James Benn - The Rest Is Silence

“Are you sure?” I asked, after thinking through what she’d said.

“Goodness, no, Captain Boyle!” Mrs. Mallowan laughed, turning her face toward mine and clapping her hands together. “I am sure of so little. These are merely ideas, based on what you have told me. When I am planning a book, I sketch out concepts and characters and let them take me where they will. This is much like that process. I am extrapolating from what you’ve told me. But if I spent five minutes with poor Helen or ferocious Meredith, I might form an entirely different opinion of them. I only know them at second hand, through your American eyes, after all.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “You’ve given me a different way to look at these people, and that’s a big help. It’s been fun talking shop with you.”

“Remember to watch for those small inconsistencies, Captain Boyle. Now, is there anything you’ve forgotten to tell me about? Something so minor you left it out?” I didn’t think so, until I thought of the motorcycle tracks.

“Peter arrived on a motorbike. It hasn’t been found. But we discovered tire tracks leading out of a barn at Ashcroft House. The only thing is, it was after that heavy rain. They likely would have been washed away if he’d left when everyone said he did.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Mallowan said, rising from the bench. “That is not good, not good at all.”

“We thought it might have been a bicycle, actually, carrying a heavy load.” As I watched the worried look on her face, I began to feel guilty for not pursuing this clue more thoroughly.

“It could be. But don’t you see? If it isn’t, you are in some danger, Captain Boyle.”

“I can handle myself,” I said, somewhat defensively.

“I’m sure you can, but this is an unusual business. Have you thought about the implications?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the motorbike may have been used to spirit away the body of poor Peter Wiley, which means the killer is definitely someone from Ashcroft House. Do you have any idea where the motorbike is now?”

“It could be anywhere. In the river, maybe.”

“I don’t think so, Captain. You mentioned that an inexpensive watch was stolen from Peter’s body, as well as the gold ring. That tells me that the thief-and I assume that the thief and the killer are one and the same-is not one to waste anything. A man-or woman-who knows the value of things, and who has perhaps gone without in life.”

“We looked through the barn,” I said. “I guess we could do a better search of the property.”

“Where do Meredith and Helen live?”

“London. But they’d never get enough petrol to drive a motorbike there, not that I can envision either one of them on one.”

“Then that leaves Crawford, the estate manager,” she said. “I have two recommendations for you, Captain Boyle. First, check his house in the South Hams. A restricted area makes a fine hiding place.”

“Good idea. What’s the other?”

“Move out of Ashcroft House immediately. This affair is not yet concluded.”

“Who were you speaking to?” Kaz asked as I started up the jeep to drive to Dartmouth. Big Mike was stuck with Colonel Harding, doing something hush-hush, and we were detailed to check on Monty’s spy. Or liaison officer, depending on how diplomatic I felt.

“Agatha Christie,” I said.

“No, Billy, not the voices in your head,” Kaz retorted. “The lady on the bench.”

“Don’t believe your pal, eh?” I accelerated going into the curve leading to the main road, and Kaz held on to his hat and his seat.

“You read enough detective novels that it’s easy to imagine you carrying on imaginary conversations with the authors,” Kaz said. “Didn’t I once see you throw a book against the wall and curse the writer?”

“Yeah, because it was a lousy book,” I said. “But it just so happens that Agatha Christie, or Mrs. Mallowan, as she prefers to be called, owns Greenway House. It was taken over by the government for the duration, and she was back to look for some business papers.”

“Really?” Kaz asked. “Did you discuss the case with her?”

“Yeah. I gave her the basics. She’d met Peter and was upset to hear the news.” I went over what we’d talked about, taking it easy on the curves so he could concentrate.

“Those are interesting insights into Meredith and Helen,” he said. “But a bit of a stretch concerning the motorbike. Not impossible though. It’s too bad Diana isn’t here. She may have come to the same conclusion about the two women.”

“That’s some other news I have,” I said, and told Kaz about Diana’s letter.

“Good for you both,” he said. “Now, what do you think about the advice to leave Ashcroft House?”

“I think it’s time,” I said. “We have a lot to look into, and I’d prefer not to investigate people whose roof I’m staying under. Let’s find this Major McClure and see if he’s come up with anything. I doubt it, but orders are orders. Then we’ll pack up and say our goodbyes.”

“For now,” Kaz said.

“Right,” I said. “And I want to put some gentle pressure on Great Aunt Sylvia. She is definitely hiding something. She’s afraid of scandal and what it would do to the family’s reputation. The Pemberton family, that is.”

“Do you think her recent illness was real?”

“She seemed genuinely disoriented, and worried about it too. That’s hard to fake.” We crossed the river and drove through the small villages on the outskirts of Dartmouth. British Tommies were on the march today, single file on either side of the road, their hobnail boots raising a racket as they double-timed it while carrying full packs and rifles at ports arms. I almost felt guilty as I sped past them.

As we wound our way into Dartmouth through streets choked with bicycles, sailors, military vehicles, and GIs searching for girls, Kaz and I talked about the ring and the likelihood of its simply having been purloined by any of the soldiers or civilians recovering bodies. It wouldn’t be the first time greed won out over decency. But I was coming around to the notion that it was somewhere in Ashcroft House, hidden by one of its denizens.

“Why?” Kaz asked when I spoke of my hunch.

“Because of everything Mrs. Mallowan said. Meredith keeping the letter all those years. Helen suddenly getting lovey with David.”

“You are suspicious because a wife treats her wounded husband well?”

“No, I’m suspicious because her behavior changed,” I said. “I think Meredith is up to no good, and Helen is going along with it. That’s why she’s leaning on David; she knows she’s wrong and wants some comfort from him. I don’t think she’s made of the same stuff as Meredith.” I pulled over near the docks, where the grey warships and transports were lined up like a wall of steel.

“Do you think David is involved in Peter Wiley’s death?” Kaz asked, his voice low and his eyes drilling into mine.

“No,” I said, after a few seconds. “It doesn’t add up. He did drop the idea of going back on active service pretty quickly, but that could well be because he saw a future for himself at Ashcroft.”

“Remember, he was turned down by Harding at Greenway House,” Kaz said. “He didn’t give up, necessarily.”

“No, but he didn’t seem disappointed, did he? We both expected him to take it hard.” We got out of the jeep and walked to the embankment, looking for LST 289, where Major McClure was running his investigation. Sections of wharf ran out into the harbor, some long and wide enough for trucks to offload supplies and men. Others were smaller, with destroyers, Motor Torpedo Boats, and other craft tied up alongside. The tide was out, and the smell of rotting fish wafted up from the muddy flats.