“I’m going after the MG.”
“But it’s not our responsibility. The bloody sun will be up soon.”
“We have time.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No. Both of us can’t go.” One of them had to remain to command the others. “I’ll take Parker.”
Rivers grabbed Lamb’s arm. “You won’t.”
“Take your bloody hand from my arm, Sergeant.”
“He’s too young.”
“Would you rather one of the other men take the risk? Besides, you damn well know that he’s the best of the lot.”
The words infuriated Rivers. He thought he knew what Lamb was after—attention, promotion. Damn the consequences for Parker. Lamb could move the men under his command around as if they were nothing more than toy soldiers. Rivers believed that the men who faced the gun when the push came would have to take their chances, like the rest. But Eric was different; Eric would not have been there had it not been for him. They had been friends since they were lads, and Rivers had not been able to face going off to war without Eric. And so he had persuaded Eric to join the London Regiment with him, to do their duty, as he’d said, and to sign up. Short of mutiny, though, he could do nothing to stop Lamb.
Lamb and Parker slithered forward, each with a grenade. Lamb had gone first. He tossed his bomb into the place where the machine gun was located. There had been an explosion, followed by the sound of moaning coming from the German trench. Then rifle fire had begun to pepper them from somewhere to their left. The earth erupted in a tiny explosion a few feet from Lamb’s face. Suddenly Parker was on his feet and Lamb was shouting at him to get down. He began to crawl toward Parker, intent on yanking him back to the ground. He didn’t see Parker throw his grenade toward the place from where the rifle fire had come. Then Parker crumpled. Lamb reached him and saw his lifeless eyes and a trickle of blood coming from the corner of his mouth.
For his actions that night, Lamb had been awarded a Military Cross, which he kept in a box in his attic and hadn’t looked at in more than twenty years. And Harry Rivers never had forgiven him.
Now, he and Rivers faced each other.
“I’m willing to consider your opinions on the inquiry,” Lamb said evenly. “But if you ever challenge me in front of the other men like that again I’ll have your arse. Do I make myself clear?”
Rivers glanced away, toward the stream. “Sir,” he said. He thought of slugging Lamb but found to his surprise that he didn’t quite have the heart for it. Besides, doing so would only land him in more trouble. They’d take his warrant card for striking a superior officer.
“I’m sorry about Eric Parker, Harry, bloody sorry,” Lamb said. “You don’t know how sorry. But I didn’t kill him and neither did you.”
Rivers continued to look toward the stream. “Convenient, that,” he said. Even as he said it, he knew it to be unfair. Still, he wasn’t able to let it go. Something in him wasn’t.
“I’ve tried to be fair to you, Harry,” Lamb said. “I don’t insist that you like me. But I do insist that you recognize the fact that I outrank you and as such take on responsibilities for other men’s lives, for their fates, that you are free of. And if you can’t see your way to accepting that, then I’ll have you sent out of here.”
Rivers smiled sarcastically. “You’ll use my cock-up in Warwickshire. You’d love that.” He shrugged, as if he didn’t care.
“I’ve no intention of using your mistakes against you. I’ve made mistakes, too, as you know. But I won’t countenance your insubordination. You’re a good detective, Harry. But you’ve got a bloody thorn in your arse and you enjoy it—enjoy the pain. But I’m finished wallowing in the pain, and the past. And that bloody MG had to go.”
“And Eric with it,” Rivers said. He turned away from Lamb and went down the hill.
A few minutes later, Lamb entered Bradford’s cottage; Mike and his sisters were sitting at the table sucking butterscotch drops. Their fingernails were black with encrusted dirt, their arms scabbed and hair tangled. They turned to Lamb, their eyes wide with surprise. The two girls froze; Mike shot from his chair in the direction of the back door but ran into Harris.
“Whoa, there, Mike,” Harris said. “This is Inspector Lamb. You know him.” Mike allowed Harris to lead him back to his seat at the table, but kept his eyes riveted on Lamb.
Lamb squatted next to Mike. “Hello, Mike,” he said. “You remember me, don’t you?” Mike nodded. Lamb turned to the girls, who were sitting across the table. “Hello, girls,” he said. Neither spoke or moved. He smiled. “What are your names?”
The youngest, who was four, said “Natalie.” She was the girl from whom Lamb had taken the stick on the night of Blackwell’s murder.
“That’s a very pretty name,” Lamb said. He turned his attention to the older girl, who was six. “And how about you, love?” he asked. The look on her face made it appear as if she considered Lamb akin to something like a werewolf.
“Her name is Vera,” Natalie offered.
“Vera?” Lamb said. “I have a girl named Vera, though she’s older than you.”
“What has happened to daddy?” Natalie asked. “Where is he?”
Lamb wondered how much the children knew or had seen. They seemed not to know that their father was dead. He decided that he must lie to them about Bradford’s fate, so as not to upset them. If they knew their father was dead, they might not speak to him. There would be time later for someone to ease them toward the truth more gently.
“Your father is hurt and we are taking him to hospital,” Lamb said. “And we are going to take you and your brother and sister to a nice place where you will be warm and safe and have plenty to eat.”
None of the children spoke. Lamb wondered how they were squaring up what he was telling them in their childish minds.
“Is everyone all right?” he asked. “Is anyone hurt?” Natalie shook her head. The other two remained silent. “If you are hurt, you should tell me, so we can get you properly cared for.”
“We’re not hurt,” Mike said.
“That’s good,” Lamb said. He smiled again. “Have any of you seen anyone around the cottage in the past day or so—maybe someone who was a stranger?”
Silence.
“How about you, Mike? Have you seen anyone?”
Mike shook his head.
“I want you all three to think back, please,” Lamb said. “Did anyone visit your father in the past few days? Did you see your father talking to anyone?”
Silence again. Natalie eyed the tin of butterscotch drops, which Harris had left on the table. “Would you like another, Natalie?” Lamb asked. She nodded. He fished a drop from the tin and handed it to her. “Did you see your father talking to anyone in the past few days, love?” Lamb asked.
“No,” she said. She rolled the candy in her mouth.
“How about you, Vera?”
Vera shook her head.
“Would you like another sweet?” Lamb asked Vera. She put her hands under her legs and shrugged.
“How about you, Mike? Would you like another?”
“Yes.”
Lamb gave each of them another butterscotch. Vera examined hers for a couple of seconds, as if she found it suspicious, before popping it into her mouth.
“I know you all must be hungry and we won’t take much more time here,” Lamb said. “I’ve arranged for someone to bring you some food. Do you like sandwiches?”
“I like sandwiches,” Natalie offered. Her small head bobbed; Lamb could tell that she had begun to swing her feet beneath the table.
“That’s good,” Lamb said. “But before we go, I must ask one more question.” He turned to Mike. “Do you remember, Mike, that when I spoke with you before, you told me you had seen a tall man on Manscome Hill on the day Will Blackwell died?”
Mike nodded.
“That’s good,” Lamb repeated. “Now, I’m going to ask you another question, and I want you to know that you won
’t get into any trouble by telling me the truth. Do you understand?”
Another nod.
“Did you make that man up, Mike, or did you really see him?”
Mike hesitated. “I really saw him.”
“You said the last time that the man was Peter Wilkins, Mike, though that was after I mentioned Peter’s name. Are you still certain that the man you saw was Peter? Remember that only the truth will do. I promise you that, whatever happens, no harm will come to you from the police or your father or anyone else.”
Mike nodded again.
“Can you tell me again how he was dressed?”
“Brown trousers and a brown hat.”
“Anything else?”
“A white shirt.”
The description matched what Mike had told Lamb the first time they’d spoken.
“Are you afraid of this man, Mike?”
“Yes.”
“Was the man Peter, Mike?”
“No.”
“Who was it, then?”
Mike hunched his shoulders, as if uncertain.
“About a year ago, a boy named Thomas Bennett ran away from Lord Pembroke’s estate and came here to the hill,” Lamb said. “Do you remember that?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know about the boy hiding on the hill before Will Blackwell found him? Remember that no one can hurt you now and that you must tell me the truth.”
“We gave him food,” Natalie said.
Mike quickly turned toward Natalie, surprised that she’d spoken. Vera looked terrified.
Lamb smiled at Natalie. “That was very nice of you,” he said.
“Yes, he were hungry.”
“And did you see the boy with him—the mute boy, Peter?”
“Yes,” Natalie said. “But daddy told us to stay away from the crazy boy. He were a witch, like old Will. Can I have another butterscotch?”
“Of course,” Lamb said. He gave them each another butterscotch, then turned his attention back to Mike.
“I have one or two more important questions to ask you, Mike. You are doing very well and we’re almost finished.”
Mike sat stock still.
“I think you have seen things—know things—about which you haven’t told me yet. Am I right about that?”
“Yes,” Mike said quietly.
The fact that Pirie had not destroyed the photo of Thomas that Lamb had found in Pirie’s bedside table continued to trouble Lamb. Why would a guilty Pirie run to avoid arrest but fail to dispose of the one piece of evidence that damned him? Lamb now tested the theory he’d slowly been developing about the killings.
“Did you see Will Blackwell on the day he died?” he asked Mike.
“Yes.”
“Was he alive or dead when you saw him?”
“Dead. The crows were on him.”
“Now, to the man you saw on the hill that day. Did you see this man before or after you found Will’s body?”
“Before.”
“How long before you found Will?”
“The sun were just topping the wood.” Lamb realized that Mike didn’t know how to tell time. If the sun still was just breaking over the trees, then the time must have been no later than an hour or so before noon.
“And was the man walking toward where Will was working?”
“Yes.”
“But this man didn’t see you because you were hiding and because he doesn’t know you—doesn’t know that you wander about the hill and see everything that goes on there?”
Mike nodded.
“Before you and I talked the last time, Mike, did your father know you had seen someone on the hill the day that Will Blackwell died, or did he find this out only when you told me?”
Mike hesitated.
“Mike?”
“He only found out when I told you.”
“And did you then tell your father who the man really was—that it wasn’t Peter?”
“Yes.”
“Who was that man, Mike?”
Again, Mike hesitated.
Lamb moved close to him. “I promise you that you are in no trouble, Mike, and that you are safe.”
Mike looked at his sisters, then at Lamb.
“It were Lord Pembroke,” he said.
TWENTY-THREE
LAMB, HARRIS, AND THE CHILDREN WALKED DOWN THE PATH to the village, past the place where Michael Bradford had been killed. Natalie took Lamb’s hand. From the path, the children could not see their father’s body in the race, where Winston-Sheed was finishing his work.
They found Harding waiting for them near Blackwell’s cottage, along with Wallace and a woman Lamb didn’t recognize. She was a young woman, not more than twenty-five or so. She wore white gloves on her hands.
“This is Miss Perkins from Castle Malwood,” Harding said. “She’ll take care of the children.”
Mike was expressionless; the girls seemed confused. “I want to stay with the man,” Natalie said. She squeezed Lamb’s hand, breaking his heart.
Lamb squatted, faced her and took her hands in his. “There, now, love,” he said. “Miss Perkins is a very nice lady. She’s going to take you to a very nice place where there’s a nice comfortable bed for you to sleep in. Does that sound good?”
Natalie nodded.
Lamb handed the tin of butterscotch to Natalie. “Now, you’re a big girl,” he said. “Can you be the guardian of these, please? Make sure your brother and sister get a few as well?”
“Yes.” She clutched the tin.
Lamb put his hand gently on her head. “That’s very good. I’m very proud of you.”
Miss Perkins squatted next to Lamb. “Hello, Natalie,” she said. She offered her hand to Natalie, who took it.
“Do you have the sandwiches?” Lamb asked Wallace.
Wallace handed Lamb three cheese sandwiches wrapped in waxy paper. Wallace smiled at the children. “Fresh from the pub,” he said. “Cheese and pickle.”
“How nice,” Miss Perkins said. She took the sandwiches from Lamb. “You can eat them on the way,” she told the children. Natalie smiled, but the other two seemed shocked into a kind of quiet submission. Miss Perkins guided Natalie and Vera toward a big black saloon. Mike hesitated; he looked back at Lamb. Lamb smiled at him.
“It’s okay, Mike,” he said. “You’re safe.”
Miss Perkins opened the back door of the car and gently herded the children into it. Once they were seated, she handed them the sandwiches. She turned to Lamb, Harding, Wallace, and Rivers. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she said. “We’ll take good care of them.”
“I trust you will,” Harding said.
“There are some formalities to attend to, obviously, but those can be handled later. Right now, I think it’s best that we get the three of them settled.”
“Let me know what you need and I’ll provide it,” Harding said.
Miss Perkins shook their hands and then got behind the wheel of the car. A few seconds later, the car crossed the stone bridge and left Quimby.
“A tough break,” Wallace said as they watched the car leave.
“So it’s another murder, then?” Harding asked, turning to Lamb.
“Yes.”
“And do you think the same man killed Blackwell?”
“I don’t know,” Lamb said. “The boy just admitted to me that he saw Lord Jeffrey Pembroke on the hill sometime before he came upon Blackwell’s body.”
“Pembroke?” Harding said. “But what does Pembroke have to do with any of it?”
“I’m not entirely sure yet. But his presence makes sense. As I said, I’m certain that the two boys—Peter and Thomas—figure in both killings. And then there’s Pirie. All three of them put Pembroke in the picture. And Pembroke knew Blackwell and Emily Fordham, though I haven’t established yet if he knew Bradford. But I think Bradford might have approached him.”
Harding was silent for a moment. He looked at Lamb and said, “I don’t have to tell you that we must move with delicacy
where Pembroke is concerned.”
“All due respect, sir, but why should we move with delicacy as regards Lord Pembroke?” Rivers interjected. Although Rivers spoke in a respectful tone, Lamb couldn’t quite believe that Rivers now was openly challenging Harding. Apparently the talk Lamb had just had with Rivers hadn’t penetrated him. Or he didn’t bloody care. He seemed unable to be anything other than insubordinate. Even so, his question was one Lamb himself had intended to ask Harding in private.
Harding glared at Rivers. “I should think the reason is obvious,” he said coldly.
“What if the boy, Peter, did it and Pembroke is covering for him?” Rivers asked, seemingly unaffected by Harding’s obvious ire. But he refused to be left behind, kept in the dark. He had been sorting a few new theories of his own regarding the killings—theories that, he had to admit, were partly down to what Lamb had discovered—and believed the time had come to air them.
“The fact is, we don’t know anything about the mute boy,” Rivers continued. “We’ve only made bloody assumptions about him. He could very well have killed the old man, and the girl. Maybe the old man upset the boy in some way and so he bashed in the old man’s head. Then Pembroke, the boy’s guardian and protector, comes along and drives home the scythe and the pitchfork to shift blame from the boy because nobody is going to believe that a mute idiot would have known to have added the black magic touches.”
Harding looked at Lamb. Despite himself—and Rivers’s insubordination—he quietly believed the scenario a good one. It explained much. He’d left the delivery of Wallace’s penalty up to Lamb. But he would give Rivers a bloody boot up the arse later. Still, for the moment, he had to consider what Rivers was saying.
“What do you think, Tom?” Harding asked, shifting the focus to Lamb.
“It’s a good theory, but I’m wondering where Pirie fits in.” He nodded toward the race. “And Bradford, and Emily Fordham.”
“The boy could easily have killed the girl too,” Rivers said. “She also upset him, though that time Pembroke wasn’t around to neaten things up.”
The Language of the Dead: A World War II Mystery Page 23