the wake of a boat on the canal washing over. The Kennet River flows into the canal near here, and all that rain would have raised the water level. Take your choice.” He shrugged and moved on, taking other lunchtime orders and gabbing with the regulars.
I knew about water in the boats; I’d gotten my own feet wet that way. But I hadn’t known about the water levels. I wondered what boat might be out on the canal that late at night. And if it had been water from its wake that soaked Neville’s shoes and socks, could the boatman have seen him? And his assailant? I tried to work the angles as I waited for my sandwich, wondering how much could be seen from a moving craft.
“Jack,” I said when he put the plate down. “Are there many boats out on the canal between ten o’clock at night and two in the morning?”
“Ah, you mean when Neville was killed? It would be a rare thing. No lights with the blackout, so if you didn’t know the canal like the back of your hand it would be dangerous.”
“Rare, but not impossible for someone who knows the canal?”
“Aye. There’s one man who comes to mind. Blackie Crane. He runs a steamboat up to Reading, selling coal. Brown coal, that is, what they call lignite. It’s mined out by Pewsey. Not very good stuff, but he manages to sell a boatload between there and Reading every week.”
“But can a coal barge go fast enough to make a wake?”
“Fully loaded? No. But on the return trip from Reading, heading west? Once Blackie gets up a head of steam, there’s no stopping him. And it’s not like a flat-bottomed barge. His is a riverboat, long and narrow, and he keeps it in prime shape. Signals with his steam whistle when he comes through. Reminds folks of the old days, when steam on the water was the way of the world. Around here, leastways.”
“Was he on the river the night Neville was killed?”
“I’m sure he was. I saw him that morning, when he delivered my coal. Said he had one more stop near Reading and then would make the run back. That would put him here late, after closing time.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Yesterday, on his way up to Reading. Ought to be headed back this way in a day or so.”
“Thanks, Jack. Keep this conversation between us, all right?” I wanted to be careful not to tip my hand about a possible witness.
“Whatever you say. Mum’s the word.”
I bit into the sandwich, wondering if there was such a thing as too careful. Big Mike had assisted in the investigation, but then was ordered back to London. Why? Miss Gardner pointed me to Bone and Fraser, then suddenly vanished. Why? I didn’t want Blackie Crane to slip through my fingers as well. I was sure I could trust Payne, but no reason to broadcast the fact we might have a witness to anyone else.
The beer was sharp and bitter.
CHAPTER TWENTY — SIX
Next stop was the Chilton Foliat Jump School, to continue the snooping around that had been cut short by Tree’s fight. I passed the barns, outbuildings, and Quonset huts, and parked on the gravel drive in front of the main house. It was a solid three-story affair with elegant columns, seated on top of a hill with a commanding view of the countryside. In the distance I saw a platoon double-timing it along a road. Closer to the house, GIs were climbing a short wooden tower, then jumping onto a pile of hay, bending their knees and rolling, while an instructor barked at them to hurry up. A corporal threw me a salute on his way into the headquarters.
“Where can I find your commanding officer?” I asked as I returned the salute.
“Captain Sobel is inspecting the service company, sir. Take the path around the back.”
I followed the path, marked by the white-painted stones the army loves so much. At the rear of the house, near a row of hedges that might once have bordered an elegant garden, lines of GIs stood four rows deep. I could make out a tall officer walking the ranks, a sergeant trailing him with a clipboard. I edged to the side of the group, waiting for the inspection to be over. Hearing the sound of shovels, I glanced to the rear and saw Charlie, the big fellow from the fight, and one other GI hacking away at the ground. They were both waist-deep in what looked like wide graves. Charlie saw me and looked quickly at the officer, who I figured for Sobel. Charlie looked scared. His eyes met mine and he shook his head, then bent back to his digging.
“Out of uniform,” Sobel yelled at one man, who seemed dressed exactly like the others. “Confined to quarters.” His voice was squeaky and grating at the same time. He walked with his hands clenched behind his back, swaggering between the rows of GIs as his sergeant followed along, writing on his clipboard. Sobel was tall and dark-haired. He had a face that reminded me of a half-moon: a high forehead, long nose, and receding chin.
“What’s this? Dirty ears?” I was amazed to see him actually bend a man’s ears back like a mother checking a little boy. “You want to get dirty, soldier? Then start digging.” The GI dropped out and headed to the rear, picking up a shovel and a yardstick. He began measuring an area the same size as the hole Charlie was digging, and started in on it. There was a ready supply of shovels, and as I looked past Charlie, I could see the ground had been dug up and tamped down repeatedly. The inspection went on, Sobel continuing to find fault with most of the enlisted men, doling out punishments ranging from KP duty to loss of a weekend pass. Finally the company was dismissed, and I never saw men scatter so fast.
“Captain Sobel?” I said as I approached him.
“Yes, Captain, what can I do for you?” Sobel came close, his arms akimbo. He looked down at me, using his height to dominate the conversation.
“Captain Boyle,” I said, holding out my hand. He didn’t take the offered shake. “I’m investigating the murder of a local police officer. One of our men was arrested, and now there’s some doubt as to his guilt.”
“Our men? What unit are you from, Captain?”
“SHAEF. General Eisenhower is interested in seeing that justice is done.” It was then that Sobel took notice of my shoulder patch with the Supreme Headquarters flaming sword badge, but if he was impressed he kept it to himself.
“Is anyone under my command a suspect?” Sobel asked.
“No, I just have a few questions-”
“Sergeant Evans,” Sobel said, turning away from me and addressing his non-com, “assist this officer and then report to me once he is off the base.”
“Yes, sir!” Evans said as Sobel walked away.
“Your commanding officer is a strange one, Sergeant,” I said, watching Sobel’s back.
“Nothing strange about doing a job right, Captain. How can I help you?” Evans had a southern drawl and the look of a long-haul non-com.
“First tell me about the holes. Why are those men digging them?”
“Captain Sobel trains the men to follow orders, and he does a damn good job. If they don’t, they get extra duty digging a hole six by six by six.”
“Six feet deep?” I couldn’t believe my ears.
“Yes sir. And then they fill it in again. The captain says it’s good training for digging in when we’re in combat.”
“That GI has to dig a hole that size for having dirty ears?”
“Captain Sobel likes his men to look sharp. If they don’t, they reflect poorly on the unit. That man will probably wash his ears first thing every day after this.”
“What about this man?” I said, pointing to Charlie.
“Out of uniform,” Evans said. “He was missing a button. Now tell me what I can do for you, Captain. We’re running a jump school here and we have thirty new field artillery observers to train.”
I wasn’t taking to Sergeant Evans any more than I had to Captain Sobel, but I bit my tongue and gave him the basics about the murder, the graveyard, and the track going through the jump school to the back of the cemetery. I needed a helpful non-com, not an uncooperative one. We walked away from the hole diggers and I pointed out the track I’d mentioned.
“What I need to know is if anyone here noticed a person who wasn’t supposed to be on this post. A local, or
