The Rest is Silence (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery) (16 page)

“Okay,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t regret it. Or fail. “I’ll look into it and let you know if I come up with anything.”

“Thank you, Captain Boyle. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I feel better already knowing you’ve taken it on.” He smiled and clasped my arm for a moment, and then we turned around to walk back to the house.

“What do you think?” I asked. “Is he your son?”

“Look at Peter and Helen next time they are next to each other,” he said. “And tell me if you don’t see the resemblance.” I wondered if Helen had noticed it; that would explain why she’d been so attentive to Peter. Meredith had also given him her full attention at dinner, but perhaps she was simply being kind to an unexpected guest.

“Aren’t you giving Peter a tour of the estate?” I asked. “Perhaps you could ask him what his mother told him about Ashcroft. Give him an opening without letting on what you suspect.”

“I will, but later,” Sir Rupert said. “I have some business to attend to with my solicitor in Dartmouth, and it can’t wait. Please give my apologies to Peter and tell him he can set up his paints anywhere he wishes.”

We parted as he went off to see his lawyer. The scent of lavender now felt cloying and thick as I puzzled over what to do next. I decided it was time for a visit to the kitchen.

It was at the rear of the house, at the end of a wing that abutted vegetable gardens and the greenhouse. It was a long, narrow room with high ceilings and tall windows, along with two large stoves and a wooden table scarred by years of chopping and hot pans.

“Good morning,” I said to the grey-haired woman leaning over the stove, stirring a pot. “You must be Mrs. Dudley. I’m Billy Boyle.”

“Good morning, Captain,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “Can I get you anything?” She was in her sixties perhaps, her shoulders stooped from years bent over stoves and dishes, and her body rounded out from the bounty of her kitchen. Her smile was genuine, but I could see she was busy, eager to politely get me out of her hair.

“No, thank you. I wanted to say how much I enjoyed your cooking, Mrs. Dudley. Dinner was great last night.”

“Oh, well, thank you, Captain. I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Mrs. Dudley said. “We had to stretch things at the last minute with Lieutenant Wiley coming, but that’s all in a day’s work.” She relaxed, willing to take the time to be complimented.

“Yes, quite a story, isn’t it? It’s great he had the chance to visit Ashcroft. Were you with Sir Rupert then, when Julia and Tom worked here?”

“Well, it would be more proper to say I was with the Pemberton family, Captain. I began as a very young girl in this very kitchen, as a scullery maid. Worked my way up to kitchen maid and then cook. It was a lively house back then, with footmen and the like. It’s much quieter now, of course.” Again, I got the message that Ashcroft was a Pemberton house, no matter who owned it now.

“But you knew Peter Wiley’s parents?”

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Dudley said. “I did.”

“Has Peter come to talk to you about them?”

“Not yet, no. Do you think he will? It was a good long time ago, I’m not sure I’d remember very much about either. Nice, both of them. Took us all by surprise when they left for America, but it seemed to work out well.”

“How do you know?” I asked. “You haven’t talked with Peter yet.”

“Oh, they’d send a card at Christmas, that sort of thing. Ted had a shop in New York, imagine that! Seems the three of them settled in quite nicely.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Sutcliffe must have been pleased to hear that,” I said helpfully.

“Oh, they never asked after Ted and Julia. And I doubt either of them would have written to their betters. It wouldn’t be done, leastways not back then.”

“I understand, Mrs. Dudley. In case Peter wants to hear about his parents and their time here, is there anyone local who knew them well?”

“No, not that I can think of,” Mrs. Dudley said. “Julia came from North Devon, and I don’t know about Ted.”

“ ’Course you do, Mrs. Dudley,” a young girl said, coming into the room with a bucket of coal for the stove. “My own dad was friends with Ted Wiley.”

“Yes, dear, I’d forgotten about your father. He and Ted did know each other, didn’t they?”

“Yes, Dad and Ted went to school together. They were mates. He’s got some stories I’m sure Peter would enjoy hearing,” Alice said.

“Where could Peter find your father?” I asked.

“He works at the mill, but he’ll have a pint in the evening at the pub in North Cornworthy. Just ask for Michael Withers. I could take Peter and introduce him, I’d be glad to,” Alice said happily. I could tell she’d caught a glimpse of Peter Wiley and found him attractive.

“That’s Lieutenant Wiley to you, girl,” Mrs. Dudley said, her lips set in a scowl. “And right now, we have work to do.”

As did I.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“L
ADY
P
EMBERTON, DO
you have a moment?” I asked, finding her in the sitting room, opening letters.

“Not as many as I used to, young man, but the next few are yours. Please, sit,” she said, gesturing to a nearby armchair.

“I was thinking it would be nice for Peter to speak with someone who knew his parents. Friends or relatives, I mean. Would you know of anyone?”

“Captain Boyle, although we are an informal household, that does not mean I make it a practice to socialize with staff. It simply isn’t done, not in England. Is it commonplace wherever you come from?”

“That would be Boston, ma’am, and I guess not.”

“Ah, Boston. And there I thought you had a speech impediment. Irish?”

“I am,” I said, trying to contain my anger and stifle a laugh at the same time. “My people are more likely to be working stiffs, and I don’t recall the folks on Beacon Hill ever inviting us over.”

“Beacon Hill? Is that one of the better neighborhoods?”

“They have more money, to be sure. I come from South Boston, and we like it fine there.”

“I suppose that is one of the great differences between Americans and the English,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “It’s all about money over there, isn’t it?”

“Lady Pemberton, it’s all about money everywhere. It’s simply a matter of how honest you are about it,” I said.

“Point taken,” she said, with the hint of a smile. “Although our currency includes titles, breeding, and property handed down over centuries. Still, you are right. The things we value are what we measure ourselves against.”

“Ted and Julia must have wanted something different,” I said. “Otherwise why go all the way to America?” I watched her, waiting for a split second of hesitation, or for her eyes to flit about the room in search of the right lie to tell me. But there was neither. Instead, she was on me like a hawk sighting a mouse in an open field.

“Indeed. I’ve often wondered that myself, Captain. I do see the appeal of your supposedly classless society: the chance for any immigrant to work his way up, without regard to the kinds of status we hold so dear.”

“All they did was open a hardware shop,” I said. “Hardly defying society.”

“Yes, but you will find very few sons of servants attending university here,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “Your egalitarian way in America may be for the best, I must admit. Otherwise the educated class tends to become inbred, if only in its thinking. But why must progress come at the cost of decorum?”

“How do you mean?”

“When I see Americans in Dartmouth or elsewhere, they are invariably loud. They walk about with their hands stuffed in their pockets and lean against public buildings, making all sorts of rude comments and chewing gum with their mouths wide open. And why do Americans insist on pushing their caps back on their heads? I can’t imagine none of you were ever taught how to wear a hat properly. Were you?”

“I was a policeman in Boston. My father would read me the riot act if he ever saw me with my eight pointer at an angle,” I said.

“Good,” she said. “I noticed that you were properly turned out when we first met. Shows you were well brought up—at least as well as can be expected in America.”

“Thank you. As for the rest, I think it’s because most Americans don’t like being in the army, and they’ll be as informal as they can get away with to prove they’re still civilians at heart,” I said, then attempted to return to the conversation I’d started. “Were you here when Julia and Ted worked at Ashcroft?”

“Yes, I was. After my husband died, Louise’s father—the Viscount Pemberton—invited me to come and live here. He and his brother were close, as was the entire family. He wrote me into his will. Whoever gets Ashcroft gets me with it,” she said, and covered her laughter with a wrinkled but dainty hand. “I’m sure Rupert has cursed the man on occasion.”

“Did Sir Rupert inherit it?” I asked.

“Not from the Viscount, no,” she said. “It went to Louise, as the last surviving Pemberton child. When she died in India, Ashcroft went to Sir Rupert. Ashcroft and myself, I should say.”

“Excuse me, madam, sir,” Williams said from the doorway. “There is an American officer here to see you, Captain.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll be right there. Lady Pemberton, thank you for your time.”

“Not at all, Captain Boyle. I am glad to help.”

As I left the sitting room, I realized that she’d been of no help at all.

“There you are, Boyle,” Colonel Samuel Harding snapped at me from the foyer as Williams shuffled off to buttle somewhere else. “That’s the first time I’ve had a butler announce me to a junior officer.” Kaz was standing next to him with a big smirk on his face.

“Sorry, Colonel,” I said. “I was in the middle of being bamboozled by an old lady.”

“Lieutenant Kazimierz was filling me in on your stay. Not too shabby, Boyle,” Harding said, surveying the walnut paneling hung with oil paintings, the gleaming polished floors, and the high staircase. Harding was trim and fit, a West Pointer who’d served in the last war and stayed on for another go at the Germans. Not one of the gum-chewing rowdy Yanks. Lady Pemberton would approve. His close-cropped hair was flecked with grey at the temples, his face was
pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes. The look of a D-Day planner.

“They invited us to stay as long as we wanted,” I said, a bit on the defensive.

“That’s good,” Harding said. “With maneuvers coming up, every hotel and inn within miles is jammed with top brass. Generals and admirals are a dime a dozen up and down the coast. How are you feeling, Boyle?”

“A bit sore, but healing up,” I said.

“Colonel Harding?” We turned to see Peter headed for the door, carrying his painting gear.

“Lieutenant Wiley, isn’t it?” Harding said. “I see they finally let you out to do some painting.”

“You know each other?” I said, surprised that this map-making lieutenant would know an SHAEF colonel.

“Obviously,” Harding said. “Don’t let me keep you, Lieutenant. The sun is shining.” He stepped aside, and Wiley made for the great outdoors.

“How do you know Peter?” I asked.

“By being involved in top-secret business,” Harding said, closing off that line of discussion. “I’ve come from another briefing in Dartmouth. They’re trying the live-fire exercise again tomorrow at Slapton Sands, to make sure they’ve got things worked out.”

“Don’t tell me we’re going back there,” I said. “Sir.”

“Today, not tomorrow, Boyle. Inspector Grange said he’d had reports of civilians in the area. He sent several teams out to search early this morning. They didn’t find anyone, but we need to lend a hand. Take your Constable Quick and patrol the area this afternoon. Any civilians you find, take them into custody.”

“Will do, Colonel,” I said, happy for a daylight ride in the country rather than an early-morning bombardment.

“Good. I’ll be at Greenway House, outside of Torquay by eighteen hundred hours. Report to me there. Lieutenant Wiley can give you directions.”

As Harding drove off, we strolled over to where Peter had set up
his easel. He had a view of the house and grounds, sunlight dancing off the windows and giving the old oak trees a warm, green glow.

“So you work with Colonel Harding?” I said as nonchalantly as I could while Peter laid out his paints. I hoped for some indication as to what they were involved in, being snoopy on general principles.

“He’d have to tell you about that, Billy. I’m only a lowly lieutenant who’s been told to keep his mouth shut. Sorry.”

“Don’t mind Billy,” Kaz said, studying the contents of his paint box. “He can’t help asking questions that don’t concern him. You use watercolors?”

“It’s what the navy gave me to work with, and I do like the effect. Say, can I ask a favor?”

“Shoot,” I said.

“I want to go on one of the exercises, and go ashore on one of the landing craft. The navy won’t let me, but I thought if you asked Colonel Harding, he could make it happen.”

“Why didn’t you ask him when he was here?” Kaz said.

“To be honest, he makes me nervous. I chickened out,” Peter said, smiling in embarrassment.

“Hey, I know the feeling,” I said. “It can’t hurt to ask. We have to meet him at Greenway House tonight. I’ll let you know. You’ll still be here?”

“Yeah, I’ll be here. Thanks, Billy,” Peter said.

“One question,” I said. “Why? Why do you want to ride the waves in a flat-bottomed landing craft along with a bunch of seasick GIs?”

“Perspective,” Peter said, mixing water into his deep blue paint. “It’s all a matter of perspective.”

He wouldn’t say anything else, or even look at us. With deft strokes he began to paint the blue sky over Ashcroft, working in silence, indifferent to our presence, and to the dark clouds rolling in from the north.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

W
E HAD A
passenger on our drive into Dartmouth. Crawford—Roger Crawford, I ought to say, although he was one of those guys who seemed to have been born with only a last name—who was going to take his small fishing boat out for plaice, which was British for “flounder.”

“The plaice come into the shallows to rest for the night,” he said from the backseat, one hand steadying his bicycle. “The tides are perfect today. They’ll bring me out and carry me back, like catching the train.”