“I know it wasn’t your idea,” I said, taking careful steps closer, the.38 cradled in both hands. “You helped them out, was all.”
“You don’t know a damn thing,” he said. If he didn’t care about dying, he’d fire any second, I decided.
“So it was your idea? To kill Peter Wiley?”
“I’m not going to hang for that, Yank.” Good. He wanted to live. Very helpful.
“Okay, so put the Thompson down. We have a lot to talk about, but we need to get the hell out of here.” I glanced for a second toward Kaz, who moved in closer, his Webley aimed square at Crawford’s chest.
A distant noise drew closer, and I froze until I realized it wasn’t an aircraft or the beginning of the bombardment. It was our two constables in their automobile, disobeying orders and racing toward the sound of gunfire.
“I told you the place was surrounded,” I said, moving in on Crawford. “Drop the Thompson.”
Crawford stared at the police car, a bitter look of defeat on his face as headlights lit the roadway. He lowered the Thompson, looking for a way out, but he was hemmed in on three sides. He dropped the weapon and the knapsack at his feet.
“At least I’ll be taken by proper Englishmen, not a bloody American or Pole,” Crawford said, watching Constable Carraher as he stepped out from behind the wheel. His look of resignation changed to puzzlement as he gazed skyward, hearing a faint rumble in the distance, as if thunder had erupted along the horizon.
The screaming sound of naval shells arcing through the air told me it was no spring storm. I ran for Crawford, grabbing his arm before he had a chance to raise the Thompson, and knocked it from his grasp.
“Take cover!” I yelled, and dove for the ground, taking Crawford with me. The explosions came seconds later, hitting the woods on the outskirts of the village, sparing us and what was left of the village buildings. They came again and again, volleys of fire that tore trees into shreds and sent geysers of earth skyward. When the shelling stopped, we all looked at one another, stunned to be alive. Crawford was subdued, the way a lot of criminals are right after being taken. Sometimes the toughest hoodlum falls apart as soon as you get the cuffs on. Others bluster and curse, but Crawford was in the quiet category. I liked to think it was because they were ashamed, but I knew better. Exhaustion, more like.
Kaz hustled off to get our jeep while the two constables searched Crawford. I checked the back of my leg and wasn’t surprised to find blood. I was exhausted myself, but I bucked up when Carraher pulled a gold ring from Crawford’s backpack. It was Peter Wiley’s, complete with the Pemberton family coat of arms. He handed it to me, and I smiled. But it didn’t last long. The snarl of P-47 engines rose up in a heartbeat, a flight of four of the fighter-bombers coming in low, rockets slung under their wings. Seconds behind them trailed another four.
We were only a few yards from the tank in the middle of the road. Those P-47s had enough firepower to blow the whole damn village to hell and gone.
“Run!” I grabbed Crawford, again, with the two constables following, and sprinted down the road, toward our jeep, away from the tank hulk. This time, Crawford twisted loose and made a break in the opposite direction, into the village. Maybe it was the familiarity of the place, or maybe he didn’t give a damn. But I did. I needed him, so I followed. The noise from the P-47s was deafening as they fired their rockets and peeled off in two directions, rising above the carnage they’d unleashed.
Rockets hit the tank and rocked it, a fireball rising from the wreck. Others hit the nearby cottages as I saw Crawford make for his own place, arms and legs pumping as if nothing mattered but getting home. Then the second group of P-47s fired their rockets, and the cottage blew apart, sending timbers hurtling through the air, scattering debris in every direction. The blast knocked me flat, making me feel like I’d gone a few rounds with Joe Louis.
I tried to clear my head and locate Crawford. The pain in my leg was nothing compared to the ringing in my ears. All I could see was dust and swirling smoke. I heard Kaz asking me if I was okay, sounding very far away. And that’s all I remember.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Ashcroft House felt different. It looked different; a lesser place than it had been. Stepping over the threshold as an investigator, not a guest, I saw the cobwebs and cracks in the ceiling, smelled the mustiness of the lies and secrets that permeated the woodwork, and noticed the shabby, faded curtains. Or maybe it was my imagination; it had been a long night, and the brightness of the blue sky had only made my head ache.
Our jeep had been mistaken for another target and shredded by machine-gun fire as the P-47 pilots amused themselves strafing what they thought was a deserted village. The police car survived with only its windows blown out and got us back to headquarters in Dartmouth, where a police surgeon picked shrapnel out of my legs and bandaged me up. Presented with Peter Wiley’s ring and the contents of Crawford’s knapsack, Inspector Grange agreed it was high time for serious talk with all the residents of Ashcroft House. I gave him the lowdown on what I had planned, and he seemed happy for me to stick my neck out and give it a try. There wasn’t a lot of hard evidence other than the ring, and we’d have to do some serious conjuring in order to make a murder charge stick.
Kaz and I downed hot tea loaded with precious sugar, then washed up and changed into clean uniforms. We drove to Ashcroft House in two cars, Kaz and me with Inspector Grange, and Constables Carraher and Dell following. Williams answered our knock and stepped back, looking confused as we paraded into the foyer.
“I will fetch …” he managed, probably not knowing who exactly should be fetched, and trotted off to the back of the house.
“What is this?” Edgar said from the stairway, halting as if he’d prefer to retreat upstairs.
“We need to speak to everyone in the house,” Inspector Grange said. “Please ask family members and staff to assemble.”
“For what reason?” Edgar said, puffing out his chest in indignation.
“In aid of a murder investigation,” Inspector Grange said. “Preferable to having you all brought in to headquarters, isn’t it?” Edgar sagged at that, looking bewildered.
“I am sure that won’t be necessary,” Meredith announced, Williams trailing her like an obedient hound. “We shall be glad to assist. I believe Crawford is out, but the rest of the household is at your service.” She smiled as if she’d been asked to donate old clothes to the church fete. A duty, but a slightly distasteful one. She nodded to Edgar and Williams, who went off to gather their respective peers.
Constable Carraher stood at the double doors, watching as the residents of the house made their way into the library. Inspector Grange stood silently while I rested my arms on the back of a chair, giving my protesting legs a break. David gave Kaz a questioning look, but his friend ignored him, busy keeping his eyes on everybody else. Couldn’t blame him, really, after first arriving as a guest and then returning as Dick Tracy. Williams, Mrs. Dudley, and Alice Withers edged in, their backs to the wall, well away from their betters. Helen sat next to David, her arm through his, her eyes darting nervously back and forth, searching for a clue as to what was about to happen. Meredith followed Edgar in, Lady Pemberton on her arm. Edgar looked grumpy, Lady Pemberton angry.
“Why do we have a guard at the door?” Great Aunt Sylvia demanded as she took her seat. “It is quite enough to be summoned like this, without being glared at by a common constable.”
“We mean no offense to you, Lady Pemberton,” I said, remembering her dislike of policemen in the house even when jewels had been stolen years before. I gave a nod to Carraher, who stepped back from the entrance.
“We have some further questions regarding the death of the American naval officer, Peter Wiley,” Inspector Grange said, giving me a nod. I took a deep breath and stepped forward, one hand on the chair for support.