The Red Horse Read online

  Also by the ­Author

  Billy ­Boyle

  The First Wave

  Blood Alone

  Evil for Evil

  Rag and Bone

  A Mortal Terror

  Death’s Door

  A Blind Goddess

  The Rest Is Silence

  The White Ghost

  Blue Madonna

  The Devouring

  Solemn Graves

  When Hell Struck Twelve

  On Desperate Ground

  Souvenir

  Copyright © 2020 by James R. Benn

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of f iction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

  either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used f ictitiously,

  and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Soho Press, Inc.

  227 W 17th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Benn, James R., author.

  Title: The red horse : a Billy Boyle World War II mystery / James R. Benn.

  Series: The Billy Boyle mysteries ; 15

  ISBN 978-1-64129-100-2

  eISBN 978-1-64129-101-9

  Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  LCC PS3602.E6644 R43 2020 | 813’.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020015482

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For my wife, Deborah Mandel

  Hear my soul speak.

  Of the very instant that I saw you,

  Did my heart fly at your service

  —William Shakespeare, The Tempest

  ’Tis a fearful thing

  to love what death can touch.

  —Yehuda Halevi, 12th century

  Jewish physician, poet, and philosopher.

  Chapter One

  Something was wrong.

  The wind bit at the back of my neck, and I hunched my shoulders as gray clouds scudded across the sky, outpacing me as I trudged along the gravel path. I stuffed my hands into my pockets, thankful for the warmth.

  Thankful I could hide the tremor in my right hand.

  Because they were watching.

  I couldn’t let them see how bad it had gotten.

  My boots scrunched on crushed stone, the wide walkway stretching out before me. It looked like a straightaway, but the low wrought iron fence on either side curved slightly to the left. It was a circle. A long circle, but all the same, circles lead nowhere.

  Which was where I was, evidently.

  I don’t know why. I haven’t figured it out yet. All I know is that beyond the ornate fence, painted a gleaming jet black and hardly higher than my hip, there is another fence. In the woods, about ten yards in. A serious fence. Ten feet high and topped with coils of barbed wire. Patrolled by British soldiers who watched from the other side, silently staring me down.

  I pushed on, trying not to attract their attention as they moved through the shadows beyond the wire. Two days ago, they’d let me outside. Not the soldiers, but the doctors, or nurses, or orderlies, or whatever they were. They said I could walk, that it might help me sleep.

  But I can’t sleep a wink. Maybe that’s why I’m a little confused. Sometimes it feels like I can’t stay awake, either. Or move, for that matter. I didn’t want to go outside, but they insisted, so I started walking.

  Two days I’ve been walking this circuit. My eyes are gritty with fatigue, but every time I stop to sit on a bench, my lids stay open. There’s a haze over everything—the woods, the guards, the massive stone structure constantly off to my left, its towers and turrets visible above the treetops and across the lush green lawns. My memory is hazy too. I don’t remember how I got here, although I recall waking up in an ambulance.

  Before that, all I remember is France. Paris, to be exact. But everything is jumbled up, like in a dream, where things look familiar but nothing makes sense. I know this place isn’t a dream, because nothing looks familiar and nothing makes the slightest bit of sense.

  It isn’t a dream or a nightmare. No, it’s worse.

  Why?

  The answer to that one was coming up ahead. The gravel walkway sloped downhill as it curved around the rear of the scattered buildings. I hadn’t even counted them all. There was the main building, four stories of sandstone set down in front of a green lawn, with a tall clock tower at the center. Wings extended off either end at right angles, like giant arms, encompassing a smattering of smaller buildings, all covered in the same sooty stone, soiled by the chimneys spouting coal smoke into the gray skies.

  A service road cut across the path ahead. The gate was set in the woods, part of the security fence guarded by soldiers. I’d caught a glimpse of them a few times as they opened the gate to let in trucks bringing supplies. Their forest-green berets marked them as elite Commandos. I didn’t look in their direction anymore. They might think I was planning an escape.

  Which might not be a bad idea if I knew where to go.

  I quickened my pace as I passed the stone pillars that once had marked the entrance to the grounds. I could see the old metal sign that had greeted visitors; it was rusted and pitted by age, but still clear enough to announce what this place was.

  Saint Albans Pauper Lunatic Asylum.

  I was sure I’d been here before. I hadn’t seen the sign back then, but I’d driven through a back entrance to visit a British major. I hadn’t stayed long, but I knew this was the same joint. Except everything was different. Maybe because they’d let me leave that last time.

  So, I know I’m at Saint Albans. About an hour outside London, if I remember correctly, not that my memory’s all that good right now. I do know I’m not a pauper. But there are some strange people here, and the place is surrounded by barbed wire and guards, so I guess it is some sort of asylum.

  Lunatic? As I walked the path, I eyed the other residents. Or patients, probably. I tried not to make eye contact, not being up for a friendly chat. I saw the whistling man, an American who strolled the circuit regularly as he whistled a tune. The same tune. All the time. We passed each other, his eyes focused straight ahead and a little toward the sky, as if he were waiting for angels to swoop down and take him away.

  I came to a Brit sitting on a bench. His wool cap was pulled down, covering his eyes. His arms were crossed and his legs jittered, boot heels keeping time. I’d seen him around. He was one of the mutes. Never spoke. There were a few of them here, all wearing the British battle dress uniform.

  But that was all I could tell about them. Everyone was in uniform, but the rule at Saint Albans was no rank or unit patches. No identification, except for the color of your uniform. Last names only. It made sense, in a way. If the place was full of lunatics, it wouldn’t do for a crazy colonel to start issuing orders to loony lieutenants.

  I picked up the pace as the path took me closer to the south wing. That was the medical area where people wore pajamas, bandages, and casts. They spent their time in bed, rolling around in wheelchairs, or limping about on crutches. I hadn’t run into any mutes or whistlers among them.

  But I hadn’t been in the south wing in a couple of days.

  I couldn’t handle seeing Kaz.

  Lieutenant Piotr Augustus Kazimierz, that is. Kaz and I work together. We had some trouble in Paris and ended up here. I’m walking around and he’s not.

  Bad heart. Really bad. My brain is so
rt of scrambled, but his ticker is shaky. He always had some sort of problem with it, which is why he ended up as a translator working in General Eisenhower’s headquarters. Kaz had been given a commission in the Polish Armed Forces based on his brains, not his brawn. But he’d built himself up, strengthening his body and using his brilliant mind as part of Ike’s Office of Special Investigations.

  Until Paris.

  Everything had fallen apart in Paris. Kaz’s heart, my mind, and, well, something else.

  I can’t think about that now.

  I pressed on, head down, not looking at the medical ward windows for fear I’d see Kaz looking at me. Wondering. Worried about his future and my sanity. I didn’t want to think about that either. Or that other thing clawing at the edges of my mind.

  I walked faster, staring at the façade of the main hall now that I’d turned the corner. A few faces gazed out at me from the offices at the front of the massive building. Bored typists, doctors in their white coats, a few uniformed honchos, Yanks and Brits who gave the orders around here.

  I made for the entrance, glancing up at the tall clock tower dead center. Ten minutes of five, but that time was only right twice a day. The thing was busted.

  I stopped, uncertain if I wanted to go inside or take another tour of the estate. I stood there, rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the simple task of deciding if I wanted to go indoors. This sort of thing was happening all the time, and I didn’t like it much. Like I said, something was wrong.

  I stood still, unable decide which way to go.

  Which is why I saw the two men up in the clock tower. The door to the tower was usually locked and off-limits. They were nothing but blurs of brown uniform, heads and shoulders barely visible above the crenellated stonework as they scurried around, circling the white flagpole with the British Union Jack flapping at the top.

  Then there was only one man, and he was flying.

  Chapter Two

  He must have been a mute, because he made no sound.

  Until he hit the ground.

  The sound of boots pounding gravel snapped me out of my stupor. I ran toward the body as the front door slammed open and people tumbled out. White coats, uniforms, and suits. Behind me, a couple of guards were making a beeline for the body.

  I got there first. I pushed aside a Yank in his unadorned khakis and a Brit major in his service dress uniform.

  “Don’t touch anything,” I said. “I’m a police officer.”

  Why the hell did I say that?

  I knelt by the body, my mind a jumble of thoughts as I studied the dead man. Sure, I’d been a cop before the war. I’d even made homicide detective before I traded blue for khaki. But why did I announce myself like that?

  Maybe it was the situation. People had a habit of rushing into a crime scene and obscuring what evidence there might be.

  “Sure, you’re a policeman,” one of the guards said, his hand grasping my shoulder. “Now come along.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, shaking his arm off and raising my hand. He stepped back, and I could see his palm resting on the butt of his holstered pistol. It was a typical pose, putting enough space between us so he could draw his weapon without me grabbing it. I took my time, studying the corpse, committing everything I saw to memory. I may have had a few screws loose, but I knew what was what when it came to murder. Or suicide, maybe.

  “Okay,” I said, rising and taking a few steps back, my hands raised slightly, apologetically. I didn’t want to risk being pistol-whipped.

  “Get these patients away,” the major snapped, sparing a moment to frown in my direction. He was a thick-faced guy with a brown mustache and a stiff gait that seemed to pain him. Or he didn’t like his mornings ruined by patients falling from great heights, I couldn’t really say.

  I gave the guard a friendly nod to let him know I wasn’t going to cause any trouble. I let him pull me back a few steps as his partner gathered the other Yank and an older Englishman in his darker khaki wool serge. As the major stood over the body, one of the white coats knelt and felt for a pulse. Purely for the record.

  One other white coat stood aside, watching me. Maybe I was paranoid, or a lunatic, or both, but it was odd that he spent more time looking at me than at the guy who’d taken a swan dive onto packed gravel. Beneath his white jacket he wore captain’s bars on one collar and the caduceus of the medical corps on the other. He wasn’t a stranger. Captain Theodore Robinson, US Army psychiatrist. Blond hair, glasses, and an athletic build. Track star in college back in Wisconsin, he’d told me. We’d had a few chats, which consisted mainly of him yakking because I didn’t have much to contribute. But the army paid him anyway, he said, so I sat and listened. I’d been bored, but the army paid me too.

  Robinson’s gaze finally wandered to the body. Mine went up to the clock tower. Nobody was leaning over, distraught at not being able to stop this guy from falling. I looked at the main entrance, where by now, the second man would have burst through, telling his story of trying to talk the jumper out of his fatal leap.

  Nothing.

  “What do you think?” I heard the major say.

  “We’ve been worried about Holland for a while, haven’t we, Dr. Robinson?” This from the British white coat. Older than Robinson, gray showing at his carefully trimmed temples, dark bags under his eyes, and a thin, sharp nose that made him look like a sparrow hawk.

  I didn’t hear Robinson’s response as the guards ushered us inside. I thought about saying something about the other person I’d seen up in the tower, but I was low man on the totem pole around here, and I could end up in a padded cell if I spouted off to the wrong person. Like the guy who’d tossed poor Holland to his death.

  Or, I was imagining things, and then they’d put me in a straitjacket for sure. My best bet was to clam up and keep my head down. I let the guard shove me inside, resisting the impulse to unleash a smart-aleck wisecrack and give him a chance to kidney punch me when no one was looking. He wore sergeant’s stripes and a mean grimace splashed across a face in need of a shave. A private trailed us, Sten gun at the ready, looking angry enough to squeeze off a few rounds for the hell of it.

  “You guys been at it long?” I asked, once we were inside and the door slammed shut behind us.

  “At what, Yank?” the sergeant said as his companion stood by the door.

  “Guarding this place. Patrolling the perimeter, that sort of thing.” I was going for polite conversation to learn anything about their routine, but the grizzled non-com wasn’t going for it. “Have you been on duty all night?”

  “Yes, while you’ve been dreaming of Betty Grable, we’ve been tramping through the woods to keep you safe, lad. Now go on, leave the business outside to the major. He knows how to handle these things.”

  “Okay, Sergeant,” I said. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Didn’t give it, but since I know who you are, Boyle, seems only fair you should have it. Sergeant Owen Jenkins,” he said.

  “Well, Sergeant Jenkins, I’m flattered. What do you know about me besides my name?” I asked, wondering if it might be something that was news to me.

  “You like to walk,” he said, taking one step forward and fixing his dark eyes on me. “And you’re not friendly, not the way a lot of Yanks are. Most of you lot talk too much and too soon, if you don’t mind my saying so. Not you, though.”

  “The conversation in here isn’t to my liking,” I said. “Maybe if we met in a pub we’d get along better. What’s the best watering hole around here? Or are you new to the area?”

  “New?” Jenkins said. “Why’d you say that?”

  “With all the fighting in Normandy, this must be like a rest area for you fellows,” I said. “What do they do, rotate you in for a few weeks of easy duty before you head back to the front? You can’t be stuck here permanently, can you?”

  “Next time I see you
, Boyle, best walk the other way,” Jenkins said, his finger stabbing my chest. So much for making polite conversation. I didn’t think a tough British sergeant would be so sensitive. “Or you’ll be here, permanent-like.”

  “Come on, Sarge,” his private said, walking to a window and glancing out front. “He’s tetched in the head, remember? Pay him no mind. They’re taking the stiff away, so let’s go have a smoke.”

  “Bastards,” Jenkins said, apparently taking in me and everyone else in residence at Saint Albans. “Living easy while our lads are fighting and dying. Leastways you and the others without any wounds. It’s one thing to be shot up, but where’s your wound? You’re nothing but a coward in my book.”

  He turned on his heel and marched out the door, slamming it against the wall.

  “Don’t say anything, sir, willya?” asked the private, glancing at the open door as he whispered. “Sarge is a bit on edge, is all.”

  “Don’t worry, kid,” I said, looking more closely at him. His wool field service cap was pulled low over his eyes, but it didn’t disguise the fact that he had no worries about a five o’clock shadow. “Who would believe a nutcase like me anyway? What’s your name?”

  “Fulton, sir. Private Martin Fulton.”

  “Okay, Fulton. Now tell me something and I’ll keep this all under my hat. How did your sergeant know my name? Are you watching me during the day? Keeping tabs on me?”

  “No, that’s not our job. Sarge asked that big fella who was here the other day, the Yank sergeant. He said you were a captain and that we should watch out for you, that’s all.”

  “So you are watching me. Thanks, Fulton, now get back to your bully boy pal and stay away from me. Get it?”

  Private Fulton’s face worked itself into a twist, as if he couldn’t understand plain English. He shook his head and walked away, muttering. Watch out for me, he’d said. Spy on me, more like. Jenkins, Fulton, and others, I bet. I’d have to watch them.

  And have a talk with Big Mike. There was no reason for him to go around spreading rumors. He was supposed to be my friend. Some pal.