a classified government report. The BBC and the Foreign Office determined that saving the lives of Eastern European Jews would not be seen as a desirable war aim by the British public. Their public stance was to refer to Poles exclusively, not Polish Jews, for instance. The Foreign Office was wary of Jews exaggerating the extent of atrocities and using public opinion for their own ends.”
“Like not being murdered by the hundred thousands,” I said.
“Yes, but remember, in the First World War, there were fantastic stories of German atrocities in Belgium, which turned out to be fictitious. The British government was seen as untrustworthy, and their credibility suffered. Perhaps they now are too careful with stories of atrocities.”
“Kaz, we don’t even have the right words for what’s happening in those camps. Atrocities happen when all self-control is lost, bloodlust is up, and men are crazed with violence. These camps are planned, industrial murder. You know that, you’ve seen the same eye witness reports I have. I don’t think these Foreign Office diplomats understand what’s really happening.”
“Or worse yet, they do,” Kaz said. That silenced both of us. Kaz toyed with his empty glass, then left to get another. I watched him melt into the crowd at the bar, mostly civilians among a smattering of uniforms. British Army, mostly, with a few American airmen and GIs for good measure. There were even two Negro soldiers throwing darts with the locals. One of the locals was Ernest Bone, from the sweet shop. He gave me a nod of greeting from across the room.
Kintbury was a small village, off the beaten track, too undistinguished to be allocated to any unit, black or white, for leave. I wondered if there’d be trouble, but everyone was going about their own business. Maybe these were guys who liked the quiet of a rural village, and the kind who left well enough alone. Whatever the reason, I appreciated the low murmur of voices, the agreeable laughter, and the sharp tang of the ale. Sometimes, you have to take what satisfaction you can get.
“What’s all this?” Kaz asked when he returned, looking at the scrapbook.
“A scrapbook Rosemary and Tom Eastman put together when they were kids,” I explained. “I thought there might be a clue as to anyone who had a grudge against their father, Sam. A long shot, at best.”
“They must have been proud of their father,” Kaz said. He took the book and began leafing through it from the beginning. “Did you ever keep a scrapbook of your father’s cases?”
“No, it never occurred to me,” I said. “He always told me not to believe what I read in the newspapers anyway. He said there was so much that couldn’t be said and so much said wrong that the only things he trusted were the sports page and the funnies.”
“That reminds me, Billy, when will you tell the end of your story about Tree?”
“That’ll have to wait-hey, stop there,” I said. Kaz had gone about halfway through and a headline jumped out at me. “This is about Alan Wycks, the local stonemason who was sent to Broadmoor after his arrest.”
“Right,” Kaz said. “The fellow Constable Cook told us about. The story here is much as he said. Wife and child gone missing, the theft of the shirts, his incarceration and subsequent sentencing at Broadmoor at the pleasure of the King. The tone of the story is one of pity, a once-prosperous villager and his descent into madness. Constable Samuel Eastman is mentioned as the arresting officer.”
Kaz turned the page, reading to the end of the article. It contained a picture of Wycks, taken in court. His hair was disheveled, his collarless shirt grey and worn. What stood out were his eyes. Dark and deep, they stared into the camera from a sunken, lined face, aged by harsh sun, stone shards, and a crazed mind. I had seen those eyes before. On a younger face, a picture taken before hard times had come his way.
“I’ve seen this man,” I said.
“Where?” Kaz asked, leaning in for a closer look.
“Angus Crowley’s father. When I was in his room I saw a picture of a much younger man, but they’re the same person, I’m sure of it. It was the only personal touch in the place.”
“The eyes,” Kaz noted. “They are quite intense.”
“They were the same in the other photograph. It was a formal portrait, and he was probably around twenty or a little older. But the eyes held a hint of what was to come. Crowley has dark eyes too, set deep in his face, like this guy.”
“And he lives in the barn on the track leading to the Chilton Foliat cemetery,” Kaz said. “That alone makes him suspect. He must have returned to the village some time ago and taken on the job of caretaker. Perhaps his mother changed her name, or gave him her maiden name to distance them from the memory of his father. Or the shame of his insanity.”
“He was just a kid when the mother disappeared. Fourteen years old, the paper said. Crowley seems older but he looks like he may have knocked about a bit before settling down here. A hard life working outdoors can age a man.”
“He obviously wasn’t called up for service,” Kaz said. “Perhaps he did inherit his father’s mental instability. But do you think he killed Tom Eastman after all these years? Why now?”
“That’s a good question, Kaz. Maybe we can track down the owners of the Chilton Foliat manor house. They must have checked references when they hired Crowley. The Hundred-and-First moved into this area less than six months ago. It ought to be easy enough to find the owners.”
“Why not put MI5 to work on it?” Kaz asked. “I will call the number Cosgrove gave us and tell them you need the information as part of your investigation. With their resources, we should know by morning.”
“You’re supposed to be on a train to London,” I said. “Wait a while and then call. Tell them it’s a loose end you’re wrapping up and have them leave a message with Constable Cook when they have the skinny.”
“I will use those exact words, Billy,” Kaz grinned. He had a thing for American slang, the more obscure the better.
At that moment, a loud voice sounded off from the entrance to the bar. “What are them damned niggers doin’ here?” A GI with corporal’s stripes and a red neck stood in front of a pack of his pals, his jaw jutting forward in a show of aggression.
“You shut your mouth, soldier,” the barkeep said, a middle-aged fellow with salt-and-pepper hair. “I’ll have none of that talk in my establishment. Either turn about and walk out, or order your drinks and be peaceable. There’s enough war waiting for you across the Channel, I can promise you that.” He pulled his sleeve up over his elbow, and thrust his forearm toward the new arrivals. A twisted cord of scar tissue ran all along his arm. “Got that at the Somme, and counted myself lucky. So spend your time here in good cheer, gentlemen. There’s pain and fight enough waiting in France.”
The room was silent. The barkeep leaned forward, resting his ruined arm on the bar, watching the corporal, who looked stunned by the response. One of his pals whispered to him, and he shook him off roughly before he stalked out, muttering about niggers and Englishmen. His friends shuffled their feet, unsure of their welcome.
“What’ll you have, boys?” boomed the barkeep, and that was that. They went up to the bar with sheepish grins, shillings jingling in their palms. Tension eased out of the air, and the hum of conversation and laughter returned. But it was only a fight postponed. This was neutral territory and the bar was manned by a guy who knew the ropes. It wasn’t anything like that in the world outside.
“Not the best representative of the American type,” a voice said from my side. It was Ernest Bone, from the sweet shop. I introduced him to Kaz, who agreed with his assessment of the departed corporal.
“You don’t harbor any ill feelings toward the colored troops, Mr. Bone?” I asked.
“None at all. Those fellows behave themselves, and would never enter an establishment as that lout did. Pity your army doesn’t treat them better.”
“They got a combat unit not far down the road from your shop,” I said. “Tank Destroyers.”
“Indeed. They’ve got maneuvers laid on for tomorrow. The whole village is buzzing about it. Most want to watch and the rest are worried about the fields and fences being torn up. I’d like to chat, gentlemen,” Bone said, draining his pint. “But I must excuse myself. It’ll be an early morning tomorrow, getting the cart ready and all. It’s a good chance to sell to the onlookers if the weather’s decent. Good night.” He touched his cap in the old- fashioned manner and we wished him luck. I secretly wished for some myself.
“He was one of Neville’s customers, wasn’t he?” Kaz asked.
“The one who was turned down for the loan. He’s starting the renovations himself.”
“Optimistic chap,” Kaz said. “Rationing must make it difficult to sell delicacies in a small town like this.”
“He’s near the girls’ school at Avington. People always want candy, don’t they?”
“I prefer my sweets from the dessert cart at the Dorchester,” Kaz said. “But it will be some time before we
