James Benn - The Rest Is Silence

Rockets hit the tank and rocked it, a fireball rising from the wreck. Others hit the nearby cottages as I saw Crawford make for his own place, arms and legs pumping as if nothing mattered but getting home. Then the second group of P-47s fired their rockets, and the cottage blew apart, sending timbers hurtling through the air, scattering debris in every direction. The blast knocked me flat, making me feel like I’d gone a few rounds with Joe Louis.

I tried to clear my head and locate Crawford. The pain in my leg was nothing compared to the ringing in my ears. All I could see was dust and swirling smoke. I heard Kaz asking me if I was okay, sounding very far away. And that’s all I remember.

Ashcroft House felt different. It looked different; a lesser place than it had been. Stepping over the threshold as an investigator, not a guest, I saw the cobwebs and cracks in the ceiling, smelled the mustiness of the lies and secrets that permeated the woodwork, and noticed the shabby, faded curtains. Or maybe it was my imagination; it had been a long night, and the brightness of the blue sky had only made my head ache.

Our jeep had been mistaken for another target and shredded by machine-gun fire as the P-47 pilots amused themselves strafing what they thought was a deserted village. The police car survived with only its windows blown out and got us back to headquarters in Dartmouth, where a police surgeon picked shrapnel out of my legs and bandaged me up. Presented with Peter Wiley’s ring and the contents of Crawford’s knapsack, Inspector Grange agreed it was high time for serious talk with all the residents of Ashcroft House. I gave him the lowdown on what I had planned, and he seemed happy for me to stick my neck out and give it a try. There wasn’t a lot of hard evidence other than the ring, and we’d have to do some serious conjuring in order to make a murder charge stick.

Kaz and I downed hot tea loaded with precious sugar, then washed up and changed into clean uniforms. We drove to Ashcroft House in two cars, Kaz and me with Inspector Grange, and Constables Carraher and Dell following. Williams answered our knock and stepped back, looking confused as we paraded into the foyer.

“I will fetch …” he managed, probably not knowing who exactly should be fetched, and trotted off to the back of the house.

“What is this?” Edgar said from the stairway, halting as if he’d prefer to retreat upstairs.

“We need to speak to everyone in the house,” Inspector Grange said. “Please ask family members and staff to assemble.”

“For what reason?” Edgar said, puffing out his chest in indignation.

“In aid of a murder investigation,” Inspector Grange said. “Preferable to having you all brought in to headquarters, isn’t it?” Edgar sagged at that, looking bewildered.

“I am sure that won’t be necessary,” Meredith announced, Williams trailing her like an obedient hound. “We shall be glad to assist. I believe Crawford is out, but the rest of the household is at your service.” She smiled as if she’d been asked to donate old clothes to the church fete. A duty, but a slightly distasteful one. She nodded to Edgar and Williams, who went off to gather their respective peers.

Constable Carraher stood at the double doors, watching as the residents of the house made their way into the library. Inspector Grange stood silently while I rested my arms on the back of a chair, giving my protesting legs a break. David gave Kaz a questioning look, but his friend ignored him, busy keeping his eyes on everybody else. Couldn’t blame him, really, after first arriving as a guest and then returning as Dick Tracy. Williams, Mrs. Dudley, and Alice Withers edged in, their backs to the wall, well away from their betters. Helen sat next to David, her arm through his, her eyes darting nervously back and forth, searching for a clue as to what was about to happen. Meredith followed Edgar in, Lady Pemberton on her arm. Edgar looked grumpy, Lady Pemberton angry.

“Why do we have a guard at the door?” Great Aunt Sylvia demanded as she took her seat. “It is quite enough to be summoned like this, without being glared at by a common constable.”

“We mean no offense to you, Lady Pemberton,” I said, remembering her dislike of policemen in the house even when jewels had been stolen years before. I gave a nod to Carraher, who stepped back from the entrance.

“We have some further questions regarding the death of the American naval officer, Peter Wiley,” Inspector Grange said, giving me a nod. I took a deep breath and stepped forward, one hand on the chair for support.

“Actually, we have very few questions,” I began. “We know most of what happened.”

“Pray tell, what do you mean?” Meredith said. I wasn’t surprised she was the first to speak. She’d be the one to try and steer the conversation her way, to stay in control.

“It’s my fault, really,” I said, ignoring her. “But I’ll come back to that later. First, we knew Crawford would not be here today. We followed him into the restricted area last night, knowing he would go in to retrieve the loot from his home.”

“Loot?” Edgar said. “What do you mean by that? And wasn’t his house destroyed weeks ago?”

“Some of you may know of Crawford’s brushes with the law,” I said, watching for a reaction. “Smuggling before the war, for one. He carried on his thieving ways even after that avenue was closed. It seems he was moonlighting as a burglar, responsible for a string of thefts Inspector Grange had been investigating. He had a hiding place beneath the stone hearth of his cottage. Very secure, safer than a bank. We found gold and jewels, some cash, and this.”

I held out Peter Wiley’s ring with the Pemberton coat of arms. I walked in front of them, letting them see the brightly polished gold.

“But that was Peter’s,” David said. “Wasn’t he wearing it when he drowned?”

“Ah,” I said. “Good question. We can’t say for certain that he drowned. The doctor who did the autopsy had another theory.”

“But how did Crawford come by the ring?” David said. “What did he have to say for himself?”

“Nothing,” I said. “He overstayed his welcome. Dunstone was the target of a rocket attack by fighter-bombers early this morning. He didn’t get out in time. We almost didn’t, either.”

“Roger is dead?” Meredith said, her hand shooting up to her mouth. “Crawford, I mean.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” I said. “He was caught in a rocket barrage.”

“Well, it is upsetting,” Meredith said, lowering her hand and regaining control.

“Of course,” I said. “Quite a trusted member of the household, wasn’t he? The kind of man you’d look to when things had to be taken care of.” I watched the two sisters. Steely eyes from Meredith, a deer-in-the-headlights look from Helen.

“Are you saying Crawford killed Peter?” David asked. “Is that why he had the ring?”

I looked at Edgar, wondering if and when he’d pipe up. But his gaze was on Meredith, his brow furrowed in thought. I wondered if he was thinking of Desdemona. “He wasn’t supposed to keep the ring, but then how can you trust a thief and smuggler?” I said.

“We certainly trusted him,” Meredith said, sounding indignant. “He had the run of the house.”

“He definitely did,” I said. “ ‘Appen the janner will find the shord.’ That’s what old Evan at the pub said. Perhaps the fisherman will find his way through the hedge as well. Meaning he was a sly one, and that he’d make his way where he shouldn’t, just as Sir Rupert did years ago.” Meredith looked away, and I wondered if there was any real sorrow beneath that rigid surface.