The Rest is Silence (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery) (5 page)

“The corpse on the beach probably was some sort of crook. Probably. Or some poor slob who stumbled into a black-market deal. Or a German agent coming ashore who got himself killed for what he saw. Very improbable, I grant you. But impossible? No. So don’t get complacent. If Ike decides to come ashore after the exercise, I don’t want to be looking behind every tree and shrub. I want you to do that before he gets there. Understood?”

“Absolutely, Colonel,” I said. Sometimes Harding was an okay guy. Once in a while you could kid around with him. But most times, this was the essence of his personality: a hard-ass, take-nothing-for-granted kind of guy. He came out of the trenches of the last war in one piece, so I figured he had a right.

T
HE SKY WAS
darkening as we turned off the main road and drove through the village of North Cornworthy. It had the usual monument at the center of town, a stone cross listing the names of the dead from the last war. It didn’t seem like there were that many people left in all of North Cornworthy these days. The street was muddy, the one pub dark and uninviting, and the few shops closed. Whitewashed houses with greying thatched roofs stood amidst weeds and looming pines.

“Not much of a place,” I said.

“Many of these small villages were devastated by the Great War,” Kaz said. “Men from the same town served together, whole companies often wiped out in minutes. Then the Depression, another war, the
young called up or working in factories, and soon only the old are left behind.”

Outside the village, we found the turnoff for Ashcroft. We took a driveway lined by giant oaks and followed a gradual incline until the trees thinned out and we saw Ashcroft House, rising from the hill like a giant slab of stone. It was a low two-story structure built from the same grey granite as the stone walls in the area. The roof was slate, the only brightness provided by the stark white trim around the windows and doors. The main section had a wing off either side, and it looked like other parts of the house had been added over time. I wondered how old the place was. Centuries, at least, for the main house.

“This is some joint, Kaz,” I said as I parked the jeep in front.

“Apparently David married well,” he said as we grabbed our bags from the rear. “He and Helen met late in 1940 and married rather quickly. Wartime romance.”

If anyone knew about love in a time of war, it was Kaz. He rang the bell. An elderly butler answered the door and told us we were expected, then shuffled off to fetch Martindale. The entryway was impressive. Gleaming marble floors and a wide staircase ascending to a broad upper landing, paneled doors lustrous with polish. The place smelled rich.

Double doors to our right swung open, and the butler stood aside as a figure emerged from the gloom of the unlit room. A good-looking man in a RAF uniform came toward us, a smile on his face. His blond hair was slicked back, and his step was quick and steady. It had to be Martindale, but at first I saw no sign of a wound or injury.

“Piotr!” he said, extending his hand as he drew nearer. “It’s so good to see you.”

As he came into the bright hallway and turned to greet us head on, I almost gasped.

It was his face.

“David,” Kaz said, gripping his hand in both of his. I saw the slightest evidence of struggle cross his features as he worked to find another way to say it was good to see his friend. “It has been too long. I’ve missed you.”

“And you must be Captain Boyle,” Martindale said. “Kaz has told me so much about you.”

“Don’t believe half of it, Flight Lieutenant. Thanks for inviting me.” We shook, and his grip was firm, but I detected a tremor in his hand. Still, he put on a good show. He’d been burned. Badly. But only the right side of his face. It looked as if the flesh had melted, then frozen into a hard, shiny skin. He’d had surgery, to be sure. His right eye was visible, but barely, peeking out from a slit that looked like it never closed. His nose was perfect on the left, a tight bump of scar tissue on the right.

“Glad to have you. And let’s leave rank aside, shall we? From what Piotr tells me, I sense you’d rather not bother about it. I’ll show you to your rooms, and you can wash up before dinner. Thank you, Williams,” he said to the butler, who quietly departed. David waited until he was out of earshot.

“Look, Piotr, I’m sorry I never told you about this,” David said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of his ruined face. “I should have prepared you. It must be a shock.”

“It is a shock you are still alive, after all the battles you have seen,” Kaz said. “And I have not come through the war unscathed either.” He made the same small gesture toward his own scar.

“What, that little thing?” David said, and they both laughed, the kind of laughter that comes when two old friends reunite and pick up as if the intervening years had never occurred. Maybe this would be good for both of them. I kept a few steps behind, letting them chat as David led us upstairs.

“I don’t know what to think,” Kaz said later in my room. “I should be glad he’s alive and has all his limbs, but what a price he’s paid. I can’t imagine what life will be like for David.”

“It will be a life. Don’t forget that,” I said as I tied my field scarf, which the army insisted on calling a plain old necktie.

“Yes,” Kaz said, with little enthusiasm. He stared out the window as I finished dressing. I’d brought my new tailor-made Ike jacket. It was a new short-waisted coat, based on the British army’s battle jacket. General Eisenhower had pushed for the new design, and his name
was linked to it, even though the quartermaster insisted on calling it the M-44 jacket. I wore it with my dark brown wool pants and chocolate-colored shirt. I looked pretty damn good—sort of a cross between an American gangster and a military intelligence officer. Bit of an exaggeration on both counts, but you get the idea.

Kaz looked elegant, but he always did. All his uniforms were custom-made, and for a guy with a small frame he wore them well. He removed his glasses and cleaned them carefully. I stood behind him and gazed out at the lawns and gardens below, the river in the distance, the sun lighting the horizon with reds and yellows. Below, a couple walked briskly toward the house.

The woman was tall and thin but big-boned, with a purposeful chin and a broad-brimmed burgundy hat that covered the rest of her face. She was gesturing with her gloved hands and seemed to be in earnest conversation with the guy next to her. Husband, probably. He held his hands behind his back, his head tilted slightly as if to catch her every word. He wore a tweed suit and a worried look.

“I wonder who they are,” Kaz said idly. “And how they reacted to David’s injury.”

“Let’s find out,” I said.

CHAPTER FIVE

W
ILLIAMS DIRECTED US
to the library for drinks before dinner. The hallway carpets were deep and plush, absorbing the sound of our footsteps. But not the voices coming from the library.

“You had better think of
something
, Edgar.” A woman’s voice, hushed but unable to contain itself. “We only have so much time.”

“I will, I will.” A man, probably Edgar. Kaz laid his hand on my arm and we backed up a few steps, not wanting to intrude. The voices followed us.

“Think of the children—although I don’t know why you’d start now. You should have thought of them first, Edgar. We shall have to take them out of school. I’ve already warned them, and I told them it was all your fault.”

“Why would you say such a thing, dear?”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Her voice was lower, throaty and demanding. Edgar went silent as the clink of glassware echoed in the room. Kaz and I took that as our cue to enter. There were only two people in the room, the same couple we’d seen earlier.

“Hello,” the man said, with no trace of the previous conversation in his greeting. “You must be David’s guests. Edgar Shipton. This is my wife, Meredith. Sir Rupert is her father.”

“Lieutenant Piotr Kazimierz, at your service. This is Captain Billy Boyle.”

“But it’s Baron, isn’t it?” Meredith Shipton said as Kaz gave her
hand a kiss. I settled for a limp shake. “At least, that’s what David told us. I didn’t know the Poles had barons, but why not?”

“Indeed,” Kaz said. “Yes, I am a baron of the Augustus Clan and would be pleased to be addressed as such.”

“And you, Captain Boyle?” Meredith said, turning her attention to me. She had penetrating hazel eyes, glints of green reflecting off the emerald dress she wore. Not a beautiful woman, but striking. She exuded health and strength, and I’d have bet she was used to getting what she wanted.

“From the Boyle clan of Boston. And I’d be pleased if you’d call me Billy.”

“I think I shall,” Meredith said, smiling over the cocktail raised to her lips. She seemed as delighted to meet an informal Yank as a Polish aristocrat. “Edgar, please see to drinks for our guests.” Edgar did her bidding. He seemed used to it, and smiled as if indulging her, which I guessed he was also used to doing.

Kaz asked for whiskey and soda. I told Edgar I’d have whatever he was drinking, which turned out to be a large whiskey, no soda. It’s a little trick Dad taught me. It establishes a bond and tells you something about the person you’ve just met. Everyone likes to be flattered, and showing you trust a person’s taste in booze is gratifying to them. Every now and then, I end up with a Pink Lady, but it generally turns out well.

“You’re both with SHAEF, I see,” Edgar said as he handed me the whiskey in a cut-crystal glass that cost more than the whole bottle. “You chaps must be working day and night, what with the invasion coming up.”

“We really can’t say anything about that,” I said. It was true, but not for the reason I led Edgar to believe.

“Ah, security, certainly. But all signs point to it, Captain Boyle. All of Devon’s thick with American troops moving towards the coast. We see convoys every day, and tent cities springing up everywhere. The current witticism is that one can cross the River Dart at Dartmouth simply by stepping from one landing craft to another.” Edgar chuckled, and I went along with the gag. It was almost true, from what we’d seen today.

“Do you live here, or are you visiting as well?” I asked Edgar. He looked to be in his late thirties, maybe too old for service, maybe not. I knew he had kids, and there was probably an exemption for an older married man with children. He had some grey flecked through his short brown hair and a bit of a paunch, but he held himself well.

“Here, temporarily,” he said, and his eyes sought out Meredith. “We’ve recently returned from India. I was in the civil service there, and I’m looking for a position now. Meredith wished to visit her father, and Sir Rupert was so kind as to invite us to stay for a while.”

“I’m sure the Foreign Office needs people with experience in that part of the world,” I said.

“Edgar’s already been to the Foreign Office, haven’t you, dear?” Meredith said, gliding in between us. “Any joy?” I was pretty sure she knew the answer.

“Nothing yet, no.” Edgar met her eyes dead on. A challenge?

“Did you enjoy India?” I asked Meredith, feeling uncomfortable with their exchange.

“I loved it,” she said, clasping her hand on Edgar’s arm as if there was no discord between them. “Father was with the civil service in the Raj as well, for eighteen years. I was practically raised there. I adore India, except for that creature Gandhi and the India National Congress.”

“They’re for independence from England,” Edgar explained, catching the blank look on my face. I knew who Gandhi was; he was famous enough. But Indian politics was not my strong suit.

“And for the Japanese as well,” Meredith said. “Some of them in the National Congress, anyway.”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Kaz said.

“What? Oh, of course,” Meredith said. “Still, I don’t see why they should look upon us as the enemy. So many Indian soldiers are fighting the Germans in Italy, aren’t they?”

“How long were you there this time?” I asked Meredith, trying to turn the conversation away from British imperialism. As a good Irishman, I was bound to say something unpleasant before long, and I was a guest here.

“Only two years,” Meredith said, with a hooded stare in Edgar’s direction.

“Sorry I’m late,” David said from the doorway, a well-timed distraction. “Helen will be down shortly.”

“David, the baron and Billy are absolutely delightful. I’m so glad you invited them,” Meredith said, smiling in David’s direction. She didn’t avoid looking at him, and Edgar served up a drink in no time. I was glad to see David readily accepted. The English are rightly famous for their stiff upper lips, but they also tend to hide the occasional inconvenient truth. David’s face was a truth that some families, in their comfortable libraries on their country estates, might prefer to keep locked away. Or maybe my Irish was up, and I was being uncharitable to the whole race.

“Yes, I’m glad it worked out,” David said. “It would be a shame to lose contact with old university friends, wouldn’t it?”

“I agree,” Edgar said. “I still correspond with several. You read modern languages at Oxford, if I recall. Which college?”

“Balliol,” Kaz said. “A fascinating experience, with students from many nations.

“Yes,” David said. “That was when there was still hope for a Europe without war. I thought understanding language would be a key to understanding people. Instead, we’re learning to kill one another. But at least Piotr can put his knowledge to good use these days. Translation, isn’t that what you do at SHAEF?”

“It was,” Kaz said, and sipped his whiskey and soda.

“We work in the Office of Special Investigations,” I said. Why not give Kaz a boost in the eyes of his pal?

“Investigating what?” Edgar asked.

“Whatever they tell us to,” Kaz said. “We cannot say much more, unfortunately.”

“Sorry, Piotr,” David said. “I should have known you didn’t earn that scar translating German.”

“Are you spies?” Meredith asked, a hint of mischief in her voice. Or was she adroitly moving the conversation away from the subject of facial injuries?

“Glorified policemen would be closer to the mark,” I said. “I was a detective in Boston before the war.”