Billy Boyle (31 page)

“Neither of us ever signs out these machines!”

I knew I had entered some special part of the military world, where noncoms ruled and officers were just an irritation, an insistent itch that demanded once in a while to be scratched. They gave me a glance, read me like a field manual, and decided I wasn’t going to give them any trouble, except for taking their bike. They ignored me, rightfully understanding this was a matter between guys with stripes, not bars.

“It’s just for a day or so. We’ll have the race when he gets back, no problem,” Slater said.

“Aye, if I’m dumb enough to believe you. Very convenient to come up with this story just after that corporal of yours runs your Harley-Davidson into a ditch,” Malcolm said. The others laughed, and he joined them, enjoying the position he was in.

“Malcolm, take a look at these orders of his. Signed not only by Ike’s office, but by some guy from your own Imperial Staff!”

Slater held the orders in front of Malcolm, who wiped his hand on a greasy rag and took them by the edges. He looked at each page and then over at me, then back again, as if he couldn’t believe they were for the guy he was gazing at. He shook his head in disgust and handed them back to Slater.

“All right, but you’ll have to sign a few forms, Lieutenant.”

“Thanks, Malcolm,” Slater said as he turned to leave, “and good luck, Lieutenant. Make sure you bring her back in one piece.”

That earned me even blacker glares from the Brit mechanics, so I dug into my kit and came up with three packs of Lucky Strikes. I handed them out along with my apologies and promises to return the motorcycle in a couple of days. I must’ve sounded convincing, because although I didn’t really give a hoot about their motorcycle race, and they didn’t care a bit about what I needed, pretty soon we were all smoking and trading war stories about bikes and cars. After chewing the fat for a while, they left me with one mechanic, a Scottish corporal, who was giving the BMW a final check over.

Corporal Roddy Ross was of indeterminate age, the skin of his hands and even his face covered in a sheen of grease and oil. He was rail thin, but his forearms were muscular, and he had a certain grace as he moved around the machine, tightening connections and wiping her down with a cloth as he went. He had a Lucky stuck in the corner of his mouth and smoked as he talked, blowing out smoke with each phrase and squinting his right eye against the blue smoke curling up from the tip of the cigarette.

“Now, laddie, are ye shur ye kin find yer way? Greenchurch is but one of a dozen wee small villages yonder.” He pointed with his thumb toward the northeast as he rested his other hand protectively on the handlebar of the BMW. I had to concentrate on listening to him to understand his thick Scottish brogue.

“I’ve studied the map, Corporal, and copied down my route. If I get lost, I can always stop and ask for directions.” This brought a chuckle.

“Oh, yeah, as if the English wouldn’t mistake a Yank for a Jerry and blow yer young head off with a shotgun! That far inland, there’s been hardly a single Yank yet.”

I could tell from his tone that Corporal Ross was certain that any Scotsman could tell the difference between a Yank and a German, but that he wasn’t about to vouch for anyone south of Hadrian’s Wall.

“Well, Corporal, what do you suggest? Maps are in short supply.”

“You know that all the road signs have been taken down hereabouts. But I should be able to draw up me own sort of directions. Fer a man who knows his pubs, it should be easy.”

With that, he set down his rag and pulled out a stub of a pencil from his overalls pocket and a small pad from the workbench. He licked the end of the pencil, wrote studiously for a minute, ripped off a sheet, and handed it to me.

Pittsfield—straight at the Red Hart

St. Paul—left at the King George Inn

Midbury—straight at the Blue Swan

“Corporal, you’re a genius. It must’ve taken a lot of research to come up with this!”

“Well, ye know what the English say about the Scots: we know the value of a shilling. I wanted to find the best value for a pint and I had to go far and wide in search of it. Now this road at Midbury should take ye right into Greenchurch, though it’s a long stretch. Ask there at the Miller’s Stone for where ye need to go. And take good care of this machine!”

“I will, Corporal, if you let go of it.”

He took his hand off the handlebar, smiled weakly, and stepped back to give me some room. I stowed my pack and got on. We shook hands. He opened a wide side door with a narrow wood-plank ramp. I adjusted my goggles and kick-started the engine. It came to life immediately and purred like a kitten. I sat for a minute, getting the feel of the machine while I let the quiet rumbling vibrate through my body. I nodded to Ross, who got his hand halfway up to his forehead, executing an absent salute as he kept his eye on the bike. I took the BMW slowly down the ramp, did a turn, waved, and rode off. Out of respect for the corporal and his work I didn’t open her right up, but rode at a sedate pace up to the main gate. On the way out, Rolf Kayser pulled in front of me in a jeep. He gave a friendly salute, went through the gate, and drove south. I passed the gate and went north on the main road, giving the bike full throttle, hoping the sound would carry back to the motor pool, where I knew Corporal Ross would still be standing just as I had left him, straining his ears to follow the nuance of each gearshift.

The BMW responded like a champ. The throaty rumble of the engine echoed off the hills rising up on each side of the road, and I felt like a schoolkid playing hooky. For the first time in days I was alone, off on my own for a little side trip to the quaint village of Greenchurch, where I doubted I’d find anything new. Even if Subaltern Victoria Brey had seen somebody that morning as she made her way back to her room, did it make that person the murderer? Half a dozen people were up and about, in their own private little worlds, when Knut Birkeland took his dive. Would one more really make a difference? Yeah, maybe it would.

I opened up the BMW on a straightaway to see what it could do. The acceleration pulled me back in the seat and I hunched over, made myself smaller and watched the road unwind in front of me. I eased up on the throttle as the road narrowed where it passed along a hillside, white stone markers on either side. A grassy slope went up on my right, down on my left. I could see muddy paths where cows made their way among the fields and could smell them, too, the odor of green grass and manure flowing over me as I opened her up on another straightaway.

I hoped this trip would make a difference, almost prayed for it. Right now, if someone asked my opinion based on pure logic, I’d have to say Knut Birkeland really had killed himself, if only because that answered the most questions. If I had to answer from my gut, though, I’d bet my next paycheck that he’d been murdered. I had a working theory of how, but it didn’t lead me anywhere. Why and who were still mysteries. If only Birkeland had been poisoned. Then I would’ve clapped the irons on Vidar Skak. He was just the kind of snake who would use poison. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the kind of snake to wrestle Knut Birkeland out the window. Cosgrove still bothered me, too. There was something off about him, but I had no idea what. Yet. My thoughts drifted into all the possibilities, all the suspects, and all the reasons why.

It came around a curve I hadn’t realized was there—a big, dusty gray vehicle with the driver laying on his horn. The bike wobbled and started to skid and I almost lost control as I tried to recover from my surprise. I caught myself and banked into a curve, just as a truck—or a lorry or whatever the hell they called it over here—came around the bend. I slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road, waiting for my heart to slow too. I decided to stop thinking about the case and keep my mind on riding on the wrong side of the road or else they were going to be scraping me up off it. I started up again, slow, and just rode.

Fields and woods thick with oak trees flowed by as I got used to the BMW and let it go at its own pace, not gunning it but not holding back either. Everything else fell away until there was just the motorcycle, the road, and me. Once you got down to basics, things were simpler. The low cloud cover had given way to light fluffy clouds and blue sky, and I could feel the sun on my back. I passed the Red Hart and kept going straight, feeling my worries melt away with the miles. I wondered why I hadn’t gotten one of the thousands of office jobs in this war. Everywhere I went, I saw guys pushing paper, stamping paper, filing paper, carrying files of paper. That was supposed to be me. Those guys worked a full day, five or six days a week, but they didn’t have to worry about murderers and spies, and coming up with answers for Ike. I knew guys in the combat outfits would have it rough, but, hell, I had already been shot at, and as of right now, not a single GI had even fired a rifle at the Nazis!

I was getting myself all riled up and almost missed the next pub. I calmed down, and took a left at the King George Inn as I wondered if it was the same King George we had given the heave-ho to at Bunker Hill. It was almost midday by the time I had nearly reached the very small village of Greenchurch. I saw a large round stone, like the wheel from a windmill, propped up in front of a low whitewashed building. The Miller’s Stone. I turned around in front of a church—it wasn’t green—and pulled the BMW up in front of the pub. There were a few bicycles leaning against the wall. Not a single car. Real quiet little town. Houses with window boxes overflowing with flowers lined the street. Across from the pub was a small white building, its plain front broken by two doors, one marked
POST OFFICE
. The other led to a small store. A dog sleeping in the sun on the stone step leading up to the store entrance raised his head, gave me the once-over, then laid his head back down, unimpressed.

I figured that since I had to ask directions to Victoria Brey’s house, and since I was also hungry and thirsty, it would be the most efficient use of my time to visit the pub. That actually made it my patriotic duty. I dusted myself off and went inside.

It was a small village pub, low ceilinged and dark. There were just a couple of tables, a bench along one wall, and the bar itself on the right side of the room with a few stools along it. I sat down and nodded to two old gents who were nursing pints that looked like they’d been pulled when the place opened. Neither said hello, but one of them pointed his pipe at me.

“Now what kind of uniform is that?”

“You mean my United States Army officer’s uniform?”

“So you’re a Yank, are you? About time. I haven’t seen one since 1918!”

They both thought this was real funny. I turned my attention to the barkeep, or publican, I think they called him here.

“A pint, and what do you have for food?”

“A ploughman’s lunch is all today.”

“OK, but hold the onion. I’ve got to see a lady this afternoon.”

I smiled, he didn’t. I decided he really wasn’t such a bad sort when he brought out bread still warm from the oven, a slab of cheese, and a homemade pickle in place of the onion. Along with the ale it was a meal fit for a king.

After he brought the food he ignored me, which I guess was better than lecturing me on the late arrival of the U.S. Army. After I had inhaled about half the meal, I slowed down and half turned in my seat, speaking to both the publican and his customers.

“Do any of you fellows know where Victoria Brey lives?”

At the sound of her name, the old fellas looked at each other and just shook their heads. Not at me, but just at the mention of her name. “Sad, so sad,” one of them said. The barkeep walked over, drying a glass in his hand.

“Why do you want to know?” The expression on his face said he’d be glad to bean me with the heavy glass if he didn’t like the answer.

“Just some routine army business. About her transfer, just some paperwork to finish,” I lied.

“She’s in the ATS, not the bloody American army.”

“Yeah, but we’re all on the same side. Right?”

“I don’t know you, mate. I don’t know if you’re trouble or not, but I do know Victoria’s had her share. More than her share.”

“I’ve known her since she was a babe,” the old guy said. “So sad.”

“I just need to talk with her a bit, that’s all. I know she’s had it tough, with her husband missing in action.”

“Have a care with her. She’s still not well. And she’s well liked ’round here, so don’t cause her any problems.” The barkeep walked back to the bar, carrying the well-dried glass. He had made his decision, but I could tell he didn’t like it much. Or me.

“Take the first right up by the church. Then take the left fork. Her place is on the left, a small stone cottage.” The barkeep put the glass on the bar, loud enough to punctuate the sentence. I didn’t say anything about the implied threat. I could take a hint. I finished up, paid, and left. No one said good-bye.

I found her place easy enough and her, too, for that matter. She was sitting on a worn wooden bench in a small garden in front of her cottage. It looked like a house to me, but I figured it was one of those English things. I pulled the BMW into the drive and switched it off. The driveway was packed dirt with weeds sprouting out of it, wildflowers forcing their way through the hard surface. She looked over at me as calmly as if Americans on motorcycles showed up every day. I took off my goggles and Parsons field jacket, and attempted to make myself presentable. I brushed the dust off my pants, put on my fore and aft cap at just the right angle, and walked into the garden. She sat still, gazing at the flowers.

“Nice garden, Mrs. Brey.” She nodded, ever so slightly, and looked up at me with moist eyes. She was twisting a handkerchief in her hands, limp and damp from her tears.

“Yes, isn’t it? They’ll probably all die now.…”

“Now that you’re being transferred?”

“No. Now that Richard’s… gone. He always tended them. Said a home needed flowers blooming around it first thing in the spring. He always looked forward to springtime.”

Her head swiveled back to look at the flowers. She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief she held crumpled in one hand. I could have jumped on a broomstick and flown away for all she cared. She was someplace else. There wasn’t another chair and I had to make eye contact, so I knelt down in front of her.