A Blind Goddess (28 page)

“You’re giving them phony intelligence about the invasion site,” I said. “Or the date. And if they find out that it’s not the real McCoy—”

“Then they could deduce the real location and time, or close to it. A disaster.”

“But what do you need me for? I don’t get it.”

“Really, Captain Boyle?” Masterman turned around and began walking back to the inn. “A man of your skills? Certainly you can work it out.” He grinned as if coaching a backward pupil. I thought about it. Neville is killed. Cosgrove brings me in and tells me hands off George Miller. Cosgrove works with the Twenty Committee, which has corralled all the German agents who have landed in England. The Millers are German refugees.

“Jeez, of course!” I said as the pieces fell into place. “The Millers are spies. Real ones, I bet. You let them set up shop in case a new agent makes contact with them. And Neville was one of your agents, like Flowers and Morris.”

“Quite right. We discovered the truth about the Millers from two captured Germans. We let them set up their house, even helped them with resettlement funds. And then we surrounded them with watchers. You’ve seen how George Miller keeps one room always under renovation? That way he has a spot open if an agent makes contact.”

“So the Millers are not gathering information themselves?”

“No. Their role is to provide a safe house for arriving agents. They are under orders not to engage in suspicious activities themselves. So we let them be, the perfect trap for any German spy who manages to slip through. The next few months are critical, Captain. We need them in place, our unsuspecting spiders, to draw in the flies. We need to be sure there is no threat to them. We need to know who killed Neville, and why.”

“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.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

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.

“May I join you, Billy?” I nearly jumped as Kaz dropped his bag on the floor and set his whiskey down, a grin of obvious pleasure lighting his face.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, surprised and happy as he slid in next to me.

“Ignoring a ridiculous order,” he said, downing a healthy slug of whiskey. “Those MPs were foolish enough to think that simply putting me on a train in Newbury would stop me from getting off at the next station and taking the return train here. It serves them right.”

“Glad you’re back, Kaz,” I said, raising my glass to him. “But remember it’s not just those MPs you have to worry about. It’s MI5. Cosgrove’s bosses obviously want this handled their way.”

“Which MI5 boss gave you that message?” Kaz asked.

“The guy we saw at Bushy Park,” I said. “He laid down the law, pretty much the same story Cosgrove gave us. My guess is he wasn’t sure if the major had given us the message before he had his attack.”

“The fact that he came to be sure the message was delivered is interesting,” Kaz said. “Did he have a name?”

“Yeah. Mr. Smith.” We laughed, and I thought how easy it was to lie to a friend who trusted you.

“Did he say anything else?”

I filled Kaz in on what Masterman had told me about Diana, and my own observations about how the BBC never mentioned Jews specifically as victims of the Nazis. I figured the closer I stayed to the truth, the easier the lie would be. And Diana had nothing to do with the Millers, so there was really no reason to keep it from him.

“He told you all this for what reason?” Kaz said, suspicion edging his voice.

“I think people who keep secrets for a living like revealing those that they can,” I said, steering damn close to my own truth. “Maybe Cosgrove told him about Diana. Maybe he’s sympathetic to the truth about the camps. Who knows?”

“What you said about the BBC is certainly true. When I was with the Polish government-in-exile we obtained a classified government report. The BBC and the Foreign Office determined that saving the lives of Eastern European Jews would not be seen as a desirable war aim by the British public. Their public stance was to refer to Poles exclusively, not Polish Jews, for instance. The Foreign Office was wary of Jews exaggerating the extent of atrocities and using public opinion for their own ends.”

“Like not being murdered by the hundred thousands,” I said.

“Yes, but remember, in the First World War, there were fantastic stories of German atrocities in Belgium, which turned out to be fictitious. The British government was seen as untrustworthy, and their credibility suffered. Perhaps they now are too careful with stories of atrocities.”

“Kaz, we don’t even have the right words for what’s happening
in those camps. Atrocities happen when all self-control is lost, bloodlust is up, and men are crazed with violence. These camps are planned, industrial murder. You know that, you’ve seen the same eye witness reports I have. I don’t think these Foreign Office diplomats understand what’s really happening.”

“Or worse yet, they do,” Kaz said. That silenced both of us. Kaz toyed with his empty glass, then left to get another. I watched him melt into the crowd at the bar, mostly civilians among a smattering of uniforms. British Army, mostly, with a few American airmen and GIs for good measure. There were even two Negro soldiers throwing darts with the locals. One of the locals was Ernest Bone, from the sweet shop. He gave me a nod of greeting from across the room.

Kintbury was a small village, off the beaten track, too undistinguished to be allocated to any unit, black or white, for leave. I wondered if there’d be trouble, but everyone was going about their own business. Maybe these were guys who liked the quiet of a rural village, and the kind who left well enough alone. Whatever the reason, I appreciated the low murmur of voices, the agreeable laughter, and the sharp tang of the ale. Sometimes, you have to take what satisfaction you can get.

“What’s all this?” Kaz asked when he returned, looking at the scrapbook.

“A scrapbook Rosemary and Tom Eastman put together when they were kids,” I explained. “I thought there might be a clue as to anyone who had a grudge against their father, Sam. A long shot, at best.”

“They must have been proud of their father,” Kaz said. He took the book and began leafing through it from the beginning. “Did you ever keep a scrapbook of your father’s cases?”

“No, it never occurred to me,” I said. “He always told me not to believe what I read in the newspapers anyway. He said there was so much that couldn’t be said and so much said wrong that the only things he trusted were the sports page and the funnies.”

“That reminds me, Billy, when will you tell the end of your story about Tree?”

“That’ll have to wait—hey, stop there,” I said. Kaz had gone about halfway through and a headline jumped out at me. “This is about Alan Wycks, the local stonemason who was sent to Broadmoor after his arrest.”