James Benn - A Blind Goddess

“And if it was George Miller who killed him?” I wondered how big a mistake I’d made to mention Cosgrove’s name to George. I didn’t want to be taken off the case and sent to Broadmoor, so I didn’t mention it.

“I don’t believe it was. There was no indication that Miller had stumbled onto the fact Neville was anything but a quiet boarder. And Neville was a professional; he never would have let an argument or a petty squabble get out of hand. Our biggest worry is that it was a German agent, but we’ve no actual proof.”

“But if it was Miller, you’d let him get away with it,” I said.

“For now, of course. There are too many lives at stake. Justice will find the Millers for their crimes, of that you can be certain. When we are done with them.”

“The wife and children as well?”

“Oh yes, Frau Miller is a full partner in this enterprise. We aren’t sure about the children. The son Walter is kept busy on board a supply transport in the Mediterranean, and he hasn’t made any moves. Eva is perhaps too young to have been recruited. We think she is likely innocent.”

We were close to the inn, and I laid my hand on Masterman’s arm to stop him. “You know about the missing girls?”

“Yes, I’ve heard.”

“Neville had warned Eva to be careful. Now that makes more sense, given that he was a professional agent, trained to watch for anything unusual. I think he saw something that raised his suspicions, and told Eva to watch out. Maybe he was about to look into it further. Did he report anything to you?”

“Not about the girl, no. His reports went through Flowers, and he would have informed me of anything concrete. As you should do. Call this number if you have anything to report.” He handed me a card with nothing but a London telephone number-the same one Cosgrove had given us.

“What happened to Miss Gardner?” I asked, remembering her sudden departure.

“She has been transferred elsewhere. She was told not to provide you with any information, and when she did we needed to remove her. Just as we had your sergeant and the baron taken off the case. We must be sure that you, and you alone, are working on this, since you know the stakes involved. There can be no missteps.”

“What if it was George Miller who killed the girl we found in the canal?”

“As I said, justice will find him eventually. But for now, Captain Boyle, remember that many young girls are being killed in this war. We bomb cities at night and incinerate them all across Germany. French towns where there are military targets are bombed every day and many little French girls are blown apart. We are engaged in a ruthless, titanic struggle that consumes lives on a massive scale. One cannot worry about a single life without going mad. Find Neville’s killer, Captain Boyle, and all this will end one day.”

“You forgot the little girls in the extermination camps,” I said. I watched his face, saw the quick eye movement again, and then the curtain closed.

“No, I haven’t forgotten them,” he said, and turned in the direction of the inn. “There are those who see them as a political problem that might be best solved for us by the Nazis. Your Miss Seaton has taken it upon herself to convince one of those men otherwise.”

“You are well informed,” I said, following Masterman.

“I soak up what information I can,” he said. “I discard most, manipulate the rest, and send it on its way to create discord among our enemies. But this matter bothers me, I must say, and I wish Miss Seaton well.” He sighed, and his pace slackened.

“But you doubt she’ll succeed,” I said.

“I know she won’t,” Masterman said. “She will receive orders in the morning to report to an SOE training camp. Exile in remote Scotland for a troublesome agent.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. Masterman only smiled. “Can you do anything?” I was relieved at exile. Better than a parachute drop into occupied France.

“Not my department, Captain. It’s the Foreign Office that decides these things, and it has been decided at the highest levels that too many Jews making their way to Palestine after the war will not be good for relations with the Arabs. Fellows like Victor Cavendish-Bentinck and Roger Allen have convinced Anthony Eden not to raise the war cry over the camps. They claim it would harm the war effort if the British public thought we were fighting for the Jews of Europe.”

“Eden is who Diana is dining with tonight,” I said. Eden was head of the Foreign Office, and Diana had told me her father had arranged the meeting.

“Yes, and she will be welcomed cordially, as a gesture of friendship to Lord Seaton. But the die is cast. Eden will listen, offer wine and promises to look into the matter, and promptly forget about it. I’m sorry to bring you such poor news, Captain. I wish it were otherwise. Now, get some rest and find this killer.” Masterman extended his hand, and we shook. He walked away, Flowers and Morris on either side.

I was alone on the path, the faintest of lights lingering on the western horizon. To the east, the heavens were pitch black.

I ate, hardly noticing what was on my plate. My pint glass was empty and I didn’t remember drinking a drop of the ale. People and conversation flowed around me but I didn’t hear a thing.

I had been told one of the greatest secrets of the war, and it was too enormous to even think about. Now I understood all of Cosgrove’s cautions and warnings, and the worry he must have felt, with me nosing around and asking all the wrong questions. Tomorrow I’d visit Inspector Payne and get back on track, asking the right questions, the ones that didn’t implicate the Millers.

And if Masterman’s secret wasn’t enough, I had Diana to worry about. From what he told me, her punishment for speaking out was benign, at least. But Diana wouldn’t see it that way. She wasn’t one to sit things out in a training camp. Would her superiors dress it up as an honor, or would she be told why she was being sent away? The former, I figured. The kind of Brits behind this weren’t big on the honest truth when an artful lie would do.

One secret protected lives, and perhaps hastened the day when the Allies would liberate the extermination camps. The other kept the true face of the killings in those camps quiet. The news was full of Nazi atrocities, which was good for morale and the war effort. But now that I thought about it, the papers and the BBC would routinely mention the suffering of Poles, Danes, Czechs, and others under the ruthless German occupation, but never Jews as a group, even as they were being herded into gas chambers in ever-increasing numbers.

Politics. The British Empire keeping their own occupied peoples from revolt. There were millions of Arabs for them to govern, and damn few Jews in the Mideast. Why rock the boat? Especially with the Suez Canal and vast oil fields to worry about. I knew I’d take Masterman’s secret to the grave, but Roger Allen’s machinations were not worth the honor of secrecy.

I got another pint, took it back to my seat and wondered how Diana was doing at her dinner with Anthony Eden of the Foreign Office. Perhaps they were having soup, discussing mass murder intently, Eden nodding, seeming to agree with everything Diana said as he savored the hot broth. It didn’t bear thinking, so I took a drink, remembering to taste it this time, and began to leaf through the scrapbook Rosemary Adams had given me. I’d barely remembered to take it from the jeep after my encounter with Masterman. The first few pages were from early in Sam Eastman’s career: old, yellowed newspaper clippings and the occasional memo on police stationery. A childish hand soon grew into a graceful cursive, Rosemary’s penmanship a marked improvement on that of her brother Tom, who was more given to underlines and exclamation points.