The Language of the Dead (33 page)

“I'm going after the MG.”

“But it's not our responsibility. The bloody sun will be up soon.”

“We have time.”

“I'll go with you.”

“No. Both of us can't go.” One of them had to remain to command the others. “I'll take Parker.”

Rivers grabbed Lamb's arm. “You won't.”

“Take your bloody hand from my arm, Sergeant.”

“He's too young.”

“Would you rather one of the other men take the risk? Besides, you damn well know that he's the best of the lot.”

The words infuriated Rivers. He thought he knew what Lamb was after—attention, promotion. Damn the consequences for Parker. Lamb could move the men under his command around as if they were nothing more than toy soldiers. Rivers believed that the men who faced the gun when the push came would have to take their chances, like the rest. But Eric was different; Eric would not have been there
had it not been for him. They had been friends since they were lads, and Rivers had not been able to face going off to war without Eric. And so he had persuaded Eric to join the London Regiment with him, to do their duty, as he'd said, and to sign up. Short of mutiny, though, he could do nothing to stop Lamb.

Lamb and Parker slithered forward, each with a grenade. Lamb had gone first. He tossed his bomb into the place where the machine gun was located. There had been an explosion, followed by the sound of moaning coming from the German trench. Then rifle fire had begun to pepper them from somewhere to their left. The earth erupted in a tiny explosion a few feet from Lamb's face. Suddenly Parker was on his feet and Lamb was shouting at him to get down. He began to crawl toward Parker, intent on yanking him back to the ground. He didn't see Parker throw his grenade toward the place from where the rifle fire had come. Then Parker crumpled. Lamb reached him and saw his lifeless eyes and a trickle of blood coming from the corner of his mouth.

For his actions that night, Lamb had been awarded a Military Cross, which he kept in a box in his attic and hadn't looked at in more than twenty years. And Harry Rivers never had forgiven him.

Now, he and Rivers faced each other.

“I'm willing to consider your opinions on the inquiry,” Lamb said evenly. “But if you ever challenge me in front of the other men like that again I'll have your arse. Do I make myself clear?”

Rivers glanced away, toward the stream. “Sir,” he said. He thought of slugging Lamb but found to his surprise that he didn't quite have the heart for it. Besides, doing so would only land him in more trouble. They'd take his warrant card for striking a superior officer.

“I'm sorry about Eric Parker, Harry, bloody sorry,” Lamb said. “You don't know how sorry. But I didn't kill him and neither did you.”

Rivers continued to look toward the stream. “Convenient, that,” he said. Even as he said it, he knew it to be unfair. Still, he wasn't able to let it go. Something in him wasn't.

“I've tried to be fair to you, Harry,” Lamb said. “I don't insist that you like me. But I do insist that you recognize the fact that I
outrank you and as such take on responsibilities for other men's lives, for their fates, that you are free of. And if you can't see your way to accepting that, then I'll have you sent out of here.”

Rivers smiled sarcastically. “You'll use my cock-up in Warwickshire. You'd love that.” He shrugged, as if he didn't care.

“I've no intention of using your mistakes against you. I've made mistakes, too, as you know. But I won't countenance your insubordination. You're a good detective, Harry. But you've got a bloody thorn in your arse and you enjoy it—enjoy the pain. But I'm finished wallowing in the pain, and the past. And that bloody MG had to go.”

“And Eric with it,” Rivers said. He turned away from Lamb and went down the hill.

A few minutes later, Lamb entered Bradford's cottage; Mike and his sisters were sitting at the table sucking butterscotch drops. Their fingernails were black with encrusted dirt, their arms scabbed and hair tangled. They turned to Lamb, their eyes wide with surprise. The two girls froze; Mike shot from his chair in the direction of the back door but ran into Harris.

“Whoa, there, Mike,” Harris said. “This is Inspector Lamb. You know him.” Mike allowed Harris to lead him back to his seat at the table, but kept his eyes riveted on Lamb.

Lamb squatted next to Mike. “Hello, Mike,” he said. “You remember me, don't you?” Mike nodded. Lamb turned to the girls, who were sitting across the table. “Hello, girls,” he said. Neither spoke or moved. He smiled. “What are your names?”

The youngest, who was four, said “Natalie.” She was the girl from whom Lamb had taken the stick on the night of Blackwell's murder.

“That's a very pretty name,” Lamb said. He turned his attention to the older girl, who was six. “And how about you, love?” he asked. The look on her face made it appear as if she considered Lamb akin to something like a werewolf.

“Her name is Vera,” Natalie offered.

“Vera?” Lamb said. “I have a girl named Vera, though she's older than you.”

“What has happened to daddy?” Natalie asked. “Where is he?”

Lamb wondered how much the children knew or had seen. They seemed not to know that their father was dead. He decided that he must lie to them about Bradford's fate, so as not to upset them. If they knew their father was dead, they might not speak to him. There would be time later for someone to ease them toward the truth more gently.

“Your father is hurt and we are taking him to hospital,” Lamb said. “And we are going to take you and your brother and sister to a nice place where you will be warm and safe and have plenty to eat.”

None of the children spoke. Lamb wondered how they were squaring up what he was telling them in their childish minds.

“Is everyone all right?” he asked. “Is anyone hurt?” Natalie shook her head. The other two remained silent. “If you are hurt, you should tell me, so we can get you properly cared for.”

“We're not hurt,” Mike said.

“That's good,” Lamb said. He smiled again. “Have any of you seen anyone around the cottage in the past day or so—maybe someone who was a stranger?”

Silence.

“How about you, Mike? Have you seen anyone?”

Mike shook his head.

“I want you all three to think back, please,” Lamb said. “Did anyone visit your father in the past few days? Did you see your father talking to anyone?”

Silence again. Natalie eyed the tin of butterscotch drops, which Harris had left on the table. “Would you like another, Natalie?” Lamb asked. She nodded. He fished a drop from the tin and handed it to her. “Did you see your father talking to anyone in the past few days, love?” Lamb asked.

“No,” she said. She rolled the candy in her mouth.

“How about you, Vera?”

Vera shook her head.

“Would you like another sweet?” Lamb asked Vera. She put her hands under her legs and shrugged.

“How about you, Mike? Would you like another?”

“Yes.”

Lamb gave each of them another butterscotch. Vera examined hers for a couple of seconds, as if she found it suspicious, before popping it into her mouth.

“I know you all must be hungry and we won't take much more time here,” Lamb said. “I've arranged for someone to bring you some food. Do you like sandwiches?”

“I like sandwiches,” Natalie offered. Her small head bobbed; Lamb could tell that she had begun to swing her feet beneath the table.

“That's good,” Lamb said. “But before we go, I must ask one more question.” He turned to Mike. “Do you remember, Mike, that when I spoke with you before, you told me you had seen a tall man on Manscome Hill on the day Will Blackwell died?”

Mike nodded.

“That's good,” Lamb repeated. “Now, I'm going to ask you another question, and I want you to know that you won't get into any trouble by telling me the truth. Do you understand?”

Another nod.

“Did you make that man up, Mike, or did you really see him?”

Mike hesitated. “I really saw him.”

“You said the last time that the man was Peter Wilkins, Mike, though that was after I mentioned Peter's name. Are you still certain that the man you saw was Peter? Remember that only the truth will do. I promise you that, whatever happens, no harm will come to you from the police or your father or anyone else.”

Mike nodded again.

“Can you tell me again how he was dressed?”

“Brown trousers and a brown hat.”

“Anything else?”

“A white shirt.”

The description matched what Mike had told Lamb the first time they'd spoken.

“Are you afraid of this man, Mike?”

“Yes.”

“Was the man Peter, Mike?”

“No.”

“Who was it, then?”

Mike hunched his shoulders, as if uncertain.

“About a year ago, a boy named Thomas Bennett ran away from Lord Pembroke's estate and came here to the hill,” Lamb said. “Do you remember that?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know about the boy hiding on the hill before Will Blackwell found him? Remember that no one can hurt you now and that you must tell me the truth.”

“We gave him food,” Natalie said.

Mike quickly turned toward Natalie, surprised that she'd spoken. Vera looked terrified.

Lamb smiled at Natalie. “That was very nice of you,” he said.

“Yes, he were hungry.”

“And did you see the boy with him—the mute boy, Peter?”

“Yes,” Natalie said. “But daddy told us to stay away from the crazy boy. He were a witch, like old Will. Can I have another butterscotch?”

“Of course,” Lamb said. He gave them each another butterscotch, then turned his attention back to Mike.

“I have one or two more important questions to ask you, Mike. You are doing very well and we're almost finished.”

Mike sat stock still.

“I think you have seen things—know things—about which you haven't told me yet. Am I right about that?”

“Yes,” Mike said quietly.

The fact that Pirie had not destroyed the photo of Thomas that Lamb had found in Pirie's bedside table continued to trouble Lamb. Why would a guilty Pirie run to avoid arrest but fail to dispose of the
one piece of evidence that damned him? Lamb now tested the theory he'd slowly been developing about the killings.

“Did you see Will Blackwell on the day he died?” he asked Mike.

“Yes.”

“Was he alive or dead when you saw him?”

“Dead. The crows were on him.”

“Now, to the man you saw on the hill that day. Did you see this man before or after you found Will's body?”

“Before.”

“How long before you found Will?”

“The sun were just topping the wood.” Lamb realized that Mike didn't know how to tell time. If the sun still was just breaking over the trees, then the time must have been no later than an hour or so before noon.

“And was the man walking toward where Will was working?”

“Yes.”

“But this man didn't see you because you were hiding and because he doesn't know you—doesn't know that you wander about the hill and see everything that goes on there?”

Mike nodded.

“Before you and I talked the last time, Mike, did your father know you had seen someone on the hill the day that Will Blackwell died, or did he find this out only when you told me?”

Mike hesitated.

“Mike?”

“He only found out when I told you.”

“And did you then tell your father who the man really was—that it wasn't Peter?”

“Yes.”

“Who was that man, Mike?”

Again, Mike hesitated.

Lamb moved close to him. “I promise you that you are in no trouble, Mike, and that you are safe.”

Mike looked at his sisters, then at Lamb.

“It were Lord Pembroke,” he said.