Jack of Diamonds

CHAPTER 14

The drive from Chumley Grove out to Okehampton was usually a little more than half an hour. With the mood they were in after having met DCI Bilge, it took Sonia an extra fifteen minutes to make the drive. The countryside was mostly farmland, the sky a light turquoise colour with large cumulus clouds moving in from the East. Farms, with hedgerows marking their boundaries, and trees of every colour swaying in a gentle breeze, appeared, and just as quickly, disappeared from view. A few of the small villages set off from the roadside were approached by narrow tracks of dirt worn deep by centuries of use. It was the type of drive Sonia usually enjoyed. She could see cows grazing lazily in the wide, open pastures, and sheep dotting the hillsides. Swans swam lazily in open ponds created by the recently flooded rivers and streams, and she wondered how long it would be until the water finally receded.

It brought to mind the body they’d discovered, and where it might have come from.

“We should look into the local Communists here,” she said, her soft voice breaking the silence between them.

“What’s that?” Nigel asked, his own thoughts miles away she realized.

“The Communists? They have a—I don’t even know what you’d call it—a branch office?” she smiled.

“The Communist Party has a branch in Okehampton?”

He smiled at the idea and she found herself laughing as well, the idea of such a small village being a hotbed of Communists and spies sounded ridiculous now that she thought of it.

“All the same, it is what it is,” she laughed. “I’m almost certain I mentioned it before. They’ve been recruiting all through the countryside. We were keeping a close eye on them. Weren’t you?”

“It’s not like that in Chumley Grove. Not at all,” he said, after a brief pause. He looked at her and shrugged. “It is what it is.”

“A lot of these farms out here have workers who make their way across the country, looking for work. Veterans, and such. They’re more than willing to help spread the word.”

“There can’t be many workers at this time of the year?”

“There’s always work if you own a farm, so there’s always workers needed.”

“I suppose so,” he said.

“What? You suppose so? You don’t like the idea?”

“What about Bilge?” he said, changing the subject.

“What about him?”

“He might not appreciate us poking our noses into his business. He all but told us we’re not qualified to run an investigation. Hell, we’ll be lucky if they let us look for the thief once we get into Okehampton.”

“Then why didn’t you tell Bilge we think the body’s a Russian? Maybe even a spy? You would’ve saved him at least a week’s work.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because I thought we’d look into it first,” she replied.

“You see, that’s just what I told myself we wouldn’t do,” he said, pointing a finger at her and shaking his head.

They were approaching Belstone Corner, a conflux of several dirt lanes merging into one. The trees were larger here, heavier, the leaves on the trees a palette of colours with the branches extending out over the road and forming a thin canopy. The road rose and fell with the countryside; the farms were larger, with several houses as well as larger outer buildings off to the side. The land was a patchwork quilt of subtle greens and faded yellows—almost ochre—some separated by ditches and small streams that had flooded and formed small ponds catching the afternoon light. There were endless mazes of hedgerow.

“Do we tell them the truth when we get into Okehampton?” he asked.

“I don’t know, what do you think?”

“I think it depends on whether they let us in on the investigation. Maybe they’ve all ready decided we’re not qualified to lead any investigation. You're the only one who passed the tests for Detective Inspector’s rank.”

“Of course, there is that,” she admitted.

“Yes, there is that, isn’t there? I mean, considering I didn't even write it.”

“So maybe I don’t have a plan,” she confessed. “But I thought we’d have a head start if we reported the body tomorrow. Bilge’ll have had either Charlie, or Rose, send a message to Exeter by then.”

“But will they send it to Okehampton?”

“I doubt it.”

“So they won’t know about the murder, and we don’t tell them about the murder, until we leave. Is that it? And when will that be?” he asked, somewhat dubious.

“I’ll tell them you got sick.”

“Sick?”

“Look. Nothing’s changed, here,” she told him, turning and looking him in the eye. “I don’t live in the middle of the village. I’m in a tiny boarding house with a woman who wouldn’t mind a little more adventure in her life.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Twenty years ago she was caught up in the Boer War.”

“The Boer War? And what, pray tell, was she doing there?”

“She’s Afrikaans. She was a landowner, and like so many others, she lost everything.”

“How many other people live there?”

“That’s the good part. There’s an empty room. The last occupant of the room…left.”

“Again? What does that mean? I mean, the way you said it? It sounded like…you had to think about it?”

“He died, all right? I didn’t want to tell you, but Grant died.”


“Grant?”

“That was his name. Grant McTavish.”

“And how did your good friend, Mr. McTavish, die?”

“He choked on the sandwich he was eating.”

“He choked on a sandwich?”

“It happens.”

“Im sure it does,” he said, turning to look at the passing scenery. There was a copse of beech trees in the distance, their long undulating forms as graceful as ballerinas in the wind, the leaves all but gone.

“So how long do you assume it will take for me to…you know?”

“Beat your addiction?”

“That seems like a rather dramatic announcement, don’t you think?”

“Does it? How many bowls do you smoke a day?” she asked, suddenly serious.

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Please, Nigel. I saw you smoke at least three full bowls with me alone. Did you puff a bowl when you woke up? I imagine you did. Your leg and hip probably hurt because you just can’t get comfortable in your bed at night. Am I right? Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night, thinking it hurts too much? I’ll bet you have laudanum on hand as well? Do you take a tablespoon, thinking it will help you sleep? They used to give that to the Vets addicted to morphine—now they give them heroin. It’s all the same; it’s all made with opium.”

“And you learned all this being a nurse?”

She nodded.

“And you think I’m addicted? Physically addicted? My body craves it, and I need to feed it. Whereas, at one time, it was because of my injuries, but now, in reality, it’s my addiction to opium I’m feeding?”

“I’ve seen it happen before. I used to administer morphine to the soldiers myself, for Christ’s sake, to help them with their pain. But we were at the Front lines, and there was little else we could do for them. Most of them were dying, anyway. If they survived the night, we’d give them more morphine and ship them off to a hospital behind the lines, where they’d give them more morphine. We gave everyone morphine, and then turned them lose once they were recovered from their wounds. We didn't realize they were already addicted by then, and we just kept giving them more. We created the problem, and then refused to confront it. And because there were so many soldiers addicted to it—those men with missing limbs now had missing lives—the government thought it would be a good idea to ban it, and make it illegal.”

“But it’s not illegal.”

“No, not yet," she said with a slow shake of her head. "But they’ve set up a committee to study it. My father was telling me about it. A friend of his is going to head it.”

“A committee?”

“It’s the English way, isn’t it? In fact, yours isn’t the only doctor to prescribe opium as a pain killer. It’s the British System. That’s what they call it.”

“And so you take me to your boarding house with your crazy, Afrikaans landlady, put me in the room where Grant choked on his sandwich, and wait for me to fight an addiction I’m not even aware I have?”

“Sounds right,” she said with a half laugh, looking at him and nodding.

“And in the meantime, we try to solve a murder, by not telling anyone we’re working on it?”

“I think you’ve got the gist of it,” she laughed.

“How long before I start to feel the effects of my addiction?”

“By tomorrow you’ll be wanting something to take the edge off.”

“And after?”

“After that we take it one day at a time.”

“Sounds ominous.”

*

The Chancellory boarding house stood at the end of Broadmoor Lane. Originally an Old Country inn, it was at least two hundred years old. A gentle claw of ivy owned one side wall, creeping part of the way over the entrance way. The inn itself had recently been converted into a more modern dwelling by offering its guests the comforts of an enclosed latrine. The seat sat over a small stream on the downward slope, spilling over rocks and emptying into a large holding pool before cascading down a slough on its way to a water wheel and granary at the bottom of the hill. There was an elm tree sitting alone at the end of the property, its contempt for Nature’s worst evident in its twisted pantomime of defiance. The yard had been weathered through the years, tortured by the elements, but every year the yard would have to be scythed and the fresh scent of cut green lawn would fill the fields. But the seasons had turned and the elm was a simple silhouette of its former self.

“Rather a strange name for a boarding house, don’t you think?” Nigel asked, nodding at the sign. He rather liked it though; it gave the place a certain character.

The light broke through the alder, poplar and beech trees lining the lane. With the yard and its gentle slope eastward, he thought there might be some nice sunrises. As Sonia pulled into what he’d assumed was her regular parking spot, he could see lazy tendrils steaming off the roof of the house. The wooden shingles were warped and black and looked as if no one had changed them in more than ten years.

“I like it,” Sonia said after some thought.

“Me too. It might be something to do with all the trees. It reminds me of places I might have been when I was younger.”

“Rather strange, that,” she laughed, opening the door and getting out. She picked up her handbag. “I suppose we didn’t think this through, did we?” she said, looking at him directly.

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t even consider stopping by your flat to pick up a few things for you.”

“Won’t be the first time I’ve had to live in my clothes.”

“And why’s that?” she laughed, and he watched her walking the path ahead of him.

At least her calves aren’t fat, he told himself.

“I swear, you men are all the same. You think nothing of it if you have to sleep in your clothes.”

“I guess everyone has his own reasons. I couldn’t imagine some of those fops at Bedloe living the way I do, anymore than I can imagine living like them. I wouldn’t mind it though, don’t get me wrong.”

“And I wouldn’t blame you one bit,” she laughed. She made her way up a set of old wooden stairs that needed work. One of the steps was a block of wood almost a foot around sitting on top of a pile of rocks.

“I can’t get my head around the idea that they change their clothes as much as they do,” Sonia was saying. “I have three of the same skirts, and two white blouses. For this time of the year, I have a darker blouse. But I have three of those. Don’t ask me how that happened. I haven’t a clue.”

“I have almost the same. I don’t see what your point is.”

“Mine don’t look like I’ve slept in them,” she smiled, and reaching above the door frame, came down with a key.

“I take it this is Grant’s room then?” Nigel smiled.

She laughed as she jiggled the door knob, pushing into the door with her shoulder.

“It sticks a bit at times. It’ll loosen up with the colder weather,” she added, stepping off the landing and into a small, compact kitchen. It barely looked large enough for the cupboards it had. The countertop was stone, as was the floor, worn smooth in places with the patience of time.

“It’s a bit smaller than I’m used to,” Nigel laughed.

“Let me show you the bedroom.”

She walked through the narrow kitchen, brushing herself up against him. Nigel looked down at her, trying not to look in her eyes. He could feel the stiffness of the brassiere she was wearing under her blouse as she passed in front of him. For her part, she didn’t even notice his awkward silence--for which he was grateful. He danced around her and she laughed.

“I can’t remember the last time I went dancing,” she said over her shoulder.

“I was never a good dancer before the accident; I haven’t danced since,” Nigel stated, the reflective silence that followed sounding like a hesitant whisper.

And then they were in the bedroom.

“Here it is,” and she stepped aside, letting Nigel slide passed her into the room.

There was an oval rug at the foot of the bed, and another two on each side of the bed; two handcrafted nightstands, with a wash basin and jug on one, and a new lamp on the other were crowded near the head of the bed. The bed itself was wrought iron, and sat high off the floor. As long as there were no bedbugs in it, he didn’t care.

“Mind yourself on that thing,” Sonia laughed. “You’ll get a nasty bruise if you happen to roll off in the night.”

“I haven’t fallen out of my bed since I was a child,” Nigel smiled. “I’m sure I’ll be all right here.”

“There’s bound to be some thrashing about,” she said soberly, and Nigel looked at her briefly, wondering if she was being serious.

“And why would I be thrashing about?”

“Your body’s fighting against your will.”

“My will?”

She stepped into the room and sat on the bed. She looked at him and Nigel waited, then she stood up again, only to take off her jacket. When it was off, she sat back down, clutching the jacket in her arms. She heaved a heavy sigh, brushing a long strand of blonde hair away from her face as she took her hat off. She started playing with the brim of her hat, twisting it in her hands and then looked up at him for a moment. He thought maybe she was trying to sort out what kind of man he might be; Nigel wondered if even he knew the answer.

“When a person tries to break away from an addiction, the body does everything it can to prevent it. It fights back. I’ve seen people hurt themselves because they've thrashed themselves up against a wall, or fell off a bed and broke an arm. You'll most likely feel the pain of your withdrawal, and if not the pain, certainly discomfort. You may clear your bowels during a pitch of fever—”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I’ll be here,” she said matter-of-factly, and he believed her.

“How long do we have before all of that starts?”

“When did you smoke your last bowl?”

“You know the answer to that. You were with me.”

“So two hours ago?”

He shrugged.

“Two hours then,” she nodded, pursing her lips and looking as if she was trying to make a reasonable guess. Nigel supposed his guess would be as good as hers, and told himself it would be sometime tomorrow. He’d been without his laced tobacco a time or two before, and while he’d always felt a sharp sense of anxiety, there was never any pain. Again, he supposed that would take place sometime tomorrow. Stomach cramps, he’d imagine.

“Late tomorrow, I’d say.”

“Not in the morning?”

“By evening, I’d think; if not then, definitely the day after.”

“Then I suggest we go out and see if we can find you a Communist,” he smiled.