The Iron Shadow

by Stefano Siggia

  “Earlier today I received this letter.” Melbourne pulled out the envelope from his jacket and handed it over.

  Dunn-Hamming took it and carefully opened it, extracting the letter and the ripped page containing the poem.

  “Interesting,” he said. He read the two letters juxtaposed on the same page. “Invisible ink. Very, very interesting, Lieutenant. And this so-called Aunt Mary?”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “Of course not. And what of the poem?” He picked it up and studied it.

  “William Wordsworth was my brother’s favourite poet,” Melbourne said. “Whoever sent this letter knew him.”

  “It says here that you are able to decipher the code, from what I understand. Is that so?”

  “I’m afraid not. I have no idea what the person is talking about.”

  “I see. Do you have any idea of who might be the sender? Did your brother ever talk to you about someone he knew in Belgium?”

  “No, never. I don’t think the letter comes from a native English speaker.”

  “Hmm, yes, that’s true.” Dunn-Hamming took a few puffs from his pipe. “The grammar seems quite… French. And the quality of the paper is fairly good. We can deduce that it came from an upper-class, French speaking person in Belgium. A woman from the looks of the calligraphy? And what about this Lucy and the nightingale?”

  “I don’t have the slightest clue, sir.”

  He turned his attention to the poem. “Have you tried heating this?”

  “No. It didn’t occur to me.”

  The Colonel removed a box of matches from a pocket and lit. Holding the flame close to the poem, he began moving it around the page.

  “Hello there,” he said.

  As if by some trick of sorcery, a series of hand drawn symbols began burning themselves across the stanzas of the poem. Melbourne approached the Colonel and looked at the torn page. It had turned into this:

  Lyrical Ballads

  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

  “What do you make of it, Lieutenant?” Dunn-Hamming asked.

  Melbourne could think of nothing. He studied the code intensely but shook his head.

  “Think,” Dunn-Hamming said. “Think hard.”

  Melbourne was already thinking hard. He felt that whoever sent the letter had made a terrible mistake. He didn’t know where to start. It all felt so confusing. Nothing in this whole situation made any sense.

  “I’m sorry, Colonel. This makes no — ”

  They heard a knock on the door of the study and Ms. Hamley entered with a silver tray holding a pot of hot tea, two empty cups, and a small dish with some biscuits.

  “Ah, Ms. Hamley,” Dunn-Hamming said. “Could you kindly go fetch Captain Bassard, please?”

  Ms. Hamley nodded and placed the tray on the desk in front of them. She shut the door behind her and a few seconds later another knock was heard. A man, almost twice the size of Melbourne but with a kind looking face, dressed in a British military uniform, entered the room.

  “Lieutenant Summers, this is Captain Bassard, our in-house mathematician and expert in codes.”

  The two men greeted each other.

  “Captain Bassard, what do you make of this?” Dunn-Hamming handed the poem to the Captain. “It came along with this other letter.”

  Bassard pulled out a pair of glasses and studied the two sheets of paper.

  “Interesting,” he said, “by the look of it I believe the material used for the invisible ink could most likely be milk.”

  “What of the code?” Dunn-Hamming asked.

  The huge man sat in a nearby chair and stared at the poem. He removed a small notebook and a pencil from a pocket and began jotting down notes.

  Ten whole minutes passed before Captain Bassard put down his pencil, removed his glasses, and shook his head.

  “This is no known code, I’m afraid to say. It is wholly invented by whoever sent the letter, or someone close to the person. Unless we know what they intended, it cannot be deciphered.”

  Dunn-Hamming let out a sigh. He took the envelope that had contained the letter and poem and studied it. “Interesting.”

  “What is?” Melbourne asked.

  “The cancellation mark on this envelope. It was sent from Givet, although the sender said she could be traced back to Brussels.”

  “Givet? That’s part of France now, isn’t it?” Bassard said.

  “Since January. Givet must be more than one-hundred kilometres from Brussels. Whoever sent this letter must have taken a great risk to deliver it.” He placed the envelope back on the table and began pacing up and down the room. “There’s little choice here. We must find the sender.”

  “It will be hard to find anyone in Belgium at the moment,” Bassard said. “The Folkestone men have their hands full in other activities over there.”

  “What of Agent Q?”

  “He is busy following a few high ranking German officers in Antwerp. He seems to be close to collecting important information, he can’t stop right now.”

  “Agent 7?”

  “Lost contact about a week ago.”

  Colonel Dunn-Hamming shook his head. “We will need to contact Folkestone, then. There has to be somebody ready — ”

  “I’ll go,” Melbourne said.

  The two men turned and stared.

  “Excuse me?” Dunn-Hamming said.

  “I said I’ll go.”

  Silence fell in the room.

  “Lieutenant,” Dunn-Hamming said, “thank you for your bravery and disposition in this matter, but this is a dangerous mission in enemy territory. You understand that the stakes are quite high here. This is no job for, forgive me, an amateur.”

  “Colonel, I’m fluent in both German and French. And more than that, I know my brother better than any of your professionals. If there’s anybody that can retrace his footsteps, think the way he does, that would be me. The poet, William Wordsworth, he is one of my brother’s favourites. I can find what happened to him. I can find the truth.” He stared at Dunn-Hamming for a while. “I need to know the truth.”

  “This is no mission for a simple pilot, Lieutenant.”

  “Can any of your men identify enemy artillery and report back its precise position, Colonel? Know exactly at a distance what kind of artillery we are speaking of? You’ve seen me do it in the aerodrome. You know what I am talking about.”

  “And my answer remains the same.”

  “Colonel, I am the best choice you have so far — ”

  “Lieutenant, do not push this. I am your superior and I — ”

  “Give me a chance to prove myself — ”

  “Do not irritate me, Lieutenant.”

  “I can snoop around and — ”

  “Enough!” Dunn-Hamming removed the pipe from his mouth and slammed it on his desk. An uncomfortable silence settled in the room. He walked up to Melbourne and fixed him with a stare.

  “Listen to me carefully, Lieutenant,” he said, “can your brain even process what we are talking about here? Have you any idea of what spying is? I was there during Charles Gordon’s evacuation of Egyptian forces in Sudan while the Mahdist attack was imminent. I secretly followed that bloody bandit of Mbelini kaMswati in his raids throughout Zululand before the war on Zulus broke out, and I spied on those zealots of The Righteous and Harmonious Fists at the outbreak of the Boxer Rebellion in China with assassins around every corner. And this was all before the word Intelligence meant something to most people. So trust me, Lieutenant Summers, when I tell you that travelling behind enemy lines where every person you meet on the street is your potential executioner is no business for amateurs. This is not train watchi
ng or boat watching we are talking about. This is a mission on which the fate of Europe will be decided, and I won’t let some stupid, senseless, rebellious pilot come and tell me that he can do it when he can barely keep an airplane from falling apart.”

  The two held each other’s gazes, their eyes locked. Melbourne wanted to punch the arrogance out of Dunn-Hamming but knew that wasn’t a good idea. So they stared.

  It was Captain Bassard who interrupted the standoff. “If I may say, Sir, we might need someone like the Lieutenant here. He has some assets that will be quite helpful for the mission. Plus, we may need someone to snoop around — ”

  Dunn-Hamming turned around and cut him off with one stare. He took a deep breath and moved towards the window, placing his back to the other two men. He stood there, silent. Melbourne glanced at Captain Bassard.

  “Lieutenant,” Dunn-Hamming said in a perfectly congenial tone. “Thank you for your time here. You have brought us an important piece of the puzzle we were hoping to find. Your duty here is done. You’d best go back to your squadron and your life. Go and find Ms. Hamley, she will show you the way out.”

  Melbourne shook his head and stormed out of the room. Ms. Hamley brought him back to the stairs that led down to the hat shop. He descended them slowly while trying to steady his breath. Dunn-Hamming was an insolent idiot, a soulless block of ice with little intelligence and an ego as big as Europe. And he was keeping him from knowing anything about Henry.

  As he emerged back into the hat shop from that strange niche of British Intelligence, he found Monsieur Dulont, the store’s clerk, standing by the door with a box in his hand.

  Dulont flashed him a smile. “This is for you, Sir. A fresh, brand new homburg.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t believe I asked for a hat.”

  “Ah, but don’t you think it’s suspicious to leave a hat store without a hat after such a long time?”

  After a moment, Melbourne nodded and took the box. At least something came from this trip.

  IX

  At seven o’clock in the evening, the aerodrome’s barn was stuffed to the very edges with pilots, mechanics, and all sorts of ground crew ready for supper. Scratched and bruised wooden tables of all sizes filled the room. Not a single free space could be found on any of them.

  Dishes and mugs took every centimetre, spread out like maps on a high commanding officer’s desk. Men were shouting and laughing, sitting on wooden stools that had seen better days; many often wondered how it was possible that they were still capable of holding someone vertically. Trying to speak at a normal volume with all the noise was basically impossible.

  The seats belonging to fallen comrades were removed as if they had never existed, until new recruits came to take their places. One could spot a new pilot easily in the midst of all the confusion. They were the ones who looked like they were facing a death sentence.

  Melbourne spotted one a couple of tables down from his. The young man must have been in his late teens, listening to the stories of his older companions and barely touching his food. He understood how he felt. He was barely eating his own. He picked at the beef broth with his spoon and looked at the hard lump of bread that stood for his daily ration. He could not get his mind off the letter, the poem, and the circles and X’s that had burned themselves on those pages, undecipherable even to an expert code breaker. It had been three days since his visit to Colonel Dunn-Hamming’s secret office, and each day he grew more and more restless. He wanted to know the truth – needed to know.

  He needed a distraction and quickly found it just a few seats down from him. A young fellow pilot was recounting his clash with an enemy airplane. He used his hands to act out the movements of his and the enemy’s aircraft to a small crowd of men seated around him. There was enthusiasm in his voice and adrenaline in his movements as he relived the close shave with death in the skies above the border of France and Belgium.

  Melbourne listened to a couple of minutes of the story and then went back to picking at his broth. He had felt the same excitement when he’d first begun flying. Now he just felt indifferent, apathetic. It was not an attitude that kept you alive in the air for long.

  “Lieutenant Summers?”

  Melbourne didn’t bother to turn around at the voice. But then he heard a light thud next to him on the table.

  “This came in earlier, for you.”

  He looked down on the table and saw an envelope next to his piece of bread. His name was written on it. He dropped his spoon and picked it up. There was no stamp to be found but one slightly faded postmark at the top right corner with the place of origin of the letter.

  Saint Quentin.

  He quickly opened the envelope and pulled out the letter inside.

  It was blank. Completely blank. Not one single word.

  It took a minute for Melbourne to realise what he should do with it. He excused himself and got up. Moving to a corner of the barn where a small portable paraffin lamp hung from a hook on the wall and looked around him to see if anybody was watching. He then placed the letter as close as possible to the lamp and slowly began moving it around.

  Words appeared.

  Dear Lieutenant Summers,

  I thank you once more for your visit of the other day, which left us baffled but with an extra, and I should add, important, piece to the puzzle. I write to inform you of a change of plans. Your interest in joining our mission has been carefully reviewed by the Foreign Office. I have spoken with the higher echelons of St. Omer and have managed to secure you a place with us for two weeks. Before that may happen, you shall be interviewed by certain members of the Foreign Office in St. Omer on April 19th. I shall meet you at the station in the morning on that date. Major Webb-Bowen has been notified, and you should speak to him as soon as you may. Do not, I repeat, do not tell anybody the reason for your leaving, not even to the people closest to you. Only the Major knows, and may know, the truth. See you in a few days, Lieutenant.

  Yours truly,

  Colonel Alan Dunn-Hamming

  P.S. Destroy this letter once you have read it.

  Melbourne’s heart pounded as he read the letter twice. He had done it. He had convinced the Colonel.

  He wasn’t sure what the voyage to St. Omer meant, nor what the Foreign Office had in mind for him, but he knew he it would bring him closer to the truth on his brother.

  The date of the rendezvous written in the letter was to be tomorrow. He would have to pack his bags and say his goodbyes that night.

  He tore the letter into four pieces and moved towards a small stove in one corner of the barn that gave off a bit of heat. Opening the metallic door, he threw the pieces of the letter into the fire. He watched as they slowly burned to a crisp. Once satisfied, he shut the metallic door.

  *

  Douglas leaned against one of the wooden pillars of the watch tower that overlooked the landing field, in which he and Melbourne had survived far too many crash landings. The air had grown chilly, a small gust of wind made Douglas tremble for a few seconds.

  “So what did you want to speak to me about?” he asked.

  Melbourne stood beside his friend, but his gaze was directed towards the landing field. He turned his sight towards the airplanes parked on the grass adjacent to the strip. It all seemed so quiet for the time being. He knew that in an hour or so, when the sun had fully set, the nocturnal missions would start. For now, the flying machines were in an eerie and awkward slumber.

  He wondered if he would ever see any of this again. Part of him was thrilled to leave, to put all this behind him for some time. But deep inside, he knew he was going to miss part of it.

  Douglas’ question still hung in the air. He turned to face his friend. He wouldn’t have imagined the act of saying goodbye could be so difficult. “Sorry to have dragged you out here, but I wanted to tell you that… I’m leaving. I’m going away for a couple of weeks. Away from the aerodrome and the Squadron.”

  Douglas said nothing for a long moment. The
n…

  “It’s for your brother, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes. Yes, it is. In a way.”

  “I understand, Melbourne. Heading back to Blighty I guess?”

  Home. He wished he could go back home, but Melbourne didn’t have a place to call home anymore.

  He forced a smile. “That’s right.”

  “Then lucky you.”

  “It will only be for a couple of weeks. Then I’ll be back.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow morning. At the crack of dawn.” He placed a hand on the shoulder of his friend. “Listen, be safe while I’m gone, all right?”

  “Oh, certainly, Douglas said with a smile. “Who knows, I may get a pilot who knows how to keep an airplane in the air.”

  Melbourne laughed. “Very funny.”

  “And I want you to be alright as well and enjoy your time at home while you’re there. Well, as much as you can, given the circumstances. At least try. You need it.”

  “I promise.”

  “Good! Now let’s get out of the cold. We need a pint before you leave.”

  Melbourne forced another smile. He needed more than one.

  X

  At the crack of dawn, Melbourne made his way to La Gorgue’s train station. He left quietly, without saying a single goodbye, only stopping to look back at the airplanes stationed on the grass ready for the day’s missions.

  The St. Omer train station was in a frenzy of activity when Melbourne arrived. The steam from the various locomotives almost obscured his view of people moving about the platforms, eager not to miss their trains. He adjusted his new Homburg, threw his bag over a shoulder, and made his way toward the station’s exit.

  The crowds outside were every bit as large. Pilots, simple soldiers, and high commanding officers were all jumbled together in a seething, chaotic mess. Melbourne squinted at the light from the sun; the day was picture perfect and he could not imagine why anybody would want to stay inside.

  He began threading his way through the confusion. Some of the soldiers had just returned from the front, their faces tired and creased from the horrors they had witnessed. Others were leaving, saying their goodbyes with worried glances at the arrivals. He noticed a small band of pilots moving together towards the station. He guessed that they were probably new recruits taking a train to join their squadron. As soon as they saw Melbourne they recognised his uniform and waved. He forced a smile and waved back.