chat. Tell Inspector Payne, but keep it quiet otherwise, okay?”
“Lots of secrets these days, Captain, aren’t there?”
“Only until we figure them out, Constable.”
We invited Cook to have dinner with us, but he declined, saying he needed to walk his beat around Hungerford one more time. His cot was made up in the corner of his office, and I think I knew why he often spent nights here. There were no ghosts in the local nick, only emptiness, or the occasional criminal, drunk, or rowdy GI. It was better company.
Kaz and I drove back to the Prince of Wales Inn in Kintbury, ready for our dinner, but we were stopped halfway there by a column of GIs marching quick-step, coming up from the Kennet River and crossing our path on the Bath Road. Their boots were muddy and sweat streamed down their faces, even in the cool late-afternoon air. There were hundreds of them, a battalion perhaps, on a forced march to toughen them up for the invasion. The 101st Airborne, evidenced by their screaming eagle shoulder patches. Some were probably named Teddy.
The invasion of France-well, probably France-was on everyone’s mind. Mostly a pent-up anxiety, like a bow pulled taut while your hand quivers as you hold it, ready to release. I didn’t know if I’d be there on the big day, but I could feel myself pulled along by the current of nerves, fear and desire to get it over with. Right now, watching these men cross the road-these cherished boys, these Teddies, all I could think about was the heartache to come for their mothers, fathers, wives, and friends. It was good that we fought our wars so far from home, not so much because it saved our towns and cities from destruction, but because it put distance and time between death and mourning. How many folks back in the States on that day of invasion would wake up, pour a cup of coffee, and read the morning paper without knowing their son or husband was already dead?
The last of them crossed the road and I was glad to see them go.
CHAPTER THIRTY
As we parked next to the Prince of Wales Inn, I did a double-take. Sitting at a bench by the door were two men: Michael Flowers and Nigel Morris. Neville’s boss and his fellow boarder. I pointed them out to Kaz and gave him the lowdown on each.
“It is a small town,” Kaz said. “Perhaps Neville introduced them. Sometimes coincidences are just that.” I doubted it.
Morris caught sight of me and gave Flowers a nudge. Flowers went inside as Morris nodded to someone at our backs. I heard car doors slam, and knew this was no coincidence. I turned sideways to keep my eye on Morris and check who was coming up on us. I pulled Kaz with me as I glanced around for an exit. No go. Coming through the gate from the road were two British MPs, big guys. Another filled the doorway to the inn. We were boxed in. My hand moved to my shoulder holster and the reassuring grip of the.38 Police Special. But I didn’t draw. This was damned odd, but no ambush, not with a full complement of MPs surrounding the joint.
“Lieutenant Kazimierz?” said an MP sergeant as he took Kaz by the arm, not waiting for an answer. “Come with us, please. We have orders for you to return to London immediately.”
“Whose orders?” Kaz asked.
“Not at liberty to say, sir,” the polite MP said, not relaxing his grip. His hand took up most of Kaz’s upper arm.
“Let go of me,” Kaz said, digging in his heels. “I must pack my belongings if I am to go to London.” Kaz and I looked at each other, neither of us understanding what was happening. Kaz looked stunned as the MP held his arm.
“No need, Lieutenant,” the MP said as he pulled Kaz toward a waiting staff car. “Your suitcase is in the automobile. We are leaving immediately.” With an MP on either arm, all Kaz could do was shrug helplessly as they led him away.
“You’ve got someone waiting inside, Captain Boyle,” Morris said. His eyes flicked up and down the street, then settled on the automobile carrying Kaz back to London as it drove away. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, and I could make out the bulge of a revolver on his right. “Don’t worry, lad, I won’t shoot. A friendly visit inside, that’s all.”
“Who are you?” I asked. Not a traveling salesman, that was for sure.
“Whoever I need to be,” Morris answered. “Now go inside and see Mr. Flowers. He’ll direct you.” I went to pass the MP, who was standing at parade rest like he was guarding a military headquarters. He put out his arm and asked for my weapon. Reluctantly, I handed it over and went inside. Flowers stood in the hallway, his hands stuffed in his pockets, showing the same telltale bulge. His face was stern, a far cry from the visage of the friendly banker. He nodded toward a small room off the dining area and bar, and I entered.
Inside, seated next to a coal fire burning low in the fireplace, was the man who had made Major Cosgrove sweat, sipping a glass of sherry.
“Ah, Captain Boyle,” he said, in a quiet voice drenched in authority. “Please sit down.”
“Not that I have a choice, with your goons outside the door,” I said, sitting across from him. He had a strong chin, thin lips curved into a slight smile, and lively eyes that drilled into mine. He was well dressed in civvies, worn but with a faintly academic air, like a distracted professor who didn’t quite pay attention while knotting his tie. He was trim, in good shape for a fellow with strands of grey in his close-cropped hair.
“Goons. I rather like that. Yes, I do have goons, Captain. They come in handy from time to time.”
“Who are you, and why am I here?”
“We’re in no rush, Captain Boyle. Let us take a moment and get to know each other.”
“Names are a big help. See, you know mine, and isn’t that useful for carrying on a conversation?”
“Not here,” he said, waving his hand. “Not that names wouldn’t be useful, but the walls have ears, as they say, and I keep my own secrets.”
“Okay,” I said, figuring my next move. “So we’re talking about secrets. Whose?”
“His Majesty’s, of course. The deepest and darkest secrets of the war, perhaps.”
“There are a lot of dark secrets in this war, Professor,” I said. “Professor? Why do you say that? I am simply a government bureaucrat.”
“You have the look, that’s all. And most bureaucrats have a paunch by your age. You have a healthy look that doesn’t come from sitting in a government office year-round. So a professor at some swank college, where maybe you played rugby when you were a student.”
“Oxford, and mainly cricket,” he said. “Charles said you were a smart one, but hard to control. Seems like he was right on both counts.”
“Major Cosgrove? How is he?”
“Greatly weakened, I’m afraid. But resting comfortably.”
“At Saint Albans,” I said. I didn’t have to reveal I knew where Cosgrove had been taken, courtesy of Kaz and his snooping, but I needed to get an edge on this guy. His eyes widened a fraction before he resumed his pose of bemusement.
“Smart and resourceful too,” he said. “Reading your file, I am not surprised at your capabilities, Captain Boyle. But there is a streak of antagonism to authority, especially British authority, which troubles me.”
“What’s it to you?” I asked, getting impatient with this exchange. And then I realized, it
“That’s quite to the point,” he said. He finished his sherry and set the glass down, then sat quietly, his fingers steepled in a thoughtful pose. Maybe for a minute, but it seemed like an hour. He was deciding on me, and I let him take his time. “Let’s take a walk, Captain,” he finally said, and I followed him out of the room. Flowers handed him his overcoat, and we took the path along the canal, Morris up front, Flowers to the rear, both out of earshot.
“Are they your bodyguards?” I asked. He ignored the question.
“My name is John Masterman,” he said, glancing around to be sure there was no one nearby. The sun was right at the horizon and the wind was picking up, a chill breeze sliding along the canal. Anyone with any sense was
