James Benn - Billy Boyle

“Oh, well, thank you.” Mildred blushed at the compliment, and then turned back to her husband, raising her voice to command level. “Now, Robert, you pull the next three pints for our visitors here. No need for them that’s bought ’em to wait ’til last!”

Robert obeyed, and with an anticipatory smile set up the three pint glasses on the bar in front of me, the thick foam perched on top. I could see he was envisioning me as the first wave in an invasion of Yanks, all thirsty and gripping pound sterling notes in their hands. I decided it was best to let him believe what he wanted. Kaz came over and took two pints back to the table. I sipped mine. It was ale, dark amber colored. Then I took a gulp. It was good, real good, sharp on the tongue and easy going down.

“Is this a local ale, Robert?”

“Aye, Wickham’s Ale, they make it in the brewery over in Wickham Market.”

“What do the Norwegians like to drink?”

“Them folk up at Beardsley Hall? Don’t see too many of ’em here. They tend to stick to themselves. Got their own food and drink up there, I guess. Once in a while, some of them come down here for a meal, but they have to cycle in. They don’t come in a grand car like you did. Do all American lieutenants have their own car and driver?”

“No, Robert,” I chuckled. “These are my friends. We’re at Beardsley Hall for a few days and we wanted a bit of a change of fare. What about the British civilians working at the hall? Do the ladies come here often?”

Robert glanced at the table, and took in the fact that Kaz and Daphne were together. He gave me a knowing look and leaned over the bar as he handed out pints. “Sorry, Yank, but all the girls who work there go to Wickham Market for their fun. They have a bus what brings ’em in and carries ’em back. There’s restaurants, pubs, and a movie house. Not like little Marston Bridge at all! Look around you, and you’ll see all the entertainment that’s to be had for miles. A few farmers and old folk throwing darts, that’s about it. You’ll have to look elsewhere for a pretty lass.”

“Thanks for the tip.” I raised my glass to Robert and left him happily pulling pints as I walked over to our table.

“You look quite at home in an English pub, Billy,” Kaz said as he lifted his glass in salute.

“Yes,” said Daphne, “you’ve made friends for life already. That was very nice of you.”

“Yeah, I’m a swell guy. I was really hoping for some inside dope on the Beardsley Hall staff from the local gossips, but they don’t seem to mix very much.”

“What is dope, inside?” asked Kaz, turning to Daphne. “Do you know, Daphne?”

“Yes, I saw a film with James Cagney and he used that expression. Information, right, Billy?” Daphne asked me.

“Yeah. Same thing as the skinny. The low down. The truth. Why do you want to know all this stuff?”

“I want to learn to speak American,” said Kaz with a straight face. “I know the king’s English, but someday we want to go to New York City. I want to fit right in and understand all the slang.”

“We love American gangster movies,” Daphne added, “but sometimes they’re terribly hard to understand. We’ll count on you for the low down skinny.” She said the last words dramatically, proud of the new phrase.

“It’s the skinny or the low down, but not both. So, tell me, what’s the low down on what you two found out today?”

“Not much, I’m afraid,” said Kaz. “Or at least not much of any help. The household staff are mostly Norwegians or of Norwegian ancestry, drawn from those already living in England before the war. They’re a tight-lipped group, very protective of the king and their cause. They all know about the late-night carryings-on, but won’t name names. I did find out that a number of people were out and about in the early morning. The king-and Rolf of course-went hunting together at four thirty. Skak and Cosgrove were out around six o’clock, taking a walk. Did you know that?”

I nodded.

“Skak was up early, about five thirty, which was his usual routine. Several people also saw Jens going back to his room from somewhere about the same time,” Kaz continued. “One maid said she saw someone turn a corner up the stairs, perhaps either Jens or Anders, she couldn’t tell. No one else claimed to have seen Anders out until after the body was found. Of course there were staff on duty all night in the radio room, guards outside patrolling the grounds, that sort of thing. But no one else in that wing of the hall, as far as I can tell.”

“That’s it?” I asked.

Kaz nodded, gave an apologetic smile, and drank his ale.

“I didn’t do much better,” said Daphne. “The girls didn’t exactly bare their souls to me. They don’t think much of the strict rules here, and they’ve probably all broken a few of them. No one would admit to leaving their rooms at night or having guests, but there was enough giggling to tell me some of them are expert at it.”

“Any of them see anything in the morning?”

“No. They were adamant that they sleep as late as humanly possible. Probably true, they’re fairly young. They were all sad about Knut Birkeland. They thought he was a kind man.”

“What do they think of Vidar Skak?” I asked.

“Not much. He’s the source of most of the rules they hate. Jens Iversen seems to be the buffer between Skak and the staff. They like Jens, but think he’s a little odd. Needs to relax, one of them said. Then another girl said he looked more relaxed lately, and they all giggled again. I couldn’t get anything else out of them.”

“Jens has a lover,” I said. “Someone he’s protecting. I know he was escorting her back to her room, but he won’t say who she is.”

“Gallant sort,” said Kaz.

“She’s married,” I explained. “Her husband is missing. That’s all I know.”

“He feels guilty?” Daphne asked.

I thought about that. There was guilt, and then there was a deeper layer, when you felt guilty that you didn’t feel guilty about something bad you did. The remnant of conscience, I remember Dad telling me. It was a few days after the argument with Basher, when he threw away that package. I came home from the evening shift to find him sitting out on the front stoop, smoking. He had started sitting on the stoop instead of up in his study for some reason, which was nice. It meant we could relax and talk. It was a fall evening and I unbuttoned my coat as we sat there, watching the cars drive slowly by and the front-porch lights wink out, one by one. Dad started to tell me about an interrogation he had run, and how he had to get at that remnant of conscience, to get a guy to show his remorse at his lack of remorse. To crack him open, he said, and start leading him down the road to confession. I remember all that he said, but what always stuck in my mind was just how nice it was sitting out there, shooting the breeze with my old man, and wondering what had led him out of his study and down to the front steps.

But that was then, and now I had to answer Daphne. Jens didn’t strike me as the strictly guilty type, but he did have a certain sadness to him, as if he had disappointed himself. Remorse could fester into guilt, especially when there was a woman involved. And a war.

“He or she or both. All I know is that she might have seen something. Jens says it’s complicated, and I can’t disagree. I asked Cosgrove to find out who on the staff might have a MIA or POW husband.”

“Maybe that’s why the girls wouldn’t tell me anything about her,” Daphne said. “They must feel sorry for her. If they disapproved, they would’ve offered her up on a plate of gossip.”

It made sense. Complicated, like Jens said.

“Did you find out what Cosgrove and Skak were doing on their walk?” Kaz asked.