The Iron Shadow

by Stefano Siggia

  His brother’s funeral had been held in Canterbury just two days earlier. He had missed it, and hated the world for it.

  “I’m sorry, lad.” Edward put a hand on Melbourne’s shoulder. “I can only imagine what you’re going through. But I can tell you from my own life, time will heal all wounds. Thanks for your help.”

  “It’s alright, Edward,” Melbourne said. If only people could stop reminding him of what he was supposed to feel like. “Always glad to help.”

  Melbourne walked away and crossed the landing strip, heading for his tent where he needed some peace, and quiet, and —

  “Oi, Melb!”

  Melbourne sighed. He turned around and saw Christopher, another one of the pilots, run up to him.

  “Melb, before I forget, mail came in today.” Christopher pulled a letter from the pocket of his pants and handed it over.

  Melbourne took it.

  To Lieutenant M. Summers

  Royal Flying Corps, No. 2 Squadron

  Merville, France.

  “I’m meeting the others for a game of pontoon,” Christopher said. “Fancy joining us?”

  “Maybe later.”

  “Oh come on Melb. Little John wants his revenge from last time. I wouldn’t mind seeing that myself.”

  “How about later tonight?”

  “Counting on it.”

  Melbourne made his way through the maze of white tents until he reached his own. He crawled in it, cast his goggles and jacket on the ground, and lit the paraffin lamp to give the cramped place some light. He looked at the crumpled envelope and was surprised at how pleased he was to receive something. He had not been sent a letter since his brother’s final one a month and a half ago.

  Wait, what if it came from Henry Arthur? What if the past week had just been a terrible mistake, and his brother had written to him telling him he was still alive?

  He tore open the envelope and pulled out the letter. Another smaller piece of paper fell to ground but Melbourne took no notice. He began reading the letter, hands trembling with excitement.

  My dear Melbourne,

  I hope this letter finds you well. We have been hearing terrible news on the war here and all the world hope you are doing alright. We miss you and we hope you come back soon. The spring has come here in Canterbury and it is nice to see some colour in the city and the countryside. Matthew and her wife came to dinner the other day and ask me about you. I told them what you have said in your last letters and they were very shocked. It is always difficult to hear when someone dear is fighting in the war. Matilda showed me her last painting and it was the best I have seen from her! Beautiful and lively colours! She is looking for a place to expose her works but has not found it yet. The times are difficult. I will tell you as soon as I will know. Your dog is happy with the nice weather and he has fun running behind butterflies in the garden.

  I send you together with this letter the poem you asked me. I hope it will make you feel less lonely.

  With all my affection,

  Your Aunt Mary

  Melbourne re-read the letter several times, running through each point. Was there some kind of mistake? He looked at the envelope once more to assure himself that it had been delivered to the correct person. His name and address were on it. He looked once more at the letter, shaking his head.

  He never had an Aunt Mary. He didn’t know anyone called Matthew or Matilda, and he certainly never had a dog. Who were these people? The spidery handwriting didn’t belong to anyone he had ever received a letter from since he was stationed in France. He turned the letter around to see if there was anything written on the other side but it was blank.

  The poem.

  He looked down on the floor where the smaller piece of paper had fallen out of the letter. He picked it up and unfolded it.

  The left edge was jagged, as if it had been torn out of a book.

  Lyrical Ballads

  Strange Fits of Passion Have I Known

  by Williams Wordsworth

  Strange fits of passion have I known:

  And I will dare to tell,

  But in the Lover’s ear alone,

  What once to me befell.

  When she I loved looked every day

  Fresh as a rose in June,

  I to her cottage bent my way,

  Beneath an evening-moon.

  Upon the môn I fixer myc Ey,

  All over the vide lead;

  With quickening pace my horse drew nigh

  Those paths so dear to me.

  And now we reached the orchard-plot;

  And, as we climbed the hill,

  The sinking moon to Lucy’s cot

  Came near, and nearer still.

  In one of those sweet dreams I slept,

  Kind Nature’s gentlest boon!

  And all the while my eyes I kept

  On the descending moon.

  My horse moved on; hoof after hoof

  He raised, and never stopped:

  When down behind the cottage roof,

  At once, the bright moon dropped.

  What fond and wayward thoughts will slide

  Into a Lover’s head!

  "O mercy!" to myself I cried,

  "If Lucy should be dead!"

  182

  Melbourne stared at the page of high Victorian drivel in front of him. Apparently, Aunt Mary had somewhat antiquated tastes in poetry.

  He sat down on his bed to try to make sense of all this, trying to remember if there was anything in his past that might make things fall into place.

  Nothing.

  Well, it was either a mistake or a joke. A fellow pilot had slipped this letter into Christopher’s hands, most likely Little John, just to have a laugh, and to take revenge from the terrible defeat he’d been handed at pontoon. Little John was not someone who enjoyed losing. Melbourne shook his head. They had got him there for a minute.

  He looked at the letter again. Whoever had written it certainly needed another trip to school once the war was over. Little John was a brute but certainly not ignorant, at least not at this level. Matthew and her wife came to dinner the other day and ask me about you? His brother would be placing a hand on his forehead and shaking his head in disgust.

  But… there was a strange coincidence there. Melbourne was more a Kipling man, but for whatever reason, the English Romantic poet was a favourite of his brother. Henry Arthur had once brought Melbourne to one of the meetings of his poetry group in a pub in Canterbury before the war. Each member had to recite a poem from the Romantic era, followed by a discussion. Wordsworth was always Henry Arthur’s choice. And Little John wouldn’t know that.

  Something was odd about all of this. He studied the letter, looking at every word, every curve of ink, every dotted i and every crossed t. He moved the letter closer to his face. There was something strange in between the lines of each sentence. He noticed small bumps and little wrinkles that somewhat almost formed letters.

  He placed himself closer to the lamp to have a better look at it. Slowly, as if by magic, new letters began burning themselves on the sheet of paper.

  Melbourne’s jaw dropped.

  He drew closer to the light. An entire new letter had appeared over the old one; the letters glowing in bright brownish yellow between the original sentences. He squinted his eyes, trying to read this new message within the letter.

  Melbourne,

  Your brother has found something big. He called it the Iron Shadow. I cannot reach him, he is lost. The poem is the key to find what he has found. You can help in discovering the message. I know you can. Do this quickly! I cannot help much and cannot tell you more. There are eyes everywhere here. You have no time to lose! The Iron Shadow is already moving. Find me. I am close to Brussels. There you will have your answers. Lucy knows. She is lost. Your brother had something to do with a nightingale, if that helps at all.

  So… not a prank or a mistake.

  He sat there, motionless, not knowing what to do.

  Th
e poem is the key to find what he has found.

  He looked at Strange Fits of Passion Have I Known once more and but could not make anything out of it. Except for the name Lucy.

  Lucy knows. She is lost.

  Who the hell was Lucy?

  His heart began pounding. The poem made no sense beyond the story of some love and some girl named Lucy.

  “This is absurd,” he whispered to himself.

  He really had no other choice. He lay down the letter and the poem and from a nearby book he hastily took out a small piece of paper jammed between some pages.

  Colonel Alan Dunn-Hamming

  39 Rue La Monnaie

  St-Quentin

  VII

  Melbourne sped down the country road, through spacious wheat fields and through small medieval towns. Wearing the goggles and leather gloves he used when flying, he piloted his motorcycle down dirt roads and small winding paths covered with grey cobblestones. He had taken one of the Squadron’s various motorcycles with the excuse that he had to finish some important errands in La Gorgue for a number of his fellow pilots. He promised that he would be back by evening. At least he hoped.

  The mysterious envelope, along with Colonel Dunn-Hamming’s address, were safely tucked in an inside pocket of his leather jacket. The poem, the ‘key to the message’, puzzled him. He mulled it over until his head hurt and got nowhere. He would not be able to shed a little light until he had reached his destination.

  After a few hours of travel, the twisted and arduous road finally opened to Saint Quentin. The quiet town, adorned with dark grey cobblestones on the ground and medieval churches, surrounded by white and yellow low brick buildings, seemed like anything except a hotbed of British espionage.

  Melbourne pulled out the slip of paper with the address and showed it to some of the passer-by’s for directions. After getting lost a couple of times he finally found his way around and reached Rue La Monnaie.

  The street was short and not very wide, but it presented itself as a commercial zone in the area complete with a cigar shop, a barber, and a small stationary store amongst others. The shop owners apparently lived in the upper floors of their shops.

  Melbourne rode his motorcycle up the street and parked it just a few doors away from number 39. He tucked his gloves and goggles into a pouch hanging on the side of the motorcycle, waited until a horse carriage passed, and made it across the cobblestoned road. When he saw No. 39, he pulled out the piece of paper with the address and checked it twice. There was no doubt he was in the right place. Could Colonel Dunn-Hamming have written it wrong?

  The insignia above the ground floor of number 39 read La Maison des Chapeaux. The House of Hats.

  And it surely was that. Hats of all kinds were neatly displayed in two shop windows, one for men, and one for women. A small wooden door in between the display windows invited in its customers with a white cardboard sign saying ‘Ouvert’ in a fancy handwritten cursive.

  Melbourne stood in front of the shop. Should he go in? Maybe somebody in there was bound to know something he had missed.

  He pushed the door open and a bell above it rang loudly. The shop was small but well organised with a lovely display of hats. The fancy and colourful toppers of various shapes for women filled one side while an assortment of black top hats, brown bowlers, and white panamas for men could be found on the opposite side. Melbourne took two steps forward when a small man with puffy cheeks and tiny reading glasses materialised in front of him.

  “Bonjour Monsieur! Bienvenue…Welcome to La Maison des Chapeaux!” He displayed a large grin on his face. “How may I help you today, sir? We have the finest collection of hats in Saint Quentin! You may find newsboys, top hats, bowlers, and pork pies! I see that you are a British soldier?”

  “A pilot, thank you.”

  “Even better! Then you may find interesting our new collection of homburgs that has just been delivered to us the other day,” He walked over to a shelf and pointed at the assortment of hats.

  “I am actually not looking for a — ”

  “Oh, yes!” said the little man moving over to another shelf. “You are the type for top hats. I should have known.”

  “No, no Sir — ”

  “I excuse myself, Sir. Bowlers. You pilots like bowlers.”

  “No, look, I’m not looking for a hat.”

  The clerk frowned.

  “I was actually looking for a person. I wonder if you might be of some help.”

  The little man drew himself closer to Melbourne and squinted his eyes while adjusting his glasses. “A person you ask? And who might that be?”

  “I was giving this address by a certain Colonel Alan Dunn-Hamming, but I believe he made a mistake.”

  “Perhaps, and perhaps not, Monsieur. And who is looking for him if I may ask?”

  “Lieutenant Melbourne Summers of the No. 2 Squadron of the RFC. I met him briefly just a few days ago.”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Well, a kind of nowhere place between La Gorgue and Merville. That’s where the aerodrome is. The motorcycle parked outside is my own. Actually, my own would be a little stretch.”

  The man moved to the shop windows and took a long look outside at the motorcycle. He looked from left to right and studied the busy street. “Did anybody follow you? A tall man with a moustache? A child with dirty shoes?” He spun around towards Melbourne. “A short, fat woman with a pink hat?”

  “Well… no.”

  “Good, good, good, good. Bon! Wait here.” He disappeared behind a door on the far side of the shop.

  Melbourne waited a whole ten minutes before the clerk showed up once more. The small man opened the door half way and poked his head through. “Lieutenant, this way, if you please.”

  Melbourne had little idea of what was going on but decided to follow him. He crossed the shop and reached the door. Behind it was a flight of stairs.

  “Come, come,” said the clerk. “Follow me.”

  He followed him up the stairs to the second floor of the building. A dark brown wooden door stood before them off to a side. The small man knocked on the door twice, paused, then knocked three times, another pause, and then twice again.

  Nothing happened.

  “Where are we?” Melbourne asked.

  “Shhh!”

  The small clerk muttered something uncomplimentary in French and was about to knock again when the door suddenly opened.

  “Please, Lieutenant.” He pointed towards the open door. “Welcome.”

  Melbourne walked through the door and found himself almost face to face with a French gendarme. The door behind slammed shut and he jolted. The Frenchman wasn’t the only person staring at him.

  “Bonjour,” was all he could manage.

  VIII

  Unlike the hat shop below, the place was bustling with activity. British and French officers in uniform were chattering, reading documents, and gesturing heatedly over maps. One was sitting at a table with earphones attached to a strange box, listening and jotting down notes on a piece of paper. There was not one desk or table that was not filled with documents, books or strange tools that he could not recognise. Maps of all sizes adorned the walls depicting the regions, cities, and roads of France and Belgium. Pins and strings created intricate and colourful zigzags across every map.

  One man, a French officer with large, bushy moustache, looked up from his desk. “Bonjour.”

  He was the only one to give Melbourne much attention, even though they all glanced at him curiously.

  Something rubbed up against his leg and he looked down. An English Bulldog stared up at him with a small ball in his mouth. It placed the ball down on the floor and looked up at Melbourne with large, playful eyes and a wagging tail. Melbourne knelt down and patted the dog on his head. He took the ball from the ground and was about to throw it when he heard the voice of a woman shout at him.

  “Don’t do it!” A woman dressed in grey rushed towards Melbourne. “We’ve had two
broken chairs that past week due to this hurricane of a dog!”

  The dog turned around to look at the woman, picked its ball up, and strutted away goofily.

  “I’m sorry, I — ”

  “It is quite alright, Ms. Hamley.” Colonel Dunn-Hamming emerged from around a corner. “I will take care of our guest here.”

  “Greetings, Lieutenant Summer. I saw that you were coming from the window. You have decided to reach out to me.”

  “Colonel Dunn-Hamming, I’ve received something that will surely interest you.” Melbourne patted the pocket of his jacket.

  “Very well, come this way.”

  He led Melbourne across the apartment where more men in uniform were hunched over desks. Photographs, codes, and all sorts of documents were pinned to the walls, leaving not a single empty space.

  “I can tell that you seem quite surprised by our operation, Lieutenant,” Dunn-Hamming said. “The hat shop on the lower floor is just a cover. This is in fact one of the secret Foreign Office posts here in France. This country is swarming with enemy spies, and we must take all precautions to stay quiet. I’m sure you’ve met our good man Monsieur Dulont down stairs, the shop owner. A bit of a lunatic, paranoid down to his bones, but a good man and the most trusted fellow we could find. And he was kind enough to allow us to put up shop above his store. Mind your step.”

  Melbourne stopped before he put his foot in a bowl of water on the floor.

  “Ms. Hamley goes a bit crackers if someone puts their feet in the dog’s water bowl,” Dunn-Hamming said. “She is quite sensitive to keeping everything orderly around here. I suppose at least one of us should be. Here, just this way.”

  They finally reached a door and Melbourne was ushered in. The room was small and cramped, with a large desk and overflowing bookshelves lining the left and right walls. Light shone through a small window just behind the desk.

  “So, Lieutenant, what is this thing you wanted to show me?” Dunn-Hamming grabbed his pipe from his desk and lit it with some matches he had in a pocket.