CHAPTER ▪ THIRTEEN
I LEFT HIM ALONE as soon as I realized I wasn’t going to get another word out of him. I walked down to the main entrance, went outside between the twin grim sentries, and gazed along the road we had driven down just two days ago, unaware of the undercurrents in Beardsley Hall that were stirring, as someone was getting ready to kill Knut Birkeland. I took a deep breath and let it out, hoping the fresh air would clear my mind and let me see a pattern emerging. Nothing. Nothing but the smell of flowers, damp greenery, and the faint pungent smell of gun oil hanging in the still air. The sentries’ Sten guns gleamed, the dark metal glistening with the perfume of death. I stepped off the smooth steps and onto the crushed stone driveway, liking the feel and sound of it underfoot.
I wondered about Jens and his female friend with the missing husband. That would throw a monkey wrench into his plans. It was one thing for a woman to have an affair right under her husband’s nose, at least then he had some chance of finding out. But missing in action? Maybe dead, maybe not? Maybe never to be seen again, maybe about to walk through the door tomorrow? That’s competition.
He was intent on protecting her, whoever she was, and I was lucky to have gotten anything out of him before he clammed up. Now I needed to talk to Major Cosgrove, to ask about his early morning stroll with Skak. He hadn’t been straight with me, but then again, who had? Every time I turned around I found somebody where they shouldn’t have been. I wasn’t any closer to finding a spy, the missing gold, or even figuring out if there really had been a murder. Suicide still didn’t make any sense to me, not for a guy like Knut Birkeland. He might have killed somebody if he got mad enough, but I couldn’t see him taking his own life. It was too introspective an act for a fellow like him.
But even with every Tom, Dick, and Lars wandering around Beardsley Hall before dawn, I couldn’t place anyone in Birkeland’s room, much less figure out how they could’ve killed him. I was tired and I was getting a headache. I was fed up with Norwegians and their holy crusade and healthy early morning walks. Maybe Jens had it right. Let God sort things out. I thought about saying a little prayer for help, but it had been so long since I had been to confession that I figured it would only piss God off. Maybe I should go to Mass this Sunday. I could write Mom and tell her about it, which would definitely make her day. But though it seemed like a good idea now, I knew come early Sunday morning, I might feel differently. I thought about food and drink and Daphne, not in that order. And sleep. Sleep would be good, too. But Cosgrove was bugging me. Why hadn’t he told me he was out with Skak at six o’clock in the morning? He might have seen someone or something, like blood on Vidar Skak’s hands. OK, that was a little overboard, but it would have made things a lot easier. I knew it would bother me all night if I didn’t deal with it now, so like a good little investigator I went back inside to find the major.
Cosgrove and Harding had set up shop in the map room. It was a long room on the first floor, looking out over the gardens, a row of high windows illuminating the room with the gray light that filtered through the thick clouds. It was summer, but damp and cloudy seemed to be what passed for summer weather here. There were large map tables set up on trestles under the windows, and a long conference table along the opposite wall. File cabinets and map cases filled the middle of the room, and Harding and Cosgrove were standing in front of one of the map cases, its wooden front panel open. I was about to make a crack about English weather when I saw the look on their faces. Something was wrong.
“Boyle!” Harding snapped. “Shut that door and get in here.”
I turned and closed the heavy oak door behind me. I walked over to the map case. Harding was peering inside while Cosgrove examined the lock on the open door. They looked like a couple of fancy dress cops on burglary detail.
“Someone steal the Beardsley family silver?”
“Nothing has been stolen, Lieutenant,” Cosgrove said. “But someone has been in this map case. All the Operation Jupiter maps are stored in here.” I looked at the case, but nothing appeared to be disturbed.
“How do you know someone got into the case, sir?” I asked Harding.
“Look in here, Boyle. See these compartments?” The inside of the cabinet was subdivided into sixteen small compartments, four rows of four, each large enough for a rolled map and accompanying documents. Ten of them, starting at the top left, were full.
“These ten maps represent the overall strategic plan for Operation Jupiter. Naval, air and ground forces, plus special operations. They include unit strength, dates, everything. And they’ve been moved. Each map is numbered, one through ten, the first in the upper left-hand corner, then the rest in order.”
“They’re out of order?” I asked.
“No. They’re exactly in order.” Harding allowed himself a sly smile as he looked up at me. “I reversed maps six and seven when I put them away. I figured if anyone unauthorized got in here, they would think it was their mistake and put them back in the right order.”
“This confirms it, young man,” Cosgrove said. “The spy is here among us.”
“Why would a spy need to break in to see these? Aren’t you briefing the Norwegians on all this?”
“Need to know, Lieutenant, it’s all about need to know,” Harding answered. “No one here needs to know all the details. We briefed the king and his top aides on the big picture, without much detail. Then we worked our way through the ranks, by branch of service. The navy people got their briefing, but nothing about parachute drops or Underground activity, for instance. Each group got a detailed briefing, but only on their part of the plan. Whoever broke in here got detailed information about everything.”
“Look here, Harding,” said Cosgrove as he pointed to the lock. There were faint scratches on the inside of the keyhole.
“Yep,” I said, sticking my nose between them, “the lock’s been jimmied. Think he took pictures with a miniature camera or some sorta spy gadget?”
“I doubt it,” Harding said. “It would be too incriminating. It wouldn’t be hard to memorize the key elements. Or write them down later. The advantage we have is that he doesn’t know we’re on to him.”
“It occurs to me, gentleman,” Cosgrove said as he retreated to a comfortable chair and settled his bulk, “that this may have happened while poor Birkeland was meeting his maker.”
Cosgrove puffed out his cheeks, as if the act of sitting had taken all his energy. I looked at Harding, who nodded his head thoughtfully as he gazed into the case. Then I looked at the lock. It was a simple job, nothing an apprentice second-story man couldn’t pop open on the first try.
“You’re right,” he said. “I checked these last night and they were fine. The room was empty all night until 0800 hours. Then people have been in here all day and there wouldn’t have been any opportunity to break into the case. We had a briefing scheduled for this afternoon, and this was the first time I’ve opened the case today.”
“It could have happened during the night, or perhaps it is connected with the Birkeland business,” huffed Cosgrove. “If it was murder, that is. Have you found anything today, Lieutenant?”
My mind was reeling with possibilities, but I tried to focus on what I had originally come in for. I looked at each of them and thought about how much I could say. Or should say, if I cared about my military career. Not caring much had its benefits, I decided.
“I learned that I need to ask you a few questions, sir,” I said to Cosgrove. “Do you mind?”
“What is this, Boyle?” Harding demanded. His eyes narrowed in irritation. Cosgrove appeared amused.
“I need to talk to everyone who was up and around early this morning. Major Cosgrove never told me that he met Vidar Skak for a half-hour walk at six o’clock this morning. I wonder why, sir.”
Cosgrove just laughed and pounded his hand on the arm of the chair. “Very amusing, young man! Very amusing indeed. We have a dead government minister, invasion plans have been read by a spy, and you want to know what I was doing this morning! Shall we ring up the prime minister and ask him for his whereabouts while you’re at it?”
Cosgrove stroked his mustache and continued to chuckle as he looked at Harding with a raised eyebrow that said: See what an idiot this boy is.
Harding sighed and shook his head. “Boyle, not everything that goes on here is your business. Some things are beyond your reach, and Major Cosgrove is absolutely beyond suspicion. Got it?”
“Yeah, I get it,” I said, my voice going up a bit, even though I tried to keep it under control. “You guys want me to investigate a death and find a spy, but not if it bothers you and your little plots. Well, it don’t work that way!”
“Lieutenant,” Cosgrove said, “I don’t know if I am more offended by your tone, your atrocious grammar, or the fact that you’ve referred to me as one of ‘you guys.’ I’ve been accused of many things, but never that!”
He kept his look of amusement, but his eyes drilled me. Harding was steamed. I was nowhere. I wondered if the whole war was going to be like this. I tried to speak calmly.
“Look, sirs, in order to find anything out, I need to ask a lot of questions. Most of them lead nowhere. Once in a while, they lead to something that doesn’t add up. Something out of place. Maybe just a little innocent lie, or something left unsaid. That’s the kind of thing I look for. I can’t work on solving a crime when some of the main players are out of bounds. It doesn’t mean that I think Major Cosgrove did it, but maybe something Skak said this morning will help. Or maybe you saw something, something that means nothing to you but could be an important missing piece to me.”
“Young man,” Cosgrove said as he leaned forward earnestly, “I understand and sympathize, actually. But there are certain reasons of security that apply. Need to know and all that. You’ll simply have to make do.”
“Boyle,” Harding added, “we need you on the job, but we can’t tell you everything. There are plenty of generals who don’t know half of what you know already. We have to draw the line here. Do whatever you need to do to find out what happened, but you must trust us on this. Besides, what could the major tell you that would help you find out if Birkeland was murdered or killed himself?”
I sat down, feeling defeated. They were actually making sense. This was war, not the cops. There were different rules here. Cosgrove sat back in his chair, smiling at his own logic. Harding stood next to him, arms folded, watching me, waiting to see if I’d fall in line or cause more problems.
“Well, I don’t know which is my big problem right now. I hate not knowing, having a blank spot in my investigation. But I guess I understand what you’re saying.”
I felt like I was surrendering to some superior logic that had proved me wrong but might let a murderer get away. My head was pounding, and I rubbed my temples to ease the pain building up inside.
“Boyle, you’re bleeding,” Harding said, pulling my hand away from my head. “You must have opened up one of the cuts from the wood splinters.”
Harding held my hand in front of my face so I could see. My fin-gers were stained sticky red and I felt a stream trickle down the side of my face like a tear. I pulled out my handkerchief and tried to stop it before it hit my collar. It seemed so long ago that Kaz, Knut Birkeland, and I were standing out there playing soldier. Blood on my face, blood on the roses—where would it show up next? I felt dull and stupid, a child in the company of adults, needing a bandage. Something wasn’t adding up. I felt an idea trying to claw its way up from the back of my mind. I looked at the blood on the handkerchief. Where would it show up next?
“Wait a minute!” I said. I held up my hand as if to stop any other thoughts, to clear my mind. I knew the answer had to do with that bullet. Where would it show up next? I tried to visualize that morning. Kaz had been on my right, and Birkeland on my left. There had been smoke and confusion. I closed my eyes and watched it all happen, trying to slow things down. The commandos sneaking up on us . . . explosions . . . burning tanks . . . shots . . .
“Knut Birkeland was murdered,” I said. “On the second try.”
“What? How could you know that for certain?” Cosgrove’s mouth gaped open, as if he had just heard a monkey guess his birthday.
“The bullet that almost got me was not a stray or a mistake in loading. It was an assassination attempt, intended for Knut Birkeland.”
“But the bullet struck just inches from your head,” Cosgrove sputtered.
“Which also put it inches from Birkeland,” Harding said slowly, one step behind me, as the thought took hold and he started to see how it might have worked. Everything fell into place.
“Yes, sir. Whoever fired was low and to the left. I just happened to be there. Maybe it was his rifle or maybe he got jostled. It was a good idea, though. All he had to do was slip one live round in the chamber before the exercise. When he loaded the clip of blanks, it would have been waiting there, ready to go on the first shot. With all that firing, no one would notice that the shooter didn’t work his bolt, since he already had the live round loaded. He could just aim and fire.”
“You might be right, Boyle,” Harding said. Cosgrove nodded, as if he was reluctant to agree, but couldn’t find anything to criticize. He wasn’t amused anymore.
“I know I am. There’s no reason at all to try and kill me, I’ve got nothing to do with this Norwegian business. But we know someone wanted Birkeland dead, so it fits perfectly.”
“Could it be the spy, I wonder?” asked Harding.
“Not unless the Germans prefer bombings and commando raids to an uprising,” said Cosgrove. “Can’t see the spy making that decision in favor of Skak and acting on it. Doesn’t make sense.”
“None at all,” I agreed. “I think that we’ve got a murderer and a spy, and if we’re lucky, finding one will help us find the other. Their paths had to have crossed at some point. Maybe one of them even knows about the other.”
Cosgrove and Harding exchanged glances, and then looked away from me, back at the map case. I got up and headed toward the door. Then I remembered something I needed Cosgrove to do. I stopped and turned around. I drew myself up into what I hoped looked like parade rest and tried to look and sound military. I thought it might improve my chances.
“Major Cosgrove, sir, I do have a request for some information. I don’t believe it would conflict with security concerns.”
“Very well, Lieutenant,” Cosgrove said, pleased to grant a small favor. “What do you need?”
“I’d like a list of all British and Norwegian female staff posted here who are married to military personnel listed as missing in action, or who we know are POWs.”
“Should be a simple matter. I will have it looked in to,” Cosgrove said dismissively. “Now what are these other questions you have for me?”
“Oh, that’s on a need-to-know basis, Major. When I need to know, I’ll ask you.” On my way out it occurred to me that if I hadn’t been one myself, I would have had to conclude all officers were bastards.
I tracked down Daphne and Kaz and found them in Daphne’s room, sitting on a couch with a tea service in front of them. Kaz had his feet up and his eyes closed, his head resting on Daphne’s shoulder. Thinking, I’m sure. Teatime had come and gone, and I was tired, frustrated, hungry, and jealous that it wasn’t me napping on the couch next to Daphne. I wanted a change of scenery and a drink. Or two.
“Daphne, is there a pub around here?”
“Yes, in the village, but we need permission to take the car—”
“Permission granted,” chimed in Kaz, his eyes still closed.
Daphne nudged his shoulder. “Dear, you can’t decide that. Either Major Harding or the ETOUSA transport officer—”
“Daphne, let’s not get all official. I just met with the major and he told me to utilize all available resources for this investigation. That must include the staff car. Now let’s get out of here.”
It was a short drive to the village of Marston Bridge, one of the many rural farm hamlets surrounding the town of Wickham Market, which we had passed through on our drive in. Marston Bridge was a small cluster of houses and shops surrounding, naturally enough, a bridge. We drove over the arched stonework span and Daphne pulled the staff car off the road, next to a timber-framed white-plaster building with a thatched roof. The once whitewashed masonry looked like it hadn’t seen a brush and bucket for a century or so. A worn sign hung over the door with a picture of a big red deer, although the lettering below it told me this was the Red Stag Inn. Our staff car looked out of place next to the collection of bicycles that leaned against an old oak tree in front of the inn. It looked quiet, cozy, and comfortable, like a neighborhood bar back in Southie, the kind of place where folks were naturally suspicious of strangers and foreigners. It didn’t look a thing like it, but it made me think of Kirby’s Bar, a local joint on the corner of D Street and Broadway. Guys coming home from work on the streetcar would get off there, have a beer or two with their buddies, talk about baseball or politics, then go home for supper. I can’t remember a time I saw anybody in there I didn’t know well enough to say hello to on the street, except maybe those crazy cousins of Packy Ryan’s from Back Bay. I thought about those guys and wondered what our reception in this neighborhood bar would be.
As soon as Kaz opened the door for Daphne, I could hear the low murmur of voices and laughter. We entered and stood in the darkened foyer as I blinked my eyes to get used to the change. As soon as I could see clearly, the voices died down; a few oblivious souls in the back cut off in midsentence as they noticed the silence. Heads turned. I guess a beautiful WREN, a little Pole, and a Yank didn’t walk in here every day. We took off our hats and stepped in, pairs of eyes following us in frank assessment.
It was a low-ceilinged room, with dark oak timbers spaced out every couple of yards. To our left was a small front room, a bench along the walls and small tables scattered about, just big enough for pints and ashtrays. The bar filled the rest of the room—rough, wood stained, dark with spilled ale and nicotine. It was all men on the left, at the bar or sitting on the bench, watching a dart game in progress. About half a dozen larger tables were arranged on the right side of the room, and small groups of men and women were seated at those, some eating and others drinking. Daphne headed for the only empty table, being at least from the same country as the locals.
“Good evening,” she said to the barkeep, nodding her head in respect. He was a stout older guy, who stood behind the bar like a drill sergeant surveying new recruits. He had a pipe clenched between his teeth and nodded back, a clipped “Evenin’” delivered in response. Muted whispers filled the air, our presence seeming to push the liveliness out of the room. Figuring a village pub in England couldn’t be that different from Kirby’s, I put on my best friendly grin and walked up to the bar, doing a quick calculation of the pound notes in my wallet and the number of people in the pub. Lucky for me I had researched the cost of drinking in England at the Coach & Horses.
“Good evening,” I offered with a smile. “Would it be out of place to buy pints all around?”
“A Yank are yer? First one we’ve seen here. About time, too!”
Now all eyes were on me, Americans and free pints being in short supply. He turned and called into the kitchen just behind the bar. “Mildred, come out here. We’ve got a rich Yank visiting us offering to buy pints all around!” Mildred emerged from the kitchen, carrying two plates of fish and chips in each hand. She delivered them to a table and turned, wiping her hands on a dishrag she had slung over her shoulder.
“Well start pulling pints then, why don’t you, like the young gentleman asked for? You don’t want the first Yank you meet up with to think you don’t appreciate his business, right?”
I could see Mildred was the brains of the operation. The barkeep chuckled to himself as he grabbed glasses off a shelf and started pulling pints. The locals gathered around and I was greeted with “Well done, Yank” and “Thank ye” as well as smiles and slaps on the back. We were all pals in minutes.
“You’ll have to excuse my man, Lieutenant,” Mildred said as she took me by the arm. “He’s been waiting for you Americans to show up and drink yourselves silly in his pub for months now. Plumb struck him dumb when the first one to show up buys drinks all around. Now sit down with your friends and let me know what you’d like. Don’t need ration cards for the fish and chips, seein’ as we’re so near the coast and can get all the fish we want, long as the men don’t go too far off shore and catch a U-boat instead, hee hee! Chips aren’t a problem either, since we got plenty potatoes planted out back.”
“Fish and chips will be great, Mildred. It looks delicious.”
“Oh, well, thank you.” Mildred blushed at the compliment, and then turned back to her husband, raising her voice to command level. “Now, Robert, you pull the next three pints for our visitors here. No need for them that’s bought ’em to wait ’til last!”
Robert obeyed, and with an anticipatory smile set up the three pint glasses on the bar in front of me, the thick foam perched on top. I could see he was envisioning me as the first wave in an invasion of Yanks, all thirsty and gripping pound sterling notes in their hands. I decided it was best to let him believe what he wanted. Kaz came over and took two pints back to the table. I sipped mine. It was ale, dark amber colored. Then I took a gulp. It was good, real good, sharp on the tongue and easy going down.
“Is this a local ale, Robert?”
“Aye, Wickham’s Ale, they make it in the brewery over in Wickham Market.”
“What do the Norwegians like to drink?”
“Them folk up at Beardsley Hall? Don’t see too many of ’em here. They tend to stick to themselves. Got their own food and drink up there, I guess. Once in a while, some of them come down here for a meal, but they have to cycle in. They don’t come in a grand car like you did. Do all American lieutenants have their own car and driver?”
“No, Robert,” I chuckled. “These are my friends. We’re at Beardsley Hall for a few days and we wanted a bit of a change of fare. What about the British civilians working at the hall? Do the ladies come here often?”
Robert glanced at the table, and took in the fact that Kaz and Daphne were together. He gave me a knowing look and leaned over the bar as he handed out pints. “Sorry, Yank, but all the girls who work there go to Wickham Market for their fun. They have a bus what brings ’em in and carries ’em back. There’s restaurants, pubs, and a movie house. Not like little Marston Bridge at all! Look around you, and you’ll see all the entertainment that’s to be had for miles. A few farmers and old folk throwing darts, that’s about it. You’ll have to look elsewhere for a pretty lass.”
“Thanks for the tip.” I raised my glass to Robert and left him happily pulling pints as I walked over to our table.
“You look quite at home in an English pub, Billy,” Kaz said as he lifted his glass in salute.
“Yes,” said Daphne, “you’ve made friends for life already. That was very nice of you.”
“Yeah, I’m a swell guy. I was really hoping for some inside dope on the Beardsley Hall staff from the local gossips, but they don’t seem to mix very much.”
“What is dope, inside?” asked Kaz, turning to Daphne. “Do you know, Daphne?”
“Yes, I saw a film with James Cagney and he used that expression. Information, right, Billy?” Daphne asked me.
“Yeah. Same thing as the skinny. The low down. The truth. Why do you want to know all this stuff?”
“I want to learn to speak American,” said Kaz with a straight face. “I know the king’s English, but someday we want to go to New York City. I want to fit right in and understand all the slang.”
“We love American gangster movies,” Daphne added, “but sometimes they’re terribly hard to understand. We’ll count on you for the low down skinny.” She said the last words dramatically, proud of the new phrase.
“It’s the skinny or the low down, but not both. So, tell me, what’s the low down on what you two found out today?”
“Not much, I’m afraid,” said Kaz. “Or at least not much of any help. The household staff are mostly Norwegians or of Norwegian ancestry, drawn from those already living in England before the war. They’re a tight-lipped group, very protective of the king and their cause. They all know about the late-night carryings-on, but won’t name names. I did find out that a number of people were out and about in the early morning. The king—and Rolf of course—went hunting together at four thirty. Skak and Cosgrove were out around six o’clock, taking a walk. Did you know that?”
I nodded.
“Skak was up early, about five thirty, which was his usual routine. Several people also saw Jens going back to his room from somewhere about the same time,” Kaz continued. “One maid said she saw someone turn a corner up the stairs, perhaps either Jens or Anders, she couldn’t tell. No one else claimed to have seen Anders out until after the body was found. Of course there were staff on duty all night in the radio room, guards outside patrolling the grounds, that sort of thing. But no one else in that wing of the hall, as far as I can tell.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
Kaz nodded, gave an apologetic smile, and drank his ale.
“I didn’t do much better,” said Daphne. “The girls didn’t exactly bare their souls to me. They don’t think much of the strict rules here, and they’ve probably all broken a few of them. No one would admit to leaving their rooms at night or having guests, but there was enough giggling to tell me some of them are expert at it.”
“Any of them see anything in the morning?”
“No. They were adamant that they sleep as late as humanly possible. Probably true, they’re fairly young. They were all sad about Knut Birkeland. They thought he was a kind man.”
“What do they think of Vidar Skak?” I asked.
“Not much. He’s the source of most of the rules they hate. Jens Iversen seems to be the buffer between Skak and the staff. They like Jens, but think he’s a little odd. Needs to relax, one of them said. Then another girl said he looked more relaxed lately, and they all giggled again. I couldn’t get anything else out of them.”
“Jens has a lover,” I said. “Someone he’s protecting. I know he was escorting her back to her room, but he won’t say who she is.”
“Gallant sort,” said Kaz.
“She’s married,” I explained. “Her husband is missing. That’s all I know.”
“He feels guilty?” Daphne asked.
I thought about that. There was guilt, and then there was a deeper layer, when you felt guilty that you didn’t feel guilty about something bad you did. The remnant of conscience, I remember Dad telling me. It was a few days after the argument with Basher, when he threw away that package. I came home from the evening shift to find him sitting out on the front stoop, smoking. He had started sitting on the stoop instead of up in his study for some reason, which was nice. It meant we could relax and talk. It was a fall evening and I unbuttoned my coat as we sat there, watching the cars drive slowly by and the front-porch lights wink out, one by one. Dad started to tell me about an interrogation he had run, and how he had to get at that remnant of conscience, to get a guy to show his remorse at his lack of remorse. To crack him open, he said, and start leading him down the road to confession. I remember all that he said, but what always stuck in my mind was just how nice it was sitting out there, shooting the breeze with my old man, and wondering what had led him out of his study and down to the front steps.
But that was then, and now I had to answer Daphne. Jens didn’t strike me as the strictly guilty type, but he did have a certain sadness to him, as if he had disappointed himself. Remorse could fester into guilt, especially when there was a woman involved. And a war.
“He or she or both. All I know is that she might have seen something. Jens says it’s complicated, and I can’t disagree. I asked Cosgrove to find out who on the staff might have a MIA or POW husband.”
“Maybe that’s why the girls wouldn’t tell me anything about her,” Daphne said. “They must feel sorry for her. If they disapproved, they would’ve offered her up on a plate of gossip.”
It made sense. Complicated, like Jens said.
“Did you find out what Cosgrove and Skak were doing on their walk?” Kaz asked.
“Skak takes a walk every morning at six. A man of precise habits, he says. Cosgrove, whom I don’t see as the walking type, supposedly asked to go along to talk about Skak’s plans for the underground. When I asked Cosgrove about it, he politely told me that it was a matter of security and to butt out.”
“So we found out nothing today,” Daphne said sadly.
“Something else happened.” I gestured for them to lean in closer and whispered to them about the maps. Their eyes widened in surprise. It felt good to impart something new, even if it didn’t help to figure out who the spy or the killer was.
“Who do you think—,” Kaz asked before I cut him off.
“We shouldn’t talk anymore about it here,” I whispered. “But there’s something else. It hit me today that the live round fired during the exercise wasn’t aimed at me. It was a near miss, aimed at Birkeland.”
“That means it was a planned murder,” Kaz said thoughtfully. “The killer missed Birkeland at the exercise, so he got him in his room.”
“In both cases, he went to great lengths to cover his tracks. If that bullet had hit Birkeland, there wouldn’t have been any suspicion at all. It would’ve been just a tragic accident,” I said. “But once you see both events as connected, then it’s obvious it was premeditated murder.”
“Murder? Or assassination?” Daphne asked in a low voice. “Are the maps and his death connected?”
“Connected, maybe, but I can’t really see the same person at work on both. What’s the advantage to the Germans of killing Birkeland? He was an important member of government, but what effect would his death have on the war?”
“None, really,” shrugged Kaz.
“That’s awfully callous, darling,” responded Daphne.
“Yes, it is. But detectives must be objective and dispassionate, yes, Billy?”
“That’s a good place to start, Kaz. But it usually gets complicated, much more complicated than you ever bargained for.”
I thought about Jens again, and how he had described his relationship with the mystery woman. Complicated, but how complicated? Just how deep had he gotten himself? Were we sure the spy was a man? I drained my glass and went to the bar. This was thirsty work. Robert pulled another pint for me and I returned to my seat.
“Daphne,” I asked as I sat down, “what do you know about Major Cosgrove?”
“He seems very well connected to intelligence circles. We think he works for MI-5, British military intelligence. But he claims to be just a liaison from the British General Staff, which fits in with his role here, so maybe our imaginations are overactive. Why? You don’t suspect him of anything, do you?”
“Before we got here, did either of you ever tell him anything about me?” Kaz and Daphne looked at each other, maybe thinking I had drunk my limit. They each shrugged.
“No,” Kaz answered. “We hadn’t seen Major Cosgrove since a week before you got here. Why?”
I leaned in and whispered again. This was getting to be a habit.
“When we first got here, and Cosgrove walked in on us, he said two things about me. First, in Harding’s room, he said he doubted a lieutenant fresh from the States could find a spy when MI-5 had failed.”
“So?” Daphne asked.
“So how did he know I was fresh from the States? I could’ve been here for months.”
“Well,” said Kaz, “most Americans are here fresh from the States. It could have just been an informed guess.”
“Could have,” I agreed. “But I doubt he could have guessed I was from Boston.”
“What do you mean?” Kaz asked.
“Later, at lunch, when I said I hadn’t heard about the gold being smuggled out of Norway, he got snotty and asked if they didn’t report the war news in Boston. It didn’t strike me until later, but then I asked myself—how did he know those two things—that I was new here and from Boston?”
“You do have a distinctive accent, Billy,” Kaz said, thinking it through. “You tend to drop your r’s at the end of a word. It’s noticeable, but then I’m a student of language. Is that a purely Boston accent?”
“Yeah, I guess so. But would an Englishman know what a Boston accent sounded like? Not a Beacon Hill accent, but a real Irish South Boston delivery?”
“No,” said Daphne. “You do sound terribly American, but I wouldn’t know a New York accent from a Boston one unless you pointed out the difference. I doubt Major Cosgrove would either. He’s not very fond of Americans, you know, thinks them brash and arrogant. He’d think it beneath him to discern any difference.”
“What do you think,” I asked her, “about Americans?”
“You are brash and arrogant, or at least more so than we English. We could use more brashness and you a bit less. But, back to Cosgrove. What do you think it means, if he knows more about you than he lets on?”
“I think it means he can’t be trusted.”
“Here you are, my dears!” Mildred’s singsong voice interrupted us as she laid down three steaming plates of fish and chips. “You tuck into that now!”
I inhaled the delicious aroma of the fried fish. I glanced up at Daphne and Kaz, who were looking at each other in stunned silence, taking in what it might mean not to be able to trust a representative of the General Staff, if that was what he really was. Kaz’s glasses steamed up, and I thought, Right, that’s just how I feel. Can’t see a damned thing and no clue as to what the hell is going on.
“Not trust him? What does that mean?” asked Daphne, as she absorbed the implications. “Why would the major hide the fact that he knows something about you? There must be a reasonable explanation.”
“Yes, what purpose would it serve?” Kaz asked as he wiped his glasses.
“Excellent questions. I mean to pursue them tomorrow, among other things. Right now I intend to demolish this plate of food.”
I tried to sound confident and upbeat. In charge. Three pints later I almost believed it myself.