A Blind Goddess bbwwim-8 Page 11

  I drove back down Hungerford Road to High Street, where Payne had said the shop was. It didn’t take long to spot Hedley’s Sweet Shop, with its bright red and yellow sign. I went in, a tinkling bell over the door announcing me. It was a small place, two large glass cases taking up much of the room. They were less than half full. A man emerged from the back room, wearing a blue apron and drying his hands.

  “May I help you?”

  “Are you Mr. Hedley?”

  “No, the name’s Bone. Ernest Bone. Bought the shop from old Mr. Hedley, and didn’t think Bone was a good name for a sweet shop. Besides, folks around here know the old name, it’s familiar to them. How can I help you?” Bone looked inquiringly at me, his thick eyebrows raised. He was balding, a bit stooped, but with a friendly face. A bit chubby in the cheeks. Just right for a candy store owner.

  “I’m working with the police and the American troops who are looking for that girl,” I said, introducing myself.

  “Oh, such a sad business. Poor Sophia. She was in the shop the day she went missing. But that must be why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I wanted to ask if you’ve heard anything at all about strangers in the area, or saw anything that day that was suspicious.”

  “Well, Captain Boyle, the only strangers hereabouts are you Yanks. And the colored soldiers, I must say, are all very polite and courteous. But that doesn’t count for much, does it? I mean to say, a murderer could be quite pleasant, couldn’t he?”

  “Yes, charming in fact. I wonder about the canal,” I said, picking up a syrupy-sweet smell wafting in from the back room. “Could she have been taken away on a boat? I heard the girls often go down to the little bridge, by the bunker.”

  “On a nice day, I’m sure they do. The village lads as well, to play at soldiers in the bunkers. Perhaps someone on a boat took her, although the police would have a better idea of that. There is more traffic on the canal these days, moving goods. It’s very difficult with the petrol rationing, you know. Canalboats don’t use much fuel going with the current.”

  “So I’ve been told. They don’t travel by night, do they?”

  “I doubt it, but I’m not from these parts. Moved here from Sheffield, up north. Don’t know much about canals,” he said. “But I do know a man was found dead by the canal in Newbury two nights ago. Is that why you’re asking?”

  “You don’t miss much, Mr. Bone.”

  “Don’t need to be a wizard to put two and two together. And folks like to chat, you know, when they stop in for their little sweets. Village gossip can be very informative.”

  “What do people have to say about the Millers in Newbury?”

  “The Germans? Some don’t like them at all, but I have to say many give them credit for going against Hitler when many of our own were going along with him. And for keeping a low profile, as well. They try to blend in, and not appear too foreign in their manners. People like that, they do.” Bone nodded his approval of the foreigners who worked not to appear foreign, which was a compliment coming from an Englishman.

  “So there’s no strong feelings? No one who’d want to do them harm?”

  “Not that I’ve heard, but remember Kintbury is a small village. We don’t know everything that goes on in Newbury. But when a family loses a lad to the Boche, I can imagine they’d want to strike out at the closest German, and George Miller fits that bill. It isn’t pleasant to say, but there it is. So it was the Miller place where the man was killed, eh?”

  “Yes. Stuart Neville was his name. Sound familiar?”

  “No. Can’t say it does. Sorry I’m of little help, Captain.”

  “It was a long shot. One last thing. Did Sophia say anything when she was buying her candy?”

  “I’m sure, but it was all about what I had on offer. I make my own, you see, working on a batch now, as a matter of fact. Boiled sweets the old-fashioned way, over open copper pans. Cough sweets, humbugs, that sort of thing. The children love them, but they can only get three ounces a week with their ration book, so you can imagine the excitement when they come in.”

  “It must be tough for business,” I said.

  “You don’t know the half of it. I have to cut the coupons out of the ration book, then thread them on a string, and turn them in for my own supplies. I’m sure the government knows what they’re doing, but they make it difficult enough. Sugar and flavorings are rare too, which is quite a hardship.”

  “I’d like to buy some, for the girls back at the manor house,” I said. “But I have no coupons.” I looked at the display cases with rows of colorful sweets, jars of peppermints, bowls of licorices, hand candies, and candied fruit jellies. The sights and smells made me feel like a kid again.

  “I’d dearly like to sell them, but they’d shut me down as a black marketer if they found out. Can’t have Yanks with cash buying out what’s meant for civilians, now can we? Not that they would. Americans have more chocolate in their pockets than we’ve seen for years. Still, I don’t begrudge them. I fought in the last war, and I know a soldier has to take what he can when he can. But here, I can give you one humbug as a gift. Don’t tell Lord Woolton.” Bone grinned and winked as he handed me a red and white candy.

  The peppermint candy was refreshing. The Minister of Food would never hear from me.

  I drove back through Kintbury to the search headquarters at the Dundas Arms. I found Inspector Payne hunched over a table in the dining room, marking a large-scale map of the area, and I asked him how the search was going.

  “Nothing so far, and we’re almost to the army bivouac area to the west of Hungerford, and two-thirds of the way to Newbury. Still, there’s a lot of ground to cover. Either we find something or we rule out this entire area. If it’s the latter, then we know she was taken away forcibly.”

  “I understand there’s a lot more canal traffic these days. It would have been easy for someone on a boat to grab her,” I said.

  “If that’s the case, then we’ll never find her. She could be anywhere between Bristol and London.” Payne stared at the map, but I knew he wasn’t looking at the roads, rivers, and towns.

  “Inspector?” A constable entered, followed by an American lieutenant. “The men on the north side of the canal have reached Bridge Street in Hungerford. Nothing to report.”

  “The south side?”

  “Slower going,” the constable said. “It’s quite wooded.”

  “I’ll have the men march back to camp, if you don’t need them anymore, Inspector,” the lieutenant said. Payne nodded his head, his eyes still glued to the map.

  “Lieutenant,” I said. “Where’s Baker Company?”

  “Most of them are on the south side, heading toward Hungerford,” he said. “Lieutenant Binghamton, Captain. Can I help you?”

  “Boyle’s the name. You’re with the Six-Seventeenth?”

  “Yes, sir. Executive officer.” Binghamton was white, fair-skinned with the ghosts of freckles across his cheeks.

  “Okay, Binghamton. Do you know where I can find Sergeant Jackson? Eugene Jackson?”

  “Tree? He’s not in trouble, is he?”

  “No. Why would you say that?”

  “Can we step outside, Captain?” He didn’t wait for an answer, and I followed. We stood in front of the whitewashed stone building, the water flowing and gurgling at our feet. “It’s been my experience that whenever a white officer shows up asking about one of my men, it’s because he’s taking the fall. And it’s usually not his fault. What do you want with Sergeant Jackson?”

  “Relax, Lieutenant. I’m a friend of his from Boston. I’ve been detailed by SHAEF to assist the local police, and I only want to say hello to Tree. Purely a social call.”

  “I have to say, Captain, you’re the first white officer ever to pay a social call on a Negro GI in this outfit.”

  “Tree and I knew each other as kids. Our fathers were friends, of a sort. They both fought in the last war.”

  “You’re the ex-cop, right?”
>
  “Yeah. What did Tree tell you?”

  “Off the record, that he thought you might be able to help Private Smith. On the record, nothing. I don’t want Sergeant Jackson getting in hot water for interfering with an investigation.”

  “Do you think Smith is guilty?”

  “Well, he didn’t get the nickname Angry singing in the choir. He’s a fighter, and he’s got no love for the white race. I’m sure he’s capable of it, but the whole thing doesn’t make sense to me. I think he’s been set up, and if we ever get into combat, we’re going to miss him. Have you learned anything yet?”

  “No, we’re still gathering information. Officially I’m here to look into a murder in Newbury. This is close enough that I thought I could get away and speak to Tree.”

  “Come on, Captain, I’ll run you out there. He’s on the end of the line, at the canal.”

  Binghamton gunned the jeep, turning onto a farm track that led through the fields. We passed the small bridge, cutting across the road I’d taken. Binghamton pointed to a line of men as they left a wooded knoll and descended to the farmland below. He cut across the field, spitting out mud and leaving deep tracks. He was enjoying himself.

  “Lieutenant, do you mind being in a colored outfit?” I said, holding on to my hat.

  “I did at first,” he said. “Mainly because my father pulled strings to get me assigned to one. He figured that would keep me out of the fighting.”

  “And you didn’t like that idea?”

  “Hell no. But then they turned us into a Tank Destroyer outfit, and I figured we’d get into the fight sooner or later. Here we go,” he said, slowing the jeep to a stop and sending up a spray of mud. We’d caught up to the end of the line, near the canal bank. Men were walking a few yards apart, searching for anything that might provide a clue. Along the bank of the canal, a line of GIs with long sticks pushed the weeds down, checking every inch along the waterline.

  “Tree,” I yelled out as I jogged up to the line of men. They turned and saluted. “As you were, men,” I said, tossing back a salute.

  “Billy,” Tree said, and then with a glance at Binghamton, added “sir.”

  “Don’t worry, Sergeant,” the lieutenant said. “Captain Boyle told me you know each other from back home. Take a break and you can catch up.” Binghamton went off with the rest of the men.

  “Any news?” Tree said.

  “Not yet. I have a man checking with CID in London. He should be back tonight. I’ve been sent to look into a killing in Newbury. That should give me a good reason to stick around and look into this. We’re staying at the Prince of Wales Inn in Kintbury.”

  “Some English guy got killed, right? Funny that the army sends you to investigate that but won’t help Angry.”

  “I’m here to help Angry. And if you think you can do better, then go find someone else, Tree.”

  “Sorry, Billy. Never mind, it’s not your fault. We’ve been out beating the bushes all day long and haven’t found a thing. I know you’re trying to help.”

  “So how’s Horace at the Three Crowns?” I asked.

  “Okay,” Tree said, and then the light bulb went off. “Wait, you know about that? We got to keep Hungerford.”

  “I was there when General Eisenhower gave the order. So maybe we can have a drink together after all.” I didn’t want to claim credit. Better for Tree to think it came direct from Ike. My interfering with his life was a sore point between us, and even this small gesture might be misunderstood.

  “Let’s hope you can solve the murder as quick as that,” Tree said. “We can have that drink at the Prince of Wales Inn, too. Kintbury is too small a village to be allocated to anyone. Guys don’t bother going there much.”

  “Can’t blame them,” I said, and then was distracted by yelling from the searchers. Tree and I broke into a run, heading down the path. A knot of men stood at the edge of the bank, Binghamton and another GI standing in the waist-deep water.

  “Call the inspector!” Binghamton screamed, a look of horror on his face. “We found her! There’s a walkie-talkie in the jeep. Go!” Tree sprinted to the vehicle as I watched them lift the thin, pale body out of the water. A girl. Her dress was ripped, her skin mottled and wrinkled. Her arms hung limp and helpless, strands of vegetation wound about them like ribbons.

  “Sweet Jesus,” one of the GIs murmured. They laid her out on the path, and Binghamton arranged what was left of the torn dress to cover her decently. I knelt for a closer look. Her eyes had been eaten away, the soft tissue that fish and other creatures go for first. It was a blessing not to have to look into her eyes, but those dark, empty sockets held the promise of nightmares. They were gruesome, but not so terrible as to distract me from her neck. Dark bruises turning to yellow decorated her delicate throat.

  “Help me turn her over,” I said. No one moved. I looked to Tree, who handed the walkie-talkie to a GI and knelt. We gently rolled her over and I unhooked the last button that was holding her dress together. I told myself her modesty no longer mattered, she was beyond caring, but it still felt wrong and I tamped down the surge of emotion churning in my gut. Shame, horror, grief, sadness, and anger all tried to claw their way out as I took a deep breath and studied the body. Sophia’s body. Her shoulder blades were bruised, a sickly color at each sharp angle of bone. We rolled her back and I picked up one leg, bending it at the knee. As I expected, bruises along her inner thighs. Setting her leg down, we rose, and I was grateful for a glimpse of blue sky overhead. She could not have been more than fourteen, still a child. Painfully thin, but then there were few chubby English children these days.

  “The inspector’s here,” Binghamton said, his voice quivering. The water was cold, I knew. So was the feel of dead, waterlogged flesh. Inspector Payne hurried along the path and stared down at the body.

  “Strangled,” I said. “He held her down and choked her. The shoulder blades are bruised from being pressed against a hard surface. Raped as well.”

  “My God,” Payne said. “That’s as may be, but this poor girl is not our Sophia Edwards.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Tree drove the shivering Lieutenant Binghamton to the 617th bivouac area as the search finished up. No Sophia, no other clues, and we were left with more questions than answers. We followed the coroner’s wagon into Hungerford, skirting the Tank Destroyer encampment outside of town before arriving at the local police station.

  “We’ll wait here for the coroner,” Inspector Payne said. “Doctor Brisbane’s office is across the road. He’ll give us an initial report as soon as he’s through. Meanwhile I could use a cup of hot tea and some time to think.” We had a lot to think about. I followed Payne into the small station, about the size of a house, built of brick, like most of the structures around here, and covered in ivy.

  “Captain Boyle, this is Police Constable Peter Cook,” Payne said, introducing me to the man on duty. He explained that I was working with him on the Neville case, and that I was a fellow officer.

  “It was a bad turn, finding that girl,” Cook said. “A missing girl is one thing. A missing girl and a corpse is another. I’ll put the kettle on, Inspector. After a day in the fields it will go down well.”

  “You read my mind,” Payne said. “Boyle?”

  “Sure,” I said. I wasn’t a big tea drinker, but I knew enough about the English by now not to turn down a cuppa. Cook’s office had that lived-in look of any small-town station. One wall was taken up with photographs of previous constables, the oldest a picture of a stern Victorian with bushy sideburns. A worn couch that he’d probably spent the night on more than once and an easy chair next to a radio. An interior door opened into what looked like a squad room anywhere in the world. A table full of papers, empty cups and full ashtrays.

  “Cook’s a widower,” Payne said, noticing my observations. “He puts in a fair amount of time here. Gets on well with everyone, and knows their business as well.”

  “That reminds me,” I said. “Speaking of
business, Miss Gardner did give me the names of Neville’s last customers.”

  “Did you go through official channels, or charm the information out of her?”

  “I bought her lunch, and she’s willing to help if we need it. Here.” I handed the slip of paper to Payne, glancing at the names as I did so. I hadn’t had the time to look before, and I figured the names wouldn’t mean anything to me anyway. I’d been wrong.

  “One of these is Ernest Bone,” I said.

  “The sweet shop fellow?” Payne said.

  “Yes. I stopped by today, and asked him if he’d heard of Stuart Neville. He said he hadn’t.”

  “And what brought you to interview Mr. Bone? Or do you have a sweet tooth?”

  “I get all the Hershey bars I need at the PX,” I said. “It was a long shot, but I thought there might be some connection to the missing girl. A stranger in the area, either known to her or not.”

  “A stranger who might have bashed in Neville’s skull, you mean?”

  “I know it sounds farfetched, but I keep thinking about the canal. It’s a quiet getaway route, for either a killer or a kidnapper.”

  “Or both,” Payne said. “These are small towns, Hungerford and Newbury. Kintbury is merely a village. We don’t have gangsters running about. There’s some logic to one villain as opposed to several. But no evidence, more’s the pity.”

  “Do you know the other name Miss Gardner gave us?” I asked.

  “Stanley Fraser, Atherton Street,” Payne said, reading the other name. “Yes, Fraser is a solicitor, does quite well for himself. Not surprising he’s getting himself a new place.”

  “Ernest Bone seems to be barely hanging on,” I said. “I wonder what he’s up to. And why he said he didn’t know Neville.”

  “You know, I believe he did mention something about renovating his shop,” Payne said. “I’ve been in there a few times; the missus likes her sweets well enough. We got to chatting. He lives upstairs, and said he needed the room. He’s quite keen on making the sweets himself, the old-fashioned way. I have the impression he has some money, and the store is more of a hobby. Not a bad business, if he can hang on. Once the war is over and rationing is a memory, sweets will be an affordable luxury. Tell me, did you show him the picture, or give him Neville’s name?”