James Benn - A Blind Goddess

“Bunkers?”

“You’ll find them all along the canal, on the north side. This was to be the main defense line in case of invasion. They’re all abandoned now, of course. Inspector Payne searched them first, thinking Sophia might have fallen and been hurt, but there was no sign of her. She’d simply vanished while the girls were playing. They thought she’d come back here ahead of them, and thought nothing about it. Do you think they will find her? Alive, I mean.”

“If she is alive,” I said, deciding to stick with the truth, “she’s far away from this search.”

“Then someone took her. Either alternative is horrible. But tell me, Captain Boyle, why did you ask only about relatives in connection with your murder? I understand you would want to know about any suspicious strangers in town, but couldn’t a friend of the family have taken Sophia away? Perhaps someone who didn’t have legal guardianship, but who had her best interests at heart?” She looked at me with raised eyes, almost pleading for me to agree.

“Sure, that’s possible. It was one of the first things I thought about. Thanks again.”

She shut the door behind me, and I think we were both glad to end on that fantasy. I left, having accomplished nothing but the raising of false hope.

I drove slowly along the Hungerford Road, and took a wide, unpaved lane toward the canal, figuring this was the lane Mrs. Ross had mentioned. It did lead to an ancient brick bridge, probably built to accommodate horse and cart traffic a century or more ago. I parked the jeep and walked across, and sure enough, on the north side, past the railroad tracks, stood a squat concrete bunker, hexagonal in shape, with firing slits on each side. The door at the rear had once been padlocked, but the latch now hung open. Inside was nothing but cobwebs, trash, and cigarette butts. Not a child’s playground. This wasn’t what had attracted the girls. It was the quaint bridge, arching over the canal. Perhaps those narrow riverboats had passed by, the canalman greeting the girls on the bridge. The spring grasses were soft and abundant along the bank, and I could imagine the girls dangling their feet in the water. I knelt and stuck my hand in the current. It was cold. Too cold for dangling.

I wondered about the boats. Could Sophia have been grabbed, or gotten onto one willingly? Tempted aboard, perhaps, as the canal-boat slowed to a stop, and then gagged and thrown below while no one was watching? It was a connection, at least, to Neville’s wet feet. Tenuous, but a connection. I scanned the bank one last time. A small plain paper bag was caught up in the grasses. It had been balled up and tossed away. I opened it and there was a distant, faint sweetish smell. The candy store. Or sweet shop, as they called it in England. Might as well make another stop.

I drove back down Hungerford Road to High Street, where Payne had said the shop was. It didn’t take long to spot Hedley’s Sweet Shop, with its bright red and yellow sign. I went in, a tinkling bell over the door announcing me. It was a small place, two large glass cases taking up much of the room. They were less than half full. A man emerged from the back room, wearing a blue apron and drying his hands.

“May I help you?”

“Are you Mr. Hedley?”

“No, the name’s Bone. Ernest Bone. Bought the shop from old Mr. Hedley, and didn’t think Bone was a good name for a sweet shop. Besides, folks around here know the old name, it’s familiar to them. How can I help you?” Bone looked inquiringly at me, his thick eyebrows raised. He was balding, a bit stooped, but with a friendly face. A bit chubby in the cheeks. Just right for a candy store owner.

“I’m working with the police and the American troops who are looking for that girl,” I said, introducing myself.

“Oh, such a sad business. Poor Sophia. She was in the shop the day she went missing. But that must be why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I wanted to ask if you’ve heard anything at all about strangers in the area, or saw anything that day that was suspicious.”

“Well, Captain Boyle, the only strangers hereabouts are you Yanks. And the colored soldiers, I must say, are all very polite and courteous. But that doesn’t count for much, does it? I mean to say, a murderer could be quite pleasant, couldn’t he?”

“Yes, charming in fact. I wonder about the canal,” I said, picking up a syrupy-sweet smell wafting in from the back room. “Could she have been taken away on a boat? I heard the girls often go down to the little bridge, by the bunker.”

“On a nice day, I’m sure they do. The village lads as well, to play at soldiers in the bunkers. Perhaps someone on a boat took her, although the police would have a better idea of that. There is more traffic on the canal these days, moving goods. It’s very difficult with the petrol rationing, you know. Canalboats don’t use much fuel going with the current.”

“So I’ve been told. They don’t travel by night, do they?”

“I doubt it, but I’m not from these parts. Moved here from Sheffield, up north. Don’t know much about canals,” he said. “But I do know a man was found dead by the canal in Newbury two nights ago. Is that why you’re asking?”

“You don’t miss much, Mr. Bone.”

“Don’t need to be a wizard to put two and two together. And folks like to chat, you know, when they stop in for their little sweets. Village gossip can be very informative.”

“What do people have to say about the Millers in Newbury?”

“The Germans? Some don’t like them at all, but I have to say many give them credit for going against Hitler when many of our own were going along with him. And for keeping a low profile, as well. They try to blend in, and not appear too foreign in their manners. People like that, they do.” Bone nodded his approval of the foreigners who worked not to appear foreign, which was a compliment coming from an Englishman.

“So there’s no strong feelings? No one who’d want to do them harm?”

“Not that I’ve heard, but remember Kintbury is a small village. We don’t know everything that goes on in Newbury. But when a family loses a lad to the Boche, I can imagine they’d want to strike out at the closest German, and George Miller fits that bill. It isn’t pleasant to say, but there it is. So it was the Miller place where the man was killed, eh?”

“Yes. Stuart Neville was his name. Sound familiar?”

“No. Can’t say it does. Sorry I’m of little help, Captain.”

“It was a long shot. One last thing. Did Sophia say anything when she was buying her candy?”

“I’m sure, but it was all about what I had on offer. I make my own, you see, working on a batch now, as a matter of fact. Boiled sweets the old-fashioned way, over open copper pans. Cough sweets, humbugs, that sort of thing. The children love them, but they can only get three ounces a week with their ration book, so you can imagine the excitement when they come in.”

“It must be tough for business,” I said.

“You don’t know the half of it. I have to cut the coupons out of the ration book, then thread them on a string, and turn them in for my own supplies. I’m sure the government knows what they’re doing, but they make it difficult enough. Sugar and flavorings are rare too, which is quite a hardship.”

“I’d like to buy some, for the girls back at the manor house,” I said. “But I have no coupons.” I looked at the display cases with rows of colorful sweets, jars of peppermints, bowls of licorices, hand candies, and candied fruit jellies. The sights and smells made me feel like a kid again.

“I’d dearly like to sell them, but they’d shut me down as a black marketer if they found out. Can’t have Yanks with cash buying out what’s meant for civilians, now can we? Not that they would. Americans have more chocolate in their pockets than we’ve seen for years. Still, I don’t begrudge them. I fought in the last war, and I know a soldier has to take what he can when he can. But here, I can give you one humbug as a gift. Don’t tell Lord Woolton.” Bone grinned and winked as he handed me a red and white candy.