law. Fights, usually. He was never the same man after the war.”
“Few were,” I said. I knew that well enough from Dad and Uncle Dan.
“I spoke with the chief inspector at headquarters,” Payne said, wincing as he moved his leg. “He checked the files and refreshed my memory on the case. Wycks claimed that Brackmann, who owned the manor house, had given him the shirts, as they were old and worn. Brackmann denied it, but there was also some argument about promised wages. Wycks was owed a fair sum, and there was speculation that Brackmann, who was known to be short on funds, set the whole thing up to discredit him.”
“Did that come out in the trial?” Kaz asked.
“Brackmann denied it all. By that time, after a long period of incarceration, Wycks was half crazed. I attended the proceedings when he was sentenced, and I doubt he even understood what was happening to him.”
“My God,” Tree said. “After all he’d been through, they put him in the nuthouse?”
“Yes,” Payne said with a sigh. “At the time, there was little else to do. He’d been accused, had no evidence on his behalf, and could not be let loose in his condition. I testified myself, giving the facts of the case. There was little to say to support his defense, other than his record as a soldier.”
“The disappearance of his wife and son couldn’t have helped matters,” Cook said.
“No, it did raise certain suspicions,” Payne said. “But we never found any evidence of foul play. I still think she ran off to protect the child from the father’s madness.”
“So Broadmoor,” I said. “At the pleasure of the King.”
“Yes, where he died two years ago, still with his demons.” Payne shook his head. “Perhaps Brackmann never intended for it to go that far. He evidently had remorse over something. He was found hanged not long after.”
“Was there a note?” I asked.
“Not that I recall,” Cook said. “But there were money problems, that much was common knowledge. No family, which is why he left the place to the government. Probably owed taxes on it.”
“Where was he found?”
“In the stables. He’d thrown a rope over a rafter.”
“Maybe Tom Eastman wasn’t the first victim,” I said. “Do we know anything about where Angus Crowley-I mean Wycks-was during this time?”
“The mother used her maiden name after she left here,” Payne said. “The first record Scotland Yard has of her is in Southampton, on the coast not far from here. Her son was arrested on suspicion of burglary. He was let go on lack of evidence.”
“When was that?” I asked.
“In nineteen thirty-four, when he was seventeen years old. More serious offenses were recorded in Weymouth, where they moved next.”
“After his father was arrested,” I said.
“Likely,” Payne went on. “The son visited his father in Broadmoor once, that’s from the visitors’ logs. That was in nineteen thirty-seven, when the boy would have turned twenty. The mother never did. Brackmann was found two weeks after young Angus’s visit.”
“He was never questioned?” Tree asked.
“No, there was no apparent connection, especially since he was so young. But he was finally picked up in possession of stolen goods outside of London in thirty-nine. His mother died in nineteen forty of an unspecified illness. Angus was sentenced to five years’ imprisonment. He was released less than three months ago.”
“I would have pegged him as older,” I said, “but that’s what five years in the slammer can do to a guy.”
“But why didn’t he take his revenge sooner?” Tree asked.
“Killing a policeman is a tall order,” I said. “He was a young kid. He probably pulled off the Brackmann killing easily enough, one solitary guy in an isolated manor house. Or maybe it was harder than he expected. A copper would have been a lot more difficult.”
“Aye,” Cook said. “Tom could take care of himself. Young Angus might not have managed it. But then he was incarcerated, and after being schooled for five years by the villains in His Majesty’s prisons, he was ready.”
“This is sounding more plausible by the minute,” Payne said.
“Plausible enough to get Angry sprung?” Tree asked.
“That all depends, Sergeant,” Payne said. “There is no direct physical evidence. If Crowley doesn’t talk, all he could be guilty of is defrauding the US Army.”
“That ought to be enough to get CID to reopen the case,” I said.
“Let’s bring him in, then,” Payne said, rising with a grimace.
“Inspector,” Constable Cook said, stepping in front of him. “With respect, sir, you should wait here. Hold down the fort, as it were. With that cast, you’re more apt to get in the way than to be of help. Sorry, sir.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t get out of the car, Constable.” Payne tried to limp his way past Cook, but the Constable stood his ground.
“We’ll still have to watch you, sir. Crowley could give that cast a smash and incapacitate you. You shouldn’t go, and I’m certain you know it.”
“Damn you, I do!” Payne said, sitting himself down heavily and waving Cook off. “Very well. Take the constable on duty with you. At least I can answer the bloody telephone.” I understood Payne’s reluctance to miss out on bringing Crowley in. He’d been sidelined yesterday, and as the senior policeman in the investigation, he didn’t want to sit this one out either. But Cook was right; he’d be a hindrance, not a help. We left him fidgeting in his chair, eager to leave before he changed his mind.
We decided the best course would be for Tree to drive me in the jeep. Kaz and Cook, with the young Constable Gilbert at the wheel, would give us ten minutes and then follow. The idea was that two Yanks could blend in and not alert Crowley. The blue-coated constables and Kaz in his tailored British uniform were sure to draw stares. Our job would be to spot him and wait.
We passed over the bridge and took the road to Chilton Foliat. A company of GIs was on the road, doing double-time in two columns, packs on their backs and rifles at the ready. The tromp of boots was deafening as we slowly drove between the men.
“I wouldn’t mind settling a score with that MP sergeant,” Tree said as we pulled into the Chilton Foliat Jump School. “Like to see if he fights as well as he talks. After we settle this matter, that is.”
“I’ll be sure to look the other way,” I said as we got out of the jeep. “But stick close to me for now. We don’t want to get caught up in another boxing event.” I surveyed the area. No punishment details digging holes. No sign of Crowley or any familiar faces. We went into the manor house like it was routine business. Sergeant Evans, Sobel’s right-hand man, was on duty at his desk.
“Captain, what can I do for you today?” Evans asked, casting a wary eye toward Tree. “You here about that fight?”
“No, Sergeant, I am still investigating a murder on behalf of SHAEF. Just wanted to check in and let Captain Sobel know we’re taking another look around.”
“He’s at the airfield, taking a group up for their first jump,” Evans said.
“Is that why no one’s digging holes today?” Tree asked. I could’ve kicked him.
“Don’t tell me you’re from SHAEF too,” Evans said, standing up. This had the makings of another brouhaha.
“Sergeant Jackson is my driver,” I said. “I only came in as a courtesy. As you were, Sergeant Evans.”
“Yes, sir,” Evans said, packing as much disdain for us both as he could into those two words. We left and started toward the stables.
“I ain’t your goddamn driver, Billy,” Tree whispered as we walked.
“Then who drove the jeep?”
“I gave you a ride. There’s a difference.”
“Listen, all I want to do is find Crowley, nab him, and get the hell out of here without starting a race riot. Sound like a plan to you?”
“Yes, sir,” Tree said, in a dead on imitation of Evans. I tried not to laugh. It would only encourage him. We made a circuit of the manor house, which was high enough for a good view of the surrounding area, stables and
