The Sleeper
J. Robert Janes
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
To my memory of Len Cunningham,
who taught at North Toronto Collegiate Institute.
Always immaculately dressed, he would, while having to
monitor a school dance, appear with the most gorgeous
of women. Unlike the rest of the teaching staff who
walked to work, came by bus, or in older model cars,
Len drove a brand-new sports car as immaculate as
himself and invariably with the top down.
Author’s Note
The Sleeper is a work of historical fiction. Though actual places and times have been used, these may have been slightly altered. Occasionally the name of a real person appears for historical authenticity, but all are deceased and the story makes of them what is demanded. The few words and phrases in German have very kindly been vetted by Dr. Schutz of Brock University, the bits of French, by Dr. Dennis Essar of Brock, but should there be any errors, they are my own and a sincere apology is extended.
Sleeper: an enemy agent who secretly lies
among us until awakened
1
In the eddying dust of the Lower Fifth, time stood still. Grantley’s was not one of the ‘best’ schools, just one of the ‘better.’ Pale shafts of amber shot among the emerald, ruby and lapis at the tops of tall, leaded windows, and the lingering fluff of the ages mingled with these and became one.
‘Please, sir, was it a sabre you used or a rapier?’
‘I heard you, Tom. No need to buzz my ear again.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’
‘Bill, what’s a sabre?’
The question, like cannon shot, whistled from the master’s lips without a turning of his head. Stricken, Bill stood riveted to his desk. ‘A sabre’s a … a cavalry sword with a long, curved blade, sir.’
Still, Mr. Ashby, the American, the ex-cavalry officer, ex-captain, ex-whatever, didn’t look at him or at any of them, thought Bill. Just the playing field. It was always that or the Quantock Hills beyond. Peachey, they called him—not to his face, mind, but he knew, they were certain. Peachey or Dan, from The Man Who Would Be King by Rudyard Kipling. The argument still raged. It hadn’t been settled. Not yet.
‘And a rapier, Bill?’ asked Mr. Ashby with just the corner twist of a faint, sad smile. All the other masters called them by their surnames. Only Peachey called him Bill or Billy, but was Goat ever implied on those latter occasions?
Guilt made Bill’s face grow crimson. ‘A … a rapier’s a light, slender sword, sir.’ Rapière, in the French, some of the older boys insisted, but to seize and carry off by force, they maintained. To rape!
‘Used for what, Billy?’
Oh no … ‘For … for thrusting, sir. It’s … it’s also called the small sword.’
Captain Ashby uncrooked the stiff leg and turned at last to face them. Peachey knew what it was all about, felt Bill, it only increasing the sadness, for Peachey was certain the Germans were going to go on the rampage again, but had he really been there before or was that all a sham as some of the older boys claimed?
Twenty-two pairs of eyes met his own, thought Ashby, knowing this doubt in their minds had gone on far too long. Like boys everywhere, they fed themselves on war and adventure and he had encouraged this because they had then worked for him, and he had known they would. A game.
‘I used a sabre,’ he said. ‘A rapier wouldn’t have been suitable, but if you want the truth, I used my revolver far more.’
Revolvers, geezus, crikey, guns blazing as that bloody great black stallion of his had leapt the trenches!
On Saturday, he took seven of them for a hike across the hills, they to lead him to a patch of woods and a dip in the land, a clearing. There was a melon perched atop a sharpened stake, it having all the aspects of a truth vehemently denied and voraciously lampooned.
‘Would you show us please, sir?’ asked Jackie Peterson, the littlest one, whose father owned a string of hotels and seaside resorts and wore a diamond stickpin in his tie.
Tom—Thomas Barclay Finch—had the sabre. Where he had acquired it and how he had kept it hidden ought to remain secrets for ever, thought Ashby, but said, ‘Why do you want me to do this?’
Bill Hamilton took the lead. ‘Please, sir. Just to settle the argument.’
‘What argument?’
‘About how fast you could … could kill a man with a sabre.’
‘Me, Bill, or anyone?’
They stared at the ground and dug the toes of their scruffy boots into the dew-laden grass. ‘You, sir,’ came the confession, but from which of them he would never know, for the leaves of the beeches rattled in the early morning breeze. It was 21 May 1938, not even three months since the Wehrmacht had marched into Austria, less than two since 99.73 percent of those people had agreed to Hitler’s plebiscite, fudged though that result must surely have been. ‘I’m not a hero,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t think that I am. In 1914, even before we went over, I was scared. Most men are. I wanted to piss in the worst way and each time we had to advance, I wished damned hard I could be anywhere else, but wasn’t.’
They weren’t listening, thought Ashby. Finch still held the sabre, clothed in its scabbard, point down at the ground, hands on the hilt. ‘Was your father in the Great War, Tom?’
The eyes that were innocent at evensong wouldn’t lift. The lips that could let forth a voice to raise the soul and spirits could barely pry themselves apart. ‘N-No, sir. It … it was my great-grandfather’s.’
‘The Charge of the Light Brigade,’ sighed Ashby.
Excitement leapt into the boy only to fade as Tom said, ‘Yes, sir. The Crimea, sir. He never came back. We only got the sword.’
The siege of Sevastopol, the Battle of Balaclava, 1854, Florence Nightingale, England and France joining Turkey against the Russians. He had got them to study that poem of Tennyson’s as part of a history lesson.
Taking the sabre from Finch, he raked the sword from its scabbard so hard and fast it sent shock waves through them. Not content, he came to stand before each, and like the man they thought or didn’t think he was, he sadly fingered their necks one by one.
‘It’s swift!’ he said to Bill, who leapt in alarm.
‘It can’t hurt. You wouldn’t feel it, not for a millisecond,’ he said to Mark Abrahams, whose father owned a chain of ladies’ hat-and-hosiery shops.
Trapped in their broken circle, his eyeglasses winking in the sun, he placed that stiff right leg forwards a little, the sabre bringing a startled cry from them as the melon split in half, the halves into quarters, and some of those into slices from which the seeds and juice spattered at them like brains, blood and guts!
‘God,’ said one; ‘Crikey,’ another. ‘Wait till I tell my old man’; and yet another, ‘I’m gonna be sick.’
Ashby swore them all to silence by laying the dampened blade on each of their tousled heads.
The sun was setting now, and Ashby was glad the day was done. Down over the fields and hedgerows, tucked away behind the hills and screened by oaks, Grantley’s stood solid enough, a reminder always. There was no sign of the playing field, none of an upper window, for they’d spy on him if they could, whispering, ‘He’s gone into the hills again.’ ‘Where … where’s he go?’ ‘Don’t know. The Benedictine abbey, I think.’ ‘That abbey, it’s … it’s haunted. He wouldn’t go there.’
But he might, and they would say, ‘He’s angry with himself for having shown us that. Now Tics will dress him down and let him go at end of term—he’ll have to! Give him the sack, he will.’
‘Scare
d … He must really have been scared. It must have been awful.’
How could they know? How could he even hope to make them see the truth? Their Tics wouldn’t fire him, not for that. Poor Tics. Anthony had been such a part of it.
As the plum dark folds of the highest Quantocks drew the shadows, Ashby watched the moorland heather on the uppermost flanks and gradually, in the softness of the coming night, the ruined wall beneath his hands grew cold and damp.
After those first few sorties, they hadn’t used sabres or revolvers. Most had used Lee-Enfields and had ridden to their new positions in single file, had picked their way through the mud and ever-present fog that had reeked of burnt metal, death and cordite, and only later on, the mustard gas. Up each gentle rise they had gone, never really knowing what was beyond or waiting for them. The wreckage of overturned field guns, gun carriages, shell casings and bomb craters, into which the trenches had collapsed and been filled with mud, dead and timbers, had been everywhere. And now the whole mad, stupid business, not even twenty-five years later, was about to start up all over again and Britain, never mind anywhere else, was tragically ill prepared.
When the boys, still at their windows, heard the engine of his MG start up, the front door of Headmaster House suddenly opened, spilling a pool of light onto the metalled drive as the car shot past and went out through the gates, Bill Hamilton sucking in a ragged breath. ‘He’s going west again, down into Cornwall. You can bet he is.’
‘What’s he do down there?’ asked Jackie Peterson.
No one knew because Peachey hid that from everyone. A last glimpse revealed the headmaster standing in that doorway looking old and defeated, but they hadn’t another thought for him.
‘Peachey’s on opium,’ said Thomas Barclay Finch. ‘He eats it like in The Count of Monte Cristo.’
‘D’you mean, in a jelly?’ asked Spider Lawson. ‘With a little silver spoon?’
‘Right you are, old duffer. Stuff’s emerald green, like mint jelly. Tastes sweet and you don’t even know there’s opium in it.’
‘Hashish … I think it was hashish, but they called it “hatchis,”’ said Bill.
‘It’s ’cause of his leg,’ said someone.
‘Opium,’ sighed Tanner Biggs.
‘And women,’ said Finch. ‘He’s got a woman down there somewhere. You can bet he has.’
The photograph on the mantelpiece in Headmaster House was of Ashby and Anthony, and when the latter had closed the door and come back into the sitting room, Mrs. Ruth Pearce stiffened, her thumb hesitating on the frame. ‘Where’s he gone this time?’ she asked, her voice tight.
‘I don’t know,’ said Anthony. ‘If I did, I wouldn’t tell you. His private life is his own.’
Tics, the boys all called this husband of hers. ‘Since when does any of us have a private life?’
Still she wouldn’t turn to face him, thought Anthony. Ruth wasn’t what one might call pretty—that had gone ten years ago. Of medium height, with straight, shoulder-length, mouse-brown hair, she was cold to some, distant to most, and warm only to the infrequent few who broke down the barriers of what? he wondered. Shyness perhaps. A reserve. …
The chunky hips and seat matched the rounded shoulders, and the dark green woollen pullover and tartan skirt went with the brogues. A headmaster’s wife, that was all she would ever be, but had she really wanted any of it? Her grandfather had founded Grantley’s using the bulk of an estate that, if it had been invested wisely, might have brought a considerable dowry. Her father had seen the school through some good and desperate times only to pop off and put an end to the agony of a carping, backwards vision.
‘You ought really to let him go,’ said Ruth. ‘He can’t be tearing off like that every time he gets a notion—what puts those notions into his head?’
Again Anthony didn’t answer, she hearing him take up the decanter, hearing its insane rattling against the tumbler, the Scotch neat. ‘Why don’t you stop avoiding the truth?’ she asked. In the photograph they had looked handsome in their uniforms, young, virile and dashing, early September 1914, the Salisbury Plain, the Royal Horse Guards, the Blues. Ypres, then, in late October, and a life she hadn’t shared, having only just become engaged to Anthony.
The separate beds had been Mummy’s idea. Later, the separate rooms had been his. David Douglas Ashby had been tall and lean and very different, with smashing grey eyes that had made her heart wonder if she shouldn’t be loving him instead. His cheeks had been newly shaven and so smooth she had wanted desperately to touch them. The ghost of a tan, though, had made her wonder about his background, skeletons in the closet and all that, not Salisbury and the sun. How wrong she had been, for when Ash smiled, it was still always with his eyes first, and everyone, even herself, instantly would feel that warmth and sincerity, but the duplicity too, she reminded herself.
Anthony had brought him home to the school in the late summer of 1934, home like a lost dog, pleased that he had been truant all that time, but saying so little of it, and yes, she had even been pretty then, and he might have been intrigued, but hadn’t, and that probably had started her wondering about the two of them.
‘Ruth, I can’t let him go. Dave’s a damned fine linguist in his own right. Picked it up, yes, but then he’s had to. Darling, you know as well as I that if war comes Penfield will be called up. Grantley’s will miss its first at Oxford, but I’ll still have Ash.’
The troops in reserve, but Darling. Dear God, she wished he wouldn’t call her that. ‘His German’s good, but it’s only an option. You could remove it from the prospectus.’
‘His French is excellent.’
‘Spoken like a Belgian, not like a real Frenchman.’
‘Must you continue to stare at the photograph?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dave thinks there’ll be war.’
‘Maybe there should be. Maybe then it would clean up the corruption.’
‘I know it hasn’t been easy.’
‘Oh, do shut up! Set your finals or mark something. Summer’s coming.’ The end of term, the end of it all for another year, and Ash would be off again—out through the gates in that little car of his, gone before any of the boys had even left. Like as not his mortarboard and gown would be lying on the floor of his room, though she would never know, had never been in his room, had wished … Dear God, how she had.
After Christmas break, he had arrived back in a beastly snowstorm, not a touch of the flu or even a suggestion of a cold. He had been pleased with himself and had gone about the place cheering up the boys and getting them all into shape, and she had wondered what had made him so eager.
Easter break had come and he’d been out through the gates again, and they hadn’t even had a card in the post. Then there it was, that frightful motor parked where it oughtn’t to be on the green like a flare or a flag or a red badge of courage, and him out there playing rugger with that shattered leg of his and the boys all cheering him on.
There had been a street map of Cologne in the side pocket of the door on the driver’s side. A house, an estate—God knows what—had been circled to the south, and not far from Brühl, and the odd thing was, someone had definitely been with him for at least part of the way. A very expensive cologne had been opened and accidentally spilled, drenching the mat. A tart? she wondered. Male or female?
‘Ruth, why don’t you sit down? If Ash isn’t back for a couple of days, I’ll see that his classes are covered.’
Still she wouldn’t leave that photo, and Pearce knew he would have to get rid of it. Foolish to have kept it, really.
‘Why is it you do so much for him?’ she asked suddenly.
‘I don’t. Dave saved my life, that’s all, and when I heard he was in Skiathos, I went to fetch him. An opportunity, if you like, and too good to miss. You know how well he gets on with the younger boys.’
They weren’
t into boys, weren’t like that, thought Ruth. They couldn’t be, but Ash had been living on next to nothing and wandering from ruin to ruin.
‘Ruth, he needed help, and we needed a schoolmaster I could count on.’
In 1914, thought Ruth, David Douglas Ashby had been just a little taller than Anthony, whose jet-black hair had been parted on the left—still was for that matter—while Ash had worn his light-brown hair curly in rebellion. An American and therefore necessary to the cause, oh yes. Orders from the War Office, no doubt, or from the King himself, but a damned fine horseman, they had said. So good, in those times of need, their commanding officer had swallowed regimental pride and let him be.
And now, why now, he still wore his hair that way, it sprouting madly at times of scrum but receding a bit from a brow she had longed to touch. Still, there wasn’t any grey and that was a puzzle, for Anthony’s hair had been shot through with it when he’d come back ill from that war. Then, of course, it had made him look distinguished, a compromise. Now, well now, it just looked damned seedy.
Both of them were into eyeglasses, Anthony all of fifty and five years senior to his ‘Ash,’ who was still young at heart, though he looked for all the world in one of his business suits like a Chicago accountant on the run and breezy about it. Like the wind sometimes, the wind in her hair and freedom, damn!
Ash’s face was strong, not finely boned and aristocratic like Anthony’s. The nose had been broken. The skin … She had managed to feel it once, had run her fingers lightly along that lower jaw and down the length of that nose. Some silly thing, a comment of Ash’s or her own, a dance whose tune she could no longer remember because she hadn’t really been conscious of it, had been committed to Anthony but had begun to think seriously about Ash.
Was it in the eyes where the truth most lay? she wondered. Anthony had had the bluest of eyes in those early days, but at times, a mask even then and one that the war had only deepened and made more distant, while Ash’s look was never masked, never empty, but was it pity that made him look at her the way he did sometimes?
The Sleeper Page 1