“Killers,” I corrected him. “Maybe three of them. We have at least three victims: Stuart Neville, Tom Eastman, Margaret Hibberd, and perhaps Sophia Edwards. Why not three killers?”
“But you don’t really think so,” Kaz said.
“No. I have the nagging feeling there’s a connection between Neville and Margaret. Maybe he knew her killer, or rather discovered who it was.” I told Kaz about the canal man Blackie Crane, and how there was a chance he had seen something that night as he passed by the Miller residence.
“It will be good to pursue that lead,” Kaz said. “But I think you’re straining to find a connection. The fact that Neville told the Miller girl to be careful doesn’t mean anything. It’s the kind of thing any man might say to a young girl.”
“It’s just that Neville left no other trace of himself. It’s like he wanted not to be noticed,” I said. “Anything unusual stands out, and his mentioning that was out of character, which makes me think he had a specific reason for saying it.”
“That’s a fine straw you’re grasping at, Billy. What is our next step?”
“Let’s see if Constable Cook has come up with anything. He was going to check further with Broadmoor and ask Doctor Brisbane if any villagers were committed there, voluntarily or otherwise.”
“You think it might be a pleasure man we’re after?”
“Might be. The whole thing is crazy, after all. Let’s go. After we talk with Cook we’ll get dinner. I’m hungry.”
“Billy,” Kaz said as we walked to our vehicles. “When are we going to hear what finally happened to you and Tree, in Boston?”
“When this thing is wrapped up, and Diana is back. She wouldn’t want to miss it.”
“Neither do I,” Kaz said.
CHAPTER TWENTY — NINE
“Evening, gentlemen,” constable Cook said as we entered his office. He was puffing away on his pipe, his desk a mass of files and paperwork. “I see your Major Cosgrove was taken away by ambulance this morning. How is he?”
“We don’t know,” I said. “The people who came for him are a tight-lipped bunch.”
“I could tell as much from Doc Brisbane,” Cook said, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “He’s a good one for a story or two, but all he told me was that it was best to forget all about the incident. That’s what he called it, the incident. Sounded like he was reading from a script.” Cook raised his eyebrows, inviting us to tell him more.
“Major Cosgrove is involved with security matters,” I said. “Probably normal procedure.”
“Ah, well, perhaps. Not that there was much normal about our major. I suppose you’re more interested in what I’ve found out about Broadmoor. The doc told me he knew of no one who had been committed there for purely medical reasons, so I reviewed the file of criminals from our jurisdiction who ended up serving their sentences there.”
“Anything new?” I asked as he shuffled through his papers.
“Not much. Turns out the chap Sam Eastman arrested back in nineteen thirty-five died two years ago in Broadmoor.”
“The arrest Sam was directly involved in?”
“Yes. Previously Sam helped arrest a vagrant who had assaulted a farmer. But Sam wasn’t even listed on the arrest warrant, so I doubt that fellow even knew his name.”
“The nineteen thirty-five arrest was different?” Kaz asked.
“Oh, yes. Quite. It was a local stonemason, Alan Wycks. He had a job at the Chilton Foliat manor house, back before the government took it over. The owner, Lawrence Brackmann, accused Wycks of stealing three shirts. Laundry drying on the line, I think it was. Sam found the shirts all right, hidden away at Wycks’s cottage. He arrested him, and then it turned out that Wycks couldn’t stand being in an enclosed space. Started banging his head against the walls, right here in our own lockup. Had to send him up to Berkshire Constabulary headquarters in Reading, where they had facilities for that sort of thing.”
“What happened then?”
“Went stark raving mad in no time, I heard. You could ask Inspector Payne more about it. He picked up the case when Wycks got transferred to Reading. He was a detective sergeant at the time, if I recall. It was a solid case, and from what I heard Wycks was incoherent before the judge. Got himself sentenced to Broadmoor, at the King’s pleasure.”
“And that’s where he died?” I asked.
“Yes. Just two years ago next month.”
“Did he have any family?” Kaz asked.
“His wife had run off with their son the year before. After Wycks went mad, we worried he might have harmed them, but we never found a trace. Searched his garden for signs of recent digging, but found nothing. My thought was she began seeing signs that he was losing his mind and left him when she could.”
“Sounds like a dead end,” I said.
“It was worth looking into,” Cook said. “Police work is the same all over, isn’t it? Looking into people’s lives, discovering more than you want to know, often for naught.”
“It would help if you could forget what you didn’t need to know,” I said.
“There’s a truth,” Cook said. “You’ve heard about poor Malcolm, have you?”
“Yes, we were just discussing his death,” Kaz said. “No one seems to really mourn his passing.”
“No, I’d say not,” Cook said, giving it some consideration. “No family hereabouts, and he never spared a kind word when a harsh one would do. Still, it’s a pity for a wounded soldier to end up dead like that after going through so much. Not to mention Rosemary. She was always a sweet lass, full of life. She must have put that all away to make a life with Malcolm.”
“What do you think she will do?” Kaz asked.
“Wait for you to exonerate Private Smith,” Cook said. “I hadn’t seen her so happy in years, back when Malcolm was thought dead and Smith was free.”
“It doesn’t bother you, Constable? A white woman and a Negro together?” I couldn’t help but think what a scandal that would be in Boston, or anywhere else in the States for that matter.
“We’re just country folk here, Captain. It takes us time to get used to anything new,” Cook said, unbuttoning his uniform collar. “But that’s all it is. Something new. Why, we might even look kindly upon an Irishman settling down among us.” He smiled as he worked on his pipe, knocking out ashes and cleaning the stem.
“Point taken,” I said. “And I do hope we can get Angry out of prison. Rosemary gave me the scrapbook she and Tom kept when they were kids, said there were pictures and clippings from her father’s career. I’ll look through that tonight and see if anything jumps out at me.”
“I remember that book,” Cook said. “When Tom was a pup he and his sister would race through here, and pinch anything not nailed down if they took a fancy to it for their scrapbook. There might be something in there, you never know.”
“What was Tom like as a boy?” I asked, wondering if there was any connection we’d overlooked.
“Sam was a stern father, and Tom sought to stretch the limits now and then. Nothing serious, just the mischief of youth. Stealing apples from an orchard on a summer’s night, that sort of thing.”
Cook’s face softened at the memory.
“Do you have children, Constable?”
“I did,” he said. “A fine wife and a handsome boy. She died three years ago. The saving grace was she didn’t have to hear of Teddy being killed in Sicily. Teddy and Tom were a right pair, only a few months between them. Played rugby together when they weren’t pinching apples. Nothing’s the same anymore, is it?”
What could I do but agree? I nodded, and let the silence settle for a moment before I asked, “Do you know a canal man by the name of Blackie Crane?”
“Sure, everyone knows Blackie. Quite a character, he is.”
“There’s a slight chance he saw something on his last run through here. If you see him, we’d like have a
