He squinted at Tyler through the sun. “What about? I’m just going for my dinner.”
“Why don’t I join you then? Save us both time.”
Trimble didn’t move. “I likes a bit of peace and quiet when I’m eating. What do you want to talk to me about?”
“If you prefer the whole neighbourhood knows your business that’s all right with me, but I’m actually conducting a police investigation. You can talk to me out here in front of the door, or in a quiet place inside, or better yet, you can come down to the station.”
“You can’t make me do that.”
“Oh yes I can. And I will. I was just giving you a bit of a break by suggesting we talk here. We can find a nice private spot at the back.”
“I’ll give you half an hour,” said Trimble.
Tyler followed him inside and indicated the same nook
where he and Clare had been.
Frank came over looking surprised, but only said, “Another cider?”
“Nothing thanks. I’m just a spectator.”
“The usual for you, Arthur?”
He got the nod and bustled off.
“This your office now, is it?” Trimble asked.
“Any place, anywhere, is our motto. Crime is no respecter of location.”
Frank returned with a pint of bitter and a plate heaped with thick bacon strips, eggs, beans, and fried bread. Trimble dived into the food as if he hadn’t eaten for days. Tyler watched fascinated to see what he’d do with his moustache, and sure enough it soon became smeared with egg yolk. He managed to avoid looking at the beer which had a nice head of foam. He took out a cigarette and lit it, not offering one to Trimble.
“You’ve heard about the death of this young Land Army girl, I assume?”
“I have. Sir Percy told me. Shame about that.”
“You knew her, I understand.”
Trimble shot him a glance. “She was one of the Land Army billets, if that’s what you mean.”
“What was your impression of her?”
Trimble sopped up some egg yolk with his fried bread. “Not much. Not that I’m going to speak ill of the dead ’cos I’m not, but she was a bit of a trollop in my opinion.”
“I heard you were one of her conquests.”
He’d hoped he’d get a rise out of him, but Trimble must have been expecting the question, and he showed no reaction.
“Who told you that?” He stuffed the last of the bacon strips into his mouth.
“Doesn’t matter who told me. Was it true?”
Trimble shrugged, pushed back his plate, and started to pick
his teeth. “I wouldn’t say I was a conquest. Truth be told, she went after me. I felt sorry for her. Young girl like that from the city. Never seen a cow before. She said she missed all the excitement of London. She was homesick like. So I gave her a few things to cheer her up. Some chocolates once in a while, some fresh eggs when I could. That sort of thing. Nothing illegal. All on my own rations.” He studied a piece of bacon that he’d rescued from his back teeth, then finished it off. “I soon saw she was using me and I moved on. Wounded her vanity, most like. She was quite nasty after that.” He gulped down some of his bitter.
“Funny, that’s not the story I heard,” said Tyler, rather carelessly blowing smoke in Trimble’s direction. “I heard you were smitten with the girl and you were furious when she broke off the relationship.”
The manager frowned. “It was the exact opposite. It was me that ended it.” He made a point of looking over at the grandfather clock near the corner of the bar. “Is that all you wanted to know?”
“Can you tell me where you were this morning between the hours of six and seven o’clock?”
“Where I usually am, working about the estate. We start early.”
“Can anybody vouch for you?”
“Speak to Lady Somerville. I was clearing out a place to plant a victory garden. She knew about it.”
“With you, was she? She keeps early hours.”
“No, she wasn’t with me as such, but she knew what I was doing.”
Tyler knew that the talk was that Lady Somerville was starting to forget a lot of things and couldn’t tell you what day it was unless it happened to be a Sunday, church day, or rent collection day on Friday.
“Did you see anybody else yourself?”
“I wasn’t looking, was I? I had my jobs to do and I did them.”
“Other than trying to determine how to avoid the rose beds, what else were you doing exactly?”
Trimble paused to fish for the last vestige of trapped bacon. “I was mostly tidying up the potting shed. Her ladyship likes to see it clean and neat when she does her own spot of gardening.”
Trimble had dark brown eyes and heavy eyebrows. Where he was sitting was shadowy and it was hard to read his expression. Tyler sensed he wasn’t going to get any further, not today anyway. The man had come well armoured.
“One more question. Have you ever owned a German Luger
P-08
pistol?”
“Never.”
“You didn’t bring back a souvenir from the last war, for instance?”
“No. I wasn’t in the front line. I was with the main quartermaster store down in London.”
“Comfy crib, eh?”
Trimble scowled. “We can’t all be heroes, can we? I was doing essential work. What about you? Doing the usual? Chasing down lost sheep, were you?”
“As a matter of fact I was with the Shropshires. We saw a lot of action.”
“You’ll have to tell me your war stories some time,” Trimble said with a sneer.
Tyler drew on his cigarette. The bloody man had got the upper hand and he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because he’d scored a hit with the remark about lost sheep.
“Do you know of anybody who might have owned a Luger?”
“Sir Percy told me she’d been shot. Was that the weapon?”
Tyler wished Sir P. had been a bit more discreet, but it was too late now. “We’ll have to run tests but we did find a Luger near the body.”
“Well, I’m not the one who shot her. Personally, I’d think you should go to the camp. Crammed with Krauts that place.” He upended his beer glass, leaving foam on his moustache.
Tyler got to his feet. “Thanks for your time, Trimble. Glad you got in your dinner. Try the apple pudding; I hear it’s good.”
He left him, nodded to Frank, and went out to his car.
He didn’t like Trimble, never had. They’d first met at the local horticultural show where Trimble had been displaying Lady Somerville’s roses. There was the usual hotly contested competition in the Best Bloom category. Trimble had actually accused the judge of undue bias and insisted that Tyler investigate. He had considered the issue utterly trivial, but had been forced to follow up. He’d found no instance of bias on the judge’s part. “Better blooms, Inspector, much better blooms. Her ladyship needs to invest in some good sheep shit.”
Tyler got into the Humber, took out his notebook, and wrote down some of the things Trimble had said. If it came to a choice of believing him or Rose Watkins, he’d take Rose anytime. Elsie wasn’t a girl to elicit pity. Quite the opposite. However, the fact that the man was a fart catcher, and a shite bucket to boot, didn’t mean he was guilty of murder.
Tyler stashed his notebook back in his pocket. A chat with Alice Thorne was in order and she was probably to be found at her regular stall in the square. He put the car in gear and backed out.
A
FTER THE STARTLING ANNOUNCEMENT BY THE
police inspector, most of the internees had remained in the mess tent, talking amongst themselves. Worried, questioning talk. Several had clustered around Dr. Beck.
“We must present a petition to Major Fordham without delay,” said Beck. “Kurt, will you help to draft it? Your English is good. We must emphasize our willingness to co-operate with the police if necessary, and our support of the British government. Lard it, as they say.”
Kurt Bader was a young, round-faced lad, with straw-blond hair and clean-cut features. His mother was Jewish and he endured some teasing from the others about being the imperfect Aryan.
Bader grinned. “With a trowel, Doctor.”
“What is ‘lard it’?” asked Herr Gold.
Beck was about to explain when they heard somebody calling from the direction of the tents.
“Dr. Beck. Dr. Beck. Come quickly.”
The seminarian, Hans Hoeniger, his black cassock flapping in the wind, was hurrying to the tent. Drawn by the urgency in his voice, Beck stood up.
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s Herr Hartmann,” said Hoeniger, gasping. “He’s in his tent. I was walking by and I heard him … he’s distraught. I popped my head in and tried to talk to him, but it seemed to make him worse. You’d better come and see to him.”
Gunther Hartmann was close to seventy, a violinist who
shouldn’t have been in the camp at all, but had been brought there at his own request. He’d told the others it was the only place he felt safe. Earlier in the year, when the local police started to round up enemy aliens, he had chosen to go along with the other Jewish members of the orchestra he played with. The upheaval and the stress on an already fragile personality had brought him to the edge of a breakdown. Quietly and privately, Dr. Beck had been helping him.
The Jesuit priest, Father Glatz, looked at him anxiously. “Shall I come with you? I believe he trusts me.”
Hoeniger led the way with Beck and the priest close behind.
As they approached one of the tents in Row A, they could indeed hear a loud wailing. Another voice was interjecting, but without effect, it seemed.
The seminarian lifted the tent flap and Beck stepped inside. Herr Hartmann was huddled in the far corner between his cot and the little cupboard the internees were given for their belongings. He was rocking back and forth, keening. A man was kneeling beside him, trying his best to soothe him. It was Howard Silber, in his previous life an actor of some prominence. Usually he was flamboyant and loud, but at the moment he was out of his depth. He turned to Beck in relief.
“What’s the matter with him? I can’t calm him down.”
“Allow me,” said Beck, and he went over to the distraught man and crouched down so he was on a level. He spoke in German.
“Dr. Beck here, Professor. Can you talk to me?”
Hartmann didn’t seem to hear him. He was completely lost in his own terror. Beck glanced over his shoulder.
“Hans, will you run to my tent? In my cupboard you will find a leather case. Bring it here if you please. Quick as you can.”
The seminarian hurried off. Beck’s voice continued, calm and confident. “Father Glatz, would you open a few flaps so
we can have more light and air? Mr. Silber, will you be so kind as to keep people out of here?”
Silber stood up, and suddenly Hartmann shrieked, pointed at him, and shouted something in German.
“What did he say?” asked the actor, startled.
More crying and words tumbled from the older man.
Silber had been born to German parents on English soil. He couldn’t speak a word of German and considered himself English to the core. It was obvious he was the focus of the professor’s fear.
“What’s he saying?” he asked again.
Beck shook his head. “I can’t quite understand him. He seems to think you are an enemy. A spy for the Gestapo.”
“Me? Good grief. Why would he think that?”
Beck didn’t answer, but reverted to German, and continued to talk to Hartmann, whose eyes were dilated with terror.
Hoeniger returned with the case and handed it to Beck, who took out a syringe and a vial.
“Hans, I’m afraid our friend will struggle, but I need to give him some sedation. Will you hold his arm steady for me?”
Hartmann fought like a man in fear of his life, and it took both Hoeniger and Father Glatz to hold him still so that Beck could administer the drug. It was normally fast-acting, but it was several minutes before the professor quieted down. Finally, he succumbed and his head fell back.
“Give me that pillow, if you please, Hans,” said Beck. “We’ll leave him where he is for the time being.”
“What happened?” asked Hoeniger, as they made the old man as comfortable as they could.
“I’m afraid this noble man was arrested by the Nazis just before war broke out, and he was sent to the concentration camp at Dachau. He is as far from being a political person as is possible, but in his youth he wrote a critique of Wagner’s
music. He wasn’t partial to our great German and made some derogatory remarks, as youth are apt to do. We can only think that the article resurfaced and that was why he was arrested, although the charge was never specified. He was severely mistreated in the camp, and when he was released, he discovered his wife of many years had died.”
“Poor fellow,” said Glatz. “He always seems so unassuming, except when he plays, when it is as if the angels visit.”
“Will you please speak in English,” interrupted Silber. “I have no idea what you’re saying.”
Beck translated what had just been said.
“I thought the relative tranquility of the camp life was helping him to heal, but what happened today has brought back all the injustice and trauma of his past incarceration. He believes we will all be killed. That the enemy is at the gates.”
“Lordy, I hope that isn’t true,” exclaimed Silber. Even in the hot weather, he affected a long black cloak, the insignia of his profession, and he wrapped it around himself as if it could shield him.
“Should Herr Hartmann be sent to the hospital?” asked the priest.
“No. It would frighten him more,” answered Beck. “If one of you gentlemen would be so kind as to relinquish your bed, I will remain here until he is himself again.”
“Take mine gladly,” said Silber. “People in that sort of state frighten me. By the way, Doctor, why did he pick on me?”
“He thought you were a Nazi spy. He says he’s seen a man coming and going in the camp at night. He thinks it was you.”
“Good Lord. It certainly was
not
me!”
This time it was Hans Hoeniger, the seminarian, who requested a translation. He looked at Silber, who guessed what he was thinking.
“For God’s sake tell them I’m not a spy, Dr. Beck. They’re both staring at me as if they believe it.”
Beck admonished both of them, slipping from English to German with ease. “Let’s be sensible, gentlemen. Professor Hartmann has suffered a psychotic episode. We cannot take seriously what he says. He also thinks the Italians are putting poison in the food, and that Major Fordham is in league with the Gestapo. When he is more himself, I shall question him, but I can assure you, he is quite delusional.”