James Benn - A Blind Goddess

“He told Eva Miller to be careful, that’s all. I wondered if there was any connection.”

“Well,” Morris said, lowering his voice. “We both took a paternal interest in young Eva. Poor girl, through no fault of her own, is uprooted from her native land and brought here. Never mind it was for the best of reasons, it was still hard on her. The other children teased her, of course, and called her names.”

“Do they still?”

“No, she adapted well. She already knew English, and lost her accent quickly. And walking out with that American sergeant helped as well.”

“Anything else you can think of that might shed some light on the killing?” He wasn’t much help but he seemed a bit of a gossip, and those types usually pick up tidbits of information.

“No. But it’s interesting you asked about the missing girl. Sophia something, if I recall. Do you think there’s a link to the murder?”

“All I have are questions, not answers. Thanks for your help, Mr. Morris,” I said, taking my leave.

“Not at all,” he said, looking at me through the smoky haze. “I take it no arrest is imminent? And the girl is still missing?”

“For now,” I said, and left in search of George Miller. I didn’t need any reminders of how badly the investigation was going. No one was in the kitchen, but I followed the sounds coming from upstairs, and found him in Stuart Neville’s old room, stripping wallpaper.

“Captain Boyle, how are you?” He held a brush in one hand and a scraper in the other. Pieces of torn wallpaper littered the floor.

“Fine. Sorry to interrupt your work.”

“No problem, Captain, I am glad for a break. I thought while I had no boarder I would fix up this room and get rid of this ugly wallpaper.”

“You’re quite the handyman,” I said. “Did you ever ask Stuart Neville about a bank loan to help you renovate?”

“Oh no.” He laughed. “Why pay someone for such simple work? And I enjoy it. When I finish here I will get back to our other room. Hopefully we will have three boarders again soon. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, I just wanted to drop by to say hello. I met Nigel Morris downstairs. You said he was gone the day Neville was killed, right?”

“Oh yes, he left a day or so before. He is often gone for days at a time, taking the train to his customers.”

“Did he seem upset when you told him about Neville’s death?”

“Yes, I suppose so. It is hard to tell with the English, yes? They are not the most emotional people. But then again, neither are we Germans.” He cast his eyes down to the floor, as if embarrassed to mention his nationality out loud. “And how are you, Captain, after your attack by the canal?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Thanks for asking. Anything else unusual going on in the neighborhood?”

“The police questioned me, of course. It was to be expected. Other than that, nothing. Eva is at school and Carla is at the market. You could ask them, but aside from Mr. Morris returning, it has been quiet.”

“No need to bother them,” I said. “I was curious about something though. You might know a friend of mine. Charles Cosgrove, a British major. I think he has something to do with refugees.”

“No, the name is not familiar.”

“Does anyone from the government come around and visit you? To see how you’re getting on?” To check up on you , I meant. It seemed strange that Miller enjoyed the protection of MI5 but claimed not to know Cosgrove. Following instructions, or telling the truth?

“We get a letter from the Foreign Office every few months. We have to stay in touch and let them know if we move, but we have not seen anyone since we came here. They gave us a small stipend to live on for a while, to help get us settled. But no, the name Cosgrove means nothing to me.”

“No matter, just thought I’d take a chance. I’ll let you get back to work.”

I left, passing Morris in the hallway, making for his room. I glanced in the third bedroom, where Miller had been working before. There was new molding cut and painted, ready to be nailed up. The guy was a real do-it-yourselfer.

He was also telling the truth about not knowing Cosgrove. There had been no quick widening of the eyes, no attempt at recovery. He was either a great liar or had never heard the name. I was no closer to understanding Cosgrove’s interest in this murder, or solving it, for that matter.

I strolled to the Hog’s Head pub for lunch and was greeted by Jack Monk.

“Been for a swim, I hear,” he said.

“No worse for wear,” I said, then ordered a pint and a cheese sandwich. “I bet you hear a lot, Jack. Anything new on Stuart Neville?”

“What, are you tired of folks asking you that question? Want to hear it out of your own mouth, do you?” Monk laughed as he wiped down the bar.

“Yeah, I thought maybe I’d get some answers that way.”

“Well, not from me, more’s the pity,” Monk said as he pulled my pint. “Everyone’s talking about the lass you all pulled from the canal, and wondering if Sophia will be next. Me, I’d say she’s dead or gone far away.”

“Why do you say that?”

“As with any kid her age, there’s a chance she ran off on her own. She may have had her own reasons, not that we’d understand them, mind you. And there’s also a fair chance she was taken by some fiend and then killed and buried, after he had his way with her. When you think about it, those are the two most likely ways for it to go.” He set down the pint, foam cascading down the glass.

“Likely,” I agreed. But likely didn’t rule out everything else. “Here’s another question for you, Jack. Neville’s feet were wet. How would that happen on the canal path?”

“He could have stepped into one of the boats moored along the canal,” Monk said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “We had a heavy rain not long before he was killed, so some might be soaked. Or it could have been from the wake of a boat on the canal washing over. The Kennet River flows into the canal near here, and all that rain would have raised the water level. Take your choice.” He shrugged and moved on, taking other lunchtime orders and gabbing with the regulars.

I knew about water in the boats; I’d gotten my own feet wet that way. But I hadn’t known about the water levels. I wondered what boat might be out on the canal that late at night. And if it had been water from its wake that soaked Neville’s shoes and socks, could the boatman have seen him? And his assailant? I tried to work the angles as I waited for my sandwich, wondering how much could be seen from a moving craft.

“Jack,” I said when he put the plate down. “Are there many boats out on the canal between ten o’clock at night and two in the morning?”

“Ah, you mean when Neville was killed? It would be a rare thing. No lights with the blackout, so if you didn’t know the canal like the back of your hand it would be dangerous.”

“Rare, but not impossible for someone who knows the canal?”

“Aye. There’s one man who comes to mind. Blackie Crane. He runs a steamboat up to Reading, selling coal. Brown coal, that is, what they call lignite. It’s mined out by Pewsey. Not very good stuff, but he manages to sell a boatload between there and Reading every week.”

“But can a coal barge go fast enough to make a wake?”

“Fully loaded? No. But on the return trip from Reading, heading west? Once Blackie gets up a head of steam, there’s no stopping him. And it’s not like a flat-bottomed barge. His is a riverboat, long and narrow, and he keeps it in prime shape. Signals with his steam whistle when he comes through. Reminds folks of the old days, when steam on the water was the way of the world. Around here, leastways.”