Whispers again, not far. He moved in a little farther.
“You’re hurting me, let go!” The girl sounded frightened, poor thing.
“I hear noises, they’re coming. Shut up or I will hurt you some more.”
They were less than twenty feet from Bernhardt now, at the edge of a clearing much larger than he’d expected. He could just make out a crumbling circular foundation on the other side. That must be the old folly, an Eden for randy old aristocrats.
Damn, the girl was too close to Bernhardt, he held her in what looked like a chokehold. “Hold it, see if Bernhardt will relax a little if he thinks no one’s around,” he whispered to Cummins. The man looked at him as if he were dirt. “You will follow our lead.”
“No one’s coming up here. Let me go!” Her voice had risen to a little girl’s wail.
“I said shut up! You see that bare ground over there?” All the men peered at a gash in the moss to Bernhardt’s left, moonlit for a few seconds. “There’s a woman under there, a woman who could not keep her mouth shut. Her husband had had enough and I was glad to help him out of his difficulty. You will sleep next to her if you do not behave yourself.” Bernhardt shook her arm. “The worms need some fresh meat by now, I think.” Rosie sagged and said nothing more.
The farmer’s missing wife. Mystery solved. But how did Bernhardt know Tom Lake? At least ten minutes must have passed. Funny how hard it was to keep completely still. His head itched, feet almost numb—God, he wanted to sneeze! He held his nose in a vise-like grip, closing his eyes and counting to twenty. Let the others keep their eyes on the target; it was their show, wasn’t it?
Bernhardt stamped his feet now and blew into his hands, even as he clutched his gun. Rosie sat on a tree stump, head bowed. Falway’s hands sweated in spite of the chill; he breathed as deeply as he could, a fraying breath, as he watched Cummins raise his pistol. He raised his, too, just in case; Bretton-Taylor pushed his arm back down and shook his head silently.
The report echoed off the trees, startling Falway almost as much as it did Bernhardt. Rosie screamed, then slumped and curled up, whimpering as she clutched her arm. Bernhardt aimed his gun at her head and shouted, “Keep away from me or she dies! I seem to be a much better shot than you!”
Cummins sauntered into the clearing as if he hadn’t just participated in the most unbelievable balls-up. Falway muttered to Bretton-Taylor, “What now?” The man neither spoke nor moved. It didn’t feel right. He wondered if the army was closing in, although he didn’t know what good that would do with so many players in the ring. He feared for the girl. He started to edge away to see if he could get a better aim from farther around the clearing’s edge. Bretton-Taylor grabbed his arm, forcing him back. “Keep out of it!”
“Who in the hell are you?” Bernhardt seemed to think himself invincible.
“Never mind that. Let’s put an end to this now, Herr Bernhardt Visser. You can’t get away. The army is all around us, their guns trained on you. You’ll be safer with me, take my word for it. If I’d meant to hit you, you’d be lying in the muck and she’d be running on home to Daddy.”
“But I still have the girl. She needs a doctor.” A little less sure of himself.
“We can’t allow that to get in the way of our work.” Cummins’s voice oozed like hot runny custard.
“Her father will never allow anything to happen to her. I want a boat and supplies and a car to get me to the docks. She needs a doctor. She can bleed to death if you don’t do what I say. I will take her on the boat and take care of her wound.”
“We have our orders. It’s you we want. Alive. Come now and you won’t hang.” Falway couldn’t see much, but he could wager Cummins was smirking as he watched Bernhardt’s new reality sink in. He had no hostage. Rosie was not useful.
Cummins had missed Bernhardt on purpose and Rosie’s safety was not a priority. These men wanted information, and they wanted the spy alive. Falway catapulted away from his companion, then walked forward slowly, hands in the air.
“Ach, you.” Bernhardt looked him up and down with amused contempt. “Go and tell them what I want.”
“Very well. But please, give me the girl!” He knew his request was fruitless, but he had to try.
“Do not be ridiculous.”
“Yes, he is ridiculous. He’s not one of us,” said Cummins, disdain curling his mouth. Falway didn’t look at Cummins. He’d have shot him if he’d thought it would do any good.
* * *
Geoffrey had followed Falway and his companions, keeping well back. The soldiers who’d stopped him earlier knew who he was and were unaware that he was not supposed to be involved. “Part of the team, old chap,” he muttered several times. He worked his way up the hill behind them and saw them branch off to the east. He would approach from the west. He crawled on a few yards to a clump of gorse. He should keep still for a few minutes and make sure all was quiet. The fewer men on the move would make for fewer rustles and cracks to alert the bastard.
He dropped when he heard a shot, his cheek coming to rest on young gorse spikes, the sharp twigs sticking into his cheek a welcome torment. He roused himself when he heard Falway call to an officer about ten feet to his right that the girl was not badly hurt, and to fetch Sir Ronald.
“Psst! Falway, over here!” Falway sank down beside him, revolver pointed awkwardly at a treetop.
“Be careful with that thing. What’s going on?”
Falway laid the revolver on the ground, barrel facing away. “You’re not supposed to be here. Your daughter’s been shot in the arm by Cummins, that MI5 chap. Aiming for the spy and missed. She’ll be all right. One of them is trying to talk Visser out. I’ve got to wait for Sir Ronald.”
He must push the panic down; he couldn’t afford it, not now. “I’m going on.”
“No, stay where you are! Sir Geoffrey!”
“Bugger off!”
Forward, easy does it, keep your wits about you. He crawled on his belly, every sense ticking. Not too fast, remember your training. So long ago now, but he could still summon up the immense effort it took to screw up his courage and go over the top at the command, death only yards ahead, the spurious comfort of a quick-mud trench behind him. It was not his life at stake now; he stood to lose a more precious treasure. Whatever it took to save her, he’d do it. He couldn’t do otherwise.
He inched along, his breathing normal now, his motions fluid, even his heart staying quiet. Only the hellish abyss of his mind churned, waiting to seize his opportunity.
If only they had set their grief for Fiona aside earlier for Rosie’s sake. They should have been grateful to have her. Especially Audrey. She’d barely touched the child in the early years, so selfish in her grief. What kind of a mother, even a grieving one, doesn’t hold her child and make her feel safe and loved? Long-veiled anger rose like an autumnal fog, clinging and invasive, damp and heavy. Stop it, stop the blaming and concentrate.
He crawled on until he reached the clearing behind the ruins. One wall section was high enough to rest his arm on to steady his rifle. Bernhardt stood with his back to him, about fifteen feet away, and another man—Intelligence?—faced Bernhardt on the other side of the clearing. All three of them stood in more or less a straight line, but Geoffrey, well hidden in the shadows, felt himself unlikely to be spotted by either man.
Rosie lay almost facing him, arched like a stillborn lamb. Open your eyes. He tried to will the thought across. She thought she was going to die, poor little girl. He raised his weapon; better draw a bead on the target. Rosie lifted her head a little, he thought she’d opened her eyes; just one good moonbeam and she might spot him, then she’d know she was going to be all right. No, she might call out. The wretched man was circling her, muttering some gibberish and pointing his gun at her head. If only the swine would stay still, all he needed was a second or two.
Rosie’s pain-filled, five-year-old face filled his mind, a time when he’d had to hold her still for stitches in her arm. He’
d withered inside then, held her face into his neck, couldn’t look. Stop that! Focus.
“We’ll keep you safe, Visser, we have a quiet spot to have a little chat, plenty of home comforts.” He sounded well bred, should be a good shot.
“I am telling you, Sir Geoffrey will never let his daughter suffer.”
“And I keep telling you, Sir Geoffrey is not in charge here, and we ordered him to stay away. I am in charge. And the girl doesn’t matter, not to us.”
The slimy bastard! They wanted him for their own purposes, and to hell with Rosie. Geoffrey felt a deeper fear then, a bitter fear born of a new understanding of this war.
* * *
Jamie had heard Sir Geoffrey tell Stanton to open the gunroom. That meant he planned to rescue Rosie. Jamie wanted to go, too, but he knew they wouldn’t let him. Then Sir Geoffrey yelled from the gunroom to have the estate car brought around. That might be his chance. Jamie waited by the hedge. After the groom had left the keys in the ignition and strolled back to the stables, he crept in the back and hid under the hairy old dog blanket. It smelled like a pig place.
Jamie knew his way around the hill, he’d tried to run away and hide here a few times. Only cold and hunger made him go back to the farmhouse. His eyes were sharp, so he managed to avoid the soldiers on this side of the hill before cutting around to the clearing a bit higher up than D. I. Falway. Bernhardt held Rosie tight, and, as far as he could see, she felt scared and sad.
The loud noise frightened him, and he was terrified other people had heard his squeal. He saw Rosie fall, too, and hold her arm, crying, hurting. He saw the strange man talking to Bernhardt, and saw the detective leave. They didn’t seem to be doing anything. He would have to rescue Rosie; he was in a real adventure now, and he was not a coward.
She lay all in a heap, very sad, clutching her arm. When the moon blinked once he could see dark runny stuff, must be blood, even though it didn’t look very red. Please, God, don’t let her lose all her blood. Bernhardt walked around talking to himself. Got mad maybe. Should he tell Bernhardt to leave her alone?
Jamie could see his gun now, and it looked very big. If he shouted, maybe Bernhardt would shoot the gun at him instead of Rosie. He didn’t want to die, didn’t want to hurt, even though he didn’t want Rosie to die either. Anyway, after shooting him, Bernhardt could always turn around and shoot Rosie some more, and with Jamie dead there’d be nobody to do anything about it.
He spotted a movement on the other side. Sir Geoffrey. He could just about pick out his shape in that nearly dark place, and only then because the moon, going in and out of the clouds all evening, stayed out for a longer time, but he knew it was him. Perhaps he would make things right. He turned his eyes back to Rosie.
Bernhard stood still, feet wide apart and chin down. He lifted the gun up high and pointed it at Rosie’s chest. He meant to shoot her and really make her lose all her blood, like Gran did, like what made people die. The other man was still talking.
“No, no,” Jamie shouted as he ran at him. “Leave her alone!”
Bernhardt swung around and aimed at Jamie. The shot was shocking, a huge noise, worse than a bomb. So much more dark stuff, had to be blood, clothes wringing wet with it, the ground black with it. Please not dead, not Rosie. She looked dead. Bernhardt looked dead too, but how? Jamie couldn’t move, couldn’t rightly think. He didn’t think he was dead. He didn’t feel any hurts. Bernhardt must have missed him.
Sir Geoffrey held Rosie to his chest now, like a father should. She cried out, she had pain. Not dead, not dead. Lots of people around now. No one held Bernhardt, or talked to him. Jamie sidled over and looked down at his face, ugly now. Empty eyes stared back, mouth open, still shouting, it looked like. Very dead. Finished with hurting. Suddenly, Jamie had to be sick and ran back into the trees; you had to be private for being sick.
* * *
Geoffrey thought his heart would seize up when he wondered if he’d hit her, too. When the boy started shouting and running, Bernhardt had grabbed Rosie and turned toward Jamie, trying to pull her up as he went, only she’d been a dead weight. He’d aimed for the man’s chest and seemed to have hit his heart, only from the side instead of the back because he’d kept twisting. He’d not so much as nicked Rosie.
Rosie had caught the bullet in her upper arm, but Geoffrey didn’t think any bones were hit. Might still be in there though. Must hurt like the blazes.
That bastard. Judging from the voice he’d heard, the fellow had been brought up to shoot. There’d be hell to pay.
27
Sir Ronald hunched in the grey drizzle, hands jammed into his pockets as if to prevent his coat from flying off. Geoffrey, a little out of breath after his climb up to Old Ring Copse, stopped by the grave-sized trench two constables were digging. More constables dug in other spots.
“Morning Geoffrey, how’s the lass?”
“She’ll be in hospital another week or so. Gibson wants to keep an eye on her.”
Ronnie paused and bit his lower lip. He seemed unusually diffident, his shoulders tense. “Is she in much pain?” He looked at Geoffrey sideways, as if afraid he might have asked an inappropriate question.
“Not too bad, lodged in her upper arm you know. No bones broken, thank God. He’s got her well sedated. Just as well after all she’s been through.”
“Quite.”
Ronnie released his shoulders and turned back to watch the digging. “Look!” He had the avaricious look of a hound, now.
Geoffrey flinched when he saw pink satin blanket borders poking out of the newly turned earth. More digging, careful now, probing around, not through. They lifted the blanket and its contents and laid it on a tarpaulin.
“Open it,” Ronnie said. “Gently does it.”
The blanket had been swathed so the body—it must be a body—had to be turned and lifted several times as they unwrapped. Geoffrey forced himself to keep looking as Ronnie uncovered the corpse. The odor wafted over, sweetly unpleasant, but not as overwhelming as he’d feared. She was not intact; time and weather, not to mention insects, had taken their toll. A woman’s moldy clothing, but it was hard to tell much else. His breath rattled. He’d grown out of asthma, for God’s sake don’t let it come back now. They’d given him hell at school when he’d had to stop playing rugger because of it. Called him a sissy.
Geoffrey couldn’t look away from her ruined head. “Her face, Ronnie. Decay or injury?”
“Massive injuries, a rock I should think. We’ll never get her identified that way. Maybe the clothes will help, though they’re not in good condition.” He picked up her left hand and pried off a wedding ring, most of the skin peeling off with it. He dropped the mess into a paper bag, which he tucked into an inner pocket.
Geoffrey, no stranger to death at the front, and by no means averse to dressing game, felt nauseated by Ronnie’s casual handling of this decaying carcass, and a woman at that. He turned his back and walked away until the breeze carried no hints of decay his way. He’d got to get fresh air into his lungs, to flush out death.
He remembered Ronnie had started his career in London, so had certainly seen his share of atrocities; he must have grown emotional calluses after the first few. Ghastly. But then he himself felt strangely devoid of pity for this woman. He hated cruelty of any kind, but she hardly seemed like a person. Wrong-headed, he knew, but she was a thing to him, a repulsive thing. Was there something missing in him, some crucial nexus? He turned around to see what Ronnie was doing now. He didn’t want to see, but felt compelled to see it through.
Ronnie poked around some more. “Ah, a brooch.” He unpinned it. “We’ll see if the daughter can identify these. Then we’ll invite Mr. Lake to comment.” The brooch joined the ring.
Geoffrey’s goose pimples crawled and his bowels loosened as he watched the body being loaded onto a stretcher. It looked nightmarishly disarticulated, too prone to having pieces fall away. One of the constables looked greenish, the other merely grim as they threw the dirt
y blanket over it. Her.
“Over here, sir!”
They strode over to see what the man had turned up. A common sack, and inside it two vellum-covered packets wrapped in an old mackintosh. Ronnie undid the vellum and found two small black leather satchels, one about eight inches square and the other slightly longer and narrower. He drew out their contents and laid them out.
“My word, I’ve heard about these. Falway told me the MI5 chaps found one in Visser’s room. They didn’t show it to me, though. Beautiful!” He sounded almost rapturous. “A German transmitter, newest model. Three batteries, the set itself, and little Morse tapper, no more than four pounds.” He tapped each item as he spoke with a staccato flourish. His chest had puffed out again.
“I can’t believe it’s so small,” said Geoffrey.
“And so efficient. Their chatter is hard to pick up, though we’re getting better at it. And you see how portable they are. Their engineers are the tops, hurts me to admit it, but there you are.” Ronnie looked crestfallen. “If this is what he was using at Blexton, no wonder we couldn’t pick it up. We got glimpses, but could never pinpoint the source. The place is set very far back from the road, you may remember. Clever.”
He straightened and shifted from foot to foot, looking awkward.
“I say, Geoffrey. Sorry about Rosie.”
“I know. Go easy on Falway. I’m sure he did his best. Were those other fellows from Intelligence?”
“Yes, they were, and I understand they had orders, orders they didn’t share with me. Falway wasn’t given a choice. They held him back. He went against them in the end, then tried to find me.”
“I suppose there’ll be trouble for him? If the silly buggers hadn’t insisted on playing cloak and dagger …well, I would’ve shot the man anyway. They were willing to sacrifice Rosie. Wouldn’t have made any difference.” Geoffrey’s fury rose again as he thought of the sheer callousness of the plan. His lungs rattled again. Calm down, don’t set it off.
The Blitz Business Page 22