“I don’t know,” I said. “But I do know you saw something, probably early in the morning after Sir Rupert’s death. From this very window.”
“No!” Lady Pemberton said, rising from her seat, the book tumbling to the floor. “Now let us put an end to this. It is high time you left.”
I rose and took her hand. “I’m sorry if I caused you distress, Lady Pemberton. I am sure we’ll meet again. Soon.”
I went to my room and packed up my duffle bag. Kaz and David were in Big Mike’s room putting his gear together, and we walked downstairs together.
“I hope you’ll visit again, Piotr,” David said. “You too, Billy. Although it seems big things are coming soon. The generals will want to be in France before the summer. Can’t be too long now.”
“Think you’ll miss it?” I asked as we swung the bags into the back of the jeep.
“Yes,” David said, his voice low and firm. “Terribly. But at least I’m needed here. Gives me something to do. Listen, good luck with the Peter Wiley case. Hard to believe it was murder, but I am glad you seem to be closing in on the killer.”
“We’re very close,” I said. “A key piece of evidence has turned up. But mum’s the word, okay?” David agreed, and we shook hands and drove off.
“Where to now?” Kaz said.
“To see Inspector Grange. Then into the restricted area. The timing ought to be about right.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I had enough of the pieces of the puzzle assembled for it to make sense to Kaz as we drove into Dartmouth. Which was good, since that was a dress rehearsal for Inspector Grange. He thought the idea had sufficient merit to send a car with two constables to assist us. But not so much that he came along himself. It was getting dark, and starting to rain to boot, so he decided to do his inspecting indoors.
We drove to Strete, showing orders at the roadblock and explaining that the bobbies in the other automobile were with us.
“You can go ahead if you want, Captain,” the MP at the gate said, shaking his head at the idea as raindrops splattered off his helmet. “But there’s an exercise scheduled for the morning. Bombardment at zero four thirty, landings at zero six hundred at Slapton Sands. Where are you headed?”
“Dunstone,” I said. “Little place south of Torcross.”
“I know where it is,” he said. “You’d best be clear of it by zero four hundred. They’re sending in those new rocket-firing fighter-bombers to soften up the area around the beachhead. They hauled in some old tanks today for target practice. If a stray shell from a cruiser doesn’t get you, a P-47 might.”
“Cheery,” Kaz said as we set off into the wet, bleak landscape. Heavy black clouds blanketed the setting sun, and the rain came and went in gusty showers. We slowed as we made our way through the ruined village of Stokenham, almost slamming into a tank parked in the middle of the road.
“Hey!” I yelled, looking for the crew. Then I noticed there were no treads. It was a wreck, an old M3 model, one of the targets for tomorrow’s exercise. The P-47s would be diving and firing their rockets, testing them out against thick armor plate. Flesh and bone wouldn’t stand a chance. I drove on, braking at shadows, afraid of a collision with an immoveable object.
We stopped at a fork in the road on the outskirts of Dunstone. An old farmhouse stood between two roads, a ramshackle barn facing the lane leading to the village. Rows of trees stood like sentinels in the night-it had been an apple orchard once upon a time.
“You fellows stay here,” I told the constables as they approached the idling jeep. “Watch each road, and follow anyone who passes. Give them about five minutes.”
“Right,” Constable Carraher said. “We’ll hide the motorcar in the barn and follow by foot or vehicle, depending on how the villain proceeds.”
“Good,” I said. “Remember that he’s gotten in before, and he knows the area. He may stay off the road.”
“I know this patch as well, Captain,” Carraher said. “We’ll come on real quiet like if we spot him.” He grinned, and I could see he was looking forward to some excitement.
His younger partner looked nervous, pushing his tin-pot helmet up and wiping the rain from his face. “Is he likely to be armed?” Constable Dell asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe a shotgun from Ashcroft House. Best assume he is, although carrying a weapon would raise suspicions if he were stopped anywhere along the way. The safest bet for him would be to go unarmed, but he may be desperate.”
“We’ll do our bit,” Carraher said. “Two rifles and the authority of the Devon Constabulary, that’s more than enough weight, eh?” He clapped the other constable on the shoulder, and the kid did his best to put on a brave face. We left the two of them at the farm, backing the Austin into the barn. I told them to get the hell out of there if we didn’t return by four o’clock. I hoped we’d all be sipping hot tea in the Dartmouth clink by then, but I didn’t want them on the receiving end of a rocket attack if things went south.
We drove closer to Dunstone, pulling over short of the village to hide the jeep in a grove of trees. The rain had lessened, but that only made our tire tracks where we left the road more noticeable. We grabbed some fallen branches and worked at smoothing over the gouges in the mud at the side of the lane.
“That may be good enough,” Kaz said, surveying our handiwork and tossing his branch into the thick grass. “But if he is suspicious at all, he might take note.”
“Then we’ll have lost our chance,” I said. I turned up the collar of my trench coat and stuffed a.45 automatic into my pocket. I had my.38 Police Special revolver in a shoulder holster. Kaz patted his raincoat pocket, the Webley Break-Top revolver ready for action. As rain beaded up on the leather brim of his service cap, he gave me a wink and we trotted off, slinking around the first decrepit cottages that made up the mournful remnants of Dunstone. On the open ground we leapt like dancers in combat boots, jumping from one tuft of grass to another, trying not to leave any telltale footprints.
“If anyone’s watching, they’ll laugh themselves silly,” I said to Kaz as we caught our breath behind a tumbledown stone wall.
“Furtive we are not,” he said, pointing down the road. “Look, is that another tank?”
“Yeah,” I said as the hulking form took shape in the gloom. It was a British Valentine, an older model with the turret gone, volunteered for one last duty as a stationary target. “Maybe we should hunker down in there. Crawford’s cottage is straight ahead.”
“It is probably full of water,” Kaz said. “And we will be trapped if he sees us.”
“Okay. Let’s move around back and check his cottage, then find a spot to wait.” We crouched low and scurried through an overgrown field, coming up on the rear of Crawford’s burned-out house. Guns drawn, we darted to one corner. Back to back, we watched our respective walls, listening for any trace of movement within. The heavy rain had let up, air now full of swirling mist, turning the darkness into a blurred landscape of grey and black. To the left was a small barn, one wall smashed as if a tank had backed into it, timbers leaning at crazy angles as if the whole thing was about to collapse. We worked our way around to the front of the cottage, visibility down to ten yards at best. Good in that we wouldn’t be seen by anyone farther away than that. Bad in that closer than ten yards, a shotgun can do a lot of damage.
We went in the front entrance, brushing against the blackened timbers where the door had been burned away. I went left, Kaz right, and we stayed low, our backs to the wall, pistols out and searching for anything that moved.
Silence.
I signaled to Kaz to watch the road while I checked the one back room. Same as the rest of the place. Smashed and burned.
“Looks the same as the last time we were here,” I whispered to Kaz as we gazed into the night.