Early morning found us on the road to Canterbury. We’d used the rear entrance of the Dorchester, since Inspector Scutt was on the lookout for Kaz. The blackout curtains had come in handy, and the kitchen had fixed us up with a thermos of coffee and cheese sandwiches for our predawn departure.
Crossing the River Medway at Rochester, we heard the heavy drone of engines behind us, and soon the sky was filled with B-17 bombers, hundreds of them, heading into the eastern dawn. It was a solid stream of aircraft, bomber squadrons forming up from bases all over southern England, coming together above us, painting the sky white with contrails and vibrating the air with their thousand-horsepower engines. Big Mike pulled the jeep over by the embankment, and we craned our necks to watch the air show.
“You’re not from around here then.” The voice came from the sidewalk, where an elderly gent rested his hands on his cane, a playful smile on his face.
“Don’t tell me you get used to this?” I asked him.
“You never get used to Jerry coming over, and he used to, you know, day and night. Hit the airfield outside of town and us, too, for good measure. Now, at least if I hear airplanes during the day, I know it’s you Yanks flying them. Makes a fella feel good not to have to look up. Safe and secure, like.”
“You take any hits recently, with the new raids?” I asked.
“No, just some fields plowed up with those Jerries what got shot down, and them releasing their bomb loads. Sometimes the Home Guard has to round up the aircrew, or collect the bodies. Seems like every airplane in this war flies over us, going or coming from bombing poor souls somewhere. Better them than us, that’s what I say. But I’ll tell you, boys, I will look up when them B-17s come home.”
“Why?”
“Not all of them make it. I’ve seen one try to land, smoke spewing out from two engines. They crashed, poor lads. Tore up a barn, too. You’ve got to watch out in the afternoon, but morning time, I go for my walk, and enjoy the sound they make. Different at night, though. Could be our own Lancasters or Jerry coming over, can’t really tell. Anyway, I hope your boys knock Adolf for a loop. Good day, lads.” He tapped his fingers to his forehead in a salute of sorts, and continued his constitutional. As we pulled away, I looked back, and saw him give a quick glance skyward.
“That’s what comes of living in Bomb Alley,” Kaz said. “Good advice about the afternoon, though.”
“I think he was laughing at us, the old coot,” Big Mike said.
“What he’s lived through, I’ll let him have a chuckle,” I said. “No way to live out your old age, with the Luftwaffe bombing your hometown, and then both sides crash-landing around you for the rest of the war.”
We drove on, watching the contrails disappear off to our left, as I wondered what the formations would look like coming back, and what the old man would think and feel as he watched them. He looked like someone who’d worked all his life, and probably served in the last war. These should be his golden years, and instead of tending roses, he was walking under a cloud of bombers, looking over his shoulder every day for the debris of war to fall from the sky. There were all sorts of victims in this war, in every war, and for certain there were plenty of people who’d do anything to be in his shoes. Still, it bothered me. I thought of my own father, another veteran of the last war, and a guy who worked harder than anyone on the force. I always imagined him going fishing and chewing the fat with his pals at Kirby’s after he retired. What specter would he glimpse over his shoulder?
The countryside opened up after Rochester-low, rolling hills, farmland with fields marked off by stone walls and shrubs. The ground was bare, plowed over after the fall harvest, except for the apple orchards, with their neat lines of trees, branches pruned and ready for the spring. It was a pleasant drive, until we came to a crossroads outside of Sittingbourne. A military convoy had the right of way, and we sat, watching the parade of heavy trucks cross the roadway.
“Perhaps we should tell stories,” Kaz said, after ten minutes of monotony. “We are headed toward Canterbury, after all.”
“So?” Big Mike said, looking at me. I shrugged.
“Geoffrey Chaucer? The Canterbury Tales? Surely they teach Chaucer in American schools?”
“Wouldn’t know,” Big Mike said. “I left after the eighth grade to work at a gas station, on account of my old man kicking the bucket. Maybe they mentioned him in the ninth grade.”
“The name rings a bell,” I said. “But I never paid a lot of attention in class. What are they? Stories about Canterbury?”
“Do you want to hear about him?” Kaz said, from his perch in the rear seat.
“We ain’t going nowhere soon,” Big Mike said, gesturing at the line of stationary traffic in front of us.
“Well,” Kaz began, warming to the lesson and a willing audience, “Chaucer lived in the fourteenth century. He was originally from London, but the story goes that he was peripherally involved in a power struggle between a group of powerful barons and King Richard II. He and his friends backed the king, and the king lost. Chaucer’s friends lost their heads, so he wisely retired to the countryside, in Kent.”
“Those barons, they knock off the king?” Big Mike asked.
“No, they kept him as a figurehead, but eliminated all his advisers. The parliamentary session after they took over was called the Merciless Parliament, since the death sentence was imposed on all the nobles who had supported the king’s cause. Chaucer had been a soldier and a diplomat for King Richard II, but he was not highly born and probably would have been left alone, but he took no chances.”
“Smart guy,” Big Mike said. “Like after a Mob war. The ones who come out on top watch for any threat, and eliminate it. So Chaucer went on the lam?”
“Not in hiding, just out of the way, until Richard regained control, insuring a royal position and pension.”
“Exactly like a Mob war,” Big Mike said, bridging the gap between centuries with his common-sense analysis. “What did he do, bring in some muscle from out of town?”
“Exactly,” Kaz said. “The king’s uncle, John of Gaunt, returned with his forces from a war in Spain.”
“And they put Richard back in power, and Chaucer got his cut for staying loyal, and alive,” Big Mike said.
“Yes, quite. He wrote one of the great works of the English language while living here in Kent, presumably near Canterbury. It begins with a group of travelers setting out on a pilgrimage from London to Canterbury, to visit the cathedral. It is a long walk, so they agree to tell stories on the way there and back. At the end of the trip, the person who has told the best story will have their dinner paid for by the others.”
“I get it,” I said. “Since we’re on the road from London to Canterbury…”
“I’m in,” Big Mike said. “Kaz, you tell us some of those old Chaucer stories, and we’ll see how they stack up against our yarns.” The traffic inched ahead then started to move and as quickly came to a stop. There was a chill in the air, even with the bright winter sun, and I buttoned my trench coat collar and nodded to Kaz to begin.
“One of my favorites is ‘The Pardoner’s Tale.’ He tells the story of three men who are drinking heavily, mourning the death of a dear friend. The more they drink, the angrier they grow at death, whom they hold responsible. So they go out, searching for death, vowing to kill him. On the road, they meet an old man, who points to an ancient oak tree and tells them that is where they could find death. The three wait by the tree, and while there, discover eight bags of gold coins. The bags are heavy and they decide to wait until dark to remove the gold, or else someone will see them and steal their treasure. By now, all thoughts of killing death are forgotten. Growing hungry, they agree that one man should go to the village for food and wine. They draw straws and the youngest draws the short one. He leaves without complaint, trusting that his friends will not depart before nightfall. As soon as he is gone, his companions plot to kill him, reasoning that the gold will be best split two ways instead of three. The lad returns, with three bottles of wine and ample food, when he is set upon and killed. To celebrate, his killers drink the wine, not knowing that the boy had poisoned two of the bottles, intending to kill them. When darkness finally comes, all three are dead at the foot of the tree, having found death, just as the old man had foreseen.”
“Good one,” I said. “What’ve you got, Big Mike?”
“I remember a story about Joey Adamo, whose old man ran the Westside Gang in Detroit. This was before I joined the force, but the old-timers told the story over and over. Joey was a Sicilian orphan, and Angelo Adamo adopted him, since he and his wife couldn’t have kids. He’d picked a kid from Sicily, so he’d be sure to get a real Siciliano, pureblood. Anyway, he raises him like his own, and brings him up in the organization. Joey makes his bones during the Vitale Wars. Lots of touring cars with guns, the whole nine yards. The Adamo faction does OK, they come out on the winning side. Joey marries into the Zerilli family, another Mob family, and the girl’s a real looker to boot. He’s got everything: respect, honor, money, a beautiful wife, and pretty soon a healthy baby son. All because he was plucked from some orphanage by a nun, to be the son of a Detroit hoodlum.” The traffic moved, almost up to twenty miles an hour now, and Big Mike shifted gears and continued. “But something went wrong.”
“What?” Kaz said, leaning forward from the backseat.
“Guilt. Regret. He shoots a kid by accident, a bystander who takes a slug to the chest and dies in the hospital. He’d killed five men without missing a beat, but after killing an innocent kid, he can’t pull the trigger, no matter what.”
“What happens to him?”
“He runs. Steals twenty grand from his old man, and hightails it off across the border, into Canada, wife and kid in tow. Old man Zerilli takes it as a personal insult, and starts a shooting war, demanding his daughter and grandson be turned over to him, along with some of the Adamo territory.”
“Can he really do that?” Kaz asked. “Barter human beings?”
“They’re from the old country,” Big Mike said, as if that explained everything. “Anyway, Angelo agrees to one out of the three, but Zerilli wants more than his daughter back. Things get worse, and both sides are hurting. A Mob war costs money, and there’s less dough coming in for everyone. So Angelo sends some boys into Canada to track down Joey. They find him. Couple of days later, Zerilli’s daughter is delivered to the old man, with all her luggage. She’s fine, but there’s a steamer truck with Joey inside, and he ain’t.”
“Angelo Adamo killed his own son?” Kaz said.
“Orders him killed. According to the rules he lives by, he doesn’t really have any choice. He keeps his grandson and all of his territory. The kid must be almost thirty by now. He’s in the family business as well.”
“He works for the man who killed his father?” Kaz said.
“Yep. Works for him up until his twenty-first birthday, the day he shoots Angelo and his bodyguard, both in the head. Story is, he weeps as he does it, and old man Adamo smiles and nods his head, just before he gets his.”
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “Everyone falls in and stays with the kid?”
“They do. Guess they figure the kid set things right, according to his lights, and shows the other families that he isn’t one to mess with. Counts for a lot with that bunch. Zerilli ends up the big loser. About a month after she was returned, the daughter runs away. She grabs some jewels the old man had stashed for a rainy day, and is never seen again. So, Kaz, does that story stand up to Chaucer?”
“And to Shakespeare,” Kaz said. “Billy? What do you have for us?”
I held onto my seat as Big Mike hit the accelerator, the traffic jam finally giving way. We cleared an intersection, the tail end of a convoy disappearing off to our right. As I was about to begin, the distant sound of aircraft engines rose up from due south, and within seconds it became a sputtering, growling noise, signaling a plane in big trouble.
“There!” Kaz said, pointing ahead to a black smudge in the sky, descending and trailing smoke. It was a B-17, probably hit by fighters or flak along the French coast and heading for home. A couple of trucks ahead of us pulled over to watch, and Big Mike gunned the engine, passing them and a couple of other vehicles that had slowed down. The B-17 was closer now, losing altitude and airspeed. It was off to our right, but parallel to the road, and I began to wonder if it was going to land on top of us. Two of the four engines trailed smoke, and a third suddenly sprouted yellow flames, as the smoke turned an oily black. I saw its flaps go down, and knew the pilot was trying for a belly landing. It was going to have to be in the plowed fields alongside the road, the flattest ground within sight. I hoped they’d jettisoned the bomb load in the channel and the crew had bailed out over land. The bomber seemed to drop straight down as it slowed, its huge wings wobbling back and forth as the pilot fought for what control he could get out of the damaged plane. Kaz and I stared, transfixed, but Big Mike took his opportunity and sped between the line of vehicles, as nearly everyone on the road stopped to watch.
A line of deuce-and-a-half trucks blocked our view for a few seconds, but we got around them in time to see the pilot raise the nose a bit, seconds before the aircraft touched down. It slid forward, gouging out a blackened trench as one of the propellers spun off. The plane smashed through a stone wall, spinning crazily across the field, like a giant child’s toy. The B-17 swerved sideways before coming to a shuddering halt, its nose yards away from a row of oak trees edging a lane between the fields. We were close enough to see shredded metal where machine-gun or cannon fire had raked the wing and fuselage. Dozens of GIs ran over to help, spilling out of vehicles, swarming the aircraft, reaching to help any survivors out through the hatches. Smoke bloomed from the damaged engine and enveloped the rescuers. An ambulance pulled out of the traffic ahead of us, bumping over plowed fields, and disappeared into the thickening haze. We drove on in silence, stories forgotten.
An hour later, with images of death beneath gnarled oaks playing across my mind, we turned off the main road at a sign for Shepherdswell. We crossed the train tracks and parked at the station, not far from the Bricklayer’s Arms. It was a pleasant-looking place, and we walked toward it, silently in agreement on the need for a drink. Shepherdswell was a sprawling little village with a main street of shops and homes all built in the same brickwork style, painted a uniform white. Narrow side streets led off into country lanes dotted with larger homes, bounded by farmers’ fields showing husks of the last autumn crops, endless rows of withered stems, lined up like tombstones.
The Bricklayer’s Arms was warm and welcoming, the publican quick with his pints, a sharp, crisp ale that bit through the dust in my mouth and the visions in my head. We drank, and didn’t speak, the only sound a long sigh from Big Mike after he polished off his pint. He spoke for us all.
“Another?” the publican asked, appearing as soon as he noticed the empty glass.
“Sure,” Big Mike said. “But maybe you can help us first. We’re looking for a girl.”
“What kind of establishment do you think this is?” He took a half step back, his eyes wide with amazement at this cheeky Yank.
“No, no,” Kaz said. “What my friend means is we are searching for a specific young lady. We were supposed to deliver a gift to her, from her fiance, but we lost the address. All we know is that she’s visiting here, and wondered if you may have seen her. She came by train, and we thought with the pub so close to the station, she might have come in.”
“Well, then, that’s a different story. What’s her name?”
“Sheila,” Kaz said, leaving it unsaid that she might have used a different name. “Early twenties, dark hair, dark eyes. A pretty girl, not a movie star, but nice looking.”
“Kind of a small, round mouth,” I added. “A smart kid, too.” She had to be.
“Visiting here in Shepherdswell?”
“Yes, that’s what we were told,” Kaz said.
“Humph. Sorry, can’t help you there. Sounds a bit like Miss Pemble, but she’s not visiting anyone, and not named Sheila either. Been here off and on for some time now.”
“Miss Pemble?” Kaz said, inviting more comment.
“Aye. Margaret Pemble. She’s a nurse. Rented a cottage out on Farrier Street a fortnight or more ago. She stayed here-we have a couple of rooms upstairs in case you gents need a place tonight-for a few days while she looked around. Nice young woman, I’d say a bit older than the girl you described.”
“Much call for nurses around here?” I asked.
“No, not much. We have the village doctor, that’s all we need. She’s a private nurse, specializes in rehabilitation, she said. Needed a place with plenty of room downstairs, to care for a crippled flier who hired her on. Some rich bloke, I’d say, after a quiet place in the country instead of a crowded hospital ward. I’d do the same myself, if I had the money.”
“So the place on Farrier Street, it’s his then?” I asked.
“I guess so, not that it matters. She’s the one doing everything, getting it all ready. He’s had several operations on his face and legs. Can’t walk much, that’s what she’s going to help him with. Don’t know what’s hidden under the bandages. Some of those pilots get burned something awful.”
“Yeah, we just saw a B-17 belly-land in a field,” Big Mike said. “It came in with three engines on fire. They were lucky to make it down in one piece.”
“Aye, we’ve seen plenty of crashes here, since 1940. A Hurricane came down not a quarter mile away, poor bloke dead at the controls. The Home Guard lads have rounded up a few Jerries as well, most of them glad to give up after a night in the woods. We had a Polish pilot-one of your lot, Lieutenant-he had to bail out, in September 1940, I think, and it took a while for him to convince the constable he was one of ours. He had a thick accent, just like Miss Pemble’s patient.”
“He’s a Polish flier?” Kaz asked.
“Aye, from the Kosciuszko Squadron, so he told me. Famous lot, those boys. He was a bit hard to understand, with his accent and the bandages to boot, but I got that much.”
“Perhaps I should stop and give him my regards,” Kaz said. “Miss Pemble and he are at home?”
“No, they left for London this morning. I think she has to bring him back for treatments at the hospital. We don’t see that much of them. She said it would be a while before he could stay full-time.” He briskly took our orders for lunch, gave Kaz directions to Miss Pemble’s cottage, and went off to pull Big Mike’s next pint.
“I think we should take a look at this cottage,” Kaz said in a low voice.
“What, you think Sheila Carlson is moonlighting as a nurse?” Big Mike said. “Sounds out of character.”
“Why not, as long as we’re here? She fits the description,” Kaz said.
“Look, you’re already wanted by Scotland Yard,” I said. “You want the local constable to throw you in the hoosegow for breaking and entering, too?”
“Hoosegow?” Kaz said, unfamiliar with the term.
“Clink. Pokey, the big house,” Big Mike said.
“Ah, the slammer,” Kaz said. “We must be careful then. I am only looking for my wounded cousin, Luboslaw. I am distraught, am I not?”
“Not responsible for your actions,” Big Mike said. “We tried to stop you.”
“Sure, that’s believable,” I said.
After a lunch of bangers and mash in apple cider gravy-two helpings for Big Mike-we drove along Farrier Street, past three small cottages, until we came to Miss Pemble’s, marked by a large weeping willow. We knocked at the front door, and were greeted by the silence of an empty house. Big Mike looked in the bay window, and shook his head. No one home. We went around back, and Big Mike worked his knife-blade magic on the rear door. Ten seconds and we were in.
“Poor Luboslaw,” I said to Kaz. “He’ll never know of your grief.”
“You guys search the joint,” Big Mike said. “I’ll be on watch. If you hear me start up the jeep, it means someone’s coming. Go out the back, lock up, and say you were just knocking at the door. OK?”
“OK.” Kaz and I went through the rooms. Margaret Pemble’s room was upstairs, and she had a lot more stuff than Sheila had had on her last time I saw her. A few dresses hung in the closet, nothing fancy. A chest of drawers held the usual feminine stuff, and her dressing table was decorated with perfumes and makeup. No wads of cash hidden under the mattress, no oleander plant being cultivated. Downstairs, we went through the meager belongings of her patient. A couple of worn suits. One RAF uniform, a leather flying jacket, shirts, and corduroy trousers.
A small table by the window was stacked with bandages and dressings, along with a few bottles of medicines. A pile of books, one in Polish, rested on the nightstand.
“Stefan Grabin ski,” Kaz said. “He’s called the Polish Poe. Demon ruchu. The Motion Demon. Horror stories, not to my taste.”
“There’s horror enough,” I said. I flipped the pages of the other two books. One was a paperback, The Saint Goes On, by Leslie Charteris. I’d read a few of his books, and knew they were fairly easy reads. Maybe he was trying to improve his English. The other was a thicker hardcover, Selected Poems, by W. B. Yeats. That was heavier going, and I flipped through the pages, wondering at his wide-ranging interests. It opened to a bookmark at “The Circus Animals’ Desertion,” a poem I’d not heard of.
“Ah, Yeats,” Kaz said. “A famous Irish poet. Are you familiar with his work?”
“Not really. I don’t get this poem about circus animals, that’s for sure.”
“The meaning is in the last lines,” Kaz said, reciting them from memory.
Now that my ladder’s gone
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.
“He wrote it near the end of his life, about trying to recapture the creativity of youth,” Kaz said. “It speaks about returning to the elemental truths, I think.”
“He has those lines underlined,” I said, feeling easier talking about concrete truths.
“Poles have a deep understanding of poetry,” Kaz said, taking the book from my hands. “He knows Latin, too, if this is in his hand. Corpora dormiunt vigilant animae.”
“What’s that mean?” I asked, as Kaz showed me the inscription on the first page of the book.
“The bodies are asleep, the souls are awake.”
“Interesting guy,” I said. “Not that it matters.”
The nightstand also held a fountain pen and three small pebbles. Souvenirs of Poland, maybe? We looked under the bed, behind the chest of drawers, and found nothing but dust balls. Magazines and a radio in the sitting room. Coal in the bucket by the fireplace. Well-stocked larder and a few bottles of vodka to ease the pain. Nothing suspicious, just a chilly rural cottage with a decent stock of booze, books, and bandages.
“See anything out of the ordinary?” I asked Kaz.
“Nothing. It has a temporary look, no personal effects, but that fits with what we were told.”
We left, checking to be sure nothing was disturbed, and that we had locked the door behind us. The only evidence of our visit was a few scratches around the lock, where Big Mike had used his blade. Nothing a nurse or crippled pilot would notice.
“Waste of time,” I said to Big Mike.
“Worth checking out,” he said, like any good cop would. You never passed up a lead, no matter how slim. That’s how cases were solved. We drove back to the main road, turning south for Dover, belly landings and wild-goose chases behind us.