“He is,” I said. “He did thirty missions in a Lancaster.”
“That would make God Almighty jumpy,” Big Mike said. I filled him in on what Tom Quick had been through, losing his family, his friend, and very nearly his grip on reality.
“He used to be a cop, too,” I said, after reviewing what had happened at the racetrack.
“Is that why he’s one of those Reserve guys? They don’t trust him back on the force?”
“Inspector Grange trusts him enough to give him that job,” I said. “But he might not be able to swing the real thing once the war’s over. Sometimes he can drift off. Lose himself when things get difficult.”
“Plenty of times I wish I could do that,” Big Mike said. “He seems like a decent guy. Hope he’s going to be okay. But it’s gotta be hard, losing your wife and kids and then going out to bomb other women and children. What’s the difference, you gotta ask yourself? Some days I wonder how any of us will get through this war with our heads screwed on straight.” He went a little faster over the bridge at Totnes, the moonlight reflecting off the moving water, running high; the tide must have been coming in. Less than a week and I was already a nautical expert. Big Mike slowed as a trio of GIs staggered across the road, their linked arms the only thing keeping them vertical.
“Must be past closing time. Turn left here,” I said, pointing to a narrow country lane that led to the village of Bow, where Bow Creek got its name. Or the other way around. Tree branches shrouded the road, cutting off what light the moon gave.
“What’s up with this Lieutenant Wiley you guys are talking about?” Big Mike asked as he ducked a particularly low hanging limb.
“Navy. Some kind of map-maker, from the little he says about his work. Harding knows, but of course he won’t tell. He showed up at Ashcroft House, asking to visit and set up his easel since his mother had worked there before she went to America.” I told Big Mike about Sir Rupert’s request and the few facts I’d had time to ferret out.
“So what are you going to do now that the old guy’s dead?” Big Mike asked.
“I still have to look into it,” I said. “What if Wiley stands to inherit the place?”
“He won’t be very popular, that’s for sure,” he said. “From the little I’ve seen, that dame Meredith likes running the show. Her old man’s bastard son might be in for a rough welcome.”
Big Mike was right about that. An unexpected relation from the wrong side of the sheets would be the last person Sir Rupert’s daughters would want showing up at the funeral. And I had an uneasy feeling about Sir Rupert’s hasty visit to his solicitor the day before he died. If there were a legal document acknowledging Peter Wiley as his illegitimate son, it would throw a monkey wrench into the works for all concerned. But had Sir Rupert actually changed his will? Maybe, or perhaps there was other family business he rushed off to see his solicitor about hours before he died.
Whatever he’d done, it was time I had a talk with Peter Wiley. The more I mulled it over, the surer I was that he deserved to know the truth, or at least what Sir Rupert had suspected the truth to be. Maybe he wouldn’t care about an inheritance.
We pulled into the Ashcroft House drive, with Kaz not far behind after he dropped Constable Quick off at his lodgings. I looked at the stone house on the hill, stars twinkling above the darkened structure. Who in their right mind would walk away from a piece of this action? I needed to talk to Wiley.
Inside, the wireless was on in the library, and we stopped in to see who was still up. Edgar and Crawford sat side by side, their heads bent close in hushed conversation. As Big Mike and I entered the room, they broke apart, relaxing back in their seats as if they were intent on listening to the symphony.
“Good evening,” I said. “Crawford, this is Sergeant Mike Miecznikowski. I don’t think you were introduced earlier.”
“Big Mike to my friends,” he said, extending his hand to Crawford.
“I don’t have Yank friends,” Crawford said, ignoring the proffered handshake.
“Or manners,” Big Mike said. He moved in even closer, his big mitt still outstretched.
“Oh, all right,” Crawford said, standing up and taking Big Mike’s hand, then sitting down again, shaking his head as if it had been a mere misunderstanding. “Been a long day, nothing personal meant by it. Sounds like the American navy took a thrashing last night. How’d you get on looking for those fellas?”
“Pretty well,” I said, not interested in going into details. “And from what I heard, it was the Royal Navy that had escort duties, by the way.”
“Well, no excuse for letting the Jerries in,” Crawford said. “I didn’t mean to blame anyone, you know. I only heard from my cousin about American ships being hit. He saw the sky light up all the way from his battery at Salcombe.”
“Drink?” Edgar asked, always knowing the right thing to say. We accepted a nightcap, settling into the comfortable chairs by the radio.
“Has Peter Wiley come back, by any chance?” I asked.
“I haven’t seen him,” Edgar said. “Have you, Crawford?”
“No. Haven’t laid eyes on him since he left. Or rather, the day before, since he left quite early. Are you looking to find him, Captain Boyle?”
“No,” I said. “I thought he might come back to finish that painting.”
“That might not be possible,” Edgar said. “Meredith took a dislike to the young man. Now that Sir Rupert’s gone, I doubt he’d be welcomed back. His mother was a servant, after all.”
“Nothing wrong with being in service,” Crawford said, his eyes steady on Edgar.
“Admirable, I say,” Edgar declared. “Whatever would we do without those who serve? No offense meant, Crawford.”
I finished my drink before I said something I’d have to apologize for. This was a side of Edgar I hadn’t seen before. Not quite the henpecked boozehound tonight. A bit more on the snarly side, with that cutting remark about servants. More Meredith than do-gooding Edgar. Big Mike and I left as Kaz came in, and as we ascended the stairs, all I could think about were the floating bodies and the bed waiting for me. A tiny part of my brain wondered what Crawford was doing at ease with Edgar in the library. That was for family and guests, not the help, especially under the new regime. But the thought drifted away, replaced by visions of boots I knew would haunt my dreams.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Meredith buttered her toast in a fury, crumbs flying from the knife’s edge, encircling her plate with a dark halo to match her mood.
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” she said, not for the first time that morning. “A formal reading of the will, and not until after the funeral. The nerve of that solicitor!”
“Darling, Farnsworth is simply following instructions left by your father. Don’t blame the old boy for doing his job,” Edgar said, tossing sugar into his coffee.
“How like Father to make things difficult even after he’s gone,” Meredith said, snapping off a chunk of toast and sending more charred bits onto the white tablecloth. “I mean, really, how extraordinarily Victorian. No one has a reading of the will these days. The solicitor simply fetches it for one, I believe. Isn’t that right?”
“I’m not certain myself,” David said. “Never had much business with wills, except the one I had drawn up before I joined the service. Not that I had much to leave to anyone but Helen, but I thought it best to clarify things.”
“Exactly my point,” Meredith said. “A will should clarify things, not muddy the waters. Don’t you agree, Baron Kazimierz?”
“All I know,” Kaz said, gulping the last of his coffee, “is that we have our own muddy waters awaiting us. I am sure things will turn out for the best. I am sorry we cannot spend more time with you this morning.” Big Mike looked pained by that pronouncement-he had only eaten a breakfast fit for a normal person and had undoubtedly been looking forward to more bacon.