The Rest is Silence (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery) (34 page)

“Stick to the facts,” I said. “We don’t even know for certain if he was on a ship, much less which one.”

“It seems obvious,” Kaz said. “You don’t know for certain that Big Mike drove his jeep here. However, you saw the jeep when you arrived, and here is Big Mike. Rather apparent how he arrived.”

“Yes, given that he’s not an inanimate corpse, I agree,” I said, feeling a bit like Sherlock Holmes himself. “But if Big Mike were found dead, we might be curious as to whether he was killed here, or elsewhere and then driven here.”

“All right,” Kaz said, “I give up. We need to establish which transport Peter Wiley was on.”

“Or failing that, how he got into the water,” I said. “What was the name of the officer Harding told us to check with? The one responsible for keeping the manifest for all observers.”

“Lieutenant James Siebert,” Big Mike said. “At Greenway House.”

“Okay, we see him in the morning. After the reading of the will.”

“I doubt we’re invited, Billy,” Kaz said.

“That’s what keyholes were made for,” I said. “Anyway, I doubt it will take long for word to get out. Just watch Meredith.”

“Surely you are not pursuing the issue of Peter Wiley’s paternity,” Kaz said. “It hardly matters. The two persons involved are both dead.”

“I’m taking a lesson from Sherlock Holmes,” I said. “Never theorize before you have data. That causes you to twist facts to suit theories, instead of the other way around.”

“Ah,” Kaz said. “Since we have no absolute proof that his paternity does not matter, we should not discount it.”

“Right,” I said. “Which is why I’m curious about it.”

“And all along I thought you were a plain garden-variety snoop,” Big Mike said.

“Gossips, eavesdroppers, and snoops are all the same,” I said. “We need to know what the hell is going on.”

“David did tell me the solicitor is coming here at ten o’clock tomorrow,” Kaz said. “I will ask him if we can sit in. He can always say no.”

“Count me out,” Big Mike said. “I’m the new guy in town. But you two, maybe they’ll buy it.”

“Can’t hurt to try,” I said. “How was David this afternoon? He seemed chipper when he came in.”

“Much better,” Kaz said. “Mainly embarrassed, I think. You know the English and their stiff upper lips.”

“Speaking of stiffs,” Big Mike said, “when are you going to tell these people Wiley is dead?”

“Let’s break the news at dinner,” I said. “I doubt anybody will keel over, but I’ll be interested to see if anyone looks relieved.” I drained the last of my beer and wondered what I was missing. “How’s Great Aunt Sylvia? She didn’t look well earlier.”

“A little better, I think,” Kaz said. “When I checked in on her she seemed coherent. She hoped to come down for dinner.” I heard a noise in the hallway again and motioned for Kaz to keep talking. As he went on about Lady Pemberton, I went over to the door and listened. I could have sworn I heard someone breathing. I put my hand on the knob and turned it slowly, hoping not to spook whoever was out there.

The hallway was empty, the echo of footsteps fading in another part of the house.

“I guess I’m hearing things,” I said, shaking my head in frustration.

“Just as long as you don’t start seeing them too,” Big Mike said.

“I
DON’T KNOW
what came over me,” Great Aunt Sylvia said when we gathered for drinks before dinner a few hours later. “I can’t quite recall the past few days. It was terribly confusing.”

“I’m glad to see you up and about,” I said, sharing the couch in the library with her.

“I do not mind saying, Billy, that I was a bit worried,” she whispered to me. “I must have had a fever and been a bit delirious. But I think I’ve snapped out of it. I was still a bit groggy earlier today, but I feel much better now. I am grateful to have a clear head for a change.”

“Maybe it was a side effect of some medication,” I offered.

“Medication? I haven’t been ill a day in my life, young man, and I am not about to let a doctor fill me with drugs now. That is not how I got to this age, I can tell you that.”

“Sherry, Great Aunt Sylvia?” Edgar asked. She nodded, and he filled a dainty glass.

“I wonder if they’re waiting for me to die too,” she said as soon as Edgar was out of earshot. “Then they can sell Ashcroft and be done with it. Get their flats in London or wherever is fashionable these days.”

“Ashcroft House would be a poorer place without you, Lady Pemberton,” I said.

“You Irish have a way with flattery, don’t you? How much longer will you be with us, Billy? I shall miss our talks when you’ve gone.”

“Perhaps a day or two more, ma’am. We’ve taken care of most of our business here, but we still have one matter to clear up. It’s been very kind of everyone to let us stay on.”

“Well, the baron is David’s friend, and nobility of a sort. One doesn’t deny the aristocracy, even Polish aristocracy. But I must say, I am surprised—but not disappointed—at Meredith’s hospitality. It was her, you know, who insisted you all stay on as long as necessary.”

“She wasn’t of the same mind about Peter Wiley, was she?”

“Oh, no,” Great Aunt Sylvia whispered. “Quite the opposite. Odd, don’t you think? But then the Sutcliffes have never been straightforward about much of anything.”

“I’m afraid I have some bad news about Peter, Lady Pemberton,” I said. Glancing around, I saw that everyone was in the room and decided this was the best time and place. Great Aunt Sylvia put her hand to her mouth and gasped, perhaps sensing what I was about to say.

“Excuse me,” I said, rising from the couch. “I wanted you all to know that Lieutenant Peter Wiley has died. We received confirmation today.” A little white lie to buy me time as I scanned the faces gathered close. Edgar wagged his head and gave a
tch tch
before downing the rest of his drink. Meredith sat down, oddly affected by the news, her hand going to her head. Helen took David’s hand, and I wondered if the look on her face was sorrow or worry about how her husband would take the news of another death. David looked at her, the burned side of his face giving me no clue as to what he was feeling.

Williams moved through the room clearing drinks, his face a stone. But his hand trembled and he dropped a sherry glass, which bounced on the thick carpet.

“That’ll be all, Williams,” David said. “Perhaps you should inform Alice and Mrs. Dudley. They will know of anyone in the village who should be told.” Williams bowed and left, and the room remained silent with discomfort. To some, Peter Wiley had been an unwelcome guest, a naïve American who didn’t know his place, and now Meredith and perhaps others didn’t know how to react. He might not have been one of them, but he had been part of Ashcroft House, even if he’d come from downstairs.

“What happened to him?” Lady Pemberton asked, her face ashen.

“Are you all right, Great Aunt Sylvia?” Meredith said, going to her side. “Do you want to lie down?”

“I certainly do not,” she replied. “I would like an answer to my question.”

“He was on the ship that sank in the Channel,” Kaz said.
“Evidently he was not expected on board, which led us to believe he’d gone off somewhere.”

“Perhaps that’s why he left in such a hurry,” Meredith said, patting Great Aunt Sylvia’s hand.

“He had such promise,” David said. “But then so have so many.”

It was hard to argue with that. As we filed out of the room to dinner, Crawford stood in the hallway, hands respectfully held behind his back, eyes darting back and forth, as if he were checking for reactions too. Had he been standing there the whole time?

The meal was subdued. There’s nothing like a death notice to put a crimp in the dinner conversation. We had cod, fresh peas, potatoes, and carrots, washed down with a French white wine. Kaz complimented our hosts on the selection, and I wondered if the keys to the wine cellar were getting more of a workout now that Sir Rupert was no longer in charge. Why not? If Meredith and Helen were the big losers tomorrow, they might as well drink up while they could.

Big Mike sat next to Lady Pemberton and kept her amused with his stories of Detroit. But she barely ate, and when Big Mike was busy with a mouthful, her smile vanished. Of the whole bunch, I’d have to say she displayed the most emotion over the news of Peter Wiley’s demise. Maybe the death of the young was even more of a tragedy for the old; they know how much of life there is to be missed.

As the dishes were cleared, David announced he was off to the village pub and asked if any of the men would like to come along. “Drinks on me,” he said. “It will be either the beginning of a tradition or a farewell to North Cornworthy.”

Edgar declined, which was not in character as far as free booze went; maybe he had to reread
Hamlet
. Big Mike stayed behind as well, and I thought he was becoming as protective of Lady Pemberton as I was.

T
HE
H
UNTER’S
L
ODGE
was cheerier than the Ashcroft House dining room, but only because no death had been announced recently. Crawford was there, sitting at a table with Michael Withers. On our
last visit, Withers hadn’t liked my asking questions about Roger Crawford, him being an “honest fisherman” and all. If Withers thought Crawford honest, then I had reason to doubt anything he’d told me. They raised their glasses in greeting, but then turned their heads away, no friendly invite to join them.

I recognized Evan, the fellow who’d had fun with us last time using the local dialect. There were about ten others, all workingmen to judge by their clothes, probably from the nearby mill. David asked if he could buy a round for everyone and the resounding cheer told him the answer was yes. The publican began to draw pints, and David chatted with Evan and a few others. No one mentioned his potential as a new squire, but it didn’t seem as if anyone would mind.

“Captain, ’ow be?” Evan said, raising his pint.

“I be fine, Evan,” I said, taking his meaning. “ ’Ow be thee?”

“Oh, you’ve got it down proper,” Evan said, laughing. “Are you done counting bodies now? That was a terrible business, it was.” On this serious subject, Evan made himself easily understood.

“Yes,” I said. “War’s full of bad business. How’d you hear about it?”

“Crawford, who works up at the house. He told us how he’d heard from his cousin on a shore battery. Seen it all, he said. Took his own boat out to see if he could find any lads before Jerry or the cold finished ’em off. But the navy turned him back. Too dangerous, they said. Too secret, I say. Who wants to admit to a disaster like that, eh?”

“I can’t say I would, Evan. But Crawford’s cousin may have exaggerated things a bit. It wasn’t as bad as the rumors say.”

“Well, Crawford can be a spuddler sometimes,” Evan said in a whisper.

“Pardon?”

“Sorry, old butt. Means a troublemaker. He that stirs the pot, understand?”

“All too well, Evan. And if you’re ever in Boston, don’t call a guy in a bar an ‘old butt,’ okay?”

“Good one! An old butt’s a fine friend,” he said with a laugh, clapping me on the back. “And you’re one as well, Captain Boyle. Now go and get your pint.”

I did, and David was right behind me. As befits the temporary squire, he waited for his until everyone else was served, then raised his glass in a toast.

“To the dead.” A dozen voices responded with the same, each with their own memories from the last war, this war, the hard times and grueling mill work, whatever served to put the dead in the ground. The toast put me in mind of the two basic motives for murder: love and money. Both seemed in short supply, but there was no shortage of the dead.

After the conversation faded and men were faced with the prospect of paying for their next round, the room thinned out. David, Kaz, and I got another round and sat by the fire.

“Whoever ends up with Ashcroft will have a lot of work to do,” David said. “From what Helen tells me, Sir Rupert wasn’t much for upkeep. The outbuildings are in need of repair and filled with useless junk.”

“Mrs. Dudley did mention Ted Wiley kept them filled with machinery in the old days. She said he always enjoyed a tinker,” Kaz said.

“Probably why he opened a hardware store in New York,” I said.

“I think Helen mentioned they had a lot of rusted junk hauled away some time ago for the scrap drives,” David said. “I looked around in there yesterday and I did see where a motorbike had been stored. It must have been Peter’s.”

“That is likely,” Kaz said. “But how could you tell it was a motorbike?”

“By the tracks leading out of the barn,” David said. “A motorbike leaves a tread mark like a bicycle, only deeper on account of the weight, and slightly thicker. And there were oil stains where it had been parked in the barn. Probably an older model. Lots of people making do with what they had before the war, as we do.”

“You ought to be a detective,” I said. “You’re more observant than most.”

“A pilot has to be. Hun in the sun and all that,” David said, and then went quiet, perhaps contemplating a life less observant.

The evening at the pub wrapped up not long after, and I was glad to climb into bed after a long day. On the way back, David had asked Kaz if he’d sit in on the reading of Sir Rupert’s will as a friend of the family, solving one problem for us. I doubted if anyone would mind my tagging along.

I picked up the Agatha Christie puzzler I’d started and tried to read. Lord Edgware’s wife wanted a divorce. Hercule Poirot pleads her case, but Lord Edgware says he’s quite ready to grant a divorce. Then someone plugs him, and everyone is stumped as to why. Images of Sir Rupert and his daughters drifted across my mind, until the book fell against my chest, startling me awake.

Why is it you can fall asleep reading with the lights on, but when you awake and turn them off you toss and turn? I was dead tired—no, I take that back. The dead were in for a real solid sleep, and I didn’t want to tempt fate. I let my thoughts wander, hoping whatever was keeping me awake would simply fade away.

It didn’t. There was a gnawing feeling in my gut. I began to think that I’d heard something tonight that should have set off alarm bells but hadn’t registered. I went over the conversations I’d had, trying to recollect the exact wording of each.