by James R Benn
“I don’t know if I could ever do that,” I said. “I was in a bomber, once. We were jumped by fighters over the Adriatic. That was enough time in the air for me.”
“You can do anything once you’ve made your mind up about it. That’s what I’ve found, for what it’s worth. So go easy on yourself, Billy. You gave me a fright back there, laughing like a lunatic.”
“Thanks, Tom,” I said. “Looks like the rain’s clearing up.” We walked back to the jeep, and I flexed my fingers, working at not shoving my hands into my pockets. I still had a jittery sensation in my stomach, but the trembling was gone. Tom looked at ease, swinging his arms at his sides, whistling an unfamiliar tune. I worked to match his optimism, lunatic that I am.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“A SUCCESSFUL DAY, Captain Boyle?” Meredith inquired when we entered the library, where Edgar was busy manning the drinks tray. “It must have been dreadful being caught in that storm.”
“Busy,” I said. “Not to mention wet. How about you? It must be a difficult time, with the funeral to arrange and a houseful of guests.”
“Quite. Which is why we are so glad to have the three of you, really. It provides a distraction and lets us think we are doing our part in some small way.”
“Billy,” Edgar said. “I daresay you could use some of this fine Scotch you brought us. Good for warming a man after that cold rain.” He handed me a glass with an ample supply of Colonel Harding’s whisky, and I didn’t argue. We’d come in soaked to the bone, courtesy of a renewed downpour when we’d been in sight of Ashcroft House. They’d run hot baths for us, and Alice Withers had taken our uniforms to dry out and press as best she could.
Since water was rationed as well as food, a hot bath in England was not as commonplace as back in the States. Soap was tough to come by as well. The limit for water was supposed to be four inches. Many hotels had a line painted in the tub to mark the level. But Ashcroft House bent the rules for three soldiers in need of a decent soak, and I didn’t complain. The regulation was unenforceable, but most people went along with it, even though it meant a decrease in cleanliness and an increase in bodily odors. A running gag among GIs was that the tents and Quonset hut enclosures for American troops were nicknamed Spam Town after the prevailing odor, and everything outside the wire was Goat Town, for the same reason.
“You asked about Lieutenant Wiley this morning,” Meredith said as Edgar continued to pour drinks. “I’m afraid he hasn’t returned. Have you had word of him?”
“No, we have been too busy to check on Peter,” Kaz said, sipping his drink and giving me a quick glance. We’d agreed not to say anything about finding Peter’s body. I felt we might learn more if people weren’t shocked at the news of his death. No one does like to speak ill of the dead, unless the deceased was a louse through and through, which did not sound like the Peter I had come to know.
“Perhaps I should return his painting to Greenway House,” Meredith said, “if he does not possess the common courtesy to retrieve it himself.”
“Meredith,” Helen said, joining our circle. “He meant it as a gift. That would be rude.”
“It’s unfinished, dear,” Meredith said. “Although nicely done, I must say. Baron Kazimierz, perhaps you would be so kind as to return the painting when you can. Your superior officer is based at Greenway House, is he not?”
“Indeed,” Kaz said, keeping up the pretense of Peter ever finishing anything. “It would be my pleasure.”
“Sorry I’m late,” David said, entering the library behind Big Mike.
“Did you find anything?” Meredith asked.
“No,” David said. “I went through his papers, as you did. No sign of a living relative. It appeared his cousin John had none as well. I telephoned the local constable, who said he was the last of the Sutcliffes in that county. He died last year.”
“Father and he were never close,” Helen said. “I asked him about it once, and he said he had nothing in common with the man other than blood, but that might serve well enough if John had any children. I thought it rather odd.”
“When was this?” Meredith asked, her eyebrows raised.
“A few months ago, I think,” Helen said. Meredith furrowed her brow, thinking through the information as the rest of us tried not to notice.
“Your father never seemed interested in family members,” David said. “Distant ones, I mean. Not you two.” He laughed, to cover up the uncomfortable truth.
“Our fair ladies are quite enough themselves,” Edgar said, rejoining the group and handing Big Mike a drink. “Don’t you think?” The moment was forgotten in a well-timed toast to Meredith and Helen.
“How was Lady Pemberton today?” I asked.
“Still a bit down, poor dear,” Helen said. “I hope she’ll be back to her old self when things get back to normal. Although we don’t quite know what that will be, do we?”
“Who knows?” Edgar said. “Perhaps Great Aunt Sylvia will inherit the lot and toss us all out on our ears, and we shall have to make a living shining boots for the Americans.”
“Why that particular occupation?” Kaz asked.
“Oh, it’s just something Crawford says now and again,” Edgar said. “I pay him no mind, but it stuck in my head. Silly.”
“We know his story,” I said. “I might feel the same way if I were in his shoes. But do you feel comfortable employing a smuggler? We heard he was involved in bringing in contraband until he lost his boat.”
“Captain,” Meredith said with a sly grin, “you have to remember where you are. This is the southwest coast. This has been home to pirates, privateers, and smugglers for centuries. There are plenty of locals who never minded buying goods that had been smuggled in from France. No one likes paying excessive taxes, do they?”
“Think of your own experiment with Prohibition in the States,” David offered. “How many people refused a drink because bootleggers had smuggled it in from Cuba or Canada?”
“No one in Detroit,” Big Mike said. “The Purple Gang ran a pipeline under the Detroit River from a distillery in Windsor, Ontario. Went straight into a bottling plant downtown. There was a blind pig right across the street from police headquarters, above a bail bondsman’s office. Free lunch and bootleg booze.”
“A ‘blind pig’?” Kaz asked, always interested in American slang.
“Yeah,” Big Mike said. “A speakeasy.”
“The Purple Gang,” Helen said. “What a colorful name.”
“They were colorful, all right, and dangerous too,” Big Mike said.
“Smuggling has always gone on along this coast,” David said. “Not by cutthroat gangs but for the most part by fishermen and anyone with a fast boat and a need for money. No one suffered except for the tax man.”
“Which means you don’t hold it against Crawford,” I said.
“He was never convicted, mind you,” Edgar noted. “But I should think the answer would be no in any case. Am I correct, dear?”
“As always,” Meredith said. An answer open to interpretation.
AT DINNER I found myself next to Helen, who was next to her husband on his scarred side, smiling demurely. It must have been a relief for David, but I had to wonder, why the sudden change? Same for David himself, for that matter. First he couldn’t wait to get back on active duty, then all of a sudden it didn’t matter. Maybe a wife not shuddering every time she looked at you changed your outlook. Or did he know something about the inheritance?
Food was passed around, and I ate without tasting much. It occurred to me that since I’d arrived at Ashcroft House, everything had changed. David and Helen, not to mention Meredith becoming friendly and Edgar—even though he was still drinking at every opportunity—no longer sitting morosely in a corner. Sir Rupert was dead. Peter Wiley was dead. Lady Pemberton was confused. Not to mention Williams and Mrs. Dudley drinking the good booze late at night, although maybe they had a tradition of that going way back. Crawford was likely his usual self, which was none too
agreeable, but consistent. Alice Withers? Still a pleasant young girl, far as I knew. She’d take the news of Peter’s death hard. Who else would even care?
Lady Pemberton, I decided. She’d taken to Peter, and her mourning would be sincere. But should she be burdened with more sad news? Not that she’d cried a river over Sir Rupert’s death, but a promising young lad like Peter was a double tragedy. Sudden death and a life cut short. And for what? Perspective. I wished I knew what he’d meant by that.
“I say, Captain, please pass the peas,” Edgar said, loud enough to get my attention. I sent the bowl down the table, aware that I’d drifted off again. Occupational hazard. “Do you think young Peter will return and finish the painting?”
“I for one hope he doesn’t,” Meredith said, not giving me a chance to respond, which was just as well. “It’s a bit much, you know, having some servant’s offspring knock on your front door.” She twirled her wineglass as she watched the others at the table.
“You have to understand our American friends, dear,” Edgar said with a smile that was intended to soften the bluntness of Meredith’s statement. “They are not as sensitive to these things as we are. I’m sure young Peter approached us in total innocence.”
“Of course,” David added. “And don’t forget, it was Sir Rupert himself who invited him to stay.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Meredith said. “I didn’t mean to sound high-handed about it.”
I was pretty sure she did, and that she had her own suspicions about Peter’s paternity. That would explain why she didn’t want him back at Ashcroft House. Maybe she had more than suspicions. What was in that old letter from America she had clutched in her hand the night she argued with Sir Rupert? Would she tell me? I wonder where she kept it. A lot of women would stash something like that in their underwear drawer, figuring no one would go through their unmentionables. But Alice probably did the laundry and put things away, so that wasn’t a good bet. Maybe a peak in Meredith’s bedroom was in order. Not the best behavior for a houseguest, but I still felt an obligation to Sir Rupert, and until the reading of his will, it was still his house.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
SMALL BRANCHES AND green leaves littered the cemetery, tokens of the previous day’s storm. Sunlight glittered on dewdrops as pallbearers carried the coffin out of the church to the waiting grave. The Pemberton name was prominent on many gravestones; on others, it was barely legible after several centuries of wear and weather.
Attendance was sparse. Alice’s father, Michael, was there, along with Evan from the pub and one older woman. Meredith and Helen walked with Lady Pemberton, each of them lending an arm for support. Edgar and David followed, then Williams, Crawford, Mrs. Dudley, and Alice. Kaz and I followed the small group out of the church. The sunshine was refreshing after the cold stone interior, still damp from the rains.
There had been no eulogy, no tears. The vicar had trotted out the usual stuff: the Lord’s Prayer, a psalm, a droning hymn. Then finally the hired hands from the funeral parlor had carried the coffin to the cemetery. More prayers as the casket was lowered into the ground. Family members each took a handful of soil from the pile beside the grave and tossed it in, tiny stones making a harsh rattle as they bounced off burnished wood.
“We now commit the body of Sir Rupert Sutcliffe to the ground,” the vicar intoned. “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life.”
I watched as the family departed. Meredith’s steely eyes seemed satisfied with the dust-to-dust part, less so with any notions of her father’s resurrection. The ladies got into an automobile with Crawford at the wheel. A horse cart sufficed for the help, and Kaz volunteered to go with them. A quick nod told me he planned to quiz them about Peter. It would likely be the only time he could talk to the three of them without drawing attention. I gave Edgar and David a ride back.
“I believe Sir Rupert’s solicitor is coming tomorrow morning,” Edgar said, leaning in from the backseat. “Meredith wanted him here today, but I thought that a bit rushed.”
“That’s for the best,” David said with a wry smile. “No reason not to wait a barely decent interval.”
His attitude was refreshing, but it made little difference to me. I was looking forward to chatting with the staff and family over whatever kind of feed they put on after a Church of England funeral. It wouldn’t be Irish style, but I still counted on tongues being loosened and maybe at least one family secret being spilled before the day was out.
I knew that wasn’t going to happen as soon as I spotted Big Mike. He’d left earlier to pick up Tom Quick and continue the search for the last two BIGOTs. But here he was, parked in front of Ashcroft House with a worried look on his face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, pulling him aside as the others filed into the house.
“Tom wasn’t at the constable’s house in North Cornworthy,” Big Mike said. “Apparently a police car stopped by last night and Tom hitched a ride into Dartmouth. I called and spoke to Inspector Grange. He said you should come right away.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“No. But it didn’t sound good, Billy.”
“Damn,” I said. I went inside and found David, trying not to think about what might have happened.
“We’ve been called away,” I said, catching him as the group filed into the sitting room. “Sorry to leave so suddenly. Please give my apologies to the family.”
“Will you be back soon?” Meredith asked, turning when she heard me. “I hope it’s nothing too terrible.”
“I don’t know,” I said, which pretty much summed up the state of affairs.
“Good luck, Billy,” David said, walking me to the door. “Let us know if we can help in any way. And if you find Peter, please do let us know. Meredith is actually concerned, for all her talk.”
“Listen, David,” I said as Big Mike sat at the wheel of the idling jeep. “We got a message from Inspector Grange in Dartmouth about Tom Quick. I don’t know any details, but he told us to get right over there.”
“Good God,” David said. “I hope …”
“Yeah,” I said. “Me too. I’ll contact you as soon as I can.”
“Perhaps I should come along,” David said, worry creasing his brow. “If he’s in a bad way, it might help.”
“You should stay with your family,” I said. “We might need you later, after we find out more.” What I didn’t say was that my gut told me Tom was not in one of his distant moods. No need for a police inspector to call about that. Big Mike and I got Kaz off the horse cart, still plodding its way back to the house, and filled him in on the little we knew.
“I hope Inspector Grange is merely overreacting,” Kaz said, getting in the backseat of the jeep.
“Did you learn anything from the servants?” I asked a few minutes later as Big Mike sped down the narrow country lanes.
“I think Alice is a bit afraid of Williams,” Kaz said. “He gave her a stern look when I asked about Peter, and she went silent.”
“Could be he’s a tough boss,” I said.
“Perhaps,” Kaz said. “Williams did say it served no purpose to speak of the past and staff who had left Ashcroft. He definitely didn’t want to discuss Peter Wiley.”
“Why?” Big Mike asked, pressing his heavy foot on the accelerator once we had a straightaway.
“Perhaps he knew the truth about Peter’s father,” Kaz said. “In my experience, butlers can be worse snobs than their masters. Mrs. Dudley said it was poor manners for young Peter to leave as he did, but what can you expect from an American who doesn’t know how to act proper-like, in her words.”
“It doesn’t help that everyone’s in a tizzy about the reading of the will. The thought of money makes people nervous. I wonder who’s getting what,” Big Mike said.
“I’m pretty sure everyone else is wondering the same thing but trying not to show it,” I said.
A minute later we parked
in front of the police station in Dartmouth. We entered, expecting the worst.
We found it.
“I’ve left things as they were,” Inspector Grange said, telling us without words. “I wanted you to see the note. Perhaps you can explain what he meant.”
We followed him up the stairs to the bachelor police officer’s quarters. I knew Tom had come back here the night before, and now I knew why. Inspector Grange opened the door to Tom’s room.
He had come here to kill himself. His blue uniform jacket hung on a chair. He hadn’t wanted to leave the tunic bloodstained. The wall was splattered red. Tom lay sideways on the bed, feet planted on the floor, rifle between his legs. The back of his head was gone, his face misshapen from the bullet.
I studied the body, my cop instincts kicking in. Big Mike leaned over as well, keeping clear of the mess but going over every inch of the scene. Nothing to indicate it was anything but suicide.
“I’m sorry,” was all I could say.
“The note is where he left it,” Inspector Grange said, pointing to the table by the window.
I set my hands on the chair, feeling the blue wool of Tom’s jacket under my fingers as I read his last words.
There is too much death to go on. I am content with this decision. I have made up my mind to join my wife and children and to leave this terror behind me, and it has left me quite happy. Happier than I have been since the last time I saw them alive. Death is everywhere, and I cannot face it another day. There is no escaping it, no running away, so I will accept and embrace it. I would ask God to forgive me, but there is so much more than this single act I must answer for, it hardly seems right.
“What is it he cannot face another day of?” Inspector Grange demanded of me. “What have you been using him for?”
“Identification of the dead,” I said, looking him in the eye. “You know what happened.” Or some of it.
“Yes, but how many, for God’s sake? He called it a ‘terror,’ said he couldn’t face it another day. I thought he was well enough for police work, but is that what you’ve been up to? Did you make him a gravedigger?”