“No! I mean, yes.” Gentling her voice, Tess stepped forward, saying, “You can steal all the jewels you like. I’ll help you! Forget that waltz. We can take the jewels and disappear together—just walk off the boat. I’ll help you. I’ll do whatever you say. Let’s just get away.”
Ginny regarded her suspiciously. The light winked off the cold, glass eyes of the foxes on the stole, giving them an equally skeptical air. “I thought you wanted out.”
“I do. I want both of us out. But—I’m scared for you, Ginny. What happens when you give these people that tenth page? Do you really think they’re going to give you a pat on the back and send you off to the Motherland?”
“They call it the Fatherland.” But Ginny’s face relaxed into something between exasperation and affection. “Do you think I’m that naïve, Tennie? I’ve made plans. They won’t get the better of me. Not now that you’re out of it.”
The echo of the past swept over Tess like the rumble of a departing train. But these weren’t shopkeepers’ daughters or arrogant Argentines they were conning. Not this time. “But what if they are better? This is their game.” Desperately, Tess tried to think of anything that might move her sister. “Think about what Pa would say. He left Germany to avoid serving in their wars.”
Ginny made a snorting sound. Turning away, she began rummaging on Mrs. Hochstetter’s dressing table. “Is that what he told you?”
Tess took a step forward, trying to see her sister’s face in the mirror, trying to catch her eye. “Don’t hurt anyone, that was what we always agreed. Nothing to hurt.”
“Oh, for the love of—” Ginny slammed a scent bottle down hard enough to make it crack. “What about the people who starved because Pa fleeced them? Or do you want to talk about the people who were dumb enough to drink his elixir?”
Tess bit hard on her lip. “There was nothing in it to harm.”
“Oh, because drinking turpentine is so good for babies.” At the look of alarm on Tess’s face, Ginny gave a short, sharp laugh. “Don’t look like that, Tess. It wouldn’t kill anyone. Not unless they knocked back a barrel of it. It was mostly vinegar and red pepper, anyway.”
“Pa said it gave them hope.” And he’d believed it, too. He’d believed in the power of hope. He’d believed if he’d only hoped enough, believed enough, Tess’s mother would have lived. That was why he’d mixed his potions, striving, always, for the remedy he’d lacked. Yes, it had been a con, but there had been a truth of sorts to it. “He was trying to help.”
“He was trying to help himself—to their wallets.” Ginny gave her head a quick shake. With a decisive gesture, she swept a pile of coins into her pocket. “Why are we even discussing this? Pa is dead, and wherever he is, I’m pretty sure he’s not sitting on a cloud playing a harp.”
“Ginny—”
“We’re finished here.” Relenting slightly, Ginny paused, and touched Tess’s check with one finger. “Once I’m settled, I’ll send for you, Tennie.”
“If you’re settled.” Tess swallowed hard; her throat felt like it was full of pins. “I can’t let you do this. They’ll kill you. Once you hand over that manuscript, you’re signing your own death warrant.”
“They’ll kill me if I don’t.” Seeing Tess’s alarm, Ginny said, “Don’t you worry about me. Now that I don’t have you to worry about, there’s nothing they can do to harm me. I’ll play their game, but I’ll play it my way.”
“You mean Margery Schuyler’s way?”
Ginny froze. “What do you know about that?”
“I heard everything.”
There was a shiver in the ship, as though the sea itself were standing still.
Ginny cursed beneath her breath. “She’s a lunatic, you know. I can handle her. It’s the people she’s working for that matter.”
“And if you can’t handle them?” Tess grabbed one of her sister’s hands. “Please, Ginny, at least consider going to the Brits—if anyone can protect you—”
“Protect me? Tennie, you have no idea. They can’t even protect themselves. This is Robert Langford’s doing, isn’t it? You ask him, Tennie. Ask him just who wants that code—and why. No. Don’t do that.” Taking her by the shoulders, Ginny gave her a quick shake. “You stay away from all of this. Do you hear me? Go paint your seashells and lie low. And don’t trust anyone. Goodbye, little sister.”
Letting her go, Ginny strode to the door, rubies glowing darkly against her black traveling suit, a suit Tess had never seen before. A wig and some makeup and there would be a different woman walking out of the cabin.
Tess jackrabbited after her, trying to get between Ginny and the door. “Ginny, wait.”
“There’s no time,” said Ginny. And then, gruffly, “I do love you, you know.”
Love you. Love you.
The words seemed to go on and on and on as a dull thud reverberated through the air. The floor rose and tipped Tess to the side. She could feel a pain in her head, and then the world went black.
Chapter 25
Sarah
Devon, England
May 2013
By the time we turned off the road to the Langford drive, the world had gone black. I hadn’t quite gotten used to that, the way the countryside darkened to pitch at night. In a city like New York, you never could escape the light.
“Lamps are out,” Rupert said, as he pulled up the Range Rover before the Dower House and switched off the engine. “He must be down in the folly.”
I unbuckled my seat belt and opened the door. “Then let’s go straight there.”
Rupert made some noise of protest, but I pretended not to hear him. I stared down the infinity of black space that was the lawn, trying to make out which distant twinkle came from the folly and which from the houses on the opposite bank of the river, while he puffed around the front of the car and said something feeble about tea.
“John’s got an electric kettle for emergencies,” I said.
Rupert sighed. “All right, then, my beauty. Since you’re so eager for the reunion. Just allow me to fetch a torch from the boot, hmm?”
Of course John kept a flashlight in the back of the Range Rover, along with a full emergency kit. The beam jogged along ahead of us, illuminating the imperfections in the damp, green-smelling lawn before we could stumble over them, and the sight was so familiar from all my nighttime crossings with John, I would have forgotten that Rupert walked beside me, if he hadn’t taken my arm.
Because John had never taken my arm, not even at two o’clock in the morning, when we were both stumbling with fatigue. We’d hardly dared to touch each other, until last night.
“Dear girl,” Rupert said breathlessly, “far be it from me . . . to stand in the way . . . of true love . . . and that sort of thing . . .”
“Love?”
“. . . but do you think . . . it might be possible . . . to downshift . . . your manic pace . . . just a trifle?”
“Oh!” I staggered to a stop, and in the slight glow from the flashlight, I could see that Rupert’s face was flushed and somewhat strained. “I’m so sorry!”
“Not at all, not at all. Good for the ticker, no doubt. You’re dragging me along admirably. It’s just that my ancient legs can’t quite move fast enough.”
“You’re not that ancient. Anyway,” I added, a little defiant, “it’s not John I’m eager to see. It’s the telegram.”
“Oh, of course. The telegram.” He drew in a deep, long breath. “All right, then. Carry on. Let’s go find that telegram.”
I pressed my lips together. We continued forward at a more sedate pace, and though my muscles ached to go fast, to absolutely sprint toward the illuminated windows poised below us—yes, definitely the folly, I recognized it now—I matched my stride to Rupert’s stride, bent my will to his. In the distance, I could just make out the glow of Torquay, and I thought of what John had told me that first evening, describing the nearby geography. How new and unsettling everything had seemed, and yet how I’d felt as if I were on
the brink of something important. Something like this, like the sight of the tall, rectangular windows growing and resolving before me, golden with the promise of John’s presence.
“It’s all rather beautiful, isn’t it?” Rupert said quietly. “Easy to forget how beautiful it all is. Almost magical.”
“No wonder Robert liked to write here,” I replied. No wonder John liked to sleep here.
The bridge appeared at the end of the flashlight’s beam, and we climbed the gentle rise. As we crested the arc, I saw that the door was just ajar, and I dropped Rupert’s arm and skipped down the remainder of the bridge to solid ground. To the door left ajar for me.
John sat at the desk, cast in flickering blue by the light of his iPad screen. His brow furrowed into an expression of haggard concentration, and his thick, square chin rested on his hands, which were knit together and propped up by his elbows. He wore a different sweater, I saw. Red faded to a rusty pink. I switched off the flashlight.
“Hello, there,” I said.
He jerked his head, and maybe I stood in some kind of shadow, because he didn’t seem to recognize me. His eyebrows flattened, and his hands gripped the edge of the desk, like he was about to launch himself into outer space. So I stepped forward, into the pool of lamplight, and his whole face simply lifted into a smile that warmed my chest, that made my heart fall and fall. Made me forget, for just an instant, all about the tantalizing revelation waiting for me somewhere in this room.
“Well, hello,” he said. “I was just—”
“John, my boy!” Rupert roared over my shoulder. “Have you got any tea in there? I’m beside myself with thirst. This resident historian of yours refused to let me stop even for petrol, let alone human sustenance.”
John rose from the desk. “I’m glad she didn’t. You’re bloody well late enough as it is. I’ve been watching one of the old Langford movies just to stay awake.”
“Oh, which one?” I asked.
“Night Train to Berlin.” He moved to the electric kettle that perched on the edge of one of the cabinets and peered inside. “I was hoping to find some sort of clue to our little mystery.”
“And the telegram?” I asked.
He nodded to the desk. “Right over there.”
I snatched it up, and even though I already knew what it said, even though I’d already turned those words over and over in my head, echoing John’s deep, measured voice, I read them aloud anyway.
MISSION COMPROMISED STOP EXPECT IMMINENT COUNTERMEASURE STOP TAKE ALL NECESSARY ACTION PERSONAL SAFETY
I looked up. John had left for the sink in the bathroom; Rupert stood in the middle of the room, arms folded, staring at the paper in my hand, while the sound of rushing water floated from the doorway. “So they were working together, weren’t they? Robert and his father. Something to do with this chemical reaction, the one that gives the Allies a major advantage in manufacturing materials.”
“So it seems,” said Rupert. “It’s just odd, though, isn’t it? The wording of the telegram. Obscure, as if he didn’t want the Marconi operator to smoke out his meaning.”
“Exactly,” John said, returning to the room with the kettle. He set it back down and plugged it into the nearby socket. “If this mission was compromised—if the Germans had caught wind, and Sir Peregrine knew it, knew they meant to sink the ship—shouldn’t he have wired the captain himself?”
“Very strange,” said Rupert. He took the telegram from me and pursed his mouth as he stared at it.
I sank into the armchair and watched the back of John’s neck as he readied the pot and the teacups. The lamplight made his skin glow. I pressed my thumbs together and said, “But I think you know the answer to that question, don’t you? You know why Peregrine didn’t try to stop the ship itself from sinking.”
“I don’t know for certain,” John said slowly, measuring the tea into the pot, “because there’s no proof, is there?”
Rupert looked up. “You think Robert was a traitor? That his father found out and was trying to protect him?”
“No,” John said. He fixed the lid back on the tin of tea leaves and turned around, propping himself on the edge of the cabinet. His eyes were sober, his mouth drawn. “I think it’s the opposite.”
* * *
In the shock that followed, I don’t remember who spoke first. Who broke the stunned silence that turned the air to glass. Maybe the kettle started whistling, and John turned to pour the water into the pot, and that was when I jumped from the chair and said, “Peregrine? Sir Peregrine was the traitor?”
Or maybe that was Rupert. Rupert who found his voice first.
Either way, John didn’t turn. He just went through the motions of making tea, applying all his concentration to this ritual while he spoke to us patiently.
“I could be wrong, of course. It was the telegram that made me suspicious, for all the reasons I just mentioned. I mean, if it were me, if I’d just decoded some sort of message in Room 40 that led me to believe Lusitania was in danger, I’d bloody well wire that captain the instant he came within range of the Crookhaven Marconi station. I’d want to save my son, I’d want to save all those people on board, and moreover, I’d want to save that precious chemical reaction, wouldn’t I?”
“Unless the point was to allow the tragedy to take place,” I said. “The old theory that Britain needed American outrage. Needed America to enter the war.”
He shook his head. “I’ve never bought that one. Anyway, that wasn’t Peregrine’s angle, was it? He was clearly working on some sort of espionage mission, and so was Robert, and something went wrong. Something so catastrophic that somebody purged all mention of it from the official records, as you discovered today. And that’s when I thought about what you said, Sarah.”
“About what?”
He nodded toward the desk and the iPad propped atop. “Night Train to Berlin. Here you are, Uncle Rupert. No milk, I’m afraid, but there’s sugar in the bowl.”
“The book?” I exclaimed. “It’s in the book?”
“I couldn’t find any copies lying about here, and I couldn’t find it on Kindle. But the film’s available online. A classic. Carroll Goring directed it, his first big hit.”
I hurried around the corner of the desk and pulled the iPad closer. John had paused the movie, but I could see he was about three-quarters through. The blurred, monochrome face of some half-familiar actor filled the screen, as he walked down the narrow corridor of a Pullman coach. “Tristan Beaufort,” I said. “He’s got the—what was it, the formula for some kind of explosive, right? But the Germans have sabotaged the train, because they don’t want him to reach Paris and hand it over to his English contact there. . . .” I looked up. “Oh my God. It was his father. Tristan’s father was working in British intelligence.”
John was nodding. He hadn’t taken any tea himself, and his arms were folded across his rusty-pink chest. “And was being blackmailed,” he said. “Blackmailed by the Germans. Told them where the information exchange was taking place, so they could snitch the formula for themselves and then sabotage the train to cover their tracks, so to speak. Let the British think it was just lost.”
“Christ,” Rupert whispered.
“Only he didn’t realize that his own son was the British agent on board the train.” I sat in the chair and stared at the wild, blurred eyes of the actor. “He found out and tried to send a message, but it was too late. Beaufort discovers the plot and diverts the train at the last second, saves the day, but his father—”
“—has already killed himself. Not out of grief for his son, but because he knows his treachery is about to be unmasked.”
Rupert sat in the armchair, white-faced, holding the tea with both hands. “It was right there, all along. Hiding in plain sight.” He looked at me. “Well, you’ve certainly got your story, young lady.”
“Not quite. I mean, this isn’t proof. It’s all just educated speculation. And I’d never publish anything this—well, incendiary, without more
evidence to back it up.”
“Why not? You’ve got the telegram. You’ve got a decent working theory. And now that you know what you’re looking for—”
“But it would destroy his reputation.” I turned to John. “I can’t just accuse your ancestor of treachery.”
John’s eyes met mine, steady and earnest, and as I returned his gaze, it seemed to me that I understood at last why he looked so haggard. Why his voice over the phone had sounded so strained. “Sarah, it’s history,” he said. “It’s what you do. The truth is far more important than the Langford family reputation. Besides, this is exactly what you need, isn’t it? It’s exactly what you’ve been looking for. Your book. Your big comeback.”
I opened my mouth and found I had nothing to say. Both men watched me, waiting for me to speak, waiting for me to take this gift that John was handing to me. He’s right, I thought. This was exactly what I was looking for. The big scandal, the big cover-up. And it all fit together so beautifully. A shocking narrative from the past finds its echo in the present Langford family scandal. For John, the timing couldn’t be any worse.
And yet, there he stood, a few yards away. Arms folded, face haggard, presenting this terrible, miraculous gift to me. He could have ripped up that telegram, he could have kept its contents forever hidden. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t even hesitated.
I rose from the chair. “John,” I began.
“Rupert!”
I don’t know who jumped highest. I spun toward the door and ended up folded over the chair arm. John jerked around and caught himself on the edge of the cabinet.
And Rupert? He gasped and leapt from his chair, spilling his tea on the rug before he set cup and saucer on the corner of the desk. His hands shook as he turned to face the large, handsome, black-haired man who filled the doorway.
“Nigel!” he exclaimed, in a choked voice.
* * *
“Well, there’s a happy ending, anyway,” I said, watching the flashlight bob through the window glass, over the crest of the bridge to disappear on the other side. I turned to John and smiled. “How long should I wait before I sneak after them?”
The Glass Ocean Page 32