The Other Side of Midnight

by Simone St. James

  James touched my neck, briefly. “We already know why he needed you, Ellie.”

  “As bait?” My voice went shrill again, and again I tried to stay calm. “It makes no sense. How would he have known from the first that Colin would come for me? And what was Gloria, then? Was she bait as well?”

  Inspector Merriken shook his head. “This whole setup,” he said, gesturing to the house around us. “It’s too elaborate. To recruit Fitzroy Todd, the fake Dubbses, all of it, to get Gloria to come to the countryside so that Colin—if indeed it’s Colin he’s after—will follow her? It’s completely impractical. No. This setup was for Gloria’s benefit, but it was for a different purpose.”

  “And what could that possibly be?” I asked him.

  The inspector sighed. “I can’t believe I’m lending any credence to this, but if I had to guess, I’d say the purpose was to recruit her.”

  I stared at him, aghast. “Into MI5?”

  “Possibly, yes.”

  I couldn’t help it; I laughed.

  James raised his eyebrows, but Inspector Merriken looked faintly thunderous. “What is so amusing?” he asked.

  “Gloria would never have worked for MI5,” I said. “Never. If that’s what all of this was, they were wasting their time. Gloria would have told them to go to hell.”

  “Are you sure?” James asked me. “We both know Gloria liked money, and we know for a fact that she needed it. She could have dangled MI5 along and made herself a profit.”

  I shook my head. “Gloria didn’t work for the government, or the prime minister, or anyone else. She certainly wouldn’t have worked for the brother who disowned her as a liar and a fraud. Gloria worked for herself, and only herself.”

  “That may be, or it may not,” Inspector Merriken said, his logic grating on me. “But first things first. I’m not pursuing a dead man unless I have evidence he’s not dead. I’m going to make some telephone calls. I’m likely in very deep waters with my chief inspector right now, but I’ll see if I can get some backup sent out here after all, to deal with the attempt on Miss Winter if nothing else. And I’ll try to get Colin Sutter’s records from the War Office.”

  “Hasn’t the War Office already shut you out?” James pointed out. “The last time you asked them for information, they told you it was classified.”

  “Those were official channels. This time I won’t go through the front door. As it happens, I have a contact at the War Office who owes me a favor.”

  James leaned back in his chair, his gaze speculating. “A woman? Just a wild guess.”

  “Leave it, Hawley.” Merriken’s face grew very, very still and dangerous.

  James grinned. “Don’t worry, old fellow. I’m a closed book.”

  “I’m warning you.” Merriken pointed a finger at him. “Leave off. Try to make yourself useful, for the first time in your life, rather than pursuing pixies or fairies, or whatever it is you do.” He turned and left the room.

  I looked at James. “Were you trying to rile him?”

  “I didn’t think it would be that easy,” he admitted. “But the shot about the pixies and fairies was a good one, I admit.”

  “Well, now you’ve offended him,” I said, thinking of Merriken’s fiancée, Jillian. There was no way he was unfaithful to her; that much I knew. Perhaps the contact at the War Office was a leftover from his pre-Jillian days. “I’ll see if I can smooth it over when he gets off the telephone.”

  James turned to me. The humor had left his face. “Smooth it over, will you? That’s interesting. I’d like very much to know what the two of you talked about.”

  I might have been working with two bulls butting heads; no one had ever taught me how to manage two independent, riled-up men. “Don’t worry—he’s taken. Quite comprehensively so.”

  Something flickered across James’s eyes, and he leaned forward and kissed me, quick and hard. “So are you,” he said. “Now sit and rest for a minute. I’m going to search the house.”

  “What for?”

  “Anything,” he said, and left the room.

  The pain in my head had receded to a dull pounding, and James had cleaned most of the blood from my knee. My stockings were ruined, of course; looking down at my legs, I found myself in the strange position of wondering whether it was better to wear torn stockings or to remove them and not wear stockings at all. It was perplexing, the kind of etiquette question one’s mother never covers. I gave up pondering it and limped to the sink, where I splashed water on my face and drank a glassful, suddenly dying of thirst. Pickwick lifted his head and thumped his tail hopefully at me; I put water in a bowl, gave it to him, and searched the cupboards for something to feed him as he gratefully inhaled his drink.

  The Dubbses may not have been real people, but someone or other had lived here. There were a few tinned items, sardines and the like, and a smattering of mismatched dishes in the cupboards. The drawers contained eating utensils, and pots and pans hung from the walls. A kettle, a tin of tea on the counter. Who lived here, then, if not the Dubbses? What was this house used for? Where were the occupants? I gave Pickwick a tin of meat and began my own quiet search, unwilling to sit still despite my pain and exhaustion. From the sitting room I could hear the low rumble of Inspector Merriken’s voice as he spoke on the telephone.

  I had just started up the stairs, noting that there wasn’t a single picture on the walls, when I heard James’s exclamation of triumph. I found him in the master bedroom, which was as neatly kept as the rest of the house, with a handmade quilt smoothed on the bed. James was standing in front of a tall cabinet, its doors flung open, its lock discarded on the floor.

  “Oh, my goodness,” I said, looking over his shoulder.

  “The Dubbses,” he said to me, “are nicely stocked—whoever they are.”

  The cabinet held firearms, at least six of them by my count. Two were long rifles, one a thick shotgun of some kind, and the rest handguns. They’d been carefully placed in the cabinet, metal gleaming from the shadows. On the shelves beneath the guns themselves were boxes of gunpowder and ammunition, clearly labeled and neatly stacked.

  Inspector Merriken entered the room behind us and gave a low whistle. “Well, well.”

  James picked up one of the rifles, turned it over in his hands. “Lee-Enfield,” he said. “Standard issue, perfect condition. Well maintained.” He lifted the bolt and retracted it, peering down. “Unloaded. Clean as a whistle.”

  “Recently fired?” asked the inspector, and I glanced at him. Did he think one of these was used to shoot at me?

  “Not this one,” James replied. It was strange, watching him with a rifle in his hands. He handled it capably, and I had to remember he had likely carried one of these every day while he was at war. I blinked; it was like looking at two men at the same time.

  “Check the others,” the inspector said, but James was already moving, picking each gun up and inspecting it. His face was unbearably handsome in its concentration. He picked up the shotgun last, his brow frowning slightly. “This is a lot of firepower.”

  “It looks like the Dubbses were rather dangerous,” Inspector Merriken agreed. “Or at least Mr. Dubbs was.”

  “I wouldn’t discount Mrs. Dubbs, either,” James countered. “If they were government agents, she was as well trained as he was. In any case, I’m glad they left their cabinet stocked.” He picked up one of the rifles again and ran his fingers over the boxes of ammunition, looking for the right kind. “That bastard, whoever he is, will get a surprise if he goes for Ellie again.”

  Inspector Merriken sighed. He had taken off his coat downstairs while on the telephone, and now he crossed his arms in their shirtsleeves over his buttoned-up waistcoat. “Those guns may be government property, you know.”

  “You can arrest me later.” James loaded the gun and clicked it shut, the sound cracking up my spine. I clenched my h
ands into fists at my sides.

  Inspector Merriken hesitated, then uncrossed his arms and held out a hand. “Fine. Give me one.”

  “Rifle or handgun?”

  “One of each.”

  James deftly loaded the weapons and handed them over. Merriken put the handgun in his waistband and carried the rifle at ease at his side. He had likely served at war just as James had.

  James was obviously thinking the same thing. “Did you use a Lee-Enfield in France?”

  “Not exactly,” Merriken replied. “I was RAF.”

  “Ah. A high flier.”

  “Something like that. Still, I know which end is the business end. They taught us that much.” He turned to me. “As it happens, Miss Winter, Colin Sutter’s war records aren’t classified at all. He enlisted as an officer in 1915, was captured by the Germans in August 1916, and spent six months as a prisoner of war, after which he died. Cause of death was listed as pneumonia. The Germans issued an official death certificate, which the War Office has in the file.”

  “His body never came home,” I said. “There may have been a death certificate, but his body never came home.”

  Merriken blinked at me. “He was interred in the prison camp, yes. How did you know?”

  “Gloria told me, of course.”

  From his position by the gun cabinet, James said, “If there’s a German death certificate, that means he isn’t a British agent, doesn’t it?”

  “Actually,” Inspector Merriken corrected, “it means that he’s dead.”

  I turned to James. “If he defected to the Germans—if they somehow recruited him while he was a prisoner—then the German authorities could have issued the certificate.”

  “If it originated high enough, I don’t see why not,” James answered me. “A man like that would be a valuable agent, because he’s native British. No one here would suspect him. It would be worth it to them to kill his old identity, complete with paperwork, and give him a new one, if he was willing. The question is, why was he willing to betray his country?”

  “This is pure madness,” said Inspector Merriken.

  “The newspapers,” I said to James, ignoring the interruption. “They say that no group has claimed responsibility for the bombings. Not fascists, or socialists, or Bolsheviks. Would the Germans simply recruit a man to sabotage random targets?”

  James looked thoughtful. “It’s possible, perhaps. Germany has been in chaos since the Armistice and Versailles. But an agent like that wouldn’t serve the government’s purpose. It could be one of the smaller revolutionary factions, which are growing in Germany like weeds.” He shrugged. “It’s an effective way to seed terror, if you think about it. The speculation, the scramble to find a pattern, is almost as effective in creating fear as the bombings themselves.”

  “I wish I knew more about him,” I said. “Gloria didn’t like to talk about her brothers—it was too painful. I know that Colin was difficult and rather distant. But she carried the telegram notification of his death, along with the others, everywhere she went. And she carried his photo, just as she carried those of Tommy and Harry.” I shook my head. “She loved him—perhaps not perfectly, but she loved him. And he killed her.”

  James’s gaze settled on me, something about it sad and very cold. “War changes a man, Ellie. In ways you can’t imagine.”

  I looked at him holding a rifle—likely the same kind that had almost killed me hours before—in his hands, at Inspector Merriken holding his own rifle, and I swallowed. “I’m going for a walk,” I said. “I need to see where Gloria died before the sun goes down.”

  James closed the cabinet. “You’re not going alone.”

  “Not that it matters,” Inspector Merriken said, “but I’ve got a handful of men on their way. It’ll take them some time to get here, so in the meantime I’m going to take a look around and see if I find a trace of our man.” He glared at me. “Whoever he is.”

  “I’d advise that your walk take you past the nearest telephone line,” James said, “and that you find a way to keep an eye on it if you can.”

  Merriken turned to him. “You think he’ll cut it?”

  “I would,” James replied.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  James walked at my shoulder, rifle in hand, as I exited the back door of the house. I felt jangled, uncertain, as if I’d been transported somewhere entirely unfamiliar with strangers. The isolation of this house was complete; I could not see or hear the road far up the shaded drive, nor could I hear or see any neighbors. We were in the bottom of a soft hollow cupped by gentle hills, with no vantage point of the surrounding countryside. It was peaceful and undoubtedly beautiful, but in my state of mind it was almost suffocating.

  I walked through the neat garden, tended by yet another person who was mysteriously absent, and into the green expanse beyond. A footpath had been created with large, flat stones set into the green earth, and I followed it. The sun lowered toward the hills and the air grew chill with a premonition of twilight.

  “Why the telephone lines?” I asked James, when the silence stretched too long.

  “It’s a common tactic,” James replied. His voice was tense, the words clipped. “Cut the communication lines if you can. We did it all the time at the front.”

  I stopped on the path, turned to face him. His expression was bleak, the strain heavy in his eyes. “James,” I said, “you are not at war.”

  “Aren’t I?” he asked. “I’m carrying a rifle and I’m looking at the landscape, wondering where the enemy might come from. You were nearly shot by a sniper. It feels like war to me.”

  I put my hands on his face, feeling his rigid jaw. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I wanted my familiar James back, the man I knew, the man who had taken me only last night, surrendered to me in passion as the rain had drummed on the windows. I reached up on my toes and kissed him.

  He jumped at first, startled, and then cautiously gave in. I went slowly, exploring him, letting him feel his way back. He put a hand to the small of my back, his body warming to mine by degrees, his chest pressing against my chest, his arm sliding up and around my waist, pulling me to him. He was almost tentative at first, as if he hadn’t kissed a woman in years, but then he remembered, and he kissed me harder.

  I let him do it. His touch was ragged and almost needy, his arm hard with the power of his thick muscles, but the harder he was, the softer I became. I ran my hands gently over his shoulders and the tense line of his neck, and then I broke the kiss.

  “That did not happen on the battlefield,” I breathed.

  He relaxed ever so slightly. “No. It did not.”

  But he did not drop the rifle.

  We crossed through a thin rope of trees, the smell of water growing stronger, and when we came through to the clearing beyond, we found the pond. I had pictured some sort of wild place in my mind, but this pond was anything but; it was large, obviously man-made, its edges immaculately cut, the grassy verge trim and the water smooth and reflective. A tangle of cattails and tall grass had been allowed to grow along the far edge, likely to add to the pleasing rustic aspect, and three large stone ornamental frogs were placed in a group in the center of the water, two crouched and one leaping, their faces blank and grinning. The sun was lowering behind the hills now, and the air had a decided chill. I tried not to shiver.

  “So this is the place,” said James.

  I stared at it in a strange sort of dismay. Gloria’s body had been carried—or dragged—here, dumped in this water. She had vanished, and at first no one had even known she was dead. The wind blew again and this time I crossed my arms. The cold was biting, crawling down my neck and chilling me through my clothes. Something dark crossed over my vision, as if a cloud had blotted out the sun.

  “Ellie?” I heard James say.

  I recalled Octavia’s face as I’d last seen it in front of her h
ouse on Harriet Walk, the account she’d given me of that last séance. Gloria weeping, saying, I had no idea. Saying, Good-bye, darling. Octavia saying, I was afraid, because Gloria was afraid, and Gloria was never afraid.

  She had left that séance, and then she had left the note for me at George’s hotel. And then she had gone to her death. It had ended here, the strange chain of events, in this quiet body of water.

  I felt the chill again, and this time it felt wet. Ripples moving. I blinked. Were there ripples moving in the water?

  “Ellie,” James said. “Are you all right?”

  Far behind us, back at the house, Pickwick barked. Four quick times in succession, a note of surprised alarm.

  James put a hand on my arm, turned me silently to face him. He put a finger to his lips. My heart pounded, but I nodded, telling him I understood. He stepped in front of me and raised the rifle to his shoulder as footsteps approached us through the trees.

  “Don’t come any further,” he said, his voice icy calm.

  The figure of a man paused at the edge of the trees, startled when he saw the gun. The man raised his hands, palms out, and walked farther into the fading sunlight. His expression was as grim as the first time I’d seen it, days earlier in my sitting room.

  “Miss Winter,” George Sutter said to me. “I came to apologize. This is all my fault, you see. Gloria was not supposed to die.”

  * * *

  Still James did not lower the gun; in that moment I was glad of it. The sight of George Sutter was sinister and unwelcome, even though he was not armed.

  “Why are you here?” I asked, moving to James’s shoulder.

  George’s expression did not waver. “My man did not check in,” he replied. “The last I heard from him was after you boarded the train for Kent at Victoria Station. I knew something was wrong.”

  “He saw me board the train?” I said. “I didn’t see him.”

  “Then he was doing his job for once, because you weren’t supposed to.”

  “How did you know to come here?”