A Blind Goddess (17 page)

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Authors: James R. Benn

Tags: #Mystery, #Historical

BOOK: A Blind Goddess
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“You’re close enough for someone to try and do you in,” Tree said.

“Yeah. A few more clues like that and I’ll wake up at the bottom of the canal. But I do know for sure that CID doesn’t have much of a case against Angry. The local constable doesn’t think it was him either. Did you know about Rosemary Adams saying she saw him that night?”

“I heard that, but didn’t believe it.” I filled Tree in on the details, and the fact that Tom Eastman’s father had been a policeman as well.

“If I have time tomorrow, I’m going to pay a visit to Rosemary and Malcolm Adams, see what they have to say. Then I want to visit that jump school at Chilton Foliat. That track to the cemetery is interesting. I’d like to know how often it’s used.”

“Tell you what, Billy. You go see the Adamses if you can. I can go to Chilton Foliat and look around. We need to map out a route for a field exercise. I can swing it as official business.”

“Okay, that’ll help. If you don’t need to get back, stay and have dinner with us. Kaz is on his way back from the boarding school in
Great Shefford, where Margaret was coming from. He’s confirming it was her. And Big Mike—you haven’t met him yet—might be back from an interrogation with Inspector Payne.”

“Okay. Anything hopeful?”

“Long shot. I don’t expect much.” I was getting pretty tired of long shots. I was ready for a close shot, right to the heart of whoever tried to kill me.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

F
IVE OF US sat around the table in the dining room downstairs. It was odd having a friend from my Boston past here with my new friends from three nations. They were all so different. Diana, with her beauty, aristocratic airs, and passion for the truth; Kaz, with his studied nonchalance and languid manner masking an iron fierceness; Big Mike, with his working-stiff wit and dogged loyalty; Tree, with his determination to fight, his rage right beneath the surface at how hard it all had been.

And me. The parsley and potato soup came before I could figure out what I brought to the party, other than an affinity for people I could count on. I wasn’t sure what I could count on Tree for, except that something always happened with him around.

“This is the late Margaret Hibberd,” Kaz said, passing a photograph around. “Her school picture. The headmistress had notified the local police that she’d gone missing, and they had in turn called Scotland Yard. Her friends said she often talked about going home, that she missed her mother especially.” I took the photograph and studied it. It was the girl from the canal. Thin, dark hair, lost.

“Did she have anyone local she knew, might have gone to?” I asked.

“No one. She was worried that she hadn’t had a letter from her parents in quite a while. The police in Great Shefford knew about her father being killed in the bombing, but kept it from her until the
mother’s death could be confirmed. They hoped she might be found in one of the hospitals.”

“It is pure chaos in some of them,” Diana said. “Records are destroyed along with buildings, patients moved about. It was worth hoping for.”

“Margaret slipped away one night,” Kaz said. “She could have walked to the Hungerford railroad station easily enough for the morning train to London.”

“We found her just east of Hungerford,” Tree said. “So she must have made it to town. The current flows east to west. She could have been dumped in Kintbury, anywhere along the canal.”

“Inspector Payne finally heard from the coroner,” Big Mike said. “She didn’t drown, but that much was obvious from the marks on her neck. The doc said she could’ve been in the water three to five days; it was cold enough to slow down decomposition.”

“I can attest to that,” I said, glad of the warm soup in my belly. “How did it go with Miller?”

“I had my suspicions when Payne asked him to come down to the station for a chat,” Big Mike said. “Mrs. Miller looked like she was about to faint.”

“Do you think she knew something?” Diana asked.

“Suspected, or was afraid maybe. But Miller himself was calm and said he’d be glad to help. We took him down to the station and went over Neville’s killing, where he was last night, and pressed him on any connection to Sophia Edwards. Came up with nothing.”

“How did he react?” I asked.

“Cooperative at first,” Big Mike reported. “Then started looking at his watch. Then he wanted to know how long it would take. Finally he asked if he was a suspect. Then he got upset. Completely normal for an innocent man or a practiced liar.”

“You certainly have a difficult profession,” Diana said. “How can you tell the two apart?”

“Keep pressing them until they break,” Big Mike said. “Kinda hard if they’re innocent, right, Billy?”

“Billy knows all about that,” Tree said. An awkward silence
followed as the soup bowls were cleared. “I can tell by their faces you’ve already told your friends about how we met, Billy.”

“Part of the story, anyway,” I said. “They’re a nosy bunch.”

“We know Billy took your job,” Big Mike said. “That was a raw deal.”

“Billy did not get to the part yet where you two actually met,” Kaz said. “Tell us your side of the story.”

“Yes, do tell us, Tree,” Diana said with enthusiasm, as if it were a parlor game. “What was Billy like as a schoolboy?” All eyes were on Tree. I shrugged and glanced away, pretending it didn’t matter, even though I wanted to hear his version as much as anyone. No, more. I waited as Tree settled back, took a deep breath, and began.

I
T WASN’T THE first time a white boy took a job from me. Pop got me a job stocking shelves in a grocery store that winter. He’d heard one of the cops say his brother-in-law needed a kid to work after school, so Pop sent me down there right away. The owner hadn’t even put a sign up yet. I worked three days before a customer made a comment about that nigger boy being in the way. The problem was I didn’t say “yes ma’am” fast enough and look at the floor while I did so. I told my boss what had happened, and got docked one day’s pay for talking back. That was my first lesson in working with white people. You don’t complain, unless you’re ready for things to get a whole lot worse. Works the same in the army, except you don’t lose your pay, you get a billy club across your head. Anyway, I found out later that the woman who complained about me happened to have a son who could take my spot, so things worked out exactly the way she’d wanted.

I wasn’t surprised when Pop told me not to bother showing up for work at the station. Even though I’d put in my application a month before and had been approved, it didn’t mean a damn thing, not when a white man, and a detective at that, wanted the job for his kid. No way a Negro janitor could match that pull. I was mad, real mad. And things got worse when I heard that some of the cops didn’t like the idea of a Negro man bossing around a white boy. Pop
had worked for years at police headquarters, and had a good record. I don’t think Basher—Billy must have mentioned Basher McGee—minded a colored janitor one bit, but he hated the idea of a white kid working for one.

At first, I thought the kid would quit, once I heard about the tricks Basher and his pals were pulling. Dumping coffee on a floor, grinding out cigar butts outside the commissioner’s office, that sort of thing. But Pop knew what all that meant. Either he’d get blamed for not supervising Billy properly, or it would prove that a Negro man wasn’t up to the job of bossing a white boy. He’d be in trouble either way. That was the thing about Basher. He enjoyed putting the squeeze on you and watching while you figured out which was the least awful alternative.

So I wore out shoe leather looking for work. I wanted to save up for college. I had good grades, and I figured if I could get started at any college I’d find a way to finish. I had my eye on a state teacher’s college in Bridgewater, figured I could afford that and still keep close to home. I finally got a job working nights at a gas station, out on Boylston Street. I’d always kept Pop’s jalopy running, and repairing engines came easy, so I was able to talk them into taking me on as a mechanic’s assistant, at half the pay a white man would get, of course. But I counted myself lucky to get any job, and I went right to headquarters to tell Pop all about it.

That’s when I first ran into Billy. He was pushing a broom in the main hallway, outside the detectives’ squad room. At that moment, Basher came out and I saw his eyes flash between Billy and me, and I knew we were both in trouble.

“You come for your job, boy?” Basher said to me. I remember Billy looking startled for a moment as he figured out what was what.

“Detective McGee,” I said, not meeting his eyes.

“Ain’t neither one of you worth shit,” he said, spitting on the clean floor. “One can’t sweep a floor and the other don’t show no respect. You answer my question, boy.”

“I have a job, Detective,” I said. “I work down at Earl’s Gas Station now. Don’t need to push a broom.”

“Well now, Billy, what do you think of that?” Basher said. “Eugene here doesn’t need to push a broom anymore, not like you do, you goddamn shanty Irish.”

“Maybe I’ll steal that job from him too,” Billy said. This threw Basher off his stride. I caught a quick glimpse from Billy and knew what he was up to.

“You could try, but they had a sign in the window. No Irishmen need apply.” I threw it right back at him. Basher, being an Irishman one step above shanty, didn’t have much to say to that, and went sputtering back into the squad room. We thought it was funny, and for a minute I forgot about this kid swiping my job. We went down to Pop’s office and told him about the encounter, but he didn’t think it was funny at all. Said Basher always found a way to get back at you, and never forgot a slight. But we were kids, and thought it was all fun.

I’d come to visit Pop on my way to work at Earl’s most days, and kid around with Billy for a while. Pop said Billy’s old man had gotten the job for him without knowing I’d been in line for it, and since he was a decent sort for a white man, and his kid was a good worker, I should go easy on him. I was a couple of years older than Billy, so naturally he looked up to me. Especially when he found out about my job at the garage. He started dropping by after he was done at headquarters, and we got along okay.

One day I came to the station early to bring Pop his lunch. I took the back stairs, to avoid running into Basher, but that one backfired on me. He and one of his cronies had Billy cornered on a stairwell above me, and were giving him a hard time, pushing him around. I yelled something, I don’t remember what, and they spotted me below. Basher said something about a dirty nigger needing a bath, and kicked Billy’s mop bucket over. I got a good drenching with filthy mop water, but what none of us knew was that the deputy superintendent was not far behind me. He saw everything, and took a good soaking himself.

The look on Basher’s face was priceless. His cigar dropped right out of his mouth, and it stayed open as he tried to yammer out an
excuse. But Deputy Superintendent Emmons wasn’t having any of it, and he bawled out Basher and his buddy right in front of us, a dressing-down like I haven’t ever heard again, not even in the army. Of course, Billy and me being kids, we thought it was hilarious. We’re standing behind Emmons with big smirks on our faces, while Basher is saying
yessir
and
nosir
as fast as he can. But the whole time he’s got one eye on us, and I should have known he’d never forgive us witnessing his disgrace. Him being white, my presence was especially humiliating.

“L
ET’S GIVE
T
REE a chance to eat,” I said as the landlord delivered plates to the table. I couldn’t help smiling at the memory of Basher getting chewed out, even though I knew what had come of it.

“Nice of you to watch out for Tree,” Big Mike said, “since you look up to him and all.” A ripple of laughter went around the table.

“I’d call some parts of his version a slight exaggeration,” I said. “But not the part about Emmons standing there in his wet trousers, yelling at Basher.”

“Remember how his shoes squished, every time he shifted his feet? That only got him madder,” Tree said. We both broke up over that. It felt good.

“What are we eating?” Kaz asked, investigating the food on his plate.

“Looks like there’s chicken and carrots swimming in some kind of sauce,” Big Mike said, shoveling a load onto his fork. “Potatoes and parsnips on the side.”

“Root vegetables aren’t rationed,” Diana said. “They at least are plentiful, especially here in the countryside. It does wear one down, I must say, parsnips day after day.” She moved the food around on her plate, her voice trailing off as the chatter around the table picked up.

“It didn’t go well, did it?” I asked.

“No.” She set her silverware down. “Not at all.”

“The Joint Intelligence Committee?” Kaz asked, in a low voice.

“Yes,” Diana said, her eyes downcast. Big Mike and Tree halted their conversation and looked to me.

“Maybe we should talk about something else,” I said.

“That’s exactly what Roger Allen said.” She clenched and unclenched her hand, and brought her eyes up to look at everyone around the table. “I imagine it is what many in America say about Negroes and the injustices visited upon them. An unpleasant topic brought up by unpleasant people.” She brought her hand to her mouth for a second, and I thought she might burst into tears. But that wasn’t Diana’s style, not the English way at all. When she lowered her hand, her expression was still angry, but controlled.

“Who is this Allen character?” Tree asked.

“A powerful man from the Foreign Office who sits on a powerful committee. A man who sees no reason to be moved by the extermination of Jews throughout Europe,” Diana answered. “He said that the Poles and Jews were deliberately exaggerating reports of atrocities simply to stiffen British resolve.”

“Any chance that might be true?” Tree asked.

“About as true as lynching being an invention of your Negro newspapers,” Diana said, her voice hard. “Even with the eyewitness reports we brought out of Italy, our leaders still refuse to do or say anything.”

“All sounds pretty familiar to me,” Tree said. “Europeans don’t have colored folk, so they go for the Jews instead.”

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