No Known Grave (24 page)

“Hmm. I think your mum’s right about that, Alfie. It’s not good manners.”

“Right.”

“You know what,” said Tyler, “it would be a big help to me if I saw how things operated with the birds. Would you show me?”

“Is it okay?”

He looked anxious. Clearly he was still afraid of entering the place he’d been banished from.

“I think Mr. McHattie would be proud of you if you could help the police, Alfie,” said Tyler. “We want to find whoever it was that hurt him and Ben.”

“All right. Come on.”

Tyler followed him to a lean- to shed attached to the coop and they went inside. Like Jock’s house, the shed was neat and spare. One desk, one chair. On the desk were several trophies.

“I see Jock had some good racers,” Tyler said.

Alfie promptly trotted over to the desk, picked up one of the cups, and thrust it at Tyler.

“This was the best. He was up against the top flyers in the country.”

Tyler examined the inscription.
AWARDED TO JOCK MCHATTIE, WINNER OF THE CALAIS TO EDINBURGH RACE, AUGUST
9, 1939.

“That’s a heck of a long way!” exclaimed Tyler.

“It most certainly is. Hundreds of miles. Won by two seconds. There ain’t been no more races like that because of the war. We can only do ones in the country.”

Tyler returned the trophy to its place.

“Will you show me how the time stamp works?”

Alfie nodded and took down a wooden box from the shelf and placed it on the desk.

“As soon as the flyer comes into the loft, you nabs him and you remove the band. It’s got the time on it when he was set free.” He pointed to a hole on the top of the box. “You puts it in there. Then you takes this key.” He removed a large key from a drawer in the box. “You’ve already set the clock, see. Big Ben time. You gives the key a turn and it stamps the time on the piece of paper that you took out of the band. Like so.”

He gave the key a hard twist, then he pulled out a strip of
paper. “You takes this to the club meeting and everybody compares notes. No cheating allowed.”

“How was Jock able to use the clock stamp?”

“Oh, easy as pie. I’d read out the times to him, but we didn’t know if we had a good un until we got to meet the others.”

“Does every bird that comes in get stamped?”

The man looked at Tyler slyly. “Not all of them. No point unless there’s a race. Like I said before, sometimes I just writes down the time myself in the book. But I get mixed up sometimes.”

Tyler nodded reassuringly. “We all do, Alfie. Don’t worry about it.”

Next to the stamp machine was an open box of tissue-thin papers.

“Was the shed door kept locked?” he asked Alfie.

“Never. Cats don’t eat seed, so there’s nothing to steal, is there?”

But obviously there was. The paper that had been used for the cryptic message on the dead pigeon.

“One more thing,” said Tyler. “Prince had a message in the band on his leg. But it wasn’t the time when he had returned home.”

“What was it then? There’s not supposed to be anything else.”

“The message said, ‘They have no known grave.’ ”

“That’s a queer sort of thing to send on a pigeon.”

“I thought so too. Do you know what it might mean?”

Alfie nodded emphatically. “Course I do. All sorts of things can happen to the pigeons when they’re trying to get home. Mr. Mac says they’re the same as soldiers. We can lose at least two birds every flight if it’s a long one. We can’t bury them properly like we want to because we don’t know where they fell. I asks Mr. Mac if we could go and find them so I could put up a white cross like they do for soldiers, but he said it was impossible. He said they have no grave that we know of. He said that lots of dead soldiers don’t have white crosses.” Alfie ducked his
head and scuffed his feet in the dirt. “But Mr. Mac will have a white cross, won’t he, sir? He and Ben and Prince?” He pointed to the flowerbed in front of the McHattie cottage. “We can bury them there. There’s room.”

Before Tyler could answer, there was a light tap on the shed door. Constable Mortimer had joined them.

“Dr. Murnaghan just rang, sir. He’d like you to telephone him right away.”

Tyler turned to Alfie. “Thanks, son. You’ve been really helpful.”

The other man frowned. “I wonder who’s going to run the pigeons now that Mr. Mac’s gone. Mrs. Mac don’t like them at all.” He shook his head, his distress obvious.

“You know what, Alfie,” said Tyler, “as a police officer, I’m allowed to assign tasks like that. I officially appoint you guardian of the pigeons until further notice.”

Alfie beamed. “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much. I won’t let you down.”

Tyler followed Mortimer back to the house.

“Bearing up, Constable?” Tyler asked her.

“Yes, sir. If it doesn’t sound strange to say, I am finding this experience a very rewarding one.”

Was she indeed? A detective in the making?

The patients seemed to have remained indoors except for Herb Mullin, the Aussie. Dai Hughes was seated across from him, tucked in at one of the wrought-iron picnic tables. Tyler halted in mid-stride. Hughes was using a typewriter. His fingers were fast and proficient.

Tyler strode over to the table.

“Gentlemen. May I have a word?”

Hughes stopped what he was doing and Tyler didn’t miss the expression of apprehension that raced across his face. Mullin turned his sightless eyes in Tyler’s direction.

“Inspector Tyler, is it?”

“That’s right, sir. I noticed you were dictating a letter to Mr. Hughes.”

“I’m not saying anything about the case, Inspector. I understand the need for utter discretion at this stage of your investigation.”

“It’s imperative, in fact.”

“To tell you the truth, it’s not a letter. I’m writing a novel,” said Mullin. “I thought it would take my mind off everything if I continued. Mr. Hughes is kindly taking dictation.”

“Do you mind if I take a look?”

“Go ahead, but I warn you, it’s only in a rough draft.”

It wasn’t the literary merit that Tyler was interested in, but he didn’t say that. He leaned over Hughes’s shoulder so he could see the type. There it was, the jamming letter
w
.

“Is this a typewriter from the craft room?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” answered Mullin. “Is it, Hughes?”

“Yes, sir. You said you wanted to be outdoors, so I borrowed it to work on.”

“You’re very efficient by the look of it, Hughes,” said Tyler.

The orderly was regarding Tyler warily. “I took two years of typing school before I switched to medical work.”

“You’ve retained your skill,” said Tyler. He was deliberately keeping his tone neutral and non-committal. If someone had a guilty conscience, it was often an effective approach. Got the criminals squirming trying to figure out how much he knew and wasn’t revealing.

“Are you reading my novel, Inspector?” Mullin called out. “I’m always open to feedback.”

Tyler hadn’t been paying attention to the content, but now he did.

The noble knight’s doublet was besmirched with blood and mud, but his eyes gleamed with the inner fire of the pure of heart such that his lady saw not the dirt but only the beauty of his soul and he won her heart as easily as if he was playing at bowls on the village green
.

“It’s a medieval romance,” said Mullin. “More or less based on the tales of King Arthur. I loved those stories when I was a child, so I thought I’d do my own version. What do you think?”

“It’s not quite my field, sir. But I commend you for trying. These days, stories of love and honour are always welcome.”

The Australian guffawed. “An extremely diplomatic answer, Inspector. Thank you. As I said, this is my first draft. I’ll polish it up later. Is it all right if we continue? I haven’t finished Chapter 1 yet.”

“Of course.” Tyler didn’t know if he’d learned anything useful or not. Hughes was definitely to be added to his list of those who could type well. Mullin was blind, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t composed the anonymous letters. Not the same prose style, but, like an accent, style could be faked.

He beckoned to the orderly to follow him out of earshot.

“Be right back, Mr. Mullin,” said Hughes.

“Has Mr. Mullin dictated anything else to you?” asked Tyler. “Any letters, for instance?”

“No, sir. Nothing like that.” Hughes squinted against the sun.

“You’re telling me the truth, I hope. He didn’t pay you to type some letters?”

“No, sir. I swear. It’s only been his novel. I haven’t neglected my duties. Sister Rebecca suggested I help Mr. Mullin. Keep up his spirits.”

“And you haven’t done typing for anybody else in the last little while?”

“No, sir. Nobody. Is there a problem, sir?”

Tyler studied the Welshman for a few moments and Hughes’s gaze shifted away.

“Have you noticed anybody else using that particular typewriter?”

Hughes’s expression was bewildered. “No, sir. I believe one of the sisters teaches a typewriting class. She might be able to help more than me.”

“All right. Better get back to work. Literature awaits.”

Hughes returned to the table.

“Righty-o, Mr. Mullin. Where were we?”

Tyler saw Hughes’s fingers start to fly over the keys as the Aussie’s deep voice dictated.

“Whither now, my love? Praise the Lord almighty, there is much work that lies before us.”

Indeed, thought Tyler.

42.

S
ISTER
R
EBECCA KNELT ON A PRIE-DIEU AND BEGAN
to pray. The sanctuary was empty; everybody was busy with the patients over at the main house. Rebecca couldn’t spare much time herself, but she felt the need to have a moment, however brief, to reflect.

She looked up at the cross with the suffering Christ. As Anglicans, the community of Mary Magdalene followed many practices that others might consider papist. The daily prayers, the confessional, the vows the nuns took, which were the traditional ones of poverty, chastity, and obedience. When Rebecca had first applied to join the order, the mistress of novices had been stern about questioning her vocation. “You must be sure you are making the right choice. The religious life is not suitable for everyone. It requires dedication, of course, but more important, sacrifice. You will not have the life most women have – a husband, intimacy, children. There may be times when you will sorely miss the fulfillment these things can bring.”

And the truth was she hadn’t always been completely sure she
had
made the right choice. Over the past fifteen years she had sometimes doubted.

This was one of those times.

Sister Rebecca was too honest not to acknowledge to herself the reason for these stirrings. Inspector Tom Tyler, with his copper-coloured hair and intelligent blue eyes; Tyler with the burden of sorrow on his shoulders that she ached to lift; Tom Tyler whose good opinion she desired. She said the Our Father.

“
Thy will be done
 …”

Then she said her own prayer asking God for guidance. Her knees were aching and she got up stiffly. She couldn’t honestly say she felt calmer, but at least she had confronted those errant longings. Time to get back to work.

43.

D
R
. M
URNAGHAN ANSWERED THE CALL RIGHT AWAY
.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Doctor.”

“That’s all right, Tom. Gave me a chance to sit still.” Murnaghan still didn’t sound like his usual hearty self. “Can you get over here right away? I’ve done all three
P.M
.s. Some discoveries that I’d like to show you.” He paused. “I won’t go into it on the telephone. Makes my head ache. How soon can you be here?”

“I’ll leave at once, sir.”

“Good. Very interesting stuff. Rather disturbing.” On that tantalizing note the doctor hung up.

Daisy Stevens appeared in the doorway.

“Can I have a word, Inspector?”

“Of course.” He pulled out a chair. She moved the chair slightly so that she could sit with her back to the window, leaving her face in shadow.

“I wouldn’t have come to you about such a small matter if it wasn’t for what has happened here. I know people do all sorts of things in wartime, Inspector. Perhaps he’s a married man and the so-called wife is his mistress.”

“Whoa, Miss Stevens. Start at the beginning. What are you referring to?”

Shyly at first, but with gathering animation, Daisy poured out the story of her encounter at the Wheatsheaf and what Miss Allthorpe had told her about her guests.

“There certainly isn’t a young doctor named Sargent practising out of St. Anne’s. There’s only Dr. Beck, our psychiatrist, who comes in from London once a month. He’s handsome
enough, but you wouldn’t call him Walter Pidgeon. And he’s at least fifty.”

Tyler winced inwardly. Only a girl of twenty-two could speak so cavalierly about being fifty years old. He’d be there himself soon as shouting.

“You were absolutely right to come and tell me, Miss Stevens. As you say, it could be a married man making up fibs to cover his sins, but it’s worth checking into. People who tell elaborate lies always are.”

“You don’t think they’re spies, do you?”

Prior to the murders, Tyler would have dismissed the notion out of hand. Now he wasn’t ruling anything out.

“I will follow up on that possibility as well.”

Daisy hesitated. “Miss Allthorpe said he gave her something to help her sleep. It was in liquid form and tasted awful. Sounded like it could be morphine. I’ve had it myself when I was first injured.”

“If it is morphine he gave her, it would have come from a legitimate source. A nurse would have access, or a dentist. Even a chemist. Perhaps he’s actually a chemist. There’s a Boots at the top of Broad Street.”

“The wife didn’t look like a nurse to me,” Daisy said. “Besides, anybody can say they’re a doctor. Who’s going to check up on you if you’re just renting a room? It’s not as if you’re taking out tonsils on the kitchen table, is it?”

Tyler smiled. “Quite right.”

Daisy leaned forward and her livid scar became visible. “I don’t want to sound catty, Inspector, but I don’t think that’s the only bit of fibbing going on. The woman I saw wasn’t the sort to be a genuine doctor’s wife. For one thing, that hair colour wasn’t what she was born with. For another that outfit she was wearing left nothing to the imagination, if you know what I mean.” Daisy shrugged. “Miss Allthorpe said they were in
love. It takes all sorts, as they say, but in my experience, nobby folks don’t marry the peasants. They might dally with them, but they don’t marry.”