James Benn - Billy Boyle

I was getting myself all riled up and almost missed the next pub. I calmed down, and took a left at the King George Inn as I wondered if it was the same King George we had given the heave-ho to at Bunker Hill. It was almost midday by the time I had nearly reached the very small village of Greenchurch. I saw a large round stone, like the wheel from a windmill, propped up in front of a low whitewashed building. The Miller’s Stone. I turned around in front of a church-it wasn’t green-and pulled the BMW up in front of the pub. There were a few bicycles leaning against the wall. Not a single car. Real quiet little town. Houses with window boxes overflowing with flowers lined the street. Across from the pub was a small white building, its plain front broken by two doors, one marked POST OFFICE. The other led to a small store. A dog sleeping in the sun on the stone step leading up to the store entrance raised his head, gave me the once-over, then laid his head back down, unimpressed.

I figured that since I had to ask directions to Victoria Brey’s house, and since I was also hungry and thirsty, it would be the most efficient use of my time to visit the pub. That actually made it my patriotic duty. I dusted myself off and went inside.

It was a small village pub, low ceilinged and dark. There were just a couple of tables, a bench along one wall, and the bar itself on the right side of the room with a few stools along it. I sat down and nodded to two old gents who were nursing pints that looked like they’d been pulled when the place opened. Neither said hello, but one of them pointed his pipe at me.

“Now what kind of uniform is that?”

“You mean my United States Army officer’s uniform?”

“So you’re a Yank, are you? About time. I haven’t seen one since 1918!”

They both thought this was real funny. I turned my attention to the barkeep, or publican, I think they called him here.

“A pint, and what do you have for food?”

“A ploughman’s lunch is all today.”

“OK, but hold the onion. I’ve got to see a lady this afternoon.”

I smiled, he didn’t. I decided he really wasn’t such a bad sort when he brought out bread still warm from the oven, a slab of cheese, and a homemade pickle in place of the onion. Along with the ale it was a meal fit for a king.

After he brought the food he ignored me, which I guess was better than lecturing me on the late arrival of the U.S. Army. After I had inhaled about half the meal, I slowed down and half turned in my seat, speaking to both the publican and his customers.

“Do any of you fellows know where Victoria Brey lives?”

At the sound of her name, the old fellas looked at each other and just shook their heads. Not at me, but just at the mention of her name. “Sad, so sad,” one of them said. The barkeep walked over, drying a glass in his hand.

“Why do you want to know?” The expression on his face said he’d be glad to bean me with the heavy glass if he didn’t like the answer.

“Just some routine army business. About her transfer, just some paperwork to finish,” I lied.

“She’s in the ATS, not the bloody American army.”

“Yeah, but we’re all on the same side. Right?”

“I don’t know you, mate. I don’t know if you’re trouble or not, but I do know Victoria’s had her share. More than her share.”

“I’ve known her since she was a babe,” the old guy said. “So sad.”

“I just need to talk with her a bit, that’s all. I know she’s had it tough, with her husband missing in action.”

“Have a care with her. She’s still not well. And she’s well liked ’round here, so don’t cause her any problems.” The barkeep walked back to the bar, carrying the well-dried glass. He had made his decision, but I could tell he didn’t like it much. Or me.

“Take the first right up by the church. Then take the left fork. Her place is on the left, a small stone cottage.” The barkeep put the glass on the bar, loud enough to punctuate the sentence. I didn’t say anything about the implied threat. I could take a hint. I finished up, paid, and left. No one said good-bye.

I found her place easy enough and her, too, for that matter. She was sitting on a worn wooden bench in a small garden in front of her cottage. It looked like a house to me, but I figured it was one of those English things. I pulled the BMW into the drive and switched it off. The driveway was packed dirt with weeds sprouting out of it, wildflowers forcing their way through the hard surface. She looked over at me as calmly as if Americans on motorcycles showed up every day. I took off my goggles and Parsons field jacket, and attempted to make myself presentable. I brushed the dust off my pants, put on my fore and aft cap at just the right angle, and walked into the garden. She sat still, gazing at the flowers.

“Nice garden, Mrs. Brey.” She nodded, ever so slightly, and looked up at me with moist eyes. She was twisting a handkerchief in her hands, limp and damp from her tears.

“Yes, isn’t it? They’ll probably all die now…”

“Now that you’re being transferred?”

“No. Now that Richard’s… gone. He always tended them. Said a home needed flowers blooming around it first thing in the spring. He always looked forward to springtime.”

Her head swiveled back to look at the flowers. She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief she held crumpled in one hand. I could have jumped on a broomstick and flown away for all she cared. She was someplace else. There wasn’t another chair and I had to make eye contact, so I knelt down in front of her.

“Mrs. Brey?” Her eyes wavered and finally found me.

“Yes? Who are you?” That was progress.

“Lieutenant Billy Boyle, ma’am. I’m investigating the death of Knut Birkeland at Beardsley Hall.”

She laughed. The laughter seemed to break the spell for her and she focused on me as she smiled.

“That’s terribly funny.”

“What is?” I asked.

“One old man dies and they send a lieutenant. Thousands die in the air, at sea, all over the world, and then who do they send? No one.” She laughed some more. At first, I thought she was crazy, and then I thought it over. It really didn’t add up, did it?

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant Boyle. I’m not usually so distracted. I haven’t been back here since Richard… disappeared. The memories were… I’m afraid I’ve been rude.”

She wiped her eyes and tried to smile again. There wasn’t a lot of happiness to work with, so it wasn’t a big smile. She was pretty in a plain English country-girl sort of way, and even that frail grin lit up her face. Her hair was dark brown and pulled back, showing off a long and graceful neck. Her skin was flushed from the heat and a tiny bead of sweat worked its way down her throat and vanished beneath her pale green sundress, open at the neck and cinched tight at her waist. The curves of her hips and breasts were noticeable under the light material.

“Come inside, and tell me why you’ve traveled all this way.”

She stood and walked toward the house, glancing over her shoulder at me. She caught me looking, and smiled. It was quite a change, as if she had awakened from a trance. She offered to make tea, but it was too hot a day for me. She poured lemonade, and we went into her front parlor. She sat in an armchair and I took the couch. I was nervous. I was thinking about her body and the look she had given me over her shoulder. I thought about Diana. I thought about getting the hell out of there. Instead, I got down to business.

“Mrs. Brey, you’re in the Auxiliary Territorial Service, rank of subaltern, correct?” I tried to sound like your typical uninterested cop.

“I’m sure you know that, Lieutenant, don’t you?”