CHAPTER ▪ NINETEEN
“I DON’T GIVE A RAT’S ASS about your orders, Lieutenant,” said Captain Gilmore.
The bad mood fit him like a glove. Yesterday I had thought it was just due to the confusion of handing out all that winter gear. Today I found him sitting at his clean desk, drinking coffee, chewing on a cigar, and looking for someone to scowl at. The pile of reports that Sergeant Slater had been working on the day before were all neatly stacked up in his out basket, signed and ready to go up the line. He should’ve been happy, but that probably didn’t come easy for him.
“But they’re from ETO Headquarters, sir. . . .”
“All I get from HQ are headaches, sonny. If they want to send someone who outranks me up here, I’ll salute and give them anything they want. But I’m not giving a vehicle to some Louie who drove in here in a sports car, I’ll tell you that.”
“But sir—”
“Enough!”
It came out as a growl, wrapped around a wet stogie. I was wondering what to do next when Slater appeared out of nowhere and walked over to the captain’s desk. He pointedly ignored me again and spoke directly to Gilmore.
“Begging your pardon, captain, but this might be a good opportunity to fix that little problem we were talking about.”
Gilmore looked at Slater like he was another fly the captain was going to swat. Then I could almost see the lightbulb go off over his head as he dropped the scowl and nodded his head in agreement.
“Yes, very good, Top. Show the lieutenant to the Brit motor pool while I make the call.”
Since they were talking about me as if I weren’t there, I didn’t see any percentage in asking what was going on. My chances had improved since Slater came into the room, so I picked up my kit and followed him out of the exec’s office. Gilmore was almost cackling with glee as he dialed the phone. At least it made him happy.
“Thanks, Top, I think. What’s this all about?”
“Well, we got two motor pools here, one Brit and one U.S., so we can take care of both types of transport. The motor-pool guys have taken to tinkering with a few vehicles and having races. The latest thing is motorcycles. You ever ride?”
“Sure. My cousin is a motorcycle cop in Boston, where I used to work. I’ve ridden his Harley.”
“That’s what we got here. We being the Yanks. The Brits have a BMW—a sweet thing from before the war, I have to admit. We have a race scheduled for tomorrow. Thing is, our guy crashed the Harley yesterday and they can’t get the spare parts to fix it until after the weekend.”
“And you forfeit the race if you don’t show?”
“That’s the rule.”
“Fair bit of money bet on this one?”
For the first time, he actually looked at me, giving me a practiced once-over to decide if I was a by-the-book or a let-things-slide kind of lieutenant.
“Now, Lieutenant, you know that would be against army regulations.”
The faintest smile passed over his blunt face, then he quickly looked away—no need to waste words on a very junior lieutenant.
“In other words, a bundle.”
“I don’t intend on losing my next paycheck on a no-show. I was waiting for the captain to think of this, but it didn’t look like he was going to, so I jumped in.”
The top kick opened the door and held it for me as we stepped outside. The air smelled damp and clean, a fresh sea breeze drying the dew from the grass as the sun struggled to come out from behind a low cloud layer. Not the worst day for a motorcycle ride.
“Whatever would the army do without sergeants?”
“I ask myself that question every morning, Lieutenant.”
He led the way to the British motor pool. All the walkways were laid out with those whitewashed rocks that seemed to crop up at every army base I’d ever seen. I wondered what they did in Alaska or Greenland.
“Am I going to ruin your racing plans if I don’t bring the BMW back?”
“Oh, you’ll bring it back. It’s British army property, and a couple of hundred commandos, all trained to kill silently, will be looking for you if you don’t. Lieutenant,” he added, as if it was an afterthought.
He led me into a wide garage, not much more than corrugated sheet metal nailed on to a wooden frame. The floor was hard-packed dirt, and the smell of oil and damp soil was oddly pleasing. Several British army vehicles were in various stages of disassembly and repair, and we walked past those to the darkened rear of the building. In a corner next to a workbench neatly stacked with gleaming tools, on a drop cloth and under a hanging light, was a BMW motorcycle, painted British army brown, polished to a high gloss and clean as a whistle. Three men, also in British army brown but not all that clean, stood with their arms folded in front of us.
“Now what’s all this about taking our motorcycle? Just because yours—”
“Hold on, Malcolm,” Slater said. “You know ours is still being worked on. This officer needs transportation and the BMW is the only vehicle not signed out.”
“Neither of us ever signs out these machines!”
I knew I had entered some special part of the military world, where noncoms ruled and officers were just an irritation, an insistent itch that demanded once in a while to be scratched. They gave me a glance, read me like a field manual, and decided I wasn’t going to give them any trouble, except for taking their bike. They ignored me, rightfully understanding this was a matter between guys with stripes, not bars.
“It’s just for a day or so. We’ll have the race when he gets back, no problem,” Slater said.
“Aye, if I’m dumb enough to believe you. Very convenient to come up with this story just after that corporal of yours runs your Harley-Davidson into a ditch,” Malcolm said. The others laughed, and he joined them, enjoying the position he was in.
“Malcolm, take a look at these orders of his. Signed not only by Ike’s office, but by some guy from your own Imperial Staff!”
Slater held the orders in front of Malcolm, who wiped his hand on a greasy rag and took them by the edges. He looked at each page and then over at me, then back again, as if he couldn’t believe they were for the guy he was gazing at. He shook his head in disgust and handed them back to Slater.
“All right, but you’ll have to sign a few forms, Lieutenant.”
“Thanks, Malcolm,” Slater said as he turned to leave, “and good luck, Lieutenant. Make sure you bring her back in one piece.”
That earned me even blacker glares from the Brit mechanics, so I dug into my kit and came up with three packs of Lucky Strikes. I handed them out along with my apologies and promises to return the motorcycle in a couple of days. I must’ve sounded convincing, because although I didn’t really give a hoot about their motorcycle race, and they didn’t care a bit about what I needed, pretty soon we were all smoking and trading war stories about bikes and cars. After chewing the fat for a while, they left me with one mechanic, a Scottish corporal, who was giving the BMW a final check over.
Corporal Roddy Ross was of indeterminate age, the skin of his hands and even his face covered in a sheen of grease and oil. He was rail thin, but his forearms were muscular, and he had a certain grace as he moved around the machine, tightening connections and wiping her down with a cloth as he went. He had a Lucky stuck in the corner of his mouth and smoked as he talked, blowing out smoke with each phrase and squinting his right eye against the blue smoke curling up from the tip of the cigarette.
“Now, laddie, are ye shur ye kin find yer way? Greenchurch is but one of a dozen wee small villages yonder.” He pointed with his thumb toward the northeast as he rested his other hand protectively on the handlebar of the BMW. I had to concentrate on listening to him to understand his thick Scottish brogue.
“I’ve studied the map, Corporal, and copied down my route. If I get lost, I can always stop and ask for directions.” This brought a chuckle.
“Oh, yeah, as if the English wouldn’t mistake a Yank for a Jerry and blow yer young head off with a shotgun! That far inland, there’s been hardly a single Yank yet.”
I could tell from his tone that Corporal Ross was certain that any Scotsman could tell the difference between a Yank and a German, but that he wasn’t about to vouch for anyone south of Hadrian’s Wall.
“Well, Corporal, what do you suggest? Maps are in short supply.”
“You know that all the road signs have been taken down hereabouts. But I should be able to draw up me own sort of directions. Fer a man who knows his pubs, it should be easy.”
With that, he set down his rag and pulled out a stub of a pencil from his overalls pocket and a small pad from the workbench. He licked the end of the pencil, wrote studiously for a minute, ripped off a sheet, and handed it to me.
Pittsfield—straight at the Red Hart
St. Paul—left at the King George Inn
Midbury—straight at the Blue Swan
“Corporal, you’re a genius. It must’ve taken a lot of research to come up with this!”
“Well, ye know what the English say about the Scots: we know the value of a shilling. I wanted to find the best value for a pint and I had to go far and wide in search of it. Now this road at Midbury should take ye right into Greenchurch, though it’s a long stretch. Ask there at the Miller’s Stone for where ye need to go. And take good care of this machine!”
“I will, Corporal, if you let go of it.”
He took his hand off the handlebar, smiled weakly, and stepped back to give me some room. I stowed my pack and got on. We shook hands. He opened a wide side door with a narrow wood-plank ramp. I adjusted my goggles and kick-started the engine. It came to life immediately and purred like a kitten. I sat for a minute, getting the feel of the machine while I let the quiet rumbling vibrate through my body. I nodded to Ross, who got his hand halfway up to his forehead, executing an absent salute as he kept his eye on the bike. I took the BMW slowly down the ramp, did a turn, waved, and rode off. Out of respect for the corporal and his work I didn’t open her right up, but rode at a sedate pace up to the main gate. On the way out, Rolf Kayser pulled in front of me in a jeep. He gave a friendly salute, went through the gate, and drove south. I passed the gate and went north on the main road, giving the bike full throttle, hoping the sound would carry back to the motor pool, where I knew Corporal Ross would still be standing just as I had left him, straining his ears to follow the nuance of each gearshift.
The BMW responded like a champ. The throaty rumble of the engine echoed off the hills rising up on each side of the road, and I felt like a schoolkid playing hooky. For the first time in days I was alone, off on my own for a little side trip to the quaint village of Greenchurch, where I doubted I’d find anything new. Even if Subaltern Victoria Brey had seen somebody that morning as she made her way back to her room, did it make that person the murderer? Half a dozen people were up and about, in their own private little worlds, when Knut Birkeland took his dive. Would one more really make a difference? Yeah, maybe it would.
I opened up the BMW on a straightaway to see what it could do. The acceleration pulled me back in the seat and I hunched over, made myself smaller and watched the road unwind in front of me. I eased up on the throttle as the road narrowed where it passed along a hillside, white stone markers on either side. A grassy slope went up on my right, down on my left. I could see muddy paths where cows made their way among the fields and could smell them, too, the odor of green grass and manure flowing over me as I opened her up on another straightaway.
I hoped this trip would make a difference, almost prayed for it. Right now, if someone asked my opinion based on pure logic, I’d have to say Knut Birkeland really had killed himself, if only because that answered the most questions. If I had to answer from my gut, though, I’d bet my next paycheck that he’d been murdered. I had a working theory of how, but it didn’t lead me anywhere. Why and who were still mysteries. If only Birkeland had been poisoned. Then I would’ve clapped the irons on Vidar Skak. He was just the kind of snake who would use poison. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the kind of snake to wrestle Knut Birkeland out the window. Cosgrove still bothered me, too. There was something off about him, but I had no idea what. Yet. My thoughts drifted into all the possibilities, all the suspects, and all the reasons why.
It came around a curve I hadn’t realized was there—a big, dusty gray vehicle with the driver laying on his horn. The bike wobbled and started to skid and I almost lost control as I tried to recover from my surprise. I caught myself and banked into a curve, just as a truck—or a lorry or whatever the hell they called it over here—came around the bend. I slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road, waiting for my heart to slow too. I decided to stop thinking about the case and keep my mind on riding on the wrong side of the road or else they were going to be scraping me up off it. I started up again, slow, and just rode.
Fields and woods thick with oak trees flowed by as I got used to the BMW and let it go at its own pace, not gunning it but not holding back either. Everything else fell away until there was just the motorcycle, the road, and me. Once you got down to basics, things were simpler. The low cloud cover had given way to light fluffy clouds and blue sky, and I could feel the sun on my back. I passed the Red Hart and kept going straight, feeling my worries melt away with the miles. I wondered why I hadn’t gotten one of the thousands of office jobs in this war. Everywhere I went, I saw guys pushing paper, stamping paper, filing paper, carrying files of paper. That was supposed to be me. Those guys worked a full day, five or six days a week, but they didn’t have to worry about murderers and spies, and coming up with answers for Ike. I knew guys in the combat outfits would have it rough, but, hell, I had already been shot at, and as of right now, not a single GI had even fired a rifle at the Nazis!
I was getting myself all riled up and almost missed the next pub. I calmed down, and took a left at the King George Inn as I wondered if it was the same King George we had given the heave-ho to at Bunker Hill. It was almost midday by the time I had nearly reached the very small village of Greenchurch. I saw a large round stone, like the wheel from a windmill, propped up in front of a low whitewashed building. The Miller’s Stone. I turned around in front of a church—it wasn’t green—and pulled the BMW up in front of the pub. There were a few bicycles leaning against the wall. Not a single car. Real quiet little town. Houses with window boxes overflowing with flowers lined the street. Across from the pub was a small white building, its plain front broken by two doors, one marked POST OFFICE. The other led to a small store. A dog sleeping in the sun on the stone step leading up to the store entrance raised his head, gave me the once-over, then laid his head back down, unimpressed.
I figured that since I had to ask directions to Victoria Brey’s house, and since I was also hungry and thirsty, it would be the most efficient use of my time to visit the pub. That actually made it my patriotic duty. I dusted myself off and went inside.
It was a small village pub, low ceilinged and dark. There were just a couple of tables, a bench along one wall, and the bar itself on the right side of the room with a few stools along it. I sat down and nodded to two old gents who were nursing pints that looked like they’d been pulled when the place opened. Neither said hello, but one of them pointed his pipe at me.
“Now what kind of uniform is that?”
“You mean my United States Army officer’s uniform?”
“So you’re a Yank, are you? About time. I haven’t seen one since 1918!”
They both thought this was real funny. I turned my attention to the barkeep, or publican, I think they called him here.
“A pint, and what do you have for food?”
“A ploughman’s lunch is all today.”
“OK, but hold the onion. I’ve got to see a lady this afternoon.”
I smiled, he didn’t. I decided he really wasn’t such a bad sort when he brought out bread still warm from the oven, a slab of cheese, and a homemade pickle in place of the onion. Along with the ale it was a meal fit for a king.
After he brought the food he ignored me, which I guess was better than lecturing me on the late arrival of the U.S. Army. After I had inhaled about half the meal, I slowed down and half turned in my seat, speaking to both the publican and his customers.
“Do any of you fellows know where Victoria Brey lives?”
At the sound of her name, the old fellas looked at each other and just shook their heads. Not at me, but just at the mention of her name. “Sad, so sad,” one of them said. The barkeep walked over, drying a glass in his hand.
“Why do you want to know?” The expression on his face said he’d be glad to bean me with the heavy glass if he didn’t like the answer.
“Just some routine army business. About her transfer, just some paperwork to finish,” I lied.
“She’s in the ATS, not the bloody American army.”
“Yeah, but we’re all on the same side. Right?”
“I don’t know you, mate. I don’t know if you’re trouble or not, but I do know Victoria’s had her share. More than her share.”
“I’ve known her since she was a babe,” the old guy said. “So sad.”
“I just need to talk with her a bit, that’s all. I know she’s had it tough, with her husband missing in action.”
“Have a care with her. She’s still not well. And she’s well liked ’round here, so don’t cause her any problems.” The barkeep walked back to the bar, carrying the well-dried glass. He had made his decision, but I could tell he didn’t like it much. Or me.
“Take the first right up by the church. Then take the left fork. Her place is on the left, a small stone cottage.” The barkeep put the glass on the bar, loud enough to punctuate the sentence. I didn’t say anything about the implied threat. I could take a hint. I finished up, paid, and left. No one said good-bye.
I found her place easy enough and her, too, for that matter. She was sitting on a worn wooden bench in a small garden in front of her cottage. It looked like a house to me, but I figured it was one of those English things. I pulled the BMW into the drive and switched it off. The driveway was packed dirt with weeds sprouting out of it, wildflowers forcing their way through the hard surface. She looked over at me as calmly as if Americans on motorcycles showed up every day. I took off my goggles and Parsons field jacket, and attempted to make myself presentable. I brushed the dust off my pants, put on my fore and aft cap at just the right angle, and walked into the garden. She sat still, gazing at the flowers.
“Nice garden, Mrs. Brey.” She nodded, ever so slightly, and looked up at me with moist eyes. She was twisting a handkerchief in her hands, limp and damp from her tears.
“Yes, isn’t it? They’ll probably all die now. . . .”
“Now that you’re being transferred?”
“No. Now that Richard’s . . . gone. He always tended them. Said a home needed flowers blooming around it first thing in the spring. He always looked forward to springtime.”
Her head swiveled back to look at the flowers. She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief she held crumpled in one hand. I could have jumped on a broomstick and flown away for all she cared. She was someplace else. There wasn’t another chair and I had to make eye contact, so I knelt down in front of her.
“Mrs. Brey?” Her eyes wavered and finally found me.
“Yes? Who are you?” That was progress.
“Lieutenant Billy Boyle, ma’am. I’m investigating the death of Knut Birkeland at Beardsley Hall.”
She laughed. The laughter seemed to break the spell for her and she focused on me as she smiled.
“That’s terribly funny.”
“What is?” I asked.
“One old man dies and they send a lieutenant. Thousands die in the air, at sea, all over the world, and then who do they send? No one.” She laughed some more. At first, I thought she was crazy, and then I thought it over. It really didn’t add up, did it?
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant Boyle. I’m not usually so distracted. I haven’t been back here since Richard . . . disappeared. The memories were . . . I’m afraid I’ve been rude.”
She wiped her eyes and tried to smile again. There wasn’t a lot of happiness to work with, so it wasn’t a big smile. She was pretty in a plain English country-girl sort of way, and even that frail grin lit up her face. Her hair was dark brown and pulled back, showing off a long and graceful neck. Her skin was flushed from the heat and a tiny bead of sweat worked its way down her throat and vanished beneath her pale green sundress, open at the neck and cinched tight at her waist. The curves of her hips and breasts were noticeable under the light material.
“Come inside, and tell me why you’ve traveled all this way.”
She stood and walked toward the house, glancing over her shoulder at me. She caught me looking, and smiled. It was quite a change, as if she had awakened from a trance. She offered to make tea, but it was too hot a day for me. She poured lemonade, and we went into her front parlor. She sat in an armchair and I took the couch. I was nervous. I was thinking about her body and the look she had given me over her shoulder. I thought about Diana. I thought about getting the hell out of there. Instead, I got down to business.
“Mrs. Brey, you’re in the Auxiliary Territorial Service, rank of subaltern, correct?” I tried to sound like your typical uninterested cop.
“I’m sure you know that, Lieutenant, don’t you?”
“Ah, yes, I do. Just checking.”
“Tell me how I can help you . . . did you say your name was Billy?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, if I’m going to call you Billy, you must call me Victoria. But not Vicky. Only Richard calls me that.” I looked up on the wall behind her at the framed photo of a young man in an RAF uniform. He stood next to a bomber, a wide smile on his face, the RAF roundel showing in back of him. Both man and machine long gone.
“Victoria, I don’t mean to pry into your private life, and I want you to know that I’m not compiling a written report or anything. . . .”
“My goodness, Billy, whatever are you going to ask me about?”
“I understand that you were in Jens Iversen’s room early, very early in the morning on the day Knut Birkeland died.”
She nodded. “Yes, I was.” Calm and cool. No embarrassment, no anger at the question.
“And he escorted you from his room back to your room?”
“Part of the way. He didn’t want to be seen, so he took me down his hallway, down the staircase, and then turned back.”
“I should tell you, Victoria, that Jens didn’t tell me your name. I wouldn’t want you to think he betrayed your confidence.”
“Why would I care what that little worm thinks?”
Whoa. That took me by surprise. I had thought they had a hot romance going. How did Jens get to be “that little worm”?
“Weren’t you and he . . . close?” I asked.
“All he wanted was sex,” she said disgustedly. “He pretended to be my friend and to comfort me, but all he wanted was to get his hands all over my body.”
I had noticed that whenever women talked about some guy getting fresh with them, they would unconsciously put their hands over their breasts in a protective gesture, checking buttons or pulling at something. But Victoria sat there, one leg crossed over the other, with her hands resting flat on the chair arms. Something was really wrong here.
“I got the feeling he was devoted to you.”
“I thought so, too. But evidently not. Did you come here to ask me about Jens?”
“No, no. I’d like to know who or what you might have seen on the way to your room that morning. Anybody or anything out of the ordinary.”
“Am I a suspect, Billy?”
“Did you kill Knut Birkeland?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then you’re in the clear. Did you see anything?”
“I don’t remember. It was very early and I was tired. Do you like music?”
“Yeah, sure, but think back. . . .” She got up with a bored look on her face and walked to a record player.
“Can you stay for dinner, Billy?” I hadn’t yet thought about dinner, but I got the feeling she wanted me for dessert.
“No, I need to get back.”
“Back where?” She flipped through a stack of records but settled on the one already on the turntable.
“To Beardsley Hall.”
“That dreadful place? It’ll be after dark before you get back. Stay here tonight. It’ll be good to have a man around the house. I’ll cook us a nice dinner.”
That gave me the shivers. There was no us, and I didn’t intend on being part of her fantasy. But I also had the feeling she knew something, and wasn’t going to give it up easily.
“Maybe. But we need to finish this first. Think about what you saw that morning.”
“Do you like Irving Berlin?”
“Sure, who doesn’t?” She put the needle down on the record. Hissing and scratching came out of the record player. This platter had been played a lot.
“Let’s dance. Then I’ll tell you everything, and you can decide if you want to stay.” She held her arms outstretched in front of her, a slight innocent smile on her face. One little dance, I thought, in pursuit of the truth. Can’t hurt.
“OK.” I got up and held her as the music started. She folded my hand holding hers into my chest and rested her cheek on my shoulder. We danced slowly. Her body felt warm, and I could feel her breasts press against me as she breathed. Her hips moved against mine. The words from “I’m Getting Tired So I Can Sleep” drifted out over us.
I’m getting tired so I can sleep
I want to sleep so I can dream
I want to dream so I can be with you.
She sang the words in a sad, quiet, high voice. A wish to see her man again, even in a dream. She looked up into my eyes, her eyes only inches from my face. Her cheeks were wet with tears, but she wasn’t crying right now. I could feel the heat from her whole body rising up, or maybe it was the heat of the room. Or maybe it was me. My heart was pounding and I felt her chest rise and fall with each breath, a thin layer of sweat glistening against her white skin.
She canted her head and pushed her lips against mine, her mouth open and the dampness from her tears and sweat combining in an unholy alliance against the little willpower I had. My mind said no, my heart said no, but my body was saying, Go right ahead, boy, this dame’s delicious.
“Victoria, I can’t. . . .”
“Call me Vicky,” she said in a small, breathless voice. She took my hand and pressed it against her breast. It was full and her nipple was at attention. So was I and it was getting really tough to stay in control.
I felt like she would break into a million pieces if I let go. If I didn’t, I’d break a promise I hadn’t even made yet. I had to buy some time, and I still had to get some answers. I tried to be a cop and think of her as just another civilian I needed something from.
“Vicky.”
“Oh yes, darling!” She smiled, her eyes still closed and her hips thrust against mine.
“Vicky, tell me about the morning you left Jens’s room.”
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
“I don’t either. But we have to. Who else did you see, on the way back to your room?”
“Another man.”
“Who, Vicky?”
“If I tell you, will you stop asking questions? So we can sleep?”
“Sure.”
“He was always very nice to me. Kind. He didn’t take advantage, like the others.”
“Who was he, Vicky?”
“Anders. Major Arnesen. I saw him on the main floor.”
“In the corridor near the map room?”
“Yes, I think so. We smiled at each other, but didn’t say anything. He must have a girlfriend. I’m glad.”
“Did you see anyone else?” The music ended and she stopped dancing. The needle made a quiet hissing sound as the record went round and round and we both stood there, frozen. Her dreamy smile faded into nothing as she came back from that place she had retreated to. Then awareness crept into her face. It was like someone waking up and remembering what they had gone to sleep to escape.
“That’s all you want, isn’t it?” There was a fury in her eyes that denied any lie I could tell. Her carefully constructed fantasy had just fallen apart. Without wanting to, I had just thoroughly humiliated her. There was only one answer I could give.
“Yes.”
I let go of her hand. I was smart enough to not say anything else. She walked over to the record player and raised the needle from the turn table.
“Get out.”
“Please, Mrs. Brey, just tell me if you saw anyone else. Lives may depend on it.”
“Lives? How dare you lecture me about lives! I’ve already given one life to this damned war! The people you’re talking about are still alive! They can walk in the sunshine, eat dinner, make love, hold hands . . . what do I care about them?”
Her face crumpled as she tried to hold back a torrent of tears. She raised her hand to her mouth as she made an anguished noise, tears running over her hand and onto the wooden floor, clean little splashes on a thin layer of dust. She fell to her knees and I thought she might actually be sick. I knelt down beside her and put my hand on her shoulder. She trembled as she covered her face with her hands.
“I’m not really a bad person,” she said between sobs. Her nose was running, too.
“Me either.”
“Don’t look at me, please. You must think I’m a hussy.”
“Mrs. Brey, you just want to be with your husband, that’s all.”
She nodded, but she wouldn’t look at me. We just sat there for a while. She shuddered a few times as the tears came and went. Finally she took a deep breath and rubbed the back of her hand across her nose.
“Anders was the only one I saw.”
“Thanks.”
“Is it important?”
“It might be. It just might be.” She still didn’t move and leaving my hand on her shoulder was beginning to feel awkward. I moved it and she clutched at it, as if she was afraid I’d get away. I tried to think of something to say.
“You shouldn’t blame Jens for the transfer, you know. I think he was trying to help.”
“Jens?” She sniffled. “What did he have to do with my transfer?”
“Huh? Didn’t he. . . .”
“No. Anders issued the order. He said he needed me at the Norwegian Brigade base in Scotland. I was glad to go. I just wasn’t prepared to come back here, to all this.” She gestured at the room, the house, the memories, everything.
Anders. Anders had been up early in the morning and transferred the only person who had seen him far away from Beardsley Hall. Anders. That made me rethink things. He had been a distant third until now, but this put him tops in my hit parade. Leaving the key in his own room was a nice touch, I had to admit. I hoped Daphne had been able to get his orders to Norway cancelled. That made me think of getting back to the hall. I looked at my watch.
“Billy, please don’t go.”
“I have to.”
“I can’t stay here alone another night. I’m leaving for Scotland tomorrow; I don’t care about the rest of my leave.” She finally looked at me. There was nothing sexy or even pretty left in her face. There was anguish, and shame. Her hand trembled in mine. With the other she grasped the collar of her sundress and pulled it closed.
“OK.”
I couldn’t leave her alone. I had pushed her, used her, shamed her. I couldn’t turn around and leave her, like a piece of rubbish on the floor, now that I had what I wanted. We got up, stood there a second, brushing off our knees and smoothing clothes that weren’t all that wrinkled.
“Thank you,” she said, barely able to make eye contact. But she did. “Thank you.”
She went into the kitchen and started puttering around. I had to admire her for pulling herself together, and I was more than a little relieved that she’d managed to. I got my stuff from the BMW and brought it inside. We ended up cooking together, talking about Boston seafood and English dishes. She opened a bottle of wine and we ate at the kitchen table. We didn’t talk about Beardsley Hall or Richard. I told her all about Diana, except for the secret mission part, and she told me it sounded very romantic. It was nice. I slept on the couch. She took the record upstairs with her, and I fell asleep to the faint sound of “I want to dream so I can be with you,” glad that my willpower had lasted as long as it did. As willing as she might have been at one moment, it wouldn’t have been worth it the next.
I got up early, but Victoria was already awake and packed. She had tea and toast ready and we ate in silence as we waited for a car to pick her up and drive her to the train station.
I put my gear on the bike and carried her bags outside. I wished her good luck and she said the same to me. Then she gave me a shy peck on the cheek and turned away and sat on the bench in the garden to wait for her ride. Her eyes drifted over the flowers and weeds, surveying her memories and storing them away. The sun came out from behind a cloud, and a bright shaft of light fell between the branches of the trees above her. Patches of sunlight covered her face and heart, like luminous wounds that might fade from sight but never disappear. I got on the BMW and started her up. I didn’t bother waving as I drove off. She was already in another world—a world of quiet, carefully tended gardens with an adored husband by her side. I looked back as I turned a corner and saw her sitting just as I had seen her yesterday, as certain a victim of this war as Richard and all the other boys who had come crashing down out of the sky.