Melbourne smiled. Even with all he’d been through, it was good to hear this. But he had work to do. “And the Iron Shadow, did he find it? Do you know what it is?”
“No, I don’t, but I believe he did. During the last few days that he was here he seemed clearly worried. I asked him what was wrong, and he told me that there was something strange going on, that he felt like he was in grave danger. That everyone was in terrible danger. I had no idea what he was talking about, he wouldn’t tell me, but the next day he stopped coming and I knew something had happened. Before leaving he showed me a code he had devised in case anything should go awry. It involved the poems he much adored.
“I was beside myself with worry. Albert told me that his friend in the Resistance had gone missing as well. The next day I heard the horrific news of his death. And as you British say, the rest is history.”
He knew he had to ask this question – he was dying to know. “What about the nightingale?”
The Countess looked at him with a blank expression.
He showed her the letter she had sent him. “Here, you see, you wrote that my brother had something to do with a nightingale.”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh yes, the nightingale.” The Countess got up and walked over to her desk. From a drawer she removed a small sheet of paper and walked back to Melbourne. “It was here.”
She handed him the sheet, clearly torn from a book. It was a poem, The Solitary Reaper by William Wordsworth. But the lower part of the page was missing, as if it had been torn in haste. He thought his brother would consider that an act of desecration, yet he had done it. What had happened to him in the last few days of his life?
Melbourne scanned the page. The word ‘nightingale’ was circled by a brown oval made in invisible ink. Next were scribbled two words: ‘there is’. The rest of the sentence was burned off, as if the Countess had been clumsy in revealing the hidden message.
“This was the very last poem he sent me,” the Countess said. “It was a clue, a clue that might have helped you in some way. Don’t ask me how, but I knew I just had to send it to you. Did it help you?”
“It did. She did.” It was a good enough answer. But it still didn’t make sense.
She picked up a crumbled napkin and removed a few pieces of biscuits from inside it. Placing them on the palm of her hand, she fed the canary on the armrest, who had not moved since Melbourne had sat down. “Henry Arthur almost felt like the son I never had. Since my husband died a few years back, my life has been slowly sliding into lethargy, almost as if I had little to do but wait for death. Gone are my days when I would travel to the United States of America on grand adventures. Gone, gone. Now with this stupid war I can barely leave my town. All that was left to me are my birds and this crumbling castle.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Melbourne said.
“Oh, don’t be sorry. Now I have my little spy ring to keep things exciting.”
He took another sip of his tea, but it was hopelessly cold. “You said my brother had found clues here.”
“Yes, so he said. Now, I don’t exactly know what he was looking for but he was interested in my little ring, as I have said. There was something with the German trains passing by here that pricked his interest.”
He finally getting somewhere with all of this. “What do these German trains carry?”
“Soldiers, weapons, ammunition – I don’t exactly know. But they are many, oh so many. She would know.”
“Who?”
“The brown-haired girl you were looking for. She would be able to answer your questions.” She turned around to look at the clock on a wall. A little magpie sat on top of it, scanning the room before it. It was almost eleven o’clock. “We are still in time. She should still be there right now. If you want answers, my dear Melbourne, then I would suggest we go right now.”
The Countess got up on her feet and motioned his guest to do the same. Melbourne placed his cup back down on the table before rising as well.
“Where to?” he asked.
“To find the answer you seek.”
XXXI
A carriage was waiting when the Countess and Melbourne showed up at the entrance of the castle. Taking the Countess by the arm, Melbourne helped her cross the gravel road and enter the carriage, before seating himself next to her. The fog had finally lifted, revealing a clear sky above them with a few clouds floating lightly about.
But the sense of oddness and suggestion that he’d felt when he first arrived still clung to him. Something wasn’t making sense in the whole story.
Michel got up on the driver’s seat. “Are you ready, Countess?”
“Yes.”
Michel started the horses with one snap of the reigns. The carriage began moving slowly, circling around the dead fountain. A maid opened the iron gates with a loud screech, then closed them with another after the carriage had passed through. The grating sound reverberated through the woods in front of them, agitating a group of crows that croaked loudly as the Countess and her company passed by.
The horse broke into a trot, moving swiftly next to the red brick wall and around the bend towards the village. It took them mere minutes to reach Libremont.
The Countess opened the curtains next to her. The town seemed more alive than when Melbourne had last seen it. As they passed among the houses and farms, the Countess would wave at the villagers walking by on the streets. In turn, they would wave back or bow at her passing.
“That is Alain,” she would say, waving at someone. “Such a lovely man and a great farmer. He works endlessly, and only for his family. I have never seen him take a break. His daughter is now five, and just about this time last year she fell terribly ill. He came to the castle asking for help in the middle of the night. His daughter was burning with a terrible fever. I went to Brussels to call a doctor and came back. The doctor stayed with her until light broke through in the morning, and I am glad to say that he made her fever disappear altogether. Alain cried when he thanked me. He brings me fresh eggs on most mornings as a thank you. Such a lovely man, he and his family.”
They continued down the cobblestoned road, as the carriage rattled and sometimes bumped on the ancient medieval stones.
“That down there is Augustin, the village’s blacksmith,” she said, waving at another man. “His wife is one of the loveliest people this village has to offer. She sewed me an entire quilt for my birthday many years ago. I still have it and consider it an important possession. When my husband died, she comforted me and came to visit me every day for an entire year.”
As they passed by the village the Countess recounted more tales of its inhabitants – of Morgane, a farmer’s wife who has dedicated her entire life to animals, of Guillaume, the only able musician of Libremont, of Rachel, a mother of triplets, and of Isaac, the shoe repair man from Overjise who comes to visit the village once a month. Melbourne listened but his thoughts were taken up by the German trains and the burned nightingale poem and his brother’s interest in the village. He could only hope that things would make more sense once they reached the brown-haired girl.
“Things are changing here, Melbourne,” the Countess said.
Melbourne brushed his thoughts away. “How so?”
“The war, the Prussians, they are destroying the lives of the people here. The farmers don’t work for themselves, or the village. They work for the occupiers. The crops they cultivate are taken away from them, given to the soldiers at the Front to feed them so they can fight. Only crumbs are left to the people here. They are scared, Melbourne, worried about their future. I can’t let that happen. I can’t let my people live in such a way.”
Melbourne thought of her train watching ring.
“I am alone, Melbourne, without heirs, and my days are slowly coming to an end. Once I am gone, an era will have ended in this village. But as long as I breathe, and as long as I can walk, I will do whatever it takes to help and save Libremont. I’ve got nothing to lose, my dear. The Prussians do.”
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Melbourne was beginning to understand just what Henry may have seen in this village. If this elderly, cultured, arguably eccentric woman was willing to risk everything to lead the resistance, then… well, there was hope.
They left Libremont behind them and continued down dirt roads in the countryside. They were stopped once by a German patrol car but were let free once Michel was able to slip the guards a bottle of wine.
Gentle green hills and pastures passed by them, filled with sheep and cattle, ignorant of the atrocities that surrounded them. Every once and while, Melbourne would see a bell tower sticking above the trees in the distance, signs of another village or town.
It took them roughly another hour before they entered a small town. As they passed by streets and buildings, Melbourne couldn’t help but notice that it felt less medieval than Libremont.
“Welcome to Rixensart,” the Countess said.
“This is where the brown-haired girl lives?” he asked.
“Oh no, this is where she mostly works. My Julie is native of Libremont.” The expression on her face when she said those last words betrayed her pride.
The carriage stopped just on the outskirts of a large square. The Countess placed a scarf over her head, tying it so that it covered her hair and part of her face. She got off, helped my Melbourne, and turned to Michel. “Wait here, we will be back soon.”
The square was vibrant with activity. Stands of all sizes stood in place around the square; some were big enough for two vendors to stand behind while others had just enough room for one chicken to be displayed. Tents covered the largest stands while the smaller ones had no protection above them. It was lucky that the sky had cleared.
The quantities were small, and the quality was not the best, but the market seemingly had everything. Fruit, vegetables, chickens, pork, and soups were being sold for just a few francs. Vendors shouted and roared out prices and bargains, claiming their products were always best. Buyers, mostly women and children, calmly navigated the labyrinth of the market, buying whatever they could with the little money they had, often times negotiating the prices and trying to buy something for less its value. The vendor always agreed.
The Countess placed her arm under Melbourne’s and led the way through the web of fruit and soup stands. “I used to like to come here in the past when the days seemed brighter.”
“This brown-haired girl, who is she?”
“Her name is Julie, and she sells flowers here.”
A man walked up to Melbourne, almost placing a large slice of cheese under his face. He kindly declined as the man told him the price, then started cutting off one franc every second that he would repeat it.
“Flowers?” he said quietly when the man left them alone. “And I thought she was some big shot in the world of espionage.”
“She is… to me. Julie is part of my little train watching organisation. Her mother and she. Who would ever suspect them?”
“So, if I’m getting this right, you wrote the letter, but she went all the way down to Givet to send it for you?”
“How could an old lady like me do something like that? The only way was to send her.”
Melbourne pictured the route she must have taken, without permission and without papers. If she wasn’t caught by the Germans, then she did know the espionage craft.
The Countess lowered her voice. “This is where she passes on the information to the Resistance regarding the German trains that have passed by near Libremont heading towards the west.”
Melbourne looked around him. It was hard not to notice the German soldiers, spiked helmets on their heads, walking about the stands, patrolling the square, touching the fruits and vegetables. They were everywhere.
He lowered his voice further as well. “Countess, I don’t know if you’ve noticed but they are here, and many of them.”
She smiled. “Best place to tell a secret, isn’t it?” She drew a pocket watch from her jacket and checked the time. “We are a few minutes late. Hopefully we can still catch a bit of the performance. Come, right this way.”
She led him through stands selling soup, beans, and potatoes until the Countess stopped to look at a series of apples displayed on what looked like an old wooden door pressed into service as a table.
“Listen.” She pointed to one ear with her index finger.
Melbourne fixed his eyes on the apples in front of him but concentrated on the sounds. He could hear someone whistling a melody behind him, a sweet song that sounded familiar to him, until he recognised that it belonged to Danielle’s repertoire. Somehow it was different. The structure of the song was off, with various melodies being whistled in an odd order with too many, or too few, repetitions.
“Amoreuse by Paulette Darty,” the Countess said. “You know the song?”
Melbourne nodded.
“It sounds a little off doesn’t it? The verses, certain melodies, and some of the words of the song stand for different things – the number of carriages that the train had, the time of the day that the train passed, and so on. You are listening to the information being given. So are the Germans.”
Melbourne turned around and finally saw her. She was crouching down, fixing a pot of orange flowers placed on the ground near her little stand. Her back was to him, her long, dark brown hair fell freely just slightly below her shoulders. She stood up and turned around, whistling with nonchalance, as if she was going about her business as usual. She was not what he had pictured. About his age, she was tall, almost as tall as him, and had stunning brown eyes, with short eyebrows, and a small scar near her right eye.
She was beautiful.
“Nearby, amongst these stands here,” the Countess said, “is a member of the Resistance that is listening and decoding the message. He will then pass it on to other key members of the Resistance. Quite ingenious isn’t it?”
“I have to say yes. Not even the best of our mathematicians or code breakers could even guess that that was a code.”
He could see that he had hit a soft spot in the Countess.
The whistling suddenly stopped and the young woman was about to turn towards another pot of flowers when she noticed the Countess. Her thin lips spread into a smile, long dimples forming on her cheeks. The Countess took Melbourne by the arm and started walking towards her.
The girl bowed slightly. “Countess.”
“My dear Julie, I would like for you to meet someone special. This is the recipient of your letter, Melbourne Summers.”
Julie’s eyes widened. “You are here? You…cracked it?”
“I did,” he said. “And I have to congratulate you on bypassing the Boche censorship. It was impressive.”
Julie smiled.
“He is here for the trains,” the Countess said. “The same ones that led to the murder of his brother.”
“They are increasing,” Julie said. “We see one almost every day.”
“What do these trains carry?” Melbourne asked.
“I don’t know. No one knows. And no one knows where they stop. They just go and seem to disappear towards the west, coming in from the east. I fear something is happening.”
“What is happening?”
A German patrol guard passed behind them, walking slowly and eyeing the group.
“Here it is, Countess.” Julie handed her a small pot of roses. “This should look perfect on your balcony.”
The guard passed by, ignoring Julie and her group, and fetched an apple from the nearby stand. He took a big, loud bite from it and walked away.
Julie lowered her voice. “It’s too dangerous to talk about this here. Meet me at my house, I will explain further.”
“Thank you, Julie,” the Countess said. “These flowers will look perfect.”
They turned around to leave as the whistling melodies began once again.
XXXII
Crossing dirt, grass fields, and low green hills, the carriage made its way back home to Libremont.
On the way, the Countess told Mel
bourne stories of Julie, of how she had known her since she was little, and of how she had decided to persuade her into the train watching ring. Melbourne only heard fragments of her stories as his mind drifted away into his own thoughts. He realised he was finally putting the pieces together, but the answers were still far off. Why was his brother interested in this train watching ring? Why Libremont?
The trains. Coming from the east and heading west. More every day. There was a fundamental relationship between the trains and the Iron Shadow, there had to be. But what?
Before he knew it, they were back in Libremont. He pondered how the road back always seemed shorter that the way forward. The carriage creaked and rattled once more under the strain of the ancient cobblestones, clearly not made for such adventurous tasks. They wound up the hill until they reached the clearing with the woods in front of them. Instead of going straight towards the castle, Melbourne noticed that they had turned right, along another dirt road.
The Countess eyed Melbourne looking out the window. “Julie’s house is just back here.”
The woods, dark and thick, were to their left. He could tell they were old, ominous, with gnarled and twisted branches and trunks thick as towers. They continued down the path for some time until they turned into another road inside the woods.
“These are ancient paths, Melbourne,” the Countess said. “As old as the myths that surround this place.”
They turned once more, heading to the right, until they exited the woods and found themselves in a large grassy field. The dirt road continued on until the Countess and Melbourne heard Michel call out to the horses. The sounds of hoofs slowed down until the carriage stopped.
“Welcome,” the Countess said.
He opened the door of the carriage and stepped out. They were in the shade of an ancient oak tree that extended its branches out towards the road. A trio of birds cheerfully sang atop the tree’s limbs. Before him was a small white house with a wooden roof. Flower pots with yellow and purple flowers decorated the outside while a thick wooden fence extended itself for metres on end on both sides of the house. Melbourne could hear the mooing and bellowing of cattle not too far off.
The Iron Shadow Page 17