Season Of Darkness (42 page)

He walked quietly and steadily along the path that Trimble had told him about. It wasn’t well trodden and the tree branches slapped him in the face, stinging him. He bit back exclamations and kept walking. It wasn’t long before he came to the clearing. He stood sniffing at the air like a dog. The smell of wood smoke told him this was where the cottage was, although he could see nothing as yet. Cautiously, he took a step forward. Immediately, a dog barked a warning. He took another step. The dog barked more loudly, his voice proclaiming an enemy. Another dog joined in and he could sense rather than see that they were heading straight for him
.

He removed the Luger and snapped off the safety catch
.

T
HE THREE OF THEM WERE GATHERED IN THE MAJOR’S
tent. Fordham had ordered some first aid for Beck, and while Tyler bandaged the doctor’s injured hands, Beck poured out his story of the letters he’d received from Otto Schreyer and the incriminating photographs.

“Are you telling us, Doctor, that five men have been slaughtered in cold blood so that somebody could destroy photographs that are of an allegedly incriminating nature regarding a highly placed Nazi?”

“I can think of no other explanation, Inspector,” said Beck. “I’ve been thinking about it as objectively as I could.” The oil lamp was casting shadows on his face, making him appear old. “I heard nothing. There were no cries for help or such. I think he killed everybody before they could even wake up. Probably to ensure they couldn’t give the alarm. That would have occurred before the fire. He deliberately obliterated their faces which suggests to me he wanted to delay identification as long as possible. He wanted to buy time to escape.” He lowered his head. “I feel most acutely responsible. I should have immediately brought the photographs to you for safekeeping, Major. I believed I was protecting patient confidentiality.”

Fordham sighed. “Never mind that now. You should have but you didn’t. You had no way of knowing there was an enemy agent in our midst.”

Tyler could see that the doctor’s sense of guilt was not going to be easily assuaged, and he felt sorry for him.

“And it must have been pure chance that he saw you hand over the envelope to Father Glatz,” added Tyler.

“But he also knew the significance of the self-same envelope,” said Beck. “That is most puzzling.”

Fordham continued. “If the killer has escaped, and it seems that is the case, where has he gone? A German-speaking man on the loose is going to alarm every man and woman in the countryside. He doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Perhaps he speaks perfectly good English,” said Tyler. “What about the two men who are so far unaccounted for? Did they speak English?”

“Bader did a little, but badly,” replied Beck. “Hoeniger had none. At least not that I know of. He said he couldn’t.”

Tyler heard the doubt in his voice. “It’s easy to pretend you can’t speak the language when you can.”

“Yes, sir, that is true. I mean, generally I have found Bader to be a well-mannered young man with no indication that he is a cold-blooded killer. Hans Hoeniger was studying to be a priest and he appeared to be a good soul.”

“We’d better get on to MI5 at once,” said Fordham. “This is out of my province. We need the experts. You say they’re hunkering down in the Old Rectory, Tyler?”

“Yes, sir. I would ask for a Mr. Grey.”

“Confounded silly if you ask me. I know it’s national security and all that but surely they could have let me know what they were up to.”

“I wasn’t informed either. I suppose they operate on the principle of what the right hand doesn’t know, the left hand won’t punch, or whatever that bloody expression is.”

Beck looked over Tyler’s shoulder. “Ah, here comes Frau Devereau’s car. She seems to have brought somebody with her.”

Tyler turned. Grey was seated beside Clare.

“The very man you wanted to see, Major.”

One of the guards came trotting fast along the path.

“Have you got a complete roll call yet?” the major asked him.

“I have, sir. I had the tent captains do it. We do seem to have one more man unaccounted for. He was in tent twenty-six, which is two rows down from here. His name is O’Connor. Michael O’Connor. According to the tent captain, sir, he was present when they all retired for the night but he’s not there now.”

Tyler experienced a wrench of disappointment. Was O’Connor indeed an Irish terrorist?

He got his answer. A second soldier was running toward the major’s tent. He skidded to a stop, saluted, and said breathlessly.

“We’ve found O’Connor, sir. I’m afraid he’s dead. His throat’s been cut.”

J
IMMY WAS AWAKENED BY THE NOISE OF THE DOGS
barking. He could tell by the sound that they were both in a warning mode, and he raised his head, wondering if a fox was on the prowl. Then he heard two bangs in quick succession. One of the dogs started to yelp, there was another bang, and silence.

He got out of bed at once. Alice had provided him with a cot tucked underneath the window in the living room. The curtains were drawn, and he lifted the edge cautiously. It was still pitch black outside and he couldn’t see anything. Alice came out of her bedroom, Skip close behind her.

“Jimmy, I think somebody just shot my dogs.” she whispered.

The collie hopped past her to the door and put his nose to the bottom, tail alert, nostrils quivering as he tried to pick up a scent. Alice and Jimmy stood motionless, ears straining to hear. Nothing.

“I’ve got to go and check,” she said.

“No, you won’t. There’s somebody out there with a gun.”

Alice reached for a mackintosh that was hanging on the door. “I can’t imagine whoever it is would want to shoot me. I’ve got to see if the dogs are alive or wounded.”

“I’ll go. Where’s your shotgun?”

“In the case. But Jimmy, for God’s sake be careful.”

He bolted the front door. “I’ll go out the back way; lock it behind me.”

Skip was dancing around, eager to get outside. Alice spoke to him sharply: “Lie down. We’re not going anywhere.”

Alice followed Jimmy to the back door. He removed the shotgun and checked that the safety catch was on. Alice extinguished the oil lamp she had been carrying. She wasn’t showing any fear, and Jimmy drew strength from that. They stood quietly while he got used to the darkness.

“All right, now. Stay inside.”

He opened the door quietly and stepped out. Only the rustle of the wind in the trees; no murmur from either dog. He could hear agitated chirping from the birds in the nearby bushes.

He became a soldier again.

Moving away from the door, he crouched, ready to run along the side of the cottage to the tool shed, which would give him some protection. He assumed the shooter, if he was still there, was in front of the cottage, which was where the gunshots had come from.

He was using his senses, sharpened by those weeks of warfare, as if he were a dog, smelling the air, listening, trying to sense if there was somebody hiding in the trees across the clearing. They had the advantage of being prepared. They knew where he was; he didn’t know where they were.

He scrambled toward the shed, which was a slightly darker shape just discernible in the faint light of the moon. Just as he reached the corner of the cottage, he stumbled over a soft heap on the ground. He reached out, his fingers touching something wet and soft. It was one of the dogs. Lightly, he put his hand on the dog’s side, but there was no indication of breath. It was too dark to completely make out which dog it was but he felt for a tail. There was the long plume of the mongrel, Scruffy. Jimmy could make out another shape close by. Lucy. He inched over to determine if she was alive. She wasn’t.

He backed away from the two dogs. His throat was tight, not with fear so much as sorrow. Alice had said more than
once how unpopular she was with people since the war had heated up. She was stubborn about declaring for the peace movement. Was this an act of revenge on her? He listened again but could hear nothing above the chatter of the birds. Whoever had shot the dogs seemed to have gone.

Still cautious, but moving more slowly, he retraced his steps to the cottage. Now that his eyes had adapted to the dark, the two dogs were more visible. Both had been shot through the head. He went to the front door and tapped lightly.

“Mrs. Thorne, it’s me,” he whispered.

He heard the bolt and she opened the door, Skip pressing at her legs.

Everything that came next happened with bewildering speed.

The man was hiding in the cover of the shed, and when Alice opened the door, he ran toward them. Skip saw him first and let out a peal of barks. Jimmy turned as the man fired his gun.

The bullet went straight through his neck, and he died instantly, dropping in a heap at Alice’s feet.

The man halted and trained his gun on her. “Control your dog, Mrs. Thorne, or I shall be forced to shoot him as well. Step back please.”

She grabbed Skip’s collar as he tried frantically to get at the man. He stepped over Jimmy’s body and closed the door behind him.

G
REY
, F
ORDHAM, AND
T
YLER STOOD TOGETHER
looking down at O’Connor’s body. The Irishman had been stuffed into one of the latrine stalls. His throat had been cut so deeply his head was almost severed at the spine. He was fully dressed in dark trousers and black jersey.

“He was one of ours,” said Grey. “We thought it important to have somebody inside the camp since we knew that Jerry had a mole in here as well.”

“Is that why O’Connor was murdered?” Fordham asked. “Do you think he caught the German in the act of escaping?”

“Could be. I asked him to be on high alert. Poor fellow. He never was a very effective spy.” Grey’s voice was even softer than usual.

“He must have been killed here right beside the stall and then shoved inside,” said Tyler. “There’s no blood anywhere else.”

“Inspector Tyler, gentlemen, please take a look at this,” said Beck.

He was pointing to a gap in the barbed wire between the latrine wall and the final fence post. The screws holding the wire had been loosened and it was bent back, leaving just enough room for a man to squeeze through.

Grey turned to the major. “We must get up a search party at once. Our chappie has got about two hours’ lead. That could put him across the border if he’s going straight to Ireland. On the other hand, he could be going south, east, or north. There might be a U-boat waiting for him for all we
know. Mission accomplished, get back to home sweet home.”

“Come on, Doctor,” said Tyler to Beck. “You believe that every criminal will leave a clue because in the bottom of his heart he feels guilty. All right then. Where’s the clue here for this sod?”

“I’d like to go back to the tent and have another look.”

Tyler, Fordham, Grey, and Beck all returned to the burned-out tent. In the mess tent, the internees huddled together, watching. Clare was with them, and Tyler saw her place her hand on the shoulder of an elderly rabbi.

“What do you want to see exactly, Doctor?” Tyler asked.

“The body I couldn’t identify,” answered Beck.

Tyler pulled back the tarpaulin and the doctor stared down at the burned corpse. Then he walked over to the body they had identified as Father Glatz and uncovered it as well. He straightened up.

“Of course. I have been blind. I can tell you exactly who we’re looking for. He did leave us a clue. Or, more accurately, a telltale sign. Look at Father Glatz. He always wore his gold crucifix. It was the symbol of his vocation, his identity. It was always with him even when he went to bed. Hans Hoeniger, as a seminarian, would have done the same.”

Tyler cautiously rolled over the fifth corpse. Some of the flesh came away from the bone and stuck to his fingers. He wiped them on the grass.

“There is no cross.”

“Then this body is that of Kurt Bader,” said Beck. “And we are looking for the soft-spoken devout Christian who is supposedly studying to be a priest. Herr Hans Hoeniger. He must still be wearing his cross. He didn’t think about it. He’s probably going to be in his dog collar and soutane as well. All utterly above suspicion.”

A
LICE HAD TIED UP
S
KIP BY THE HEARTH AND
, following orders, was sitting at the table across from the man. His face was scorched and his eyebrows and much of his hair was singed. His hands had been burned as well and looked swollen. He was holding his gun in front of him on the table. He’d placed a briefcase beside him.

“Madam, I would appreciate it if you would find me some cream or salve. I am a little fried, as you can see. I know that you must have some around. That’s what you do, isn’t it? You’re a healer. Your fame was widespread throughout the camp.” His English was perfect, with a slight Irish lilt. Ireland was where he’d learned to speak it.

“I’ll get some,” she said.

“Move slowly, if you please madam, and keep your hands where I can see them at all times.”

She did as he said and walked into her scullery, where she kept the creams and salves.

She recognized him now, although at the time he’d seemed not to understand English. The internees had been kinder to her peace pledge proclamation notice than the people in Whitchurch. Quite a few had joined, including this man.

She remembered now, his name was Hoeniger. He was still wearing his black seminarian’s garb and a large gold cross hung around his neck.

Her mind was racing, trying to assess the situation the way she might have if she’d been called out to deal with a dangerous dog or wild animal. She made herself speak calmly and
not show any fear. Inside she was screaming, every fibre of her being protesting at what he’d done to Jimmy, to her dogs. Surprisingly, what was uppermost in her mind was not the need for survival but the desire not to be defeated by this killer. That desire was a core of steel in her spine.

“You will leave the door open, won’t you, Mrs. Thorne? If you don’t, I shall immediately shoot your dog. It would be a pity. And he’s such a handsome fellow. Aren’t you boy?” He clicked his tongue at Skip, who, accustomed to friendly visitors, wagged his tail.