Free The Rest is Silence (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery) by James R. Benn Page A

Robert Carraher lived there and wouldn’t mind the company. He’d hitch a ride into Dartmouth with Carraher in the morning.
    W HEN WE ARRIVED back at Ashcroft, Kaz helped me limp inside. We’d concocted a story about an accident with the jeep, and I was sure that no one would pay us much mind. With all the military vehicles tearing around southern England, accidents were pretty much commonplace.
    “What happened to you?” Edgar said as soon as we set foot in the hallway.
    “Captain Boyle,” Meredith said, following Edgar out of the library. “Are you badly hurt? Come, sit down.”
    “A minor accident,” I said. “Our jeep came out worse than I did.”
    “What can we do for you?” Meredith asked, the concern on her face not what I expected. Haughty indifference, perhaps, or a cuttingremark about Americans driving on the wrong side of the road. But this was a kinder Meredith.
    “Nothing, thank you,” I said. “I think I’ll go lie down.”
    “Baron, you look hurt as well,” Edgar said.
    “I am fine,” Kaz said. “A few minor bruises. Billy got the worst of it.”
    “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to eat?” Meredith said. “We’ve just finished our luncheon, and there’s plenty of food.”
    “I’m hardly dressed for it,” I said, gesturing at my trousers where the medic had shredded them to get at my cuts and scrapes. But it dawned on me that I was hungry, and suddenly the appeal of hot food was undeniable.
    “Perhaps a tray will be best for Billy,” Kaz said, reading my mind. Meredith hustled off to organize food, giving orders like she ran the place.
    Twenty minutes later I was in bed, munching on a cheese sandwich served with a bowl of fish soup and a glass of stout. My legs were stiffening up, and my arm ached, but at least I was on the right side of the grass for another day.
    “You okay?” I said to Kaz, who was seated at a small table by the window, downing the soup without a single slurp.
    “Yes,” he said. “I am a little sore, but unhurt. Do you need anything, Billy?”
    “Some shut-eye, that’s all,” I said.
    “Thank you,” Kaz said, standing at the foot of the bed. “You saved my life.”
    “It was my turn,” I said. “I think we’re even now.”
    Kaz laughed, the joy of cheating death yet again vivid on his face. He left, and as I lay there I thought about getting up, but my eyelids grew heavy, and I fell asleep as odd visions of Sir Rupert in a truck filled with dead men danced through my head.

CHAPTER NINE
    T HE NEXT MORNING I awoke to a knock on the door. It was Alice Withers, the kitchen maid, with my uniform from yesterday, or most of it. She had bright eyes, full lips, straw-blonde hair, and looked to be twenty or even younger. A cheery girl.
    “Sorry to wake you, Captain,” she said, “but the baron said you should be up, and I thought you’d want these things. I cleaned and stitched the shirt myself. The trousers were a lost cause, sorry to say.” She placed the pile of clothes on the bed as I sat up.
    “No problem,” I said. The shirt looked like new, except for the tear, which had been expertly sewn up. “How’d you get the bloodstains out?”
    “Cold water and spit,” she said, giggling a bit. “Then you rub in salt and scrub with washsoap. It’s how Mrs. Dudley taught me. I hope you don’t mind.”
    “The old ways are often the best,” I said, glancing at the clock. It was past time to get up. “Thanks, Alice.” She giggled again as she shut the door.
    I washed and dressed, wincing as pain shot through my protesting legs. I sat back down on the edge of the bed, overcome by the realization that I really had been lucky yesterday. A thirteen-hundred pound vehicle had been tossed in the air by a 7.5-inch shell and then fallen smack on top of Kaz and me in about the only position guaranteed not to crush the two of us into a red meat pie. Luck. How much did I have left? Those guys on the beach hadn’t even met the enemy yet, andnow some of