December posting 19: Metals & Mettle, part 2 (HL/Miss Marple)
I don't care that it's January. It's for the December Advent Amnesty. That's my story and I am sticking to it like superglue. (Part one of this fic can be found at my DW here or at the AO3 here.) AO3 version of this chapter is located here.
As always, speculation, questions, and comments most welcome, and yes, I will be finishing this! I have a road trip coming; that should help!
Metals & Mettle, part 2.
Slack didn't start back up in the car, to Matthew's surprise. Matthew leaned forward to let his coat drip onto the footboard and hoped the man would continue to wait until they were inside. Sir Henry Clithering might have retired from being head of CID, but all that meant was that the man could handle the necessities that Scotland Yard shouldn't touch officially. It also meant that Matthew, at least, was willing to listen to his advice. The question was whether Slack would.
Lake kept the police car on the rural road easily enough, despite the pouring rain. Matthew watched the route back, already planning an early morning run back here that should give him uninterrupted time studying the area.
Slack said abruptly, "Sir Henry is involved in this?"
"He stopped in at our headquarters while I was being briefed and strongly suggested that I try to stay with Miss Marple. Apparently, he passed the same word to Colonel Bantry." Matthew waited for the explosion.
"And he 'suggested' that you discuss the case with Miss Marple, I take it."
Matthew pointed out mildly, "He did, saying she's remarkably sharp. She certainly seemed so in the few minutes I had to meet her this morning. My grandmother was from a small country town and always knew more of what was going on than the local clergy did -- or she was more willing to discuss it, not being bound by any vows."
"So you're going to tell Miss Marple everything," Slack said, apparently disgusted.
"Anything I'm not oath-bound to withhold? Yes." Matthew shrugged. "The former head of Scotland Yard wants the lady involved, Inspector. The man still has enough influence that my own superiors allowed him to sit in on my briefing. He also tells me that she most assuredly can keep a secret or six, and that she's solved any number of mysteries and a murder or two. I have a death which my superiors badly want explained and a mystery in that I don't know why they're so upset. It was made very clear to me that while a cover story may yet be necessary, I had damned well better not try to feed one to my chain of command."
Matthew added grimly, "I agree with that, by the way."
Slack grunted, despairing and accepting in the same sound. Lake pulled up in front of a small, neat house. Curtains had twitched in several windows as they'd passed and Slack shook his head, muttering about interfering busybodies. Lake turned the car off and said, "They were all going to know he's here by the time Miss Marple showed up at the shops with extra ration coupons, sir."
Slack just grunted again and dashed through the rain to the house, pounding on the door in a manner Matthew wouldn't have hurried to answer. Someone opened the door anyway and a moment later Slack passed through. Matthew and Lake followed, arriving as the inspector handed his coat and hat to a ridiculously young maid. Slack asked, begrudgingly, "Miss Marple at home?"
"I'll just go and see," the girl answered. "If you'd like to wait in the drawing room, sir?" She sounded as if she'd learned the words by rote and Matthew smiled at her, hanging his own coat and hat rather than bothering her with it.
Matthew entered the indicated room, unsurprised to find Sgt. Lake following him. A moment later, Inspector Slack came in and settled into a chair by the fireplace. Matthew looked around the room, smiling a little at the dark timbers overhead and the solid old furniture scattered throughout. He glanced out the window, shifting the lace only long enough to see the rain was still pounding down.
Lake settled into a chair by the table with an air of familiarity and pulled out his notebook and pen. Slack started to speak, only to fall silent again when Miss Marple came in.
"So good to see you again, Inspector Slack. And Sergeant Lake, always a pleasure. I do hope your family is well?"
Lake stood up, smiling at her, as fond of her and amused by her as his inspector wasn't. "We're doing just fine, Miss Marple. We weren't anywhere close to that bomb that came down last month. I'll tell my wife you asked after her."
Slack, too, had risen for their hostess. He said reluctantly, "Miss Marple. Thank you for the hospitality."
"Oh, of course, Inspector. Such dreadful weather. If you wish to talk here, I will be happy to keep my girls busy elsewhere. That should keep the villagers from asking Major McCormick too many questions."
Matthew couldn't keep from chuckling. "Surely they'll still ask? They just won't expect to get answers. They must know I have orders, ma'am. Surely they know by now you won't tell them anything, either?"
"Oh, but I'm familiar, Major. They may not hope for much, but they shan't have to nerve themselves to speak to an American military officer. So daunting, the double layer of foreignness. Well, except for Colonel Bantry, of course, and then there was Colonel Protheroe…." She twittered to a pause, flustered.
Slack huffed a sigh but his mouth had relaxed from that tight line. Matthew smiled a little and told her, "True enough, but I shan't have to live here after the case, ma'am. If it would keep your life easier for me to be the one to deny them answers, please feel free to send them along."
Slack said, "Don't let us--" Matthew could almost see his pride being swallowed down. "If you'd care to stay, Miss Marple, the major has orders to value your opinion."
"Close enough," Matthew said mildly. "I can't say Sir Henry's in my chain of command, but close enough. If you'd care to stay and hear the facts from the horses' mouths, ma'am?"
"I should enjoy that very much, Major, thank you. Just a moment… Come in, Margaret."
The maid who'd opened the door for them came in carrying a tray with a tea service; another maid, equally young, followed behind with a plate of small cakes and gingerbread.
"Thank you, Margaret, put that here, please." Miss Marple indicated a small table. "And Agnes, you may place the cake tray on the center table." Miss Marple waited until they'd left again before asking, "Tea, gentlemen, or something stronger? It's such a wet day."
"Tea, ma'am, since you've made some. Thank you." Slack seemed to have resigned himself to the interruption and intrusion.
Matthew found himself handing around saucers and glasses and accepting a slice of gingerbread. Lake somehow ended up with a small glass of cherry brandy to wash down his scone. Even Slack looked a little happier after he'd had a hot cup of tea and some food.
"You were going to say, Major?" Slack set his cup down on the saucer and both back on the tray, clearly done with civilities and back to business.
Matthew took another sip of his tea and said mildly, "I was saying I'll tell you what we know if you'll return the favor, sir. So. Private first class Johnny Branbury, age twenty-two at time of death. He was not someone we wanted in the army, and the judge who gave him a choice of the army or prison should have known better."
Lake looked up from his notebook, eyes lighting up. "Prison? What was he charged with?"
"That time? Forgery. The defending attorney -- barrister here, Miss Marple -- accepted a plea bargain of nolo contendere and immediate enlistment in lieu of jail time."
"And the judge agreed?" Slack frowned though, some train of thought moving fast.
"The judge knew both Branbury's previous record -- pickpocketing and second-story work -- and the quality of the evidence. A jury might have let the man go, since the arresting officers had been a little too thorough in keeping him from 'resisting arrest' and blurred the dye evidence on Branbury's hands in defensive bruises." Matthew shook his head. "Idiots, but the corruption of Chicago's police is neither here nor there."
"Then American police are that bad?" Lake asked curiously. "I always thought that must be the movies overdoing it." He visibly remembered Matthew had been American police and added, "Not that I meant you, Major."
"No offense taken, Sergeant." Matthew shook his head slightly. "In any number of cases… no, the movies don't overstate it. It's improved somewhat in the last few years, but the police here are still more civilized. Or perhaps better controlled. That's as may be, and not really relevant to this, I hope."
Matthew leaned forward and refilled his cup, raised an inquiring eyebrow at his hostess, and refilled hers as well when she smiled and nodded. He sat back, china cradled carefully in his hand both for the warmth against his skin and to protect the fine porcelain. "So. Branbury enlisted, did passably in basic training, showed an aptitude for machinery which I personally would have found worrisome with his record, and was assigned out to an engineering unit keeping jeeps and jackhammers working. He served well enough in France… and somehow ended up back here months before his unit is due to rotate back."
Which should never have happened, and Matthew left it at, "My best sergeant is tracking down where those orders came from. As of this morning, he'd had no luck yet."
"But someone brought him back from the front? And early at that?" Slack's frown was starting to take up permanent residence. Miss Marple tsked softly and poured him more tea. He sipped absently and said, "No. No one told us he had a criminal record. We knew he was military: his tags and the haircut."
Miss Marple murmured gently, "Surely both of those could be acquired, Inspector?"
"British Army boots, maybe. American uniforms are harder to get here." But Slack glanced sidelong at Lake who nodded and made a note to double-check.
Matthew closed his eyes, pulling up the memory to consider that. "Yes. The boots were US Army service issue. I rather think your body is, or was, American."
"You're more familiar with the various uniforms, yes, Major. If you need another look, we can take you over before the body's released." Slack glanced out the window; even through the lace, the air was still thick with rain. "Was your man AWOL, Major?"
Matthew said grimly, "Interestingly enough, Inspector, no. Our first information that he was missing came from your notification of his death."
"Are you quite sure he is who he should be?" Miss Marple asked, then flustered, "I don't know that I phrased that correctly. I mean, are you sure that the Inspector's body is your man, not simply someone who had his identification papers?"
Matthew nodded slowly in appreciation of her point. He was having no trouble seeing why Sir Henry had 'suggested' talking to Miss Jane Marple. "I believe I understand you, ma'am. The body I was shown has scars matching those listed on the criminal record of the man arrested repeatedly in the States. We have a cable out to his engineering unit asking about any identifying features or injuries during his service, both to make sure that the body retrieved is in fact that of the Johnny Branbury who served with them and to account for a new scar that isn't listed in the bulletin from the States."
Miss Marple passed him another scone; apparently it was noticeable that he'd missed lunch. Matthew smiled a thank you before going on, "In addition, I saw the dead man's hands. Whoever he was, I rather think he's been forging, or possibly counterfeiting: Five colors of ink, wide paper cuts, and what looked like acid burns."
"Do you think he's your service man or not, Major?" Lake was giving him the same curious look Matthew's own Sergeant Greely had given him, a mix of 'Are you putting me on?' and 'Do you really think it's going to be that complicated?'
"I think the odds are good that he's the right man, Sergeant Lake, but either way, I have a problem. If it isn't Branbury, then we don't know who's actually in the mortuary, where the real Branbury is, or how Branbury bribed this corpse to take his spot in a military unit sure to end up near the front lines again. However. If it is Branbury, someone pulled him back from the battlefield early -- pulled him back and covered for him so well that it took a corpse showing up for the Army to notice that there's a problem. If that's the case, then, at the least, there's someone in my army's bureaucracy who's taking bribes from person or persons unknown, for reasons unknown."
Lake winced sympathetically. "Right. Either way, you've got a mess."
Slack pointed out, "Your records say Branbury was a petty thief who kept getting caught. A man like that isn't likely to have the self-control not to get caught until he shows up in England two years later. Even with the Front as incentive, thieves don't usually change that much."
Matthew finished his tea and set the cup down as gently as his hostess's guest china deserved. "I agree, Inspector. No, I don't think Branbury suddenly gained a wide streak of self-control, not at his age, not even with the Front shoving his own mortality down his throat. But if he hasn't changed, then not only do I have someone taking a bribe in our personnel department, but I also have someone keeping Branbury under control until now. Which leads to the question of: are they the same person?"
"There is another possibility, Major, although I must say it sounds as unlikely." Miss Marple hesitated when all three of them turned to her. "It's remotely possible that both of your ideas could be right. If someone had the power to bring the corporal back, could they not also have an… expendable worker who could cover up the corporal's disappearance. Such a nasty way of thinking about human beings, and yet we speak of the war grinding people up as if they are bits and pieces. Why wouldn't organized crime think the same way?"
Matthew frowned. "It's surely possible, Miss Marple, but in my experience, you need a powerful underlying motive to hold a group together so tightly. Organized crime grew organized precisely because there were vast sums of money to be made. Political conspiracies organize for power or from desperation. I should think there would have to be a reason and a very good one."
Lake coughed into his glass and received a glare from his inspector. "Legible, Lake, not tea-stained. Or whatever you're drinking. I think someone else's control is more likely, Major, but yes, Miss Marple," Slack bit the name off before visibly reminding himself he was stuck working with her, "we'll make doubly sure it's an American military man. I seem to remember some department circulars about differences in American dentistry. We can check for it."
Slack turned back to Matthew who was now watching him a little more narrowly. "Acid burns, you said. What kind?"
Matthew said, "I've seen similar burns on the hands of men who work with etched glass and metal. Your people allowed me to send a couple samples to one of our chemists this morning, but I haven't heard back from him yet. My best guess so far would be that Branbury was making false papers, maybe embossing stamps to go with them. The dyes don't look right for counterfeiting money, although I'm not artist enough to make a guess on whether they could be used for that."
Matthew glanced over at Miss Marple. "By any chance, do you do watercolors, ma'am?"
"Not in many, many years, Major. But I would be willing to come and look at his hands if you wish."
Slack tried not to wince and mostly managed it. "Either way, you think we have a conspiracy somewhere with enough power to get him back or to keep him under control...." Slack looked more truculent than usual. "Acids."
Matthew returned the gaze with his best predatory smile. "Your turn, Inspector. Why do you think it's more likely he's under someone's control?"
"Right." Slack rubbed at his mouth, apparently regretting the deal. Matthew just waited. In the edges of his vision he could see Miss Marple waiting more patiently but every bit as intently. "Two mornings ago, we had a report of a body in a ditch. Boy taking the cows to new pasture found it and reported it in promptly enough."
"He did keep the cattle from 'assisting' with the investigation," Lake pointed out.
Slack ignored that. "The local constable investigated, found the man was dressed in a foreign uniform, and called us in. The uniform and boots were American military issue, but the coat over it all was civilian. He had his ID tags in a pocket, not around his neck."
"Did he have gloves?" Matthew leaned in as he asked, trying to picture this.
"No. Should he have?" Slack frowned. "It's only September."
"If he was so cold as to wear a coat, wouldn't an artist wish to protect his hands?" Miss Marple seemed to think it a good question. "Cold air feels so much colder on burns."
Slack gave that a moment's consideration before nodding his acceptance of the point. "You'd think so, yes. No, he wasn't wearing gloves. None in his pockets, either, were there, Lake?"
Lake flipped back in his notebook. "Pockets…. Right, here it is. American cigarettes, some coins, a wallet with a ten-shilling note we traced to Lambourn and a return ticket to Woodlands St. Mary, a handkerchief, and a chain and ID tags."
"That's all?" Matthew asked, surprised. "No military papers, no matches or lighter? For that matter, no art supplies? Pad or sketchbook, pencils or pen?"
Slack stood up and prowled around, checking for the maids. When he came back, he still lowered his voice to growl, "No. That's not all. Not a word of this gets out, understood?"
Matthew just looked at him. "I'm not going to compromise a case, Inspector."
Miss Marple simply said, "Nor shall I."
Slack exhaled forcefully before admitting, "Branbury had a piece of gold with him. Size of my palm, ornate animals and curls, enameled in places. A shoulder brooch I'm hearing it's called."
"Several ounces of worked gold," Matthew said slowly. "I'm beginning to see why you think an organization is likely. Is there anything else you didn't mention to us, Inspector?"
"I wasn't reporting that over a telephone exchange or in letters that could fall into the wrong hands." Slack didn't look apologetic at all. "It's the best lead we have."
Matthew said grimly, "Yes. And if I'd known about it…." He closed his eyes for a moment, pressing his temper down under the reality that the crime had occurred in someone else's jurisdiction and that Slack wasn't wrong about just how juicy a piece of gossip that would be, even - or especially - in wartime.
Matthew finally said, "Done's done, and I surely see your point on the communications. So. Should I take it that there are no such pieces among the local gentry?"
Miss Marple looked up from the khaki socks she was knitting. "Oh, no, Major. Not in St. Mary Mead, nor, I should say, in the rest of the county. You've seen the Bantrys' house. Now before he died Colonel Protheroe had some very nice silver, but nothing such as the Inspector described." She sat there, eyes bright and considering some mental inventory list, then she shook her head decisively. "Perhaps in London. But I should think that was the closest you would find such a piece and even there, it would be in His Majesty's properties, or the one of the museums. Although in these days, they'd be… shipped away to safety?" Miss Marple looked up, bright blue eyes sharp and startled in the lamp- and firelight.
Slack nodded slowly. "Yes. Now that's a possibility. We'll report it up the line, see if anyone in London can identify it."
"Quietly, I'd suggest," Matthew drawled. "An organization might extend quite a ways."
"It might have been shipped somewhere to be stolen? If so, we'll catch them," Slack said confidently.
Miss Marple's needles had stopped flashing. It might have had something to do with the dwindling size of her ball of wool, but Matthew thought it more likely she was busy thinking.
The telephone rang and Slack waved them to silence. Half a minute later Agnes came to the door and said, "There's a call for Inspector Slack, miss."
Slack frowned. "How did they find me here?" He strode to the hallway to take the call without bothering to answer his question.
Lake ate the last of his cake and flashed a quick grin at Miss Marple. "Probably Constable Palk. No one else should know we're here."
"Oh, I shouldn't say that, Sergeant. Most of the village knows you're here, including Col. Bantry." Miss Marple took up her knitting again, still with that faint frown.
"Villages." Matthew nodded and pulled the next ball of yarn out of the basket, setting it to Miss Marple's right. "All the day's news and speculation over the shopping."
"Oh, yes," Miss Marple agreed. "Then it's just a matter of sorting the wheat from the chaff. Thank you, Major."
"Right." Slack strode back in. "Lake. We've got another problem." He turned to Matthew. "I'll be back tomorrow morning as soon as I've got this handled. Colonel Bantry's man can run you anywhere you need to go."
Matthew nodded and didn't comment on the appropriation of the Bantrys' chauffeur; he had a few plans of his own.
Miss Marple's gaze flicked from Matthew to Slack and back again but she only nodded. "Of course, Inspector."
Sergeant Lake put his plate and cup down. "Thank you for tea, Miss Marple. Always a pleasure. Major, you have our numbers if anyone tries to argue your access to the body."
"I do, Sergeant. Good luck with this one." Matthew watched them head into the hall, heard Lake ask what they had this time and Slack hold silent until the door had closed behind them. The rain was still beating onto the window panes behind him. With Slack's bristling energies gone, the room grew infinitely more peaceful despite the topic and the war.
"Another murder." Miss Marple tsked softly as she finished her row. "That is not a good sign at all. Most distressing for the family, of course, if there is anyone to grieve. But if the killer is feeling pressured…." She trailed off, inspecting the sock closely.
Matthew glanced sidelong at her. "Murder, ma'am? You're thinking that it would take another death to pull Inspector Slack away from this one?"
"Oh, yes. He's hoping it will be simple, I'm sure, and quickly sorted, but that's most unlikely. If it looked simple, Constable Palk would have said so, whether it is or not, and they'd have taken more time with you over tomorrow's plans." She flustered to a stop and drank the last of her tea rather than waste it.
Matthew smiled and put his own teacup down. "And to tell you that you shouldn't go study a dead body? I rather doubt that's a new sight to you, ma'am."
"I've done my share of nursing," Miss Marple agreed, using a crochet hook to catch up a missed stitch. "There." She capped the needles, rolled the sock around them, and tucked them neatly into her basket. "Shall we call up to the main house and ask for a ride, then?"
"I don't know yet, ma'am. I would like for you to see the man's hands, yes, but I also need to meet the Air Raid Patrol today as well. Do you have any suggestions on how best to do that?"
Miss Marple looked up. "To ask them questions, Major?"
"Not just yet, no." Matthew helped her gather up cups and plates onto the tray. "I need to make sure they know what I look like before tomorrow. I need to get my morning run, in case the Army in its infinite wisdom sends me to the Front-" he smiled at the skeptical look Miss Marple gave him, "and a run out to the crime scene and back is far less than the drill sergeants make us do in training."
Miss Marple nodded in appreciation. "You must of course get your daily constitutional, Major. Well, then. I've a spare umbrella. Come and meet my dear Griselda."
# # #
To be continued eventually, darn it!
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As always, speculation, questions, and comments most welcome, and yes, I will be finishing this! I have a road trip coming; that should help!
Metals & Mettle, part 2.
Slack didn't start back up in the car, to Matthew's surprise. Matthew leaned forward to let his coat drip onto the footboard and hoped the man would continue to wait until they were inside. Sir Henry Clithering might have retired from being head of CID, but all that meant was that the man could handle the necessities that Scotland Yard shouldn't touch officially. It also meant that Matthew, at least, was willing to listen to his advice. The question was whether Slack would.
Lake kept the police car on the rural road easily enough, despite the pouring rain. Matthew watched the route back, already planning an early morning run back here that should give him uninterrupted time studying the area.
Slack said abruptly, "Sir Henry is involved in this?"
"He stopped in at our headquarters while I was being briefed and strongly suggested that I try to stay with Miss Marple. Apparently, he passed the same word to Colonel Bantry." Matthew waited for the explosion.
"And he 'suggested' that you discuss the case with Miss Marple, I take it."
Matthew pointed out mildly, "He did, saying she's remarkably sharp. She certainly seemed so in the few minutes I had to meet her this morning. My grandmother was from a small country town and always knew more of what was going on than the local clergy did -- or she was more willing to discuss it, not being bound by any vows."
"So you're going to tell Miss Marple everything," Slack said, apparently disgusted.
"Anything I'm not oath-bound to withhold? Yes." Matthew shrugged. "The former head of Scotland Yard wants the lady involved, Inspector. The man still has enough influence that my own superiors allowed him to sit in on my briefing. He also tells me that she most assuredly can keep a secret or six, and that she's solved any number of mysteries and a murder or two. I have a death which my superiors badly want explained and a mystery in that I don't know why they're so upset. It was made very clear to me that while a cover story may yet be necessary, I had damned well better not try to feed one to my chain of command."
Matthew added grimly, "I agree with that, by the way."
Slack grunted, despairing and accepting in the same sound. Lake pulled up in front of a small, neat house. Curtains had twitched in several windows as they'd passed and Slack shook his head, muttering about interfering busybodies. Lake turned the car off and said, "They were all going to know he's here by the time Miss Marple showed up at the shops with extra ration coupons, sir."
Slack just grunted again and dashed through the rain to the house, pounding on the door in a manner Matthew wouldn't have hurried to answer. Someone opened the door anyway and a moment later Slack passed through. Matthew and Lake followed, arriving as the inspector handed his coat and hat to a ridiculously young maid. Slack asked, begrudgingly, "Miss Marple at home?"
"I'll just go and see," the girl answered. "If you'd like to wait in the drawing room, sir?" She sounded as if she'd learned the words by rote and Matthew smiled at her, hanging his own coat and hat rather than bothering her with it.
Matthew entered the indicated room, unsurprised to find Sgt. Lake following him. A moment later, Inspector Slack came in and settled into a chair by the fireplace. Matthew looked around the room, smiling a little at the dark timbers overhead and the solid old furniture scattered throughout. He glanced out the window, shifting the lace only long enough to see the rain was still pounding down.
Lake settled into a chair by the table with an air of familiarity and pulled out his notebook and pen. Slack started to speak, only to fall silent again when Miss Marple came in.
"So good to see you again, Inspector Slack. And Sergeant Lake, always a pleasure. I do hope your family is well?"
Lake stood up, smiling at her, as fond of her and amused by her as his inspector wasn't. "We're doing just fine, Miss Marple. We weren't anywhere close to that bomb that came down last month. I'll tell my wife you asked after her."
Slack, too, had risen for their hostess. He said reluctantly, "Miss Marple. Thank you for the hospitality."
"Oh, of course, Inspector. Such dreadful weather. If you wish to talk here, I will be happy to keep my girls busy elsewhere. That should keep the villagers from asking Major McCormick too many questions."
Matthew couldn't keep from chuckling. "Surely they'll still ask? They just won't expect to get answers. They must know I have orders, ma'am. Surely they know by now you won't tell them anything, either?"
"Oh, but I'm familiar, Major. They may not hope for much, but they shan't have to nerve themselves to speak to an American military officer. So daunting, the double layer of foreignness. Well, except for Colonel Bantry, of course, and then there was Colonel Protheroe…." She twittered to a pause, flustered.
Slack huffed a sigh but his mouth had relaxed from that tight line. Matthew smiled a little and told her, "True enough, but I shan't have to live here after the case, ma'am. If it would keep your life easier for me to be the one to deny them answers, please feel free to send them along."
Slack said, "Don't let us--" Matthew could almost see his pride being swallowed down. "If you'd care to stay, Miss Marple, the major has orders to value your opinion."
"Close enough," Matthew said mildly. "I can't say Sir Henry's in my chain of command, but close enough. If you'd care to stay and hear the facts from the horses' mouths, ma'am?"
"I should enjoy that very much, Major, thank you. Just a moment… Come in, Margaret."
The maid who'd opened the door for them came in carrying a tray with a tea service; another maid, equally young, followed behind with a plate of small cakes and gingerbread.
"Thank you, Margaret, put that here, please." Miss Marple indicated a small table. "And Agnes, you may place the cake tray on the center table." Miss Marple waited until they'd left again before asking, "Tea, gentlemen, or something stronger? It's such a wet day."
"Tea, ma'am, since you've made some. Thank you." Slack seemed to have resigned himself to the interruption and intrusion.
Matthew found himself handing around saucers and glasses and accepting a slice of gingerbread. Lake somehow ended up with a small glass of cherry brandy to wash down his scone. Even Slack looked a little happier after he'd had a hot cup of tea and some food.
"You were going to say, Major?" Slack set his cup down on the saucer and both back on the tray, clearly done with civilities and back to business.
Matthew took another sip of his tea and said mildly, "I was saying I'll tell you what we know if you'll return the favor, sir. So. Private first class Johnny Branbury, age twenty-two at time of death. He was not someone we wanted in the army, and the judge who gave him a choice of the army or prison should have known better."
Lake looked up from his notebook, eyes lighting up. "Prison? What was he charged with?"
"That time? Forgery. The defending attorney -- barrister here, Miss Marple -- accepted a plea bargain of nolo contendere and immediate enlistment in lieu of jail time."
"And the judge agreed?" Slack frowned though, some train of thought moving fast.
"The judge knew both Branbury's previous record -- pickpocketing and second-story work -- and the quality of the evidence. A jury might have let the man go, since the arresting officers had been a little too thorough in keeping him from 'resisting arrest' and blurred the dye evidence on Branbury's hands in defensive bruises." Matthew shook his head. "Idiots, but the corruption of Chicago's police is neither here nor there."
"Then American police are that bad?" Lake asked curiously. "I always thought that must be the movies overdoing it." He visibly remembered Matthew had been American police and added, "Not that I meant you, Major."
"No offense taken, Sergeant." Matthew shook his head slightly. "In any number of cases… no, the movies don't overstate it. It's improved somewhat in the last few years, but the police here are still more civilized. Or perhaps better controlled. That's as may be, and not really relevant to this, I hope."
Matthew leaned forward and refilled his cup, raised an inquiring eyebrow at his hostess, and refilled hers as well when she smiled and nodded. He sat back, china cradled carefully in his hand both for the warmth against his skin and to protect the fine porcelain. "So. Branbury enlisted, did passably in basic training, showed an aptitude for machinery which I personally would have found worrisome with his record, and was assigned out to an engineering unit keeping jeeps and jackhammers working. He served well enough in France… and somehow ended up back here months before his unit is due to rotate back."
Which should never have happened, and Matthew left it at, "My best sergeant is tracking down where those orders came from. As of this morning, he'd had no luck yet."
"But someone brought him back from the front? And early at that?" Slack's frown was starting to take up permanent residence. Miss Marple tsked softly and poured him more tea. He sipped absently and said, "No. No one told us he had a criminal record. We knew he was military: his tags and the haircut."
Miss Marple murmured gently, "Surely both of those could be acquired, Inspector?"
"British Army boots, maybe. American uniforms are harder to get here." But Slack glanced sidelong at Lake who nodded and made a note to double-check.
Matthew closed his eyes, pulling up the memory to consider that. "Yes. The boots were US Army service issue. I rather think your body is, or was, American."
"You're more familiar with the various uniforms, yes, Major. If you need another look, we can take you over before the body's released." Slack glanced out the window; even through the lace, the air was still thick with rain. "Was your man AWOL, Major?"
Matthew said grimly, "Interestingly enough, Inspector, no. Our first information that he was missing came from your notification of his death."
"Are you quite sure he is who he should be?" Miss Marple asked, then flustered, "I don't know that I phrased that correctly. I mean, are you sure that the Inspector's body is your man, not simply someone who had his identification papers?"
Matthew nodded slowly in appreciation of her point. He was having no trouble seeing why Sir Henry had 'suggested' talking to Miss Jane Marple. "I believe I understand you, ma'am. The body I was shown has scars matching those listed on the criminal record of the man arrested repeatedly in the States. We have a cable out to his engineering unit asking about any identifying features or injuries during his service, both to make sure that the body retrieved is in fact that of the Johnny Branbury who served with them and to account for a new scar that isn't listed in the bulletin from the States."
Miss Marple passed him another scone; apparently it was noticeable that he'd missed lunch. Matthew smiled a thank you before going on, "In addition, I saw the dead man's hands. Whoever he was, I rather think he's been forging, or possibly counterfeiting: Five colors of ink, wide paper cuts, and what looked like acid burns."
"Do you think he's your service man or not, Major?" Lake was giving him the same curious look Matthew's own Sergeant Greely had given him, a mix of 'Are you putting me on?' and 'Do you really think it's going to be that complicated?'
"I think the odds are good that he's the right man, Sergeant Lake, but either way, I have a problem. If it isn't Branbury, then we don't know who's actually in the mortuary, where the real Branbury is, or how Branbury bribed this corpse to take his spot in a military unit sure to end up near the front lines again. However. If it is Branbury, someone pulled him back from the battlefield early -- pulled him back and covered for him so well that it took a corpse showing up for the Army to notice that there's a problem. If that's the case, then, at the least, there's someone in my army's bureaucracy who's taking bribes from person or persons unknown, for reasons unknown."
Lake winced sympathetically. "Right. Either way, you've got a mess."
Slack pointed out, "Your records say Branbury was a petty thief who kept getting caught. A man like that isn't likely to have the self-control not to get caught until he shows up in England two years later. Even with the Front as incentive, thieves don't usually change that much."
Matthew finished his tea and set the cup down as gently as his hostess's guest china deserved. "I agree, Inspector. No, I don't think Branbury suddenly gained a wide streak of self-control, not at his age, not even with the Front shoving his own mortality down his throat. But if he hasn't changed, then not only do I have someone taking a bribe in our personnel department, but I also have someone keeping Branbury under control until now. Which leads to the question of: are they the same person?"
"There is another possibility, Major, although I must say it sounds as unlikely." Miss Marple hesitated when all three of them turned to her. "It's remotely possible that both of your ideas could be right. If someone had the power to bring the corporal back, could they not also have an… expendable worker who could cover up the corporal's disappearance. Such a nasty way of thinking about human beings, and yet we speak of the war grinding people up as if they are bits and pieces. Why wouldn't organized crime think the same way?"
Matthew frowned. "It's surely possible, Miss Marple, but in my experience, you need a powerful underlying motive to hold a group together so tightly. Organized crime grew organized precisely because there were vast sums of money to be made. Political conspiracies organize for power or from desperation. I should think there would have to be a reason and a very good one."
Lake coughed into his glass and received a glare from his inspector. "Legible, Lake, not tea-stained. Or whatever you're drinking. I think someone else's control is more likely, Major, but yes, Miss Marple," Slack bit the name off before visibly reminding himself he was stuck working with her, "we'll make doubly sure it's an American military man. I seem to remember some department circulars about differences in American dentistry. We can check for it."
Slack turned back to Matthew who was now watching him a little more narrowly. "Acid burns, you said. What kind?"
Matthew said, "I've seen similar burns on the hands of men who work with etched glass and metal. Your people allowed me to send a couple samples to one of our chemists this morning, but I haven't heard back from him yet. My best guess so far would be that Branbury was making false papers, maybe embossing stamps to go with them. The dyes don't look right for counterfeiting money, although I'm not artist enough to make a guess on whether they could be used for that."
Matthew glanced over at Miss Marple. "By any chance, do you do watercolors, ma'am?"
"Not in many, many years, Major. But I would be willing to come and look at his hands if you wish."
Slack tried not to wince and mostly managed it. "Either way, you think we have a conspiracy somewhere with enough power to get him back or to keep him under control...." Slack looked more truculent than usual. "Acids."
Matthew returned the gaze with his best predatory smile. "Your turn, Inspector. Why do you think it's more likely he's under someone's control?"
"Right." Slack rubbed at his mouth, apparently regretting the deal. Matthew just waited. In the edges of his vision he could see Miss Marple waiting more patiently but every bit as intently. "Two mornings ago, we had a report of a body in a ditch. Boy taking the cows to new pasture found it and reported it in promptly enough."
"He did keep the cattle from 'assisting' with the investigation," Lake pointed out.
Slack ignored that. "The local constable investigated, found the man was dressed in a foreign uniform, and called us in. The uniform and boots were American military issue, but the coat over it all was civilian. He had his ID tags in a pocket, not around his neck."
"Did he have gloves?" Matthew leaned in as he asked, trying to picture this.
"No. Should he have?" Slack frowned. "It's only September."
"If he was so cold as to wear a coat, wouldn't an artist wish to protect his hands?" Miss Marple seemed to think it a good question. "Cold air feels so much colder on burns."
Slack gave that a moment's consideration before nodding his acceptance of the point. "You'd think so, yes. No, he wasn't wearing gloves. None in his pockets, either, were there, Lake?"
Lake flipped back in his notebook. "Pockets…. Right, here it is. American cigarettes, some coins, a wallet with a ten-shilling note we traced to Lambourn and a return ticket to Woodlands St. Mary, a handkerchief, and a chain and ID tags."
"That's all?" Matthew asked, surprised. "No military papers, no matches or lighter? For that matter, no art supplies? Pad or sketchbook, pencils or pen?"
Slack stood up and prowled around, checking for the maids. When he came back, he still lowered his voice to growl, "No. That's not all. Not a word of this gets out, understood?"
Matthew just looked at him. "I'm not going to compromise a case, Inspector."
Miss Marple simply said, "Nor shall I."
Slack exhaled forcefully before admitting, "Branbury had a piece of gold with him. Size of my palm, ornate animals and curls, enameled in places. A shoulder brooch I'm hearing it's called."
"Several ounces of worked gold," Matthew said slowly. "I'm beginning to see why you think an organization is likely. Is there anything else you didn't mention to us, Inspector?"
"I wasn't reporting that over a telephone exchange or in letters that could fall into the wrong hands." Slack didn't look apologetic at all. "It's the best lead we have."
Matthew said grimly, "Yes. And if I'd known about it…." He closed his eyes for a moment, pressing his temper down under the reality that the crime had occurred in someone else's jurisdiction and that Slack wasn't wrong about just how juicy a piece of gossip that would be, even - or especially - in wartime.
Matthew finally said, "Done's done, and I surely see your point on the communications. So. Should I take it that there are no such pieces among the local gentry?"
Miss Marple looked up from the khaki socks she was knitting. "Oh, no, Major. Not in St. Mary Mead, nor, I should say, in the rest of the county. You've seen the Bantrys' house. Now before he died Colonel Protheroe had some very nice silver, but nothing such as the Inspector described." She sat there, eyes bright and considering some mental inventory list, then she shook her head decisively. "Perhaps in London. But I should think that was the closest you would find such a piece and even there, it would be in His Majesty's properties, or the one of the museums. Although in these days, they'd be… shipped away to safety?" Miss Marple looked up, bright blue eyes sharp and startled in the lamp- and firelight.
Slack nodded slowly. "Yes. Now that's a possibility. We'll report it up the line, see if anyone in London can identify it."
"Quietly, I'd suggest," Matthew drawled. "An organization might extend quite a ways."
"It might have been shipped somewhere to be stolen? If so, we'll catch them," Slack said confidently.
Miss Marple's needles had stopped flashing. It might have had something to do with the dwindling size of her ball of wool, but Matthew thought it more likely she was busy thinking.
The telephone rang and Slack waved them to silence. Half a minute later Agnes came to the door and said, "There's a call for Inspector Slack, miss."
Slack frowned. "How did they find me here?" He strode to the hallway to take the call without bothering to answer his question.
Lake ate the last of his cake and flashed a quick grin at Miss Marple. "Probably Constable Palk. No one else should know we're here."
"Oh, I shouldn't say that, Sergeant. Most of the village knows you're here, including Col. Bantry." Miss Marple took up her knitting again, still with that faint frown.
"Villages." Matthew nodded and pulled the next ball of yarn out of the basket, setting it to Miss Marple's right. "All the day's news and speculation over the shopping."
"Oh, yes," Miss Marple agreed. "Then it's just a matter of sorting the wheat from the chaff. Thank you, Major."
"Right." Slack strode back in. "Lake. We've got another problem." He turned to Matthew. "I'll be back tomorrow morning as soon as I've got this handled. Colonel Bantry's man can run you anywhere you need to go."
Matthew nodded and didn't comment on the appropriation of the Bantrys' chauffeur; he had a few plans of his own.
Miss Marple's gaze flicked from Matthew to Slack and back again but she only nodded. "Of course, Inspector."
Sergeant Lake put his plate and cup down. "Thank you for tea, Miss Marple. Always a pleasure. Major, you have our numbers if anyone tries to argue your access to the body."
"I do, Sergeant. Good luck with this one." Matthew watched them head into the hall, heard Lake ask what they had this time and Slack hold silent until the door had closed behind them. The rain was still beating onto the window panes behind him. With Slack's bristling energies gone, the room grew infinitely more peaceful despite the topic and the war.
"Another murder." Miss Marple tsked softly as she finished her row. "That is not a good sign at all. Most distressing for the family, of course, if there is anyone to grieve. But if the killer is feeling pressured…." She trailed off, inspecting the sock closely.
Matthew glanced sidelong at her. "Murder, ma'am? You're thinking that it would take another death to pull Inspector Slack away from this one?"
"Oh, yes. He's hoping it will be simple, I'm sure, and quickly sorted, but that's most unlikely. If it looked simple, Constable Palk would have said so, whether it is or not, and they'd have taken more time with you over tomorrow's plans." She flustered to a stop and drank the last of her tea rather than waste it.
Matthew smiled and put his own teacup down. "And to tell you that you shouldn't go study a dead body? I rather doubt that's a new sight to you, ma'am."
"I've done my share of nursing," Miss Marple agreed, using a crochet hook to catch up a missed stitch. "There." She capped the needles, rolled the sock around them, and tucked them neatly into her basket. "Shall we call up to the main house and ask for a ride, then?"
"I don't know yet, ma'am. I would like for you to see the man's hands, yes, but I also need to meet the Air Raid Patrol today as well. Do you have any suggestions on how best to do that?"
Miss Marple looked up. "To ask them questions, Major?"
"Not just yet, no." Matthew helped her gather up cups and plates onto the tray. "I need to make sure they know what I look like before tomorrow. I need to get my morning run, in case the Army in its infinite wisdom sends me to the Front-" he smiled at the skeptical look Miss Marple gave him, "and a run out to the crime scene and back is far less than the drill sergeants make us do in training."
Miss Marple nodded in appreciation. "You must of course get your daily constitutional, Major. Well, then. I've a spare umbrella. Come and meet my dear Griselda."
# # #
To be continued eventually, darn it!
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