James Benn - The Rest Is Silence

“They’re both shattered men,” I said. I told David about Tom’s pal Freddie, the rear turret gunner.

“I’ve heard the rear-gunner position on a Lanc is one of the worst,” David said. “An unheated glass bubble, not even enough room to wear a parachute. If the plane goes down, the gunner is expected to open the door behind him, reach for his parachute, and put it on, all while rotating the turret sideways so he drops out backwards.”

“A dubious prospect,” Kaz said. “But not as dubious as Constable Quick’s chances of putting all this behind him.”

“So it’s worse than we thought,” David said tentatively.

“I think so,” Kaz said. “A man who mourns his wife, children, and best friend, as well as all those whom he has killed, while at the same time hungering for the blood of his enemies, is unlikely to reconcile those two impulses. Grief or a terrible rage will win out in the end. He cannot live with both.”

Kaz was the expert here, so I simply nodded my agreement. We sat in silence for a while, the sun nearing the treetops and the air turning cold. I finally left to find Peter and deliver the bad news about Colonel Harding’s orders for him to stay ashore. Kaz and David stayed behind, surveying Bow Creek as it flowed along, a constancy amid the ruins of this century.

As I came around to the front lawn, I saw Sir Rupert heading away from Peter and entering the house. Peter sat at his easel, staring at the canvas, not taking notice of my approach until I was nearly on top of him.

“I talked with Colonel Harding,” I said. “I did my best, but it’s no go.”

“What?” Peter said, blinking as if he’d been daydreaming. “Oh, the exercise. That’s too bad. I’ll find another way, thanks.”

“The only other way is to talk to Harding’s boss, but I doubt Ike has time to see you,” I said. He was distracted, and I wanted to be sure he understood the situation.

“Yeah, of course,” Peter said. “Thanks for asking, Billy, I appreciate it.”

“It’s important?” I asked.

“It could be. I won’t know until I’m there.”

“Perspective?”

“I shouldn’t have said even that much,” Peter said. “Forget about it, okay?”

“I forget stuff all the time,” I said. “Lady Pemberton showing you around?”

“No, not really. She showed me the gardens, that’s all. Sir Rupert is busy, I guess.” He looked away, his eyes hitting the woods, the house, the canvas, looking everywhere but at me. An unpracticed liar.

“Sure,” I said. “Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

“I’m not sure I should have come here,” he said. It was obvious that something else entirely was on his mind.

“The search for perspective leads us to strange places,” I said, hoping he’d explain himself.

He didn’t.

“I don’t care!” Meredith’s shrill voice echoed in the hallway as I began to make my way down for dinner. “You can’t do this to me, I won’t stand for it!”

A door slammed. Hard. I retreated a few steps back to my room, not wanting to collide with her while she was fuming. I heard footsteps stomp by my door and another slam. I hoped Edgar wasn’t stuck in the bedroom with her. I stepped out into the hallway, making my way to Sir Rupert’s study.

“Is everything all right?” I asked Sir Rupert, leaning into the doorway of his study.

“Sorry about the display, Captain Boyle,” Sir Rupert said, leaning back in his chair. “A bit of a long-standing feud. I do apologize.” He sighed, looking pale and tired as he patted his damp forehead with a handkerchief. “I will join you shortly. I need a moment.”

I left, knowing it must have been embarrassing for a guy like him to acknowledge family discord. I wanted to make sure Meredith hadn’t whacked him one, though, given her tone and ferocity.

“I trust he’s alive and kicking,” Great Aunt Sylvia said, swooping along in her ancient dress, a dark blue floor-length affair with a high collar and a pearl brooch.

“None the worse for wear,” I said, offering her my arm on the stairway.

“Good,” she said. “I hate to see them fight, but it is sadly nothing new. She fought with her mother too, but over silly things. There she is: Louise.” We stopped as she pointed to one of the portraits decorating the staircase wall. A serene expression graced the young face of Louise Pemberton in her flowing white dress. Wide blue eyes; light, flowing hair; porcelain skin; and a thin figure-all probably enhanced by the painter’s art, but she was still beautiful. And familiar.

“Helen looks a lot like her,” I said.

“I agree,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “Meredith takes after her father, which may be why they disagree so often. It happens quite often, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t have said so when I was younger, but I’m beginning to think that’s true,” I said, thinking of the times Dad and I had butted heads. My kid brother Danny wasn’t anything like him, and they seemed to get along most days.

“And this,” Lady Pemberton said, taking another step down, “is me, if you can believe it.”

Her portrait was smaller, but striking where Louise’s was peaceful. A young woman with auburn hair and large dark eyes stared out from the canvas, her head cocked at an angle as if she were taking the measure of the painter, or perhaps the viewer. The look was piercing, intelligent, and coy at the same time. She wore a black velvet dress tight at the waist and cut low enough that I blushed a bit when I looked at her.

“Seventy years ago, I looked like that, young man,” Great Aunt Sylvia said, a smile on her lips.

“It makes me wish I was born in a different century, Lady Pemberton,” I said, taking her by the hand.

“You flatter very nicely, Captain Boyle,” she said. “You may need all your diplomatic skills at dinner if Meredith has not calmed down.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said, thinking that this family had certainly gone downhill since young Sylvia’s heyday. There were no paintings of Helen or Meredith. Had it gone out of fashion, or was it because Meredith had run off before sitting for her portrait? “Sir Rupert was never painted, I see. Perhaps Peter could do a watercolor of him.” I watched her for any sign acknowledging a link between the two men, but Great Aunt Sylvia gave little away.

“An interesting idea, Captain. But Peter has other things on his mind at the moment. He seems distressed about not going to sea.”

“It’s not possible,” I said, “because of the nature of his work. And it would only be the Channel, in any case. Not exactly going to sea.”

“Still, he keeps muttering about perspective. A valuable commodity, don’t you think?” With that, she moved into the library and accepted a glass of sherry from Edgar. David and Helen were seated on the couch; they stopped talking as we entered. Peter and Kaz were at the window, looking out over the lawn in the dusky light. Peter glanced at me, a haunted and uncertain look in his eyes. Was he distressed at Harding’s decision? I watched Great Aunt Sylvia sipping her sherry and wondered what exactly she had meant about perspective being valuable. I didn’t think she was talking about art. There was something she knew, information she was holding back. Nine decades of life sure gave her the corner on perspective, and I wished she’d be more open about what she knew.

A shriek came from upstairs. Meredith, not angry this time, but surprised, shocked, anguished.

I ran up the steps, heading for Sir Rupert’s study, as Meredith bolted out, one hand clasped over her mouth, eyes uncannily wide. We collided at the head of the stairs, and she pointed to the study, telling me to hurry. A letter had dropped from her hand, and she plucked it hurriedly from the carpet and ran to her room. I dashed into Sir Rupert’s study, fearing the worst, a small part of my mind noting the three-cent stamp and the wrinkled, yellowing envelope.