The Rest is Silence (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery) Read Online Free PDF Page B

shot, but if there are any German agents around, they’d have a field day given half a chance.”
    “You want us there when they’re using live ammo?” I asked. It didn’t sound like a day at the beach.
    “The cruiser HMS Hawkins will shell the beach from zero six thirty to zero seven hundred. Be at the checkpoint outside the restricted area before that starts. At zero seven hundred, the beachmaster will inspect the beach and give the order for the landing to proceed if it is safe. I want you two close by to make sure nothing goes wrong.”
    “What could go wrong?” I asked.
    “Everything,” Harding said. “Nothing. I don’t know. That’s why they call it the fog of war. I need you two close to the action. Now let’s switch jeeps.”
    Harding had a field radio installed in the back seat, and he went over the frequencies we were to report on. “I’ll be on one of the LCIs with General Eisenhower. If you see anything out of place, contact me immediately. Got it?”
    “You don’t think there’s any threat to the general, do you?” I asked.
    “The corpse on the beach probably was some sort of crook. Probably. Or some poor slob who stumbled into a black-market deal. Or a German agent coming ashore who got himself killed for what he saw. Very improbable, I grant you. But impossible? No. So don’t get complacent. If Ike decides to come ashore after the exercise, I don’t want to be looking behind every tree and shrub. I want you to do that before he gets there. Understood?”
    “Absolutely, Colonel,” I said. Sometimes Harding was an okay guy. Once in a while you could kid around with him. But most times, this was the essence of his personality: a hard-ass, take-nothing-for-granted kind of guy. He came out of the trenches of the last war in one piece, so I figured he had a right.
    T HE SKY WAS darkening as we turned off the main road and drove through the village of North Cornworthy. It had the usual monument at the center of town, a stone cross listing the names of the dead from the last war. It didn’t seem like there were that many people left in all of North Cornworthy these days. The street was muddy, the one pub dark and uninviting, and the few shops closed. Whitewashed houses with greying thatched roofs stood amidst weeds and looming pines.
    “Not much of a place,” I said.
    “Many of these small villages were devastated by the Great War,” Kaz said. “Men from the same town served together, whole companies often wiped out in minutes. Then the Depression, another war, theyoung called up or working in factories, and soon only the old are left behind.”
    Outside the village, we found the turnoff for Ashcroft. We took a driveway lined by giant oaks and followed a gradual incline until the trees thinned out and we saw Ashcroft House, rising from the hill like a giant slab of stone. It was a low two-story structure built from the same grey granite as the stone walls in the area. The roof was slate, the only brightness provided by the stark white trim around the windows and doors. The main section had a wing off either side, and it looked like other parts of the house had been added over time. I wondered how old the place was. Centuries, at least, for the main house.
    “This is some joint, Kaz,” I said as I parked the jeep in front.
    “Apparently David married well,” he said as we grabbed our bags from the rear. “He and Helen met late in 1940 and married rather quickly. Wartime romance.”
    If anyone knew about love in a time of war, it was Kaz. He rang the bell. An elderly butler answered the door and told us we were expected, then shuffled off to fetch Martindale. The entryway was impressive. Gleaming marble floors and a wide staircase ascending to a broad upper landing, paneled doors lustrous with polish. The place smelled rich.
    Double doors to our right swung open, and the butler stood aside as a figure emerged from the gloom of the unlit room. A good-looking man in a RAF uniform came