“Yes. Previously Sam helped arrest a vagrant who had assaulted a farmer. But Sam wasn’t even listed on the arrest warrant, so I doubt that fellow even knew his name.”
“The nineteen thirty-five arrest was different?” Kaz asked.
“Oh, yes. Quite. It was a local stonemason, Alan Wycks. He had a job at the Chilton Foliat manor house, back before the government took it over. The owner, Lawrence Brackmann, accused Wycks of stealing three shirts. Laundry drying on the line, I think it was. Sam found the shirts all right, hidden away at Wycks’s cottage. He arrested him, and then it turned out that Wycks couldn’t stand being in an enclosed space. Started banging his head against the walls, right here in our own lockup. Had to send him up to Berkshire Constabulary headquarters in Reading, where they had facilities for that sort of thing.”
“What happened then?”
“Went stark raving mad in no time, I heard. You could ask Inspector Payne more about it. He picked up the case when Wycks got transferred to Reading. He was a detective sergeant at the time, if I recall. It was a solid case, and from what I heard Wycks was incoherent before the judge. Got himself sentenced to Broadmoor, at the King’s pleasure.”
“And that’s where he died?” I asked.
“Yes. Just two years ago next month.”
“Did he have any family?” Kaz asked.
“His wife had run off with their son the year before. After Wycks went mad, we worried he might have harmed them, but we never found a trace. Searched his garden for signs of recent digging, but found nothing. My thought was she began seeing signs that he was losing his mind and left him when she could.”
“Sounds like a dead end,” I said.
“It was worth looking into,” Cook said. “Police work is the same all over, isn’t it? Looking into people’s lives, discovering more than you want to know, often for naught.”
“It would help if you could forget what you didn’t need to know,” I said.
“There’s a truth,” Cook said. “You’ve heard about poor Malcolm, have you?”
“Yes, we were just discussing his death,” Kaz said. “No one seems to really mourn his passing.”
“No, I’d say not,” Cook said, giving it some consideration. “No family hereabouts, and he never spared a kind word when a harsh one would do. Still, it’s a pity for a wounded soldier to end up dead like that after going through so much. Not to mention Rosemary. She was always a sweet lass, full of life. She must have put that all away to make a life with Malcolm.”
“What do you think she will do?” Kaz asked.
“Wait for you to exonerate Private Smith,” Cook said. “I hadn’t seen her so happy in years, back when Malcolm was thought dead and Smith was free.”
“It doesn’t bother you, Constable? A white woman and a Negro together?” I couldn’t help but think what a scandal that would be in Boston, or anywhere else in the States for that matter.
“We’re just country folk here, Captain. It takes us time to get used to anything new,” Cook said, unbuttoning his uniform collar. “But that’s all it is. Something new. Why, we might even look kindly upon an Irishman settling down among us.” He smiled as he worked on his pipe, knocking out ashes and cleaning the stem.
“Point taken,” I said. “And I do hope we can get Angry out of prison. Rosemary gave me the scrapbook she and Tom kept when they were kids, said there were pictures and clippings from her father’s career. I’ll look through that tonight and see if anything jumps out at me.”
“I remember that book,” Cook said. “When Tom was a pup he and his sister would race through here, and pinch anything not nailed down if they took a fancy to it for their scrapbook. There might be something in there, you never know.”
“What was Tom like as a boy?” I asked, wondering if there was any connection we’d overlooked.
“Sam was a stern father, and Tom sought to stretch the limits now and then. Nothing serious, just the mischief of youth. Stealing apples from an orchard on a summer’s night, that sort of thing.”
Cook’s face softened at the memory.
“Do you have children, Constable?”
“I did,” he said. “A fine wife and a handsome boy. She died three years ago. The saving grace was she didn’t have to hear of Teddy being killed in Sicily. Teddy and Tom were a right pair, only a few months between them. Played rugby together when they weren’t pinching apples. Nothing’s the same anymore, is it?”
What could I do but agree? I nodded, and let the silence settle for a moment before I asked, “Do you know a canal man by the name of Blackie Crane?”
“Sure, everyone knows Blackie. Quite a character, he is.”
“There’s a slight chance he saw something on his last run through here. If you see him, we’d like have a chat. Tell Inspector Payne, but keep it quiet otherwise, okay?”
“Lots of secrets these days, Captain, aren’t there?”
“Only until we figure them out, Constable.”
We invited Cook to have dinner with us, but he declined, saying he needed to walk his beat around Hungerford one more time. His cot was made up in the corner of his office, and I think I knew why he often spent nights here. There were no ghosts in the local nick, only emptiness, or the occasional criminal, drunk, or rowdy GI. It was better company.
Kaz and I drove back to the Prince of Wales Inn in Kintbury, ready for our dinner, but we were stopped halfway there by a column of GIs marching quick-step, coming up from the Kennet River and crossing our path on the Bath Road. Their boots were muddy and sweat streamed down their faces, even in the cool late-afternoon air. There were hundreds of them, a battalion perhaps, on a forced march to toughen them up for the invasion. The 101st Airborne, evidenced by their screaming eagle shoulder patches. Some were probably named Teddy.
The invasion of France-well, probably France-was on everyone’s mind. Mostly a pent-up anxiety, like a bow pulled taut while your hand quivers as you hold it, ready to release. I didn’t know if I’d be there on the big day, but I could feel myself pulled along by the current of nerves, fear and desire to get it over with. Right now, watching these men cross the road-these cherished boys, these Teddies, all I could think about was the heartache to come for their mothers, fathers, wives, and friends. It was good that we fought our wars so far from home, not so much because it saved our towns and cities from destruction, but because it put distance and time between death and mourning. How many folks back in the States on that day of invasion would wake up, pour a cup of coffee, and read the morning paper without knowing their son or husband was already dead?
The last of them crossed the road and I was glad to see them go.
CHAPTER THIRTY
As we parked next to the Prince of Wales Inn, I did a double-take. Sitting at a bench by the door were two men: Michael Flowers and Nigel Morris. Neville’s boss and his fellow boarder. I pointed them out to Kaz and gave him the lowdown on each.
“It is a small town,” Kaz said. “Perhaps Neville introduced them. Sometimes coincidences are just that.” I doubted it.
Morris caught sight of me and gave Flowers a nudge. Flowers went inside as Morris nodded to someone at our backs. I heard car doors slam, and knew this was no coincidence. I turned sideways to keep my eye on Morris and check who was coming up on us. I pulled Kaz with me as I glanced around for an exit. No go. Coming through the gate from the road were two British MPs, big guys. Another filled the doorway to the inn. We were boxed in. My hand moved to my shoulder holster and the reassuring grip of the.38 Police Special. But I didn’t draw. This was damned odd, but no ambush, not with a full complement of MPs surrounding the joint.
“Lieutenant Kazimierz?” said an MP sergeant as he took Kaz by the arm, not waiting for an answer. “Come with us, please. We have orders for you to return to London immediately.”
“Whose orders?” Kaz asked.
“Not at liberty to say, sir,” the polite MP said, not relaxing his grip. His hand took up most of Kaz’s upper arm.