“Well, I don’t know which is my big problem right now. I hate not knowing, having a blank spot in my investigation. But I guess I understand what you’re saying.”
I felt like I was surrendering to some superior logic that had proved me wrong but might let a murderer get away. My head was pounding, and I rubbed my temples to ease the pain building up inside.
“Boyle, you’re bleeding,” Harding said, pulling my hand away from my head. “You must have opened up one of the cuts from the wood splinters.”
Harding held my hand in front of my face so I could see. My fin-gers were stained sticky red and I felt a stream trickle down the side of my face like a tear. I pulled out my handkerchief and tried to stop it before it hit my collar. It seemed so long ago that Kaz, Knut Birkeland, and I were standing out there playing soldier. Blood on my face, blood on the roses-where would it show up next? I felt dull and stupid, a child in the company of adults, needing a bandage. Something wasn’t adding up. I felt an idea trying to claw its way up from the back of my mind. I looked at the blood on the handkerchief. Where would it show up next?
“Wait a minute!” I said. I held up my hand as if to stop any other thoughts, to clear my mind. I knew the answer had to do with that bullet. Where would it show up next? I tried to visualize that morning. Kaz had been on my right, and Birkeland on my left. There had been smoke and confusion. I closed my eyes and watched it all happen, trying to slow things down. The commandos sneaking up on us… explosions… burning tanks… shots…
“Knut Birkeland was murdered,” I said. “On the second try.”
“What? How could you know that for certain?” Cosgrove’s mouth gaped open, as if he had just heard a monkey guess his birthday.
“The bullet that almost got me was not a stray or a mistake in loading. It was an assassination attempt, intended for Knut Birkeland.”
“But the bullet struck just inches from your head,” Cosgrove sputtered.
“Which also put it inches from Birkeland,” Harding said slowly, one step behind me, as the thought took hold and he started to see how it might have worked. Everything fell into place.
“Yes, sir. Whoever fired was low and to the left. I just happened to be there. Maybe it was his rifle or maybe he got jostled. It was a good idea, though. All he had to do was slip one live round in the chamber before the exercise. When he loaded the clip of blanks, it would have been waiting there, ready to go on the first shot. With all that firing, no one would notice that the shooter didn’t work his bolt, since he already had the live round loaded. He could just aim and fire.”
“You might be right, Boyle,” Harding said. Cosgrove nodded, as if he was reluctant to agree, but couldn’t find anything to criticize. He wasn’t amused anymore.
“I know I am. There’s no reason at all to try and kill me, I’ve got nothing to do with this Norwegian business. But we know someone wanted Birkeland dead, so it fits perfectly.”
“Could it be the spy, I wonder?” asked Harding.
“Not unless the Germans prefer bombings and commando raids to an uprising,” said Cosgrove. “Can’t see the spy making that decision in favor of Skak and acting on it. Doesn’t make sense.”
“None at all,” I agreed. “I think that we’ve got a murderer and a spy, and if we’re lucky, finding one will help us find the other. Their paths had to have crossed at some point. Maybe one of them even knows about the other.”
Cosgrove and Harding exchanged glances, and then looked away from me, back at the map case. I got up and headed toward the door. Then I remembered something I needed Cosgrove to do. I stopped and turned around. I drew myself up into what I hoped looked like parade rest and tried to look and sound military. I thought it might improve my chances.
“Major Cosgrove, sir, I do have a request for some information. I don’t believe it would conflict with security concerns.”
“Very well, Lieutenant,” Cosgrove said, pleased to grant a small favor. “What do you need?”
“I’d like a list of all British and Norwegian female staff posted here who are married to military personnel listed as missing in action, or who we know are POWs.”
“Should be a simple matter. I will have it looked in to,” Cosgrove said dismissively. “Now what are these other questions you have for me?”
“Oh, that’s on a need-to-know basis, Major. When I need to know, I’ll ask you.” On my way out it occurred to me that if I hadn’t been one myself, I would have had to conclude all officers were bastards.
I tracked down Daphne and Kaz and found them in Daphne’s room, sitting on a couch with a tea service in front of them. Kaz had his feet up and his eyes closed, his head resting on Daphne’s shoulder. Thinking, I’m sure. Teatime had come and gone, and I was tired, frustrated, hungry, and jealous that it wasn’t me napping on the couch next to Daphne. I wanted a change of scenery and a drink. Or two.
“Daphne, is there a pub around here?”
“Yes, in the village, but we need permission to take the car-”
“Permission granted,” chimed in Kaz, his eyes still closed.
Daphne nudged his shoulder. “Dear, you can’t decide that. Either Major Harding or the ETOUSA transport officer-”
“Daphne, let’s not get all official. I just met with the major and he told me to utilize all available resources for this investigation. That must include the staff car. Now let’s get out of here.”
It was a short drive to the village of Marston Bridge, one of the many rural farm hamlets surrounding the town of Wickham Market, which we had passed through on our drive in. Marston Bridge was a small cluster of houses and shops surrounding, naturally enough, a bridge. We drove over the arched stonework span and Daphne pulled the staff car off the road, next to a timber-framed white-plaster building with a thatched roof. The once whitewashed masonry looked like it hadn’t seen a brush and bucket for a century or so. A worn sign hung over the door with a picture of a big red deer, although the lettering below it told me this was the Red Stag Inn. Our staff car looked out of place next to the collection of bicycles that leaned against an old oak tree in front of the inn. It looked quiet, cozy, and comfortable, like a neighborhood bar back in Southie, the kind of place where folks were naturally suspicious of strangers and foreigners. It didn’t look a thing like it, but it made me think of Kirby’s Bar, a local joint on the corner of D Street and Broadway. Guys coming home from work on the streetcar would get off there, have a beer or two with their buddies, talk about baseball or politics, then go home for supper. I can’t remember a time I saw anybody in there I didn’t know well enough to say hello to on the street, except maybe those crazy cousins of Packy Ryan’s from Back Bay. I thought about those guys and wondered what our reception in this neighborhood bar would be.
As soon as Kaz opened the door for Daphne, I could hear the low murmur of voices and laughter. We entered and stood in the darkened foyer as I blinked my eyes to get used to the change. As soon as I could see clearly, the voices died down; a few oblivious souls in the back cut off in midsentence as they noticed the silence. Heads turned. I guess a beautiful WREN, a little Pole, and a Yank didn’t walk in here every day. We took off our hats and stepped in, pairs of eyes following us in frank assessment.
It was a low-ceilinged room, with dark oak timbers spaced out every couple of yards. To our left was a small front room, a bench along the walls and small tables scattered about, just big enough for pints and ashtrays. The bar filled the rest of the room-rough, wood stained, dark with spilled ale and nicotine. It was all men on the left, at the bar or sitting on the bench, watching a dart game in progress. About half a dozen larger tables were arranged on the right side of the room, and small groups of men and women were seated at those, some eating and others drinking. Daphne headed for the only empty table, being at least from the same country as the locals.