“No, it never occurred to me,” I said. “He always told me not to believe what I read in the newspapers anyway. He said there was so much that couldn’t be said and so much said wrong that the only things he trusted were the sports page and the funnies.”
“That reminds me, Billy, when will you tell the end of your story about Tree?”
“That’ll have to wait-hey, stop there,” I said. Kaz had gone about halfway through and a headline jumped out at me. “This is about Alan Wycks, the local stonemason who was sent to Broadmoor after his arrest.”
“Right,” Kaz said. “The fellow Constable Cook told us about. The story here is much as he said. Wife and child gone missing, the theft of the shirts, his incarceration and subsequent sentencing at Broadmoor at the pleasure of the King. The tone of the story is one of pity, a once-prosperous villager and his descent into madness. Constable Samuel Eastman is mentioned as the arresting officer.”
Kaz turned the page, reading to the end of the article. It contained a picture of Wycks, taken in court. His hair was disheveled, his collarless shirt grey and worn. What stood out were his eyes. Dark and deep, they stared into the camera from a sunken, lined face, aged by harsh sun, stone shards, and a crazed mind. I had seen those eyes before. On a younger face, a picture taken before hard times had come his way.
“I’ve seen this man,” I said.
“Where?” Kaz asked, leaning in for a closer look.
“Angus Crowley’s father. When I was in his room I saw a picture of a much younger man, but they’re the same person, I’m sure of it. It was the only personal touch in the place.”
“The eyes,” Kaz noted. “They are quite intense.”
“They were the same in the other photograph. It was a formal portrait, and he was probably around twenty or a little older. But the eyes held a hint of what was to come. Crowley has dark eyes too, set deep in his face, like this guy.”
“And he lives in the barn on the track leading to the Chilton Foliat cemetery,” Kaz said. “That alone makes him suspect. He must have returned to the village some time ago and taken on the job of caretaker. Perhaps his mother changed her name, or gave him her maiden name to distance them from the memory of his father. Or the shame of his insanity.”
“He was just a kid when the mother disappeared. Fourteen years old, the paper said. Crowley seems older but he looks like he may have knocked about a bit before settling down here. A hard life working outdoors can age a man.”
“He obviously wasn’t called up for service,” Kaz said. “Perhaps he did inherit his father’s mental instability. But do you think he killed Tom Eastman after all these years? Why now?”
“That’s a good question, Kaz. Maybe we can track down the owners of the Chilton Foliat manor house. They must have checked references when they hired Crowley. The Hundred-and-First moved into this area less than six months ago. It ought to be easy enough to find the owners.”
“Why not put MI5 to work on it?” Kaz asked. “I will call the number Cosgrove gave us and tell them you need the information as part of your investigation. With their resources, we should know by morning.”
“You’re supposed to be on a train to London,” I said. “Wait a while and then call. Tell them it’s a loose end you’re wrapping up and have them leave a message with Constable Cook when they have the skinny.”
“I will use those exact words, Billy,” Kaz grinned. He had a thing for American slang, the more obscure the better.
At that moment, a loud voice sounded off from the entrance to the bar. “What are them damned niggers doin’ here?” A GI with corporal’s stripes and a red neck stood in front of a pack of his pals, his jaw jutting forward in a show of aggression.
“You shut your mouth, soldier,” the barkeep said, a middle-aged fellow with salt-and-pepper hair. “I’ll have none of that talk in my establishment. Either turn about and walk out, or order your drinks and be peaceable. There’s enough war waiting for you across the Channel, I can promise you that.” He pulled his sleeve up over his elbow, and thrust his forearm toward the new arrivals. A twisted cord of scar tissue ran all along his arm. “Got that at the Somme, and counted myself lucky. So spend your time here in good cheer, gentlemen. There’s pain and fight enough waiting in France.”
The room was silent. The barkeep leaned forward, resting his ruined arm on the bar, watching the corporal, who looked stunned by the response. One of his pals whispered to him, and he shook him off roughly before he stalked out, muttering about niggers and Englishmen. His friends shuffled their feet, unsure of their welcome.
“What’ll you have, boys?” boomed the barkeep, and that was that. They went up to the bar with sheepish grins, shillings jingling in their palms. Tension eased out of the air, and the hum of conversation and laughter returned. But it was only a fight postponed. This was neutral territory and the bar was manned by a guy who knew the ropes. It wasn’t anything like that in the world outside.
“Not the best representative of the American type,” a voice said from my side. It was Ernest Bone, from the sweet shop. I introduced him to Kaz, who agreed with his assessment of the departed corporal.
“You don’t harbor any ill feelings toward the colored troops, Mr. Bone?” I asked.
“None at all. Those fellows behave themselves, and would never enter an establishment as that lout did. Pity your army doesn’t treat them better.”
“They got a combat unit not far down the road from your shop,” I said. “Tank Destroyers.”
“Indeed. They’ve got maneuvers laid on for tomorrow. The whole village is buzzing about it. Most want to watch and the rest are worried about the fields and fences being torn up. I’d like to chat, gentlemen,” Bone said, draining his pint. “But I must excuse myself. It’ll be an early morning tomorrow, getting the cart ready and all. It’s a good chance to sell to the onlookers if the weather’s decent. Good night.” He touched his cap in the old-fashioned manner and we wished him luck. I secretly wished for some myself.
“He was one of Neville’s customers, wasn’t he?” Kaz asked.
“The one who was turned down for the loan. He’s starting the renovations himself.”
“Optimistic chap,” Kaz said. “Rationing must make it difficult to sell delicacies in a small town like this.”
“He’s near the girls’ school at Avington. People always want candy, don’t they?”
“I prefer my sweets from the dessert cart at the Dorchester,” Kaz said. “But it will be some time before we dine there again. Now let me find a telephone and make that call.”
I stayed and had another pint. I watched the darts match, which the locals won. Their Negro opponents were from Greenham Common air base, and four of the biggest fellows in the bar walked them out to their vehicle in case of trouble. It wasn’t in the cards tonight, but I wondered how much longer before this powder keg blew. I found myself hoping for the invasion to come around soon, just so we’d have a common enemy close at hand.
CHAPTER THIRTY — TWO
The morning was crisp and bright, sunlight lifting the heavy dew off grasses and leaves, filling the air with the scents of springtime, a ripe dampness that carried the promise of life. It was invasion weather too, the season for returning young life to the soil, a morbid twist for our times. Kaz had made his telephone call to MI5 about Crowley the night before, and we stopped at the police station to see if a message had been left. The place was locked up tight. The street was deserted and quiet, except for the sound of a bicycle on cobblestones. I wondered where Diana was right now. On a train to Scotland? Or sitting in an SOE office in London, receiving an official reprimand.
“Everyone’s over at the Common,” Doc Brisbane said, slowing his bicycle to a halt. “It’s the maneuvers. The army said people could watch from the roadside. I’d guess there’s a crowd by now, and the constables will have their hands full. Thought it best to be there myself in case I’m needed. Plus I wouldn’t mind seeing those Tank Destroyers tearing about.”