James Benn - The Rest Is Silence

“She wasn’t of the same mind about Peter Wiley, was she?”

“Oh, no,” Great Aunt Sylvia whispered. “Quite the opposite. Odd, don’t you think? But then the Sutcliffes have never been straightforward about much of anything.”

“I’m afraid I have some bad news about Peter, Lady Pemberton,” I said. Glancing around, I saw that everyone was in the room and decided this was the best time and place. Great Aunt Sylvia put her hand to her mouth and gasped, perhaps sensing what I was about to say.

“Excuse me,” I said, rising from the couch. “I wanted you all to know that Lieutenant Peter Wiley has died. We received confirmation today.” A little white lie to buy me time as I scanned the faces gathered close. Edgar wagged his head and gave a tch tch before downing the rest of his drink. Meredith sat down, oddly affected by the news, her hand going to her head. Helen took David’s hand, and I wondered if the look on her face was sorrow or worry about how her husband would take the news of another death. David looked at her, the burned side of his face giving me no clue as to what he was feeling.

Williams moved through the room clearing drinks, his face a stone. But his hand trembled and he dropped a sherry glass, which bounced on the thick carpet.

“That’ll be all, Williams,” David said. “Perhaps you should inform Alice and Mrs. Dudley. They will know of anyone in the village who should be told.” Williams bowed and left, and the room remained silent with discomfort. To some, Peter Wiley had been an unwelcome guest, a naïve American who didn’t know his place, and now Meredith and perhaps others didn’t know how to react. He might not have been one of them, but he had been part of Ashcroft House, even if he’d come from downstairs.

“What happened to him?” Lady Pemberton asked, her face ashen.

“Are you all right, Great Aunt Sylvia?” Meredith said, going to her side. “Do you want to lie down?”

“I certainly do not,” she replied. “I would like an answer to my question.”

“He was on the ship that sank in the Channel,” Kaz said. “Evidently he was not expected on board, which led us to believe he’d gone off somewhere.”

“Perhaps that’s why he left in such a hurry,” Meredith said, patting Great Aunt Sylvia’s hand.

“He had such promise,” David said. “But then so have so many.”

It was hard to argue with that. As we filed out of the room to dinner, Crawford stood in the hallway, hands respectfully held behind his back, eyes darting back and forth, as if he were checking for reactions too. Had he been standing there the whole time?

The meal was subdued. There’s nothing like a death notice to put a crimp in the dinner conversation. We had cod, fresh peas, potatoes, and carrots, washed down with a French white wine. Kaz complimented our hosts on the selection, and I wondered if the keys to the wine cellar were getting more of a workout now that Sir Rupert was no longer in charge. Why not? If Meredith and Helen were the big losers tomorrow, they might as well drink up while they could.

Big Mike sat next to Lady Pemberton and kept her amused with his stories of Detroit. But she barely ate, and when Big Mike was busy with a mouthful, her smile vanished. Of the whole bunch, I’d have to say she displayed the most emotion over the news of Peter Wiley’s demise. Maybe the death of the young was even more of a tragedy for the old; they know how much of life there is to be missed.

As the dishes were cleared, David announced he was off to the village pub and asked if any of the men would like to come along. “Drinks on me,” he said. “It will be either the beginning of a tradition or a farewell to North Cornworthy.”

Edgar declined, which was not in character as far as free booze went; maybe he had to reread Hamlet . Big Mike stayed behind as well, and I thought he was becoming as protective of Lady Pemberton as I was.

The Hunter’s Lodge was cheerier than the Ashcroft House dining room, but only because no death had been announced recently. Crawford was there, sitting at a table with Michael Withers. On our last visit, Withers hadn’t liked my asking questions about Roger Crawford, him being an “honest fisherman” and all. If Withers thought Crawford honest, then I had reason to doubt anything he’d told me. They raised their glasses in greeting, but then turned their heads away, no friendly invite to join them.

I recognized Evan, the fellow who’d had fun with us last time using the local dialect. There were about ten others, all workingmen to judge by their clothes, probably from the nearby mill. David asked if he could buy a round for everyone and the resounding cheer told him the answer was yes. The publican began to draw pints, and David chatted with Evan and a few others. No one mentioned his potential as a new squire, but it didn’t seem as if anyone would mind.

“Captain, ’ow be?” Evan said, raising his pint.

“I be fine, Evan,” I said, taking his meaning. “ ’Ow be thee?”

“Oh, you’ve got it down proper,” Evan said, laughing. “Are you done counting bodies now? That was a terrible business, it was.” On this serious subject, Evan made himself easily understood.

“Yes,” I said. “War’s full of bad business. How’d you hear about it?”

“Crawford, who works up at the house. He told us how he’d heard from his cousin on a shore battery. Seen it all, he said. Took his own boat out to see if he could find any lads before Jerry or the cold finished ’em off. But the navy turned him back. Too dangerous, they said. Too secret, I say. Who wants to admit to a disaster like that, eh?”

“I can’t say I would, Evan. But Crawford’s cousin may have exaggerated things a bit. It wasn’t as bad as the rumors say.”

“Well, Crawford can be a spuddler sometimes,” Evan said in a whisper.

“Pardon?”

“Sorry, old butt. Means a troublemaker. He that stirs the pot, understand?”

“All too well, Evan. And if you’re ever in Boston, don’t call a guy in a bar an ‘old butt,’ okay?”

“Good one! An old butt’s a fine friend,” he said with a laugh, clapping me on the back. “And you’re one as well, Captain Boyle. Now go and get your pint.”

I did, and David was right behind me. As befits the temporary squire, he waited for his until everyone else was served, then raised his glass in a toast.

“To the dead.” A dozen voices responded with the same, each with their own memories from the last war, this war, the hard times and grueling mill work, whatever served to put the dead in the ground. The toast put me in mind of the two basic motives for murder: love and money. Both seemed in short supply, but there was no shortage of the dead.

After the conversation faded and men were faced with the prospect of paying for their next round, the room thinned out. David, Kaz, and I got another round and sat by the fire.

“Whoever ends up with Ashcroft will have a lot of work to do,” David said. “From what Helen tells me, Sir Rupert wasn’t much for upkeep. The outbuildings are in need of repair and filled with useless junk.”

“Mrs. Dudley did mention Ted Wiley kept them filled with machinery in the old days. She said he always enjoyed a tinker,” Kaz said.

“Probably why he opened a hardware store in New York,” I said.

“I think Helen mentioned they had a lot of rusted junk hauled away some time ago for the scrap drives,” David said. “I looked around in there yesterday and I did see where a motorbike had been stored. It must have been Peter’s.”

“That is likely,” Kaz said. “But how could you tell it was a motorbike?”

“By the tracks leading out of the barn,” David said. “A motorbike leaves a tread mark like a bicycle, only deeper on account of the weight, and slightly thicker. And there were oil stains where it had been parked in the barn. Probably an older model. Lots of people making do with what they had before the war, as we do.”