Dead Ground in Between (22 page)

Tyler put his head down into the wind and walked back to the Cartwright farm as fast as he could. Sleet was thickening. Biggs was coming through the garden gate as he approached. He was so excited he had a little bubble of spittle at the corner of his mouth.

“I was just coming to get you, sir. I've made a discovery.”

“Can it wait until we get inside? I'm freezing.”

“Sorry, sir. I thought it better to tell you in private.”

“Go on, then. Let's at least step out of the wind.”

They moved closer to the house and the protection of the eaves. There was a droplet of moisture at the end of the constable's nose and he wiped it away with his hand.

“Right. Out with it, lad,” said Tyler. “You've got fingerprints, I presume?”

“Yes, sir. I took the prints of the
POW
as directed.”

Biggs had to take a deep breath.

Tyler waited. “And?”

“He has a tiny scar on his thumb. And lo and behold there was an intact thumbprint on the metal box. Exact same scar.”

“Any others?”

“Not as clear, and there's lots of overlapping, but they all look identical so I assume they belong to Mr. Cartwright senior.”

“What about the ladder in the bunker?”

“Couldn't get anything good at all. We had the coroner and his crew and the boy going up and down so there was mud and dirt on the rungs. People were probably wearing gloves as well.”

“Mr. Cartwright wasn't. But you didn't see anything that could be his? Anything that matched the prints on the metal box?”

“No, sir. Nothing at all.”

“And the rest of the hideout?”

“Nothing, I'm afraid, sir. The surfaces were intractable.”

“Intractable, were they? All right. Let's go inside. I'll need to talk to Iaquinta again.”

The sitting room felt crammed. Angelo was on the couch, Tyler seated in front of him. Mortimer was standing next to the chair, Biggs was inside the door, Mady outside.

Tyler leaned forward.

“Private Iaquinta, you haven't been telling the truth, have you?”

“Sir? I know not what you meant.”

Tyler pointed to the metal case that Biggs had placed on a cleared table. “This belonged to Mr. Jasper Cartwright. You said you didn't know it was in the barn and that you hadn't touched it.”

“That is correct.”

“Can you explain why we have found your fingerprints on the lid?”

Angelo drew in a deep breath. “There must be a mistake.”

“May I have a look at your right hand?”

Reluctantly, the Italian held out his hand.

“You have a scar on the tip of your thumb.”

Angelo stared at his own hand in a poor imitation of surprise, as if the small, jagged scar had suddenly appeared.

“Ah, yes. I received it when I went fishing one day with my
padre
. The hook got caught there when the fish jumped.”

“It must have been a deep cut.”

“Yes, it was. Two stitches of necessity.”

“I can show you the fingerprint impression my constable took from the case. The scar is quite obvious. It's your fingerprint. How did it get there?”

“I have no explanation, Inspector. Surely I am not the only man in the world who has scars?”

“You are the only person on this farm who might have handled Mr. Cartwright's case who has such a scar on his right thumb.”

“That is all I can say.”

“All right. I'll have to take you back to the camp and we'll continue this investigation in front of the commandant.”

“Am I being charged?”

“Not at the moment, but you are part of the ongoing investigation. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“Yes, I do.”

Tyler turned to his constable. “Biggs, stand by while Private Iaquinta puts on his outdoor things and then escort him to the car. You will sit in the back with him.”

Young Biggs looked decidedly queasy for a minute, and Tyler realized the poor bloke had probably never had to be in such close contact with a suspect in a violent crime case.

Tyler nodded at Mortimer. “Constable, you will assist Constable Biggs as necessary.”

“Yes, sir.”

Angelo shifted. “Would it be possible to say goodbye to the members of the family, Inspector?”

“'Fraid not.” Tyler ignored the expression of distress on the Italian's face.

“Constable Mortimer, I'd like you to move the car out of sight onto the road and wait there.”

Tyler didn't quite spell out to himself what he wanted to avoid, but he knew it was seeing a pretty young woman demonstrate that her heart was broken.

Tyler went to tell the Cartwrights he was returning to Ludlow. Susan was dealing with something at the sink. Edie was setting the table, where John and Ned were sitting.

“Excuse me, folks. Just wanted to let you know I'm going back to Ludlow. I'll drop off Angelo Iaquinta at the camp on the way.”

“Any developments?” Ned asked.

“We have located the metal box that belonged to Jasper. It was in the barn. It was underneath some sacking on one of the shelves.”

Ned frowned. “You're telling us the Itie stole it?”

“He didn't say that,” protested Edie. “That's an unwarranted assumption.”

“Is it? Inspector, did the Itie steal Jasper's treasure box?” John asked.

“We don't know yet.”

“If he did, what's to say he didn't stab him into the bargain?” Ned winked.

“Don't say that,” Edie cried.

Susan went to her husband and put her hands on his shoulders. “Don't fret, John. The inspector will get to the truth.”

Tyler wished he had as much confidence as she was expressing. At the moment, he didn't really have a clue as to what had happened.

“By the way, Mr. Cartwright, Mrs. Cartwright, I'd appreciate it if you could give me a list of what you think was in the box. I'll ring you as soon as I know anything further.”

The last thing he saw as he closed the door behind him was the pale, stricken face of Edie Walpole.

Tyler sent Constable Mady back to Ludlow, riding one bicycle, wheeling the other. He himself joined the others in the car, and, after a couple of coughs, Annabel started up.

Nobody spoke for the entire trip into Ludlow. Angelo sat ramrod straight, his eyes closed. Tyler could only guess what was going through his mind. It was hard to believe he was capable of stabbing an old, unarmed man, but who knew, maybe he'd done it in the heat of the moment. Wouldn't be the first time a crime had been committed in that way. But there was still the thorny question of how Jasper had ended up in the hideout, a place known to so few.

As Mortimer turned into the camp a soldier stepped out of his sentry hut and came over to the car. Tyler showed his identity card.

“I'm bringing Private Iaquinta back from the Cartwright farm.”

The soldier peered into the car. “Hello, Angelo. How come you're getting a lift from the police? Not in trouble, I hope.”

Angelo shrugged. “Better ask the inspector, not me.”

Tyler ignored the curiosity in the sentry's face. “Where will I find the commandant?”

“Keep right for about one hundred yards. He's in the hut at the end of the road.”

He lifted the barrier and they drove on through.

“Charlie is a nice chap,” said Angelo. “All the guards are good fellows.”

The grounds were utterly deserted, with only a couple of soldiers parading the area. They looked wet and cold.

“I'll just check in with Captain Beattie,” Tyler said to Mortimer. “I'll be quick as I can. You can wait in the car.”

He got out, and another sentry stepped forward who was guarding the hut.

“Inspector Tyler to see Captain Beattie.”

“Righty-o,” said the guard in a cheery voice. “I'll see what he's up to.”

Was it something in the drinking water that was making these soldiers so very pleasant? Tyler wondered. Not that he wanted them to be officious and surly, but the two he'd met so far seemed to be going out of their way to appear un-military. Did this mean they were too lax? It could happen to anybody whose only job was to keep an eye out for trouble that nobody was in the slightest bit interested in creating. He felt he might well be in a stage play instead of a brutal war. And the story was a modern version of
Romeo and Juliet
. Or maybe it was
King Lear
? What was his role, then?
Come on, Shakespeare, don't let me down. Give me some words of wisdom to hold on to
. But before he could commune with the Bard, the guard reappeared.

“Captain can see you, sir. Come right in.”

Tyler entered not Prospero's lair but a warm hut, furnished in an unexpectedly cozy way. He glimpsed cushions on chairs, a wool rug on the floor. There was a smell of fresh coffee in the air. Captain Beattie had made himself at home. The man himself was behind a long table that was unencumbered by papers or files. He stood, hand outstretched to Tyler.

“Good afternoon, Inspector. I'm Jim Beattie. Can I offer you a cup of coffee? Just made a pot. It's courtesy of a Canadian aunt. Bit strong for British tastes, perhaps, but I've acquired a liking for it.”

“Thank you, not for me.”

“Tea? Won't take a minute.”

“Thanks, but no. I've got my constables waiting in the car…we brought the
POW
in with us.”

“Ah, yes. Young Iaquinta.”

“I should tell you, Captain, that matters seem a little more serious than when we first spoke. We've found an exact match of his thumbprint on a metal case that belonged to the deceased man.”

“Prisoners aren't supposed to handle any of the farmers' personal items. Hard to avoid sometimes, I suppose. What does he say about it?”

“He denies any knowledge of the case.”

“Where was it, exactly?”

“Underneath some sacking on a shelf in the barn where Iaquinta spent the night.”

“Was it deliberately hidden?”

“Possibly.”

Beattie poured himself a cup of coffee from a carafe on a hot plate by his desk.

“Question is, then, how did his fingerprint get on there? There's no doubt it is his, I suppose?”

“None. I can show you the cards. He has a scar on his thumb that is quite distinctive.”

“So he must have handled the case at one time or another.”

“Which he emphatically denies. However, he has admitted that Mr. Cartwright did come into the barn in the early hours of the morning. I have reason to believe he was likely carrying the case at that time.”

“Oh, lord. That doesn't look too good, does it?”

“Iaquinta claims Cartwright just turned around and went right out again. He can offer no explanation for the presence of the case on the shelf.”

The captain took a sip of his coffee. “Hmm, good.”

Tyler understood him to mean the drink and didn't respond.

“I would like to conduct a search of the prisoner's quarters, if that's all right with you, sir.”

“I don't know that you'll find much. The boys get inspected every two or three days. No place to hide anything. They're allowed a locker but that has to be opened for inspection as well. What would you be looking for?”

“Can't say as I know exactly. We haven't found the weapon yet. The coroner believes it was a short double-edged knife.”

“Oh no, no weapons allowed in the camp. We are strict about that. Some of the men like to do wood carving, especially now that Christmas is coming up – and very good they are, I must say – but they have to do it in a special workshop, and all tools must be accounted for. No, Angelo couldn't have concealed a knife, I guarantee that. And that description doesn't fit the regular cutlery, which is also counted after every meal.”

Tyler thought the captain was being ridiculously trusting, but maybe it was he who had become too cynical. In his experience, prisoners of any kind could create whatever they wanted to if they were ingenious enough.

Beattie put down his coffee cup. “I'll come with you to the hut. Most of them are inside today because of the bad weather.” He smiled. “They're probably all having a singsong. They like to sing do our
POWS
. Opera, mostly. It's in their blood I suppose.”

Beattie instructed a sentry to escort them to the hut. Tyler told Biggs and Mortimer to remain in the car, and he walked beside Angelo and Beattie across the compound. He didn't know if the captain was right about music and heredity but he was right about the
POWS
having a singsong. When the sentry opened the door, a blast of sound hit them. Not operatic though. Very much British. “It's a Long Way
to Tipperary” – the naughty version, which was creating a lot of laughter.

The men stopped in mid-note at the sight of their compatriot with the commandant and a stranger.

“Attention!” yelled the sentry, in best sergeant major manner. More quickly than Tyler would have expected, the
POWS
scrambled to get to the foot of each bed and stand straight.

“At ease,” said Beattie.

They obeyed.

“Gentlemen, this is Inspector Tyler from the Shropshire constabulary. He is here to make a search of Private Angelo Iaquinta's bed and locker. I will ask you not to interfere with this search, or to comment on what he is doing. I ask you especially not to comment in your own language.” He gave a disarming smile. “You know our grasp of Italian isn't the greatest. I assure you Private Iaquinta's rights will be protected at all times. This is not a military matter but one that concerns the local police. Those of you who can translate must wait until we are finished here. I shall make a full report to you at the evening meal.” He turned to Tyler. “Go ahead, Inspector. Angelo has the bottom bunk.”

There was a small locker beside the bunk bed and Tyler opened it. The only thing inside was a dog-eared Italian-English dictionary. He riffled through the pages but there was nothing there. He turned his attention to the bunk.