“Angus, do you recall the murder that took place a few weeks ago?”
“You mean the constable?”
“Yes, Tom Eastman. He was found in the churchyard.”
“So I heard,” Crowley said, leading the first horse into the barn and brushing his coat.
“The track that runs by this barn leads to the cemetery. I was wondering if you saw anything the night of the murder.”
“Can’t recall the night, exact like. Be hard to see that darkie at night, wouldn’t it?” He laughed at his joke, glancing at me to see if I’d join in.
“So you don’t recall seeing anyone around who wasn’t supposed to be here?”
“Not since that other colored fellow, the one you helped out of the fight,” Crowley said, chuckling again to himself. “No, I meant the night of the murder.”
“What? Are you asking if I saw some bloke carrying Sam Eastman over his shoulder, plain as day? I’d have said something about that, wouldn’t I?”
“It was Tom Eastman, not his father,” I said. “Who said he was carried?”
“Right you are, Captain. Tom, the son. I knew the father well, just got the names mixed. And of course someone carried him into the cemetery. Not a place you’d go with a man who wants to kill you.”
“So you didn’t see anything suspicious, anything out of place.”
“This is a busy place, with all you Yanks coming and going. But I can’t say as I saw anything different than any other day. Mind you, that big colored fellow could have come through and not been noticed.”
“One of the men said you did your best to start that fight yesterday. You don’t like Negroes, is that it?”
“What’s it to you if I do or don’t? I got a right, don’t I? I don’t mind watching a good fistfight, no law against that. Bad enough we have to put up with you Yanks underfoot and scaring the horses. I wish you’d all go away, I do.”
“Many of us feel the same way, Mr. Crowley. Thanks for your time.” Crowley was a strange one, all right. Mean and surly, and intelligent even if prejudiced against Americans and Negroes. So would he have a problem with Angry Smith? A big enough problem to stage a frame-up?
“Not a lot of help,” I said to Evans as he escorted me back to my jeep.
“Sometimes I think he’s not all there,” Evans said. “Talks to himself, always muttering about the horses. You done here, sir?”
“Done, Sergeant.” I started up the jeep and drove down the hill, watching Evans go inside the big house. As I rounded the corner I stopped by the hedges bordering what had been the garden area. I checked to be sure Evans or Sobel weren’t around, and trotted over to Charlie, now chest-deep in his hole. He was good with a shovel.
“Charlie,” I said, squatting down between piles of dirt. “Is this a normal punishment for a missing button?”
“No, he went easy on me,” Charlie said. Then he smiled. “Not much normal around here, Captain. They say Captain Sobel is good at what he does, but I can’t make much sense of it. This is plain silly. Say, how’s Tree?”
“He was okay when I last saw him. I just talked to Angus Crowley. He doesn’t seem to like Negroes very much.”
“I don’t think he likes anybody much,” Charlie said. “I know I don’t like him.”
“Why?”
“It seems like he talks to himself, which is strange enough,” Charlie said, setting his shovel in the dirt and resting his hands on it. “But he’s talking to someone else. Someone who isn’t there. That’s different, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is,” I said, checking again to see if anyone was coming. “You know who?”
“Naw,” Charlie said. “Don’t care either, I steer clear of him.”
“Okay, Charlie, you take it easy. Don’t lose any more buttons.”
“You know what’s strange, Captain?” He leaned forward, his voice conspiratorial.
“What?”
“I like digging holes. It’s interesting to see what’s down here. Layers and different colors, you know?”
“You sound like a detective, Charlie.” He beamed.
CHAPTER TWENTY — SEVEN
I wanted to catch up with Kaz and find out how Cosgrove was doing, but there was one stop I needed to make first. I wasn’t looking forward to it, however, it had to be done. I stopped at the only pub in the village of Chilton Foliat, the Wheatsheaf, and asked where Malcolm and Rosemary Adams lived. The gent I spoke to pointed up a side road and told me fourth house on the right, and wasn’t it such a sad thing. I didn’t know if he was talking about Malcolm’s shot-up legs, how he used Rosemary as a punching bag, her brother being murdered, or her taking up with a Negro back when she thought Malcolm was dead. I would have been happy to order a pint and pursue the topic at leisure, but I was short on that last commodity.
The dirt road was rutted and followed a drainage ditch that ran from the fields above. Cows grazed in the fenced green pastures opposite a row of ancient houses. The Adams place was whitewashed stone with a thatched roof, set back from the road and surrounded by a kitchen garden and chicken coops. I knocked on the door and a young woman answered.
“Mrs. Adams?” I asked, not sure if I was talking to her or not. She was young, maybe just twenty.
“She’s in the kitchen. Are you from the army?” I said I was, which was pretty clear from my uniform, but I didn’t crack wise over it. I had the feeling I was missing something. “Come in, then.”
Rosemary Adams sat in the kitchen, clutching a cup of tea. There was an immediate sense of wrongness in the room, a calamity I did not yet understand. She hardly looked at me as her friend guided me in front of her.
“Mrs. Adams,” I said. “I’m Captain Boyle. Billy Boyle. I’d like to ask you some questions, if this isn’t a bad time.” Although it was obvious it was.
“Questions?” she asked, as if struggling to understand the concept.
“Aren’t you here about the damages?” asked the other woman.
“I’m sorry, I’m confused,” I admitted. “What damages?”
“For Malcolm, her husband,” the young woman said. “Who was killed last night by one of your trucks.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” I said, caught flat-footed by the news. “What happened?”
“Dorothy,” Rosemary said to the young woman. “You can go home now. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?” Rosemary nodded and Dorothy shrugged as she left.
“Please sit down, Captain Boyle,” Rosemary Adams said. “Would you like some tea?”
“That would be great,” I said. Back in Southie, it was more likely to be a shot and a beer at a time like this, but it was basically the same. A soothing ritual, the familiar in the midst of the horrible.
“Malcolm went to the pub last night. Like most nights,” she said, putting the kettle on. “No, to be honest, like he did every night. Took his bicycle, since it hurt to walk that far. He’d taken a nasty fall once, but he still insisted, even though his legs pained him even with the bicycle. His wounds were terrible, just terrible.”
“I heard about that,” I said, filling in the sudden silence while she wept.
“Stayed until closing, they told me, and then left to come home. He fell again, and couldn’t get up, from what the driver said. One of yours, a big truck. They had the headlamps taped over, for the blackout, you know. Only a slit of light showing, and one bulb was out, so they could hardly see. Ran poor Malcolm over in the road.” The teacup rattled in her hand as she set it in a saucer. “But that’s not why you’re here, is it? I’ve heard your name, Captain Boyle. You’re looking into the murder, aren’t you?” She set down the tea in front of me. I took it with milk, but said no to the sugar.
“Yes, I am here about the murder. That’s why I came by today. I’m sorry to intrude.”
“I’m glad you’ve come,” Rosemary said, sitting across from me. She wore a faded cotton dress, and her dark hair was pulled back and tied with a bright ribbon. Her eyes were red with tears, and traces of freckles from the sun stood out on her cheeks. She was a good-looking woman, worn hard around the edges by work and tragedy. “Do you have any news about Abraham?”