A Blind Goddess (20 page)

“Be best if I put a coupla stitches in that cut above your eye,” the medic said. “You mind?”

“Not if you’re quick,” Tree managed to get out. “And if you’ve done it before.”

“First guy didn’t complain,” he said, cleaning the wound. “But then he was unconscious.” Tree gasped as the first stitch went through, and Charlie looked away. I had the feeling Charlie wasn’t the tough guy his size led you to believe. “Get those out in three days, and keep it clean. Ice would be the best thing for the swelling, but this is England, so good luck.”

“He going to be okay?” Charlie asked the medic.

“Yeah, Charlie. But he’s lucky you didn’t land one.”

“I don’t feel too lucky,” Tree said, gasping as the medic wound a bandage around his ribs.

“You might have a cracked rib, but it looks like a bruise to me. Take it easy for a while and you’ll be fine.” We left and returned to Tree’s jeep, Charlie supporting Tree by the arm.

“Sorry, Tree,” Charlie said. “I wish this all never happened.”

“Who started it, exactly?” I asked.

“Not sure,” Charlie said. “I think I heard Crowley talking to some of the guys about it. He said something about the colored fellow in the jeep being one of the gang that took the girl. We’d all heard about that.”

“Who’s Crowley?” Tree asked, easing himself into the jeep.

“The English guy. He works in the stable.”

“Was he at the fight?” I asked.

“Yeah, he was the civilian. He takes care of the horses. I tried to look at them, but he yelled at me to get out. This place used to be a horse farm, I heard.” Charlie looked happy at the thought of horses, a lot happier than being forced to fistfight. I wondered if the
Eastmans had any connections to the former horse farm, so near the graveyard.

“Okay, Charlie. Stay out of trouble, will you?”

“Sure thing, Captain. You too, Tree,” he said, grinning like a kid.

“Not the easiest thing, Charlie,” Tree said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

T
HEY WERE WAITING for us at the bridge. Three British military police in their distinctive red caps. One waved me to the verge and approached.

“Are you Captain Boyle?” He was a sergeant, and should have added “sir” to that question. I didn’t press the point, since I wasn’t much for military courtesies myself, and the look on his face was the type a cop reserved for picking up a drunk and disorderly.

“Yes I am, Sergeant,” I said, dropping a subtle hint. “What can I do for you?”

“You can follow me, Captain. Someone wants to see you, and he’s not used to waiting, so he tells me.” He nodded to his MP pals, and one of them mounted a motorcycle, pulling out in front, while the other started up his jeep.

“Wait, Sergeant,” I said as he turned away. “I’ve got a hurt man here, I need to get him back to his unit.” I pointed my thumb at Tree, his face bandaged and swollen.

“Are you bleeding to death then, soldier?” the MP asked.

“I’m fine,” Tree said.

“Let’s get this sorted first, and then the captain can take you wherever he needs to. Follow the motorcycle. We’ll follow in the jeep.”

“Sergeant, what’s this all about?” I asked. “Where are we going?”

“Hungerford police station, where all will be answered.”

They kept close, the motorcycle proceeding at a stately pace, the jeep riding our rear bumper. I could have broken free at a turn if I’d been inclined, but something about the sergeant’s attitude told me not to show off.

“Can you hang on?” I asked Tree.

“I’m okay,” he said. “Any idea why they’re after you?”

“Hey, this is an escort, a sign of respect.”

“Hell, Billy, looks like you pulled me out of the frying pan and now you got an escort to your own fire,” Tree said, his laugh turning into a wince.

“Just like old times,” I said.

“Except this time the cops are wearing brown. Looks like neither of us has learned very much.” We slowed and pulled in behind the motorcycle as it parked in front of the police station.

“You mean you went into that fight willingly?” I asked.

“I didn’t run,” Tree said. “Decided I was sick of running when I was down South. It was the same on every damn base, every damn cracker town. Walk in the gutter, eyes down. Yessah, nosah, boss. Can’t do it anymore, Billy. That’s why I want to fight. This TD unit is the best thing that ever happened to me, and I want Angry along for the ride.”

“Let’s go, Captain,” the MP said.

“As long as I walk out of here, Tree, I’ll do my best,” I said in a low voice. The MP sergeant looked like he wanted to prod me with his billy club, so I got out. Tree followed, and no one barred the way. I figured if he didn’t have enough sense to stay out of a police station, that was his business.

Constable Cook stood in the hallway, arms folded and a frown on his face. “Glad they found you, Captain Boyle. Now get this over with so I can be rid of that windbag and back in my office!”

“Windbag? I think I know who you mean,” I said.

Cook squinted at the figure following me. “Tree, is that you under those bandages? What happened?”

“A fight,” Tree said. “I’m fine.”

“Wait here,” I said, making for the closed door.

“Nope,” Tree said. “You came to my rescue, least I can do is explain where you been.”

“This is none of your business, lad,” Cook said. “Best leave it alone, is my advice.”

“No, I need Billy to help Angry. I’ll do what I can.”

I didn’t think there was much Tree could do, but I understood the value of a diversion, so I opened the door and let him follow me in.

“Boyle! About time!” As I’d suspected, the windbag was Major Charles Cosgrove. He was seated at Cook’s desk, not wearing his usual uniform, but dressed in a tweed suit, the vest’s buttons straining to keep his belly from bursting out. Inspector Payne sat across from him, a glazed look in his eyes. I felt sorry for the man; he must have had his fill of Cosgrove by now.

“The MPs were a bit drastic, Major,” I said.

“They were obviously necessary,” Cosgrove said, slapping a file closed on Cook’s desk as he took notice of Tree. “Who is this soldier and why is he here?”

“Billy … I mean, Captain Boyle got me out of a jam, sir,” Tree said. “He got a medic to patch me up and was taking me back to my unit. I guess that’s why you couldn’t find him. I wanted to explain, so he wouldn’t be in hot water.”

“Sergeant Eugene Jackson?” Cosgrove opened the file and pulled out a photograph. “Bit hard to tell with the bandages and that swollen eye, but I’d say you’re the fellow they call Tree. Am I right?”

“Why am I in that file?” Tree asked. “Who are you anyway?”

“Is that a state secret today, Major?” I said, interrupting before Tree got himself in too deep.

“Major Charles Cosgrove,” he said, introducing himself. “In mufti today so as not to draw undue attention to the flogging of Captain Boyle. Sergeant Jackson, please be so good as to wait outside with Constable Cook.”

“Okay, Major Cosgrove,” Tree said and shot me a wink on his way out. I knew he wanted to repay me for getting him out of that rigged fight, but he didn’t know enough about Cosgrove to
understand how dangerous he was. He’d made the same mistake years ago with Basher, and Cosgrove made Basher look like an amateur. I heard the door shut, and waited until Tree’s footsteps faded away. He had enough problems without the gatekeeper for the British Empire on his back.

“Okay, Major,” I said as I took a seat. “What’s this all about?”

“It is
about
, Captain Boyle, your disobedience and willful misconduct in this investigation. What do you have to say for yourself?”

I glanced at Inspector Payne, who lifted his hands from his lap, palms up, signaling that he was lost as well. I didn’t like the legalistic sound of those words, and I was sure they were mentioned somewhere in the Articles of War. Probably in the same paragraph as courts martial and hard labor. I went through the possibilities of what I might have done and came up empty. Then I recalled something about checking in with Cosgrove. Every day, was it? At least it gave me something to apologize for.

“I’m sorry, Major. I was supposed to call you, right? I know Kaz did, but I forgot last night, I know.”

“Yes, you were supposed to check in each day, which you have yet to do. Consider yourself fortunate that I have my own means of following your progress, or lack of it. I’m sure you were too busy dining with your friends to place a simple telephone call.”

“Major, my progress has led me to nearly being drowned. Someone clobbered me and pushed me into the canal. That means we’re close to the killer.”

“I am glad you survived, Boyle. But I am not concerned about your lack of communication. It is your disobedience of a direct order I am here to discuss. Do you recall that I told you the Millers were not under suspicion, and that other than an initial interview, neither you nor Inspector Payne were to further involve them in this investigation? Is that not correct, Captain Boyle?”

“You said that, Major, but you weren’t on the scene. Neville was killed on their basement stairs. I couldn’t ignore that.” I figured that was all I needed to say on the subject.

“No, Captain Boyle, it is
you
who cannot ignore me, or the orders
I give you,” Cosgrove said, his voice grim. “I have already instructed you once on this matter, but perhaps being an American you need more precise orders, not open to your own interpretation. The Millers are not suspect,” he went on, pointing his finger in my direction. “Period. Do you understand?”

“Sure, Major, I get it.”

“None of them are to be taken into custody or questioned officially,” he said, obviously not believing I did get it. “If you need to talk to them, pay a social call and have a nice chat. Inspector Payne has heard much the same, so I hope there will be no further confusion upon this point. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, clear as rain on my parade, Major. But you can’t tie our hands like this.”

“We are not engaged in a debate. You either understand these orders, or require further clarification. Which is it?”

“Understood, Major. But I do have one question,” I said.

“Go ahead.”

“Why? Why are the Millers off limits?”

“They are not off limits. Feel free to visit them in their home in a cordial manner. Now, I’ve sent Big Mike back to London. You don’t need an entourage to carry out this investigation. Having too many people about may have led you to dispatch Big Mike and Inspector Payne to take Miller to the police station in the first place.”

“Now hold on,” Payne said. “I’ve listened to this blather long enough. Captain Boyle did not dispatch me anywhere. We agreed Miller should be interrogated, like any sensible coppers would, here or in America. I’ve a mind to pay that social call to George Miller tonight, and find out what makes him so special.”

“You do that, Inspector Payne,” Cosgrove said in a low, threatening voice, “and I’ll break you. I’ll take your pension and put you in prison for the duration of the war. And don’t think I can’t. Or won’t. Now please wait outside for Captain Boyle. I need a private word.”

“Gladly,” Payne said, lifting his lanky frame out of the chair and giving the door a good slam on the way out.

Cosgrove sat back and watched me, his face softening a bit. “Boyle,” he said, weariness creeping into his voice. “Take everything I’ve said to heart. The stakes are enormous, and there is much I cannot reveal to you.”

“But what’s the game?”

“For now, the game has to be trust. The stakes are counted in lives, if not the direction of the war itself.”

“That’s a lot to swallow, Major. It would help to know more.”

“I can’t tell you more.” Cosgrove rubbed his eyes, and I could see the strain he was under as he let out a heavy sigh. He hadn’t shaved well; there was a cut on one cheek and stubble where he’d missed under his chin. He was dead tired. Something was keeping him up nights. Or someone.

“The man in civilian clothes, at Bushy Park. Tall and slim. We saw you have words. Is he calling the shots on this one?” I remembered that Kaz had pointed him out as the man who made Cosgrove sweat.

“He doesn’t exist. You’d do well not to mention him again. And there is always someone calling the shots, as you say.”

“Okay, forget I mentioned him. So what’s the private word you wanted?”

“Miss Seaton,” Cosgrove said, leaning forward and whispering.

“What?” I said, panic surging in my gut. “Is she all right?”

“Yes, yes,” Cosgrove said, trying to calm me. “She is fine, still staying here at the inn. What I’m about to tell you is unofficial. Quite off the record, do you understand?” This wasn’t a directive. I could see the concern in his eyes, sense it in his voice.

“I do.”

“She’s pressed the matter of the extermination camps at a high level. Her father facilitated access to some rather important people for her, but I fear he’s done her no favors.”

“Roger Allen, of the Joint Intelligence Committee,” I said, recalling Diana’s description of her meeting.

“A name that one does not bandy about,” Cosgrove said. “He was not pleased to have his viewpoint questioned. There are those
who feel more should be done about the camps, bombing them, that sort of thing. Others maintain that landing on the Continent and defeating Germany militarily is the best way to end their murderous regime.”

“Which group is Allen in?”

“The third group. The group that does not care what happens to the Jews of Europe, as long as they do not become our responsibility. Especially not in Palestine, where an influx of Jews would upset the delicate balance of Arab politics and British rule. There are only a few of them, but they are powerful and secretive men. Please tell Miss Seaton to keep quiet about the camps, for a while at least. They have their eye on her.”

“Like you have your eye on me,” I said.

“No, Boyle. Not like that at all.” Cosgrove slumped back into his chair and signaled for me to go. In that moment he was an exhausted old man, shooing away a bothersome child. I left, thinking how crazy this game really was. Diana went undercover in Nazi-occupied Italy and brought back information on the extermination camps. Now her own people were suspicious of her, and Major Charles Cosgrove, an English straight arrow if ever there was one, was whispering their names here in this remote village lockup, looking afraid for his own life. And me, asking the wrong questions of the wrong people, apparently. Or the right people, judging by the reaction.