James Benn - The Rest Is Silence

What else did I know for certain? Nothing.

It was probable, based on what Major Dawes had said about his cloudy eyes, that Peter died out of the water.

It was possible, also based on Dawes’s observation, that Peter had been burked. Suffocated. But that one was iffy. I could imagine a crowded scene on a sinking ship, men surging to escape through a hatchway, pressing Peter against a bulkhead and constricting his breathing. It happened often enough when crowds stampeded. But Peter wasn’t supposed to be on a ship, was he? So how did he end up in a navy life jacket, among the dead who were?

The motorbike tracks. How did they fit in? I decided that wasn’t even worth pursuing. Too many other explanations presented themselves. Crawford on a bicycle loaded down with … what? Alice Withers on the back, getting a ride to town? Crawford didn’t seem the type to grant a favor like that. But I was an American, and there was no love lost between us on account of that. Maybe he was a swell guy to his own people.

A knock sounded behind me. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“Billy,” Big Mike said. “You okay? I called your name but you didn’t budge.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Lost in thought, that’s all, trying to figure out what happened to Lieutenant Wiley.”

“Well, here’s something to cheer you up,” he said, handing me an envelope. “A letter from Diana. She sent it to the office, probably figuring one of us would get it to you.” With that, he left me alone.

The return address was Seaton Manor. Which meant she was on leave, and released from whatever exile MI5 had condemned her to after my last case. Which also meant I might get to see her soon. Not a bad deduction for a detective who couldn’t tell up from down in the Wiley case.

I opened the letter gently, so I could close it again to keep it safe. Diana had two weeks’ leave, a third of which was used up, judging by the date on the letter. She’d be in London in two days, then busy with other matters for some time. With the invasion coming and her working for the Special Operations Executive, you didn’t need to be a detective to work that one out.

There was some other stuff, this being a love letter. I’ll keep that to myself, thank you very much.

I sauntered down the stairs, patting the letter in my pocket. It meant I’d see Diana soon. It also meant she’d probably be parachuting into Nazi-occupied France next, but this was wartime, and we’d both learned to take our pleasure where we could and not worry about the worst that could happen. Dwelling on the horrors of combat and clandestine operations tended to put a damper on things.

As I made for the kitchen, I heard a loud thump from the room right ahead. I peaked in, pushing the door open all the way. The room was crammed with boxes and packing crates, with barely a spot to stand in. A box of files had broken, and papers cascaded across what little floor space there was. A stout, matronly woman stood over them, shaking her head, one hand pressed to her brow.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Can I help you?” She was well dressed, her hair done in curls and a string of pearls around her neck. Definitely not a cleaning woman or domestic. So I framed the question the way you do when someone is where they’re not supposed to be. But she took me literally.

“Oh!” she said, giving a start and patting her hand over her heart. “You surprised me, young man. Yes, how nice of you to offer. Could you gather these papers up for me?” She sat down at a table, the only clear spot in the room. “I was looking for a particular document when the whole affair came tumbling down. You are so kind to help.”

“Glad to, ma’am,” I said, handing her a pile of papers. “May I ask what you’re doing in here? This is a naval headquarters, after all.”

“My goodness, where are my manners? I am Mrs. Mallowan, the owner of Greenway House. Along with Max, of course. My husband. He’s in Cairo with the intelligence service. Can’t say any more about that, as I’m sure you understand.”

“Captain Billy Boyle, ma’am. Glad to meet you. It was nice of you to give up your home. It’s quite a setting.” I gathered up the rest of the papers, trying to glance at what was written on them without being too obvious about it. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her, and I hoped some clue would jump out from the jumble of documents.

“Oh, I didn’t give it up. His Majesty’s Government took it for the duration,” she said. “But I don’t mind, what with Max gone. I live and work in London, and I’m glad these nice Americans can enjoy Greenway. They let me have this one room to store my personal possessions. I had to come down from London to find a copy of a contract. Oh, there it is. You’ve found it, Captain Boyle.”

She snatched a stack of papers from my hand, but not before I saw the letterhead. William Collins and Company. Then it hit me. I’d seen this woman last night right before I fell asleep.

“You’re Agatha Christie,” I said.

“There you have me, Captain Boyle. It’s Agatha Mallowan in real life, but in the world of literature, I do confess, I am she.”

“I’m reading Lord Edgware Dies right now,” I said, feeling a little star-struck. “It’s great.”

“Thank you, Captain Boyle. You are most gallant, helping me and paying a compliment at the same time. What is it you do here at Greenway House? I thought it was mainly naval personnel here.”

“Coast Guard, most of them, actually. I’m not stationed here. I’m a detective, or at least I was back in Boston. Now I work for General Eisenhower.”

“What a delight to meet a real detective, Captain Boyle. Has someone been murdered at Greenway House?” She smiled conspiratorially, but the look on my face must have told her that I really was here on official business. “Oh dear, is it true?”

“A lieutenant, name of Peter Wiley,” I said. “Although I doubt he was killed here.”

“Peter!” Her hand went to her mouth and her eyes widened. “What a sweet, talented young man. I saw him painting in the garden the last time I visited, and we struck up a conversation. I remember his delicate hands. So sad. As are all the deaths, of course, but when you know someone is full of promise, it becomes a tragedy twice again, doesn’t it?”

“That’s a good way of putting it, Mrs. Mallowan. He had a lot to look forward to.” His artwork, not to mention a sizeable and unexpected inheritance.

“It’s suddenly very close in here, Captain Boyle. Would you care to walk in the fresh air with me? I would like to hear more about Peter’s death, if you’re willing.”

I was. Who better to consult with than the creator of Hercule Piorot?

We sat on a bench, overlooking the sloping lawn of Greenway House. In the distance, a flight of Spitfires roared their way to the Channel, the snarl of engines echoing off the banks of the River Dart.

“They are so graceful, those devices of war,” Mrs. Mallowan said. “It is sometimes hard to imagine how terribly lethal they are.”

“That applies to people as well,” I said.

“Yes. And of course we make the hardware of war in our own image, don’t we? A combination of beauty, brutality, and efficiency. Now, tell me how young Peter died.”

“First, I need to tell you about his parents,” I said. Her sadness about Peter notwithstanding, I saw a gleam of fascination in her eyes. She understood this would be no ordinary story. I began with Peter showing up at Ashcroft House, shocking everyone with his ring. Went on to Sir Rupert’s request for me to determine if Peter was his son. Then I gave her a sanitized version of Operation Tiger, and asked her to keep mum about what little I did tell her. I described the Sutcliffe clan and Lady Pemberton, told her about Sir Rupert’s death and all that followed, including the revelations at the reading of the will. I finished up with the discovery of Peter’s body among the dead and the missing ring. When I was finished, she remained silent, her brow furrowed in thought.