James Benn - A Blind Goddess

The small room and lumpy bed at the Hog’s Head was more than made up for by Mrs. Monk’s breakfast. Warm bread, fresh preserves, and strong tea put things into perspective. I hadn’t slept well, but the bed was only partly to blame. I was worried about Diana and her quest to report the truth about the extermination camps far above her place in the chain of command. In my experience, truth and warfare made for a volatile combination, and there were plenty of politicians who only let the truth see the light of day if it reflected well on them.

I’d wanted to talk to her about that, to help prepare her for what I knew would be a disappointment. But all I’d left her with was a few lines scribbled on paper.

Memories of that summer in 1936 had run through my mind all night as well. Funny, it wasn’t all the crap I had to take from Basher and his buddies that stayed with me. It was Tree, and how for a short time we became best buddies, until the harsh world of grown men and their hatreds turned our way and ruined everything. Well, ruined Tree’s life. I was white, and all right, so it was a bump in the road for me. He had to get back, way back.

I forced the thoughts and worries out of my mind as I buttoned my trench coat up tight and stepped out into the misty rain. The day was a refreshing change from yesterday’s chill. It was warm and damp, the kind of early spring morning that holds the promise of growth to come. I stood on the bridge overlooking the canal and watched the path that led along the embankment, toward the Millers’ house. An old man in a rain slicker walked his dog, and waved to a woman with a terrier on the other side.

They looked like regulars. Dog walkers who went out the same time each day, rain or shine. Dogs needed walking at night too. I left the bridge and walked down Bartholomew Street, with its brick buildings close to the narrow road and shoppers lining up beneath umbrellas at a butcher’s shop. There must have been rumors of meat. There was a police car outside of the Newbury Building Society, where Inspector Payne and I were to meet.

“Captain Boyle,” Payne said as soon as I entered. “This is Michael Flowers, manager of the society.”

“The Newbury, as we like to call it,” Flowers said, extending his hand. “Terrible news about Neville. Hard to believe, isn’t it? Well, not in your line of work, perhaps.” Michael Flowers was middle-aged, short, balding, and obviously nervous about detectives on his turf. He wore a pencil-thin mustache and an insincere smile.

“We do encounter it upon occasion,” Inspector Payne said. “We’d like a look at Mr. Neville’s office, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly, certainly,” Flowers said, nearly pushing us out of the lobby. “Please follow me.”

“Is this a bank?” I asked him as he led us up two flights of stairs. “I’m not sure what a building society is.”

“Not exactly a bank, more like a credit union, which I believe you have in America. Building societies were originally organized by a small group of people who wanted to save for a mortgage. A cooperative financial institution, owned by the members, operated for their own benefit. So not like a bank, if you take my meaning.”

“What was Stuart Neville’s job?” I asked, as Flowers unlocked the door to a small office. Small and nearly empty.

“He evaluated building plans, mortgage applications, that sort of thing. He was often on the road, making visits. He’d come in to write up his reports, but he didn’t spend a lot of time here.” I could see why. One wooden desk and chair. One sidetable holding a typewriter. A filing cabinet, a hat rack, and a bookshelf crammed with directories, atlases, annual reports of the Newbury Building Society, and some really fascinating reading on building regulations.

Payne sat at the desk and looked through the files and papers scattered in no particular order. “What was Neville working on before he died?”

“He’d finalized two applications, one for a shopkeeper in Kintbury, and another for a couple in Hungerford. The couple’s was approved, but the shopkeeper’s application was not,” Flowers said. “Although I’m certain that could have had nothing to do with the murder.” He nearly giggled as he contemplated death by mortgage.

“I thought you said he traveled quite a bit. Those two are certainly close by,” I said.

“Oh, it all depends on our members and where they’re from. We’ve expanded a great deal. In the old days, when all the original members of a building society received their mortgages, the society would disband. Job done, you see? But the Newbury has been so successful that we’ve stayed in business and grown. Still a cooperative venture, though.”

“So Neville wouldn’t travel to meet with a stranger, then?” Payne said.

“No, he only worked on applications from existing members,” Flowers said. “And marketing was not his department, so there would be little reason for him to do business with anyone not known to us.”

I opened the top drawer of the file cabinet. Folders were neatly arranged and labeled by name and date. “These are all from 1940. Where are his current files?”

“They’ve been distributed to other staff. I didn’t think the police would want to look at them. I’m not even sure I should let you. I may need to ask the chairman of the board about that.” Flowers didn’t seem thrilled at the prospect.

“We don’t need to look at the files themselves,” Payne said. “I don’t care about your members’ finances, but I do want a list of names and addresses.”

“I will have to ask Lord Mayhew,” Flowers said, his smile disappearing.

“Reginald Mayhew?” Payne asked, looking up from his inspection of the desk.

“Exactly,” Flowers said. “He has held the chair since the beginning of the war. Now if there is nothing else, I will leave you gentlemen to it. Please call upon me if you need any other assistance. You are not a member, Inspector Payne, are you?”

“No need, thank you.” Flowers left, probably to telephone his boss and call down the wrath of His Lordship on Inspector Payne.

“Anything in the drawers?” I asked Payne.

“Erasers, pencils, application forms, and several other reasons I am quite happy to be a policeman, dead bodies and all. Nothing of interest.”

“I can’t help feeling that’s the biggest clue we’ve found.”

“What the devil do you mean, Boyle? We haven’t found a single clue.”

“Right. No clues, no evidence of anything other than a boring life and a boring job. He did have a nice view, though.” I parted the curtains and looked through the wide window. From up here, he had a clear view over the rooftops, along the canal, and to the back door of the Kennet Arms. Where he’d been murdered.

“Your point, then, about the clues?” Payne said.

“It’s like that Sherlock Holmes story. The one about the dog in the nighttime.”

“Ah, the curious incident of the dog in the nighttime. The dog that did not bark, which was the clue Holmes observed. ‘Silver Blaze,’ I think it was.”

“Yes, that one. Inspector, think about it. We’ve turned over Neville’s home and office, and we’ve not found anything. Not a liquor bottle hidden in a desk drawer, no French postcards, not the slightest embarrassment. How many guys could pull that off?”

“Interesting speculation, Boyle. Put your time to better use and leaf through those books, will you? He may have hidden his dirty pictures in there.” Payne gave a chuckle as he went through the last drawer, piling stacks of paper on the desk. I pawed through books and found one stamped rail ticket to Hastings from 1941. Hardly useful.

“Have you seen a briefcase?” I said. “He was carrying one in the photograph.”