“I’ll bring the jeep around,” Big Mike said, adding in a whisper, “and I’ll tip off Estelle that we got called away.”
Kaz and I retrieved our trench coats and walked outside to wait for Big Mike. It was a cold morning, and a thin layer of late spring snow lay across the park. Ice crinkled beneath our feet, the last gasp of winter’s grip. Spring had come ahead of schedule, a rare treat for England in March. Camouflage netting was draped over the buildings, lending the scene a graceful, almost festive look. A bit like circus tents under the winter sun, shading the hastily built wooden structures housing SHAEF personnel from the elements. And German reconnaissance aircraft.
On the gravel drive, Major Cosgrove stood talking with a man in civilian clothes. The guy was middle-aged, tall, and slim, with angular cheekbones. He looked as if he’d been an athlete in his youth, his easy stance and smooth gestures beneath the topcoat hinting at strength and agility. He and Cosgrove could have been about the same age, but Cosgrove, with his weight and worry, appeared stooped and defeated in his presence.
All I could see was Cosgrove nodding yes, yes. The civilian got into the rear seat of the automobile, which then pulled away, leaving the major standing alone, patting his brow over and over.
“That,” said Kaz, “is as public a demonstration of a crisis within MI5 as you are ever likely to see.”
“Any idea who that was?”
“The man who makes Major Cosgrove sweat,” he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
We made good time to Newbury. The roadway was shut down to London-bound traffic so army convoys could use both lanes heading south to the invasion ports. We moved along at a good clip, surrounded by British and American trucks carrying Tommies and GIs, flatbeds with tanks, towed artillery, and staff cars with their general’s pennants flying. Everyone was headed for the Channel, men and the machinery of war flowing like lethal rivers to the sea. At roundabouts, MPs directed traffic and the few travelers headed in the wrong direction stood by their vehicles and watched forlornly as the heavy stream rumbled by.
“What do we have?” I said to Kaz from the back seat of the jeep. Kaz reached his gloved hand into his coat pocket and produced the sheet of paper Cosgrove had given us. The jeep’s canvas top was up, but it was still damn cold inside.
“We are going to the Kennet Arms on Swan Court in Newbury, off Bridge Street, which is the main route across the Kennet and Avon Canal,” Kaz said. “Owners are George and Carla Miller. They have a seventeen-year-old daughter, Eva, who lives at home and works at the canteen at the air base. Which is apparently where she met Sergeant Jerome Sullivan, who reported finding the body.”
“Anything there on the victim?” Big Mike said from the driver’s seat.
“One Stuart Neville, a long-term roomer, apparently. No other information on him. The Millers also have an older son, Walter, who is in the Royal Navy, currently in the Mediterranean. Nothing else.”
“Cosgrove is well informed about the family situation,” I said. “Enough so that he’s convinced the Millers had no part in the murder. Bit soon to tell for sure, if you ask me.”
“It makes some sense,” Kaz said, leaning back in his seat. “MI5 would have a file on any German expatriates, especially those with political leanings.”
“He never answered your question, Billy,” Big Mike said. “About who called him. That doesn’t make sense.”
“It could have been Inspector Payne,” Kaz said.
“Then he woulda said so,” Big Mike said. “It’s the easiest answer. But he changed the subject, talking about the Millers being Krauts and all, which of course got our attention.”
“We’ll ask Payne,” I said, trying to sound confident. But Big Mike was right. Cosgrove got tipped off by someone else. Who and why would be nice to know. Cosgrove was a man of secrets, and maybe he had his reasons, but I didn’t like going into an investigation blind.
“By the way, did you find anything in Private Smith’s letters?” Kaz asked.
“They were all from his family. It sounded like he’d written them that he was thinking about staying on in England after the war. His mother was upset, but his older brother told him it might be a good idea. Said if he came home there was bound to be trouble with white folks.”
“He must have earned his nickname before the army,” Big Mike said. “Hell, if I was colored, I’d stay here too.”
We entered Newbury, greeted by a statue of Queen Victoria, four lions at her feet. She wasn’t saying anything either. We found Bridge Street, and then Swan Court, which was a quiet little street close to the canal, separated from it by a thick stand of trees, their budding branches shivering in the cold breeze. The houses were all red brick, with tall chimneys and set apart by waist-high brick walls. A path led along the riverbank behind the buildings. Small wooden boats were moored by the path, many of them covered in tarpaulins.
“Easy enough to get to these houses on all sides,” Big Mike said, casing the neighborhood expertly. He parked the jeep near a black sedan, where a constable in the distinctive helmet and blue serge uniform stood on the sidewalk.
“You the Yanks we’re waiting on?”
“That’s us,” I said to the constable. He nodded toward the front door of number eight Swan Court. A small sign proclaimed it to be the Kennet Arms, but it looked like any decent-sized house, three floors under a steep-sloped black slate roof.
“There you are,” a man with a pipe clenched between his teeth said from the open door. “Come around the back and take a look at the body. Detective Inspector John Payne,” he said, extending a hand. I did the introductions and we followed him around the side of the house. Payne was tall and lanky, a brown unbuttoned topcoat billowing behind him as he walked.
“Meet Mr. Stuart Neville,” he said, working his pipe and blowing a stream of smoke to the sky. A constable who had been standing guard stood aside, revealing a set of stone steps leading down to a cellar door at the rear of the house. At the base of the steps was a crumpled form that a civilian might have mistaken for a pile of discarded clothes, if not for the pale white face with the startled look. Wisps of longish hair had fallen over one eye, but the other was staring up at us, or the sky beyond. You might expect him to hop up, dust himself off, and call himself a clumsy sod, if not for the odd angle of his neck.
“May I?” I said, gesturing toward the body.
“Oh, sure,” Payne said. “We’ve had more than enough time to take fingerprints, waiting for you.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“Don’t you worry, Captain Boyle. We’re happy to cooperate. Two heads better than one, eh? Mr. Neville could have used another, that’s plain to see. Go ahead.”
I descended the stairs, which were steep and narrow, tailor-made for an accident. Maybe Neville slipped and broke his neck. Case closed. There was barely room to stand at the bottom, which was a square about four feet on either side in front of a cellar door. Neville wore a tweed jacket, a rumpled shirt, his tie askew, and wool pants that had seen better days. With clothes being strictly rationed, that didn’t mean much. The soles of his shoes were well worn, the shoes themselves mud-splattered. I felt them; shoes and socks were wet. Maybe he had slipped and fallen after all?
But then I turned the head, and I realized what Payne had meant about a second one coming in handy. The back of Neville’s skull was a bloody pulp. Someone had whacked him hard and sent him flying down the stairs. Maybe the blow had broken his neck or it happened when he hit the bottom. Either way, he was probably dead on impact.