“Hang in there, kid. Sooner or later we’ll come across something that will put everything in perspective. Then it will all make sense.”
Daphne shook her head in frustration and disbelief that we’d ever fig-ure anything out. We walked in silence up the road to the headquarters building. HQ was the last of three wood-frame structures, each up on cement blocks. The windows were open and somebody had the radio on. “GI Jive” was playing on Armed Forces Radio, and the words floated out as we climbed the four steps to the door. After you wash and dress
More or less,
You go get your breakfast
In a beautiful little cafe
They call the mess.
We opened the door, and there was Major Anders Arnesen, feet up on a desk, a cigarette between his lips, his fingers keeping time to the tune.
“There you are, Billy! I’ve been looking all over for you. You know, American music is simply fantastic. Jazz, swing, I love it all.”
“That’s great, Anders. I like it, too. What are you doing here?”
“I can’t say in here,” Anders said, looking around at the clerks at work at the other desks. “But I can tell you more at dinner. Rolf is back from maneuvers and will meet us in that beautiful little cafe they call the mess after he cleans up.” He stood.
“Miss Seaton, I trust you will join us?”
“Certainly, Major,” Daphne said. “You seem to be in a cheerful mood. It must be good news.”
“I think so. Now, I must make some arrangements. We will meet in the officers’ mess in one hour.” He started toward the door.
“Oh, I almost forgot, Billy.” He reached into his uniform jacket pocket and pulled out a sealed envelope. “Major Cosgrove asked me to give you this.”
“What is it?”
“I’m just the messenger, Billy. See you both in an hour.”
He left, whistling the tune to “GI Jive” and snapping his fingers like he didn’t have a care in the world. Daphne and I walked over to a bench set against the wall, under a curtainless window. I opened the envelope and took out the papers so we could both read what was inside. Cosgrove had come through on his promise to look in to any women working at Beardsley Hall whose husbands were POWs or missing in action. There was only one. Victoria Brey, subaltern with the Auxiliary Territorial Service. Twenty-six years old and her husband served in the RAF, bomber command. He had been listed as missing in action when his bomber went down over the Dutch coast earlier that year. Several parachutes had been seen, but he hadn’t shown up on any POW lists. He could be dead, or he could be in hiding. He probably was long gone, washed out to sea and now forgotten except for a grieving and guilty wife. I thumbed through the sheaf of documents.
“Damn!”
“What is it, Billy?”
“She’s been transferred out of Beardsley Hall. Here’s a copy of her travel orders. Dated two days ago, giving her five days’ leave.”
“Where has she been transferred to?” asked Daphne.
“To the Norwegian Brigade base in Scotland.”
“Why would she be transferred out of Beardsley Hall?”
“Maybe to protect her. Or maybe she’s becoming an embarrassment. As head of security, wouldn’t Jens Iversen have something to say about transfers?”
“Everything,” Daphne answered as she took the papers to look at them. “He’d be the one to authorize any request or initiate the orders. Look here, Billy, she lives in Greenchurch. That’s only two hours north of here.”
“She still has three days’ leave. I hope that she’s spending it at home. We’ll talk to Rolf tonight, then head to Greenchurch in the morning. Between the two of them, maybe we’ll learn something new.”
“Good. Otherwise, this is just a tour of the East Anglia countryside.”
“Thanks for reminding me. Let’s do something useful while we wait for Rolf and square away our quarters for the night.”
I asked one of the company clerks where the HQ company first sergeant was.
“Top is in Captain Gilmore’s office, through there,” he said, indicating the rear hallway with his thumb, which I guess doubled as a salute.
“Top?” Daphne asked.
“Top kick,” I said, “is what we call the first sergeant in a company. Top enlisted man in the company, and usually ready to kick GIs in the ass to motivate them.”
“Let’s hope he can motivate someone out of their quarters so I have a place to sleep. I haven’t seen any female staff here at all.”
I stopped at Gilmore’s door and knocked. The steady sound of slamming typewriter keys echoed off the bare wood walls.
“Top?”
“Whaddya need?”
His back was to us and he was hunched over a small table that held a typewriter and a stack of forms. Smoke drifted up from a cigarette stuck in his mouth. It bobbed up and down as he spoke, scattering ash over the keys.
“Quarters for some visiting officers.”
“We’re not due for any brass…” He turned, probably figuring it was some private bothering him for no good reason. He saw me, and frowned in irritation. Lieutenants were just a burden to any sergeant worth his salt. Second Louies didn’t have the rank to get anything worthwhile done, and took up a noncoms valuable time. Then he saw Daphne, and stood. I guess lady junior officers were a different story.
“First Sergeant Frank Slater, ma’am. I didn’t know we had a female on base.”
“That’s all right, Top,” Daphne said, obviously enjoying the new slang. “As long as you can find me a room for the night. I’m Second Officer Daphne Seaton, Women’s Royal Naval Service. This is Lieutenant-”
“We have very nice visitors’ quarters, and no one there at the moment. It’s all yours, ma’am.”
She smiled at him, and I saw a face that could freeze enlisted men in their tracks soften like ice cream in August. He crushed his cigarette, grabbed his cap, and brushed by me to offer Daphne his arm.
“May I show you the way?”
“Yes, you may, Sergeant Slater. I assume you have someplace for Lieutenant Boyle?”
“Who?”
Daphne tilted her head toward me.
“Oh, sure. Do you have luggage?”
“Yes, in a little red car right out front.”
As they walked down the hall, Slater yelled to one of the GI clerks. “Hanson, get the lady’s luggage and bring it over to the VIP quarters. Then show this lieutenant to a spare room in the officers’ quarters.”
Again, the thumb hooked over the shoulder. Must be a local custom.
After stashing my gear, I visited the quartermaster, showed him my very authoritative orders, and persuaded him to part with some shirts, socks, and skivvies. He didn’t like issuing supplies to someone not in his table of organization, but that was tough. Orders from ETO HQ countersigned by a representative of the Imperial General Staff were hard to ignore. I washed up, put on a clean shirt, and felt like a million bucks heading over to the officers’ mess.
The feeling didn’t last long. Rolf was already there, sitting alone at a table for four. He waved me over. An orderly brought us a couple of beers.
“ Hei, Billy. Welcome to Southwold. You should like the food; it’s an American mess. I must admit I’m becoming spoiled by it.” He lifted a bottle of Rheingold, almost covering it in his big hand, and took a long drink, draining half of it. He put the bottle down and looked me in the eye.
“What can I do for you?”
“Tell me about the morning of Knut Birkeland’s murder. What did you see at Beardsley Hall? Anything unusual?”
