Season Of Darkness (30 page)

The seminarian was smiling at him mischievously.

“By all means disturb me. I am completely unproductive today.”

“I see you have your writing box with you. What are you working on today?”

“A paper for the
London Journal of Psychoanalysis
. It may or may not see the light of day but it keeps me occupied.”

“And the topic?”

“Do you really want to know? It’s quite esoteric.”

“I have already benefited from being in this camp with so many brilliant men, a little psychoanalysis would be a nice addition.”

Hoeniger plopped himself down on the grass, tucking his long soutane under his knees as a woman would. His gold cross glinted in the sun. Beck often thought the religious restrictions Father Glatz placed on the young seminarian might be oppressive, but Hoeniger always seemed agreeably compliant.

“All right. You asked for it. Perhaps explaining it to you will help me clarify my thoughts.” He pressed the tips of his fingers together. “I am exploring the role of the analyst when presented with what appear to be paranoid delusions on the part of the patient.”

“Ah … will you explain that?”

“Certainly. Some more orthodox practitioners believe the analyst must under no circumstances break the bubble of delusion. That the patient will eventually come to see the reality if one simply continues with the psychoanalytic process … Others think that the patient must be presented with evidence
that his beliefs are delusional, rather like metaphorically dousing them with cold water to bring them to their senses.”

“What view do you side with?” asked the seminarian.

Beck chewed more on the pencil. “It requires a lot of patience to wait out the paranoia, and sometimes, especially if an underlying psychosis is present, the delusions are never relinquished. What I have always taught my students is that trying to force the patient to face their own paranoia is a mistake. They will often end the analysis in a state of what we call negative transference, and the delusions will continue and proliferate.”

“This is all going over my head I’m afraid, Doctor. Can you give me an example? I do better with examples.”

“Certainly. Look at Professor Hartmann. It was imperative that he felt his, shall we call them, delusions were not being dismissed.”

“You mean when he was convinced that Herr Silber is a German spy?”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe he is a spy? If not Silber, perhaps somebody else in the camp was coming and going. Maybe the professor wasn’t delusional.”

“Believe me, the poor man is in a severe fugue at the moment. I’m very concerned that he might not come out of it. On the other hand, you’re quite right. There can be a grain of truth in even the most outlandish belief.”

Hoeniger looked alarmed. “Oh dear, I was just playing the devil’s advocate. That’s a rather frightening thought.”

“Paranoia grows like a disease in times of war. But we cannot abandon trust and common sense. You should know that as a good Catholic.”

“I stand corrected.”

Both men were momentarily distracted. Alice Thorne was fastening her cart to one of the fence posts.

Hoeniger nodded in her direction. “In my opinion, there is a woman of courage. She is always trying to persuade us to take the peace pledge. Many people see that as supporting our enemies. I’ve seen men here get really angry with her, calling her traitor and so on.”

“What about you, as a man devoting his life to the Christian God of peace, have you taken the pledge?”

The seminarian grinned. “Of course. Does Mrs. Thorne live in town, by the way? I’d think she runs the risk of having people burning crosses on her lawn if she does.”

“Oh, no, she told me she has her own cottage in the woods. Perhaps for exactly that reason. She raises rabbits and fresh vegetables. She rescues unwanted dogs.”

“She is indeed saintly.”

Alice had put a wooden yoke around her neck from which dangled two baskets of apples. It was an old-fashioned but effective way to transport them. She disappeared into the mess tent.

Hoeniger lay back on the grass, his hands underneath his head. “Pretend I am one of your patients. Let’s say one of the three
H
’s.”

“Who?”

“Herr Hitler, Herr Heydrich, and Herr Himmler.”

Beck chuckled. “I have to say that one man I would truly have liked to have on my couch would be Herr Himmler.”

“Good heavens why? The man is a devil incarnate.”

“I don’t believe in devils, my dear Hans, just troubled men.”

“But why Herr Himmler? Why not Heydrich? Or the Fuhrer himself?”

“I have heard on the absolutely best authority that Herr Himmler suffers dreadfully from his stomach. I have no doubt that it is his guilt that is eating at him.”

Hoeniger squinted up at him. “Guilt about what?”

“He has acquired much power, but temperamentally I believe he is a timid man whose more natural inclination would be to follow a leader. However, he is also extremely ambitious, and the two opposing drives are creating an internal conflict which is causing his stomach distress.”

“Bah. And not that he eats too much sauerkraut and sausage for instance?”

“That too,” said Beck with a laugh. “So there you have it. Are you more enlightened now?”

“It’s been most edifying. Do you miss being in Berlin?”

“Very much. I joined the Berlin Psychoanalytic Institute in 1920, and was most content until the Nazi menace began to make itself felt. I had no choice but to leave.”

“When did you get out?”

“Right before the declaration of war in ’39. I was lucky.”

They heard a familiar clanging of the warning bell. A voice came over the loudspeaker.

“All internees to gather immediately in the mess tent. The major has an important message. All internees to gather immediately.”

“What’s that all about?” asked Hoeniger. “I must say, I always get the shivers, thinking that they’re going to announce England has been invaded.”

“Let’s hope not. We’re all sitting ducks in here. Come on, we’d better go.”

Beck closed up his file box and tucked it under his arm, and the two of them joined the flow of men walking to the tent.

The doctor felt chilled to the bone. He’d been quite sanguine when he was talking to Hoeniger, but there was a terrifying tide of evil that had been unleashed upon the world, and he had a sinking feeling that this little backwater was far from exempt.

T
ELLING THE
L
AND GIRLS THAT ANOTHER OF THEIR
friends had been murdered was one of the hardest things Tyler had ever done.

Nobody had much to say, but Miss Stillwell assured them that anybody who wished to apply for leave could do so. Likewise, anyone who did not want to work for the rest of the day was excused. Tyler left as they were discussing this, but all seemed in favour of continuing work. He promised he would return as soon as he had any developments in the case. As he was leaving the room, Molly Cooper impulsively ran over and hugged him. Freckles and Sylvia followed suit.

“We know you’ll find out who the culprit is, Inspector.”

From the hostel, Tyler drove straight to the hospital. To his relief, Miss Parsons was not at the desk and he went straight down to the morgue, where he found Dr. Murnaghan busy weighing out some rather slimy looking pieces of liver.

“I’ll just be a minute. I’m portioning out some rations for the cats. It’s not human liver; don’t worry. I just keep the meat down here where it’s cool. If you go over to my desk, you’ll find my report on the Watkins girl. I put the cord that was around her neck in a separate envelope. It looks like your common garden variety of rope to me, but the lab might find something more. You can deal with that. I had to cut off her clothes and they’ll need to be burnt. They stink to high heaven. She had a rosary in her pocket and I’ve salvaged that. It’s in that other envelope. Her family will probably want it. There was nothing else.”

The coroner began to wrap up each piece of liver in brown paper.

Tyler went over to the desk and opened up the report.

“I see she was
virgo intacto
. No sign of rape?”

“Nope. There was no semen anywhere on her body so she wasn’t assaulted in that way. She had a nasty wound on the back of her head which wouldn’t have killed her, but would most likely have rendered her unconscious. There were bits of bark in the wound, so I’d say she was hit with a piece of wood.”

Tyler turned the page. “Cause of death definitely asphyxiation?”

“Yes. It was sudden, violent, and quick. Tiny little thing she was, wouldn’t have put up much of a fight, but I didn’t find any defensive bruising on her arms, nothing under her fingernails.” He went over to the sink and began to wash the blood from his hands. “Her assailant came from behind. She probably didn’t know what hit her. Literally.”

“Before she was moved to the Fort, do you think she was first buried somewhere in the woods?”

“I’d say not. There weren’t a significant number of leaves or dirt in her clothing.”

Tyler was skimming through the report as the doctor was talking. The last things Rose had eaten were biscuits and a savoury pie of some kind. He had a sudden vivid picture of the two of them in the library at the hostel and how Rose had tucked into the biscuits with such pleasure.

Dr. Murnaghan dried off his hands. “You’d better have a look at the body. I haven’t tried to tidy her up. The family will have to have a closed coffin.”

When Tyler returned to the police station, Sergeant Gough was at the desk, and he read the signs immediately.

“Tough go, sir?”

“I’ll say.”

“I’m afraid I have some troubling news, sir. Dennis McEvoy has scarpered.”

“What?”

“I sent Aston round to his house and his mother said that Dennis has been called back to his regiment in Liverpool. He packed a suitcase and left.”

“Is that true? Has he been recalled?”

“No, it’s not. I rang Major Fordham at the camp and as far as he is concerned, McEvoy is under no orders other than his. He is now considered to be
AWOL.”

“Put out an all-station alert. We’ve got to find him.”

“He has a motorcycle, but according to Aston it’s up on blocks, so he’s not using that.”

“Shite. He must have taken off as soon as Janet came here.”

“Is she all right?”

“Considering the circumstances, not bad, I suppose.”

“I brought the major up to date concerning Rose Watkins. He was going to make an announcement to the camp. Are you going to go over there, sir?”

“I don’t see anything to be gained at the moment. But ring Fordham again, will you, Guff. Tell him I’d like to consult with that psychiatrist bloke. Say I’ll come to the camp tomorrow morning.”

“Becoming a convert are you, sir?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that. But I’m damned if I’m going to be accused of having a closed mind. If he helps me one iota, I’ll take it.”

He was heading for his office when the front door swung open with a bang and Constable Eagleton burst in. He was holding his gas mask box in front of him as if it were a bird’s nest full of eggs.

“Sir. I found Rose’s hat and handbag.”

Carefully, Eagleton removed a straw hat and white handbag from the box. He put a handkerchief on the counter and unwrapped it. There were half a dozen cigarette butts inside.

“I found these a few feet away from where the hat was. And there’s this.”

He was holding a chunk of wood. The smear of blood at one end was clear.

“Dr. Murnaghan found some bark in the wound on the back of her head,” said Tyler. “That must have been what the killer used. Guff, will you tag it. Well done, Eager.”

“The hat was just lying on the ground, and the handbag was close by.”

Tyler examined one of the butts. “Good old Woodbines. Where were they?”

“Quite a long way from the Fort, sir. When I was retracing her footsteps through the woods, I’d only walked six minutes. The path runs almost at right angles from the road. Fairly easy to walk.”

“Does this mean she was meeting somebody?” Gough asked. “He was waiting and, for whatever reason, let loose and clobbered her.”

“I don’t know. If that is what happened, he was there for a while. Even a chain smoker would take a couple of hours at least to go through that many cigarettes.”

“Is it the same person who was at the Fort?”

“I don’t think so. These fags have been smoked to the bitter end. The others weren’t that way at all.” He studied the butts more closely. “You know what, lads. These were not discarded all at the same time. Have a good look. See, those two are thoroughly soaked and soggy. Those three less so, and this one’s dry. Eager, were they close together or scattered?”

“I’d say scattered around, sir.”

“So the smoker goes back to this spot on a regular basis,
smokes a fag or two and does what? Studies mushrooms?”

“None there, sir.”

“Figure of speech, Eager. All right. I want you to head up the search. Guff, let’s get as many men on to it as we can.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Eager, you said you walked for six minutes. How far is that?”

“About a quarter of a mile, sir. I picked up a path about half a mile along the road from the hostel. I’d say I was walking west toward the camp. The land slopes downward and the trees are thick so the spot is well hidden.”

“All right. Let’s keep an open mind, as the man says, but I’m betting Rose wasn’t meeting anybody. She was hurrying to get to Mass but she disturbed somebody. Somebody who didn’t want to be discovered. She was attacked from the rear and she didn’t defend herself.”

“As if she was running away,” said the constable.

“Exactly. Let’s get everybody out there. Go over every inch of ground. I want to know what our fag-loving chappie was doing.”

“Could it be a Jerry parachutist?” asked Eagleton.

“So many people keep suggesting this, I’m going to start believing it myself,” said Tyler in exasperation. “But this killer hid Rose’s body from Thursday night to Saturday. Where? Dr. Murnaghan is sure she wasn’t buried before she was moved to the Fort.”

“He had a vehicle of some kind,” said Gough.