James Benn - The Rest Is Silence

“How’d you do?” Harding asked as we entered, tapping the ash from his cigarette and sipping his coffee.

“We didn’t identify anyone yet,” I said. “But I can report the navy is working hard at recovering bodies.”

“They’re using nets, like trawlers,” Big Mike said, sitting himself down at the table. There was a plate of Spam sandwiches at the center, but he didn’t make a move for them. Harding poured coffee for us both and set a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey on the table.

“We found maybe seventy or eighty GIs,” I said. “All floating upside down.” I poured equal parts coffee and whiskey for myself.

“Lifebelts worn improperly,” Kaz said. “We have been hearing the same thing all day. No one instructed the soldiers on the LSTs how to use them, or what procedures to follow if torpedoed.”

“No one expected it,” Tom Quick said, his hands cupped around his coffee as he stared into it. “You never do.”

“Expected what?” Big Mike said.

“To have to bail out. Jump into the darkness, whether it’s over Germany or in the Channel. That’s what happens to the other chaps, not you. It’s what I always thought. I’m sure Freddie felt the same way before he bought it. Maybe some men know they’re going to die, but I think we really can’t imagine it until the last second. Those soldiers, going into the water with all that gear on. They didn’t expect it.” Tom’s eyes didn’t move from his cup. “It’s worse than you’re letting on, isn’t it?” He shook his head. “No need to answer. I don’t want to know the details.” Silence settled over us as Harding gave a small shrug. No reason to deny what was plain as day.

“We did have some luck, if you can call it that,” Kaz said. “We found the one noncommissioned officer at the first stop. His body, that is. Sergeant Frank Thompson. Which makes it easier, since we don’t have to search through all the enlisted men.”

“Anyone else?” I asked.

“Yes, a Major Ernest Anderson,” Kaz said, checking his clipboard. “That leaves seven.”

“Four lieutenants, two captains, and one colonel,” Harding said. “They’ll probably be bringing in bodies all night. Make the rounds first thing and report back here.” He reached for a sandwich and bit into it, chewing mechanically as he stared at the list of names. Big Mike seemed to finally take notice of the food and joined in, a bit more enthusiastically.

“Better than bully beef,” Tom said, taking a healthy bite and pouring himself another whiskey. “Hardly edible, but better.” We all laughed, not that it was so funny, but because we were alive and could. We ate and drank. I didn’t drink so much that I couldn’t drive, only enough to take the edge off the day. Turned out it was a damned sharp edge that didn’t dull easily with fortified coffee.

“When you see him,” Harding finally said, forgoing coffee for straight whiskey, “tell Peter Wiley to get his butt back here. He wasn’t missed today with all the commotion, but he’s AWOL at this point.”

“I heard he’d left Ashcroft,” I said, turning to Kaz. “Yesterday, right?”

“Yes. Early in the morning. He left an unfinished painting, so perhaps he returned to Ashcroft while we were all busy today, thinking he would not be noticed.”

“Maybe he’s snuck back in already,” I said. “Let’s check his quarters before we hit the road.”

Harding showed us Wiley’s room upstairs. It had a fine view across the lawns and down to the River Dart. The bed was made, and there was no sign of the bag and paints Wiley had brought to Ashcroft.

“His office?” I said to Harding.

“No, I checked. It’s off limits for security reasons. But I saw nothing missing or unusual. Look around back at Ashcroft. Maybe he wanted to finish that painting. These Coasties are liable to let things slide if a guy’s doing his job. Wiley usually works day and night, so the captain may have turned a blind eye.”

“They’re all out?” I asked.

“More maneuvers and practice landings,” Harding said. “One disaster doesn’t stop the war.”

“If it did, the war would have been over long ago,” Tom Quick said. “Let’s go.” He tapped his hand repeatedly against his leg as we walked outside.

“Your constable pal seems kinda jumpy,” Big Mike said on the ride back. He was driving slowly, the only illumination seeping out of the slit in the taped headlights. Blackout driving was dangerous, especially for pedestrians.

“He is,” I said. “He did thirty missions in a Lancaster.”

“That would make God Almighty jumpy,” Big Mike said. I filled him in on what Tom Quick had been through, losing his family, his friend, and very nearly his grip on reality.

“He used to be a cop, too,” I said, after reviewing what had happened at the racetrack.

“Is that why he’s one of those Reserve guys? They don’t trust him back on the force?”

“Inspector Grange trusts him enough to give him that job,” I said. “But he might not be able to swing the real thing once the war’s over. Sometimes he can drift off. Lose himself when things get difficult.”

“Plenty of times I wish I could do that,” Big Mike said. “He seems like a decent guy. Hope he’s going to be okay. But it’s gotta be hard, losing your wife and kids and then going out to bomb other women and children. What’s the difference, you gotta ask yourself? Some days I wonder how any of us will get through this war with our heads screwed on straight.” He went a little faster over the bridge at Totnes, the moonlight reflecting off the moving water, running high; the tide must have been coming in. Less than a week and I was already a nautical expert. Big Mike slowed as a trio of GIs staggered across the road, their linked arms the only thing keeping them vertical.

“Must be past closing time. Turn left here,” I said, pointing to a narrow country lane that led to the village of Bow, where Bow Creek got its name. Or the other way around. Tree branches shrouded the road, cutting off what light the moon gave.

“What’s up with this Lieutenant Wiley you guys are talking about?” Big Mike asked as he ducked a particularly low hanging limb.

“Navy. Some kind of map-maker, from the little he says about his work. Harding knows, but of course he won’t tell. He showed up at Ashcroft House, asking to visit and set up his easel since his mother had worked there before she went to America.” I told Big Mike about Sir Rupert’s request and the few facts I’d had time to ferret out.

“So what are you going to do now that the old guy’s dead?” Big Mike asked.

“I still have to look into it,” I said. “What if Wiley stands to inherit the place?”

“He won’t be very popular, that’s for sure,” he said. “From the little I’ve seen, that dame Meredith likes running the show. Her old man’s bastard son might be in for a rough welcome.”

Big Mike was right about that. An unexpected relation from the wrong side of the sheets would be the last person Sir Rupert’s daughters would want showing up at the funeral. And I had an uneasy feeling about Sir Rupert’s hasty visit to his solicitor the day before he died. If there were a legal document acknowledging Peter Wiley as his illegitimate son, it would throw a monkey wrench into the works for all concerned. But had Sir Rupert actually changed his will? Maybe, or perhaps there was other family business he rushed off to see his solicitor about hours before he died.

Whatever he’d done, it was time I had a talk with Peter Wiley. The more I mulled it over, the surer I was that he deserved to know the truth, or at least what Sir Rupert had suspected the truth to be. Maybe he wouldn’t care about an inheritance.