The Rest is Silence (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery) (33 page)

“Promise me he won’t be punished. Him or the ambulance driver.”

“If he was acting under your orders, which were signed by Ike, then there’s no reason for punishment. Same goes for the driver.” We shook on it and went back into the office. He whispered something
to the other agent, who pushed himself away from the wall and lumbered out of the room.

“Captain Boyle has explained what you were doing with Wiley’s body, Major Dawes,” McLean said. “We weren’t privy to his investigation, but now our questions have been answered.”

“I’m not in trouble?” Dawes asked me.

“Nope. We have Special Agent McLean’s word on that,” I said, trying to keep any sense of doubt out of my voice. I didn’t want Dawes to get nervous and clam up. “Did you perform an autopsy?”

“Yes,” Major Dawes said. “I was finishing when these two showed up.” His distaste for the CIC men was evident in his tone. “Lieutenant Wiley was murdered, sometime before his ship was hit.”

“Murdered?” McLean said. “You mean someone on board killed him before the Germans attacked?” Dawes ignored him.

“There was evidence of lividity. Blood pooling, you know about that?” Dawes asked me.

“Sure. I was a cop in Boston before the war. That’s when the blood settles to the lowest part of the body after death,” I explained for the benefit of the CIC agents.

“Right,” Dawes said. “In Wiley’s case, the blood settled to his back and buttocks and the rear of his legs. You know what that means.”

“What?” McLean asked, looking back and forth between us.

“It means Wiley was laid out flat on his back after he died. If he’d gone into the water and died from exposure, or anything else, the blood wouldn’t have pooled that way,” I said.

“So he was killed on board,” McLean said, happier now that he understood things.

“Yeah, but on which ship?” I asked.

“No idea,” McLean admitted. “The paperwork is a snafu. Orders changed so many times there’s no way to be sure.”

“Have you checked?” I asked. By which I meant put in hours of boring police work, checking manifests and personnel lists. I could tell from his expression it was a foreign idea.

“We don’t have the time for that,” McLean said, shaking his head.

“There’s something else,” Dawes said. “I think he was burked.”

“Now what the hell are you talking about?” McLean demanded.

“I thought you couldn’t tell,” I said to Dawes, remembering the famous deadly duo of Burke and Hare. A hundred or so years ago they had made good money selling cadavers to medical schools in Scotland. Then they decided to hurry the process along and began murdering people by suffocating them, after giving them drink or drugs. The idea was to sit on the chest of the victim while holding the nose and mouth shut, keeping the diaphragm and ribcage from moving, hastening the moment of death. They got sixteen cadavers that way, then Burke was sentenced to hang and had his name turned into a verb.

“Usually you can’t tell,” Dawes answered. “But there were small fractures on the fourth and fifth ribs, and the soft organs were congested with blood. Not definitive proof, but indicative of the burking method.”

“Captain, please explain what this means,” McLean said, giving up on Dawes. I gave him the low down on burking.

“I’m surprised you don’t know the term,” Dawes said, finally speaking directly to the agent. “It has also come to mean covering things up quietly, suppressing the truth as Burke suppressed breath. It fits your operation perfectly.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” McLean said. “Anything else?”

“Yes. We need the body kept in the morgue,” I said.

“Too late,” McLean said, obviously enjoying himself. “It’s already on its way to the burial site. The location of which I am under orders not to disclose. To anyone.” Now I knew what he’d whispered to his pal, who had left the room in time to get Wiley out of the morgue and into a truck bound for the ground.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

W
E DID THE
dance of authority and rank, and ended up right where we had started. So I decided not to waste time flapping my yap about Wiley’s body. Dawes was free to go, and I agreed to stop snooping around the hospital. I wrote out the address for Ashcroft House and gave it to Dawes, telling him to look me up. Inside the folded piece of paper, I’d scrawled the word autopsy. He’d given me a wink on the way out, saying we’d have to get together for a drink. He was a smart guy, and anyone who disliked the Counter-Intelligence Corps agents as much as I did would make a good drinking buddy.

I shook hands with McLean to show we were all in this together and went off thinking we’d each pulled one over on the other guy, which wasn’t the worst outcome I could have predicted. Just to be certain, I took the stairs to the basement and found the morgue. I asked a corporal mopping the floor if they’d come for Peter Wiley yet, as if I was checking up on my men. He consulted a clipboard and said they had. Well, it had been worth a shot, in case McLean had been bluffing.

I went out the main door in time to see the two MPs and the CIC agents hustling Major Dawes and a GI, probably the ambulance driver, into a staff car.

“Hold up,” I yelled, running over to them. “What the hell are you doing? You said no punishments.”

“No one is being punished, Captain Boyle,” McLean said, nodding
to the MPs, who put Dawes and the driver in the rear seat, cop style, pushing down their heads as if they were handcuffed.

“Then what are you doing with them, goddamn it?”

“Giving them a lift,” McLean said with a self-satisfied grin. “Their transfers came through. The army transfers people all the time. It’s not a punishment at all.”

“Where to?” I asked.

“Cairo. Their ship leaves Bristol at dawn, so we have to hit the road.”

“Let me talk to Dawes. I want to apologize for getting him into this mess,” I said.

“There’s no mess, Captain,” McLean said. “Simply routine army procedures, but sure, say your piece.” He nodded to an MP, who opened the door.

“Sorry, Major Dawes,” I said. “You too, Private.”

“Well, look on the bright side,” Dawes said. “We’re going to see the pyramids.” The private almost smiled at that.

“I’ve been there. It’s really something to see,” I said. I didn’t tell him about the flies.

S
PECIAL
A
GENT
M
C
L
EAN
had left nothing to chance. The only two men who even knew about a temporarily missing body were going to be shut up in a troop transport for weeks and then end up as far as you could go without finding yourself in the Pacific Theater of Operations. If Dawes managed to mail a letter from Cairo, it would take another few weeks to get to me. McLean was a burker, sure enough.

I knew I should contact Harding, but I was dog-tired and didn’t want to have to report on how CIC had outsmarted me. He did need to know about Wiley, but there was no reason to rush. What I needed to do was be at the reading of the will tomorrow and witness who got what and who hated whom for it. I thought about what Dawes had discovered and turned it over in my mind as I drove the now familiar roads. As I often did, I wondered what my dad would make of it. He’d taught
me how to work a case and drummed it into my head never to assume what you don’t actually know to be true. It was one of the reasons he got me to read the Sherlock Holmes stories. The best piece of advice, in his mind, came from
A Study in Scarlet
, when Holmes stated something along the lines of it being a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. That’s when you begin to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. I realized I had done just that. I needed to focus on pure fact, not assumptions.

The air had turned cold by the time I pulled into the drive leading to Ashcroft House. It held a damned odd bunch of people, but it was beginning to feel like home. Or at least a comfortable place with good food. I parked next to Big Mike’s jeep, and as I got out, I spotted David returning from a walk. He was dressed in tweed, looking the part of the country squire. He gave a wave, and I waited as he headed for the door.

“Billy,” he said in a low voice, avoiding my eyes. “I must apologize for my behavior earlier today. Shameful that I was thinking of myself instead of poor Tom Quick.”

“It’s only natural,” I said. “He was your friend. We tend to see ourselves in the people we like.”

“Yes, quite. And I admired him too, for what he had endured. I do wish I’d seen how deep his despair must have been.”

“No one could have seen that,” I said, wishing that I had too. “You gave him some moments of friendship and understanding. I’m sure it meant a lot to him.”

“Thank you, Billy,” David said, his hand resting on my shoulder for a second before I opened the door. Coming from a proper Brit, it was like a bear hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Captain, how nice that you’re back,” Helen said when she saw us from the hall. She was carrying a basket of cut flowers. “You will be dining with us, I hope?”

“I look forward to it,” I said. “Is the baron here?”

“Yes, he was helping me in the garden. Aren’t the flowers lovely?”

“Crawford’s green thumb?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s not all Crawford. I manage to cultivate a few things as
well, Captain. How was your walk, David?” She leaned in for him to give her a peck on the cheek. All in all, Helen’s temperament had improved dramatically since I arrived. Or was it since her father’s departure?

“Just what I needed,” David said. “I walked to the village and back along the river. Bracing. I stopped in at the pub and bought a round. It’s the kind of thing the locals like, I’m told.”

“Who doesn’t like a free drink?” I said. I recalled Helen or Meredith telling David it was his duty to mingle more with the villagers, assuming Ashcroft House stayed with their side of the family. Most importantly, David was feeling good enough about himself to make the effort. Most of the residents of North Cornworthy had likely heard about his burns, but few had actually laid eyes on him.

“Maybe we’ll pop in again tonight,” David said. “There weren’t many fellows there this time of day.”

“Wonderful idea, David,” Helen said, taking him by the arm. “Oh, by the way, Captain, your Colonel Harding dropped in earlier. I believe he left a message for you with the baron.”

I found Kaz and Big Mike in the library. Kaz was reading the newspaper, and Big Mike had his feet up and his eyes closed.

“We have news, Billy,” Kaz said, folding his paper and slapping Big Mike’s foot with it.

“So do I, but not here,” I said in a low voice. “My room, and don’t make a big deal of it.”

Kaz came in five minutes later, followed shortly by Big Mike, carrying three bottles of Whitbread Pale Ale.

“Here you go,” Big Mike said. “Williams keeps his ale in the wine cellar. Said I could help myself. He’s not so much of a stuffed shirt downstairs.”

“You get anything out of him?” I asked, kicking off my shoes and sitting on the bed.

“Not really. He’s rooting for Meredith and Helen to inherit, of course. Job security. So what’s your news?”

“Tell me what Harding said first.”

“First, all the bodies have been found,” Big Mike said, taking a
seat in an easy chair. “I got one right away at Slapton Sands, and the other washed ashore by Start Point.”

“The colonel said to tell you he’d gone to Brixham,” Kaz said. “He found the place deserted, so he never spoke to Major Dawes. He returned to Greenway House to contact SHAEF and determine what had happened. He was told that as soon as there were no more bodies to be found near Brixham, an order was given to shut that clearing station down.”

“It was the Counter-Intelligence Corps,” I said. “I bet once all ten BIGOTs were found, CIC gave the order to make all the other clearing stations disappear too. Our services were no longer required.” I took a long pull on the ale.

“Harding was not happy about it,” Kaz said. “He told us to find out whatever we could about how Lieutenant Wiley got aboard one of the ships. But how do you know CIC is involved?”

“I tracked down Dawes and found CIC questioning him. He’d snatched Wiley’s body for an autopsy, and the agents didn’t appreciate coming up one stiff short.”

“That mean trouble for Dawes?” Big Mike asked.

“He’s getting an all-expenses-paid trip to Cairo,” I said. “He gets to see the pyramids.”

“Some guys have all the luck,” Big Mike said with a rueful laugh. “Did he do the autopsy?”

“Yeah. The CIC special agent let me talk with him before they hustled him away.” I stopped, listening to a sound in the hallway. I slipped off the bed and put my ear against the door. Someone was out there. I turned the knob slowly and opened the door, swiveling my head in either direction. I heard footsteps, perhaps in another room.

“Who was it?” Kaz asked after I shut the door.

“Don’t know,” I said. “It could have been anyone. Maybe Alice doing her chores.”

“Hey, don’t leave us hanging,” Big Mike said.

“Okay,” I said, taking a swig of the cool, sharp ale. “Here’s what I know for certain. Peter Wiley had a bruise on his head, but nothing that would have killed him. He was dead before he went into the water.
His blood had pooled on his backside, so he was flat on his back long enough for lividity to have set in.”

“Did Dawes have a cause of death?” Kaz asked.

“A theory,” I said. “But not a certainty. Have either of you heard of the Burke and Hare murders?”

“Edinburgh, was it not?” Kaz asked. Of course Kaz would know. Big Mike hadn’t heard of them. I gave him a quick rundown.

“So instead of digging up corpses, they killed outright,” Big Mike said. “More efficient, you gotta admit.”

“Dawes said that Wiley sustained injuries to his ribs consistent with Burke’s method. Compress the chest, close off the air supply.”

“Perhaps Peter was knocked unconscious, hence the bruise,” Kaz said.

“Likely,” I said. “But we can’t prove anything. He could have gotten broken ribs from going into the water. And no water in the lungs does not rule out drowning, which I hadn’t known.”

“But we know he didn’t drown,” Kaz said. “Because of the lividity. He must have been killed on board the transport.”