Since water was rationed as well as food, a hot bath in England was not as commonplace as back in the States. Soap was tough to come by as well. The limit for water was supposed to be four inches. Many hotels had a line painted in the tub to mark the level. But Ashcroft House bent the rules for three soldiers in need of a decent soak, and I didn’t complain. The regulation was unenforceable, but most people went along with it, even though it meant a decrease in cleanliness and an increase in bodily odors. A running gag among GIs was that the tents and Quonset hut enclosures for American troops were nicknamed Spam Town after the prevailing odor, and everything outside the wire was Goat Town, for the same reason.
“You asked about Lieutenant Wiley this morning,” Meredith said as Edgar continued to pour drinks. “I’m afraid he hasn’t returned. Have you had word of him?”
“No, we have been too busy to check on Peter,” Kaz said, sipping his drink and giving me a quick glance. We’d agreed not to say anything about finding Peter’s body. I felt we might learn more if people weren’t shocked at the news of his death. No one does like to speak ill of the dead, unless the deceased was a louse through and through, which did not sound like the Peter I had come to know.
“Perhaps I should return his painting to Greenway House,” Meredith said, “if he does not possess the common courtesy to retrieve it himself.”
“Meredith,” Helen said, joining our circle. “He meant it as a gift. That would be rude.”
“It’s unfinished, dear,” Meredith said. “Although nicely done, I must say. Baron Kazimierz, perhaps you would be so kind as to return the painting when you can. Your superior officer is based at Greenway House, is he not?”
“Indeed,” Kaz said, keeping up the pretense of Peter ever finishing anything. “It would be my pleasure.”
“Sorry I’m late,” David said, entering the library behind Big Mike.
“Did you find anything?” Meredith asked.
“No,” David said. “I went through his papers, as you did. No sign of a living relative. It appeared his cousin John had none as well. I telephoned the local constable, who said he was the last of the Sutcliffes in that county. He died last year.”
“Father and he were never close,” Helen said. “I asked him about it once, and he said he had nothing in common with the man other than blood, but that might serve well enough if John had any children. I thought it rather odd.”
“When was this?” Meredith asked, her eyebrows raised.
“A few months ago, I think,” Helen said. Meredith furrowed her brow, thinking through the information as the rest of us tried not to notice.
“Your father never seemed interested in family members,” David said. “Distant ones, I mean. Not you two.” He laughed, to cover up the uncomfortable truth.
“Our fair ladies are quite enough themselves,” Edgar said, rejoining the group and handing Big Mike a drink. “Don’t you think?” The moment was forgotten in a well-timed toast to Meredith and Helen.
“How was Lady Pemberton today?” I asked.
“Still a bit down, poor dear,” Helen said. “I hope she’ll be back to her old self when things get back to normal. Although we don’t quite know what that will be, do we?”
“Who knows?” Edgar said. “Perhaps Great Aunt Sylvia will inherit the lot and toss us all out on our ears, and we shall have to make a living shining boots for the Americans.”
“Why that particular occupation?” Kaz asked.
“Oh, it’s just something Crawford says now and again,” Edgar said. “I pay him no mind, but it stuck in my head. Silly.”
“We know his story,” I said. “I might feel the same way if I were in his shoes. But do you feel comfortable employing a smuggler? We heard he was involved in bringing in contraband until he lost his boat.”
“Captain,” Meredith said with a sly grin, “you have to remember where you are. This is the southwest coast. This has been home to pirates, privateers, and smugglers for centuries. There are plenty of locals who never minded buying goods that had been smuggled in from France. No one likes paying excessive taxes, do they?”
“Think of your own experiment with Prohibition in the States,” David offered. “How many people refused a drink because bootleggers had smuggled it in from Cuba or Canada?”
“No one in Detroit,” Big Mike said. “The Purple Gang ran a pipeline under the Detroit River from a distillery in Windsor, Ontario. Went straight into a bottling plant downtown. There was a blind pig right across the street from police headquarters, above a bail bondsman’s office. Free lunch and bootleg booze.”
“A ‘blind pig’?” Kaz asked, always interested in American slang.
“Yeah,” Big Mike said. “A speakeasy.”
“The Purple Gang,” Helen said. “What a colorful name.”
“They were colorful, all right, and dangerous too,” Big Mike said.
“Smuggling has always gone on along this coast,” David said. “Not by cutthroat gangs but for the most part by fishermen and anyone with a fast boat and a need for money. No one suffered except for the tax man.”
“Which means you don’t hold it against Crawford,” I said.
“He was never convicted, mind you,” Edgar noted. “But I should think the answer would be no in any case. Am I correct, dear?”
“As always,” Meredith said. An answer open to interpretation.
At dinner I found myself next to Helen, who was next to her husband on his scarred side, smiling demurely. It must have been a relief for David, but I had to wonder, why the sudden change? Same for David himself, for that matter. First he couldn’t wait to get back on active duty, then all of a sudden it didn’t matter. Maybe a wife not shuddering every time she looked at you changed your outlook. Or did he know something about the inheritance?
Food was passed around, and I ate without tasting much. It occurred to me that since I’d arrived at Ashcroft House, everything had changed. David and Helen, not to mention Meredith becoming friendly and Edgar-even though he was still drinking at every opportunity-no longer sitting morosely in a corner. Sir Rupert was dead. Peter Wiley was dead. Lady Pemberton was confused. Not to mention Williams and Mrs. Dudley drinking the good booze late at night, although maybe they had a tradition of that going way back. Crawford was likely his usual self, which was none too agreeable, but consistent. Alice Withers? Still a pleasant young girl, far as I knew. She’d take the news of Peter’s death hard. Who else would even care?
Lady Pemberton, I decided. She’d taken to Peter, and her mourning would be sincere. But should she be burdened with more sad news? Not that she’d cried a river over Sir Rupert’s death, but a promising young lad like Peter was a double tragedy. Sudden death and a life cut short. And for what? Perspective. I wished I knew what he’d meant by that.
“I say, Captain, please pass the peas,” Edgar said, loud enough to get my attention. I sent the bowl down the table, aware that I’d drifted off again. Occupational hazard. “Do you think young Peter will return and finish the painting?”
“I for one hope he doesn’t,” Meredith said, not giving me a chance to respond, which was just as well. “It’s a bit much, you know, having some servant’s offspring knock on your front door.” She twirled her wineglass as she watched the others at the table.
“You have to understand our American friends, dear,” Edgar said with a smile that was intended to soften the bluntness of Meredith’s statement. “They are not as sensitive to these things as we are. I’m sure young Peter approached us in total innocence.”
“Of course,” David added. “And don’t forget, it was Sir Rupert himself who invited him to stay.”