have no need for soundproofing.”
“Makes sense,” Cook admitted. “Now let’s go through this from the beginning.” We spent the next hour going over my statement, detailing what Bone said and did while I was with him. Payne went over Blackie Crane’s identification and his chase. Tree confirmed what he had seen of Lieutenant Binghamton and the crash of the armored car. As we finished, the telephone rang.
“It’s for Captain Boyle,” Cook said, handing the receiver to me.
“We’ve been waiting for a call from MI5,” I explained, my hand over the receiver. They’d probably been calling all day with the answer from the owners of the manor house at Chilton Foliat, about Angus Crowley. I listened to what they had to say and hung up, not quite grasping what I’d been told.
“Well?” Kaz said.
“There are no owners of the Chilton Foliat manor,” I said. “No private owners, that is. The last family member died and willed it to the government back in nineteen thirty-nine.”
“Anyone in the village could have told you that,” Cook said. “I even mentioned it to you, that the government took it over. What’s this all about?”
“I thought you meant in the recent past, when the Hundred-and-First moved in,” I said. “Angus Crowley told them he was sent by the owners, to look after the stables. But MI5 confirmed there are no private owners.”
“Doesn’t Crowley work for the army?” Cook asked. “I know I saw him eating in their mess hall on two occasions when we investigated the Eastman murder.”
“No,” I said. “They let him eat there since he doesn’t have a kitchen, but he claimed he was sent by the owners to live and work in the stable.”
“Why would this fellow represent himself as employed by the owners?” Payne asked. “Not for three meals a day, certainly.”
“Perhaps this will answer the question,” Kaz said, tossing the scrapbook onto Cook’s desk. It was open to the article about the trial of Alan Wycks. “You all know this man did work for the actual owner, prior to nineteen thirty-nine.”
“Of course we do,” Cook said with some irritation. “I told you that story myself.”
“Wycks?” Payne said, his brow furrowed as he dredged up the memory from almost ten years ago. “Stonemason, wasn’t he? A minor theft, if I recall, but a clear case of insanity. But what’s that got to do with the Neville case?”
“Nothing. But when I was in Angus Crowley’s room,” I said, “he had a picture of that man on his wall. A younger face, but I’m sure it’s Alan Wycks, and Crowley is his son. He killed Tom Eastman and threw his body on Sam Eastman’s grave. Revenge for Sam arresting his father.”
“After all this time?” Cook asked. “It makes no sense. That picture could have been left by Wycks himself years ago.”
“No, it was hung in a prominent position, and there were no other personal items in the room. It clearly wasn’t someone’s forgotten junk. Besides, Wycks worked there, but he lived at home with his wife and child.”
“It’s a thin thread, Billy,” Tree said. “You sure?”
“I wasn’t sure of anything, but the call from MI5 clinched it. Crowley deliberately misrepresented himself to the army personnel at Chilton Foliat. He may have known about the horses in the stable and decided that was his ticket. No one paid him much mind or checked his story, so he moved right in. A US Army installation is the perfect place to hide out in plain sight. Plus, it gave him easy access to the graveyard where Sam Eastman was buried. He watched and bided his time. What I can’t figure out is what the horses were doing there in the first place.”
“There was a fellow from London who leased it out for a time,” Cook said. “Never met him, but I heard he kept horses there. I always thought your army had hired him to look after the grounds.”
“What’s important now is that we find out where he came from, and if he’s known under any other name,” Payne said. “Boyle, you call your MI5 chaps and I’ll have my superintendent contact Scotland Yard. Between them we should learn something. I’m not sure I put much stock in your theory, Captain.”
“Should we pick Crowley up in any case?” Cook asked.
“Not yet,” I suggested, knowing Payne probably wouldn’t go along with it anyway. “Let’s wait until we’re certain. This could get Angry Smith off the hook for Tom Eastman’s murder. I want to get our ducks in a row.”
“Damn straight,” Tree said.
“Ducks?” Kaz said.
CHAPTER THIRTY — SIX
Tree picked us up the next morning. He’d been given a jeep and a pass to help us. His CO wanted Angry Smith back, and all the men were upset about Lieutenant Binghamton’s death. Since I’d apprehended the guy responsible, I pretty much had carte blanche with the 617th.
We’d made our phone calls. I hadn’t told MI5 about Bone yet; I needed them to think our pursuit of Crowley was related to the Neville killing, otherwise they’d shut me down in a heartbeat. I asked for background information on Angus Crowley or Angus Wycks, and the whereabouts of Mrs. Wycks. I wanted to know where Angus had been in the years since his mother left Alan Wycks, and why he’d taken so long to exact his revenge. Payne had called Scotland Yard and also left a message for the chief inspector at the Berkshire Constabulary.
I’d spent a restless night, unable to sleep much with my arm aching and my head buzzing. How would Crowley respond? Was that even his real name? And why was he still here? Did he have other victims in mind, or did he think he could stick around given that Angry Smith had been arrested for his crime? It was his hometown, after all. Why not?
“You sure you don’t want more firepower, Billy?” Tree asked as he parked the jeep. “I could have a squad up here in no time.”
“If the three of us with pistols and a couple of English cops can’t take an unarmed man on an army base, then we’re all due for a rough awakening in France.”
“Don’t assume he’s unarmed,” Kaz said. “The English have restrictive laws regarding firearms, but shotguns in rural areas are quite commonplace.”
“I don’t know about those pea-shooter revolvers you fellas are carrying,” Tree said as we entered the station, “but I know my.45 automatic is going to win any argument with a farmer’s shotgun. Especially since I’ll be standing behind the two of you.”
“Billy is so much larger than I,” Kaz said, “I think we both could use him as cover.” He and Tree chuckled, which made me wish I took my army rank more seriously so I could chew them out convincingly.
“Morning, gents? Tea.” Constable Cook didn’t even wait for an answer. Even after months of Yanks swarming over his jurisdiction, he still couldn’t imagine any of them passing up a morning cuppa.
“How are you feeling, Inspector?” I asked. Payne was in the easy chair by Cook’s desk, his broken leg up on a cushioned stool.
“Tired and irritable,” he said. “Leg hurts and I’ve got a terrible itch I can’t get to. Had an argument with the wife about coming in today. Other than that all’s dandy. Constable, please fill them in.” Payne sighed and leaned back in his chair, eyes half closed.
“Your MI5 blokes were a good deal faster than the Yard,” Cook began. “Angus Crowley was born in nineteen-twenty. His birth certificate shows his name as Angus Wycks, although his mother’s maiden name was Crowley. You were right about that, Captain. His father, Alan, served in the Great War and was wounded at Passchendaele. Patched up, he was sent back to the front and served until the armistice.”
“Lucky, I guess,” Tree said.
“Not really,” Cook went on, reading from his notes. “He’d been a schoolteacher before the war. He was a sapper at the front, tunneling under no-man’s-land. After all that time underground, he couldn’t stand being shut up inside when he came home. He took what outdoor work he could and found he had a talent for stone. One of his mates from the war took him on and taught him the trade. That’s how he came here, to make repairs on the manor house at Chilton Foliat.
“Scotland Yard didn’t have all the details, but apparently Alan Wycks had a number of minor run-ins with the
