And who was Switch's Morgan Gang partner? Meyer? Dogbite? Or maybe Armstrong, which would be clever, disguising their racket with apparent disdain.
Where had Armstrong gotten to? If he was stir-crazy, he could have come along on the raid. Maybe he'd had enough of fighting and hiding and headed for the hills. Or a comfy German POW camp.
Who were the mystery parachutists, and why had they landed here? Or were the Krauts seeing parachutes everywhere since the morning of June the sixth?
There was a faint frame of light from the corridor leaking around the edges of the curtain. It looked like daylight at the end of a long, dark tunnel, and I must have been dreaming, because I found myself with Dianaânot as Julietâwalking into the sunshine, our feet bathed in soft green grass and summer flowers. I tried for a kiss, and she faded away, light turning to darkness, the sky as heavy and forbidding as the tons of rock I slept beneath.
Chapter Seventeen
I'd found her.
She'd disappeared into the murk, but now she was back. I could feel her hands, sense her smell, and hear her voice.
“Wake up, Billy!” Not a lover's summons, but a hissing, insistent whisper. “Wake up.”
“Diana,” I mumbled. She gave my shoulder a quick shake.
“No, it's Juliet.” I could see her glance at people milling behind her. I'd almost spilled the beans. The curtain opened and closed, casting splashes of light on the cold stone. She struck a match and lit the candle as Sonya ushered the others away.
“Yeah, of course. Sorry, I was dreaming. Is it time to go?”
“We have a problem,” she said. “We've found Lieutenant Armstrong. He's dead.”
“Germans?” I asked, lacing up my boots and trying to clear the cobwebs from my brain.
“Not unless they've gotten into the tunnels,” she said. “He's been murdered.”
Trying to grasp the implications, I trailed Juliet and Sonya into one of the dark corridors I'd explored earlier. Had Germans gotten in? Or one of the household staff? Perhaps one of the fliers had a grudge against Armstrong, nurtured by tension, boredom, and close proximity. Juliet flicked on a torch and shined the light toward the ceiling, which grew lower and lower as we went.
Bent over, we came to a stout wooden door, no more than four feet high. Sonya fit a large lever lock key into the rusted lock and turned it with both hands. The door opened with a metallic
clang
, the rusty iron hinges creaking loudly. A dank, damp murk carried into the air. Juliet aimed the light ahead, and I ducked through the doorway, blinking to focus on the chamber.
“We're directly under the house now,” she said. The room was round with a high arched ceiling. Huge slabs of granite rose up on all sides, with layers of chiseled limestone rock set in brickwork patterns between them. The stone floor was worn smooth, like the steps in an ancient cathedral.
“What is this place?” I asked, my voice unexpectedly hushed.
“The remains of an old Druid temple,” Juliet said, as if that were not the least bit remarkable. She ducked again, taking us through an opening barely three feet high under a massive stone lintel. The next chamber was narrow, braced by a series of smooth boulders and roofed with giant aged beams. At the far end, Juliet's light settled on a crumpled figure.
“Has anyone touched the body?” I asked, taking in the sizable pool of blood soaking the stones around his head, creating a ghastly halo.
“No,” Juliet said, handing me the light. “Sonya found him and came right to me.”
“Did you tell Kaz and Topper?”
“No, Juliet thought it best to let them sleep,” Sonya said, a note of irritation in her voice.
“The wireless still isn't working,” Juliet added. “But they were falling asleep at the workbench, so I told them to rest.”
“Don't you think your officers should be informed, Sergeant?” Sonya said. It was the first sense I'd gotten of any disagreement between the two women, but some friction was to be expected in any high-pressure situation, and here it had just gone to full boil.
“No,” I said, not bothering to explain. I knelt next to the body. Armstrong was on his side, legs crumpled beneath him, one arm pinned under his torso, the other at his side. It looked like he'd been walking in our direction, but it wasn't always easy to tell. I didn't look at his head yet, knowing that was going to be distracting. He'd either been shot or bludgeoned, and neither method made for a pretty picture.
I started with his legs. Nothing unusual on his boots. I patted down his pants' pockets and found a single shilling. A good-luck piece? Or loose change from his last night on the town? I rubbed my finger over the image of King George. Only Armstrong knew.
I checked the pockets of his leather flying jacket and was rewarded with a pencil stub and lint. Nothing in his shirt pocket.
I moved the flashlight to his head and knew right away he'd been shot. His face had the misshapen look that came from a bullet careening through the skull, releasing pressure and churning tissue as it sought to expend its energy against the grey matter that made up the mind and memories of humans.
I found the bullet hole at the base of his head, right at the occipital bone, where the trajectory would take the slug through his cerebellum and brain stem, wiping out everything that mattered. It was quick; he never knew it was coming. Which told me something.
I flexed his neck and felt for the muscles in his face. He was beginning to stiffen up. I studied his hands; muscles were hardening in place at the wrists. The thumbs were dashed with red. Same at the base of his palms. Dried blood. Spend as much time with a coroner as I did back in Boston, and you couldn't help but pick up a few things.
I stood and shined the beam around the area. “Do you have many flashlights down here?” I asked. “Torches, I mean.”
“No, that's the only one, not counting the ones you brought. We use candles or a lantern if we have to leave the lighted areas. Batteries are impossible to come by,” Juliet said.
“What about keys? How did Armstrong get this far?”
“As I said, he knew the tunnels and where the extra key set was kept.” Juliet knelt close by and stared at the body. “He didn't want to take any chances outside. He said he'd used up all his luck in the air. I gave him tunnel duty so he could lead people out if need be. He liked the idea that he might save lives if the worst happened.”
I looked a few feet in the direction he would have come from, then back again. There was no candle wax. He definitely had his hands on his head. If he'd been carrying a candle, it would have dropped and left some trace. His killer was behind him, with some light of his own. Or hers, for that matter.
I got down on my hands and knees and swept the light along the edge of the floor, looking into the crevices where the stones met. I was about to give up when I spotted it. About a yard back, where a paving stone tilted toward the wall. It had rolled into that tiny crack, but glowed in the flashlight beam.
“Shell casing. Looks like he was shot with an automatic,” I said. There was no way to tell if the killer didn't care about leaving a casing behind, or if it had been too hard to recover in the frantic moments after committing a murder. If this killer was the frantic type. “Rigor mortis is beginning to set in. It's already advanced in the smaller muscles. He could have been killed within the past eight hours, maybe longer. The stone floor is cold, so that might slow the process.”
“So anytime today?” Sonya asked. I glanced at my watch. It was six o'clock. Evening, I was pretty sure. Above, the earth turned and the sun rose and set. Deep in the rock tunnels, time had a way of standing still, the solidity encasing us in a permanent present.
“Possible,” I said. “More than a few hours agoâof that I'm certain.” I shined the flashlight on the shell casing, then back at Sonya. “You had a Walther pistol last night.”
“Yes, so?”
“This is a nine-millimeter Parabellum round,” I said. “Used in Lugers and Walthers.” I shined the light on the head of the casing, showing them the
9mm
mark.
“We have both in the weapons room, taken from dead Nazis,” Juliet said. “I carry a Walther myself at times.”
“Who has access?”
“Everyone. There's a war on, Sergeant,” Sonya said. “What happens now?”
“We bury our dead. And count your pistols.” I took Armstrong's dog tag and followed the ladies back, wondering what the hell he had been up to.
There were seven pistols in their weapons room that fit the bill. Two Lugers and five Walthers. All were clean, the sweet, pungent odor of gun oil clinging to each of them. Any of them could have been the murder weapon, or it could have been a pistol hidden away after lifting it from a dead Kraut officer. It was useless to speculate. Juliet was more productive, coming up with a large white sheet and Dogbite, who'd volunteered to help carry the body.
I kept Dogbite in front of me and watched his reactions in the tunnels as best I could. He kept one hand on the wall, steadying himself, hesitant in his steps. He might have been a good actor, but I got the strong impression he was disoriented and unfamiliar with the path we were taking.
“Goddamn,” he muttered when we came to the body. “What'd he do to deserve that?”
“Good question. Got any ideas?” The beams from Juliet's and my flashlights waved like searchlights as we shook out the sheet and laid it next to Armstrong's body. I caught a glimpse of Dogbite's face, his scars lit like craters on a half moon.
“Hell, no, that boy wouldn't hurt a fly. 'Cept for all the Krauts we killed, but you know what I mean.” He grimaced, shook his head, and looked away. I did know what he meant. Some guys reacted to war that way. They became subdued when not engaged in the act of killing, almost numb, as they retreated deep into their souls.
“Help me roll him,” I said to Juliet, handing my flashlight to Dogbite.
“No, I'll do it,” he said, straightening Armstrong's arms and legs. “It's only right. He was my skipper.” The arms took some work; they were starting to stiffen. He pulled the body onto its side by the shoulders, cradling Armstrong's head in his palm, and rolled him onto the sheet. The head came to rest as Dogbite withdrew his hand, now sticky with blood. He then tucked the sheet under the body on both sides, leaving it swaddled in the white sheet, with enough fabric at either end to carry.
“You look like you know what you're doing,” I said.
“Back home, you were rich if your family could afford a coffin. I buried kin in shrouds plenty of times. Old and young. Where we takin' him?”
“Into the woods,” Juliet said, setting her hand on Dogbite's arm. “It will have to be an unmarked grave for now.”
“Don't matter much. Dust goes to dust, and the spirit goes to God, so they say. Come on, Billy, lend a hand,” he said. “How'd you come to find the lieutenant anyway?”
“We searched everywhere,” Juliet said, lighting our way. “I've no idea what he was doing here.”
“How about you, Dogbite? What do you think he was up to?” I asked, grunting as we clumsily carried the body.
“He kept to himself, you know? It was the same back in England. When he got leave, he'd go to a museum or a fancy church. Spent a lot of time reading. Most guys, even officers, wanted booze and broads, but not Armstrong. Had a girlfriend back home, and he wasn't the type to stray. Knew his own mind, I have to give him that.”
“Good pilot?” I asked.
“Damn good,” Dogbite said as we stopped in the Druid temple, setting Armstrong down to take a breather. “Brought us down with our hydraulics all shot up once, and that ain't easy. Can't say him and me woulda been pals back home, but he was a good skipper, and that's what counts over here. Wish I knew why anyone'd want him dead.”
“Same here,” I said. “I don't like the idea of being knocked off by the same bastard. Let me know if you get any ideas.” We resumed our journey through the tunnels, carrying Armstrong into the salon and laying him out on the table.
I stepped back as Meyer and Switch came in, their faces drawn and serious. They stood with Dogbite, silently gazing at the corpse of their skipper, none of them betraying what they really felt about him or each other. It was the perfect imitation of respect for a fallen comrade, a solid front that I knew for the lie it was. But did that make any of them a killer?
As I left to find Kaz and Topper, I passed Babcock, Fawcett, and Brookes shepherded in by Sonya, who carried a shovel and a pickax. Everyone was shaking their head, wondering how this happened, whispering about what a fine fellow Armstrong was. Someone was a steely calm liar.
Kaz and Topper were already awake when I got to their chamber, Sonya having delivered the news moments ago.
“Is Sergeant Blake involved?” Kaz asked, his voice low.
“I have no idea,” I said. “Unless Armstrong was part of the Morgan Gang, and from what his crewmen said, he wasn't the type.”
“Or he was damn clever,” Topper said. “Until today.”
“Or the real Morgan member was sending a message,” Kaz offered.
“Keep your eyes and ears open. See what you can pick up from these guys; there's probably going to be a lot of gossip and conjecture after we bury him,” I said.
“We're ready,” Juliet said, appearing in the doorway.
“You guys go ahead. I need to speak with Juliet for a second.”
Kaz and Topper left, and Juliet glanced into the corridor before pulling the curtain. “What in God's name is going on, Billy?” she whispered.
“Dianaâ”
“No. I am Juliet Bonvie. Please don't think of Diana Seaton, not until we're out of here. Juliet is who I must believe I am if I want to live. And I do, Billy, very much.”
“Okay, Juliet it is. That's how I'll think of you.” I gave her hand a quick squeeze and gave her the lowdown. “We need to get Sergeant Blake out as soon as possible. He's a top honcho in a big black market operation, and he's willing to testify against his partners. He took exception to how they mistreated his cousin. Someone in his crew is part of the gang, but we don't know who.”
“Do you think Lieutenant Armstrong was involved?”
“Haven't a clue. All I know is that they're a violent bunch, and Switch is no exception. He's not turning on them out of the goodness of his heart. Matter of fact, he doesn't yet know his cousin is safe. The gang nabbed him when Switch was about to tell all as an insurance policy. He clammed up, we rescued the kid, and here we are.”
“So you're not a Jedburgh?”
“Topper is the real deal. Kaz and me are here to deliver your radio and supplies, keep Blake safe, and get him out as soon as possible.”
“Thank God,” Juliet said, the tension draining from her face. “I doubt many Jedburghs will survive. I suppose your sergeant's rank is part of the show?”