the strangeness as well.

  Lamb cutlets were served, and my surveillance was interrupted.

  “Baron Kazimierz,” Great Aunt Sylvia said, raising her voice to be heard. “I hope you are not disappointed in the state of the household. We live a simple life in Devon, much simpler than that in many smaller country homes. No footmen, no useless frills. I hope you do not disapprove.”

  “On the contrary, Lady Pemberton. I would not trade these fresh peas for a dozen footmen,” Kaz said. I hadn’t thought about it, since at the Boyle kitchen table it was strictly pass the potatoes and every man for himself, but there was only one young girl bringing out the plates. Williams, the butler, was nowhere to be seen.

  “The early peas were picked from the greenhouse just today,” Helen said. “Crawford again. Where would we be without him?”

  “Are footmen hard to come by these days?” I asked.

  “I would think so,” Sir Rupert said. “But it’s never been our style. Even though the family has had its share of earls and lords, we’ve always worked for a living. The upper classes tend to forget that they got where they are today by dint of some distant ancestor who fought and clawed his way to the top of the heap.”

  “My grandfather helped to build the mill on Bow Creek,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “Not simply with funds; he helped to construct it. The Pembertons were never afraid of hard work, believe me.”

  “The Sutcliffes agree,” Sir Rupert said, nodding to Great Aunt Sylvia. “Ashcroft will continue in that tradition.” The table quieted as a long-standing family dispute seemed to shimmer in the air between them, seeking to take form. I could imagine the ghosts of Pembertons past at Great Aunt Sylvia’s shoulders.

  “You were knighted yourself, Sir Rupert?” Kaz inquired, moving the conversation to safer ground.

  “Father is a Knight Commander of the Most Exalted Order of the Star of India,” Helen said, with evident pride.

  “It’s what one gets for twenty years’ service to the Crown,” Sir Rupert said with a self-satisfied smile. At the other end of the table, Edgar set down his glass so loudly that Great Aunt Sylvia nearly jumped out of her chair.

  Edgar’s father-in-law had spent twenty years in India, had been knighted for his services, and was called to consult with the Foreign Office. Edgar had come home after only two years, and couldn’t find a position anywhere. Was that the cause of the chill between Meredith and her father? Had he declined to help Edgar for some reason?

  “Piotr, I hope you and Billy can remain with us for a few days,” David said, the first words he’d spoken at the table.

  “Yes, by all means,” Sir Rupert said. “Have you concluded your business in Devon?”

  “No, we haven’t,” I said, weighing the prospect of dinner the next few nights at Ashcroft against taking our chances at a pub or inn. “We’re going to the South Hams tomorrow, the restricted area, quite early in fact. After that we’ll wrap up our investigation in a day or so, I hope.”

  “Good hunting,” Sir Rupert said, quite the jovial host. “You should both feel free to come and go as you please. Glad to have you.”

  “If you are sure it is no trouble?” Kaz said.

  “You will find Sir Rupert is not given to idle platitudes when it comes to invitations to remain under his roof,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. It was hard to tell whether that was a compliment or something else entirely. “Of course you must stay, so you and David can catch up properly. It’s not every day we entertain the nephew of General Eisenhower, after all.”

  “Really?” Sir Rupert said, an eyebrow raised in my direction. I guess I didn’t look like I could be related to the Supreme Commander.

  “Yes,” I said. I filled him in but kept it short. What I didn’t tell any of them was that my folks had cooked up the idea of me working for Uncle Ike well before he became a big deal. You see, to my dad and Uncle Frank—he’s a real uncle—the British Empire is pretty much the enemy, since we’re all loyal Irishmen, and the Brits had kept their heel hard on Ireland for far too long. Both had served in the last war, and they lost their older brother in the trenches of France, so they didn’t take kindly to the idea of another Boyle lost in a war to keep the English in control of half the world. I had no problem with that.

  It was my mother who came up with the idea of getting in touch with Uncle Ike. He was from her side of the family, and at that time was working at the War Plans Department in DC. A perfect place to sit out the shooting war. Favors were called in, and soon I found myself a second lieutenant ready to join the staff of General Dwight David Eisenhower, duties unspecified. What we didn’t count on was Uncle Ike rocketing to the top and taking me along for the ride.

  What a ride it had been. From England in the early days to North Africa, Sicily, Northern Ireland, and Italy, then back to England. I was a captain now, and I saw things entirely differently than when I first arrived. I kind of missed the old me. He was much more certain—on the basis of knowing a whole lot less. I envied him.

  “Good, it’s settled then,” David said. My thoughts had taken me out of the conversation, but I saw that Kaz was pleased to stay on. David looked relieved, and I wondered what he wanted besides renewing a youthful friendship. Occupational hazard for a cop. After chasing crooks and killers for a living, you begin to focus on the dark side of human nature and expect the worst of people. Maybe all David wanted was an old pal to keep him company at Ashcroft, where the residents weren’t exactly warm and chummy.


  Helen and David: the ideal couple, as long as she only saw him in profile, from the left.

  Edgar and Meredith. A boozer without a job and his wife, who didn’t speak to her father. Why were they here, unless it was to seek a favor from Sir Rupert?

  Great Aunt Sylvia and her barbs directed at Sir Rupert. Or was that crack about invitations to live at Ashcroft directed at Meredith?

  Sir Rupert himself was pleasant, but there was obviously something brewing between him and Meredith. And why the disapproval of Edgar? He was following in his father-in-law’s footsteps, after all. That should be a plus for the old boy.

  “Captain Boyle?” Sir Rupert said, with a look that said he’d had to repeat himself.

  “Sorry, what was that?” I said.

  “Can you tell us anything more about what brings you to Devon? If it’s not too hush-hush, that is.”

  “It’s really nothing much,” I said. But all eyes were on me, and this wasn’t exactly a top-secret operation. I decided to expand on what I’d told Edgar. “A body washed up on the beach at Slapton Sands. It’s a restricted area, and that made my boss nervous. The corpse wasn’t in uniform, and no one local has been reported missing, so we were sent here to determine his identity.”

  “A German spy, perhaps?” Sir Rupert said, obviously keen on the idea.

  “Any reports of parachutists recently?” I asked, not answering his question. Best to let them imagine we were tracking down a dangerous nest of enemy agents. It was the least we could do in exchange for this fine food.

  “The Home Guard did bring in a German bomber crew,” Helen said. “They crash-landed in a field outside of Stoke Fleming, but that was two years ago.”

  “Do you suspect that this person was local?” Meredith asked.

  “It’s hard to say. We spoke to some fishermen who said the tides and currents could have carried him in from some distance.”

  “Talk to Crawford,” Sir Rupert offered. “As I said, he fished the Channel waters. He might have an idea or two.”

  “Good idea,” I said. And then the bread-and-butter pudding was served, and once again my attention was momentarily diverted. There was more talk of the indispensable Crawford, and how he kept the household in milk, butter, and eggs from the few cows and chickens on the estate. Given that the current weekly ration allowed two ounces of butter and one egg per person, Crawford was practically worth his weight in dairy products.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “I’M STILL NOT sure what to make of that bunch,” I said to Kaz too damn early the next morning. We’d left before dawn for the Dartmouth police station. I’d thought about packing my bags and staying in town, but that would have put Kaz in a bad spot.

  “David will fill me in, once we have a chance to talk,” Kaz said, buttoning the top collar of his trench coat. It was a crisp morning, the sun a distant promise of warmth as it began to crest the horizon. “I am sure your own family might appear strange at first to an outsider.”

  “Doesn’t everyone have an uncle in the IRA?” I said, taking his point. There was little traffic at this hour, and in no time we pulled up in front of the police headquarters, where Tom Quick was waiting.

  “Didn’t expect to see you fellows again quite so soon,” he said.

  “Sorry for the early hour,” I said as he squeezed into the rear seat next to the radio equipment.

  “No mind, I’m not much for sleep,” he said. “What’s this all about then?” We filled him in on Harding’s orders and the little we knew about the upcoming maneuvers.

  “Doesn’t take much to make the high and mighty nervous,” Quick said after we’d finished. It was hard to disagree. As we neared the coast, a thick fog rolled in, the breeze pushing the salt-scented air in from the Channel.

  “Please don’t drive us into a ditch,” Kaz said from the passenger’s seat. “I can barely see the road.”

  “Up ahead,” Quick said. “Lights.” I slowed and pulled over, glad to have found the roadblock without crashing into it. MPs stood at the closed gate. Ambulances, tow trucks, and other heavy vehicles were parked off the roadway, GIs nodding off in the cabs, waiting for the fun to begin. It looked like the army planned on something going wrong, which was sensible, since it always did.

  “We have orders to check the beach after the bombardment,” I said, showing my papers to the MP sergeant. “Still on for zero six hundred?”

  “You got me, Captain,” he said, handing the orders back. “They don’t tell us much. It’s supposed to end at zero six thirty, then the beachmaster goes forward to inspect. That’s all I know.”

  “Is the beachmaster here?” I asked, buttoning up my M-43 field jacket. No field scarf or low-quarter shoes today. Combat boots and a wool shirt and sweater did the trick for this damp, chilly English spring morning.

  “No, sir, he’s inland with some troopers from the 101st. I can let you through at zero six thirty, but you might want to take it slow. You never know with the navy. Meanwhile, they got a field kitchen set up on the other side of those trucks. Help yourself.”

  We did. Coffee and bacon sandwiches made the early morning fog bearable. As we finished up, a sea breeze wafted through the fields, thinning out the greyness, but not by much.

  “It’s five past six,” Quick said, checking his watch as we settled back in the jeep. “Or am I fast?”

  “I have six after,” I said. “We should be hearing the bombardment by now.”

  “Would the fog delay it?” Kaz asked.

  “Not likely,” I said. “Everything is strictly timed. The troops are coming ashore at zero seven thirty. Besides, the cruiser has radar; they could hit the beach in the dark of night.” We waited another five minutes. The silence was broken only by the distant crashing of surf.

  “We should radio Colonel Harding,” Kaz said. I agreed, put on the headset and fiddled with the radio until I got the right frequency and gave our call sign. I got an ensign aboard the Hawkins who sent a message to Harding.

  “Did he know anything?” Kaz asked when I’d signed off.

  “Only that the rocket attack by the fighters has been called off due to fog,” I said. “He said he’d track Harding down but that the brass was all in a tizzy. Ike decided to go back to Dartmouth when he heard the air attack was cancelled.” It looked like the old hotel on Slapton Sands had had a reprieve. But if fog grounded aircraft for the real invasion, the reprieve would be for the Germans. Not an auspicious start.

  There was nothing to do but have another cup of joe. As we drank, zero seven thirty rolled by. Still nothing.

  “Can you radio the beachmaster?” I asked the MP sergeant.

  “Don’t have a radio, Captain. Don’t even know what frequency he’s on. Like I said—”

  “Yeah, I know. They don’t tell you anything. I know the feeling.”

  There was nothing to do but wait, which was typical of the army. Hurry up and get somewhere before dawn, then wait for hours for something to actually happen. When zero eight hundred came around, the MPs shrugged, opened the gate, and let us through. “Guess the bombardment was called off,” the sergeant said. “The landing craft should be on their way to the beach by now, so it ought to be safe.” He waved us forward.

  “We’re the only ones daft enough to drive in here,” Quick said, hanging on to his seat in the rear as the jeep negotiated the ruts in the road.

  “No reason for them to,” I said. “Those are emergency vehicles.”

  “Then shouldn’t they be closer to a possible emergency?” Kaz asked.

  “It’s the army, Kaz,” I said. “No one moves unless they’re ordered to. Don’t worry.” I hadn’t been worried myself until Tom brought up everyone else staying behind. All of a sudden, it felt damn lonely to be driving through a deserted landscape in a restricted area, heading for the site of a canceled bombardment from a heavy cruiser.

  We drove through Strete, past untended fields and cottages, and watched a herd of deer bolt for the woods as we disturbed their morn
ing feed. The road curved along the coast, hugging a rise a few hundred feet high. I pulled over, the heights a ringside seat to watch the landings once the fog cleared. The Channel was dotted with LCVPs—Landing Craft, Vehicle, Personnel—or “Higgins boats” as the flat-bottomed tubs were commonly known. Each one carried thirty-six combat infantrymen, and there were dozens and dozens crashing through the surf, coming closer to the shingle at Slapton Sands.

  “I can’t see the cruiser,” Kaz said, scanning the horizon with binoculars.

  “It’s too far out,” Quick said. “Those big naval guns can lob shells for miles.” Large LCTs and LCIs stood offshore, with smaller landing craft circling as they formed up for the run in.

  As the Higgins boats drew closer, they were overtaken by half a dozen fast patrol boats—odd-looking craft, shorter than any PT boat I’d ever seen, about ten or twelve yards long at most. Three hundred yards from the beach, they stopped, and in seconds a terrific volley of rockets launched from each boat, bright flames coursing above the waves and slamming into the barbed-wire entanglements we’d seen put up yesterday. Most of the rounds hit, blowing gaps in the wire, leaving openings for the GIs about to land. The craft turned and made smoke as they headed back into the Channel.

  “That’s something new,” Kaz said. “Very effective, but of course no one was shooting back at them.”

  “You can’t have everything,” I said, and started the jeep. “Let’s head closer.”

  “Perhaps they canceled the naval bombardment in favor of those rocket boats,” Kaz suggested.

  “Impressive, but they’re not quite the same thing,” Quick said. “It’ll take Jerry by surprise, but concrete isn’t the same as strands of barbed wire.”

  Closer to the beach, we came upon the paratroopers we saw yesterday, sitting outside their entrenchment, smoking cigarettes. They waved, looking happy about the absence of 7.5-inch shells raining down near their position. We halted at the end of the shingle, watching the landing craft drop their ramps and men storm the stony shore.