“Agatha Christie,” I said.
“No, Billy, not the voices in your head,” Kaz retorted. “The lady on the bench.”
“Don’t believe your pal, eh?” I accelerated going into the curve leading to the main road, and Kaz held on to his hat and his seat.
“You read enough detective novels that it’s easy to imagine you carrying on imaginary conversations with the authors,” Kaz said. “Didn’t I once see you throw a book against the wall and curse the writer?”
“Yeah, because it was a lousy book,” I said. “But it just so happens that Agatha Christie, or Mrs. Mallowan, as she prefers to be called, owns Greenway House. It was taken over by the government for the duration, and she was back to look for some business papers.”
“Really?” Kaz asked. “Did you discuss the case with her?”
“Yeah. I gave her the basics. She’d met Peter and was upset to hear the news.” I went over what we’d talked about, taking it easy on the curves so he could concentrate.
“Those are interesting insights into Meredith and Helen,” he said. “But a bit of a stretch concerning the motorbike. Not impossible though. It’s too bad Diana isn’t here. She may have come to the same conclusion about the two women.”
“That’s some other news I have,” I said, and told Kaz about Diana’s letter.
“Good for you both,” he said. “Now, what do you think about the advice to leave Ashcroft House?”
“I think it’s time,” I said. “We have a lot to look into, and I’d prefer not to investigate people whose roof I’m staying under. Let’s find this Major McClure and see if he’s come up with anything. I doubt it, but orders are orders. Then we’ll pack up and say our goodbyes.”
“For now,” Kaz said.
“Right,” I said. “And I want to put some gentle pressure on Great Aunt Sylvia. She is definitely hiding something. She’s afraid of scandal and what it would do to the family’s reputation. The Pemberton family, that is.”
“Do you think her recent illness was real?”
“She seemed genuinely disoriented, and worried about it too. That’s hard to fake.” We crossed the river and drove through the small villages on the outskirts of Dartmouth. British Tommies were on the march today, single file on either side of the road, their hobnail boots raising a racket as they double-timed it while carrying full packs and rifles at ports arms. I almost felt guilty as I sped past them.
As we wound our way into Dartmouth through streets choked with bicycles, sailors, military vehicles, and GIs searching for girls, Kaz and I talked about the ring and the likelihood of its simply having been purloined by any of the soldiers or civilians recovering bodies. It wouldn’t be the first time greed won out over decency. But I was coming around to the notion that it was somewhere in Ashcroft House, hidden by one of its denizens.
“Why?” Kaz asked when I spoke of my hunch.
“Because of everything Mrs. Mallowan said. Meredith keeping the letter all those years. Helen suddenly getting lovey with David.”
“You are suspicious because a wife treats her wounded husband well?”
“No, I’m suspicious because her behavior changed,” I said. “I think Meredith is up to no good, and Helen is going along with it. That’s why she’s leaning on David; she knows she’s wrong and wants some comfort from him. I don’t think she’s made of the same stuff as Meredith.” I pulled over near the docks, where the grey warships and transports were lined up like a wall of steel.
“Do you think David is involved in Peter Wiley’s death?” Kaz asked, his voice low and his eyes drilling into mine.
“No,” I said, after a few seconds. “It doesn’t add up. He did drop the idea of going back on active service pretty quickly, but that could well be because he saw a future for himself at Ashcroft.”
“Remember, he was turned down by Harding at Greenway House,” Kaz said. “He didn’t give up, necessarily.”
“No, but he didn’t seem disappointed, did he? We both expected him to take it hard.” We got out of the jeep and walked to the embankment, looking for LST 289, where Major McClure was running his investigation. Sections of wharf ran out into the harbor, some long and wide enough for trucks to offload supplies and men. Others were smaller, with destroyers, Motor Torpedo Boats, and other craft tied up alongside. The tide was out, and the smell of rotting fish wafted up from the muddy flats.
“No,” Kaz said. “I must admit I was surprised by his behavior before the reading of the will. Helen could have been left nothing at all. It would have been very English of Sir Rupert to leave everything to the nearest male blood relative, no matter how distant.”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” I said, then pointed to LST 289. It was easy to spot, with its battle-damaged, blackened hull and the bright pinpoints of light as welders worked the steel. The mooring next to the 289 was empty, and three English kids, maybe ten or eleven years old, ran along the water’s edge and climbed up a wooden ladder on the wharf, freezing when they saw us approaching. They were carrying all manner of muddy debris that had washed up at high tide, and by their wide-eyed looks I guessed they’d been chased out of here before.
They were about to turn and bolt when I saw what one of them had slung over his shoulder.
“Hey, wait, want a Hershey bar?” I yelled. They put on the brakes.
“Do you have a Hershey bar?” Kaz asked. He had a point.
“What do we have to do, Yank?” The oldest one came forward, sizing us up. “And there’s three of us. We’d need three bars, wouldn’t we?”
“Tell you what, kid,” I said, fishing the coins out of my pocket and nodding to Kaz, who added his own loose change. “You can have this and buy whatever you want. It’s a few shillings, at least.”
“Give it here then,” he said, holding out his hand. All of them had muddy feet but seemed decently dressed otherwise. Schoolkids, I figured, looking to scrounge what they could from the docks. I flipped the oldest kid one coin.
“The rest after you tell me what you’ve got there, and what else you’ve come up with,” I said.
“You can’t make us give it back,” one of the younger ones said. “It’s stuff you Yanks throw away.”
“Overboard’s more like it,” the other said, and they all laughed. “You lot do toss a lot of good gear, you know.”
“I don’t want anything back,” I said. “And you’re not in trouble. Finders keepers, I say.”
“All right then,” the oldest said. “I got this here canteen and web belt. It’s empty, so it floated. And a denim shirt, hardly a rip in it. Needs a good washing is all.”
“I got K-Rations,” another said. “They were in a big wooden crate, four packs of them. Came in on the tide, and I seen plenty of Yanks walk right by, not even give ’em a look. My old man might be able to dry out the cigarettes, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” I said. “What about you?” I asked the smallest boy.
“I got this,” he said. “A life jacket. Might be able to sell it to a fisherman. I found a bottle of Scotch once, still half full. Dad liked that, he did.”
“How much do you think you can get?” I asked. The life jacket was sodden and grimy, but US NAVY was clearly stenciled along the collar.
“Not much. They come in on the tide often enough. You Yanks are a careless lot, ain’t ya?”
“Yeah, but we’re no fools,” I said, handing over the coins. “Now beat it.” They didn’t need to be told twice, disappearing into a side street in a flash, their laughter and shrieks of joy bouncing off the walls.
“Well, what was that about?” Kaz asked.
“Solving a murder, I think. The hell with Major McClure. Let’s go to Ashcroft House and grab our gear. We’re bunking somewhere else tonight.”
Kaz was full of questions, but I was still putting pieces together in my mind, and I begged him to let me think in silence. It was the little inconsistencies that were beginning to come together, just as Mrs. Mallowan had predicted. They weren’t all in place yet, but I was starting to see where they rubbed up against the truth. We arrived at Ashcroft House and saw Meredith walking from the gardens, a basket of cut flowers in her hand. Already the matron of the manor.