A Blind Goddess (12 page)

“I promised to look into it. I don’t even know what evidence CID has.”

“Circumstantial is what I hear. A weak case, made strong by a quick arrest and the fact that the killer is a Negro. I understand that carries a lot of weight in some parts of America.”

“Alleged killer, Inspector.”

“Fair enough. This is nothing I care to interfere with, but I’ll ask a few questions of the right people and let you know what I find.”

“Thanks. It could be that there’s still a killer out there.”

“Let’s worry about the Neville case first, Captain, if you don’t mind. I’ve put out calls to the surrounding constabularies to see if they can find any living relatives. So far, no luck.”

“He has to have relatives, some place where he kept things. Personal possessions, important papers, letters and photographs.”

“Perhaps he was glad to leave that all behind. Don’t you ever feel like chucking it all, Captain Boyle? I’ll be at the Dundas Arms, in Kintbury. It’s right by the bridge over the canal. That’s where we’re starting the search.” With that, he got into his automobile, without waiting for my answer.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

K
AZ AND
I
had agreed to meet at the Miller place, so I headed there. Another jeep was parked in the driveway, and I found Kaz in the kitchen, drinking coffee and chatting with the Millers. It would have been cozy except for the fact that they were all speaking German, which made it creepy.

“Please excuse us, Captain Boyle,” George Miller said as his wife poured coffee. Doubtless American army coffee, since she gave me a full cup. “Baron Kazimierz wished to practice his German, and we do not get to speak it very often. He is quite fluent.”

“In many languages,” I said. “You and your wife must speak German at home.”

“No,” Carla Miller said. “We forced ourselves to speak English only when we arrived in England, to learn it better. Then, with the war, we did not wish to stand out. You understand.”

“Of course,” I said, sipping my coffee. “Feelings can be heightened in wartime. Like Pettigrew’s.”

“You met him, at the pub, I suppose?” Miller said.

“Yes. Was his response typical of how you are treated here?”

“No, not at all. The poor man was grief-stricken, and then I, a German, was standing right in front of him. His reaction was understandable.”

“That is gracious of you,” Kaz said. “Another man might have been angry at the slight.”

“I was upset, but we passed on the street some days later and nothing was said. I thought he might have been somewhat embarrassed,” Miller said, which fit in with what Pettigrew had said.

“Were there any other encounters like that?” I asked.

“When war first came, yes, there was some name-calling in the street, but that stopped quickly. Especially once Walter joined the Royal Navy. We are very proud of him. He wants to make a career of the navy, and become an officer. Do you think Mr. Neville was attacked accidentally?”

“I’m not certain of anything at this point. Just asking questions, like any police officer would.”

“Are you still working with Inspector Payne?” Carla asked. “I do hope Sergeant Sullivan is not in any trouble.”

“No, none at all,” I said. “This is a joint investigation, so we are cooperating with the local police. As a matter of fact, an American unit is helping with the search for the missing girl today.”

“Ah, the colored soldiers,” George said. “So I heard. It must be very hard for them, yes? With the discrimination in America. The Ku Klux Klan, do I have the name right?”

“You do,” I said. I damn well knew it was hard for Negroes, and I knew George and Carla Miller were anti-Nazi refugees, but I still felt uncomfortable talking about it. I hadn’t liked the comparison Kaz and Tree had made about Poles having to walk in the gutter when Germans passed or Negroes doing the same when southern whites had the sidewalk. It was like airing dirty linen in public.

“I hope they find the poor girl, one way or the other. It must be so hard on the parents,” Carla said. “Oh dear, I forgot. She is a refugee also.” The table went silent, and I wondered what degree of guilt the Millers felt, and how that affected their relations with the townspeople.

I set aside my own guilt at coming from the land of lynching and the KKK. “Are there any adults from the Channel Islands here?”

“No, I don’t think so,” George said. “A large number of children were taken off the islands, shortly before they were occupied. They
were sent to different towns, where they could be cared for, but I never heard of parents with them.”

“That is right,” Carla said. “There was an article in the newspaper recently, about their headmistress. Laurianne Ross, I think. She volunteered to work as their governess and teacher.”

“So she would know if any of the children had relatives here?”

“I would think so, yes,” Carla said, concern etched on her face. “But why do you ask about that?”

“It could be as simple as a relative coming to take Sophia away,” I said. “Perhaps she’s not missing at all. A message could have been misplaced.” It had been known to happen, but what I wondered more about was the possibility of mistaken identity. With nothing to go on with Neville as a victim, it was tempting to focus on the Millers. But there were other possibilities. I could see a Channel Islander, perhaps someone who had recently escaped, taking out his frustration on the nearest German when he found Sophia missing. He cracks Neville on the skull in a case of mistaken identity and rolls him down the cellar stairs. It wasn’t much of a theory, but it gave me a good reason to head into Kintbury, and I had no clues to pursue.

Kaz and I waited until we were outside to compare notes. I filled him in on what we’d found at Neville’s office, and he recounted his conversation with Cosgrove.

“He refused to tell me how he came to know of the murder,” Kaz said.

“Let me guess: he said it was his business to know.”

“Precisely. I gave him what details we had, and the theory that the target may have been Miller instead of Neville, as well as the few details from the postmortem. He said to remind you to be sure Inspector Payne made no arrest without informing him first.”

“Anything helpful?”

“You know Major Cosgrove better than that. He does not tip his hand.”

“Neville’s office caper bothers me,” I said, leaning against the jeep. “Who broke in, and why? What else besides a typewriter ribbon did they take away in that briefcase?”

“Could Neville have been a spy?” Kaz asked. “It fits with the lack of personal items. Perhaps a German spy would feel more comfortable rooming with fellow Germans, even anti-Nazis.”

“Or maybe he was here to eliminate them.”

“And Miller found out, and killed him first?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “The Germans might have sent an assassin before the war, to send a message to any dissidents at home, but it seems far-fetched at this point.”

“I have to agree. What next?”

I told Kaz about the search and where Payne was running it from. We’d meet there after Kaz found a telephone and left a message for Big Mike, telling him to meet us that night at the Prince of Wales Inn. Hopefully we could find Tree among the searchers and give him an update on what Big Mike picked up at CID.

“I’ll meet you there after I have lunch with a young lady,” I said. “Miss Gardner knows more than she’s saying.” I grabbed my bags and drove to Bartholomew Street. I parked a few doors down from the Newbury and hoped Miss Gardner didn’t eat at her desk.

Half an hour later, she appeared on the sidewalk, buttoning her utility coat. I followed her, trying not to lose her in the crowd of shoppers and lunch-goers, most of whom were dressed in the same drab, featureless coat. Part of the rationing scheme, utility garments were designed to save fabric. Simple lines, no wasted material. Hard to tail one person when everybody is dressed alike.

“Miss Gardner,” I said when I caught up to her. “Captain Boyle. I was wondering if I could buy you lunch. I have a few questions, and I might as well ask them over a meal.”

“If you like,” she said, searching my eyes as we stood on the sidewalk. She still looked afraid, and I wondered what she was hiding or if she was frightened by what had happened to Neville. “There’s a teashop round the corner that will do.” She led the way as a flight of C-47s roared overhead, taking off from Greenham Common on the other side of town. I looked up, but few others did. It was a routine occurrence.

We found a table by the window and both ordered the special,
mashed potatoes with carrots and meat sauce. “As long as you’re not curious as to what kind of meat,” Miss Gardner had said. “But don’t worry, there won’t be much of it.”

“I’m sorry about barging in on Mr. Flowers this morning, but we needed some straight answers. Would Neville have been typing anything confidential? Something that would be valuable?”

“Member records are all confidential, of course,” she said. “But that’s not what you mean, is it?”

“No. Did Neville have access to any member accounts?”

“Absolutely not! How dare you? Stuart would never … never have …” Her hand covered her mouth and tears welled in her eyes. Regaining her composure, she went on. “No, he didn’t, and he struck me as a very honest man.”

“A kind man?”

“Oh, please, Captain Boyle. Isn’t it obvious? You are some sort of investigator, aren’t you? I’m a sad spinster, pining for the eligible bachelor who on occasion showed a kindness. But I shan’t know if it was anything but common courtesy now, will I?” She leaned forward, the question hanging in the air between us, unanswerable. The unexpected burst of emotion brought a glistening to her eyes, and transformed her for a moment from that sad spinster to a passionate woman.

“I’m sorry. I could tell his death had affected you even more than the sudden death of a co-worker. Is there anything you can tell me about him? Where he came from? Family?”

“Up north is all he ever said. I asked him why he didn’t have pictures of his family in his office, like many of the gentlemen do. Of course I was wondering if there would be a picture of a wife, and I think he saw through me. All he said was that he and his family weren’t close, and he preferred to have no distractions at work. Except for a visit from me, he went on to say. He was nice like that, always with a friendly comment and a chuckle.”

“But no more than that?”

“No. He was a bit aloof, if you know what I mean. He went out with a few of the men after work every now and then, but not often. I think they resented him.”

“Why?”

“His accent, for one. It wasn’t Northern. More like London, and they thought he was putting on airs. His workload wasn’t particularly onerous either. He often got the plum jobs, a few days’ travel and expenses. All the chaps like those. Or the ones close by, easy to get to. Stuart always had the pick of the lot. One of the men asked Mr. Flowers if Stuart had Lord Mayhew looking out for him. There was a rumor that Stuart was his illegitimate son.”

“What did Flowers say?”

“He laughed it off. But he did have me connect him with Lord Mayhew that very day. It’s not often the manager calls the president of the board. Usually it’s the other way round.”

The waitress brought our plates. A mound of mashed potatoes was covered in a grey sauce with bits of meat scattered throughout. The only color was the bright orange of boiled carrots.

“It smells good,” I said, trying to sound believable.

“Potatoes and carrots,” Miss Gardner sighed. “After the war, I may never eat them again.” The two root vegetables were easily grown in any backyard garden, and were among the few foodstuffs not rationed. British civilians had put up with four years of strict rationing so far, and I could see how it could get depressing.

“It must make the black market tempting,” I said.

“Oh, everyone is tempted,” Miss Gardner said. “And a few corners cut here or there gives people a sense they can make it through. But if you mean criminal profiteering, that’s something else altogether.”

“Did Stuart ever bring gifts to work?”

“He did give me a small tin of coffee once, as a thank-you for staying late one night. He needed to finish his reports before leaving on a business trip. He said an American sergeant brought all sorts of things to his rooming house.”

“Mainly to impress the father, I’d say. Do you know the Millers?”

“No, although I do know they’re German. I wonder if it’s difficult for them.” She inclined her head, thinking about that. “Yes, it must be, mustn’t it?” She was smart, I could see that. I understood why she was good at her job.

“It can’t be easy. Have you heard of anyone with a real grudge against them?”

“No, not at all. Wait, do you mean what I think? A case of mistaken identity?”

“I’m just guessing, Miss Gardner. I have no reason to believe that’s the case.”

“Tell me, please, Captain Boyle,” Miss Gardner said in a low voice, almost a whisper. “Did Stuart suffer?”

“No. I doubt he even knew what happened. It was over instantly.” It was true, but it was what I always said, true or not. Easier on everyone that way.

“Thank you,” she said, her head bowed as if in prayer. “Do you think you will catch who did it?”

“I will do my best,” I said.

“You may need help. From what I heard, Mr. Flowers is unwilling to give you the information you requested. He spoke with Lord Mayhew again after you left, and I took it that you were not to be given any details.”

“The police may be able to get what they need through official channels,” I said.

“It’s a bit like the black market, isn’t it? A bit of a corner cut once in a while helps us all get by.” She took a pencil and a piece of paper from her handbag, jotted a few lines, and slid it across the table to me. “The last two mortgages Stuart worked on. If you need more, we can have lunch again.”

I walked Miss Gardner back to work, impressed by her willingness to help. She played the role of the spinster secretary well, but there was some depth to her, and I was glad to have someone to count on within the Newbury Building Society.

I drove straight to the Prince of Wales in Kintbury, booked our rooms, and changed out of the dress uniform I’d been wearing since yesterday. The bag had been packed by Walter with his customary Dorchester thoroughness. Boots and a Mackinaw coat topped with a soft garrison cap were a lot more comfortable, not to mention suited for a search in soggy terrain. I put on a new dark-brown wool
shirt, knotted my khaki field scarf, and admired myself in the mirror. With the addition of a shoulder holster and my .38 revolver, I looked like George Raft. The innkeeper gave me directions to Hungerford Road, on the other side of town, and the manor house serving as home and school to dozens of Channel Island youngsters. Minus one missing girl.