“I don’t know you, mate. I don’t know if you’re trouble or not, but I do know Victoria’s had her share. More than her share.”
“I’ve known her since she was a babe,” the old guy said. “So sad.”
“I just need to talk with her a bit, that’s all. I know she’s had it tough, with her husband missing in action.”
“Have a care with her. She’s still not well. And she’s well liked ’round here, so don’t cause her any problems.” The barkeep walked back to the bar, carrying the well-dried glass. He had made his decision, but I could tell he didn’t like it much. Or me.
“Take the first right up by the church. Then take the left fork. Her place is on the left, a small stone cottage.” The barkeep put the glass on the bar, loud enough to punctuate the sentence. I didn’t say anything about the implied threat. I could take a hint. I finished up, paid, and left. No one said good-bye.
I found her place easy enough and her, too, for that matter. She was sitting on a worn wooden bench in a small garden in front of her cottage. It looked like a house to me, but I figured it was one of those English things. I pulled the BMW into the drive and switched it off. The driveway was packed dirt with weeds sprouting out of it, wildflowers forcing their way through the hard surface. She looked over at me as calmly as if Americans on motorcycles showed up every day. I took off my goggles and Parsons field jacket, and attempted to make myself presentable. I brushed the dust off my pants, put on my fore and aft cap at just the right angle, and walked into the garden. She sat still, gazing at the flowers.
“Nice garden, Mrs. Brey.” She nodded, ever so slightly, and looked up at me with moist eyes. She was twisting a handkerchief in her hands, limp and damp from her tears.
“Yes, isn’t it? They’ll probably all die now…”
“Now that you’re being transferred?”
“No. Now that Richard’s… gone. He always tended them. Said a home needed flowers blooming around it first thing in the spring. He always looked forward to springtime.”
Her head swiveled back to look at the flowers. She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief she held crumpled in one hand. I could have jumped on a broomstick and flown away for all she cared. She was someplace else. There wasn’t another chair and I had to make eye contact, so I knelt down in front of her.
“Mrs. Brey?” Her eyes wavered and finally found me.
“Yes? Who are you?” That was progress.
“Lieutenant Billy Boyle, ma’am. I’m investigating the death of Knut Birkeland at Beardsley Hall.”
She laughed. The laughter seemed to break the spell for her and she focused on me as she smiled.
“That’s terribly funny.”
“What is?” I asked.
“One old man dies and they send a lieutenant. Thousands die in the air, at sea, all over the world, and then who do they send? No one.” She laughed some more. At first, I thought she was crazy, and then I thought it over. It really didn’t add up, did it?
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant Boyle. I’m not usually so distracted. I haven’t been back here since Richard… disappeared. The memories were… I’m afraid I’ve been rude.”
She wiped her eyes and tried to smile again. There wasn’t a lot of happiness to work with, so it wasn’t a big smile. She was pretty in a plain English country-girl sort of way, and even that frail grin lit up her face. Her hair was dark brown and pulled back, showing off a long and graceful neck. Her skin was flushed from the heat and a tiny bead of sweat worked its way down her throat and vanished beneath her pale green sundress, open at the neck and cinched tight at her waist. The curves of her hips and breasts were noticeable under the light material.
“Come inside, and tell me why you’ve traveled all this way.”
She stood and walked toward the house, glancing over her shoulder at me. She caught me looking, and smiled. It was quite a change, as if she had awakened from a trance. She offered to make tea, but it was too hot a day for me. She poured lemonade, and we went into her front parlor. She sat in an armchair and I took the couch. I was nervous. I was thinking about her body and the look she had given me over her shoulder. I thought about Diana. I thought about getting the hell out of there. Instead, I got down to business.
“Mrs. Brey, you’re in the Auxiliary Territorial Service, rank of subaltern, correct?” I tried to sound like your typical uninterested cop.
“I’m sure you know that, Lieutenant, don’t you?”
“Ah, yes, I do. Just checking.”
“Tell me how I can help you… did you say your name was Billy?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, if I’m going to call you Billy, you must call me Victoria. But not Vicky. Only Richard calls me that.” I looked up on the wall behind her at the framed photo of a young man in an RAF uniform. He stood next to a bomber, a wide smile on his face, the RAF roundel showing in back of him. Both man and machine long gone.
“Victoria, I don’t mean to pry into your private life, and I want you to know that I’m not compiling a written report or anything… .”
“My goodness, Billy, whatever are you going to ask me about?”
“I understand that you were in Jens Iversen’s room early, very early in the morning on the day Knut Birkeland died.”
She nodded. “Yes, I was.” Calm and cool. No embarrassment, no anger at the question.
“And he escorted you from his room back to your room?”
“Part of the way. He didn’t want to be seen, so he took me down his hallway, down the staircase, and then turned back.”
“I should tell you, Victoria, that Jens didn’t tell me your name. I wouldn’t want you to think he betrayed your confidence.”
“Why would I care what that little worm thinks?”
Whoa. That took me by surprise. I had thought they had a hot romance going. How did Jens get to be “that little worm”?
“Weren’t you and he… close?” I asked.
“All he wanted was sex,” she said disgustedly. “He pretended to be my friend and to comfort me, but all he wanted was to get his hands all over my body.”
I had noticed that whenever women talked about some guy getting fresh with them, they would unconsciously put their hands over their breasts in a protective gesture, checking buttons or pulling at something. But Victoria sat there, one leg crossed over the other, with her hands resting flat on the chair arms. Something was really wrong here.
“I got the feeling he was devoted to you.”
“I thought so, too. But evidently not. Did you come here to ask me about Jens?”
“No, no. I’d like to know who or what you might have seen on the way to your room that morning. Anybody or anything out of the ordinary.”
“Am I a suspect, Billy?”
“Did you kill Knut Birkeland?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then you’re in the clear. Did you see anything?”
“I don’t remember. It was very early and I was tired. Do you like music?”
“Yeah, sure, but think back…” She got up with a bored look on her face and walked to a record player.
“Can you stay for dinner, Billy?” I hadn’t yet thought about dinner, but I got the feeling she wanted me for dessert.
“No, I need to get back.”
“Back where?” She flipped through a stack of records but settled on the one already on the turntable.
“To Beardsley Hall.”
“That dreadful place? It’ll be after dark before you get back. Stay here tonight. It’ll be good to have a man around the house. I’ll cook us a nice dinner.”
That gave me the shivers. There was no us, and I didn’t intend on being part of her fantasy. But I also had the feeling she knew something, and wasn’t going to give it up easily.
“Maybe. But we need to finish this first. Think about what you saw that morning.”
