by A W Hartoin
“It was an amazing house,” said Millicent.
“House?” I asked.
They laughed.
“So did you find what you were looking for?”
“We did. Four children belonging to…oh, I can’t remember the family name off the top of my head, but their property was returned,” said Myrtle.
“Did the earl help you with that?” I asked.
“No, it was simply a dinner,” said Millicent. “That happened a lot. We were often invited to dinner, fetes, even State occasions because of the brewery.”
That was very true. I’d sat through dozens of dinners with boring aristocrats, bribed into goodness with the promise of chocolates and pony rides.
“But didn’t he know that his family knew Josiah and Stella?” I asked.
“We don’t know that they did. Perhaps they were there the same way we were. The name has always been a key to most gates.”
My gaze went back to Constanza and then to Stella. “Do you think Stella had anything to do with the Kindertransports?”
The Girls’ eyes widened.
“It’s not mentioned in her book and I never heard anything to that effect,” said Millicent. “Have you, Myrtle?”
“No, not a peep. What are you thinking, Mercy?”
“Constanza is certainly young enough to have been included in the rescue operation,” I said.
“The earl’s family were guarantors for the transports,” said Millicent.
Myrtle shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. 1942 is too late.”
She explained that the Kindertransports, brainchild of Norbert Wollheim, took place from 1938 after the Kristallnacht until 1940. Children were allowed to emigrate to Britain as long as someone was willing to pay for their upkeep. They were supposed to go home after the war. No one imagined that most of the Jewish population would be wiped out and there would be no families to return to.
“We could be guessing the date wrong,” I said.
“Perhaps, but Josiah’s uniform indicates it’s later. He wasn’t stationed in England until ’42.”
“Oh,” I said disappointed.
Millicent patted my hand. “You could be right and Constanza could’ve been on a transport.”
“Dr. Bloom gave us a number for us to call, but we didn’t want to call without you,” said Myrtle.
Dr. Bloom was an Oxford historian, who, through his research on resistance fighters during WWII, accidentally pointed out my great grandparents, Agatha and Daniel, to The Klinefeld Group. Agatha and Daniel were murdered in a plane crash on their way to St. Louis because they knew or had something that The Klinefeld Group wanted.
“A number?” I asked.
“For an architectural historian, Dr. Wilfred Wallingford. He was the one who recognized the staircase. Dr. Bloom says he’s lovely and would be happy to talk to us about Bickford House. The number’s in the folder.”
I took a slip of paper with an international number written on it. “Should we give Wilfred a ring?”
“Let’s,” said Myrtle and she gave me her phone.
I dialed and the most Scottish-sounding dude on the planet answered. I wasn’t even sure he was speaking English for a second.
“Dr. Wallingford?” I asked.
There was a garble of something that didn’t sound like a no.
“Um…this is Mercy Watts. I’m with Myrtle and Millicent Bled. Dr. Calvin Bloom said we could call you about Bickford House.”
Dr. Wallingford’s accent got a whole lot easier to understand once he realized he was talking to Americans. “Yes. Yes. Of course. I am happy to help you in any way I can.”
“Thank you. Can I put you on speakerphone so everyone can hear you?”
“Certainly.”
I put him on speakerphone and The Girls expressed their gratitude and amazement at his recognizing Bickford House. They explained that they’d been there and hadn’t. He laughed and said that he didn’t recognize it at first either. He had to dig through some archives on staircases before he found it. He’d never been to Bickford himself.
“What do you know about the family?” I asked.
“I’m not an expert, but then no one is. The family is notoriously private and it’s a private house, not part of the National Trust and not open for tours.”
“I seem to remember the family and the earl, in particular, as very friendly,” said Millicent.
“Oh, they are. Great favorites among the local population, but they have no interest in being the object of lurid fascination.”
“I can understand that,” I said.
Dr. Wallingford chuckled. “I imagine you can.”
“You’ve examined the picture?” asked Myrtle.
“I have and I understand you have an interest in the young girl,” he said. “I can tell you that she isn’t a member of the family or a servant. She is wearing a servant’s dress. It’s hard to recognize because she isn’t wearing the apron.”
“How do you know she isn’t a servant?”
“First of all, she’s posing with two Bleds, which would be highly unusual. And second, the dress doesn’t fit correctly. There are a few pictures of the Bickford servants floating around on the internet. A group photo was taken every year since 1860 and copies were given to senior servants as a gift. The uniforms fit perfectly and I couldn’t find this girl in any of the photos I viewed.”
“Perhaps she was there only a little while,” said Millicent.
“I very seriously doubt that. Bickford is unusual. Would you like me to explain?”
“Please do.”
Dr. Wallingford did explain, like the university professor he was, quick, concise, and very enthusiastic. Bickford was a grand estate of an extremely wealthy family that married well and for love. They didn’t fall victim to the financial crises in the 1880s or after the First World War like other great families. As a result, they paid their servants extremely well and were unusual in their permissiveness. At a time that other wealthy families required servants to devote their whole lives to their masters, the Bickfords’ servants often married and had children. The estate had family apartments in the servants’ quarters and houses out on the estate for servants’ use, if they had several children. As a result, servants didn’t leave to marry and their children tended to stay. There were servants at Bickford currently that could trace their lineage back to the building of Bickford. That was over four hundred years.
“You like them,” I said.
“I do. I think few would find the family disagreeable. They’re generous and charitable, but I’m sorry to say that girl is not one of them.”
“What about the Kindertransports?” I asked.
“I wondered if you’d ask me about that,” Dr. Wallingford said, happily. “The family was extremely generous with donations. I don’t have the exact number of children they helped get out of Germany and the Reich, but I can find out. It would be several hundred, I’m sure.”
The Girls exchanged a look, a look I’d seen before. They smelled a lead that might bring them to more families in the Stella Collection. “Can you get those names for us?” asked Millicent. “Our search wasn’t completely satisfying.”
“I have a friend. She’s an expert on the Kindertransport children. Her grandmother was one of them.”
“We will be happy to pay for her time and yours, naturally,” said Myrtle.
“That is unnecessary, but I appreciate the offer,” he said. “Do you have any other questions?”
“I don’t think so,” said Millicent before taking a huge glug of toddy.
“I don’t,” said Myrtle.
“Then I will let you go. Please feel free to call me at any time.”
“Hold on,” I said.
“Yes?”
“Has Bickford House had any problems?”
The Girls smiled at me approvingly and I gave them a grin in return.
“Like what?” asked Dr. Wallingford
“Robberies?” I asked.
“It is, but someone is trying to get information about Stella Bled Lawrence and we’ve been broken into.”
He paused and then shuffled through some papers. “That’s interesting. What happened?”
“The Bled Mansion has been broken into several times over the years. The last time, the chauffeur was murdered, and there have been attempts on my parents’ house.”
“I see, but I don’t know how those incidents could be related to Bickford. Except for the picture, there appears to be no connection between the families. The Bickfords don’t have any interest in brewing either socially or commercially.”
“But have they been robbed or just broken into?” I asked.
“Well, yes. Bickford has been broken into a couple of times that I know of.”
“When?”
“Years ago,” he said. “That can’t be related to the murder of your chauffeur.”
Millicent spoke up. “I’m afraid it can, Dr. Wallingford. There’s history that is difficult to explain.”
“Does it have to do with the Jewish artwork in the Bled Collection?”
“It’s related,” said Myrtle. “When were the Bickford break-ins?”
“Bear with me, ladies,” said Dr. Wallingford as he typed madly. “Oh, yes, here it is, but I don’t believe this will help you.”
“What is it?”
“In 1939, Bickford House’s butler Mr. Smith reported a burglary in the library. This is too early, before the war was declared on Germany.”
“What did they take?” asked Millicent, breathless with excitement.
“A few things. Nothing of real value. Books, a silver letter opener, a small statue.” He paused for a moment. “Now this is odd. All the stolen items were recovered. They were found in a dustbin at a pub in the village.”
The Girls and I shared knowing glances.
“Sounds like the stuff they took was just a cover for what they were really doing,” I said.
“I would have to say so,” he said. “And this will interest you.”
“Yes?” asked Myrtle, leaning forward and splashing toddy on her lap.
“A young maid got clubbed with the statue. At least that’s what’s in the report.”
I pictured Lester in his chair, dying for no reason. From the looks on The Girls’ faces they did, too.
“Did she survive?” I asked.
“I assume so. It doesn’t say she didn’t. There’s no mention of any arrest or suspects. I found a newspaper clipping. It doesn’t mention murder, but it was printed the morning after. She may have died of her injuries later.”
“Any other robberies?”
“Looks like 1947. Mr. Smith reported that he caught someone posing as a butcher’s delivery boy in the library. He was searching the desk. Nothing was taken and the man got away. That’s it. I don’t see anything else.”
“Thank you very much, Dr. Wallingford,” said Millicent. “You’ve been quite helpful.”
We said our goodbyes and promised to keep in touch. Like all good historians, Dr. Wallingford knew people and he was happy to make introductions to his counterparts in other countries. He was clearly curious about Bickford House and I could practically hear the wheels turning. Maybe we could get him in. His focus was Elizabethan architecture and not to be allowed in such a stunning example pained him. I’d do it, if I could, but there wasn’t any reason to think that very private family would let me in, much less him. I doubted anyone remembered we were once invited and it’s not like I could count on being invited because I was connected to The Girls.
After we hung up, Millicent got shaky again and started eyeing me. Myrtle said she ought to take a nap. She wasn’t taking a nap. No way. Not going to happen.
As a delaying tactic, I asked to use her laptop. She nodded, growing paler. Joy came in and tried the nap thing, too. The idea barely got acknowledged.
I quickly opened the laptop and Joy asked with a warning in her voice, “What are you looking for?”
“Bickford House,” I said and the ladies all relaxed.
“That estate in England?” asked Joy. “What for?”
“Stella was there with Josiah and Big Steve’s mother.”
“You don’t say? That’s interesting. I hear it’s a fabulous house.”
Myrtle sat up. “How do you know it? We’ve been there with Mercy when she was little and I barely remember the visit.”
“I heard about it on my tour of great country estates last year,” said Joy.
“But you didn’t see it?” asked Millicent. “We just heard from Dr. Wallingford that it’s not open for visitors.”
“It’s not. It was part of the tour of Hardwick House. They had a whole display to compare the buildings and the ladies who built them.”
Millicent’s laptop booted up and I typed in Bickford House. It was on Wikipedia, of course. There were a few other sites that named it as a fine example of Elizabethan architecture and listed as a Grade 1 stately home and historical site. I saw very little on the family. The current earl was the son of the earl Millicent and Myrtle liked so much. He was married and ran some sort of multinational company.
“Anything good?” asked Joy.
“Not really.”
I searched back through the listed earls and they were as Dr. Wallingford described them, rich and private. “Here’s the earl during the war. George. Married to Agatha. Four sons. He was an ambassador.”
“That’s political,” said Millicent. “Perhaps that’s how he knew Stella and Josiah. The family was very active in trying to change our emigration policies to let the Jews in. The earl said that when we were talking about the Kindertransports, I think.”
I looked up grinning. “He resigned in November, 1938.”
“That can’t be a coincidence,” said Myrtle.
“I agree. You should investigate that thoroughly.” Joy gathered our mugs and, since we were well off the subject of Sister Maggie, she said she was going to make us a snack and left.
I breathed a sigh of relief. I didn’t need her beady eyes on me. “I’ll tell Spidermonkey when he comes back from vacation. His wife wants him to concentrate on family for once and not get distracted by working.”
Spidermonkey was a super hacker and Uncle Morty’s number one rival in the world of internet snoops. So far, I’d been able to hide what I was doing from Morty, but it couldn’t last. Neither he nor my dad knew Chuck and I were investigating The Klinefeld Group and by extension my dad’s involvement with the Bleds, namely Josiah Bled’s mysterious disappearance before I was born.
“He’ll get everything there is to know,” said Millicent. “Show me the house. It was winter when we were there and evening. I didn’t get a good look.”
Myrtle chuckled. “It was enormous. I remember that.”
Bickford House was enormous, more like a palace or a Loire Valley chateau. Made of dark stone, Bickford had everything. Turrets, giant windows, gables, and a beautiful lake.
Millicent pointed at the steps. “We stood out there, taking in the view.”
“You were so angry,” said Myrtle.
“Me?” I asked. “Why?”
“The countess had taken us on a tour of the house and you were enamored of the turrets. Oh, did you kick up a fuss.”
“About turrets? Weird.”
Millicent put an arm around me. “Don’t you remember at all? There was a nursery in one with a collection of toys and horses like you’ve never seen. We had to peel you off a large carousel horse to finish the tour.”
Myrtle stood up and picked up the photo of us. “That’s why you look so angry. We paid for taking you off that horse in spades. You were absolutely in love.”
“I was a serious pain in the butt,” I said.
“You were passionate and four.” Millicent kissed my cheek.
I zoomed in on the house. “Which turret?”
The Girls went ba
ck and forth about right or left. Main staircase or another one. I stopped listening and zoomed in further, looking closely at the top of the house. A coincidence? Could be. No. No. It couldn’t.
I gave Millicent her laptop and raced out of her bedroom and over to mine where Chuck and I had set up a kind of war room with all our investigation up on corkboards. I plucked a notecard off the corkboard with all the names and carried it back to The Girls.
“What is it?” asked Millicent.
I came over and pointed at the screen. “Check out that stonework.”
Millicent and Myrtle peered at the screen.
“Initials,” said Myrtle. “I remember that. The first countess built the house and put her initials on top so everyone would know whose house it was.”
“CMB,” I said.
“Yes,” said Millicent. “She was named…”
“Cecily,” said Myrtle in triumph.
“That’s right, but why does that matter?”
I turned the card around. CMB was printed in bold letters. “We thought this was a person.”
“It’s a place,” said The Girls in unison.
I got The Girls working on the CMB references in Stella’s book and they were happy to do it. Chuck and I had noted that it was used, but we hadn’t gotten as far as tracking it. Now it looked like Stella was at Bickford House repeatedly during the war. The question was why. What was the connection and how did Constanza Stern fit in?
Joy bustled around with delicate finger sandwiches of Parma ham and gruyere, insisting that The Girls eat and drink buckets of tea. She gave me a wink when I handed over a clipboard and said I had to go. Happily, The Girls didn’t object and I slipped out easily.
Because I was all about making mistakes that day, I made another one. I stopped on the curve of the stairs to look at a photo of Stella, radiant on her wedding day. She was so young and unaware of what was coming and who she would become. Even if The Klinefeld Group disintegrated, I had to know what happened in November 1938 and why it kept going. We couldn’t give them what they wanted.
“Mercy.” Myrtle leaned over the stair rail and crooked a finger at me.
Son of a bitch.