A Blind Goddess (9 page)

“All I know is he was pretty much a cipher except for that warning. I wonder why he said it. See what Sully thinks. Meet us at the Hog’s Head pub, it should be within walking distance; it’s where Neville drank.”

“Okay, Billy. That stuff about the Negroes, that wasn’t about this case, was it?” Big Mike gave me a skeptical glare. I’d filled him in about Angry Smith and he was playing mother hen, making sure I didn’t wander too far afield.

“No. Just trying to get a feel for the attitudes around here.
Hungerford is the next town over. I might make some time to check in with Tree while we’re here.”

Big Mike left with Sully and I walked out the back door, standing in front of the now-empty cellar stairs. The body was gone, the air was quiet, and the day was winding down. Faint sounds of traffic came from Bridge Street, and water in the canal gurgled as an oarsman worked against the current. A line of trees separated the houses from the path and the narrow watercraft moored along the bank. The deck of one boat was uncovered, and leaves floated on a thin patch of water from the recent rains. Is this where Neville got his feet wet? I went aboard, and the vessel rocked in the water. It was decrepit, with faded, peeling paint and rusty metal fixtures. The bow deck was open, with a small enclosed cabin aft. I knocked and the cabin door swung open, sending the odor of mildew and rot wafting up. It was deserted, as was the tiny engine room with its ancient diesel engine, which was the best-kept part of the boat. My shoes squished as I crossed the water logged floor, and I realized Neville was not quite a cipher after all. He’d warned Eva and his shoes and socks were soaked. Two things out of the ordinary in a very ordinary life. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, and glanced to the path.

“You may as well give up,” Kaz said, grinning as I stood in fetid, pooled water. “There are half a dozen of these boats within a ten-minute walk of the house.”

“You mean boats filled with water.”

“Yes. There are half-sunken wrecks all along the canal. Much of it is in disrepair or overgrown with weeds. But the war has helped bring the water traffic back. Some materials are cheaper to move by water, especially if the delivery goes with the current. This saves petrol.”

“Okay,” I said, jumping ashore. “Have you become an expert on canals since I left you?”

“No, but the proprietor of the Hog’s Head is. A former riverman, he used to run a barge between London and Bristol. The Kennet and Avon Canal connects the Avon River to the west with the
Kennet River here. It runs directly between Hungerford and Newbury, then follows the river to Reading, where it connects with the Thames. Quite a thing in its day, the entire waterway cut right across England.”

“You’ve learned more than I have.”

“There was not much to do once the body was removed, so I took a walk. Very pleasant by the canal. It is a short stretch to Bridge Street, and of course the bridge. The Hog’s Head pub is close by. Before he left, Inspector Payne said he would meet us there in about one hour, when he is through with the coroner.”

“Good. Big Mike is meeting us there too.” I went over what I’d found, or hadn’t found, and mentioned the warning to Eva. “Did you find anything when you searched Neville’s body?”

“Nothing. Not a wallet or a scrap of paper. His pants pockets were actually turned out, as if someone had searched his body.”

“So maybe he was killed somewhere else, and dumped down the stairs to avoid discovery,” I said, but it didn’t sound right.

“I do not think so, Billy. He could have been thrown in the river and might have drifted downstream some distance. Or put in one of these boats. He would have been undetected for days.”

“So what did Neville see or do that made him a target? And what did he have on him that the killer wanted? Money?” We walked slowly along the path as the sky darkened. Clouds obscured what light there was from the sun, which was dropping behind the buildings across the river. My feet were cold.

“Perhaps the killer wanted it to look like a random theft. As if he took a cosh to the head a bit too hard.”

“It could have been exactly that. Or someone who hated Neville and waited until he had his chance, then turned out his pockets, either looking for something specific, or as a red herring.”

“Did you find out where he was employed?” Kaz asked.

“Yeah. He worked at the Newbury Building Society. Handled mortgages.”

“That could get someone quite angry. Or in trouble, if they were embezzling funds.”

“We should pay a visit tomorrow. Meanwhile, there’s one important thing I need to do.”

“What is that?” Kaz said as we knocked on the Millers’ kitchen door.

“Steal a pair of dead man’s socks.”

CHAPTER TEN

I
WAS WEARING dry socks, courtesy of the late Mr. Neville, while my shoes dried in front of the coal fire in the Hog’s Head pub. Coal was rationed too, so it was banked low, but there was enough to give off a warm glow. Big Mike, Kaz and I finished our first round of Newbury Ale, delivered to the table by Kaz’s new pal.

“Jack Monk’s the name, fellows,” he’d said. “Riverman most of me life. Now I run this place and watch the water flow by. That’s the way of it. The baron told me all about what yer up to. Good luck, I say, but I wish you’d go on out and look for that lass who’s lost.”

That was the prevailing opinion. I planned on asking Payne what that was all about when he arrived. We ordered rabbit stew, Jack Monk having promised the meat was fresh and his wife the best cook in all of Newbury, now that his dear mother had passed on.

“Did you get anything new out of Sergeant Sullivan?” I asked Big Mike.

“He wouldn’t stop talking about his girl,” Big Mike said, setting down his empty pint glass and licking his lips. “He admitted to taking a fair bit of food to give mom and dad, but that only goes to show he’s a smart kid. I did get this, though.” Big Mike took a photograph from his pocket and tossed it on the table. Sully and Eva standing outside the front door of the Kennet Arms, smiling—no, laughing—as the camera caught them. It was a good picture of Eva, especially. She looked happy, mischievous, and young.
Sully’s face was turned in her direction, his gaze admiring. The only thing that marred the picture was Stuart Neville, emerging from the door, a startled look on his face. He was obviously dressed for work, with his topcoat, hat, and briefcase.

“She’s quite pretty,” Kaz said.

“I had to promise to get this back to him,” Big Mike said. “But I figured we needed a good photograph of Neville. Sully said he’d been all apologetic about stumbling into the shot, but it turned out it was the nicest one of Eva, so he picked it when Mrs. Miller offered.”

“Room for a tired copper?” Inspector Payne said as he entered the room. Big Mike did his best to shove over in the booth, but with his shoulders it wasn’t easy. “Wouldn’t mind a constable or two your size on the Berkshire force, I’ll tell you that.”

“Any news?” I asked.

“Just came from the postmortem. Death was instantaneous, from a single strong blow to the back of the head. Your classic blunt instrument, probably tossed into the muddy bottom of the canal. No defensive wounds. There were bruises on his torso, likely from that tumble down the steps. We didn’t find any drag marks in the vicinity, and his shoe heels gave no indication of being pulled over any surface.” He puffed out a long breath.

“Time of death?” I asked.

“Anywhere from ten last night to two o’clock this morning.”

“So we know he was killed on the spot, from behind.”

“Nothing like a Yank detective on the job,” Payne said. “Sorry, it’s been a long day. What’s that you’ve got there?”

“A picture of the victim,” Big Mike said. “Courtesy of another Yank cop.”

“Looks like this round is my shout,” Payne said, signaling to Jack Monk at the bar. “Glad I didn’t say anything about Polish coppers.”

“There is something odd in this picture,” Kaz said, tapping his finger on it. I could tell he was pleased at being included in the police banter, even though he disguised it well. “Where is the briefcase?”

“Right,” Payne said. “This looks like he was headed out, and had his briefcase with him.”

“Maybe at his office. Have you been there yet?” I asked Payne. “No, first thing tomorrow. You’re welcome to come along if you want. I’ve been busy with the coroner and coordinating the search.”

“For the little girl,” I said.

“Aye, it’s all anybody asks about. Sophia Edwards, fourteen years old. Missing two days and nights now.” Payne’s face showed his weariness, and from the bags under his eyes I figured he’d been awake for most of that time.

“Runaway?” Big Mike asked.

“That was my first thought too, but she’s from Guernsey, one of the Channel Islands. Forty or so girls came to this area when they were evacuated. As soon as France fell, it was obvious the Germans would take the islands, even though they are of no military value. There’s simply nowhere for her to run off to. She’s no family except back on Guernsey.”

“Where’s her home here?” I asked.

“A place was set up in Kintbury, a small village midway between Newbury and Hungerford. The girls live there, in a manor house that doubles as their school. By all accounts, Sophia was happy there. Content might be a better word. All the kids are worried about their parents, of course. But children are resilient and adaptable, and they seem to be getting on well. Not since her disappearance, of course.”

“Any theories?

“There’s always the canal. The girl’s house is on the Hungerford Road, not far from the canal. She could have fallen in. The girls often walk into Kintbury—there’s a sweet shop on High Street—but they seldom go alone. She simply vanished in the afternoon. Classes were over, and the girls were on their own until teatime. Several of them walked to the sweet shop. Sophia was with them, and they stopped along the canal on their way back. No one remembers seeing her leave, or seeing anything unusual.”

“Here you go, gents,” Jack Monk said, breaking the dour mood a bit as he set down four freshly drawn pints. “Mind the photograph there. Oh, it’s Miss Eva and Sully. And what a nice snap it is.”

“You know Sergeant Sullivan?” I asked.

“Sure, he comes in a few times a week, after the Millers put out the lights. He’ll have a pint or two and gab on about his plans for Miss Eva. Head over heels that lad is.”

“How about George Miller? Is he a regular?” Payne asked.

“No, not him,” Monk said, shaking his head. “I hold nothing against him, mind you. He stuck his neck out against Hitler, and that must’ve taken guts back then. Got to admire the man, I say. But feelings run hard, you know.”

“Whose?” I asked.

“Well, it was a month or so ago. One of the few times Miller came in. Old Tim Pettigrew, he’d just lost a son who’d gone down in a Wellington over Germany. Miller tried to give his condolences, in a neighborly way. He and Pettigrew hardly knew each other, but everyone knows about the Millers, of course. So George says he’s sorry for the loss, or something close to that, and Pettigrew fair spits in his face, calls him a dirty Kraut, and says he hopes his boy killed plenty of Muellers before he bought it himself. Tim would’ve hit him, the rage was in his face, plain to see. But his pals sat him down, and Miller left without a word. Never saw him in here again.”

“Is Pettigrew in tonight, Jack?” Payne asked.

“Aye, that’s him,” Monk said, nodding to a figure across the room. “Grey hair, brown cardigan.” He squinted and tapped his finger on the snapshot. “I see poor Stuart got himself in that picture. That why you have it?”

“Yes,” Kaz said. “Did you know him?”

“He was a customer. Not every night, but often enough to introduce himself. Seemed like a nice chap, don’t know why anyone would want to do him in.”

“Was he here the night Pettigrew went after Miller?” Payne asked.

“No, I think I would have remembered that. No, I’m certain he wasn’t. I’ll go and fetch your stew, it should be ready.”

“Captain, care to join me for a word with Mr. Pettigrew?” Payne said. I put on my shoes, which were nearly dry, and followed him to the bar. Pettigrew was busy puffing on his pipe and nursing a
half-empty pint. “Timothy Pettigrew? May we have a word?” Payne introduced himself, showed his warrant card, and nodded to a quiet corner of the pub.

“What’s this about?” Pettigrew said as he stepped away from the bar. He looked to be near fifty, stooped, with greying, stiff hair and jowls beginning to form. He wore two sweaters and worn corduroy pants, and his hands were callused and rough. “And what’s the Yank for?”

“Captain Boyle is assisting with an investigation that involves an American serviceman, to some degree. I understand you and George Miller had an argument recently. Almost came to blows.”

“So? Almost is a crime now, is it?”

“No, it isn’t,” Payne said. “And I’m very sorry for the loss of your son. It must have hit you hard.”

“Hard enough, not that it’s any business of yours.”

“I take it you did not appreciate Miller’s comment to you.”

“Mueller, you mean,” Pettigrew said, stretching out the German pronunciation and looking like he wanted to spit. “I had enough of that lot back in the Great War, don’t need them moving in here and drinking with decent folk. And I sure don’t need that bastard telling me he’s sorry my boy is dead!” Pettigrew looked away, rubbing his hand over his unshaven jaw. His pain was fresh, as if he’d just heard the news, and I wondered if Miller had been the one person he could rage at with righteous justification.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Pettigrew?” I asked.

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Please answer the question, Mr. Pettigrew,” Payne said.

“I’m a pipe fitter, down at the Fawcett Plant. They make aircraft engines. Now what else do you want to know?”

“Did you have any other run-ins with Miller?” Payne asked.

“No. Saw him once on the street, but I ignored him. Truth be told, I didn’t like to lose my temper that way. I don’t like Miller or his kind, but I don’t like folks thinking I’m a madman either.” Pettigrew spoke quietly, and I had the notion he was ashamed of how he had acted, but too proud to admit it.