James Benn - The Rest Is Silence

We pulled into the Ashcroft House drive, with Kaz not far behind after he dropped Constable Quick off at his lodgings. I looked at the stone house on the hill, stars twinkling above the darkened structure. Who in their right mind would walk away from a piece of this action? I needed to talk to Wiley.

Inside, the wireless was on in the library, and we stopped in to see who was still up. Edgar and Crawford sat side by side, their heads bent close in hushed conversation. As Big Mike and I entered the room, they broke apart, relaxing back in their seats as if they were intent on listening to the symphony.

“Good evening,” I said. “Crawford, this is Sergeant Mike Miecznikowski. I don’t think you were introduced earlier.”

“Big Mike to my friends,” he said, extending his hand to Crawford.

“I don’t have Yank friends,” Crawford said, ignoring the proffered handshake.

“Or manners,” Big Mike said. He moved in even closer, his big mitt still outstretched.

“Oh, all right,” Crawford said, standing up and taking Big Mike’s hand, then sitting down again, shaking his head as if it had been a mere misunderstanding. “Been a long day, nothing personal meant by it. Sounds like the American navy took a thrashing last night. How’d you get on looking for those fellas?”

“Pretty well,” I said, not interested in going into details. “And from what I heard, it was the Royal Navy that had escort duties, by the way.”

“Well, no excuse for letting the Jerries in,” Crawford said. “I didn’t mean to blame anyone, you know. I only heard from my cousin about American ships being hit. He saw the sky light up all the way from his battery at Salcombe.”

“Drink?” Edgar asked, always knowing the right thing to say. We accepted a nightcap, settling into the comfortable chairs by the radio.

“Has Peter Wiley come back, by any chance?” I asked.

“I haven’t seen him,” Edgar said. “Have you, Crawford?”

“No. Haven’t laid eyes on him since he left. Or rather, the day before, since he left quite early. Are you looking to find him, Captain Boyle?”

“No,” I said. “I thought he might come back to finish that painting.”

“That might not be possible,” Edgar said. “Meredith took a dislike to the young man. Now that Sir Rupert’s gone, I doubt he’d be welcomed back. His mother was a servant, after all.”

“Nothing wrong with being in service,” Crawford said, his eyes steady on Edgar.

“Admirable, I say,” Edgar declared. “Whatever would we do without those who serve? No offense meant, Crawford.”

I finished my drink before I said something I’d have to apologize for. This was a side of Edgar I hadn’t seen before. Not quite the henpecked boozehound tonight. A bit more on the snarly side, with that cutting remark about servants. More Meredith than do-gooding Edgar. Big Mike and I left as Kaz came in, and as we ascended the stairs, all I could think about were the floating bodies and the bed waiting for me. A tiny part of my brain wondered what Crawford was doing at ease with Edgar in the library. That was for family and guests, not the help, especially under the new regime. But the thought drifted away, replaced by visions of boots I knew would haunt my dreams.

Meredith buttered her toast in a fury, crumbs flying from the knife’s edge, encircling her plate with a dark halo to match her mood.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” she said, not for the first time that morning. “A formal reading of the will, and not until after the funeral. The nerve of that solicitor!”

“Darling, Farnsworth is simply following instructions left by your father. Don’t blame the old boy for doing his job,” Edgar said, tossing sugar into his coffee.

“How like Father to make things difficult even after he’s gone,” Meredith said, snapping off a chunk of toast and sending more charred bits onto the white tablecloth. “I mean, really, how extraordinarily Victorian. No one has a reading of the will these days. The solicitor simply fetches it for one, I believe. Isn’t that right?”

“I’m not certain myself,” David said. “Never had much business with wills, except the one I had drawn up before I joined the service. Not that I had much to leave to anyone but Helen, but I thought it best to clarify things.”

“Exactly my point,” Meredith said. “A will should clarify things, not muddy the waters. Don’t you agree, Baron Kazimierz?”

“All I know,” Kaz said, gulping the last of his coffee, “is that we have our own muddy waters awaiting us. I am sure things will turn out for the best. I am sorry we cannot spend more time with you this morning.” Big Mike looked pained by that pronouncement-he had only eaten a breakfast fit for a normal person and had undoubtedly been looking forward to more bacon.

“I hope you’ll be back for dinner,” David said.

“We can’t say for sure. But if Peter Wiley should return,” I said as I rose to leave, “could you please tell him to get back to base immediately? His leave is up.” I thought it best not to mention it had been up for a while.

“Oh, he’s probably off painting somewhere,” David said. “Artists, you know, they lose all track of time.”

“I was so sorry he hadn’t time to finish the painting of Ashcroft,” Helen said. “Perhaps he will return and complete it.”

“Well, he won’t be staying here if he does,” Meredith said. “We won’t be housing and feeding returning sons and daughters of every servant who has worked here. Not if I have anything to say on the subject.” She glared at the others, inviting any opposition. The motion was carried by unanimous silence.

Kaz and Big Mike were already at the front door, ready for another morgue ride. I told them to head out. I had to pick up Tom Quick, but first I wanted to check in on Lady Pemberton. Or Great Aunt Sylvia, as I’d come to think of her. There was something endearing about the woman, and I’d been worried to find her confused and half asleep the day before, so I dashed upstairs for a quick check and to say good morning, hoping to find her ready to come down for breakfast.

It didn’t work out that way. I knocked on her sitting-room door and pushed it open. She was slumped over in the same chair by the window she’d been in the day before, a broken cup on the floor, the saucer still on her lap, and tea stains on her robe. Her head was lolling to the side, dried saliva leaving a whitish trail down her chin.

“Lady Pemberton!” I said, taking her hand in mine and supporting her head. The hand was warm, and I saw a flutter of eyelashes. “It’s me, Billy. Are you all right?”

“Oh … Captain Boyle … Billy, yes,” she said, her voice distant and faint. “What happened?”

“You fell asleep,” I said, taking the saucer and picking up the broken pieces of china. A tray with uneaten toast and a small tea pot sat on the side table. “You dropped your cup. I’ll get Alice to come help you get cleaned up.”

“Oh dear,” she said. “Two cups, and I still can’t stay awake. What’s wrong with me?”

“You’ve had a shock, Lady Pemberton. Besides, you spilled most of this one. Don’t worry about it. This must be a tough time for you.”

“Rupert, you mean? Well, I would not have wished him harm, but I am hardly distraught, young man. Billy,” she said, correcting herself and softening her tone. She smoothed her dressing gown and sat up straight, gathering her dignity about her. “I have lost my husband and my son, along with most of my friends, and this is my second major war. I don’t count the Boer War, that wasn’t a proper affair at all. So you see, it takes a fair bit to rattle this old lady.”