A Blind Goddess (34 page)

“How are you feeling, Inspector?” I asked. Payne was in the easy chair by Cook’s desk, his broken leg up on a cushioned stool.

“Tired and irritable,” he said. “Leg hurts and I’ve got a terrible itch I can’t get to. Had an argument with the wife about coming in today. Other than that all’s dandy. Constable, please fill them in.” Payne sighed and leaned back in his chair, eyes half closed.

“Your MI5 blokes were a good deal faster than the Yard,” Cook began. “Angus Crowley was born in nineteen-twenty. His birth certificate shows his name as Angus Wycks, although his mother’s maiden name was Crowley. You were right about that, Captain. His father, Alan, served in the Great War and was wounded at Passchendaele. Patched up, he was sent back to the front and served until the armistice.”

“Lucky, I guess,” Tree said.

“Not really,” Cook went on, reading from his notes. “He’d been a schoolteacher before the war. He was a sapper at the front, tunneling under no-man’s-land. After all that time underground, he couldn’t stand being shut up inside when he came home. He took what outdoor work he could and found he had a talent for stone.
One of his mates from the war took him on and taught him the trade. That’s how he came here, to make repairs on the manor house at Chilton Foliat.

“Scotland Yard didn’t have all the details, but apparently Alan Wycks had a number of minor run-ins with the law. Fights, usually. He was never the same man after the war.”

“Few were,” I said. I knew that well enough from Dad and Uncle Dan.

“I spoke with the chief inspector at headquarters,” Payne said, wincing as he moved his leg. “He checked the files and refreshed my memory on the case. Wycks claimed that Brackmann, who owned the manor house, had given him the shirts, as they were old and worn. Brackmann denied it, but there was also some argument about promised wages. Wycks was owed a fair sum, and there was speculation that Brackmann, who was known to be short on funds, set the whole thing up to discredit him.”

“Did that come out in the trial?” Kaz asked.

“Brackmann denied it all. By that time, after a long period of incarceration, Wycks was half crazed. I attended the proceedings when he was sentenced, and I doubt he even understood what was happening to him.”

“My God,” Tree said. “After all he’d been through, they put him in the nuthouse?”

“Yes,” Payne said with a sigh. “At the time, there was little else to do. He’d been accused, had no evidence on his behalf, and could not be let loose in his condition. I testified myself, giving the facts of the case. There was little to say to support his defense, other than his record as a soldier.”

“The disappearance of his wife and son couldn’t have helped matters,” Cook said.

“No, it did raise certain suspicions,” Payne said. “But we never found any evidence of foul play. I still think she ran off to protect the child from the father’s madness.”

“So Broadmoor,” I said. “At the pleasure of the King.”

“Yes, where he died two years ago, still with his demons.” Payne
shook his head. “Perhaps Brackmann never intended for it to go that far. He evidently had remorse over something. He was found hanged not long after.”

“Was there a note?” I asked.

“Not that I recall,” Cook said. “But there were money problems, that much was common knowledge. No family, which is why he left the place to the government. Probably owed taxes on it.”

“Where was he found?”

“In the stables. He’d thrown a rope over a rafter.”

“Maybe Tom Eastman wasn’t the first victim,” I said. “Do we know anything about where Angus Crowley—I mean Wycks—was during this time?”

“The mother used her maiden name after she left here,” Payne said. “The first record Scotland Yard has of her is in Southampton, on the coast not far from here. Her son was arrested on suspicion of burglary. He was let go on lack of evidence.”

“When was that?” I asked.

“In nineteen thirty-four, when he was seventeen years old. More serious offenses were recorded in Weymouth, where they moved next.”

“After his father was arrested,” I said.

“Likely,” Payne went on. “The son visited his father in Broadmoor once, that’s from the visitors’ logs. That was in nineteen thirty-seven, when the boy would have turned twenty. The mother never did. Brackmann was found two weeks after young Angus’s visit.”

“He was never questioned?” Tree asked.

“No, there was no apparent connection, especially since he was so young. But he was finally picked up in possession of stolen goods outside of London in thirty-nine. His mother died in nineteen forty of an unspecified illness. Angus was sentenced to five years’ imprisonment. He was released less than three months ago.”

“I would have pegged him as older,” I said, “but that’s what five years in the slammer can do to a guy.”

“But why didn’t he take his revenge sooner?” Tree asked.

“Killing a policeman is a tall order,” I said. “He was a young
kid. He probably pulled off the Brackmann killing easily enough, one solitary guy in an isolated manor house. Or maybe it was harder than he expected. A copper would have been a lot more difficult.”

“Aye,” Cook said. “Tom could take care of himself. Young Angus might not have managed it. But then he was incarcerated, and after being schooled for five years by the villains in His Majesty’s prisons, he was ready.”

“This is sounding more plausible by the minute,” Payne said.

“Plausible enough to get Angry sprung?” Tree asked.

“That all depends, Sergeant,” Payne said. “There is no direct physical evidence. If Crowley doesn’t talk, all he could be guilty of is defrauding the US Army.”

“That ought to be enough to get CID to reopen the case,” I said.

“Let’s bring him in, then,” Payne said, rising with a grimace.

“Inspector,” Constable Cook said, stepping in front of him. “With respect, sir, you should wait here. Hold down the fort, as it were. With that cast, you’re more apt to get in the way than to be of help. Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t get out of the car, Constable.” Payne tried to limp his way past Cook, but the Constable stood his ground.

“We’ll still have to watch you, sir. Crowley could give that cast a smash and incapacitate you. You shouldn’t go, and I’m certain you know it.”

“Damn you, I do!” Payne said, sitting himself down heavily and waving Cook off. “Very well. Take the constable on duty with you. At least I can answer the bloody telephone.” I understood Payne’s reluctance to miss out on bringing Crowley in. He’d been sidelined yesterday, and as the senior policeman in the investigation, he didn’t want to sit this one out either. But Cook was right; he’d be a hindrance, not a help. We left him fidgeting in his chair, eager to leave before he changed his mind.

We decided the best course would be for Tree to drive me in the jeep. Kaz and Cook, with the young Constable Gilbert at the wheel, would give us ten minutes and then follow. The idea was that two
Yanks could blend in and not alert Crowley. The blue-coated constables and Kaz in his tailored British uniform were sure to draw stares. Our job would be to spot him and wait.

We passed over the bridge and took the road to Chilton Foliat. A company of GIs was on the road, doing double-time in two columns, packs on their backs and rifles at the ready. The tromp of boots was deafening as we slowly drove between the men.

“I wouldn’t mind settling a score with that MP sergeant,” Tree said as we pulled into the Chilton Foliat Jump School. “Like to see if he fights as well as he talks. After we settle this matter, that is.”

“I’ll be sure to look the other way,” I said as we got out of the jeep. “But stick close to me for now. We don’t want to get caught up in another boxing event.” I surveyed the area. No punishment details digging holes. No sign of Crowley or any familiar faces. We went into the manor house like it was routine business. Sergeant Evans, Sobel’s right-hand man, was on duty at his desk.

“Captain, what can I do for you today?” Evans asked, casting a wary eye toward Tree. “You here about that fight?”

“No, Sergeant, I am still investigating a murder on behalf of SHAEF. Just wanted to check in and let Captain Sobel know we’re taking another look around.”

“He’s at the airfield, taking a group up for their first jump,” Evans said.

“Is that why no one’s digging holes today?” Tree asked. I could’ve kicked him.

“Don’t tell me you’re from SHAEF too,” Evans said, standing up. This had the makings of another brouhaha.

“Sergeant Jackson is my driver,” I said. “I only came in as a courtesy. As you were, Sergeant Evans.”

“Yes, sir,” Evans said, packing as much disdain for us both as he could into those two words. We left and started toward the stables.

“I ain’t your goddamn driver, Billy,” Tree whispered as we walked.

“Then who drove the jeep?”

“I gave you a ride. There’s a difference.”

“Listen, all I want to do is find Crowley, nab him, and get the
hell out of here without starting a race riot. Sound like a plan to you?”

“Yes, sir,” Tree said, in a dead on imitation of Evans. I tried not to laugh. It would only encourage him. We made a circuit of the manor house, which was high enough for a good view of the surrounding area, stables and all. No sign of Crowley.

“Let’s check the stables,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Kaz and the others should be here in a few minutes.” We rolled open the stable door and six horses gazed at us with their dark, inscrutable eyes. It was quiet, no sound other than the soft exhalations from the horses’ nostrils. I pointed to the door leading to Crowley’s room. We checked our backs, drew our guns, then trod quietly through the stable, looking for any sign of our man.

We turned at the end of the stalls and with gentle footfalls made our way to Crowley’s door. Midway, one of the horses reared and neighed, his head held high, as if he was looking for Crowley as well. We froze, waiting for the door to open, but all was silent. Two GIs passed by outside, not giving a glance our way. I nodded toward the door and we moved forward.

I pointed to the knob and gestured for Tree to open it, then stay put. He laid his hand on it and turned, but nothing happened.

“Locked,” he mouthed. I raised my foot and slammed it against the door, right by the lock. Wood splintered and the door swung open. I nearly fell into the room, my .38 revolver pointed ahead of me, looking for a threat.

The room was empty. It was exactly as I’d seen it last time. Except the picture of Alan Wycks looked more sad and tragic, now that I knew his story.

“I’m going to search the place,” I said to Tree. “Keep an eye on the door.”

“Sure,” Tree said, swinging the door on its broken hinge. “What’s left of it.”

“And here I thought you were a certified criminal.”

“Hey, I’m just a driver. You got to explain these things to me,” Tree said. He smiled, and it felt like we were kids again, out on some
grand adventure. We were about to right a great wrong, free Tree’s pal from jail. Everything was going to work out, at least better than it had last time around. I felt good.

I checked under the mattress, went through the bureau, moved the cans and supplies on his shelf around, and satisfied myself there was nothing in any of those spots. Then I sat down at the desk. It was scraped and scarred from years of use, and one of the legs was broken, propped up by a brick. It was like everything in the room, discards from an attic or basement. Which is probably where Crowley got it all from, to create the illusion of a caretaker’s room when the army arrived.

The desk held little of interest. Musty paperwork from years ago. Pencil stubs. A photograph of a woman, possibly his mother, folded and shoved in the back of a drawer. Did Crowley despise his mother for leaving his father? It didn’t matter. What mattered was what I found in the bottom drawer. A box of shotgun shells, half empty, on top of the newspaper article about the trial of Alan Wycks. I took them out and set them on the desk.

“Bird shot,” Tree said from the doorway.

“Can still kill a man,” I said. I unfolded the article. The creases were nearly worn through from being opened and closed so many times. It was a different article from the one in the scrapbook. This was from a newspaper in Reading, where the trial was held. It detailed the testimony given by then Detective Sergeant Payne, and mentioned that Wycks had gotten hysterical and had to be removed from the courtroom. The local paper had given Sam Eastman as the arresting officer, but this reporter gave that honor to Payne, either by error or because of the transfer to the headquarters lockup.

“First Brackmann, then Eastman,” I said to myself.

“What?” asked Tree.

“Never mind. There’s got to be something else here, he wouldn’t keep only one article. He was obsessed by his father’s imprisonment, so he’s bound to have more.” I pulled out desk drawers and emptied them on the floor. I dumped out the contents of the bureau, tore the sheets from the bed, looked in every corner of the pathetic little room.

Nothing.

Everything in the room was junk. Everything except the framed photograph of his father. I took it down and removed the cardboard backing. Tucked inside were sheets of paper, covered in writing, words in lines straight across, curving down the margins, filled with underlines, cross-outs, and capital letters. It was addressed to Angus Wycks, “my dear son.”

It was nearly incomprehensible. Alan Wycks was no longer a former schoolteacher, ex-soldier, or stonemason. He was a man driven mad by confinement, who felt the demons that pressed in on him from every stone surface that imprisoned him. Four names stood out, each underlined in a fury of ink.

Linus Brackmann

Samuel Eastman

Peter Cook

John Payne

The men who had destroyed his life, cheated him, driven his wife away, torn his son from his grasp, and laid terror upon his soul. Angus had a mission, and he was halfway home.

“Let’s go,” I said, putting the letter in my pocket. “We have to find Crowley.”