The Rest is Silence (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery) (30 page)

“A captain and two lieutenants,” I said. “Well, three, actually. Peter Wiley is dead.”

“How did
that
happen?” Kaz said.

“Not entirely certain,” I said. “We found him with the bodies at Brixham.”

“I thought Sam ordered him to stay behind,” Big Mike said.

“He did,” I said. “Harding was damn clear about that. I don’t know how Peter managed it. I left a radio message for the colonel at Greenway House.”

“Ask him right now,” Big Mike said. “He’s grabbing some coffee in the mess tent. He got here about an hour ago to see what we’d come up with.” Thunder rumbled in the distance, and rain began to fall. To the northwest, I saw lightning crackle between thick grey clouds that were tumbling closer. A lot of the weather here rolled in from the northwest, swooping over the Channel before hitting France. I sent up a quick prayer to Saint Clare of Assisi, patron saint of good weather, to intercede when the invasion came, and to ease up on this bit of nasty weather while she was at it.

“What?” Harding nearly shouted when we sat down and told him about Peter Wiley. “That’s impossible. He wouldn’t make it on board without authorization.” He slammed his coffee cup down hard enough for the hot joe to jump ship.

“Colonel,” I said, casting my eyes around the mess tent to be sure no one could hear, “this whole exercise was screwed up six ways to Sunday. One guy getting on an LST by hook or by crook isn’t that hard to imagine.”

“You both saw the body?” he asked, still not wanting to believe it. “Drowned, like the others?”

Tom and I both shrugged. “The surgeon at the Brixham clearing station wrote up a statement about what he found. I asked him to keep Wiley’s body secure, but he wasn’t sure he had the clout to get that done. From his quick exam, it looked like Peter may have been killed before he went into the water.”

“You mean when the LSTs were attacked?” Harding said.

“He can’t say for certain. I asked him to get the body to the morgue at his hospital and take a closer look, do a full autopsy if he had to. Is that something you can make happen? Major Dawes said the bodies were going to be taken away soon. We’ve heard rumors they’re going to be dumped in mass graves.”

“I’ll head there now and look up this Dawes. Between the two of us, we should be able to get the body released. But there’s a lot of pressure to wrap this up and keep a tight lid on it, so I can’t promise anything. This thing is being handled way above my pay grade. And there are no mass graves. Every man will get a decent burial.”

“Could you ask Ike to intervene, just to make sure?” Big Mike said. “Otherwise we got no
corpus delecti
.”

“No. He’s too busy working on the real invasion. He put us in charge of finding these officers for security reasons, but other than that, he’s focused on the real thing. It’s up to us. What’s the status on the missing men?” Harding asked, gulping the dregs of his coffee.

“We found all but one lieutenant and one captain,” I said, going over our checklists.

“Okay,” Harding said, tapping his fingers on the wooden table as he calculated how best to proceed. “Constable Quick, you and Big Mike continue the search. Go back to Start Point and see if any more bodies have been brought in.”

“That’s where we bagged the colonel,” Big Mike said to Tom.

“Then work your way north. My guess is that by tomorrow all the bodies will have been accounted for, unless the fish or the Germans got to them. Boyle, you and Lieutenant Kazimierz go to Greenway House. Lieutenant James Siebert is the officer who was responsible for keeping the manifests for all observers. He went into the water, but he had all his papers in a waterproof bag. He got a little banged
up, but he’ll be back on duty tomorrow morning. See what light he can shed on how this happened.” Rain splattered the canvas above us, a crash of thunder not much farther away.

“Tomorrow morning is the funeral of Sir Rupert Sutcliffe,” I said. “Since everyone who spent time with Peter will be there, it might be worth our while to attend. Maybe he confided in one of them.”

“Worth a shot,” Harding said, giving us a curt nod. “But get to Siebert right after that. There’s no telling what may happen to any evidence connected with this debacle.” The rain became fiercer as wind gusts sent the tent flaps flying.

“Is the search going to proceed in this storm?” Kaz asked, a peal of thunder punctuating his sentence.

“It probably shouldn’t,” Harding said. “But then again, we may have to launch an invasion in weather not much better than this.” A loud, sharp
crack
whipped through the air as a bolt of lightning hit a nearby tree, the wood cracking and crashing to the ground seconds later. Saint Clare must have been busy elsewhere.

Harding went off to the command tent to radio Brixham and tell Major Dawes he was on his way, while the four of us waited for the worst of the storm to pass. Big Mike resupplied himself with doughnuts, and Kaz went in search of a cup of decent tea, a foolish venture in a US Army mess tent. Tom Quick and I stood at the open flaps, watching the rain fall on the sodden field.

“It’s a hard thing to see,” Tom said. “Even if you’re used to it.”

“It is,” I said. “I don’t think you ever get used to it, though.”

“You’ve been in combat,” he said. A statement, not a question.

“North Africa. Sicily. Salerno. How can you tell?”

“A man unused to carnage will throw up at the sight of it,” Tom said. “A man who has seen too much gets the shakes. And a man who tries to hide the fact stuffs his hands in his pockets.”

“You don’t miss much,” I said.

“I’m a trained constable,” he said. “Most days, all a village constable does is watch people. Little things tend to stand out. And I do know something about carnage. From a distance.”

“Does that make it any easier?” I said, turning to face Tom. For some reason, I had to know.

“I’ve no idea,” he said. “That’s like asking a one-legged man if losing a leg is easier than losing an eye, or a hand. How can he know? All he’s aware of is his own misery. What I do know is, it doesn’t get any easier when you’re confronted with more and more misery. It comes at you from every direction, no matter what you do. And it’s likely to keep doing so until this war is over. God knows when that’ll be.”

“It could be soon,” I said. “If the invasion goes well.”

“Jerry isn’t going to roll over once we get to France, you mark my words. It’s going to be a long haul. Some of the chaps I served with are starting their second tour of thirty missions. Nowadays they give them a few months’ rest with ground duty, then back for another go. Start the clock ticking all over again. Hard to fathom going through that twice.”

“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.

A
T 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?