The Rest is Silence (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery) (20 page)

“Billy, this is quite interesting,” he said. “I never knew how much Old English was retained in the West Country dialects. They still use
thee
in everyday speech. Fascinating.”

“Ooh arr, we do,” Withers said. “But only wi’ each other. The rest of the land thinks we’re country rustics enough. So tell me now, what can I do for you?”

“Alice told me you knew Ted Wiley pretty well. Grew up with him,” I said. “His son, Peter, is stationed nearby and came to visit Ashcroft. I thought he might want to chat with someone who knew his father.” Peter had decided on an early night, and I’d told him I’d fill him in on anyone who knew his father. Ted Wiley, that is.

“Ted and I were chums, true enough. It’s been a long time since I
thought of him. But you know how it is, you grow and go your separate ways. I didn’t have much to do with Ted after he went to work up at the house.”

“Alice said you talked about him often,” I said.

“Sure, stories about youthful adventures,” Withers said. “Raiding the orchard for apples, fishing and swimming in the river, that sort of thing. It was a simple time back then: chores, school, and playing outdoors. A good time to be a child. But then the war came, and we both signed up when we became of age in 1917.” He took a long drink and set down his glass nearly empty. “Ted and I were the lucky ones. We came home, and in one piece.”

“You were changed,” I said.

“ ’Course we were,” Withers said. “Ted and I met here now and then, but we’d become men, see? Light-hearted boys no more after more than a year in the trenches. I think it was hard for us to stay pals after the war. Maybe we reminded each other of how much we’d lost, even though we’d survived.”

It was time for another drink. I nodded to Kaz and he made the trip to the bar.

“Had Ted always been sweet on Julia Greenshaw?” I asked.

“Yes,” Withers said. “From the moment he laid eyes on her. Finally got up the nerve to ask for her hand when she said she was leaving for America. Everyone wondered why he hadn’t done it sooner.”

“Is she why he went to work at Ashcroft?”

“Well, I think he would have anyway,” Withers said. “Ted was the kind of man who wanted to better himself. Had no interest in village life. Now me, I think this is grand. Work close by, a good wife and three kids, and a warm pub to pass the time in. What else could a man want?”

“What did Ted want?” I asked as Kaz returned with our drinks.

“To make something of himself, he’d say.” Withers stopped to take a healthy swallow and smacked his lips as he set down the glass. “What that was, I never could pin down. Respect, I think it came down to. Ted was a smart one, even when we was kids. If he saw something he wanted, he grabbed it. Could usually talk his way out of trouble, too. Fitty, he was. Clever.”

“His son’s an artist,” I said. “Paints watercolors.”

“He must have got that from his mum,” Withers said. “Ted couldn’t draw, and his penmanship was worse. I could barely make out the one card he sent from America.”

“Maybe I’ll bring Peter by in a day or so,” I said. “I’m sure he’d want to meet you.”

“Do that,” Withers said. “I’ll tell him a few tall tales. Be a pleasure to meet the boy.”

“What about Roger Crawford?” I asked. “Did he know Ted?”

“No,” Withers said. “Crawford came here from the South Hams after Ted left. Poor bugger.”

“I heard stories about him bringing things in from France,” I said.

“Stories, eh? I thought you came here to help Ted’s boy, not to ask questions about hardworking fishermen.” His eyes narrowed, and I saw Evan turn in his chair, watching us.

“Sorry, no harm meant,” I said. “It was only something I heard today.”

“Gossip is for old ladies,” Withers said. “Now I’ll bid you goodnight.” He rose and went to sit at Evan’s table, where they were soon huddled together, heads close and voices low.

“One question too many, Billy,” Kaz said, raising his glass in salute. “Here is to knowing when to stop.”

“Better than one too few, Kaz.” We finished our drinks and gave up on waiting for Tom Quick. He was probably busy helping the local constable with paperwork and arrangements for the body. We walked past Withers, and I nodded as our eyes met. He looked away, but Evan’s whisper was loud enough for me to make out his words without understanding them.

“I tell thee, appen the janner will find the shord as well,” Evan said, and laughed coarsely as Withers hushed him.

“I have no idea what he meant,” Kaz said as we got into the jeep. “We’ll need to find a translator. Perhaps David will know. He’d be interested in local dialects.”

“Sure,” I said. Appen the janner will find the shord. “Or maybe we had one too many.”

I
T WAS LATE
enough that we went around to the back door at Ashcroft, unsure who might still be up and which doors were locked. The blackout curtains were all drawn, and not a sliver of light escaped the house. The kitchen door opened, and we found Mrs. Dudley and Williams seated at the table, both in their dressing gowns, a bottle of wine and three glasses between them.

“Thank you for coming in this way,” Williams said as he slowly rose to his feet. “Less noise to disturb the family.”

“Please sit,” Kaz said. “We do not wish to disturb you. It has been a difficult night.”

“Indeed,” Williams said, twirling his wineglass.

“A sad thing,” Mrs. Dudley said. “Sir Rupert was such a kind man.”

“We talked with Michael Withers tonight,” I said. “I’d like to thank Alice for suggesting we meet. Is she still up?”

“No, she went to bed a while ago,” Mrs. Dudley said. “Is there anything I can get for you gentlemen?”

“No, thank you,” Kaz said. “Are any of the family about?”

“I heard footsteps a few minutes ago, but no one has rung for assistance,” Williams said. “I assume someone wished for a nightcap in solitude.”

“Enjoy yours,” I said, and we wished them goodnight.

“Did you find that odd?” Kaz asked in a whisper after we left the room.

“The two of them having a drink? No, why should I?”

“Because it was a 1934 Chateau Mouton Rothschild,” Kaz said. “Not a vintage for the downstairs staff, even in a house such as Ashcroft. And certainly not a bottle to be shared with a young kitchen maid.”

“Maybe they were taking advantage of the situation,” I said. “Who’s to know?”

“As you have observed, the staff are loyal to the Pemberton family, who may now have come back into possession of Ashcroft. Whatever their married name, Helen and Meredith are Pembertons to the bone. I doubt Williams would pilfer a fine wine from the Pemberton cellars.”

“Then it would be interesting to know who the third drinker was,” I said, only out of a mild curiosity. If it didn’t help me figure out whether Peter Wiley was Sir Rupert’s son, I couldn’t get too excited about the help tippling a pricey wine. It may well have been their salute to Sir Rupert, after all.

We entered the main foyer, and as we headed to the staircase I noticed a faint glow coming from the library. It looked like candlelight, and I would have bet on Edgar raiding the brandy. But the low voices were women’s, hushed and insistent.

“What did you do?” That sounded like Helen. Worried, anxious.

“Nothing at all. How could you ever think such a thing?” Meredith. Appalled. Horrified.

“I know you, Meredith. And I know what I heard.”

“Helen, darling, you have suffered a great shock today. Grief is playing tricks on your mind.”

“What about you, for God’s sake?” Helen’s voice rose, then fell to a whisper. “You found him. Didn’t that shock you? Or did you hate him so much you felt nothing?”

“My shock came a long time ago, dear sister. But I did feel something when I found him. Relief. For both of us.”

“You’re horrible!” Helen said. From the silence, it was obvious that Meredith wasn’t horrible enough for Helen to leave.

“No, I’m honest, Helen. At least now I won’t have to be dependent upon Edgar to provide for me and the children. And David won’t have to worry about facing the world with half a face.”

“Meredith! What a terrible thing to say.”

“But it’s true, you idiot!” I could tell Meredith was working hard to keep her voice low. “
You
can’t bear to look at him, you, his own wife! How much confidence do you think
that
inspires?”

The next sound was sobbing. Kaz nudged me, and we walked up the carpeted staircase as quietly as we could.

“What do you think they were talking about?” Kaz asked me as we stopped at his door.

“Meredith was holding a letter when she came out of Sir Rupert’s study,” I said.

“But she said Helen must have been mistaken,” Kaz said. “That implies something other than Sir Rupert’s death, don’t you think?”

“Makes sense,” I said. “Maybe we should tell the doctor to check for poison.”

“Because of two distraught sisters having a private late-night talk?” Kaz said. “Helen could have been referring to a number of things. Perhaps Meredith stole something of Sir Rupert’s. It seems likely she has before.”

“Yeah, could be,” I said. “Plus, everything Meredith said is true. David stated much the same to me earlier.”

“The truth hurts. Especially when it has been twisted and hidden for so long. And what of your promise to Sir Rupert?” Kaz asked, his voice hushed. “It was obviously important to him. A son, even an illegitimate one, might have some right to a share of the inheritance.”

“I’ll poke around some more,” I said. “But there’s little chance of finding proof after all this time, and I have no idea what the English laws are about a bastard son inheriting, especially if he was never acknowledged.”

“Surely Sir Rupert would have acknowledged him if he had turned out to be his son. Why else would he have wanted to know?”

“There’s no proof of that, logical as it sounds,” I whispered. “I wish he’d never asked me about it, to tell you the truth. I almost wish we’d never come here, but the food and the accommodations are well worth it.” I smiled to show Kaz that I was joking. Half joking.

We heard footsteps and hushed ourselves, looking a bit foolish standing in the hallway saying nothing. It was Peter. He said he was wide-awake and going for a drink to bring to his room. He seemed jumpy, or excited, I couldn’t tell which. In truth, I didn’t care. We said goodnight.

In my room, I searched for something to read. The library downstairs was full of volumes on history, science, and all sorts of great literature. But the bedrooms each had a small bookshelf of the stuff regular people actually read all the way through. Mysteries and other popular novels. I grabbed an Agatha Christie.
Lord Edgware Dies
. What’s that they say about life imitating art?

I took off my shirt, noticing that one of the cuts on my arm had bled through the bandage. I’d have to see Alice in the morning about that. I changed the dressing and eased myself into bed, but I didn’t get far with Lord Edgware before I nodded off. During the night I thought I heard hushed voices and rushed footsteps in the hallway, or maybe it was part of my dream. Lord Edgware and Sir Rupert were being buried, but no one seemed sad at all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“T
HANK YOU
, A
LICE
,” I said, finding her in the kitchen. She’d done another spit and washsoap job on my shirt and gotten the recent bloodstains out. My arm had stopped bleeding too, so it was good news all around. “I met your father last night at the pub. Did he tell you?”

“No, I haven’t had a chance to talk to him, what with everything going on here. Was he a help?”

“Yes, he was. I’m sure Peter will enjoy speaking to him, even though he didn’t seem to stay close with Ted Wiley after the war,” I said.

“What, those two?” Alice said. “From the stories Dad told me, they were thick as thieves.”

“I must have misunderstood what he meant. Something about how they had different interests when they came home from the trenches.”

“Oh, I really wouldn’t know. I never met him,” Alice said, turning to the dishes piled in the sink. “But you tell Peter the next time you see him I’d be glad to take him around to meet Dad.”

“He’s not here?” I asked.

“No, he left early this morning, is what I heard,” she said as she began scrubbing away. I wondered why Peter had gone, what with one more day of leave, and a gorgeous day for painting at that. Maybe we’d get some answers when we took David to Greenway House today.

“I trust you are well, Captain Boyle,” Great Aunt Sylvia said as I
walked gingerly into the library, where the family was gathering for breakfast. “Have your injuries fully healed? I meant to ask yesterday.”

“I’m fine, Lady Pemberton. Thank you.”

“Did you enjoy the pub?” Edgar asked as he piled bacon on his plate. “They have a fine local ale.”

“So says the expert,” Meredith said as she entered the room. “Good morning, Captain Boyle. Edgar, some coffee please.” She used the tone you might with a long-time family retainer. Edgar, perhaps sensing how the roles had changed during the last twenty-four hours, complied, delivering her china coffee cup and saucer as she lounged on the couch, lighting a cigarette.