The Rest Is Silence

by James R Benn

  “He used to be a cop, too,” I said, after reviewing what had happened at the racetrack.

  “Is that why he’s one of those Reserve guys? They don’t trust him back on the force?”

  “Inspector Grange trusts him enough to give him that job,” I said. “But he might not be able to swing the real thing once the war’s over. Sometimes he can drift off. Lose himself when things get difficult.”

  “Plenty of times I wish I could do that,” Big Mike said. “He seems like a decent guy. Hope he’s going to be okay. But it’s gotta be hard, losing your wife and kids and then going out to bomb other women and children. What’s the difference, you gotta ask yourself? Some days I wonder how any of us will get through this war with our heads screwed on straight.” He went a little faster over the bridge at Totnes, the moonlight reflecting off the moving water, running high; the tide must have been coming in. Less than a week and I was already a nautical expert. Big Mike slowed as a trio of GIs staggered across the road, their linked arms the only thing keeping them vertical.

  “Must be past closing time. Turn left here,” I said, pointing to a narrow country lane that led to the village of Bow, where Bow Creek got its name. Or the other way around. Tree branches shrouded the road, cutting off what light the moon gave.

  “What’s up with this Lieutenant Wiley you guys are talking about?” Big Mike asked as he ducked a particularly low hanging limb.

  “Navy. Some kind of map-maker, from the little he says about his work. Harding knows, but of course he won’t tell. He showed up at Ashcroft House, asking to visit and set up his easel since his mother had worked there before she went to America.” I told Big Mike about Sir Rupert’s request and the few facts I’d had time to ferret out.

  “So what are you going to do now that the old guy’s dead?” Big Mike asked.

  “I still have to look into it,” I said. “What if Wiley stands to inherit the place?”

  “He won’t be very popular, that’s for sure,” he said. “From the little I’ve seen, that dame Meredith likes running the show. Her old man’s bastard son might be in for a rough welcome.”

  Big Mike was right about that. An unexpected relation from the wrong side of the sheets would be the last person Sir Rupert’s daughters would want showing up at the funeral. And I had an uneasy feeling about Sir Rupert’s hasty visit to his solicitor the day before he died. If there were a legal document acknowledging Peter Wiley as his illegitimate son, it would throw a monkey wrench into the works for all concerned. But had Sir Rupert actually changed his will? Maybe, or perhaps there was other family business he rushed off to see his solicitor about hours before he died.

  Whatever he’d done, it was time I had a talk with Peter Wiley. The more I mulled it over, the surer I was that he deserved to know the truth, or at least what Sir Rupert had suspected the truth to be. Maybe he wouldn’t care about an inheritance.

  We pulled into the Ashcroft House drive, with Kaz not far behind after he dropped Constable Quick off at his lodgings. I looked at the stone house on the hill, stars twinkling above the darkened structure. Who in their right mind would walk away from a piece of this action? I needed to talk to Wiley.

  Inside, the wireless was on in the library, and we stopped in to see who was still up. Edgar and Crawford sat side by side, their heads bent close in hushed conversation. As Big Mike and I entered the room, they broke apart, relaxing back in their seats as if they were intent on listening to the symphony.

  “Good evening,” I said. “Crawford, this is Sergeant Mike Miecznikowski. I don’t think you were introduced earlier.”

  “Big Mike to my friends,” he said, extending his hand to Crawford.

  “I don’t have Yank friends,” Crawford said, ignoring the proffered handshake.

  “Or manners,” Big Mike said. He moved in even closer, his big mitt still outstretched.

  “Oh, all right,” Crawford said, standing up and taking Big Mike’s hand, then sitting down again, shaking his head as if it had been a mere misunderstanding. “Been a long day, nothing personal meant by it. Sounds like the American navy took a thrashing last night. How’d you get on looking for those fellas?”

  “Pretty well,” I said, not interested in going into details. “And from what I heard, it was the Royal Navy that had escort duties, by the way.”

  “Well, no excuse for letting the Jerries in,” Crawford said. “I didn’t mean to blame anyone, you know. I only heard from my cousin about American ships being hit. He saw the sky light up all the way from his battery at Salcombe.”

  “Drink?” Edgar asked, always knowing the right thing to say. We accepted a nightcap, settling into the comfortable chairs by the radio.

  “Has Peter Wiley come back, by any chance?” I asked.

  “I haven’t seen him,” Edgar said. “Have you, Crawford?”

  “No. Haven’t laid eyes on him since he left. Or rather, the day before, since he left quite early. Are you looking to find him, Captain Boyle?”

  “No,” I said. “I thought he might come back to finish that painting.”

  “That might not be possible,” Edgar said. “Meredith took a dislike to the young man. Now that Sir Rupert’s gone, I doubt he’d be welcomed back. His mother was a servant, after all.”

  “Nothing wrong with being in service,” Crawford said, his eyes steady on Edgar.

  “Admirable, I say,” Edgar declared. “Whatever would we do without those who serve? No offense meant, Crawford.”

  I finished my drink before I said something I’d have to apologize for. This was a side of Edgar I hadn’t seen before. Not quite the henpecked boozehound tonight. A bit more on the snarly side, with that cutting remark about servants. More Meredith than do-gooding Edgar. Big Mike and I left as Kaz came in, and as we ascended the stairs, all I could think about were the floating bodies and the bed waiting for me. A tiny part of my brain wondered what Crawford was doing at ease with Edgar in the library. That was for family and guests, not the help, especially under the new regime. But the thought drifted away, replaced by visions of boots I knew would haunt my dreams.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  MEREDITH BUTTERED HER toast in a fury, crumbs flying from the knife’s edge, encircling her plate with a dark halo to match her mood.

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” she said, not for the first time that morning. “A formal reading of the will, and not until after the funeral. The nerve of that solicitor!”

  “Darling, Farnsworth is simply following instructions left by your father. Don’t blame the old boy for doing his job,” Edgar said, tossing sugar into his coffee.

  “How like Father to make things difficult even after he’s gone,” Meredith said, snapping off a chunk of toast and sending more charred bits onto the white tablecloth. “I mean, really, how extraordinarily Victorian. No one has a reading of the will these days. The solicitor simply fetches it for one, I believe. Isn’t that right?”

  “I’m not certain myself,” David said. “Never had much business with wills, except the one I had drawn up before I joined the service. Not that I had much to leave to anyone but Helen, but I thought it best to clarify things.”

  “Exactly my point,” Meredith said. “A will should clarify things, not muddy the waters. Don’t you agree, Baron Kazimierz?”

  “All I know,” Kaz said, gulping the last of his coffee, “is that we have our own muddy waters awaiting us. I am sure things will turn out for the best. I am sorry we cannot spend more time with you this morning.” Big Mike looked pained by that pronouncement—he had only eaten a breakfast fit for a normal person and had undoubtedly been looking forward to more bacon.

  “I hope you’ll be back for dinner,” David said.

  “We can’t say for sure. But if Peter Wiley should return,” I said as I rose to leave, “could you please tell him to get back to base immediately? His leave is up.” I thought it best not to mention it had been up for a while.

  “Oh, he’s probably off painting s
omewhere,” David said. “Artists, you know, they lose all track of time.”

  “I was so sorry he hadn’t time to finish the painting of Ashcroft,” Helen said. “Perhaps he will return and complete it.”

  “Well, he won’t be staying here if he does,” Meredith said. “We won’t be housing and feeding returning sons and daughters of every servant who has worked here. Not if I have anything to say on the subject.” She glared at the others, inviting any opposition. The motion was carried by unanimous silence.

  Kaz and Big Mike were already at the front door, ready for another morgue ride. I told them to head out. I had to pick up Tom Quick, but first I wanted to check in on Lady Pemberton. Or Great Aunt Sylvia, as I’d come to think of her. There was something endearing about the woman, and I’d been worried to find her confused and half asleep the day before, so I dashed upstairs for a quick check and to say good morning, hoping to find her ready to come down for breakfast.

  It didn’t work out that way. I knocked on her sitting-room door and pushed it open. She was slumped over in the same chair by the window she’d been in the day before, a broken cup on the floor, the saucer still on her lap, and tea stains on her robe. Her head was lolling to the side, dried saliva leaving a whitish trail down her chin.

  “Lady Pemberton!” I said, taking her hand in mine and supporting her head. The hand was warm, and I saw a flutter of eyelashes. “It’s me, Billy. Are you all right?”

  “Oh … Captain Boyle … Billy, yes,” she said, her voice distant and faint. “What happened?”

  “You fell asleep,” I said, taking the saucer and picking up the broken pieces of china. A tray with uneaten toast and a small tea pot sat on the side table. “You dropped your cup. I’ll get Alice to come help you get cleaned up.”

  “Oh dear,” she said. “Two cups, and I still can’t stay awake. What’s wrong with me?”

  “You’ve had a shock, Lady Pemberton. Besides, you spilled most of this one. Don’t worry about it. This must be a tough time for you.”

  “Rupert, you mean? Well, I would not have wished him harm, but I am hardly distraught, young man. Billy,” she said, correcting herself and softening her tone. She smoothed her dressing gown and sat up straight, gathering her dignity about her. “I have lost my husband and my son, along with most of my friends, and this is my second major war. I don’t count the Boer War, that wasn’t a proper affair at all. So you see, it takes a fair bit to rattle this old lady.”

  “See, you’re better already,” I said, smiling at her quick recovery.

  “Perhaps I needed that sleep,” she admitted. “What time is it?”

  “Almost eight,” I said. “I’ll fetch Alice to help you clean up.”

  “It’s odd: I have always risen early, but now I can’t seem to stay awake once daylight comes,” she said, a distracted look in her eyes. “Nice girl, Alice. There was something I wanted to talk to you about, Billy, but for the life of me I cannot recall what it was. No matter, it will come to me.” She rubbed her eyes, the strain of whatever was bothering her evident, no matter how chipper she tried to sound.

  “We’ll try to be back for dinner,” I said. “I hope you’ll feel better by then.”

  “I’m sure I will,” she said. “Off you go now, Billy. It was kind of you to come and see me. I haven’t had company all morning, except for Meredith bringing my tray. She’s trying awfully hard, don’t you think?”

  “She’s trying, that’s for sure,” I said, and left Great Aunt Sylvia chuckling. She seemed better this morning, if still a bit woozy. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, she was in her nineties, and that was bound to make anyone tired and confused. Me, I hadn’t hit the quarter century mark, and I was bushed from everything that had happened over the past few days. I found Alice and asked her to tend to Lady Pemberton. Alice called her a “poor dear” and agreed she seemed more tired than ever.

  I PICKED UP Tom Quick a short time later. He sat in the jeep with his helmet firmly strapped under his chin, his rifle held between his knees. His knuckles were white, and he didn’t say a word.

  “Tom, I could drop you off in Dartmouth if you’d rather not come along,” I said.

  “Rather not? Who does what they’d rather do these days, Billy?”

  We drove toward Brixham, planning to start with the Casualty Clearing Station and work our way south until we met up with Kaz and Big Mike—with our list of names all checked off, I hoped. Outside of Stoke Gabriel there were columns of British Tommies on the road, marching four abreast at a pace that would have been tiring without the heavy packs and Lee-Enfield rifles. They stretched as far as I could see, so we backed up and Constable Quick navigated the back roads, taking us along the coast, skirting the main road and the traffic heading into Brixham.

  “Looks like good farming country,” I said. Cows were grazing in the green pastures. The aroma of spring manure spread on the fields filled the air, mingling with the tangy aroma of salt water from the Channel not far off. A promise of summer—and plenty, in its own way.

  “They say Devon cream is the best in England,” Quick said, his voice flat and his eyes scanning the fields and enclosures as if he had little interest in cream, cows, or anything in bloom. I was trying to think of what to say when a man jumped out into the lane, waving his arms. I hit the brakes, swerving in the rutty dirt to miss him.

  “Down there! They’re down there!” he shouted. A farmer, by the look of his work clothes. His face was flushed from exertion, his eyes wide at what he’d seen.

  “Who?” Quick asked.

  “Some of your lot,” he said, pointing to me. “Eight, maybe ten, washed up on the beach. Dead.”

  “Show us,” I said, turning to tell Tom to stay with the jeep. But he was already out. This was his turf, and he showed no hesitation.

  “Down this path,” the farmer said. “My dog Sally was barking her fool head off this morning. I thought maybe some of the sheep had got out and wandered down this way. I wish it had been the sheep, I tell you.”

  He took us down a path winding between small rises of pasture, sheep gathering along the wire fence as we passed. We descended to a small beach, a patch of sand and round, smooth boulders—a peaceful, secluded spot, except for the drowned bodies. Sally paced the waterline, barking into the salt air, knowing something was terribly wrong with these men. The waves nudged each corpse, every roller lifting an arm or a leg a few inches, then retreating, the lifeless limbs falling back into the wet sand as they departed. GIs, their life belts all worn the wrong way. Some had helmets strapped on, a few had M1 rifles slung over their backs, tangled in the full field packs they were burdened with. Their uniforms were sodden, laced with seaweed, their faces and hands a dull grey, matched only by their opaque lifeless eyes.

  “Seven men,” Quick said in a low voice. “Witnesses always exaggerate, although with good reason in this case. It must have been a shock.”

  “Not an easy thing to see,” I said. “Let’s get his name and get to the clearing station. They’ll send a truck out.” Quick got out his notebook and took down the information. Sally leaned against the farmer’s leg, her tail brushing the sand as he absently scratched her ear.

  “You’re not going to leave them like this, are you?” he asked, after giving Tom the details.

  “Of course not, no,” I said. “Let’s pull them up and out of the water, Constable.” We dragged each GI by his shoulders up from the water’s edge and onto the dry sand. I took the three M1s and hoisted them over my shoulder. Quick checked the dogtags. There were no BIGOTs among them.

  “We’ll get a vehicle here as soon as possible,” Quick said as we began to walk back to the road. “Can you stay with the bodies?”

  “No disrespect intended,” the farmer said, “but I’ve got cows to milk. I’ve no help now that the young men are all off serving, or dead. The wife helps, but it’s more than she can handle. So no, I cannot stand watch over these poor lads. But it looks like Sally knows her duty.”

&nbs
p; He pointed to the beach. Sally had settled in next to the bodies, her chin resting on her paws, her eyes on the row of corpses. A cross between a baby’s cry and an old lady’s moan rose from her throat as she lifted her head to the sky. She turned once to look at her master, who gave an approving nod, then returned to her vigil.

  “I feel bad for the dog,” Tom said as we drove away. “She doesn’t understand, only knows that something very bad has come into her world. And no one can ever explain it to her.”

  “I wish someone would explain it to me,” I said. “How could this happen? Radio frequencies mixed up, not enough escort to protect the convoy, no instructions on how to use life belts, orders not to go back to pick up survivors. Things are very bad everywhere, Tom, and no one explains any of it.” I envied the dog her oblivion.

  We drove in silence to Brixham. The Casualty Clearing Station was located outside of town at the site of an old stone fort on the cliffs above the Channel. There were still a few ancient cannon from the last century jutting out of the embrasures, but they hadn’t been ready for action since the Napoleonic Wars. A good location for secret work. The ramparts cut off the view, and there was only one road in, manned by MPs and a couple of constables for good measure. Tom gave the Brixham coppers the farmer’s name, and they knew the spot. Knew Sally as well. One MP jogged off to give the report, and the other waved us in.

  The old fort hadn’t seen this much activity since Admiral Nelson sailed the seas. Inside was a long, flat parade ground, marred only by the ruins of a massive stone building. This army used canvas, not stone, and there was plenty of it. Two long tents were marked with the red cross, others with NO ADMITTANCE on hand-painted signs. The former was for the living, the latter was for us. We headed for the first of them, but two MPs intercepted us. One held his carbine at port arms while the other guy, sporting second lieutenant’s bars, stood behind him.