James Benn - A Blind Goddess

“But you’re saying no one noticed a Negro from a tank destroyer unit carrying a dead body?”

“I didn’t, but I wasn’t on the lookout for one neither.” We came to the barn, and Evans pushed the wide doors open. It smelled of fresh hay and stale horse. Three stalls on each side, two of them empty. “Crowley takes the horses out for exercise every afternoon. Down that track you’re so interested in.”

“Where does he stay?” I asked.

“He’s got a room off the barn, through that door,” Evans said, pointing at the far end. “Not a real sociable guy, but he does his job. I doubt he’s there this time of day but we can check.” We walked the length of the barn, horses neighing after us, eager for attention and fresh air. Evans knocked, then opened the door. The room was as long as the barn, but only about ten feet wide. A coal stove stood in the corner next to a worn armchair. A narrow bed was shoved against the wall, blankets with US ARMY stenciled on them tossed over it. A small table littered with tools, a rickety desk, an old bureau, and shelves with a few tins of food completed the scene. It looked like temporary lodgings for a farmhand, not a caretaker’s home. The only personal touch was a framed photograph on the wall by the bed. An unsmiling young man with dark eyes stared out of the frame, dressed in a stiff collar and black jacket, maybe from the turn of the century, judging by the hairstyle and cravat.

“What are you doing in my room?” We both jumped as Crowley spoke, standing not five feet behind us.

“Looking for you,” Evans said. “This officer wants to ask you some questions.”

“How long does it take you to figure out I ain’t in there?” Crowley asked. “No place to hide, is there? May not be much, but it’s my place, Yanks or not. You don’t own the bleedin’ place, not yet anyway.” Crowley was stoop-shouldered, his body beaten down from manual labor. He had several days’ worth of stubble on his face and his worn and dirty clothes looked like they hadn’t been washed since the last time he was caught out in the rain. If Sobel ever inspected him, he’d be digging a hole to China.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m Captain Boyle and I need a few minutes of your time.”

“I’m called Angus Crowley, and you can ask what you want, but I’ve got to get the horses in. Feels like rain, it does.” We went outside, where Crowley had tethered the two horses. Evans retreated for a smoke, and I glanced at the sky. No sign of clouds.

“Angus, do you recall the murder that took place a few weeks ago?”

“You mean the constable?”

“Yes, Tom Eastman. He was found in the churchyard.”

“So I heard,” Crowley said, leading the first horse into the barn and brushing his coat.

“The track that runs by this barn leads to the cemetery. I was wondering if you saw anything the night of the murder.”

“Can’t recall the night, exact like. Be hard to see that darkie at night, wouldn’t it?” He laughed at his joke, glancing at me to see if I’d join in.

“So you don’t recall seeing anyone around who wasn’t supposed to be here?”

“Not since that other colored fellow, the one you helped out of the fight,” Crowley said, chuckling again to himself. “No, I meant the night of the murder.”

“What? Are you asking if I saw some bloke carrying Sam Eastman over his shoulder, plain as day? I’d have said something about that, wouldn’t I?”

“It was Tom Eastman, not his father,” I said. “Who said he was carried?”

“Right you are, Captain. Tom, the son. I knew the father well, just got the names mixed. And of course someone carried him into the cemetery. Not a place you’d go with a man who wants to kill you.”

“So you didn’t see anything suspicious, anything out of place.”

“This is a busy place, with all you Yanks coming and going. But I can’t say as I saw anything different than any other day. Mind you, that big colored fellow could have come through and not been noticed.”

“One of the men said you did your best to start that fight yesterday. You don’t like Negroes, is that it?”

“What’s it to you if I do or don’t? I got a right, don’t I? I don’t mind watching a good fistfight, no law against that. Bad enough we have to put up with you Yanks underfoot and scaring the horses. I wish you’d all go away, I do.”

“Many of us feel the same way, Mr. Crowley. Thanks for your time.” Crowley was a strange one, all right. Mean and surly, and intelligent even if prejudiced against Americans and Negroes. So would he have a problem with Angry Smith? A big enough problem to stage a frame-up?

“Not a lot of help,” I said to Evans as he escorted me back to my jeep.

“Sometimes I think he’s not all there,” Evans said. “Talks to himself, always muttering about the horses. You done here, sir?”

“Done, Sergeant.” I started up the jeep and drove down the hill, watching Evans go inside the big house. As I rounded the corner I stopped by the hedges bordering what had been the garden area. I checked to be sure Evans or Sobel weren’t around, and trotted over to Charlie, now chest-deep in his hole. He was good with a shovel.

“Charlie,” I said, squatting down between piles of dirt. “Is this a normal punishment for a missing button?”

“No, he went easy on me,” Charlie said. Then he smiled. “Not much normal around here, Captain. They say Captain Sobel is good at what he does, but I can’t make much sense of it. This is plain silly. Say, how’s Tree?”

“He was okay when I last saw him. I just talked to Angus Crowley. He doesn’t seem to like Negroes very much.”

“I don’t think he likes anybody much,” Charlie said. “I know I don’t like him.”

“Why?”

“It seems like he talks to himself, which is strange enough,” Charlie said, setting his shovel in the dirt and resting his hands on it. “But he’s talking to someone else. Someone who isn’t there. That’s different, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is,” I said, checking again to see if anyone was coming. “You know who?”

“Naw,” Charlie said. “Don’t care either, I steer clear of him.”

“Okay, Charlie, you take it easy. Don’t lose any more buttons.”

“You know what’s strange, Captain?” He leaned forward, his voice conspiratorial.

“What?”

“I like digging holes. It’s interesting to see what’s down here. Layers and different colors, you know?”

“You sound like a detective, Charlie.” He beamed.

I wanted to catch up with Kaz and find out how Cosgrove was doing, but there was one stop I needed to make first. I wasn’t looking forward to it, however, it had to be done. I stopped at the only pub in the village of Chilton Foliat, the Wheatsheaf, and asked where Malcolm and Rosemary Adams lived. The gent I spoke to pointed up a side road and told me fourth house on the right, and wasn’t it such a sad thing. I didn’t know if he was talking about Malcolm’s shot-up legs, how he used Rosemary as a punching bag, her brother being murdered, or her taking up with a Negro back when she thought Malcolm was dead. I would have been happy to order a pint and pursue the topic at leisure, but I was short on that last commodity.

The dirt road was rutted and followed a drainage ditch that ran from the fields above. Cows grazed in the fenced green pastures opposite a row of ancient houses. The Adams place was whitewashed stone with a thatched roof, set back from the road and surrounded by a kitchen garden and chicken coops. I knocked on the door and a young woman answered.

“Mrs. Adams?” I asked, not sure if I was talking to her or not. She was young, maybe just twenty.