I frowned. “You aren’t still harping on about Alec, are you? Or Max, for that matter?”
“You seem to have left a trail of broken hearts downstairs.”
I glared at him, refusing to respond to that quip, and swiveled to stomp out of the room. However, his arm gripped me from behind, pulling me back toward him. He stared down into my eyes, smiling softly, and I felt my affront begin to melt away. Especially after he leaned forward to press a kiss to my forehead.
“You did that on purpose,” I murmured as he threaded my arm through his.
“Did I?” he replied vaguely, and I knew I was right.
I leaned my head on his shoulder as we went in search of the library.
We found it on the ground floor adjacent to the parlor. The door stood wide, emitting the sound of voices and the creak of wood and metal from the ladder Max had climbed to reach the upper shelves. The walls of the room were covered from floor to ceiling with bookshelves in rich oak, save for a fireplace and two tall windows along the outer wall, where cozy nooks had been created, perfect for curling up on a chilly autumn day. The space near the fireplace boasted a pair of wingback chairs, while directly in front of us stood a long table, currently spilling over with maps and two stacks of books. Alec bent over one of these maps, his finger trailing over the surface.
“Here it is,” Max exclaimed before descending the ladder, the book already open in his hand.
“Read off the locations of the shore forts, and I’ll mark them on the map.” Alec flicked a glance up at us. “Kent, come help me.”
“Right, starting in northern Norfolk, then. Near the Wash, at Brancaster,” Max began, and then rattled off eight more locations, including Portchester.
I poured myself a cup of tea from the pot Sidney had rung for from our bedroom to request it be brought here, and then trailed behind the men as they moved on to mark the forts farther south in Kent and Sussex, looking up only when Max listed Pevensey Castle. I’d forgotten one stood close to our cottage near Seaford. Ignoring their chatter, I refocused my attention on the two forts located in Norfolk and the one in Essex, deciding those were the places that Boadicea was most likely to have set foot.
I frowned. Though, even at that, the timing would have been wrong. If I recalled correctly, the Saxon shore forts hadn’t been built until several hundred years after Boadicea’s death. But perhaps I was being too literal. After all, she could have trod on the land the forts would eventually be built on. I sighed, kneading my temples with thumb and forefinger, before leaning back over the map.
“How deep is the Wash?” Alec queried, referring to the broad estuary at the junction of Lincolnshire, Cambridgeshire, and Norfolk bordered by low-lying, marshy fenland, which sometimes sat underwater and sometimes above.
“I should say it varies depending on the tides and your location,” Max replied.
“And I daresay, it’s altered a great deal over nearly two thousand years.” Sidney rounded the table to gaze down at the bay on the map. “Places like that always do.” He tapped his finger against the spot where they’d marked the fort at Brancaster. “But parts of it are rather shallow.”
“Then, could that be what the late earl was referring to when he wrote about ‘waves that reach the knee’?” Alec crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing in thought. “Haven’t they used windmills to drain part of the Wash?”
Max straightened. “You’re right. That could be Father’s ‘sails.’”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” My voice emerged as little more than a croak, forcing me to clear my throat.
“Why? It makes sense, Verity,” Alec countered.
“I agree.” I pointed to the part of the map I’d been staring at. “Until you see that the second fort, Burgh Castle, overlooks the River Waveney.” I emphasized the syllables in a way to highlight the earl’s play on words.
The men all craned forward to see.
“And Burgh Castle lies in the fens of the Norfolk Broads, which also boast windmills.”
“You’re right,” Alec concurred. “It must be Burgh Castle.”
Max looked over his shoulder at the windows. “Then should we set out for Norfolk after luncheon?”
I opened my mouth to agree, but Sidney spoke first.
“After the excitement of this morning, I don’t think an afternoon of rest would be remiss. The fort can wait until tomorrow.”
Max’s gaze darted toward me and then back. “Of course.”
“That’s not necessary,” I replied. “I’m perfectly capable of travel.” This wasn’t strictly true, as I was just becoming aware of a number of aches and pains all over my body, and I was beginning to question whether I would be able to swallow anything but soup for the midday meal.
“All the same, we’ll set out at first light,” Sidney declared, rather high-handedly, in my opinion. But as the other men weren’t objecting, there was nothing I could do but relent.
“Has everyone memorized this?” I held up the paper where we’d written the verse, passing it to Max when he asked for it. “Burn it when you’re done.” I gestured toward the table. “And best fold up that map and put it away, as well as these books.” I trusted that if Ardmore’s men expended the effort to break into Nettlestone Hall again, they wouldn’t take the time to rifle the library shelves.
No, it was far more likely they would bide their time, waiting to strike when we had more information to steal. After all, Ardmore had sent them after us, first and foremost, to recover whatever evidence the late earl had hidden. Though after Scott’s vicious attack, I didn’t trust them not to use whatever means necessary to achieve their objective, including murder, no matter what Ardmore’s directives had been.
CHAPTER 19
I bolted upright, gasping for air, as my eyes searched the darkness.
“Shhh, it’s all right, darling. You’re safe.”
Even without my husband’s low voice crooning in my ear, his strong arm wrapping around me, the gray outline of the bed and the commode pushed against the opposite wall would have recalled me to the fact that I was sleeping at an inn in Colchester. But the haze of my dream still clung to me, so much so that if I turned my head I feared I would find myself back on that muddy road outside Bailleul. The smell of blood and earth and explosives still filled my nostrils and clung to the sweat of my skin.
Sidney pulled me close, and while at first I resisted, struggling to return to the present, I soon sank into his embrace. Burying my head in his chest and wrapping my arms around his torso, I allowed him to comfort me, even though he seldom allowed me to return the favor.
Usually, he was the one who suffered from nightmares, his mind replaying the horrors of the war. During bad stretches, sometimes nightly. But rather than endure or indulge in my efforts to soothe him, he preferred to pace our darkened drawing room alone.
I suspected he was the one who actually woke me from my terror, for he rarely, if ever, slept deeply, his mind too attuned to the potential for trouble. Many of the returning soldiers were that way, hypervigilant, as if at any moment they might have to fight for their lives. Which was why when I’d jerked awake, he was already alert and attempting to soothe me.
“The same as last night?” he asked, stroking his fingers through my hair. There was no need to reply, for the answer was obvious. “Replaying Scott’s attack?”
At this I exhaled a ragged breath, deciding to be honest. “Not exactly.”
“Then what is it?”
I didn’t speak, uncertain I wanted to share what was haunting me, whether I wanted to try to put it into words. Wouldn’t that make the memory more real? Though, I supposed that was hardly possible. My dreams already felt like I was reliving that moment.
“Verity, talk to me,” he murmured softly, coaxing me to look up at him. “We promised to share more with each other.”
“Yes, because you’re so good at that,” I muttered, my nerves frayed.
He smiled humorlessly. “You’r
e right. I’m not. So lead by example.”
I huffed in aggravation. He knew I would have a hard time refuting that request. For I did want him to share more, and if I didn’t do so, how could I expect him to?
I leaned my head against his shoulder. “I don’t know why . . . or perhaps I do,” I amended. It did no good to lie. “But I keep dreaming about an incident during the war.” Calling it an “incident” was a bit of a misnomer, as it was far more serious than that, but sometimes it was easier to dissemble. “I had orders to deliver a critical message to one of the commanding officers in the thick of the fighting near Ypres. C couldn’t trust it to anyone else, for it involved someone from Military Intelligence embedded among the general’s staff. So I posed as a French woman fleeing from the Germans’ advance.”
“When was this?” he asked.
I hesitated before stammering my response. “Late April.” I swallowed. “1918.”
A month after his reported death.
He stiffened. “Weren’t you given leave?”
“A few days.” I swallowed again. “I refused any more. I . . . I couldn’t handle being alone in our flat. Or anywhere else.” My chest tightened, making it difficult to draw breath at the remembrance of those dark days. I’d been drowning in grief, and the only way I could pull myself out was work. “I needed the distraction. It was all I could . . .”
His arms tightened around me. “It’s all right, Ver. You don’t have to explain. I understand.”
I sank against him, wishing in that moment I could stay precisely where I was, within the circle of his arms, and never leave. I inhaled a deep breath, gathering up the threads of my story and my courage. “I delivered my message, and the officer asked one of his subordinates to ensure I made it back to the rear safely. But when we were only twenty yards from the shelter, he suddenly turned on me, demanding to know why I was there. I was trying to fend him off, when suddenly the earth upended around us and we were thrown apart.”
Sidney grabbed my upper arms, pulling me back so that he could see into my eyes.
“A . . . a shell had dropped on us.”
“Good God, Verity!”
“Hit the shelter square on. Everyone inside was, of course, killed. I believed the chap who attacked me was, too. I-I didn’t have a chance to check. I had to take cover.”
Sidney’s wide eyes scoured my face. “You could have been killed!”
“Yes,” I replied. “But at the time, I hadn’t really cared.”
Anguish tore at his features and he pulled me against him, burying his head in my hair. I could feel his heart beating very fast, and when he spoke again his words were fierce. “Don’t ever do that again. Do you hear me, Ver?”
“Yes.” It seemed an easy promise to make since the peace treaty was signed. It also didn’t escape me the irony of his panic at my experiencing one such incident, when I’d had to endure three and a half long years of knowing he’d narrowly escaped a similar fate as the officers in that dugout dozens, if not hundreds of times.
He exhaled as if in relief, pressing his lips to my forehead for a few more minutes. “Why do you think you’re dreaming about that now?”
I lifted my head. “Because the man who attacked me, the one I thought was killed, was Basil Scott.”
Sidney’s head reared back in shock.
“Quite. At the time I wondered if he might be the member of the general’s staff who was sharing intelligence with the Germans. But once the shelling had stopped, I was evacuated back to the rear with the other injured, and I lost track of him. I briefed C on the matter, and he said he’d look into it. A week later I was back in Holland.”
“Is that why he attacked you so viciously? Because he thought you could expose him?”
“Maybe.” I frowned. “But he was ferocious when he called me a traitor. I could see in his eyes that he believed it, too.”
“Maybe Ardmore has him thoroughly convinced.”
I dipped my head, willing to concede that.
“Do you think it’s related to all of this?”
“I don’t know. I don’t see how. It’s probably just the sight of him again combined with the memory of all that choking dust and rubble thrown on top of me.” But I couldn’t help the nagging sensation that it was something more. And that something more had as much to do with triggering these nightmares as Scott.
He leaned forward to press his lips to mine. “Don’t fret, Ver. We’ll figure it out.”
I appreciated his vote of confidence and his note of solidarity, but if anyone was ever going to figure it out, it was me and me alone. But not tonight. So I pulled his lips back to mine, striving to forget the rest. At least, temporarily.
* * *
I wasn’t certain precisely what I expected to find the next day when the Roman fort at Burgh Castle came into view, but it was not this massive, formidable structure. Perhaps it was because all the Roman remains I’d visited in the past were short, and rather insubstantial. Much like the villa at Brading, they’d been excavated from beneath centuries of dirt and rubble, what walls that existed having been destroyed or carted away over the ages for use in other construction. Not so with Burgh Castle.
As we climbed from the Pierce-Arrow and began to wade through the calf-high grass toward it, I realized it still stood to approximately the same height as it had been built, towering over our heads fifteen feet. Its craggy stone and mortar surface still clung together with surprising strength and heft, most of the original terra-cotta tile and flint facings having been stolen over the years. Six rounded bastions protruded from the walls like great fists pounding into the earth, a stolid mass against the endless blue sky.
We paced the length of the walls, searching for the sails of the windmill the late Earl of Ryde’s clue had mentioned. As we rounded the northeast corner, I couldn’t stop myself from reaching out to touch the structure, its surface feeling alternately sharp and gritty beneath my fingers as I trailed them over the stone. Walking forward a few more feet, the windmill suddenly came into view across the wide expanse where the River Waveney and the River Yare joined. Its black body and white sails formed a stark contrast to the sea of marshy green and yellow fenland beyond.
I paused to stare out at the scene before me, reminded of the landscape south of Rotterdam, Holland. Of the flat expanse of water and sky and reeds, and the soft, wooden creak of the windmills as they turned. I’d traveled those waterways often enough during the war, back and forth from British Intelligence’s Rotterdam Station to the border with Belgium. Even the scent of brine and marshy sediment was the same, and the sharp bite of the wind.
“‘At the point where sails tip the tall tower,’” Max quoted, shifting left and right until he found the right vantage where the windmill’s sail touched the bastion as it spun. “Here, maybe.”
“Was your father about the same height as you?” Sidney asked.
“Give or take an inch or two.”
“But what does he mean by ‘with thy back against the flint’?” Alec queried.
We all turned almost as one to look at the wall. Most of the flint was gone, but here and there a few neatly squared-off pieces still clung to the surface.
“That’s a fairly large bit,” I pointed out. “Perhaps you’re to angle your body so your back is to it.”
Max did so, facing almost due north toward a line of stubby trees. “Now what? Do we dig here? Or is there supposed to be some rubble?” He stared down at the overgrown grasses surrounding his feet and the packed earth beneath. It certainly didn’t look as if that spot had been disturbed in some time. But appearances could be deceiving.
While the men debated, I tucked my hands in the pockets of my fur-trimmed coat and paced off in the direction Max was facing, wondering if perhaps the answer could be found among the waving grasses. In any case, I needed a moment to myself. Though our drive this morning had been considerably shorter than the day before, having stayed in an inn in Colchester the night before, my body still ached f
rom the hours of driving. The men had seemed determined to make some sort of land speed record, and I’d hardly felt able to complain. Not if I didn’t want to find myself deposited at our flat in London as we buzzed through.
Though I didn’t want to admit it, I’d been badly shaken by Scott’s attack. I supposed it was ridiculous to think Sidney hadn’t noticed. Not after I’d woken from nightmares, gasping for air, the past two nights.
The wind stung my cheeks and whipped the curled ends of my hair about my face and neck where they trailed beneath by raspberry cloche hat, but I welcomed the cold. Anything was preferable to the morose fog I felt like I was wandering in. The prospect of finally uncovering the evidence that would prove Ardmore’s deception should have excited me, but somehow I knew that wasn’t what we were going to find. Not in this desolate, wind-driven place. The late Earl of Ryde would never have cached it in a place such as this.
Perhaps it was my suddenly pessimistic outlook talking, but I couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that we were missing something. Something critical. And yet, I didn’t have the foggiest idea what. Max’s sister and even that curator Oglander had seemed perfectly earnest. We’d decoded and followed the clues, but there was a broader picture I felt we were missing. Something Ardmore had not.
I lowered my head to sweep the ground with my gaze, determined to find this clue at least. Maybe it would offer a wider perspective. I strolled back and forth in an arc around the spot where Max was now digging with the shovel we’d brought with us from Nettlestone Hall. So absorbed in my thoughts was I that I nearly tripped over the very thing I was looking for. Buried among the grasses sat a jagged rock. I crouched down and began to pull the blades from the ground around it, tossing them to the side. What I discovered there made my heart trip in anticipation.
“Sidney,” I shouted. “Max. All of you. Come here!” I continued ripping up the grass until one of them stood over me, and was not surprised when I looked up to find that it was my husband. “Look.”
His eyes widened at the sight of the jagged piece of flint, its waxy pale gray surface appearing almost shiny as the sunlight refracted off it. Max and Alec’s reactions were similarly astounded.
A Pretty Deceit Page 23