“Don’t pretend you haven’t figured out what happened to Tom Eastman,” Crowley said. “It was the next best thing to killing that bastard Samuel. To lay his son’s body on his grave. To ruin their family as mine was ruined. That was me who killed him, damn you! You can’t take that away from me, especially not by pinning it on that darkie.”
“Did Brackmann really hang himself, or was that you as well?” I asked. I glanced at Payne, and saw his hands grip the arms of the chair. The cast on his leg left him nearly immobile in that position, but he was ready to launch himself as best he could.
“Of course that was my doing,” Crowley said. “He had no idea who I was. I came by asking for work, and he told me to bugger off. I took a tosh to his head and dragged him to the barn. I only regret he didn’t know he was being strangled. Father would have liked him to know, I’m sure.”
“This was all for your father, wasn’t it?” I said, trying to sound sympathetic.
“Of course,” Crowley said, his face softening a touch. “Who wouldn’t step into his father’s shoes? It was what he wanted, what he taught me to do.”
“I know,” I said. “We saw the letters. That was a heavy burden to lay on you.”
“Go to hell,” Crowley said. “You didn’t know my father.”
“I’m pretty sure your father would think you pathetic,” I said, deciding that the sympathetic approach wasn’t getting us anywhere. “He was a veteran, a hero. And what did you amount to? A criminal and a killer. They’ll probably send you to Broadmoor too, if they don’t hang you.” I was working on provoking him, to get him out of that chair and pointing the shotgun someplace other than Payne’s chest.
“Stop it! You said you were sorry about my father!” Rage flitted across his face, and then his lips quivered as if he were holding in a torrent of tears.
“I’m sorry he has you for a son, Angus. You didn’t even take his name, for God’s sake.”
That struck a chord. “My name is Angus Wycks!” He stood and shouted again, “Angus Wycks!” He held the shotgun in both hands, waving it wildly between Payne and me, his eyes crazed with pain and memory.
“Now!” I yelled, and dove for the floor, reaching for my pistol.
The door from the squad room crashed open, and Kaz burst in, his Webley searching for a target, finding Crowley and shooting, just as Tree stood in the doorway and fired his.45. The room was filled with sharp thunder, muzzles’ flashes, and the hot-metal smell of gunfire. I fumbled for my revolver, rising up on one knee as a final blast rocked the room, the twin booms of both barrels going off as Crowley fell against the wall, his dead hand gripping the shotgun.
“Jesus,” Tree said, although it sounded like he was very far away. My ears were ringing, and the room was hazy with smoke. Payne got to his feet, then fell back into his chair. His shoulder was bloody where he’d caught some of the bird shot. Between him and Tree there was a hole in the wall where the shot had hit.
“Jesus,” Tree said again, and as I focused on him, I saw he’d caught some as well; his right sleeve was ripped and smoky where the bird shot had hit. Blood dripped down his arm.
“Sit down,” I said, taking him by his good arm and leaning him against the desk, away from the sight of Crowley’s corpse. “Everyone else okay?” I knew I was yelling, but I wanted to hear myself.
“Everyone but Mr. Crowley,” Kaz said, holstering his Webley.
“Mr. Wycks,” Tree said. “We ought to at least call him that.”
“It will be on his tombstone,” Kaz said.
CHAPTER THIRTY — EIGHT
Four days, two bandages, three depositions, one pauper’s funeral, one near knockdown fistfight with the original CID investigating agent, and a visit to Sophia at the Avington School for Girls later, Tree and I were in a jeep heading west to the US Army military prison at Shepton Mallet. We had a thermos of coffee, signed release papers for Private Abraham Smith, a full set of clothes from his footlocker, and sore arms from our respective wounds. I drove.
“I still feel like I got bird shot in my arm,” Tree said, rubbing his biceps.
“There were four little pieces of shot in there,” I said. “Doc got them out with tweezers.”
“What did he call that room we were in?” Tree asked.
“His surgery.”
“Well, there you go. I had surgery. You had a little scratch on your arm. You want some more coffee?”
“Sure, if you can manage it.” Tree poured, wincing and groaning as he did. We laughed. I sipped the hot java, one hand draped over the steering wheel, the sun behind us and a clear road ahead. I was having fun. The last few days, as we put together the pieces of the case against Angus Crowley, Tree and I had managed to set aside the anger that had been between us the past few years, and get back to the boyhood camaraderie that had bound us together back in Boston. Tree had medical leave for a week, and I’d gotten permission from Colonel Harding to see the Angry Smith case to its conclusion.
We’d gone to London with depositions from the Berkshire Constabulary detailing what we’d discovered about Crowley, and what witnesses had heard him confess to. The Criminal Investigations Division didn’t like hearing it, and we’d been kicked upstairs to a captain who took offense at Tree’s race, my Boston accent, and the very idea of letting Smith go free. The argument became heated, and our meeting ended with Tree pulling me out the office, one hand still clinging to the guy’s lapel. We found a lawyer from the Judge Advocate General’s office who wasn’t a complete idiot, and he pushed the release through. Tree sent a letter to the prison, letting Angry know we’d be there soon. We had no idea if it got to him, but we had orders to spring him and a letter from General Eisenhower himself in case we needed an ace in the hole.
“Do you think Angry will really settle here after the war?” I asked Tree as we hummed along the roadway.
“He’s serious all right,” Tree said. “I think he would even if Rosemary weren’t in the picture. He doesn’t want to go back to the way he was treated in the States.”
“Was it that bad for him?” Tree had had his share of hard times because of his skin color, but I didn’t have the sense he was ready to call it quits on his country.
“I’ll tell you a story, then you decide,” Tree said. “We were doing field exercises outside of Fort Polk-that’s in Louisiana. The company exec sent Angry and a corporal into town with a requisition for supplies. They take the jeep into this little cracker town, and Angry goes into the general store while Corporal Jefferson waits outside in the jeep. Before he knows it, there’s a crowd of whites around the jeep. Angry starts to go outside, but the storekeeper warns him off and tells him to keep quiet if he values his life. The white boys start beating up on Jefferson, and before long they’re dragging him behind the jeep, up and down the street, until he’s dead.”
“What did Angry do?”
“Went out the back door, ran ten miles back to our bivouac. Reported to our commanding officer, who went into town to retrieve the jeep.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all, Billy. The army let one of their own be murdered in broad daylight, and didn’t lift a finger. They were afraid white folk across the South would turn against the army if they weren’t allowed to murder a Negro soldier now and then. All Angry wants to do is get in combat and prove himself, then be left alone to build a life. Too many people back home don’t want either thing to happen. So England looks pretty damn good.”
“Can’t say I blame him,” I managed. Some days I was real clear about why we were fighting this war. Some days I wondered why we weren’t fighting other wars. We drove in silence for a while.
“Turn here,” Tree said, consulting the map on his lap. We soon came to a sign for the US Military Prison Shepton Mallet. The prison was in the center of town, surrounded by a high grey stone wall. We turned down Goal Street, and I recalled Kaz telling me this place had been a prison since the 1600s. The town had grown up with it, streets and lanes curving around the massive walls like a stream flowing against a rock outcropping. We found the entrance, showed our papers, and were directed to the administrative section. We parked, got out of the jeep, and stared at the gate closing behind us.