A Blind Goddess

by James R Benn

“Yeah, local caretaker. Came with the place, far as I know. I think the family who owns the property left him here to look after the horses. He’s always around, so maybe he can help. If he’s not in the barn check the mess tent. He doesn’t have a place to cook, so we let him eat our chow. I’ll take you there.”

  “I can find it, Sergeant,” I said, eager to get rid of the disagreeable Evans.

  “I’ll take you,” he said. “Captain Sobel doesn’t like people wandering around.”

  “You said you weren’t a secure area,” I said, walking alongside Evans. “What’s the concern?”

  “We may not be top secret, but we are responsible for packing the parachutes for the entire division. That, plus the personnel we train, is enough to keep any CO on top of who comes through here.”

  “But you’re saying no one noticed a Negro from a tank destroyer unit carrying a dead body?”

  “I didn’t, but I wasn’t on the lookout for one neither.” We came to the barn, and Evans pushed the wide doors open. It smelled of fresh hay and stale horse. Three stalls on each side, two of them empty. “Crowley takes the horses out for exercise every afternoon. Down that track you’re so interested in.”

  “Where does he stay?” I asked.

  “He’s got a room off the barn, through that door,” Evans said, pointing at the far end. “Not a real sociable guy, but he does his job. I doubt he’s there this time of day but we can check.” We walked the length of the barn, horses neighing after us, eager for attention and fresh air. Evans knocked, then opened the door. The room was as long as the barn, but only about ten feet wide. A coal stove stood in the corner next to a worn armchair. A narrow bed was shoved against the wall, blankets with US ARMY stenciled on them tossed over it. A small table littered with tools, a rickety desk, an old bureau, and shelves with a few tins of food completed the scene. It looked like temporary lodgings for a farmhand, not a caretaker’s home. The only personal touch was a framed photograph on the wall by the bed. An unsmiling young man with dark eyes stared out of the frame, dressed in a stiff collar and black jacket, maybe from the turn of the century, judging by the hairstyle and cravat.

  “What are you doing in my room?” We both jumped as Crowley spoke, standing not five feet behind us.

  “Looking for you,” Evans said. “This officer wants to ask you some questions.”

  “How long does it take you to figure out I ain’t in there?” Crowley asked. “No place to hide, is there? May not be much, but it’s my place, Yanks or not. You don’t own the bleedin’ place, not yet anyway.” Crowley was stoop-shouldered, his body beaten down from manual labor. He had several days’ worth of stubble on his face and his worn and dirty clothes looked like they hadn’t been washed since the last time he was caught out in the rain. If Sobel ever inspected him, he’d be digging a hole to China.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m Captain Boyle and I need a few minutes of your time.”

  “I’m called Angus Crowley, and you can ask what you want, but I’ve got to get the horses in. Feels like rain, it does.” We went outside, where Crowley had tethered the two horses. Evans retreated for a smoke, and I glanced at the sky. No sign of clouds.

  “Angus, do you recall the murder that took place a few weeks ago?”

  “You mean the constable?”

  “Yes, Tom Eastman. He was found in the churchyard.”

  “So I heard,” Crowley said, leading the first horse into the barn and brushing his coat.

  “The track that runs by this barn leads to the cemetery. I was wondering if you saw anything the night of the murder.”

  “Can’t recall the night, exact like. Be hard to see that darkie at night, wouldn’t it?” He laughed at his joke, glancing at me to see if I’d join in.

  “So you don’t recall seeing anyone around who wasn’t supposed to be here?”

  “Not since that other colored fellow, the one you helped out of the fight,” Crowley said, chuckling again to himself. “No, I meant the night of the murder.”

  “What? Are you asking if I saw some bloke carrying Sam Eastman over his shoulder, plain as day? I’d have said something about that, wouldn’t I?”

  “It was Tom Eastman, not his father,” I said. “Who said he was carried?”

  “Right you are, Captain. Tom, the son. I knew the father well, just got the names mixed. And of course someone carried him into the cemetery. Not a place you’d go with a man who wants to kill you.”

  “So you didn’t see anything suspicious, anything out of place.”

  “This is a busy place, with all you Yanks coming and going. But I can’t say as I saw anything different than any other day. Mind you, that big colored fellow could have come through and not been noticed.”

  “One of the men said you did your best to start that fight yesterday. You don’t like Negroes, is that it?”

  “What’s it to you if I do or don’t? I got a right, don’t I? I don’t mind watching a good fistfight, no law against that. Bad enough we have to put up with you Yanks underfoot and scaring the horses. I wish you’d all go away, I do.”

  “Many of us feel the same way, Mr. Crowley. Thanks for your time.” Crowley was a strange one, all right. Mean and surly, and intelligent even if prejudiced against Americans and Negroes. So would he have a problem with Angry Smith? A big enough problem to stage a frame-up?

  “Not a lot of help,” I said to Evans as he escorted me back to my jeep.

  “Sometimes I think he’s not all there,” Evans said. “Talks to himself, always muttering about the horses. You done here, sir?”

  “Done, Sergeant.” I started up the jeep and drove down the hill, watching Evans go inside the big house. As I rounded the corner I stopped by the hedges bordering what had been the garden area. I checked to be sure Evans or Sobel weren’t around, and trotted over to Charlie, now chest-deep in his hole. He was good with a shovel.

  “Charlie,” I said, squatting down between piles of dirt. “Is this a normal punishment for a missing button?”

  “No, he went easy on me,” Charlie said. Then he smiled. “Not much normal around here, Captain. They say Captain Sobel is good at what he does, but I can’t make much sense of it. This is plain silly. Say, how’s Tree?”

  “He was okay when I last saw him. I just talked to Angus Crowley. He doesn’t seem to like Negroes very much.”

  “I don’t think he likes anybody much,” Charlie said. “I know I don’t like him.”

  “Why?”

  “It seems like he talks to himself, which is strange enough,” Charlie said, setting his shovel in the dirt and resting his hands on it. “But he’s talking to someone else. Someone who isn’t there. That’s different, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it is,” I said, checking again to see if anyone was coming. “You know who?”

  “Naw,” Charlie said. “Don’t care either, I steer clear of him.”

  “Okay, Charlie, you take it easy. Don’t lose any more buttons.”

  “You know what’s strange, Captain?” He leaned forward, his voice conspiratorial.

  “What?”

  “I like digging holes. It’s interesting to see what’s down here. Layers and different colors, you know?”

  “You sound like a detective, Charlie.” He beamed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I WANTED TO catch up with Kaz and find out how Cosgrove was doing, but there was one stop I needed to make first. I wasn’t looking forward to it, however, it had to be done. I stopped at the only pub in the village of Chilton Foliat, the Wheatsheaf, and asked where Malcolm and Rosemary Adams lived. The gent I spoke to pointed up a side road and told me fourth house on the right, and wasn’t it such a sad thing. I didn’t know if he was talking about Malcolm’s shot-up legs, how he used Rosemary as a punching bag, her brother being murdered, or her taking up with a Negro back when she thought Malcolm was dead. I would have been happy to order a pint and pursue the topic at leisure, but I was short on that last commodity.

  The dirt roa
d was rutted and followed a drainage ditch that ran from the fields above. Cows grazed in the fenced green pastures opposite a row of ancient houses. The Adams place was whitewashed stone with a thatched roof, set back from the road and surrounded by a kitchen garden and chicken coops. I knocked on the door and a young woman answered.

  “Mrs. Adams?” I asked, not sure if I was talking to her or not. She was young, maybe just twenty.

  “She’s in the kitchen. Are you from the army?” I said I was, which was pretty clear from my uniform, but I didn’t crack wise over it. I had the feeling I was missing something. “Come in, then.”

  Rosemary Adams sat in the kitchen, clutching a cup of tea. There was an immediate sense of wrongness in the room, a calamity I did not yet understand. She hardly looked at me as her friend guided me in front of her.

  “Mrs. Adams,” I said. “I’m Captain Boyle. Billy Boyle. I’d like to ask you some questions, if this isn’t a bad time.” Although it was obvious it was.

  “Questions?” she asked, as if struggling to understand the concept.

  “Aren’t you here about the damages?” asked the other woman.

  “I’m sorry, I’m confused,” I admitted. “What damages?”

  “For Malcolm, her husband,” the young woman said. “Who was killed last night by one of your trucks.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” I said, caught flat-footed by the news. “What happened?”

  “Dorothy,” Rosemary said to the young woman. “You can go home now. I’ll be fine.”

  “You sure?” Rosemary nodded and Dorothy shrugged as she left.

  “Please sit down, Captain Boyle,” Rosemary Adams said. “Would you like some tea?”

  “That would be great,” I said. Back in Southie, it was more likely to be a shot and a beer at a time like this, but it was basically the same. A soothing ritual, the familiar in the midst of the horrible.

  “Malcolm went to the pub last night. Like most nights,” she said, putting the kettle on. “No, to be honest, like he did every night. Took his bicycle, since it hurt to walk that far. He’d taken a nasty fall once, but he still insisted, even though his legs pained him even with the bicycle. His wounds were terrible, just terrible.”

  “I heard about that,” I said, filling in the sudden silence while she wept.

  “Stayed until closing, they told me, and then left to come home. He fell again, and couldn’t get up, from what the driver said. One of yours, a big truck. They had the headlamps taped over, for the blackout, you know. Only a slit of light showing, and one bulb was out, so they could hardly see. Ran poor Malcolm over in the road.” The teacup rattled in her hand as she set it in a saucer. “But that’s not why you’re here, is it? I’ve heard your name, Captain Boyle. You’re looking into the murder, aren’t you?” She set down the tea in front of me. I took it with milk, but said no to the sugar.

  “Yes, I am here about the murder. That’s why I came by today. I’m sorry to intrude.”

  “I’m glad you’ve come,” Rosemary said, sitting across from me. She wore a faded cotton dress, and her dark hair was pulled back and tied with a bright ribbon. Her eyes were red with tears, and traces of freckles from the sun stood out on her cheeks. She was a good-looking woman, worn hard around the edges by work and tragedy. “Do you have any news about Abraham?”

  “No,” I said, barely recalling Angry’s given name. “But I don’t think he’s guilty, if that helps.”

  “Nothing helps,” Rosemary said, as she slowly rubbed her hands. “First I thought Malcolm was dead, and God help me, I was glad of it. Even before I met Abraham, I was glad when I heard. Malcolm was a charmer when he and I were young, but there was a meanness in him that I didn’t see then. It was a relief when he went off to war and an even greater relief when he didn’t come home. Isn’t that a terrible thing to say?”

  “He used to beat you, I heard. That would make me glad to be rid of him.”

  “He would apologize when it was over. I hated that more. So when he was reported killed, I pretended to be sad, to join in with the other grieving widows. But when I was alone, I would dance. In this very kitchen, I would swirl around the table in absolute joy. And then I met Abraham. I know what they call him, but he was never that way with me. Never angry. Gentle and kind, he was. I must shock you terribly, Captain Boyle.”

  “I’m not shocked easily, Mrs. Adams. Whites and Negroes don’t mix back home, so I do find it strange to think about. We have a lot of history in the way.”

  “But you’re a friend of Tree’s, aren’t you? You’ll help us?”

  “Yes,” I said. She relaxed, leaning back into her chair.

  “I was happy for the first time in my life,” she said. “And then I got the letter, saying that Malcolm had been found, wounded. He’d lost his identity disc and was unconscious for days. He’d had several surgeries on his legs. The hospital never contacted his unit, so they thought he was dead, left in the jungle to rot.”

  “What was he like when he came home?”

  “You know, finding out about Abraham gave him something to live for. It gave him something to hate. It was all he had.” She stood up, and I wondered if she would dance around the table after I left. “He hit me once, and fell over. Gave me a black eye, but never tried again. Not because he was kind or ashamed, but because he was embarrassed to have lost his balance in front of me.”

  “Do you think Malcolm or Abraham had anything to do with your brother’s death?”

  “No. Tom was a good brother, and he was trying to protect me. I know he said some awful things to Abraham, but it was to drive him away. I truly have no idea why anyone would want to hurt him. Or leave him on Dad’s grave, for that matter.”

  “And Abraham?”

  “He felt terrible about leaving me with Malcolm, and I knew Malcolm would have liked nothing more than to goad Abraham into striking him so he could press charges. That’s why I lied about that night when Malcolm didn’t come home. I told the police Abraham was with me; I thought he and Malcolm had fought, and that I was protecting him. As it turned out, all I was doing was placing Abraham close to Tom’s body.”

  “Is there any reason you can think of that Tom was killed? Did he or your father have any enemies?”

  “Tom never had the chance for any really big cases, like Dad did. Not enough time for that. Poor Tom,” she said, and a sob burst from her lips. “All he ever wanted to be was a policeman. He followed Dad’s investigations, badgered him something awful when we were kids. Dad would come home and want to put his feet up by the fire and read the evening newspaper, but Tom would pepper him with questions about what he did that day.” She smiled at the memory as she wiped her tears.

  “PC Cook is looking into his old cases,” I said. “Your father’s, I mean. To see if there’s any possible connection. Perhaps someone released after a long prison sentence.”

  “Would you like to see the scrapbook?” Rosemary asked.

  “What scrapbook?”

  “The one Tom kept when we were kids. Newspaper articles and the like. The odd bit of police paperwork Dad left lying about. I still have it.”

  “May I borrow it? I’ll have it back in a day or so.” It was a long shot, but there might be some clue about a long-forgotten feud.

  Rosemary left the room and returned with a thick scrapbook, browned paper showing at the edges.

  “If it will help, keep it as long as you need,” she said. I stood, and took the book from her. “Promise me you’ll do your best.”

  “I will,” I said. “Whatever it takes.”

  She walked me to the door and opened it, stepping out into the fresh air. “Good,” she said. “I’ve already lost so much of my life. I want some of it back. Bring Abraham to me, Captain Boyle.”

  I left her standing there, eyes closed, letting the sunlight wash over her face. I hoped one day there would be real dancing in the house, two happy people arm in arm. It wasn’t the easiest thing for me to imagine, a black hand on
a woman’s white skin. But I had a harder time imagining lingering sadness and a lifetime of loss, played out in a hardscrabble yard full of carrots, cabbages, and clucking chickens.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I SPOTTED KAZ and Tree sitting on the bench outside the Three Crowns, the same one where we had sat the day we met up. It seemed like a decade ago. Until then, my thoughts of Tree had been all about Boston, motorcycles, and scuffles with the law. Not to mention being upset that we’d parted on harsh terms. It seemed childish now. The war was waiting for us, and I had drowned and missing girls on my mind, along with the image of Neville crumpled at the bottom of his cellar stairs. Angry Smith sat in a prison cell, charged with murder. We had grown up, Tree and I, and the troubles of the world had come along for the ride.

  “Tree, how are you feeling?” I asked as I approached. A bandage covered the cut above his eye, which was swollen about half shut, an improvement on yesterday.

  “About as good as I look,” Tree said, attempting a grin, which was hampered by his healing split lip. “Lieutenant Binghamton gave me the day off to rest up. Came in for a pint and Kaz kept me company.”

  “Tree has been telling me stories of what it was like in the southern states, where he trained,” Kaz said.

  “Where were you based down South?” I asked Tree.

  “First it was Camp Claiborne, Louisiana. That place was bad for everyone, worse for Negroes. Then Fort Hood, Texas, which was a little better. Later Fort Benning, in Georgia, where a Negro soldier committed suicide. Funny thing was, his hands were tied behind his back. Didn’t know a man could hang himself that way.”

  “I had heard of the lynchings, but I truly did not understand how bad things are for Negroes,” Kaz said.

  “Can’t be good for white people either,” Tree said. “It’s a lot of work to carry around that much hate, and pass it on to the young ones. There’s going to be an accounting one day, in this life or the next. Has to be.”

  “I’m going to focus on staying in this life for as long as possible,” I said, squeezing in next to Kaz and stretching my legs out. “I just came from Chilton Foliat, to finish looking the place over. The CO there is a piece of work.”