THE MORNING WAS crisp and bright, sunlight lifting the heavy dew off grasses and leaves, filling the air with the scents of springtime, a ripe dampness that carried the promise of life. It was invasion weather too, the season for returning young life to the soil, a morbid twist for our times. Kaz had made his telephone call to MI5 about Crowley the night before, and we stopped at the police station to see if a message had been left. The place was locked up tight. The street was deserted and quiet, except for the sound of a bicycle on cobblestones. I wondered where Diana was right now. On a train to Scotland? Or sitting in an SOE office in London, receiving an official reprimand.
“Everyone’s over at the Common,” Doc Brisbane said, slowing his bicycle to a halt. “It’s the maneuvers. The army said people could watch from the roadside. I’d guess there’s a crowd by now, and the constables will have their hands full. Thought it best to be there myself in case I’m needed. Plus I wouldn’t mind seeing those Tank Destroyers tearing about.”
“We may as well go watch ourselves,” Kaz said as the doctor pedaled off.
“Sure,” I said, starting the jeep. “We can swing by the Avington girls’ school. Ever since Laurianne Ross told us about Margaret Hibberd showing up there, I’ve been curious about where she disappeared to.”
“Right,” Kaz said. “Diana told us none of the girls observed her bicycling away out the main drive.”
“I’d like to know if there’s another route away from the school, and where it leads. Maybe we’ll bump into Constable Cook. We can ask him about Alan Wycks and let him know we’re expecting a call.”
“I also telephoned Big Mike last night,” Kaz said as we headed out of Hungerford and into the countryside toward the Common, a large stretch of open land between Kintbury and Hungerford. “I asked him to try and find Diana. He said he would get Colonel Harding to ask some questions.”
“Thanks, Kaz. But I doubt MI5 will admit to any Yank where they’ve sent her. But it’s worth a shot.” We had to take a few detours where roads were closed for the maneuvers, due to the large number of units involved in addition to the 617th Tank Destroyer Battalion. We finally got on the road to the Avington School, and as we came to the drive, Miss Ross was leading her charges out.
“We’re going to watch the maneuvers, Captain,” she said, the girls letting loose with a chorus of excited giggles. “Do you need to speak with me?”
“No, I just wanted to check around the back of the school, if that’s all right. Seems like everyone is headed to watch the maneuvers today.”
“It’s like a parade,” one of the girls said. “We hope it will be awfully loud!”
“Go ahead, Captain Boyle, look around all you wish,” Laurianne said, busily organizing the girls into a single file. Walkers and bicyclists were flowing into the roadway, like people headed to a parade or a county fair.
“Guess there’s not much entertainment in the wartime countryside,” I said to Kaz, as we drove slowly up the drive to the school.
“Perhaps the locals like the Negro soldiers and want to see them in action. I am sure many of them have been told by your countrymen that Negroes are incapable of fighting. Seeing Tree and his unit driving their armored vehicles will make quite a statement.”
“Could be,” I said, still trying to get used to the idea of white people cheering on well-armed Negroes. I parked the jeep on the side of the school and we walked around back. There was a neatly laid-out vegetable garden, taking up much of what had once been a lawn. Chickens squawked in their coops and rabbits stared at us blankly from within the confines of their hutches.
“Here,” Kaz said. A well-worn path led between rows of gooseberry bushes, flowers beginning to show between thorns. The path continued through a meadow, and along a fence marking a boundary between plowed fields.
“A shortcut to Kintbury,” I said. From a slight rise, we could see the path descending through the fields, to the low-lying ground along the river. It petered out as it met with houses and shops along the main road. “It probably ends at High Street, down there.” I pointed to a bright yellow and red sign. I couldn’t make it out, but I remembered there had been a sign like that over Hedley’s Sweet Shop.
“Should we continue?” Kaz asked.
“No. We can check it from the High Street end later. I doubt there will be any clues left after all this time.”
“It is a well-used route,” Kaz said. “The girls must use it as well as others from the village. It probably cuts through the school property. There are many such right-of-way paths in these English towns.” He was right about that. The grass was trampled and the ground was hard-packed. Margaret could have met up with any number of people on this route. This was another thing to ask Inspector Payne or Constable Cook. The local police would certainly know about this pathway and have checked it out. We decided to head to the maneuvers, like all the other gawkers.
It looked like every constable for miles around was on duty, forming a cordon along the stretch of roadway open to the public. A switchback wound its way up a slope above the Common, which was on the lower ground along the canal. In the grassy area between the switchback, townspeople had laid out blankets and were sharing thermoses of tea and sandwiches from their picnic baskets. The scene reminded me of pictures from a book I’d read about the Civil War, all the civilians coming out in their carriages to watch the Battle of Bull Run. I hoped these maneuvers wouldn’t end as badly.
We had no trouble driving the jeep onto the Common; the constables weren’t there to keep US Army personnel out. We had a clear view across the canal and up the opposite slope. Pinpoints of smoke blossomed and were followed by the rolling sounds of the explosions from smoke rounds traveling across the valley. We sat in the jeep, watching swarms of GIs heading down to the canal, accompanied by Sherman tanks; the opposing force. From a wooded glen to our right came a roar of twin diesel engines, the unmistakable sound of the M-10 Tank Destroyer.
Four of them came out of the woods, trees cracking and snapping beneath their treads. As they cleared the foliage they accelerated, probably hitting thirty as they raced parallel to the road. In unison, they turned hard right, treads chewing at the ground and spitting it out until their gun barrels faced the opposite slope. The crowd cheered like they were the home team at a football game. It was a well-planned move, probably put on to impress the locals. Looking around I spotted Ernest Bone with his pony cart, set up to sell his sweets. Children gathered around the pony while parents took their precious ration coupons and handed them over for a rare treat on this festive occasion. Laurianne Ross led some of her charges to the cart as well, and I saw Bone wave off the offer of coupons. The girls squealed with joy. Was the candy bag found at the pillbox on the house as well? People say “it was like stealing candy from a baby,” but giving candy to a child can be just as sinister. I decided to look into Ernest Bone’s background a little deeper. He claimed to have served in the last war. What had he been doing since them? He’d only purchased the sweet shop in town recently.
I pointed out Angus Crowley to Kaz. He loitered at the edge of the gathering, watching the maneuvers closely, but moving a step or two away whenever someone came close. His eyes flitted about the crowd as if he were looking for someone, or perhaps avoiding them. Michael Flowers and Nigel Morris sauntered along the lane, chatting idly like old friends. I figured their appearance meant the Miller family was in attendance as well, but I couldn’t find them in the sea of faces.
Further down the Common, other platoons of TDs took up position, opposing the force crossing the canal. One group fired smoke shells in their direction. Grey smoke wreathed the low-lying ground, cover for the other TDs, which crept closer, taking advantage of the terrain to keep their silhouettes low. A distant whistling heralded the overhead trajectory of artillery shells, causing the civilians to draw back, children clutching their mothers’ skirts. But the explosions were far away, across the canal, hitting open land that the opposing forces had already traversed. It was live ammunition, but far from us or any troops. Still, the shriek of incoming shells and the geysers of good farmland being blown sky-high lent a realistic air to the exercise. It’s one thing to watch fireworks; it’s another to feel them striking near enough to pepper your helmet with falling debris and shrapnel.
An M8 six-wheeled armored car roared to a quick halt beside us, Lieutenant Binghamton in the turret, a broad grin on his face as he saluted. “Come to watch the show, Captain?”
“We did,” I said, and introduced Kaz. I asked where Tree was and he pointed to the lead TD in the nearby platoon. He switched on his radio and a few seconds later Tree popped up from the open turret, waving me over.
“Thanks for coming out, Billy,” Tree said as I clambered up the side. “I mean Captain Boyle,” he added, with a glance at his men and a salute for me.
“Tree, first thing to learn in combat is not to salute. Unless you don’t like your officers. It only points them out to snipers.” That got a laugh from the other four crewmen.
“Fellas, this is the guy I told you about. He’s working on getting Angry free.” We were interrupted by another radio call, and the driver began to work his gears.
“I have a lead,” I said, before jumping off. “I’ll find you after the maneuver and tell you about it.” Tree’s response was lost in the sound of the four TDs moving off in unison, widening the space between them. I saw observers and umpires ahead, speeding around in jeeps, their armbands marking them as non-combatants. The Common quickly became a smoky confusion of fast vehicles, TDs, armored cars, and jeeps weaving between each other, darting from cover when they could, seeking out the folds in the land to settle into and fire simulated rounds directly at the foe, umpires barking into their radios.
Two TDs were flagged down by the umpires and declared destroyed, red smoke grenades marking their demise. In the woods by the canal, yellow smoke rose up from several spots, marking the enemy casualties, each one raising a cheer from the crowd. I returned to the jeep with Kaz, who was watching the progress through binoculars.
“Tree’s platoon is still intact,” he said, pointing to a small grove of pine trees where the TDs had hidden as much as they could. A dispatch rider on a motorcycle sped onto the scene, handing papers to Lieutenant Binghamton in his armored car.
“That’s an Indian Scout,” I said to Kaz, pointing at the motorcycle. “The model I bought as a kid.” This was a new one, decked out in olive drab with leather saddlebags. I watched as the motorcycle raced from unit to unit, delivering orders. It looked like the driver was enjoying himself. We were so focused on the ebb and flow of the battle that we were both startled when a constable came up to us. “Inspector Payne would like a word, sir.”
We left the jeep and followed him back to the roadway. I caught sight of Flowers, standing next to George Miller, like the best of friends. Bone was closing up his cart, sold out of humbugs and the like, I figured. Crowley was nowhere to be seen, but Razor Fraser raised a hand in a friendly greeting, or at least a reasonable imitation of one. Payne’s car was on the side of the road, turned away from the crowd. The constable opened the door and we climbed in back. Payne was in the driver’s seat and his passenger was watching the maneuvers intently.
“Gentlemen,” Payne began, “let me introduce Blackie Crane. Constable Cook said you’d like a word.”
“Thought I ought to see what’s holding up traffic on the canal,” Blackie said, without taking his eyes from the maneuvers. “Not a bad view, is it?” I could see where Blackie got his name. Coal dust coated his hands, clothes, and hair. From what I could see of his face, his pores were clogged with the stuff.
“I found him with his barge, tied up by the Hog’s Head Pub,” Payne said, turning in his seat to face us. “I thought it best to bring him along before opening time, otherwise we might not get much out of him.”
“Not much else to do, Inspector, with the Yanks closing down the canal, now is there?” Blackie kept his eyes glued on the Common as vehicles raced about, churning up soil as they spun their treads. “Bloody good show, though.” He interrupted his viewing long enough to light a cigarette, striking a wooden match with his thumbnail. I was relieved when we all didn’t go up in an explosion of coal dust.
“Mr. Crane,” Kaz said. “We understand you are one of the few canal men who run at night.”
“Cor! What have we here, a foreigner? Not enough to have Yanks all about, is it?” Crane addressed this remark to the air, and I wondered if he’d started his drinking early.
“Polish, Mr. Crane. And unused to your damp climate, I must add. So I have enjoyed being warmed by your excellent coal at the Hog’s Head.”
“You have, have you?” Crane turned in his seat, giving Kaz his full attention. Everyone likes to be flattered. “Old Jack Monk buys from me. We used to pass each other on the canal, back when he was on the water. Now he likes to have a good supply on hand. Folks drink more when they don’t have a chill going through their bones.”
“Perhaps we will have a drink there when we are done here. You have worked the route from Pewsey to Reading a number of years,” Kaz said, holding out the promise of free booze. “You must know the water well.”
“Indeed I do. When I sell the last of my load, I turn back and try to make it home in one run. Nighttime is tricky with the blackout and all, but you’ve got the canal to yourself. Give me a bit of moonlight and I can be back in Pewsey in no time.” He grinned, and the creases on his face showed in lines of coal dust.
“Did Inspector Payne tell you what we wanted to ask you?” I said. Blackie was the talkative type, too talkative. He was the kind of guy that might lead in whatever direction he thought you wanted to go, especially with the promise of a drink at the other end. Kaz was smart appealing to Blackie’s vanity, but dangling that pint out in front of him was dangerous.
“No, only the night in question. I recall it well, perfect half-moon, brilliant light to guide me home. I’d made my last delivery and came through Newbury a bit after midnight. I remember hearing the churchbell toll from a ways out.”
“Not many people out that time of night, I’d guess,” I said. Outside the car, a few people were drifting by, the action having moved farther away.
“No, not many. So why don’t we adjourn to the Hog’s Head?” Blackie said. “So I can get underway when the canal’s opened.”
“Not many, you said. Does that mean no one?”
“Listen, Yank, if I meant no one I’d of said no one. You should have manners like your Polish friend here.”
“Steady on, Blackie,” Payne said. “He’s got his job to do, just like you do.”
“Was the water high that night?” Kaz asked, jumping in to keep Blackie calm.
“Aye, it was. There’d been a hard rain, and the river that feeds into the canal was at a rage, it was. But the canal is smooth, no matter how much water she carries.”
“Do you remember who you saw out in Newbury that night?” Kaz asked. “Along the embankment.”
“No, not really. I mean that I did see two men, not far from the Hog’s Head, downstream. They were arguing, I could tell since one of them was pointing his finger hard at the other fellow’s chest. But I didn’t know them, by sight or by name.”
“But would you recognize either one of them?” I asked.
“Oh sure, since one of them cursed me.”
“Why?” Kaz asked.
“Oh, the water. Like I said, it was high, and I had a full head of steam up. Probably going faster than I should of, especially with an empty boat and it being the middle of town. But it was late, and I wanted to get home.”
“What do you mean, the water?” I asked. I didn’t want to give Blackie the answer, I wanted to hear it from him.
“The wake, man, are you daft or simple? The wake kicked up onto the embankment, right where they were standing. Gave their trousers a good soaking I did. Might have laughed at the sight of them, caught up in their argument and then splashed by old Blackie! One of them shook his fist and cursed at me, and the other walked off, none too happy himself.”
“So you’d recognize one of them?” I asked.
“The one who raised his fist to me, sure I would. He had his collar up and wore a cloth cap, but I got a good look at his face. Walked a bit stooped over, as well. The other fellow, maybe not. He didn’t look at me for very long.”
“He walked back to the house,” Payne said. Blackie nodded, and we all knew what he had witnessed. The last seconds of Stuart Neville’s life.
“Can you describe the other man, the one who cursed at you? His face, I mean,” Payne said.
“Close to your age, Inspector. Shorter, stooped over, like I said. Big cheeks, like he was well fed. Sort of like that gent,” Blackie said, pointing to the crowd streaming by the car.
“Which one, man?” Payne demanded.
“Cor, if it ain’t him! That one, with the pony! I’ll swear to it.” Blackie raised his hand, his coal smudged finger pointing straight at Ernest Bone.