Dead Ground in Between (19 page)

There was a telephone extension on the upstairs landing and Tyler went up there so he could call the camp commandant in private. Captain Beattie was abrupt. Army business was army business and police business was something else entirely. Tyler had encountered this attitude before so he wasn't surprised, but it irritated him nevertheless. As far as he was concerned, a person or persons unknown had brought about the death of a fragile old man. Anybody in the vicinity had to be questioned,
POW
rules or not.

“I'm hardly going to slap him in the glasshouse on the mere
possibility
of his having committed a crime, Inspector,” said Beattie. “All you're telling me is that the young man was not secured as he should have been. Not his fault.”

“He has acknowledged that Jasper entered the barn in the early hours.”

“But the old man left immediately?”

“That's what he claims.”

“If you discover Iaquinta has done something against the law, then we'll have to follow due process. But we don't know that he left the barn. Isn't that right?”

“He says he didn't, sir. He was there in the morning when John Cartwright went to get him.”

“So you see –”

“I do need to pursue every possibility.”

Suddenly, Beattie changed his tune. “Of course you do, Inspector. Of course. You are a police officer, after all. And I will give you all the help I can. It's just that I don't want unsubstantiated accusations being flung at my
POWS
.”

“Neither do I, Captain. I can bring him back to the camp this afternoon. Perhaps we could have a meeting, the three of us, and go over what has transpired.”

Tyler didn't think it was relevant to the case at this point to inform the captain that Angelo was more than likely having a liaison with a Land Army girl. And that was definitely against the rules.

“I know this fellow,” said Beattie. “He took part in a little entertainment the priest arranged for the men. He has a rather fine singing voice. Not in the least a troublemaker.”

“Glad to hear that, sir. But in order to rule him out, I'll need to take his fingerprints. Exclusion principle. Shall we have that done here, or would you rather I do it at the camp?”

There was a rather long pause, then Beattie said, “I think it'll be all right to do it there. I presume it will be simpler that way?”

“Indeed it will, sir.”

“Good. Er, by the way, Inspector, sorry about what has happened. Any ideas as to what and so forth?”

“None at the moment, Captain.”

“Right! Well, keep up the good work.”

“Thank you, I will, sir.”

They hung up. Tyler leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. The captain had been overly protective of his prisoners, but Tyler supposed that was better than being hellbent on using them as whipping boys.

He was about to go and see what his constables were up to when there was a knock at the door and Constable Mortimer came in. She was carrying a small grey metal case.

“I thought you'd want to see this right away, sir. We found it on a shelf in the barn. It was underneath some sacking.”

“Put it on the chair and let's have a look.”

She did so, being careful not to touch too much of the surface.

“John Cartwright was sure it was in his father's room on Sunday. Even if Jasper took it to the barn the next day and hid it himself, it's not a very good hiding place. It was where
the cleaning supplies for milking are kept. There are various people who go into the barn, including the
POWS
.”

Tyler lifted the lid. There wasn't a lot inside: a dog collar, a broken pocket watch, three photographs of the same woman, taken at different ages. A Sunday school medal, engraved “To Jasper Cartwright, for perfect attendance.” The kinds of things that are of sentimental value to the owner but likely worth nothing to anyone else. However, there was also a thin, tarnished coin.

Tyler picked it up carefully. Like the one found in Jasper's pocket, this was stamped with the head of Charles I. He took the handkerchief from his pocket and removed the other coin.

“They look the same, don't they, sir?” said Mortimer.

“Indeed they do.”

Tyler returned to the case. There was a torn piece of lined paper tucked into the corner, which he removed. A pencilled notation was scrawled across it.

“Clee Hill at north. Forty paces east to west, then twenty. Go South Ten feet.”

“Make any sense of this, Constable Mortimer?”

She studied the paper for a minute. “Directions of some kind by the look. We've got two coins now. Are we talking in fact about buried treasure?”

“God. It's beginning to sound like a tale right out of
The Boy's Own Annual
.”

“We have no way of knowing when this was written, or how long Mr. Cartwright had it in the box, do we, sir? Or even if he was the one who wrote it.”

“The paper looks fresh enough. School notebook, I'd say.”

He turned over one of the photographs in the case:
“Grace at a church picnic.”

“Looks like the same handwriting, wouldn't you say?”

Mortimer nodded. “Definitely. The curly
G
s and the
C
s are identical.”

She reached into her pocket. “We also found this, sir.” She held out a tortoiseshell hair comb.

“Where was it?”

“Near the cot. It was underneath the rug.”

Tyler put the comb in his pocket and returned the piece of paper to the case. “Let's go and see what our Romeo has to say about this.”

Angelo sat unmoving.
The Boy's Own Annual
was open in his lap, but he was looking out the window. The wind was becoming even more ferocious, shaking the very house itself as if it wanted to destroy it. He knew he couldn't run. There was nowhere to go. He began to murmur softly to himself,
“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum.”

Saying the prayer took him straight back to his childhood. And of course straight back to his grandmother, so full of prayers and sayings. Now that he was grown up, he could better understand how difficult her life had been. Widowed at a young age, she had struggled to raise four children. Poverty had blighted her. Perhaps she had loved her husband and missed him but she said little, and what she did say wasn't particularly loving. His mother was her daughter, and she hadn't been happy about her marriage to a young man from the village. Had Nonna wanted more for her children? He didn't know. There had been so little of praise and encouragement, so much of carping and criticism.

For as long as Angelo could remember, he'd feared his grandmother and the malevolent expressions that flitted across her face. She was dark-skinned, hairy-chinned, and bony. She'd made no secret of disliking his fair hair and blue eyes, which set him apart from the other children in his family. They were
dark-eyed, and dark-haired, like her. She insinuated that their mother had stepped outside the bounds, had lifted her tail to the wrong man.
The passing stranger
. His mother had been enraged when Angelo asked innocently one day what Nonna meant, but even after that row, nothing changed. The old lady still minded them for long dreary hours, and she still trotted out her meagre store of sayings.
Money is the root of all evil. The Devil makes work for idle hands
. And, for Angelo the most pernicious:
Crying comes after laughter
.

He took a deep breath and began to recite his poem as if it were a prayer. He'd written it in English.

The door swung open and the red-headed policeman came in. The tall, thin female constable was with him. The inspector was carrying the metal case.

“Amen,” said Angelo.

Tyler put the case on the table in front of the settee.

“Have you seen this before?”

“No,
signor
.”

“It was on a shelf in the barn. How did it end up there?” He spoke slowly and deliberately, not wanting to leave any room for misunderstanding, real or feigned.

“I do not know,
signor
.”

“It belonged to Mr. Cartwright. His son says it was in his father's possession on Sunday. So unless it walked, it must have been brought to the barn sometime that night or sometime on Monday.”

“Pardon?”

Tyler repeated what he'd just said.

Angelo frowned. “I was working in tool shed most of day, Inspector. I could not know if Mr. Cartwright brought it to the barn or not.”

“You admitted earlier that, in fact, Mr. Cartwright did enter the barn in the early hours of the morning. Was he carrying it then?”

“No, sir. He was not.”

“This kind of case is fairly heavy. If Mr. Cartwright did bring it with him into the barn that night, perhaps he dropped it, and you picked it up and put it on the shelf until you could give it back…In all the excitement you forgot to mention it. Is that what happened?”

Angelo was looking very uncomfortable. “No, sir. It did not.”

Tyler held out the tortoiseshell comb. “Do you recognize this?”

“Er…it looks like a lady's hair pin. I might have seen such in the hair of Miss Walpole.”

“Why would it have been underneath your cot?”

Angelo lowered his eyes. “I do not know,
signor
. She is in here often. To milk cows. She must have dropped it.”

“Underneath your bed?”

“Perhaps she was cleaning.”

“Let's put it this way. It would help your situation if there was a witness. Somebody who could verify your account of Mr. Cartwright's comings and goings in the early hours of Monday morning.”

The Italian looked at him in alarm. “A witness? No, nobody. I was alone. Just myself.”

All right. He wasn't going to get much from him on that score. For now, anyway.

“And you have not touched this case or seen it before?”

“No,
signor
. I have not.”

Tyler tried another tack. He opened the case, took out the torn piece of paper, and held it in front of the Italian.

“Does this look familiar to you?”

“No,
signor
. Not at all.”

“They seem to be directions of some kind. Do you know what they refer to?”

“No. No clue.”

Angelo's confusion seemed genuine. Tyler returned the paper to the case.

“I'm going to ask you to give a sample of your fingerprints. We are asking all the members of the household to do the same. Understand so far?”

“Yes.”

“I have spoken to Captain Beattie and he has given permission for us to do that here at the farmhouse. Do you have any objection?”

Angelo shrugged and his expression was full of despair. “Would it matter if I did? I am prisoner of war. You can do what you like.”

“Maybe in your country and your allies', but not here. You are indeed a prisoner of war and that means you have certain rights. I cannot force this upon you.”

“And if you decide I am guilty of a bad crime, what then? A firing squad? Hanging?”

“We will follow the laws of the land. It is not for me to decide. It is my job to present evidence only. If you are charged with a crime of any kind, you will be tried in a court of law. You will be no different from anyone else so accused.”

But even as he said the words, Tyler wondered if they were true. Revenge and the justice system often blended together in a way that made them impossible to differentiate.

“So, Private Iaquinta, do I have your permission to take fingerprints?”

In answer, Angelo held out his hands.

“One more thing,” said Tyler. “I will have to conduct a search of your person. I'll ask you to remove your clothes and put them on the chair.”

Angelo actually summoned up a rather impish grin. “Will your constable be embarrassed if I strip down to my underwear?”

“To avoid any such possibility, I will ask her to step outside.”

He nodded at Mortimer, who was looking decidedly embarrassed.

“Shall I have Constable Biggs examine the case, sir?”

“Good idea. See what he can bring up. Handle it carefully.”

“Yes, sir. I had every intention of doing that.”

She picked the case up by the handle, using her handkerchief, turned around, and left quickly.

Angelo began to unbutton his coverall. He put it on the chair as directed and Tyler checked the pockets. He removed a folded piece of paper, which he opened.

The words were written neatly in pencil.

“Nice poem,” said Tyler. “I'm not familiar with it.”

Angelo lowered his head. “It is mine. I wrote it. It's not yet finished.”

“Is it for anybody in particular?”

“No, no. It is what you say…‘general'?”

Tyler put it on the chair also. Under the coverall, Angelo was wearing his regular army uniform. He took off the trousers and brown jacket with the telltale yellow patches signifying he was a prisoner of war. At Tyler's nod, he also turned out these pockets. They were empty.

“Do you want I go to completely bare?” Angelo asked. He'd removed his shirt and was standing in his underwear. His arms and legs were muscular.

“That's good enough, thank you, Private Iaquinta. Get dressed before you catch a chill. My constable will be here shortly to get your fingerprints. Why don't you work on your poem while you wait.”

Angelo blinked. “I regret that under the circumstances I am not inspired to write a poem about love.”