A Blind Goddess (7 page)

“Any idea who that was?”

“The man who makes Major Cosgrove sweat,” he said.

CHAPTER EIGHT

W
E MADE GOOD time to Newbury. The roadway was shut down to London-bound traffic so army convoys could use both lanes heading south to the invasion ports. We moved along at a good clip, surrounded by British and American trucks carrying Tommies and GIs, flatbeds with tanks, towed artillery, and staff cars with their general’s pennants flying. Everyone was headed for the Channel, men and the machinery of war flowing like lethal rivers to the sea. At roundabouts, MPs directed traffic and the few travelers headed in the wrong direction stood by their vehicles and watched forlornly as the heavy stream rumbled by.

“What do we have?” I said to Kaz from the back seat of the jeep. Kaz reached his gloved hand into his coat pocket and produced the sheet of paper Cosgrove had given us. The jeep’s canvas top was up, but it was still damn cold inside.

“We are going to the Kennet Arms on Swan Court in Newbury, off Bridge Street, which is the main route across the Kennet and Avon Canal,” Kaz said. “Owners are George and Carla Miller. They have a seventeen-year-old daughter, Eva, who lives at home and works at the canteen at the air base. Which is apparently where she met Sergeant Jerome Sullivan, who reported finding the body.”

“Anything there on the victim?” Big Mike said from the driver’s seat.

“One Stuart Neville, a long-term roomer, apparently. No other
information on him. The Millers also have an older son, Walter, who is in the Royal Navy, currently in the Mediterranean. Nothing else.”

“Cosgrove is well informed about the family situation,” I said. “Enough so that he’s convinced the Millers had no part in the murder. Bit soon to tell for sure, if you ask me.”

“It makes some sense,” Kaz said, leaning back in his seat. “MI5 would have a file on any German expatriates, especially those with political leanings.”

“He never answered your question, Billy,” Big Mike said. “About who called him. That doesn’t make sense.”

“It could have been Inspector Payne,” Kaz said.

“Then he woulda said so,” Big Mike said. “It’s the easiest answer. But he changed the subject, talking about the Millers being Krauts and all, which of course got our attention.”

“We’ll ask Payne,” I said, trying to sound confident. But Big Mike was right. Cosgrove got tipped off by someone else. Who and why would be nice to know. Cosgrove was a man of secrets, and maybe he had his reasons, but I didn’t like going into an investigation blind.

“By the way, did you find anything in Private Smith’s letters?” Kaz asked.

“They were all from his family. It sounded like he’d written them that he was thinking about staying on in England after the war. His mother was upset, but his older brother told him it might be a good idea. Said if he came home there was bound to be trouble with white folks.”

“He must have earned his nickname before the army,” Big Mike said. “Hell, if I was colored, I’d stay here too.”

We entered Newbury, greeted by a statue of Queen Victoria, four lions at her feet. She wasn’t saying anything either. We found Bridge Street, and then Swan Court, which was a quiet little street close to the canal, separated from it by a thick stand of trees, their budding branches shivering in the cold breeze. The houses were all red brick, with tall chimneys and set apart by waist-high brick walls. A path led along the riverbank behind the buildings. Small wooden boats were moored by the path, many of them covered in tarpaulins.

“Easy enough to get to these houses on all sides,” Big Mike said, casing the neighborhood expertly. He parked the jeep near a black sedan, where a constable in the distinctive helmet and blue serge uniform stood on the sidewalk.

“You the Yanks we’re waiting on?”

“That’s us,” I said to the constable. He nodded toward the front door of number eight Swan Court. A small sign proclaimed it to be the Kennet Arms, but it looked like any decent-sized house, three floors under a steep-sloped black slate roof.

“There you are,” a man with a pipe clenched between his teeth said from the open door. “Come around the back and take a look at the body. Detective Inspector John Payne,” he said, extending a hand. I did the introductions and we followed him around the side of the house. Payne was tall and lanky, a brown unbuttoned topcoat billowing behind him as he walked.

“Meet Mr. Stuart Neville,” he said, working his pipe and blowing a stream of smoke to the sky. A constable who had been standing guard stood aside, revealing a set of stone steps leading down to a cellar door at the rear of the house. At the base of the steps was a crumpled form that a civilian might have mistaken for a pile of discarded clothes, if not for the pale white face with the startled look. Wisps of longish hair had fallen over one eye, but the other was staring up at us, or the sky beyond. You might expect him to hop up, dust himself off, and call himself a clumsy sod, if not for the odd angle of his neck.

“May I?” I said, gesturing toward the body.

“Oh, sure,” Payne said. “We’ve had more than enough time to take fingerprints, waiting for you.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“Don’t you worry, Captain Boyle. We’re happy to cooperate. Two heads better than one, eh? Mr. Neville could have used another, that’s plain to see. Go ahead.”

I descended the stairs, which were steep and narrow, tailor-made for an accident. Maybe Neville slipped and broke his neck. Case closed. There was barely room to stand at the bottom, which was a
square about four feet on either side in front of a cellar door. Neville wore a tweed jacket, a rumpled shirt, his tie askew, and wool pants that had seen better days. With clothes being strictly rationed, that didn’t mean much. The soles of his shoes were well worn, the shoes themselves mud-splattered. I felt them; shoes and socks were wet. Maybe he had slipped and fallen after all?

But then I turned the head, and I realized what Payne had meant about a second one coming in handy. The back of Neville’s skull was a bloody pulp. Someone had whacked him hard and sent him flying down the stairs. Maybe the blow had broken his neck or it happened when he hit the bottom. Either way, he was probably dead on impact.

“Any blood trail?” I asked as I came up the steps.

“None that we found,” Payne said. “Seems like he took a blow to the head right here and tumbled down the steps.”

“He was found early this morning, right?”

“Yes, by Sergeant Jerome Sullivan, who is still inside. He came to the house for breakfast. Apparently the sergeant is a fan of Mrs. Miller’s cooking as well as being smitten with young Eva Miller, and is quite welcome at the house, especially when bearing the gift of coffee. He walked up the river path and was about to knock at the back door when he caught sight of the body.”

“All right, I’ll talk to him.”

“He’s the reason we’re to say you’re here, so I understand,” Payne said.

“Same here, Inspector. And if I knew the real reason, I’d tell you straight out. But I don’t, other than I was a cop myself in civilian life.”

“Then we’re both in the dark about this. Standard fare in our profession, isn’t it? You’re welcome to speak to the family, and I’ll share what I know with you, but let’s keep this friendly, Captain Boyle, shall we? Make no mistake, this is a Berkshire Constabulary investigation.”

“This is your turf, Inspector.” What else could I say?

“Fine. I’ll be glad to brief you on the Millers’ statements. First, I need to call the coroner to come and fetch the body.”

“I’d rather speak to them myself, before you tell me what they said. Is that all right?”

“It’s the way I’d prefer it, should I ever find myself getting in the way of a murder investigation in America. Go on in, you’ll find them in the kitchen.”

“Have you canvassed the neighborhood yet?” I asked.

“No, I planned to do that next. We’re shorthanded here, and with a man out front waiting for you and one in the back standing over the body, I had no one to send.”

“Sergeant Miecznikowski—you can call him Big Mike—was also a cop back in the States. He can help out with that.”

“I believe I will use the nickname,” Payne said, giving Big Mike a wink. “Constable Higgins, take the sergeant along and check the neighbors. Ask about anything unusual during the night or early morning.”

“And ask them if they were used to seeing Neville out at odd hours, and if he went boating,” I said. “His feet are wet.”

“There are puddles on the path along the canal,” Payne said. “Could have come from there. The ground is hardpacked, though, no footprints. So, off with you, Higgins. Lieutenant Kazimierz, perhaps you should wait outside, to keep up the appearance of a purely American involvement.”

“Excellent idea, Inspector,” Kaz said. His British uniform with the
Poland
shoulder patch would only raise questions we couldn’t answer. “I will wait for the coroner and search Neville’s pockets, if you don’t mind.”

“Have at him,” Payne said. “Give whatever you find to Constable Gilbert.”

“When you’re done, Kaz, take a walk along the canal and check things out. Neville and his assailant probably came from that direction.”

I followed the inspector inside. The aroma of coffee and cigarette smoke hung in the air. I entered the kitchen as Payne tromped down the hall to use the telephone.

“Sir!” A US Army Air Force buck sergeant stood to attention.
His eyes were wide, his expression fearful, but his posture was good. He looked nineteen, twenty tops.

“Relax, soldier,” I said, focusing on the Millers, who sat at the kitchen table, eyeing me. “I’m Captain Billy Boyle. Would you mind answering a few more questions?”

“Yes, certainly,” George Miller said, nodding in excessive agreement. His English was good but the accent was perceptible, the same as the potbelly stretching the buttons on his vest. “Anything we can do to help. This is a terrible business.”

“Please, sit down, Captain. May I offer you coffee?” Carla Miller looked at me expectantly. Her English was also good, clipped with a British accent, either picked up here or from the person who taught her. She had a healthy look about her, ruddy cheeks, fair skin, and blonde hair shot through with strands of grey.

“Thank you, Mrs. Miller, that would be nice.” I sat, and motioned for my fellow Yank to sit as well. I wanted them at ease, and the best way to do that was to make this a social call. Coffee and chitchat about the dead guy outside.

“A terrible business,” Carla Miller said, busying herself with a cup and saucer. “Who could do such a thing to poor Mr. Neville?”

“And why, that’s what I wonder,” George Miller said. “There must be a lunatic loose. It makes no sense.” George lit a cigarette, after offering me one. A Lucky Strike. I said no, and made a mental note that Sergeant Jerome Sullivan was no dummy, bringing gifts of scarce smokes and java to his girlfriend’s parents. George shook his head sadly, blowing blue smoke in every direction.

“He was a boarder here?” I asked as Carla set a cup of steaming coffee in front of me. It would be impolite to ask for sugar with wartime rationing, unless that luxury was included among Jerome’s gifts.

“Yes. Mr. Neville has been with us over a year now,” Carla said, her accent almost musical in its cadence. “Or was.”

“Where was he employed?”

“At the Newbury Building Society, over on Bartholomew Street,” George said. “He handled mortgages and construction loans. This
caused him to travel fairly often, never for long, but with little notice. It was why he liked keeping a room here.”

“You have other boarders?”

“Just one at the moment. A fellow named Nigel Morris. He is traveling on business out Bristol way, I think. He works for a firm that manufactures radios. He’s been with us only a few weeks.”

“George is fixing up our only other room, Captain,” Carla said. “He is always making improvements to the house.”

“Was Neville in his room last night?” I asked.

“His bed was not slept in, no,” Carla said. “We did not see him yesterday evening, but that was not unusual with his schedule. He would normally let us know when he expected to be here for dinner, and when we did not hear from him, we naturally thought he was away on business.”

“What about you, Sergeant Sullivan? Were you acquainted with Neville?”

“Yes, sir, I was. Can I leave now, Captain? I just came over for a quick visit, I can’t be away all day.” Sullivan looked worried, but not about a murder charge.

“Not quite yet, Sergeant. No pass?”

“No. We were supposed to have flight training this morning, but it got canceled due to cloud cover, so I came over for a quick visit. I should be back by now.”

“How much coffee did you bring? Or should I say steal?” It was time to shake things up. A man was dead and everyone was too polite for the circumstances.

“It was just a little gift,” Sullivan said. “I traded for it at the base, honest.”

“The sergeant has done nothing wrong,” Carla said. “He is a good boy.”

“Good boys don’t trade in black market cigarettes and coffee. I don’t think things would go well for a nice German couple to be accused of trafficking in the black market.”

“Hey, hold on, Captain,” Sullivan said.

“No, no, Jerome. Do not get yourself in trouble,” George said.
“It is true, Captain Boyle, that I have a weakness for the Lucky Strike cigarettes. Jerome does not smoke, so he shares his with me. As for the coffee, on occasion he does bring some. Very often he eats with us, and brings food. Many American soldiers do so, given the rationing. You Americans have so much of everything, don’t you?” George Miller was not a man to rattle easily. Maybe opposing and then escaping the Nazis had something to do with that.

“What I have so much of right now is an American soldier at the scene of a murder. As long as he had nothing to do with it, I don’t care if he carries sacks of coffee under each arm when he comes here. So tell me now, Sergeant Sullivan. Did you and Stuart Neville ever argue about anything? Did he ask about supplies from the base, ask you to bring him anything on the side?” I fired off my questions with a practiced hard stare, looking for any sign of nervousness. A twitch or blink, any show of fear.