The Rest is Silence (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery) (31 page)

Lady Pemberton, I decided. She’d taken to Peter, and her mourning would be sincere. But should she be burdened with more sad news? Not that she’d cried a river over Sir Rupert’s death, but a promising young lad like Peter was a double tragedy. Sudden death and a life cut
short. And for what?
Perspective
. I wished I knew what he’d meant by that.

“I say, Captain, please pass the peas,” Edgar said, loud enough to get my attention. I sent the bowl down the table, aware that I’d drifted off again. Occupational hazard. “Do you think young Peter will return and finish the painting?”

“I for one hope he doesn’t,” Meredith said, not giving me a chance to respond, which was just as well. “It’s a bit much, you know, having some servant’s offspring knock on your front door.” She twirled her wineglass as she watched the others at the table.

“You have to understand our American friends, dear,” Edgar said with a smile that was intended to soften the bluntness of Meredith’s statement. “They are not as sensitive to these things as we are. I’m sure young Peter approached us in total innocence.”

“Of course,” David added. “And don’t forget, it was Sir Rupert himself who invited him to stay.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Meredith said. “I didn’t mean to sound high-handed about it.”

I was pretty sure she did, and that she had her own suspicions about Peter’s paternity. That would explain why she didn’t want him back at Ashcroft House. Maybe she had more than suspicions. What was in that old letter from America she had clutched in her hand the night she argued with Sir Rupert? Would she tell me? I wonder where she kept it. A lot of women would stash something like that in their underwear drawer, figuring no one would go through their unmentionables. But Alice probably did the laundry and put things away, so that wasn’t a good bet. Maybe a peak in Meredith’s bedroom was in order. Not the best behavior for a houseguest, but I still felt an obligation to Sir Rupert, and until the reading of his will, it was still his house.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

S
MALL BRANCHES AND
green leaves littered the cemetery, tokens of the previous day’s storm. Sunlight glittered on dewdrops as pallbearers carried the coffin out of the church to the waiting grave. The Pemberton name was prominent on many gravestones; on others, it was barely legible after several centuries of wear and weather.

Attendance was sparse. Alice’s father, Michael, was there, along with Evan from the pub and one older woman. Meredith and Helen walked with Lady Pemberton, each of them lending an arm for support. Edgar and David followed, then Williams, Crawford, Mrs. Dudley, and Alice. Kaz and I followed the small group out of the church. The sunshine was refreshing after the cold stone interior, still damp from the rains.

There had been no eulogy, no tears. The vicar had trotted out the usual stuff: the Lord’s Prayer, a psalm, a droning hymn. Then finally the hired hands from the funeral parlor had carried the coffin to the cemetery. More prayers as the casket was lowered into the ground. Family members each took a handful of soil from the pile beside the grave and tossed it in, tiny stones making a harsh rattle as they bounced off burnished wood.

“We now commit the body of Sir Rupert Sutcliffe to the ground,” the vicar intoned. “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life.”

I watched as the family departed. Meredith’s steely eyes seemed
satisfied with the dust-to-dust part, less so with any notions of her father’s resurrection. The ladies got into an automobile with Crawford at the wheel. A horse cart sufficed for the help, and Kaz volunteered to go with them. A quick nod told me he planned to quiz them about Peter. It would likely be the only time he could talk to the three of them without drawing attention. I gave Edgar and David a ride back.

“I believe Sir Rupert’s solicitor is coming tomorrow morning,” Edgar said, leaning in from the backseat. “Meredith wanted him here today, but I thought that a bit rushed.”

“That’s for the best,” David said with a wry smile. “No reason not to wait a barely decent interval.”

His attitude was refreshing, but it made little difference to me. I was looking forward to chatting with the staff and family over whatever kind of feed they put on after a Church of England funeral. It wouldn’t be Irish style, but I still counted on tongues being loosened and maybe at least one family secret being spilled before the day was out.

I knew that wasn’t going to happen as soon as I spotted Big Mike. He’d left earlier to pick up Tom Quick and continue the search for the last two BIGOTs. But here he was, parked in front of Ashcroft House with a worried look on his face.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, pulling him aside as the others filed into the house.

“Tom wasn’t at the constable’s house in North Cornworthy,” Big Mike said. “Apparently a police car stopped by last night and Tom hitched a ride into Dartmouth. I called and spoke to Inspector Grange. He said you should come right away.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“No. But it didn’t sound good, Billy.”

“Damn,” I said. I went inside and found David, trying not to think about what might have happened.

“We’ve been called away,” I said, catching him as the group filed into the sitting room. “Sorry to leave so suddenly. Please give my apologies to the family.”

“Will you be back soon?” Meredith asked, turning when she heard me. “I hope it’s nothing too terrible.”

“I don’t know,” I said, which pretty much summed up the state of affairs.

“Good luck, Billy,” David said, walking me to the door. “Let us know if we can help in any way. And if you find Peter, please do let us know. Meredith is actually concerned, for all her talk.”

“Listen, David,” I said as Big Mike sat at the wheel of the idling jeep. “We got a message from Inspector Grange in Dartmouth about Tom Quick. I don’t know any details, but he told us to get right over there.”

“Good God,” David said. “I hope …”

“Yeah,” I said. “Me too. I’ll contact you as soon as I can.”

“Perhaps I should come along,” David said, worry creasing his brow. “If he’s in a bad way, it might help.”

“You should stay with your family,” I said. “We might need you later, after we find out more.” What I didn’t say was that my gut told me Tom was not in one of his distant moods. No need for a police inspector to call about that. Big Mike and I got Kaz off the horse cart, still plodding its way back to the house, and filled him in on the little we knew.

“I hope Inspector Grange is merely overreacting,” Kaz said, getting in the backseat of the jeep.

“Did you learn anything from the servants?” I asked a few minutes later as Big Mike sped down the narrow country lanes.

“I think Alice is a bit afraid of Williams,” Kaz said. “He gave her a stern look when I asked about Peter, and she went silent.”

“Could be he’s a tough boss,” I said.

“Perhaps,” Kaz said. “Williams did say it served no purpose to speak of the past and staff who had left Ashcroft. He definitely didn’t want to discuss Peter Wiley.”

“Why?” Big Mike asked, pressing his heavy foot on the accelerator once we had a straightaway.

“Perhaps he knew the truth about Peter’s father,” Kaz said. “In my experience, butlers can be worse snobs than their masters. Mrs.
Dudley said it was poor manners for young Peter to leave as he did, but what can you expect from an American who doesn’t know how to act proper-like, in her words.”

“It doesn’t help that everyone’s in a tizzy about the reading of the will. The thought of money makes people nervous. I wonder who’s getting what,” Big Mike said.

“I’m pretty sure everyone else is wondering the same thing but trying not to show it,” I said.

A minute later we parked in front of the police station in Dartmouth. We entered, expecting the worst.

We found it.

“I’ve left things as they were,” Inspector Grange said, telling us without words. “I wanted you to see the note. Perhaps you can explain what he meant.”

We followed him up the stairs to the bachelor police officer’s quarters. I knew Tom had come back here the night before, and now I knew why. Inspector Grange opened the door to Tom’s room.

He had come here to kill himself. His blue uniform jacket hung on a chair. He hadn’t wanted to leave the tunic bloodstained. The wall was splattered red. Tom lay sideways on the bed, feet planted on the floor, rifle between his legs. The back of his head was gone, his face misshapen from the bullet.

I studied the body, my cop instincts kicking in. Big Mike leaned over as well, keeping clear of the mess but going over every inch of the scene. Nothing to indicate it was anything but suicide.

“I’m sorry,” was all I could say.

“The note is where he left it,” Inspector Grange said, pointing to the table by the window.

I set my hands on the chair, feeling the blue wool of Tom’s jacket under my fingers as I read his last words.

There is too much death to go on. I am content with this decision. I have made up my mind to join my wife and children and to leave this terror behind me, and it has left me quite happy. Happier than I have been since the last time I saw them alive. Death is everywhere, and I cannot face it another day. There is no escaping it, no running away, so I will accept and embrace it. I would ask God to forgive me, but there is so much more than this single act I must answer for, it hardly seems right
.

“What is it he cannot face another day of?” Inspector Grange demanded of me. “What have you been using him for?”

“Identification of the dead,” I said, looking him in the eye. “You know what happened.” Or some of it.

“Yes, but how many, for God’s sake? He called it a ‘terror,’ said he couldn’t face it another day. I thought he was well enough for police work, but is that what you’ve been up to? Did you make him a gravedigger?”

“What do you mean, Inspector?” Kaz said, stepping between us.

“We’ve heard about bodies washed ashore, secret burials, that sort of thing. Didn’t you think about what might happen if Tom was confronted with all that?” Grange was red in the face, breathing heavily, and I understood his only purpose in calling us here had been to share the blame and spread his own guilt around.

“I’m sorry, Inspector,” I said, “but I can’t share the details. It was important work, and we needed his help. It did have to do with the bodies in the Channel, yes, but he wasn’t involved in burying anyone.” I left out the part about our visits to the charnel-house tents. And the fact that Grange had approved Tom fit for duty.

“So this note makes sense to you?” Grange said, a bit calmer now.

“Yes. We needed to find certain men, and we had to view a good number of the dead to do so. I wish I’d seen a problem with Tom, but he was actually in a fine mood yesterday.” In better shape than I’d been, or so I’d thought, watching him jauntily swinging his arms, telling me you could do anything, once you made your mind up about it.

And he had.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

I
T WAS A
quiet ride back to Ashcroft House. What was there to say? I’d been wrong about Tom Quick, plain and simple. I should have realized back at the racetrack that a sea of bodies would be more than he could bear. The sight of bombed-out buildings had been too much for him; why should I have expected anything less from visions of the dead and dismembered? We slowed to a halt, and David was out of the house moments after the sound of tires on gravel faded away.

“Well, what happened?” he asked. “How is Tom?”

“He shot himself,” I said, getting out of the jeep and placing my hand on David’s shoulder. “He’s dead.”

“No,” David said, stepping away from me and the finality of the news. “No.” His one good eye went wide, and his scarred mouth formed a half O of astonishment. There were times when David’s burns seemed to be simply part of his face, an awful tragedy, but still
him
. Other times, like now, the burned skin was a rigid mask that was unable to show emotion, while the undamaged side crumbled at the news and the attempt to deny it. I turned away as Kaz led his friend inside, but I felt Big Mike’s hand on my shoulder, pushing me after them. I’d have preferred to stay outdoors, letting my invisible scar tissue harden against this latest death.

“That is so sad,” Helen said, sitting next to David on the couch and holding his hand after he’d told her the news. “But you did your best as a friend, David.”

“Perhaps I did,” he said. “But even a fellow RAF officer, someone who understood where he’d been, couldn’t help. Don’t you see? That’s the worst of it. The bloody war drove him over the edge, and he wasn’t even … disfigured.” He wrenched his hand away from Helen’s and stalked out of the room. She rose to go after him but was intercepted by Kaz, who shook his head and guided her back to her seat.

“He won’t …?” She couldn’t finish the question.

Kaz assured her he wouldn’t. “He needs to be alone. I’m sure he’s embarrassed to have lost his temper with you.” Calming words, but there was more to it than that. David had likely entertained thoughts of suicide at some point after sustaining his injuries. To have befriended Tom Quick, believing he’d done the man some good, only to learn Tom had blown his brains out, had to have reawakened those lonely thoughts. Tom had seemed normal to David, who understandably may have focused more on the physical than the emotional scars of war. If Tom Quick had ended his own life, having survived thirty missions and returned to his civilian occupation, what did that mean for David? Especially if the reading of the will turned out not to be to his advantage? I couldn’t help but wonder if his father-in-law’s illegitimate son might have posed quite a problem for David’s future well-being.

“What’s wrong with David?” Meredith asked as she entered the sitting room. “He looked quite ashen.”

“A friend of his died,” Helen said, eyes downcast.

“Who?” Meredith demanded. “Anyone we know?” She sat next to Helen, more curious than concerned.

“No,” Helen answered. “A constable. He’d been in the RAF and was working with the baron and Captain Boyle.”