Under Ground

Chapter Two

Chapter TwoDetective Inspector Trevor Gelson stepped out of the police car at the bomb scene and buttoned his camel-colored trench coat against the damp wind. Sergeant Sean Phillips climbed out behind him as a uniformed officer clambered toward them over the wreckage, bricks, and shattered plaster shifting and snapping under his feet.

The man snapped a salute. “Sirs! Follow me. The victim is over here.”

Trevor trailed the bobby, his eyes absorbing the devastation. Most of the house still remained. It appeared as if a giant knife had sliced off a portion, leaving the rest intact. Where rooms once stood, twisted wood lay on top of crumpled furniture. Clothing was strewn throughout, and shards of glass glittered in the emerging sunshine. The murmur of the crowd drifted toward him. Held back by a pair of ARP workers, the throng craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the activity. Two women stood near a tilted letter box speaking with one of his men. The taller of the pair gestured as she spoke, hands punctuating her words. He glanced at the sergeant and nodded toward the women. “Phillips, see what you can find out.”

“Yes, sir.”

Arriving at the splintered hole in the floor, he peered inside. A yellowed skeleton stared back at him. Trevor lowered himself into the opening, “Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll find who did this to you.” Drawing out his notebook, he began to catalog the scene.

A thin layer of plaster dust covered the moist soil under his shoes. Several pieces of rumpled women’s clothing lay next to the skeleton who had several broken bones. The injuries must have happened during the bombing from the looks of the jagged white edges. The straw-colored skull was misshapen. He leaned closer to study the spiderweb of cracks along the left temple. Whoever this was had been dead—or almost—when he’d been dumped into the small cavity. Decayed bits of dark green cloth clung to the bones, and the poor soul’s boots were still on his feet. Trevor cast his gaze about and spied a yellowed scrap of paper nearby. He plucked it from the ground and held it toward the light streaming from above.

Hmm. A photograph of four men in uniform—doughboys, if his guess was right. Arms draped across each other’s shoulders, they mugged for the camera. They stood before the mouth of a cave, packages and crates scattered throughout the scene. In the background, a small statue graced the top of one of the boxes. A hill sprinkled with scrub brush rose up behind the cavern. Two trees with weeping leaf-filled branches towered over the men on either side. The front end of a jeep peeked into the edge of the picture. Trevor sighed. The photo could have been taken anywhere.

He turned the image over and brushed away the dirt that clung to the back. Faded writing appeared. Trevor squinted at the scrawl, shifting the photo back and forth to capture the light. No good. He could only pick out a letter here and there. He’d check it later. Tucking it into his notebook, he sifted through the skirts and blouses to see if anything was hidden underneath, then he perused the rest of the area. Nothing. Reaching up, he hoisted himself to the floor above.

The police photographer waited to memorialize the scene on film, and the medical officer loitered close by. They moved past him and scrambled into the hole. Trevor walked toward Phillips, who was still interviewing the women. He smiled and briefly lifted his brown fedora when they looked toward him.

Trevor stopped for a moment as his gaze rested on the willowy brunette. Even in her disheveled state, she was a striking woman. Her pleated trousers were torn and muddy, her tailored blouse wrinkled and stained. A riot of shoulder-length curls surrounded her smooth oval face, and deep chocolate-colored eyes sparkled against her fair complexion. Her petite friend looked childlike in comparison. He schooled his features and bowed slightly.

“Good afternoon. I'm Detective Inspector Trevor Gelson.”

“I’m Ruth Brown. This is my friend Varis Gladstone.”

“You’re Americans?”

She nodded. “I’m here with the Associated Press. Varis works at the embassy.”

“Awfully young for that, aren’t you?”

Miss Brown drew herself up and squared her shoulders. “Not really. Are you here to investigate us or the murder of that poor man?”

“How do you know it’s a murder?”

“Most people don’t bury their dead in the floor.”

“Quite right.” He cleared his throat and continued, “You’re the one who found him?”

“Yes. I fell through the floor on top of…it…him. That’s why he looks a little mangled.” She gave a small shiver.

He searched her face for a moment. “I know you’ve been speaking with my sergeant, but would you be kind enough to answer a few more questions?”

“Of course. Will we be allowed to continue searching for our personal items?”

“Not today. This is a crime scene now.”

“But…”

Trevor held up a hand. “However, we will do our best to collect what we need in the next day or two. Then if the ARP says you may return…”

Miss Gladstone laid a hand on Miss Brown’s arm and smiled at Trevor. “That will be fine, Detective Inspector Gelson. We appreciate your efforts.”

Miss Brown’s mouth set in a thin line. “What else would you like to know?”

Pencil poised over his pad, Trevor asked, “Did you see anything unusual?”

“Other than the skeleton?”

He looked up to see her grinning at him, eyes twinkling. He gave her a wry smile in return. “Yes, other than the skeleton.”

“There was a photo.” She swiped at her arms. “And lots of spiderwebs.”

“We found the picture. Anything else?”

She shook her head. “I wasn’t down there very long before the warden came by.”

“How long have you been in England?”

“Six months. I got here just before Eisenhower.”

“What do you think of our fair country?”

“I love it.”

“Even in its dilapidated condition?”

“Especially so. That’s why I invited my friend Varis to join me. I knew she’d love it, too. The people have been so warm. The hills and forests are lovely, and the sense of history simply envelopes me.”

“An Anglophile, Miss Brown?”

She shrugged and scraped windblown strands from her face. When she did so, he caught a faint floral scent.

“What sorts of stories do you cover for the wire service?”

“My job is to put a face on this war for our readers in the US. Even after Pearl Harbor, many folks don’t understand why we’re in Europe. They expect us to fight the war against the j**s. They need to see we’re all in this together.”

“Very commendable.” He scrutinized her face. She seemed to be holding back. “Are you sure there isn’t anything else you’re forgetting to tell me?”

“Such as?”

“Anything you would have seen or heard.”

“No, nothing. I leaned against the wall, and the next thing I knew, I was falling backward through it. Then the floor gave way, and I landed on top of him. I saw the photo, then the warden came by.”

Trevor handed her a small card. “If you think of anything else, please contact me. The warden can help you get in touch with the housing officer. Once you’re settled, let me know how I may reach you.”

“You’re very kind. Varis has connections through the embassy. Someone there can help us find a place. And you can always reach me through her.”

“Good day.” He touched the brim of his hat before turning away. She’s leaving something out. She’d met his eyes when she spoke, but there was more to what happened than she let on. He’d bet a week’s wages. Maybe he didn’t believe her because she was a reporter. They couldn’t be trusted. Always trying to find a story and protect their sources. She was probably no different. Too bad. She was an attractive woman. And intelligent, too. He smiled at the thought. Bah! Who was he kidding? An American reporter. The two of them had about as much in common as a flea and an elephant.

He waved away the thoughts and made his way over the uneven ground to the hole.

The medical officer emerged from below and brushed the dirt from his jacket. He looked up as Trevor drew near.

“Trevor, how goes it?”

“You tell me, Christopher.”

“This could be an interesting one. I’ll know more once I do the post mortem, but it’s most certainly a male, and I’d say he probably wasn’t over twenty-five or thirty years old. Did you see the cracks on the skull? That’s probably how the poor bloke died. But like I said, I’ll know more later.”

“How much later?”

“Two or three days.”

“I don’t suppose you could rush it.”

Christopher peered over dark horn-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose. “Some of us do actually celebrate the holidays, Trevor. You should try it.”

“How long has he been there?”

“Avoiding the subject, eh? Fine. Hard to say for sure but maybe twenty years.” He wagged his finger. “Now stop trying to get my report before I finish my investigation.” He glanced toward the women. “Surely you have more questions for those lovely ladies. Or some villains to hunt down.”

Trevor looked at Miss Brown and her friend picking their way through the debris before meandering away. “I’m quite finished with the ladies, and I can’t begin my hunt till I get your report.”

Christopher snorted a laugh. “Don’t get sullen with me, Detective Inspector Gelson. It doesn’t become you, and we've been at this together for too long for me to fall prey to your attempts to manipulate me. Go spend time with your father.”

“Thanks for the advice Doctor Ledger.”

The doctor clapped Trevor on the back before reaching down to collect his black leather bag. He snatched the glasses from his face and dropped them into his front jacket pocket. He waved his hand and climbed into his vehicle. “Happy Christmas, Trevor. Give my best to your dad.”

Trevor shook his head. The holidays only served as a roadblock to getting on with the case. Except for those businesses producing for the war, most others would be closed or short staffed. He surveyed the scene. Some of the men were packing it in, and the crowd was beginning to disperse.

Now would be a good time to start knocking on doors to see if anyone had lived here since the last war. Where to start? He glanced across the street. A curtain fell back into place in the house huddled between piles of rubble. “I know exactly where to start.”