“You’re quite the handyman,” I said. “Did you ever ask Stuart Neville about a bank loan to help you renovate?”
“Oh no.” He laughed. “Why pay someone for such simple work? And I enjoy it. When I finish here I will get back to our other room. Hopefully we will have three boarders again soon. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, I just wanted to drop by to say hello. I met Nigel Morris downstairs. You said he was gone the day Neville was killed, right?”
“Oh yes, he left a day or so before. He is often gone for days at a time, taking the train to his customers.”
“Did he seem upset when you told him about Neville’s death?”
“Yes, I suppose so. It is hard to tell with the English, yes? They are not the most emotional people. But then again, neither are we Germans.” He cast his eyes down to the floor, as if embarrassed to mention his nationality out loud. “And how are you, Captain, after your attack by the canal?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Thanks for asking. Anything else unusual going on in the neighborhood?”
“The police questioned me, of course. It was to be expected. Other than that, nothing. Eva is at school and Carla is at the market. You could ask them, but aside from Mr. Morris returning, it has been quiet.”
“No need to bother them,” I said. “I was curious about something though. You might know a friend of mine. Charles Cosgrove, a British major. I think he has something to do with refugees.”
“No, the name is not familiar.”
“Does anyone from the government come around and visit you? To see how you’re getting on?” To check up on you, I meant. It seemed strange that Miller enjoyed the protection of MI5 but claimed not to know Cosgrove. Following instructions, or telling the truth?
“We get a letter from the Foreign Office every few months. We have to stay in touch and let them know if we move, but we have not seen anyone since we came here. They gave us a small stipend to live on for a while, to help get us settled. But no, the name Cosgrove means nothing to me.”
“No matter, just thought I’d take a chance. I’ll let you get back to work.”
I left, passing Morris in the hallway, making for his room. I glanced in the third bedroom, where Miller had been working before. There was new molding cut and painted, ready to be nailed up. The guy was a real do-it-yourselfer.
He was also telling the truth about not knowing Cosgrove. There had been no quick widening of the eyes, no attempt at recovery. He was either a great liar or had never heard the name. I was no closer to understanding Cosgrove’s interest in this murder, or solving it, for that matter.
I strolled to the Hog’s Head pub for lunch and was greeted by Jack Monk.
“Been for a swim, I hear,” he said.
“No worse for wear,” I said, then ordered a pint and a cheese sandwich. “I bet you hear a lot, Jack. Anything new on Stuart Neville?”
“What, are you tired of folks asking you that question? Want to hear it out of your own mouth, do you?” Monk laughed as he wiped down the bar.
“Yeah, I thought maybe I’d get some answers that way.”
“Well, not from me, more’s the pity,” Monk said as he pulled my pint. “Everyone’s talking about the lass you all pulled from the canal, and wondering if Sophia will be next. Me, I’d say she’s dead or gone far away.”
“Why do you say that?”
“As with any kid her age, there’s a chance she ran off on her own. She may have had her own reasons, not that we’d understand them, mind you. And there’s also a fair chance she was taken by some fiend and then killed and buried, after he had his way with her. When you think about it, those are the two most likely ways for it to go.” He set down the pint, foam cascading down the glass.
“Likely,” I agreed. But likely didn’t rule out everything else. “Here’s another question for you, Jack. Neville’s feet were wet. How would that happen on the canal path?”
“He could have stepped into one of the boats moored along the canal,” Monk said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “We had a heavy rain not long before he was killed, so some might be soaked. Or it could have been from the wake of a boat on the canal washing over. The Kennet River flows into the canal near here, and all that rain would have raised the water level. Take your choice.” He shrugged and moved on, taking other lunchtime orders and gabbing with the regulars.
I knew about water in the boats; I’d gotten my own feet wet that way. But I hadn’t known about the water levels. I wondered what boat might be out on the canal that late at night. And if it had been water from its wake that soaked Neville’s shoes and socks, could the boatman have seen him? And his assailant? I tried to work the angles as I waited for my sandwich, wondering how much could be seen from a moving craft.
“Jack,” I said when he put the plate down. “Are there many boats out on the canal between ten o’clock at night and two in the morning?”
“Ah, you mean when Neville was killed? It would be a rare thing. No lights with the blackout, so if you didn’t know the canal like the back of your hand it would be dangerous.”
“Rare, but not impossible for someone who knows the canal?”
“Aye. There’s one man who comes to mind. Blackie Crane. He runs a steamboat up to Reading, selling coal. Brown coal, that is, what they call lignite. It’s mined out by Pewsey. Not very good stuff, but he manages to sell a boatload between there and Reading every week.”
“But can a coal barge go fast enough to make a wake?”
“Fully loaded? No. But on the return trip from Reading, heading west? Once Blackie gets up a head of steam, there’s no stopping him. And it’s not like a flat-bottomed barge. His is a riverboat, long and narrow, and he keeps it in prime shape. Signals with his steam whistle when he comes through. Reminds folks of the old days, when steam on the water was the way of the world. Around here, leastways.”
“Was he on the river the night Neville was killed?”
“I’m sure he was. I saw him that morning, when he delivered my coal. Said he had one more stop near Reading and then would make the run back. That would put him here late, after closing time.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Yesterday, on his way up to Reading. Ought to be headed back this way in a day or so.”
“Thanks, Jack. Keep this conversation between us, all right?” I wanted to be careful not to tip my hand about a possible witness.
“Whatever you say. Mum’s the word.”
I bit into the sandwich, wondering if there was such a thing as too careful. Big Mike had assisted in the investigation, but then was ordered back to London. Why? Miss Gardner pointed me to Bone and Fraser, then suddenly vanished. Why? I didn’t want Blackie Crane to slip through my fingers as well. I was sure I could trust Payne, but no reason to broadcast the fact we might have a witness to anyone else.
The beer was sharp and bitter.
CHAPTER TWENTY — SIX
Next stop was the Chilton Foliat Jump School, to continue the snooping around that had been cut short by Tree’s fight. I passed the barns, outbuildings, and Quonset huts, and parked on the gravel drive in front of the main house. It was a solid three-story affair with elegant columns, seated on top of a hill with a commanding view of the countryside. In the distance I saw a platoon double-timing it along a road. Closer to the house, GIs were climbing a short wooden tower, then jumping onto a pile of hay, bending their knees and rolling, while an instructor barked at them to hurry up. A corporal threw me a salute on his way into the headquarters.
“Where can I find your commanding officer?” I asked as I returned the salute.
“Captain Sobel is inspecting the service company, sir. Take the path around the back.”
I followed the path, marked by the white-painted stones the army loves so much. At the rear of the house, near a row of hedges that might once have bordered an elegant garden, lines of GIs stood four rows deep. I could make out a tall officer walking the ranks, a sergeant trailing him with a clipboard. I edged to the side of the group, waiting for the inspection to be over. Hearing the sound of shovels, I glanced to the rear and saw Charlie, the big fellow from the fight, and one other GI hacking away at the ground. They were both waist-deep in what looked like wide graves. Charlie saw me and looked quickly at the officer, who I figured for Sobel. Charlie looked scared. His eyes met mine and he shook his head, then bent back to his digging.