by Doug Dollard
“You’re staying here until someone comes to collect you,” he snapped. “I don’t work with children.” And that was that. Nash confiscated the keys to the black Plymouth sedan the kid had been driving and left him there in the pub, wondering what had just happened. Earlier Sid’s body had been collected by a local mortuary and placed in cold storage awaiting disposition.
The pub’s patrons were all a buzz about what had happened but Nash couldn’t have cared less. He was contemptuous of them and did nothing to disguise his feelings. It was almost two in the afternoon by the time Nash was back on the road headed for Danesfield. It took him nearly two hours to find the address he’d been given.
He parked the Plymouth a good kilometer from where he thought the cottage would be and hiked the rest of the way through the woods so he could approach unseen. There was enough snow on the ground to make his progress slow and difficult. By the time he caught sight of the cottage his shoes and the bottoms of his suit pants were sodden, muddy and extremely cold. The experience hadn’t improved his disposition.
It was after three and the sun was already low in the horizon. Shadows from the trees stretched out like long dark fingers across the snow crusted forest floor. He stopped about a hundred meters from the cottage and waited, watching for any sign of activity.
After a half hour he was confident no one was inside and he approached, his Webley in his right hand. He walked completely around the cottage, peering into every window but found no sign the cottage was currently occupied. He even checked the carriage house but it to was empty. Searching the cottage had been a good idea but it was a dead end.
He holstered his Webley and made his way back through the woods to the Plymouth. He’d find a bed and breakfast and stay the night. Tomorrow morning he would come back to confirm if the two had returned.
Chapter 49
KILLING RILEY
I awoke to the thin morning sunlight pouring in through the bedroom window. I was back in the same bed I had left the previous day. Wellington lay beside me, still locked in a deep sleep. I wondered how we got there.
The last thing I remembered was being parked in the woods many miles for here. Wellington must have driven us back here. I ran my hand lightly over my abdomen and felt new sutures. The area was tender and I remembered it had bled badly the day before. Wellington must have put in new sutures. That made the third time I’d been stitched. It wasn’t a record I intended to break. I wondered how she’d had managed to get me from the car to the bed. Given what she had endured these past few days had proven her an extraordinary woman. Wellington stirred beside me.
“Good morning,” she said, one eye open and the other squinting against the sunlight.
“We’re back,” I declared, stating the obvious.
She pulled herself up on her elbows.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better,” I answered. “But you shouldn’t have come back here. It’s dangerous.”
“You would have died if I hadn’t” It was a stand off I wasn’t going to win.
“I’ll make breakfast and then we are going to talk,” she declared, slipping out of bed and padding off to the bathroom. Strange how women always wanted to talk, as if doing wasn’t enough. Even Kate had demanded reassurances. Perhaps that was their secret. Men expressed themselves by their actions, women by their words.
As good as her word Wellington made breakfast from some of the canned goods she found in the pantry. We sat at the kitchen table laughing and talking like newlyweds. It felt good to act normally again. Wellington even found some ancient coffee stuck behind a sack of chickpeas that she turned into a very dark brew. It was surprisingly tasty however.
Despite my brush with hypothermia I was feelingly far stronger now that I had a solid night’s sleep and some hot food.
After we washed up Wellington found some of her uncle’s clothes which I exchanged for my soiled RAF uniform. The pants were a little too big in the waist and the shirt a little too small but I made do. Wellington found one of her aunt’s yellow dresses that fit her quite well. Refreshed we sat at the kitchen table sipping the remaining dregs from our coffee cups.
“You owe me an explanation,” she demanded.
“I know,” I nodded. “But you’re going to find it impossible to believe.”
“After what’s happened I don’t think there is much I wouldn’t believe.”
I didn’t know if it was a good idea to tell Wellington the truth. It wasn’t that she didn’t deserve the truth. It was a question whether the truth would harm her and anyone else who knew. But how do you tell someone you’re not from their time and expect they will take you seriously. I didn’t know the answer to that and I wasn’t convinced I wanted to find out. Besides this wasn’t about Wellington or me or Whitley or any of the five billion people alive in 1944. It was about how knowing something you shouldn’t would affect what you did and thereby change what should have been.
I knew temporal causality postulated you couldn’t change the future because the future has already happened. But if that were true then I shouldn’t be here as it violated that very principle. The fact that I was here meant the future could be altered. I’d already muddied the waters by killing the man at the pub.
“Michael,” Wellington shouted, her eyes going wide in terror. I spun about in the direction she was looking but it was far too late. The barrel-chested man from the pub was standing in the hallway with a revolver pointed at my head.
He wore the same long overcoat and hat I’d seen before in the Plymouth’s rear view mirror. His face was red and sweaty with recent exertion, his shoes muddy, his pant legs sodden. I guessed he had hiked through the woods to get to the cottage so as make his approach unobserved.
It didn’t appear he was with anyone else. In his right hand was a large caliber revolver similar to the Webley I’d taken from the dead man. Looking down the barrel of a gun galvanizes your attention. I’d already begun to calculate just how I would kill him.
“Well, isn’t this cozy,” he snarled. Instinctively I started to stand up but the barrel of his gun waved menacingly for me to remain seated.
“Stay exactly where you are,” he snapped. “I’d just as soon put a bullet in each of you.” He had moved into the kitchen to take a position between us, his weapon never wavering from my head.
“Who are you?” Wellington demanded, her initial shock transitioning quickly to fear.
With a swift movement I wouldn’t have thought his girth would allow he twisted to his left bringing the barrel of the gun down across the side of Wellington’s head, knocking her unconscious to the floor. A long red weal appeared on her forehead from which blood began to flow. I was half out of my chair but in a single fluid motion his gun was trained back on me, his face breaking into a broad smile.
“I don’t know how you managed to kill Sid, but you won’t get the same opportunity with me.”
I guessed Sid was the name of the man I had killed the previous day.
“Get up,” he ordered.
I stood up. He waved the gun in the direction of the cottage’s front room indicating I should head in that direction. I obeyed, fearful he’d shoot Wellington if we lingered too long beside her unconscious body. I’d seen men like him before. He was a brute who used his size and authority to terrorize and manipulate everyone with whom he came into contact.
He enjoyed seeing the fear he instilled in people and he cared nothing if they lived or died. He’d be near impossible to take down in my condition but I’d have to try. I could sense he had plans for Wellington once he had disposed of me. We’d reached the front door when he ordered me to stop. I turned around slowly to face him.
“You planning to kill me,” I asked flatly.
He eyed me speculatively as if he were sizing me up, determining if I’d be difficult to take down if the situation were similar to the conditions which led to his partner’s death.
“I don’t know yet,” he answered playfully. “Maybe.
It depends. You killed Sid but then I didn’t really care much for Sid so I’m not pissed about it. You caused me some trouble though. And I am pissed about that. Why does Chandler want you so badly?”
It surprised me when he mentioned Chandler’s name. I had just assumed he was one of Whitley’s men.
“I think I embarrassed him,” I said, playing for time. I needed an opening if I were to stand a chance of taking him down.
“Yeah, I think you did. Probably not too smart of you to embarrass the major. He’ll likely want your bullocks for breakfast.” He laughed then. Perhaps the visualization struck him as funny.
“I’m not going to kill you, but I am going to beat on you a bit. You killed Sid and it just wouldn’t look good if you weren’t banged up when I brought you in. Just so you know, once you’re unconscious I’m going to screw that little bitch of yours.”
He started for me then, the revolver held tightly in his oversized fist. I slid my right foot back about ten inches and bent my knees slightly, ready to take him on as soon as he got close enough. And then I caught sight of Wellington standing slightly off to Nash’s left, the Webley from the nightstand held outstretched in both her hands, the hammer pulled all the way back, both of her index fingers interlaced on the trigger.
The Webley is a standard issue service revolver for the British Armed Forces and among the most powerful revolvers ever produced. It fired a large, .455 caliber cartridge with enough stopping power to bring down a charging rhinoceros. And it was pointed directly at Nash’s head.
Nash must have sensed her presence for he immediately stopped advancing on me and started to swing his pistol in her direction just as the Webley in Wellington’s hands exploded. The sound was deafening inside the narrow confines of the cottage. Instantly Nash’s head snapped backward, the force of the .455 caliber bullet propelling his cranium away from the rest of his body so that it canted at an impossible angle to his torso.
The bullet penetrated his skull just above his right temple, bisecting his brain and exploding out the back of his head in a viscous shower of pink and grey brain matter, blood and bone fragments. Simultaneously with the round piercing his brain Nash’s legs came out from beneath him and he crumpled to the floor.
He lay there, his body spasmodically twitching, his shattered neurons no longer in control.
The Webley’s powerful recoil snapped Wellington’s wrists upward violently. She dropped the Webley and it clattered against the floorboards. For a moment Wellington just stood there transfixed, staring at the melon sized hole in the back of Nash’s head. I knelt down beside the body and went through the pockets of his jacket and overcoat.
I found a wallet with his identification, a set of keys and some cash as well as a small notepad. Rising I stepped around the body, picked up both pistols and went over to where Wellington stood, gently taking her arm and guiding her away from the body of the man she had just killed. I escorted Wellington back to the bedroom and had her sit on the edge of the bed, directing her to take deep, regular breaths.
The gash in her forehead had bled down her cheek and dripped onto her yellow dress leaving large rust colored blotches. I found a hand towel in the bathroom and ran it under the cold water tap. When I thought it was cold enough I rang out most of the water and placed it against Wellington’s forehead.
When she didn’t move I took one of her hands and placed it on the wet towel and ordered her to keep it in place. She didn’t answer but she held her hand where I had placed it. I checked her pupils. They were neither fixed or dilated so I ruled out brain trauma from the blow she took. I found her medical kit in the front room and brought it back to the bedroom. I took iodine, gauze and medical tape from her kit and treated her head wound as best I could. The wound was going to leave a nasty scar.
I went into the kitchen, filled a glass with water and brought it back to her.
“Drink this,” I told her. She looked up at me, her eyes coming into focus from a long way off. Hesitantly she took the glass from me with her free hand and sipped a mouthful of water.
“Good. Now please concentrate on what I tell you. You did nothing wrong and you need not be ashamed or frightened. I’m going to take care of this but I want you to put it out of your mind. In a little while we’re going to leave here. I’m going to drop you off at the nearest police station and you’re going to tell them who you are. You’re going to tell them you were abducted and that everything that has happened was my doing. You are going to tell them I killed the man at the pub and shot the man who came here tonight. Do you understand?” She nodded slowly as if there was an exaggerated time lag between my words and her comprehension.
“Okay, good. Now I’m going into the living room. You stay here until I come for you.” I needed time to dispose of the large man’s corpse and I didn’t want Wellington wandering about after taking such a hard blow to her head.
Nash’s body lay in a heap, sticky scarlet blood pooling around his head.
I wrapped his head in some towels I took from the linen closet before dragging his body out the front door and around behind the cottage. The sun was up but the morning air was cold and hazy.
A half hour’s searching revealed a small depression about seventy five meters west of the cottage. There was an old board half buried under some snow and dead leaves behind the carriage house that I used as a litter to drag Nash through the woods. I rolled him into the depression and covered him over with leaves and downed tree branches. It wouldn’t keep the dogs off him but it would hide him from any casual hiker who passed nearby.
Back at the cottage I mopped up the blood and viscera, throwing out anything with blood spatter that couldn’t be cleaned. Before I went to look for Nash’s car I checked on Wellington. The glass of water I’d given her was empty and sitting on the nightstand.
“What did you do with him?”
“I took him into the woods and covered him over. I need to go look for his car. I don’t think anyone knew he was coming here or he would have had someone with him. But I might be wrong so we better plan on leaving here as soon as I locate his car.”
I found a green winter jacket in the hall closet and put it on. It fit pretty well. I put the two pistols in the side pockets of the jacket and along with the keys I had taken from the dead man went in search of his car.
An hour later I located a black Plymouth parked off the road a mile from the cottage. The keys fit and the engine turned over immediately. I drove back to the cottage and parked beside the car we had stolen from the pub. Nash’s car had nearly a full tank of fuel so I parked the other one in the carriage house and went back to the cottage to get Wellington. She had changed into another of her aunt’s dresses. This one a long sleeved beige dress with a wide collar and buttons down the front.
“Are you ready?” I asked.
“I’m not going to the police Michael. I killed that man, not you. I can’t lie to the police and even if I did they wouldn’t believe me.” I knew what she meant. You had to believe the lie you concocted if you were to convince others it was true. Wellington just didn’t have that in her. The first time anyone challenged her story she’d break down and tell the truth. It was a quality I’d normally admire but in this instance it was an impediment. It meant I’d have to take her with we and I had no idea where I was going.
“I don’t think we should leave here Michael. We have no where to go.”
“We’ll go to Scotland,” I told her. “And then on to America. Chandler won’t think to look for us there. And even if he did he hasn’t the resources.” I said it with a confidence I did not feel. She shook her head as if determined not to acquiesce no matter how insistent I became.
“They’ll come here eventually even if they don’t know about our recent visitor,” I argued fruitlessly.
“It doesn’t matter. You go Michael. Get away from here and go to America.” Her eyes filled with tears that fell in tiny droplets onto the fabric of her beige dress. I stared at her, confused by her sudde
n burst of emotion. She had been through a lot and killing Nash had to have been traumatic, but she was also a nurse who had been party to scenes far worse than what had transpired here this morning.
“Whitley knows you’re here Michael,” she sobbed. “He wanted me to bring you here.”
I was stunned, unable to react to what I had just been told.
“Why?” Was all I could think to ask.
“Does it matter?” She asked, tears rolling down her cheeks like tiny crystals.
“When?” I demanded, my voice growing cold.
“The day after tomorrow. He’s given me until then to persuade you to confide in me.”
It all made sense suddenly. Wellington’s insistence on coming with me, treating my injuries and even killing Nash. It was all just an attempt to win my confidence. Nash was an unexpected complication to be sure, but killing him could have been the lynch pin for convincing me of her sincerity. Now I didn’t know what to think. She had no idea I had kept her in the dark to protect her. As soon as she reported to Whitley he’d have her locked away until the end of the war. He’d see her as much of a threat as I’d become.
It was pointless to continue. She was sobbing uncontrollably now. I’d allowed my emotions to gain control of me. It wasn’t her fault and I should have suspected Whitley’s hand in this from the beginning. I allowed my feelings for her to cloud my judgment. Now I was going to pay a heavy price for my gullibility. When the stakes were this high you do what is needed. Wellington was a liability now and I had to deal with her. I could feel the weight of the two revolvers in my coat pockets and realized what I must do.
Chapter 50
BREAKING IN TO WILTON PARK
I allowed Wellington to cry herself out. Sometimes it’s best to just get it all out of your system and get on with it. I didn’t fault Wellington for her decision. Her allegiance was to England after all. And in all likelihood she’d saved my life by getting me back to the cottage before I succumbed to hypothermia. I owed her that much at least. But now I needed her help again and this time all our cards would be out on the table.