Dead Ground in Between (14 page)

Tyler didn't stay much longer, although he would have liked to. Perhaps Mrs. Hamilton had set his mind on a certain track, but he couldn't deny to himself how much he'd enjoyed Nuala Keogh's company. For a few brief moments he'd been able to shove aside his obsessive thoughts about Clare and her letter.

He agreed to return the following day and see how the boys were faring.

He arrived at the house almost breathless after fighting the wind up the hill. Rowell greeted him as soon as he entered.

“A cuppa coming right up, sir. Do you want that baked apple now?”

“Yes, please, but no tea. I just had some.”

He followed Rowell into the kitchen. He could smell the apple warming in the oven.

“I didn't get to talk to the boys,” said Tyler, sitting down at the table, where Rowell set a plate in front of him. “They were in bed, but according to Mrs. Keogh they're doing all right, all things considered. Bit traumatized, naturally.” He ate a piece of the baked apple. “Hmm, scrumptious, Oliver. You have outdone yourself.”

“Nothing fancy really, but it is nice to have custard once in a while.”

“I almost forgot to ask you. How did it go with the two hooligans? Did they do their work?”

“Pretty good. I think they wanted to make an impression. The floor is spotless, and the
WC
would do justice to the King and Queen.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Oops. I almost forgot something too.” Rowell trotted out to the hall and returned carrying an envelope. “Mrs. Hamilton delivered this note for you. Nice woman she is. Very eager to know how I was getting on with Dorothy. I told her we were getting along like a house on fire.” He hesitated. “Matter of fact, sir, I was hoping I could ask for a bit of advice.”

Tyler raised his eyebrow. “Go ahead.”

“As you know, I've been seeing Dorothy for over two months now. She's been hinting that it's time we went a bit further, if you know what I mean…I always leave after I've walked her to her door. Sometimes, I'll go in for a cup of tea, but mostly I just get straight back here. Well, like she said just the other day, it's not as if we're kids who don't know what's what. We've both been married before.” Again he paused. Tyler nodded encouragingly. “What I was wondering was…how long you think we should wait until we…well, you know, until we…”

“Have sexual relations?”

Rowell laughed. “In a word, yes.”

“As you say, Oliver, neither of you are new to the game. And Dorothy is keen. So why not? You've only got yourselves to answer to.”

“But that's just it, sir…” His voice trailed off.

“What? Why the hesitation?”

“To tell the truth, I feel if I rushed into anything it would be disloyal to Evelyn.”

“She's been gone more than two years now, hasn't she?”

“True. But I don't know if she'd want me to take on another woman as yet.”

“Are you planning to marry Dorothy?”

“My goodness, I can't say.”

“Does she feel the same sense of loyalty to her dead husband?”

“No. But he's been gone for longer than my Evelyn. Five years now.”

Tyler rubbed at his own forehead. “These days, time has taken on a different quality. Most people feel they shouldn't wait if they don't have to. Who knows if we'll be around?”

“So you're saying I should take the step. Stay over for the night. When I'm not on duty, of course.”

“I can't see any reason why not.”

Rowell beamed. “Thank you, sir. I do appreciate you letting me talk like this. I told Dorothy I might drop in on her, if it wasn't too late.”

“Sounds splendid, Oliver. I'm sure you will make the right moves.”

Rowell spluttered with laughter. “As it were.”

Tyler looked at the unopened envelope. He was feeling strangely apprehensive.

“I'll leave you to it, then, sir. If I do come back tonight I won't disturb you. I'll be quiet as a mouse.”

“And if you don't come back?”

“In that case, I'll see you for breakfast.”

From the gleam in his sergeant's eye, Tyler thought he had a pretty good idea which course of action Rowell was going to follow.

When the door closed behind him, he opened the letter.

Moira Hamilton's handwriting was like her, round, feminine, and distinctive.

Tomorrow! God, he'd barely had time to get used to the idea that he'd signed up for an introduction service. He'd vaguely thought it would be a couple of weeks before anything happened. But if he was honest, there was nothing urgently pending at the moment. He was free to go to the pictures with a woman wearing a red beret. And what should he wear? He had only one decent suit other than his daily inspector's outfit. It was grey wool, pinstriped. A little on the itchy side.
Oh hell. Just put on a clean shirt, an unstained tie, and wear the usual brown suit. And polish your shoes
.

His father had always impressed on him the importance of having polished shoes.
Shows a man has self-respect, son. One of the most important things you can do is to shine your shoes
.
Your clothes might be threadbare, but you will always make a good impression with well-polished shoes
.

The lorry had picked up six other men who, like Angelo, had been forced to stay overnight at the farms where they'd been working. Back in the
POW
camp, lines of wooden huts connected by wooden walks filled a field. There was the obligatory barbed-wire fence and sentry post, but otherwise security was minimal. These
POWS
had all been vetted to make sure they posed no risk. Nobody was a rabid fascist. The majority came from rural areas of Italy and had been conscripted into the Italian army before being taken prisoner in North Africa.

With the coming of winter, work on the local farms had slowed down, and a lot of the men now occupied themselves with making toys: wooden tanks, dolls with painted faces, ships. They weren't allowed to sell them but the prisoners liked to give them to the farmers and their families. A quiet thank-you for the kindness they had received. With Christmas coming but severe shortages everywhere, they knew these articles would be welcome.

At the gate, Angelo and the others fell in behind a sentry, who led the way through the camp. It was dark and freezing cold.

“Hope you had a good day, gents,” said the sentry cheerily.

For a moment Angelo thought he was mocking them, but then he realized he wasn't. Just a decent man who hadn't lost his humanity.

Angelo and another man, Mario Carella, were both in one of the far huts, and the other men were all dropped off first.

“What's up, Angelo?” asked Mario. “You're limping.”

“Cow kicked out at me. I fell and twisted my knee.”

“Bad luck. What were you doing to her?”

“Nothing. Should have warmed up my hands, I suppose.”

Mario laughed. “I thought you knew how to handle those animals.”

“I do,” protested Angelo.

“Think of it as practice for when you get yourself a sweetheart. Never, ever touch a female's private parts with cold hands.”

Angelo ducked his head in embarrassment. Mario was married, and he might have been able to offer some advice on the intimate issues on Angelo's mind. But Angelo's heart was too tender at the moment. He didn't want to share his experience with anybody else.

Mario had noticed his reaction and he slapped Angelo on the arm.

“What is this, my friend? Have you already done the deed? Did you entice the beautiful Land Girl to your bed?”

“Don't be silly,” said Angelo.

Suddenly Mario dropped his banter. “Please be careful. No good can come of this. Only trouble and pain. Don't let anybody find out.”

Angelo shrugged. “There is nothing to be careful about.”

Mario made no further comment. The sentry halted at the entrance to their hut.

“Here we are. Home sweet home. If you're called out tomorrow, I'll see you here at the usual time.”

“Good night.
Ciao
,” said Mario.

“Ciao,”
answered the guard, who rather fancied his facility with languages.

Angelo pushed open the door and went inside. Although there was only a small wood stove in the centre, the hut was warm, slightly fetid. Those who hadn't been stranded overnight
on nearby farms had stayed inside all day because of the bad weather, playing cards or dice, reading or writing letters. Working on their wood carvings. The things imprisoned men did.

“Hiya, you all,” Mario called out. “We're back. Anybody miss us?”

A couple of the men looked up and flapped their hands in their direction.

“Didn't even know you were gone,” said one of them.

“Thanks, De Cupo,” answered Mario. “See if I'll write your letters for you ever again.” He pitched his voice high.
“Now, Adelina, all I can think about day and night is the sweet place between your legs where I long to put my tool. Please tell me you think of me like that as well
.”

The other man jumped to his feet, infuriated. “Cut it out. I don't write that kind of filth.”

“Well, perhaps you should before she lets somebody else do it.”

De Cupo took a step toward him ready to take a swing, but Angelo grabbed his arm and the other man got in between them.

“Come on, Mario. Stop riding him.”

De Cupo shrugged Angelo off. “One of these days, I'm going to get you, Carella.”

Mario stuck out his hand. “Sorry, Gino. I'm only joking.”

De Cupo turned away, ignoring his proffered hand. Some of the other men who were nearby watched curiously, wondering if this confrontation was going to escalate. Flare-ups among the confined men were commonplace.

Angelo pulled Mario away and the two of them went to their bunks.

“Hey, Mario,” called another man from a table in the corner of the hut. “Do you want in? We could handle another player.”

“Sure. Give me a minute.” Mario dumped his knapsack on his bed and joined the card players. “All right, Matteo. Prepare to lose your britches. Carella is here.”

Angelo sat on his bunk. He was only too happy to have his friend distracted. At some point he'd have to tell him about Jasper Cartwright's death, but right now he didn't feel like answering any more probing questions. He'd hardly sorted out in his own mind what had happened.

Swiftly, taking his chance while the others were preoccupied, he lifted the corner of the mattress and slipped the piece of silk underneath.

T
YLER WAS AWAKENED BY THE SOUND OF THE TELEPHONE
ringing. He waited for a few moments, expecting his sergeant to answer it.
Damn
. He remembered Rowell was off duty and had left with high hopes that he would not spend the night in his own bed.

The room was dark and he had no idea what time it was, but according to his body it had to be early. He swung his legs stiffly out of bed, stuffed his feet into his slippers, and, dragging on his dressing gown, he shuffled downstairs to the hall. The caller was not discouraged and the telephone kept on ringing. He picked up the receiver.

‘Tyler here.”

“Tom? It's Murnaghan. Sounds like you just got out of bed.”

“I did. What time is it?”

A pause while Murnaghan checked his clock or watch or whatever other timepiece he had chosen to ignore.

“Sorry, Tom. I lost track. It's five to six.”

“Right.”

“Thought you'd like to know preliminary results sooner rather than later.”

The hall was freezing and Tyler wasn't sure his brain was capable of functioning at that temperature and that hour. However, what the coroner said next woke him up.

“You need to get over here as soon as you can, Tom. There's something you've got to take a look at.”

Tyler had heard Murnaghan utter words like this before, and they didn't bode well for a simple case of death by misadventure.

“Can you give me a hint?”

“Better not. Don't always trust the blower. How soon can you get to Whitchurch?”

“An hour?”

“Good. Come as fast as you can.”

“Will do.”

What the hell had Murnaghan found? But Tyler knew the coroner wouldn't be persuaded to talk, even if Winston Churchill was asking. He had to do it his way. Tyler said goodbye and rang off.

Susan Cartwright was on her hands and knees trying to peer underneath her father-in-law's bed. There were the predictable dustballs, which he'd never allow her to clean away, a dirty handkerchief, and a couple of crumpled sheets of newspaper.

Where would he have put it?

She got to her feet and looked around. The room was desperately untidy, with discarded papers and clothes on the floor, used dishes on the chairs. It made her insides churn. She wasn't going to find anything until they cleared it all out.

The door banged downstairs.

“Susan. Susan? Where are you?” John called.

“Coming,” she called back, closing the door quietly behind her.

“What were you doing?” John asked when he saw her on the landing.

“I thought I'd have a look-see in case he really did find treasure.”

“For goodness sake, Susan, you know how he was. You've harped on it often enough. He lived in a fantasy world half the time.”

“No harm in looking.”

John glared up at her, his face furious. “You can't give him any peace even in death, can you?”

Susan flinched as if he had struck her, which he might just as well have.

“Please, John. He tried to destroy us while he was alive. God forbid he should succeed now he's dead.”

Tyler was heading back upstairs to get dressed when Sergeant Rowell came in. Tyler could hear him whistling as he unlocked the door. Obviously his night had been satisfactory. Lucky man.

He filled him in about the phone call.

“My goodness, is there something suspicious about the old man's death?”

“Knowing Dr. Murnaghan and the thorough way he works, I'm guessing there probably is. He's saving the details until I get there. He doesn't like talking over the phone.”

“Shall I make you a quick cuppa and some toast for the road, sir?”

“Much appreciated, Oliver.”

“It's chilly in here,” said the sergeant. “I should have come over a bit sooner to build up the fire.”

“That's all right. I assume the reason you didn't spend the night here was because you resolved your dilemma?”

Rowell actually blushed. “Yes, sir. You might say that. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. I was teasing. It was your time off.”

Rowell gave what could only be called an ear-splitting grin. “You were absolutely right. I brought the matter up with Dorothy, about how I felt I might be betraying Evelyn. She was most understanding and said she was happy to wait until
I was ready. Funny thing was, as soon as she said that, I found I
was
ready. More than ready.”

The sergeant looked as if he was prepared to go into detail but Tyler cut him off.

“I've got to get over to Whitchurch right away. Is the Austin back from the garage? I'll drive myself.”

“Yes. Just ease into the clutch as much as you can, sir. The mechanic says it's a bit precarious.”

Tyler turned to go and Rowell called after him. “What are you going to do about seeing the chief constable, sir?”

“I don't know yet. I'll talk to Dr. Murnaghan first. Do me a favour and check on train times to Shrewsbury, will you? See what's still running.”

“You could claim taking the car as official business, sir.”

“I don't mind going on the train. Besides, it might be more reliable than the car.”

Tyler gulped down his tea and toast and headed out the door. Rowell actually stood on the threshold to see him off.

Tyler made the now-familiar trip from Ludlow to Whitchurch in good time. Yesterday's pelting rain had let up, although the sky was grey and lowering. There were no other vehicles on the road. It was getting hard for people to justify unauthorized journeys. Unless they were Sir Edward Spence. Tyler gritted his teeth. He'd bide his time on that one, but he didn't intend to let it drop entirely.

He parked in the hospital car park, declutching carefully. He gave the car a little pat on the dashboard. “Don't let me down, old girl. Think of it as contributing to the war effort.”

Tyler headed straight to the basement, where the morgue was. It was too early for the coroner's receptionist to have arrived and the entrance was deserted.

He found Dr. Murnaghan sitting on a chair in the dimly lit room, reading the
Ludlow Ledger
. It was so cold and damp that Tyler could actually see his own breath. Even Queen Victoria, who watched over things from her framed portrait, looked chilled.

The coroner got to his feet. “Ah. Good. I was hoping you'd get here fast. Nothing to do but read depressing news.”

“I thought things were looking up for us in North Africa,” said Tyler as they shook hands.

“I meant the references to Christmas coming. Always makes me blue.”

Feeling much the same way, Tyler rather hoped the coroner would elaborate, but he didn't.

Murnaghan's hand was warm.
He must have good circulation
, thought Tyler. But he was also well dressed for the temperature in his Harris tweed suit and a colourful Fair Isle jersey. Add his lively knitted tie and he might have been at a village fete. The concession to his work was the necessary leather apron.

“Tom, I'm afraid there's more to this business than first met the eye. Come take a look.”

He walked over to the gurney where Jasper's body was lying.

“He's still a bit stiff but I was able to do some prelims. First, lividity is all on the anterior side of the body. We can say with certainty that he wasn't moved from where he fell. He died where he was found, or very shortly beforehand.”

He pulled back the sheet covering the body.

“It wasn't obvious at first, but when I stripped him I saw this. Look.” Murnaghan indicated a dark bruise on Jasper's rib cage. There was a trickle of dried blood below it.

Tyler leaned in closer. “Good heavens, that looks like a stab wound.”

“It is. You can hardly see the point of entry because it's only about half an inch wide, but there's no doubt.”

“The weapon?”

“A knife for sure. It didn't penetrate very far. His waterproof probably prevented the blade from going deeper. There's a tear in the front of the coat that I didn't see at first.”

“Neither of us noticed any blood in the vicinity of the body. I certainly didn't.”

Tyler was chagrined that he'd been so unobservant. He was forever going on about the ever-suspicious mind of the copper, but he'd been lulled into complacency in this case. Given the circumstances, he'd simply assumed the old man had succumbed to the cold and the rain and died from exposure.

“It was hard to see much of anything in that Stygian gloom,” said Murnaghan. “Besides, there wouldn't have been much blood loss, Tom. As I say, the blade didn't penetrate more than three-quarters of an inch, and it missed any vital organs.”

“So it was not the cause of death, then?”

“Hold on. Don't rush me.”

“Sorry.”

“Given what I've determined so far, I'd say we're faced with two possibilities. One is that the old man was stabbed somewhere outside, got himself to the bunker, went down the ladder, fell to the ground, and lost consciousness.”

“So it's medically possible for him to have got there under his own steam? Even with a stab wound?”

“Yes indeed. The tragic thing is that with prompt treatment he most likely would have lived. As I say, there was no significant blood loss. But he was already soaked to the skin and it was freezing in there. Technically, he died from exposure. It wouldn't have taken that long for hypothermia to set in. He might have lasted as little as half an hour.”

“Would he have been conscious? Conscious enough to call for help, I mean?”

“Impossible to tell. But I'm placing time of death in the early hours of the morning. Hardly anybody likely to be around at
that time. Who knows when his body would have been found if it hadn't been for our Boy Scouts. Of course, the ‘own steam' scenario supposes Jasper had a prior knowledge of the hideout.” He cocked an eyebrow at Tyler. “From what you told me previously about the Auxiliaries, he doesn't seem a likely candidate for recruitment.”

Tyler nodded. “Bit too old. But I'm going into Shrewsbury as soon as possible to talk to the chief constable about who was on the Auxiliary lists.”

“I suppose somebody else could have shown Jasper where the place was.”

“The location is supposed to be top secret. But then you never know. Somebody could have told him.” He looked at the coroner. “You said two possibilities, what's your other one?”

“Ah, yes. The second scenario is that he was stabbed near the hideout and then his attacker carried him there and dumped him down the ladder.”

“And?”

“Given all the circumstances, I would say this scenario is the more likely. His position supports the conclusion that he was dropped.” Murnaghan lifted up the rigid arm. “There is this, though. Take a look.”

There was purple discoloration across the knuckles on Jasper's right hand.

“So he was in a fight? Defending himself, do you think?”

“Impossible to tell. His fist connected with something hard, that's for sure.”

Tyler indicated Jasper's hand again. “Somebody would likely have bruises.”

Murnaghan nodded. “If it was a fight he was in, I'd say so. But he might have hit anything solid. I can only verify the details of the stabbing wound. The assailant was right-handed, about the same height as Jasper, five-foot-ten. The entry wound was
vertical, no evidence that the blow came from above or below. They were facing each other.”

The coroner thrust his arm forward to demonstrate a strike.

“Are there any other marks on the body?” Tyler asked.

“Just a few bruises. He's got some fresh scrapes on his knees, which suggests he tripped. And,” Murnaghan pointed, “he's got this long scar across his chest, but it's old. He suffered a serious injury when he was younger.”

Tyler peered at the pale, scrawny body. The scar was deep and puckered and ran from his upper ribs on the left to his lower ribs on the right. A long slash, by the look of it.

“Apparently he was in the Boer War. That could be a sabre wound.”

“Yes, it could be. It has been surgically stitched.”

“When I first saw him, his mackintosh was unbuttoned to the waist,” said Tyler. “Any theories as to why that was?”

Murnaghan actually chuckled. “I call it the Lear syndrome. As in
King Lear
. You don't commonly see it, but it is a syndrome of exposure. The victim actually experiences a feeling of intense heat as the blood vessels open in a last desperate attempt to live. Although it's the worst possible thing to do, victims will sometimes take off layers of clothing as they try to cool down.”

“Why do you refer to it as the Lear syndrome?”

“Remember poor old Lear, wandering around the moor out of his mind? He's suffering from hypothermia. And when he finds his daughter is dead, he cries, ‘Unbutton me here.' Critics have explained that as a tender moment but I say it was because he was feeling overheated. Amazing, isn't it, that William Shakespeare knew that?”

“I'll say. He knew a lot of things, that bloke.” Tyler bent over Jasper's body. “Anything more you can tell me about the knife that was used?”

“Not a lot, except it was narrow, probably sharp on both sides.”

“Domestic knife? Working knife?”

“I can't tell, Tom. Maybe we're dealing with another of those bloody commando knives we saw in your last case. It fits the bill in that respect. Either the coat slowed down the blow or the assailant was faint of heart. Maybe both.” Murnaghan walked over to a tray on the counter. “When I checked the pockets of his mackintosh, I found this.”

He held out his hand for Tyler to see. In the centre of a handkerchief was a thin coin of some kind, tarnished and slightly irregularly shaped around the edges.

“Looks old.”