“Inspector?” A constable entered, followed by an American lieutenant. “The men on the north side of the canal have reached Bridge Street in Hungerford. Nothing to report.”
“The south side?”
“Slower going,” the constable said. “It’s quite wooded.”
“I’ll have the men march back to camp, if you don’t need them anymore, Inspector,” the lieutenant said. Payne nodded his head, his eyes still glued to the map.
“Lieutenant,” I said. “Where’s Baker Company?”
“Most of them are on the south side, heading toward Hungerford,” he said. “Lieutenant Binghamton, Captain. Can I help you?”
“Boyle’s the name. You’re with the Six-Seventeenth?”
“Yes, sir. Executive officer.” Binghamton was white, fair-skinned with the ghosts of freckles across his cheeks.
“Okay, Binghamton. Do you know where I can find Sergeant Jackson? Eugene Jackson?”
“Tree? He’s not in trouble, is he?”
“No. Why would you say that?”
“Can we step outside, Captain?” He didn’t wait for an answer, and I followed. We stood in front of the whitewashed stone building, the water flowing and gurgling at our feet. “It’s been my experience that whenever a white officer shows up asking about one of my men, it’s because he’s taking the fall. And it’s usually not his fault. What do you want with Sergeant Jackson?”
“Relax, Lieutenant. I’m a friend of his from Boston. I’ve been detailed by SHAEF to assist the local police, and I only want to say hello to Tree. Purely a social call.”
“I have to say, Captain, you’re the first white officer ever to pay a social call on a Negro GI in this outfit.”
“Tree and I knew each other as kids. Our fathers were friends, of a sort. They both fought in the last war.”
“You’re the ex-cop, right?”
“Yeah. What did Tree tell you?”
“Off the record, that he thought you might be able to help Private Smith. On the record, nothing. I don’t want Sergeant Jackson getting in hot water for interfering with an investigation.”
“Do you think Smith is guilty?”
“Well, he didn’t get the nickname Angry singing in the choir. He’s a fighter, and he’s got no love for the white race. I’m sure he’s capable of it, but the whole thing doesn’t make sense to me. I think he’s been set up, and if we ever get into combat, we’re going to miss him. Have you learned anything yet?”
“No, we’re still gathering information. Officially I’m here to look into a murder in Newbury. This is close enough that I thought I could get away and speak to Tree.”
“Come on, Captain, I’ll run you out there. He’s on the end of the line, at the canal.”
Binghamton gunned the jeep, turning onto a farm track that led through the fields. We passed the small bridge, cutting across the road I’d taken. Binghamton pointed to a line of men as they left a wooded knoll and descended to the farmland below. He cut across the field, spitting out mud and leaving deep tracks. He was enjoying himself.
“Lieutenant, do you mind being in a colored outfit?” I said, holding on to my hat.
“I did at first,” he said. “Mainly because my father pulled strings to get me assigned to one. He figured that would keep me out of the fighting.”
“And you didn’t like that idea?”
“Hell no. But then they turned us into a Tank Destroyer outfit, and I figured we’d get into the fight sooner or later. Here we go,” he said, slowing the jeep to a stop and sending up a spray of mud. We’d caught up to the end of the line, near the canal bank. Men were walking a few yards apart, searching for anything that might provide a clue. Along the bank of the canal, a line of GIs with long sticks pushed the weeds down, checking every inch along the waterline.
“Tree,” I yelled out as I jogged up to the line of men. They turned and saluted. “As you were, men,” I said, tossing back a salute.
“Billy,” Tree said, and then with a glance at Binghamton, added “sir.”
“Don’t worry, Sergeant,” the lieutenant said. “Captain Boyle told me you know each other from back home. Take a break and you can catch up.” Binghamton went off with the rest of the men.
“Any news?” Tree said.
“Not yet. I have a man checking with CID in London. He should be back tonight. I’ve been sent to look into a killing in Newbury. That should give me a good reason to stick around and look into this. We’re staying at the Prince of Wales Inn in Kintbury.”
“Some English guy got killed, right? Funny that the army sends you to investigate that but won’t help Angry.”
“I’m here to help Angry. And if you think you can do better, then go find someone else, Tree.”
“Sorry, Billy. Never mind, it’s not your fault. We’ve been out beating the bushes all day long and haven’t found a thing. I know you’re trying to help.”
“So how’s Horace at the Three Crowns?” I asked.
“Okay,” Tree said, and then the light bulb went off. “Wait, you know about that? We got to keep Hungerford.”
“I was there when General Eisenhower gave the order. So maybe we can have a drink together after all.” I didn’t want to claim credit. Better for Tree to think it came direct from Ike. My interfering with his life was a sore point between us, and even this small gesture might be misunderstood.
“Let’s hope you can solve the murder as quick as that,” Tree said. “We can have that drink at the Prince of Wales Inn, too. Kintbury is too small a village to be allocated to anyone. Guys don’t bother going there much.”
“Can’t blame them,” I said, and then was distracted by yelling from the searchers. Tree and I broke into a run, heading down the path. A knot of men stood at the edge of the bank, Binghamton and another GI standing in the waist-deep water.
“Call the inspector!” Binghamton screamed, a look of horror on his face. “We found her! There’s a walkie- talkie in the jeep. Go!” Tree sprinted to the vehicle as I watched them lift the thin, pale body out of the water. A girl. Her dress was ripped, her skin mottled and wrinkled. Her arms hung limp and helpless, strands of vegetation wound about them like ribbons.
“Sweet Jesus,” one of the GIs murmured. They laid her out on the path, and Binghamton arranged what was left of the torn dress to cover her decently. I knelt for a closer look. Her eyes had been eaten away, the soft tissue that fish and other creatures go for first. It was a blessing not to have to look into her eyes, but those dark, empty sockets held the promise of nightmares. They were gruesome, but not so terrible as to distract me from her neck. Dark bruises turning to yellow decorated her delicate throat.
“Help me turn her over,” I said. No one moved. I looked to Tree, who handed the walkie-talkie to a GI and knelt. We gently rolled her over and I unhooked the last button that was holding her dress together. I told myself her modesty no longer mattered, she was beyond caring, but it still felt wrong and I tamped down the surge of emotion churning in my gut. Shame, horror, grief, sadness, and anger all tried to claw their way out as I took a deep breath and studied the body. Sophia’s body. Her shoulder blades were bruised, a sickly color at each sharp angle of bone. We rolled her back and I picked up one leg, bending it at the knee. As I expected, bruises along her inner thighs. Setting her leg down, we rose, and I was grateful for a glimpse of blue sky overhead. She could not have been more than fourteen, still a child. Painfully thin, but then there were few chubby English children these days.
“The inspector’s here,” Binghamton said, his voice quivering. The water was cold, I knew. So was the feel of dead, waterlogged flesh. Inspector Payne hurried along the path and stared down at the body.
“Strangled,” I said. “He held her down and choked her. The shoulder blades are bruised from being pressed against a hard surface. Raped as well.”
“My God,” Payne said. “That’s as may be, but this poor girl is not our Sophia Edwards.”
