James Benn - A Blind Goddess

“You the Yanks we’re waiting on?”

“That’s us,” I said to the constable. He nodded toward the front door of number eight Swan Court. A small sign proclaimed it to be the Kennet Arms, but it looked like any decent-sized house, three floors under a steep-sloped black slate roof.

“There you are,” a man with a pipe clenched between his teeth said from the open door. “Come around the back and take a look at the body. Detective Inspector John Payne,” he said, extending a hand. I did the introductions and we followed him around the side of the house. Payne was tall and lanky, a brown unbuttoned topcoat billowing behind him as he walked.

“Meet Mr. Stuart Neville,” he said, working his pipe and blowing a stream of smoke to the sky. A constable who had been standing guard stood aside, revealing a set of stone steps leading down to a cellar door at the rear of the house. At the base of the steps was a crumpled form that a civilian might have mistaken for a pile of discarded clothes, if not for the pale white face with the startled look. Wisps of longish hair had fallen over one eye, but the other was staring up at us, or the sky beyond. You might expect him to hop up, dust himself off, and call himself a clumsy sod, if not for the odd angle of his neck.

“May I?” I said, gesturing toward the body.

“Oh, sure,” Payne said. “We’ve had more than enough time to take fingerprints, waiting for you.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“Don’t you worry, Captain Boyle. We’re happy to cooperate. Two heads better than one, eh? Mr. Neville could have used another, that’s plain to see. Go ahead.”

I descended the stairs, which were steep and narrow, tailor-made for an accident. Maybe Neville slipped and broke his neck. Case closed. There was barely room to stand at the bottom, which was a square about four feet on either side in front of a cellar door. Neville wore a tweed jacket, a rumpled shirt, his tie askew, and wool pants that had seen better days. With clothes being strictly rationed, that didn’t mean much. The soles of his shoes were well worn, the shoes themselves mud-splattered. I felt them; shoes and socks were wet. Maybe he had slipped and fallen after all?

But then I turned the head, and I realized what Payne had meant about a second one coming in handy. The back of Neville’s skull was a bloody pulp. Someone had whacked him hard and sent him flying down the stairs. Maybe the blow had broken his neck or it happened when he hit the bottom. Either way, he was probably dead on impact.

“Any blood trail?” I asked as I came up the steps.

“None that we found,” Payne said. “Seems like he took a blow to the head right here and tumbled down the steps.”

“He was found early this morning, right?”

“Yes, by Sergeant Jerome Sullivan, who is still inside. He came to the house for breakfast. Apparently the sergeant is a fan of Mrs. Miller’s cooking as well as being smitten with young Eva Miller, and is quite welcome at the house, especially when bearing the gift of coffee. He walked up the river path and was about to knock at the back door when he caught sight of the body.”

“All right, I’ll talk to him.”

“He’s the reason we’re to say you’re here, so I understand,” Payne said.

“Same here, Inspector. And if I knew the real reason, I’d tell you straight out. But I don’t, other than I was a cop myself in civilian life.”

“Then we’re both in the dark about this. Standard fare in our profession, isn’t it? You’re welcome to speak to the family, and I’ll share what I know with you, but let’s keep this friendly, Captain Boyle, shall we? Make no mistake, this is a Berkshire Constabulary investigation.”

“This is your turf, Inspector.” What else could I say?

“Fine. I’ll be glad to brief you on the Millers’ statements. First, I need to call the coroner to come and fetch the body.”

“I’d rather speak to them myself, before you tell me what they said. Is that all right?”

“It’s the way I’d prefer it, should I ever find myself getting in the way of a murder investigation in America. Go on in, you’ll find them in the kitchen.”

“Have you canvassed the neighborhood yet?” I asked.

“No, I planned to do that next. We’re shorthanded here, and with a man out front waiting for you and one in the back standing over the body, I had no one to send.”

“Sergeant Miecznikowski-you can call him Big Mike-was also a cop back in the States. He can help out with that.”

“I believe I will use the nickname,” Payne said, giving Big Mike a wink. “Constable Higgins, take the sergeant along and check the neighbors. Ask about anything unusual during the night or early morning.”

“And ask them if they were used to seeing Neville out at odd hours, and if he went boating,” I said. “His feet are wet.”

“There are puddles on the path along the canal,” Payne said. “Could have come from there. The ground is hardpacked, though, no footprints. So, off with you, Higgins. Lieutenant Kazimierz, perhaps you should wait outside, to keep up the appearance of a purely American involvement.”

“Excellent idea, Inspector,” Kaz said. His British uniform with the Poland shoulder patch would only raise questions we couldn’t answer. “I will wait for the coroner and search Neville’s pockets, if you don’t mind.”

“Have at him,” Payne said. “Give whatever you find to Constable Gilbert.”

“When you’re done, Kaz, take a walk along the canal and check things out. Neville and his assailant probably came from that direction.”

I followed the inspector inside. The aroma of coffee and cigarette smoke hung in the air. I entered the kitchen as Payne tromped down the hall to use the telephone.

“Sir!” A US Army Air Force buck sergeant stood to attention. His eyes were wide, his expression fearful, but his posture was good. He looked nineteen, twenty tops.

“Relax, soldier,” I said, focusing on the Millers, who sat at the kitchen table, eyeing me. “I’m Captain Billy Boyle. Would you mind answering a few more questions?”

“Yes, certainly,” George Miller said, nodding in excessive agreement. His English was good but the accent was perceptible, the same as the potbelly stretching the buttons on his vest. “Anything we can do to help. This is a terrible business.”

“Please, sit down, Captain. May I offer you coffee?” Carla Miller looked at me expectantly. Her English was also good, clipped with a British accent, either picked up here or from the person who taught her. She had a healthy look about her, ruddy cheeks, fair skin, and blonde hair shot through with strands of grey.

“Thank you, Mrs. Miller, that would be nice.” I sat, and motioned for my fellow Yank to sit as well. I wanted them at ease, and the best way to do that was to make this a social call. Coffee and chitchat about the dead guy outside.

“A terrible business,” Carla Miller said, busying herself with a cup and saucer. “Who could do such a thing to poor Mr. Neville?”

“And why, that’s what I wonder,” George Miller said. “There must be a lunatic loose. It makes no sense.” George lit a cigarette, after offering me one. A Lucky Strike. I said no, and made a mental note that Sergeant Jerome Sullivan was no dummy, bringing gifts of scarce smokes and java to his girlfriend’s parents. George shook his head sadly, blowing blue smoke in every direction.

“He was a boarder here?” I asked as Carla set a cup of steaming coffee in front of me. It would be impolite to ask for sugar with wartime rationing, unless that luxury was included among Jerome’s gifts.

“Yes. Mr. Neville has been with us over a year now,” Carla said, her accent almost musical in its cadence. “Or was.”