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“What is it he cannot face another day of?” Inspector Grange demanded of me. “What have you been using him for?”

“Identification of the dead,” I said, looking him in the eye. “You know what happened.” Or some of it.

“Yes, but how many, for God’s sake? He called it a ‘terror,’ said he couldn’t face it another day. I thought he was well enough for police work, but is that what you’ve been up to? Did you make him a gravedigger?”

“What do you mean, Inspector?” Kaz said, stepping between us.

“We’ve heard about bodies washed ashore, secret burials, that sort of thing. Didn’t you think about what might happen if Tom was confronted with all that?” Grange was red in the face, breathing heavily, and I understood his only purpose in calling us here had been to share the blame and spread his own guilt around.

“I’m sorry, Inspector,” I said, “but I can’t share the details. It was important work, and we needed his help. It did have to do with the bodies in the Channel, yes, but he wasn’t involved in burying anyone.” I left out the part about our visits to the charnel-house tents. And the fact that Grange had approved Tom fit for duty.

“So this note makes sense to you?” Grange said, a bit calmer now.

“Yes. We needed to find certain men, and we had to view a good number of the dead to do so. I wish I’d seen a problem with Tom, but he was actually in a fine mood yesterday.” In better shape than I’d been, or so I’d thought, watching him jauntily swinging his arms, telling me you could do anything, once you made your mind up about it.

And he had.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

It was a quiet ride back to Ashcroft House. What was there to say? I’d been wrong about Tom Quick, plain and simple. I should have realized back at the racetrack that a sea of bodies would be more than he could bear. The sight of bombed-out buildings had been too much for him; why should I have expected anything less from visions of the dead and dismembered? We slowed to a halt, and David was out of the house moments after the sound of tires on gravel faded away.

“Well, what happened?” he asked. “How is Tom?”

“He shot himself,” I said, getting out of the jeep and placing my hand on David’s shoulder. “He’s dead.”

“No,” David said, stepping away from me and the finality of the news. “No.” His one good eye went wide, and his scarred mouth formed a half O of astonishment. There were times when David’s burns seemed to be simply part of his face, an awful tragedy, but still him. Other times, like now, the burned skin was a rigid mask that was unable to show emotion, while the undamaged side crumbled at the news and the attempt to deny it. I turned away as Kaz led his friend inside, but I felt Big Mike’s hand on my shoulder, pushing me after them. I’d have preferred to stay outdoors, letting my invisible scar tissue harden against this latest death.

“That is so sad,” Helen said, sitting next to David on the couch and holding his hand after he’d told her the news. “But you did your best as a friend, David.”

“Perhaps I did,” he said. “But even a fellow RAF officer, someone who understood where he’d been, couldn’t help. Don’t you see? That’s the worst of it. The bloody war drove him over the edge, and he wasn’t even … disfigured.” He wrenched his hand away from Helen’s and stalked out of the room. She rose to go after him but was intercepted by Kaz, who shook his head and guided her back to her seat.

“He won’t …?” She couldn’t finish the question.

Kaz assured her he wouldn’t. “He needs to be alone. I’m sure he’s embarrassed to have lost his temper with you.” Calming words, but there was more to it than that. David had likely entertained thoughts of suicide at some point after sustaining his injuries. To have befriended Tom Quick, believing he’d done the man some good, only to learn Tom had blown his brains out, had to have reawakened those lonely thoughts. Tom had seemed normal to David, who understandably may have focused more on the physical than the emotional scars of war. If Tom Quick had ended his own life, having survived thirty missions and returned to his civilian occupation, what did that mean for David? Especially if the reading of the will turned out not to be to his advantage? I couldn’t help but wonder if his father-in-law’s illegitimate son might have posed quite a problem for David’s future well-being.

“What’s wrong with David?” Meredith asked as she entered the sitting room. “He looked quite ashen.”

“A friend of his died,” Helen said, eyes downcast.

“Who?” Meredith demanded. “Anyone we know?” She sat next to Helen, more curious than concerned.

“No,” Helen answered. “A constable. He’d been in the RAF and was working with the baron and Captain Boyle.”

“Terrible,” Meredith said. “It must have been sudden, if he’s been on duty. An accident?”

“Yes,” I said, not wanting to go into details. The room was thick with silence.

“Tell me, Captain Boyle, what have you been investigating?” Meredith said, forging ahead with grim determination. “There are rumors upon rumors.”

“Of what?” Kaz asked, a polite smile masking his interest.

“Secret burials in mass graves. Most say it’s American soldiers; some insist a German invasion was thwarted and is being hushed up, which makes no sense at all.”

“A boat did sink in the Channel,” Kaz said, as if explaining the obvious to a dull child. “We are helping to identify the dead. People may have seen bodies being collected from where they washed up along the shoreline and jumped to conclusions.”

“As they always do,” Meredith said. “Any news yet of Peter Wiley?”

“No, we still have not had time to track him down,” Kaz said. Meredith sighed, as if that was quite troublesome.

I excused myself and went outside in search of the open air, away from grief and the stale aftermath of death. Big Mike followed me out onto the terrace and stood beside me silently, his hands deep in his pockets.

“What?” I asked, sensing he was waiting for me to say something.

“So you want Kaz to stay here, right? To make sure his pal is okay.” He looked out to the river, where David was strolling on the path along the water.

“Yeah, sure,” I said.

“And you want me to check the Casualty Clearing Stations on my own,” he said. “You know, for the last two stiffs. Or are you coming with me?”

“No, you go ahead,” I said, realizing Big Mike was issuing orders to an officer the way only a sergeant can. “I’ll go to Brixham when I’m done here. You head south to Slapton. Radio Harding, okay? Let him know about Tom.”

“Already done, Billy,” Big Mike said. “You okay?” He cocked an eyebrow as he turned his studied gaze on me.

“I’m okay,” I said. “I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“You seem kinda distracted.”

“It’s hard to get used to,” I said. “The idea of Tom killing himself.”

“It’s also hard when a guy you count on isn’t all there,” Big Mike said. “Tom’s dead. We’re alive. We need you, believe it or not.” He turned on his heel and was gone. And right. I was shook up-more than I wanted to admit-about what had happened in the Channel. I couldn’t erase those terrible visions of drowned men, upside down, floating in on the tide. And in Tom’s room, I’d been scared, just as David was scared. What would become of us, those who lived through this carnage, after it was over? I had no idea. Death had become a way of life, and it was going to be one helluva shock when Johnny went marching home.

Toughen up, I scolded myself. Kaz and Big Mike deserved better. I had a job to do. I made for the jeep and started it up as Big Mike was driving away in his. He gave me a nod, a sign I was doing the right thing, and I realized the hardest part of a noncom’s job had to be telling officers how to lead their men.