James Benn - The Rest Is Silence

“Colonel,” I said, “has Lieutenant Wiley asked you if he could go on the exercise? He’s really itching to get out on the water. He is navy, after all.”

“He put you up to this?” Harding asked, shrugging on his jacket.

“He was afraid to ask himself,” Kaz said.

“That’s because I chewed him out the last two times he asked,” Harding said, getting ready to leave.

“Any special reason, Colonel?” I asked. “It’s only a short run along the coast.”

“Follow me,” Harding said. He took us down a hallway to where an armed guard stood in front of a door. “This is Lieutenant Wiley’s studio. One guard stands here and another outside the window twenty-four hours a day. What does that tell you?”

“That Lieutenant Wiley deserves a promotion,” I said. “Why all the security?”

“Because he’s engaged in top-secret work, gentlemen,” Harding said, his voice almost a growl.

“He’s just asking to be onboard for maneuvers, Colonel,” I said. “Can’t blame a naval officer for wanting to be on a ship.”

“I can blame him for not following orders,” Harding said. “He pestered the officer in charge of manifests for the maneuvers so much they got into a fistfight.”

“Peter Wiley does not seem suited to fisticuffs,” Kaz said.

“Neither of them are,” Harding said with a rueful laugh. “Two desk jockeys fighting over paperwork. It was almost funny. Lieutenant Siebert’s got a lot on his mind, and I think the stress got to him. It just happened to be Wiley who got the brunt of it. Good thing he’s got three days’ leave, it should give both of them time to calm down. But when he gets back, he doesn’t leave dry land. He’s been working hard to complete a major assignment. Another one is coming along soon, and I want him rested, ready, and dry when it does. Understood?”

We understood, at least as much as we had to. Maybe he was painting General Eisenhower’s portrait. Whatever he was doing, he wouldn’t be going far from it.

“There is one other thing, Colonel Harding,” Kaz said as we followed Harding out the front door. He pleaded David Martindale’s case, stressing his knowledge of languages, one good eye, desire to serve, and the fact that he’d graduated from Oxford, which in Kaz’s eyes carried the most weight. It was only when he mentioned photographic interpretation that Harding perked up.

“Are you certain he can see well enough?” the colonel asked.

“Perfect vision in that eye, sir,” Kaz said. “And as an experienced pilot, he is used to navigation and recognizing ground structures.” I hoped Kaz wasn’t overselling David, but it turned out Harding was in a buying mood.

“Have him here tomorrow,” Harding said. “We’ll see what he can do.”

“One out of two isn’t bad with him,” I said as we watched Harding drive off.

“I wonder if this has any connection to Peter Wiley’s map-making,” Kaz said. “He could be making maps of coastal defenses, for instance. They’d need to use photographs from reconnaissance aircraft.”

“Pretty good guess,” I said. “Let’s go give David the good news about his audition.”

BACK AT ASHCROFT, we spotted Great Aunt Sylvia walking with Lieutenant Wiley on a path to the side of the house. His easel was set up out front, his brushes and paints left ready for his return. It was perfect painting weather: the trees and lawn were a vivid green in the afternoon sun, the sky a clear and sparkling blue after the clouds had blown off. I parked the jeep on the gravel drive, and we strolled over to the painting to take a look.

“Not bad at all,” Kaz said. It was unfinished, but Wiley had captured the house perfectly: a grey granite mass that looked like it had sprouted fully formed from the rocks. The grass seemed to bend in a breeze that you could almost feel.

“The lad’s quite a painter,” David Martindale said, coming up from behind us. He’d been out hiking, dressed in old tweeds and carrying a walking stick.

“Yes,” Kaz said. “He has captured the essence of the place.”

“On the outside, at least,” David said. “It’s even gloomier than usual inside today.”

“What do you mean?” Kaz asked his friend.

“Sir Rupert is in a foul mood, and doesn’t look well on top of it-or because of it, I can’t tell,” he said. “Meredith has been arguing with him; there was quite a lot of shouting. It was better when they weren’t speaking to each other. Helen burst into tears and ran off, so I decided to get some fresh air and wait for things to calm down. I was hoping you’d be back, so I would have some decent company.”

Having decided to avoid going inside, we strolled around back to the terrace and sat admiring the view of Bow Creek where it flowed into the River Dart. To one side, I watched Peter Wiley with Great Aunt Sylvia on his arm, returning from their walk in the gardens, an iron gate covered in ivy behind them.

“She must have been showing him the family plot,” David said. “She had markers erected for her son and husband. Louise is there too, shipped back from India, where she died. Helen says her mother insisted upon it. She hated India. Or Rupert, I could never sort out the difference.”

“Not a happy marriage?” I asked.

“At the end, apparently not. Who knows what it was like earlier?” David said. “Helen says India got to her mother, but she insisted on staying with her husband. Meredith says Rupert was a horrible cad about something, but she keeps her mouth shut about it otherwise. Could be some truth in both stories.”

“It’s hard to tell with families,” I said. “Everyone has their own version of events and memories of what happened. The farther in the past, usually the less reliable.” Meredith must have been referring to her father’s affair, but I wasn’t about to let that cat out of the bag.

“What did Meredith mean about the ring,” Kaz said, “when she challenged Sir Rupert? She said, ‘Now do you believe me?’ when Peter said his mother had received it as a gift.”

“I’m not sure,” David said. “Helen once alluded to a rumor about Meredith stealing some family jewels when she ran off to London. I never took much stock in it until last night, when Edgar mentioned her having money to burn when he met her.”

“I am beginning to think we should take our leave soon,” Kaz said. “If these arguments continue, it could be uncomfortable for us to be here.”

“Oh no you don’t, Piotr,” David said. “Don’t abandon your old chum, I beg of you.” He said it with an easy laugh, but I knew he was serious. “Tell me, have you talked to your colonel about me? Any chance of a spot at SHAEF?”

“There is some good news, perhaps,” Kaz said. He told David the plan for the next day, stressing that it was a long shot.

“Brilliant!” David said. “If I wanted to take my chances inside I’d fetch drinks, or look for Williams to fetch them. It’s grand to have a butler, even an old fellow like that.”

“If there wasn’t such bad blood between the Sutcliffe and Pemberton clans this would be a nice setup,” I said, imagining the life of an English country squire. I liked the way they ran things here, not as snobby and pretentious as a lot of other homes I’d visited. But the past and long-buried secrets had a way of ruining even such an idyll as Ashcroft.

“How was Tom today?” David asked, and I was reminded that it wasn’t merely secrets that ate away at the heart. The war corroded everything it touched as well.

“We saw another side of him,” Kaz said, perhaps sensing that I was struggling with the question. “He’s lost so much, but still wants revenge. There seem to be two parts of him: the family man who understands the death he has visited upon others, and the airman who did his duty while hardening himself to the horrors he has endured-that is, until he broke under the pressure.”