Bravo's Veil

By Michael Croucher

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Why did his 12-year old brother Paul leave his wartime billet in Cornwall on a cold December night and disappear? What part did local billeting officials and his billeting family play in the mystery? Why did a young constable and a pretty librarian nearly drown on the same night, yards from where his brother was last seen, and why did the young couple leave Cornwall in secrecy? Above all, what kept the truth about his brother's fate hidden for decades?

David Collins wants answers. He finds important clues among his brother's keepsakes, in an envelope that had been packed away for years. The emotional investigation that David initiates serves up many surprises. But one extraordinary and disturbing secret shocks him to his core, and changes his life forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Croucher
• Release date: Feb 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386975045

Michael Croucher

Michael Croucher was on the Metropolitan Toronto Police Department for 18 years, and served on The Combined Forces Special Enforcement Unit investigating organized crime.  An award‐winning writer, Mike writes novels and short stories. He lives with his wife Lynda in a small Ontario town within driving distance of two married daughters and five very active grandchildren. When he’s not writing, Mike reads extensively, follows ice hockey (Maple Leafs), baseball (Blue Jays), and keeps up with world events. Author photograph by Marney Massey Connect With Mike Website: www.michaelcroucherbooks.com Facebook: www.facebook.com/michaelcroucherbooks Twitter: @mikejcroucher

Book preview

This book is dedicated to the memory of my mother, Marion.

(1920-1994)

Prologue

Cornwall, England, December, 1939

Rain clouds pushed in from the sea. The narrow strip of beach became darker and the surf rose quickly into swells that surged over the rocks to the cliff face. Young Paul Collins stood shivering against the cliff, his feet submerged in whirlpools of froth, his socks caked with cold sand, and the rest of his clothes, soaked through and clinging to his skin like icy claws. High above his head, gusting winds moaned around the cave mouths.

He squinted through the darkness, searching for the steep path that would lead him away from the misery, back to the warmth of the cottage, where just hours before he was sorting his marbles and re-lacing his best conkers in front of the fireplace, with his feet snuggled against the farmer’s border collie, Jiggs. He wished Jiggs was with him now, he had never felt so alone or anxious in his life.

Remembering his instructions, he shook off thoughts of the path and found fresh resolve to complete his search for a place to secure the tiny canister. He raised his right foot, supported it across his left knee and pulled down the heel to drain out sea water.

Her words came back to him. You’re not afraid of the dark are you, Paul? Be brave for me. This will be a nice adventure.

Determined to please her, he moved towards the brooding line of rocks. The sense of bravado he’d felt at the start of his errand was fading, losing ground to fear and thoughts of getting off the beach. He tugged up his coat collar to ward off the icy pinpricks nipping at his face and neck, then walked into the full force of the spray and towards the looming rocks.

His hands numb and his fingers aching, he stopped for a moment to warm them in his pockets. But his fingers felt as if they would break when he began running them over the surface of the rocks. He found a suitable crevice between two big rocks and glanced over his shoulder to see if the location was visible from the caves above. It was.

He pulled the canister out of his pocket. His hands shook. He worked at wedging the canister into a cleft branching from the crevice. The object dropped to the sand twice. Both times he searched blindly and retrieved it before the sea water coursing around the rocks could sweep it away. After several attempts, and a wiping on the inside of his coat, the canister held fast in the crevice.

Satisfied that an important part of his job had been done, he dabbed his sleeve onto his eyes to reduce the sting of salt. He looked through the darkness at the largest of the three caves, squinting into its black mouth for any sign of the man. Following the instructions, he moved a few feet away from his deposit and stood straight waving both arms above his head. He shone his torch on the crevice for the count of ten and kept watching the cave.

Where is the man’s signal? She said that the man would signal back for a ten count. Paul knew that he was expected to wait.

The signal didn’t come.

Searching for cover, he moved towards a bigger cluster of rocks a short distance away. From there he could keep watch on the caves and go back to show the canister’s location again. Only if that was requested by multiple three counts from the man’s torch.

Paul ventured into the maze of rock, framed his eyes with his hands, and willed them to see what might be lurking in the shadows. The rocks to his sides and back cut the full force of the wind, but along with the deepening darkness, they expanded his fears. The howl from the cave mouths grew louder.

He gripped the torch in his pocket, tempted to turn it back on and put some of his fears to rest. He didn’t. She had made it very clear that the torch must only be used to point out the canister’s location and to signal to the cave.

Is the man even here? Perhaps he is, and his torch hasn’t worked... Why hasn’t he come down from the cave?.

The winds shifted. Inside the circle of rocks it became a little drier and a little quieter. Another half an hour passed.

If I haven’t been signaled soon, I’ll tell her that the man didn’t come... But I did what she asked. I did my best...

Paul leaned against a rock and rubbed his arms. He blew into his cupped hands and put them back into his trouser pockets. He raised his head and took a deep breath, his neck and shoulders relaxed slightly. Starting to take another, he stopped mid-breath, startled by a scrape and a loud grunt.

A shadow reached out from between the rocks and wrapped around him. He saw the outline of a hand an instant before it clamped down on his face. It blocked his mouth and nose. The hand smelled of oil and animal dung. A large body moved up against him and pushed savagely to get him away from the rocks. Paul struggled to breathe through the power of the grip. The stink of the hand made him feel sick to his stomach.

He kicked his feet up from the ground to free himself. But, at half the size of his attacker, he was lifted easily into the momentum of the kick, suspended, then dropped to the wet sand.

A voice Paul had heard once before rasped into his ear. Not a sound, boy. Just do as I say.

The man dragged him up the path to a narrow ledge on the cliff face. A few yards along the ledge, he was taken deep inside the middle cave. The sound of the wind and the sea gave way to a deep hush. He feared that the man might cut his throat or snap his neck and leave him there in total darkness. Paul tried to stay still, but shivered violently.

I want to go back to the farm.

Tears flowed down his cheeks and dripped onto his trembling hands. Somewhere behind him, he sensed the man moving. He heard nothing except the thumping of his own heart and the chattering of his teeth.

––––––––

A few hours later and eight miles to the west of the beach, the first traces of morning light filtered through the filthy windows of an old warehouse in the Penzance rail yards. Arthur Coulter, an officer from MI5 sat at a battered desk. He drummed his fingers impatiently and thought through his plan to control the damage.

The boy being there had ruined the operation. Already, there had been an impact on his unit. Their mission had been compromised, and their prime target might have slipped away. And what about this boy?

Coulter had been ordered to assess the situation and report immediately. Although a detailed account of the situation would come later, his initial response had to be prepared now. Before adressing any operational changes.

Damn it, he muttered.

He tried to imagine the set of circumstances that had pulled the boy from his billet and deposited him smack into the middle of everything, right onto that beach.

Coulter read the boy’s name from a small note pad. Paul Collins, London, NW9.

He took a box of matches from the desk drawer.  Details, he muttered. I need more than this. Give me some bloody details.

The telephone rang.

Coulter’s voice was clipped. Are you calling from a secure location?

I am, the caller said emphatically.

How well do you know this boy?

Fairly well.

His family?

I’ve talked to him a great deal about them.

Coulter flattened the note, placed it into a chipped ashtray and struck a match. He held the flame to the edges until it caught, and waited until the note was completely burned. There will be a huge squawk over this. Hopefully, I can contain most of it. But by the time you ring off, I’d better know what in Hell you were thinking, and why.

Where do you want me to start? she asked. I gave you the basics earlier.

Coulter fiddled with the box of matches. I need more. We were in too much of a hurry to get to the scene then. Now, I need answers. Tell me about this boy, his family, and his time in Cornwall.

He leaned forward and sighed heavily. Above all, tell me why in hell you sent him onto that damned beach?

Chapter 1

London, Three Months Earlier.

Paul looked through the gap in the bathroom curtains at a trio of search light beams in the distance. He stirred his bath water slowly with his palms and thought about the events of his day. He heard his Nan’s heavy breathing as she struggled up the staircase. The floorboards creaked as she moved along the landing.

The bathroom door opened a few inches. Nan’s face poked through. She nodded, pleased that he was in the bath. Wisps of smoke rose from the cigarette between her lips. Good lad.

Paul leaned forward, his arms shielding his privates.

Can I come in for a minute, love? she asked.

Not waiting for a reply, she moved into the room and pulled her spectacles from the pouch in her pinafore. She put them on, and raised his chin with a finger that was stained with nicotine.

Shaking her head, she stood back from the tub. Ruddy Hell. What a damn mess. Are you going to tell me who did that to you?

He looked down to the water.

Her face softened.

It’s all right, Paul. I’m not angry, but I really should know what happened.

Silently, he pushed at the back of his sponge.

Nan pointed to the grime and black dust that was caked on his arms and neck. Look at you. You’re blacker than a damned coalman. Put that soap to work like you mean it, ducks.

She moved to the door, then turned back towards him, exhaled through her nostrils, and took another drag without removing the cigarette from her mouth.

He grinned and soaped up his sponge.

I was right though, wasn’t I? A nice warm bath always makes you feel better.  She smiled and dropped her glasses back into the pinafore pocket. You keep listening to your old Nan, and everything’s going to be just fine. Scrub up well, and I’ll see you before your bedtime. Perhaps you’ll tell me about it then.

She pulled the bathroom door shut, lingered outside for a moment, and moved back along the hallway. Paul listened as she worked her way down the stairs. She would be moving slowly, making sure that both feet were on each stair before she took the next step, and hanging onto the banister while touching the wall with her other hand.

He stood, picked up a stringy towel that was draped over a stool, wrapped it around his waist, and stepped from the bath. At the sink, he reached up and rubbed away the mist on the cracked mirror. He leaned forward and gently pulled his lower lip out and down. The tooth had come nearly all the way through. A crusty black and scarlet patch of blood was caked along the inside of his lip. It was especially thick below the wound. A bruise ran along the edge of his jaw line from his chin. His face ached, and his forehead throbbed. When he opened his mouth he felt a sharp pain all the way back to his ear. The taste of blood lingered and he smelled sourness on his breath. He turned on the tap, spat out a stringy trail of blood tinged saliva and watched it slide into the drain.

He heard the heavy chime of the downstairs doorbell. Paul turned off the tap and wiped his mouth on the corner of the towel. Leaving the bath full, he climbed into his pajamas and cardigan, opened the bathroom door and stepped out. He tip-toed along the hall to the top of the stairs. From where he stopped, he could hear clearly.

His Nan arrived at the front door.

Hello, Bett, come in, love, come in.

Paul edged closer to the stairs so that he could listen and peek through the railings. He put his back flat against the wall, slid down it, and sat on the floor. Nan and Bett Helmer would talk through at least two cups of tea.

Nice to see you, love. Gwen Collins took a shopping bag from her guest and placed it by the windows in the front room.

Bett hung her coat and scarf on the end of the banister. Her eyes followed the bag. It’s your blackout curtains. They’re ready, the downstairs ones anyway.

Ta, that’s lovely.

We’ll hang them right in front of the others and you’ll be all set. By the time were all finished, this house will be as tight as a camera box, you’ll see. You can’t see a pinprick of light through mine. Have you noticed?

I did, Bett. Very nice job.

I’ll have the upstairs ones ready for you by Monday.

Bett examined the existing curtains, and looked up towards the rods.

Have you made any decisions? You know, about evacuating the boys.

––––––––

At the top of the stairs, Paul moved onto the stairwell. He sat again, careful not to make any noise, and kept his feet back from the turn in the stairs, well out of sight. He leaned forward, and cupped his hands to his ears, eager to capture every word, and hopefully, every whisper.

––––––––

Gwen tightened the string on her pinafore. I’ll register Paul next week. I was going to do it sooner but I’ve been dawdling, I still don’t know what to do about David. They want to keep him down there. She moved towards the kitchen. Would you like a cup of tea?

Lovely. Yes please. Bett followed Gwen. Why do they want to keep David down in Alverstoke?

Gwen sighed Well, they give me all kinds of reasons... but as far as I'm bloody concerned, if those boys have to be sent away, they should be together. Brothers should be together at that age, shouldn’t they? The kettle on, she went back to the front room and picked up the shopping bag and started to pull out panels of the blackout curtains.

Of course they should, said Bett.

They don’t see each other very much. And now, the grandfather, old man Stanfield, has found another excuse. He says with all the evacuation talk, David would be better off staying down there.

But, Alverstoke’s part of Gosport, and that’s right across from Portsmouth, isn’t it?

Yeah, I suppose it is.

Well it’s just as likely to be bombed as London, probably more so with the Navy yards and the docks so close. So, how would David be better off there?

They’re getting a place on the Isle of Wight. Mrs. Stanfield and the other daughter are taking the children over while the old man looks after the shop.

Couldn’t Paul go too?

They don’t want him. They can only manage David. Even if they did decide to take Paul, I don’t think there’s time.

It’s hard to believe they don’t want their own grandson, it just seems such a bloody pity, Gwen. But I’m sure that it will all get sorted in good time.

Do you really think so, Bett? Well, I ruddy don't. When my Eric topped himself after Penny died, things changed a lot between our families. It seems like they’re driving a wedge between the boys and hanging onto David. I’m not sure it will ever get sorted out.

I imagine Eric just couldn’t cope after Penny went, said Bett. It's a bloody shame, love... How do you think Paul will be about going away?

Oh he’ll be all right about that. You know our Paul. Things like that are a big lark to lads like him. He won’t want to miss out if any of his friends are going. Her brow furrowed.

"You’re all set then, you’ve done everything you could. There’s just the telling to be done. He’ll be fine. You’ll see.

Cheers, love. Bett put down her tea cup and climbed onto a chair to reach the curtain rods.

Yes, he’ll be all right about the evacuation, said Gwen. But not about his brother. He’ll be upset when I tell him David’s not going. God, I’m not looking forward to telling him that.

Hopefully, it won’t be for all that long.

I’m not so sure. Gwen’s voice broke. I have a strange feeling those boys might not see each other for a very long time.

––––––––

Paul came off the stairs. He ignored the bathroom and the full tub and went directly to his room. He closed the door quietly and dropped onto his bed.

Across the dark room, on top of his dresser, there was a small framed picture of his brother. It was bracketed by photographs of his mother and his father.

It was almost nine and dark outside, but enough ambient light leaked through the curtains to brighten the top of the dresser and the photographs. He stared at the picture of David, and kept looking towards it, even after the light had faded and the image was in darkness.

His eyelids become heavy and he eventually fell asleep. But the sleep was ragged. It was filled with dreams of his brother, and of the evacuation, and with long wakeful periods thinking about the last thing he’d heard his Nan say to Bett Helmer.

Chapter 2

Paddington Station teemed with youngsters. The concourse and platform areas were dotted with the officials and volunteers charged with supervising the transportation of school children to the evacuation centres west of London. Paul was queued up with over sixty other pupils from his school. He was near the front of the queue, his gas mask box slung over his shoulder, and his small suitcase held in front of him with both hands.

He gazed at the barrel shaped canopies above the platforms, and at the massive arches that supported them. Dozens of pigeons swooped and fluttered from their perches in the grimy girders. Paul listened to the thumping of their wings through the hiss of steam and the buzz of station noises. For a while, he tried counting the birds, but lost track due to the ones that descended onto other platforms, blocked from his view by trains and carriages.

His Nan hadn’t quite got to him. Bett Helmer had. She stood with one hand on his shoulder, as if trying to pin him to the spot, waving her scarf over the heads of others so that her friend would have a reference point as she struggled through the throng.

The queue was the most orderly part of a crowd behind a green wooden fence separating the concourse from the platforms ahead. The children stood two abreast. Those nearest the front were standing directly in front of a gate to the platform area.

His Nan arrived at Paul’s side. Look, there’s someone coming to the gate.

Two uniformed railway officials walked along the other side of the green fence and stopped at the entrance to the platform. They opened the gate and called for the column of children, the supervising teachers and other officials to start coming through. The loved ones stayed behind the green fence.

On the platform, the children were split into groups. Then they were shepherded along the train’s length and planted in front of the carriage doors.

Mr. Dudley, a teacher from Paul’s school appeared from another platform area. He raised a megaphone and directed his voice towards the fence.

Could I have your attention please?

The level of chatter in the crowd dropped.

As you are no doubt aware, we are at a different platform than the one that was originally scheduled for us.

A