Lydia had been firmly entrenched in the bunk below, Edward above, working at the bow. Braun had simply carried his sailbag up front, extracted the mushroom anchor when Edward was turned away, and struck him on the head. The blow had not been fatal, only enough to knock him senseless — a bloody mess to clean up would have cost valuable time. Braun caught Edward as he fell, avoiding any loud thumps on the deck to alert Lydia, then quickly removed the remaining items from the large canvas bag before stuffing his victim in. Braun was intimately familiar with the nature of decomposing bodies — he knew they exuded a tremendous amount of gas, so he used the oyster knife to puncture a few holes through both the bag and Edward. As anticipated, any blood that came from the wounds was neatly contained inside the canvas. He then dropped the knife and the anchor into the bag, drew the opening shut, and tied it securely. When he eased the lot over the side it was dead weight, disappearing in no time into the churning black waters.
This part of the sequence had taken just over a minute — but he was not done yet. A single item from the bag remained, the old fishing reel. He pulled out twenty feet of line and tied a knot at the base of the reel. Holding it aloft, he kept the tension constant and threaded the line through rigging as he moved aft. Braun kept up a disjointed conversation as he approached the companionway, adding muffled replies in something resembling Edwards voice. The indistinct words were further masked by the sound of Mystic crashing through the seas. On reaching the cabin, Lydia had spotted him right away. She looked awful, an arm draped across her forehead. Braun released the fishing line and the reel thumped to the deck.
Do you need help with that foresail, Edward? Two more quick thumps for good measure, and after a pause, All right, I'll tie it down. Watch your step up there, man!
With the right thoughts fixed in Lydia's head, the rest had been easy. Disconnect the tiller at the right time, allowing the boat to heel. After the lurch, find Edward missing and kick the reel overboard. Quick, clean.
Now Lydia was reciting Brauns story chapter and verse to the investigating authorities. A perfect mix of grief, naivete, and innocence. He could not have imagined a more perfect spokesperson. All that was left was to sit back, wait, and watch.
The morning at Harvard had been difficult. With summer recess in full swing, many of the professors and nearly all the students were away. The only advantage was that, lacking classes to attend, those who remained were highly accessible. Thatcher was able to track down two of Braun s professors, but only one remembered him, and that a vague recollection. The man did, however, direct Thatcher to a graduate student who would have been in the same class.
Thatcher navigated the basement of Grays Hall, a narrow passage sided with slabs of stone that gave the place a tomb-like ambiance. He found Nicholas Gross in the Structures Laboratory. The young man was slouched casually on a stool, examining some kind of experimental framework. Tall and thin, he was smartly dressed and well manicured — more dapper than a student ought to be, Thatcher thought. Gross looked up curiously, no doubt put off by the uniform.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
"Yes — or at least I hope so. I'm Major Michael Thatcher, an investigator for the Royal Army."
"Which one?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Which Royal Army? There's a lot of royalty in the world."
Thatcher's thoughts stumbled until he saw a grin emerge on the young man's face.
"I'm just kidding, old man. With an accent like yours—"
"Oh, yes," Thatcher recovered, "I see."
"Whatever could a servant of his majesty be investigating in a dungeon like this?"
The flippant attitude kept Thatcher off balance. On closer inspection, Gross was probably nearing thirty — rather old, even for a graduate student. And he fenced with the sharp words of a man striving to appear more clever than he was. Thatcher knew the type from his own days at Cambridge, career students who had the financial means to prolong their aimless academic careers to no end. Gross had probably spent the entire war in this basement, or somewhere better, notwithstanding holidays and school breaks when he would have returned to the soft bosom of his family.
"I'm trying to track down information on a former student. I was told you might have known him."
"Who?"
"Alexander Brown."
"Dear God, Alex! We all wondered what became of him."
"We?"
"Yes, yes. Alex was a stray when we found him — absorbed him into our little pack of liars. Roy Kiefer, Anna Litsch, Eddie. With a little guidance and a lot of booze Alex became quite a hit."
"Do you know where he was from?"
Gross thought about it. "Can't remember. He wasn't proper East Coast, but he wasn't one of those loony Californians either. Something in between."
Thatcher yanked a handkerchief from his breast pocket and stifled a sneeze. The internal pressure of the act brought on a spectrum of minor pains. "I see."
"So did he make it through? The war, I mean. We all knew Alex didn't finish school so he could enlist."
"That's what I'm trying to find out. When he left, did he keep in touch with anyone?"
Gross laughed and spun a full circle on his stool. "Lydia! Dear, rich Lydia." Dismounting, he sauntered over to an icebox and pulled out a Coca-Cola. "Can I offer you a drink, Major?"
"No, thank you. Who is Lydia?"
"Lydia Cole, of the Newport and Palm Beach Coles. Filthy rich, but not snobby in the usual old money way. We all had our eye on her, but Alex won the prize."
"They were involved — romantically?"
Gross hooked the lip of the bottle cap on a sharp corner of the bench and whacked down on the bottle. The cap went spinning to the floor. He made no effort to retrieve it.
"Romantically?" He chuckled. "Scandalously, Major. At least as far as Alex was concerned. Though I suppose Lydia was smitten enough. They spent some time together with Lydia's family in Newport — it was the summer before Alex left school."
"That would have been 1940?"
"Yes, I think that's right. Then Alex left for Europe. I always thought that was odd."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, the war was brewing, but we Yanks weren't involved yet. And I was never clear about which service he'd joined or why he went straight to the battle. Doesn't one normally go to boot camp or something? Anyway, Lydia got a few letters and she wrote back in spades, but after a year or so I didn't hear much."
"And you haven't heard from him since he left?"
"Good Lord, no. He and I got along, but only in the liquid sense. There was something different about Alex. He was witty— engaging when he wanted to be. Everyone knew him, and everyone liked him. But I doubt anyone would say that they were really close to him. Except Lydia." Gross swilled his drink, got back on the stool and brought his heels to rest on the lab bench. "So tell me, Major, why are you looking for him? Old Alex hasn't gotten into trouble, has he?"
"I'm not sure. Right now I just want to find him. Do you know where this woman, Lydia Cole, might be?"
"I haven't seen her in years. But it is summer, Major — the rich are frightfully predictable. I think there's a good chance you'll find her at the family house in Newport. If not, they'll point you in the right direction."
"Yes, I see. Well, thank you for your time. I won't take you from your work any longer."