“Whose?” I asked.
“Well, it was a month or so ago. One of the few times Miller came in. Old Tim Pettigrew, he’d just lost a son who’d gone down in a Wellington over Germany. Miller tried to give his condolences, in a neighborly way. He and Pettigrew hardly knew each other, but everyone knows about the Millers, of course. So George says he’s sorry for the loss, or something close to that, and Pettigrew fair spits in his face, calls him a dirty Kraut, and says he hopes his boy killed plenty of Muellers before he bought it himself. Tim would’ve hit him, the rage was in his face, plain to see. But his pals sat him down, and Miller left without a word. Never saw him in here again.”
“Is Pettigrew in tonight, Jack?” Payne asked.
“Aye, that’s him,” Monk said, nodding to a figure across the room. “Grey hair, brown cardigan.” He squinted and tapped his finger on the snapshot. “I see poor Stuart got himself in that picture. That why you have it?”
“Yes,” Kaz said. “Did you know him?”
“He was a customer. Not every night, but often enough to introduce himself. Seemed like a nice chap, don’t know why anyone would want to do him in.”
“Was he here the night Pettigrew went after Miller?” Payne asked.
“No, I think I would have remembered that. No, I’m certain he wasn’t. I’ll go and fetch your stew, it should be ready.”
“Captain, care to join me for a word with Mr. Pettigrew?” Payne said. I put on my shoes, which were nearly dry, and followed him to the bar. Pettigrew was busy puffing on his pipe and nursing a half-empty pint. “Timothy Pettigrew? May we have a word?” Payne introduced himself, showed his warrant card, and nodded to a quiet corner of the pub.
“What’s this about?” Pettigrew said as he stepped away from the bar. He looked to be near fifty, stooped, with greying, stiff hair and jowls beginning to form. He wore two sweaters and worn corduroy pants, and his hands were callused and rough. “And what’s the Yank for?”
“Captain Boyle is assisting with an investigation that involves an American serviceman, to some degree. I understand you and George Miller had an argument recently. Almost came to blows.”
“So? Almost is a crime now, is it?”
“No, it isn’t,” Payne said. “And I’m very sorry for the loss of your son. It must have hit you hard.”
“Hard enough, not that it’s any business of yours.”
“I take it you did not appreciate Miller’s comment to you.”
“Mueller, you mean,” Pettigrew said, stretching out the German pronunciation and looking like he wanted to spit. “I had enough of that lot back in the Great War, don’t need them moving in here and drinking with decent folk. And I sure don’t need that bastard telling me he’s sorry my boy is dead!” Pettigrew looked away, rubbing his hand over his unshaven jaw. His pain was fresh, as if he’d just heard the news, and I wondered if Miller had been the one person he could rage at with righteous justification.
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Pettigrew?” I asked.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Please answer the question, Mr. Pettigrew,” Payne said.
“I’m a pipe fitter, down at the Fawcett Plant. They make aircraft engines. Now what else do you want to know?”
“Did you have any other run-ins with Miller?” Payne asked.
“No. Saw him once on the street, but I ignored him. Truth be told, I didn’t like to lose my temper that way. I don’t like Miller or his kind, but I don’t like folks thinking I’m a madman either.” Pettigrew spoke quietly, and I had the notion he was ashamed of how he had acted, but too proud to admit it.
“Thank you, Mr. Pettigrew,” Payne said. “That will be all for now.”
“One thing,” I said, as Pettigrew turned to leave. I showed him the photograph. “Do you know this man?”
“That’s Miller’s place, isn’t it? The Kennet Arms he calls it, as if he’s something special.” Pettigrew squinted and studied the snapshot. “I’ve seen the Yank in here, aye. And the other fellow too, the one who was killed. That must be Miller’s daughter, then.”
“That’s right. Thanks,” I said, and Payne and I returned to the booth. Kaz and Big Mike were already at work on the rabbit stew.
“Good question about where he worked,” Payne said, finishing off his ale. “A wrench or a pipe would be tailor-made for the wound on Neville’s head.”
“And he knew the house,” I said. “It’s one thing to know about the Millers in a small town like Newbury. It’s another to know the exact house. Swan Court is a swankier place than Pettigrew’s neighborhood, I’ll bet.”
“You’re thinking he attacked Neville by mistake, thinking he was Miller?” Big Mike asked, spooning up the last of his stew. “You ought to try some of this, Inspector.”
“Mrs. Monk runs a good kitchen, but so does my Mrs. Payne, and I ought to attend to her,” the inspector said. “It’s early days for such theories, my friend, but we best keep an eye on Pettigrew. I shall be at the Newbury Building Society nine o’clock tomorrow, Captain Boyle. Then I must leave to continue the search for Sophia Edwards. I’ve asked an American unit stationed near Kintbury to assist. The commander agreed, and tomorrow we’ll work a sweep along both sides of the canal, Hungerford to Newbury. It’ll be a long day.”
“Which unit, Inspector?” I asked.
“Those colored chaps, the Six-Seventeenth battalion. Tank destroyers, I think they call themselves.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“So, what do we know?” I put the question to Kaz and Big Mike after Payne had left and I’d filled them in on the conversation with Pettigrew.
“Stuart Neville is dead, which seems not much different from Stuart Neville being alive,” Kaz said. “Except from the perspective of Mr. Neville. He appears to be one of those men who leave little trace of his existence. We also know a twelve-year-old girl has gone missing. Timothy Pettigrew is in great emotional pain, and can easily put his hands on a blunt object, which puts him in the same position as any number of Englishmen who have managed without murdering a single person. And Mrs. Monk is indeed a good cook. Rosemary and shallots for seasoning, I think.”
“And red-currant jam too, that’s her secret,” Monk said, appearing from nowhere and setting a fresh bowl in front of Big Mike.
“Mr. Monk, do you have lodgings?” I asked.
“Yes, but only one room vacant, it won’t fit all of you. It would hardly fit the sergeant alone!” He had a good laugh at his own joke.
“It’ll just be me,” I said.
“What are we doing?” Big Mike said, his eyes closed as he savored the aroma.
“Sorry, guys, but I need to keep the jeep. I’ll take you to the station and you can catch the next train to London. Big Mike, I want you to check with Army CID headquarters. Get me some details on the Angry Smith case. Find out if they had other suspects or any actual evidence against him.”
“Billy, you know Sam wants us on this case,” Big Mike said, around a mouthful of stew.
“Tomorrow the Six-Seventeenth is going to be part of this case. I want to be sure they’re not harboring a dangerous murderer as they search for Sophia.”
“Billy, you know Sophia Edwards is not part of this case,” Big Mike said. “But I’ll go and come up with a story if Sam finds out.”
“Neville did give Eva a warning,” I said. “And he was found near the canal, which is where Payne is focusing the search. It’s a connection. Not much of one, but it bothers me.”
“Why?” Kaz said.
“It’s as if Neville came out of his shell to say that to Eva. What made him warn her? Had he seen something, or someone, that put him on his guard?”
“What guy needs a reason to talk to a pretty girl?” Big Mike said with perfect logic, before returning his full attention to the stew.
