‘Ruth, what are you looking for?’ asked Anthony, she stiffening at the sound of his voice.
‘Nothing! I … I was just feeling lonely. Did Ash find you? He came by. I …’
Had she found anything? wondered Pearce, but said, ‘I’ve had to loan him the Austin. He has to make a phone call and doesn’t want to make it from the school.’
‘Where has he got that daughter of his now?’
‘In Kent, at an estate called Clarington Hall. It’s near Hollingbourne.’
Ash must have just told him, but why, then, given the constant secrecy, should Anthony have suddenly let her know? ‘You look awful,’ she said. ‘Was there something wrong with Ash’s motorcar?’
He would turn away from her now, thought Pearce, would simply not answer.
Ashby switched off the lights and the ignition. He had been heading over the hills to Crowcombe and the call box there, but had suddenly changed his mind and come back down here to the Dogs of War.
Leaving the car, walking up the road to the call box’s lamp fanning change over a palm, he knew that whoever had taken the rotor must have been trying to force him into using one of the school’s telephones. He had had to tell Tony where Karen had been taken, but if he couldn’t trust him, he couldn’t trust anyone.
The call to Hilary took a good five minutes to place, and he knew the operator would probably listen in, simply out of curiosity. From where he stood, he could just see a corner of the pub. Old George Crawley and Roger Banfield would be sinking their pints and might have seen something. When a woman’s voice came on the line, it was that of the housekeeper, a Mrs. Dorothy Hamble. ‘But they’ve not arrived, sir, nor have they telephoned from the station. Oh my goodness me, sir, it’s gone past the time that train should have been in.’
Had it happened? he wondered. ‘Could you send someone to check? Please, it’s … it’s important.’
‘It most certainly is, sir, but the master’s away and Miss Hilary not expected. I shall have to ask Albert, I will.’
‘Just send someone. It’s urgent that you do. I’ll ring you back in half an hour.’
Ashby knew that the train could simply have been delayed, but the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that wasn’t so, and when Banfield and Crawley heard about the rotor, it was the latter who said, ‘A bad business, that.’
‘Surely not one of the senior boys?’ asked Banfield. ‘We didn’t see a thing, did we, George?’
‘Just Headmaster out walking,’ went on Crawley, sucking on a fag and hunching forwards over the table. ‘But, then, our Tics does a lot of that these days. Still fretting over the accounts, I suspect. Did you ask him?’
Ashby nodded.
‘And what did he say?’ arched Banfield.
‘That he had seen no one.’
‘Not even us?’ asked Crawley, lighting another cigarette and crumbling the one he had just finished. ‘A damned uncomfortable business, Roger. A missing rotor. And you’re certain Headmaster said he hadn’t seen anyone?’
‘Perhaps our landlord has,’ interjected Banfield. ‘A small matter, Mr. Dolby. Any unusual custom these past few days?’
The whole place would have heard him, thought Ashby, but they were all regulars and he could but trust all of them.
‘Well, there was someone,’ said Dolby. ‘A real looker. German, too, and asking about the murder.’
‘My wife,’ said Peachey.
And looking very lost to the thought, felt Banfield.
‘Christina couldn’t have taken that rotor,’ said Ashby. ‘She doesn’t know a blessed thing about cars.’
It was Crawley who hazarded, ‘Could she have learned in your absence?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose, but why would she go and do a thing like that?’
And blind to the woman, thought Banfield. Blind also to Anthony James Pearce, his comrade-in-arms. ‘To slow you down, perhaps.’
Everyone at the school had obviously been trying to put two and two together, thought Ashby, but said, ‘She doesn’t know where our daughter is, but if you want the truth, we did speak briefly about our getting back together.’
Oh my, oh my, thought Banfield, the pleasures of the nuptial bed. ‘That couldn’t have gone down well with Headmaster’s wife, now could it?’
Did they know everything, these two old gossips? ‘Ruth would have gotten used to it, but in any case, I didn’t tell her.’
But would someone else? wondered Banfield. ‘George and I have been thinking of buying Wetherby Cottage. It would suit the couple fine, George. Close to the school, comfortable after a cleaning. Mind, we would have to see that the chimneys were clear, but I think we would gladly let it to you, Ashby.’
‘The girl could have her own room,’ said Crawley, drifting off into sentiment as he wafted tobacco smoke from himself.
‘Time, gentlemen. Time,’ called the landlord. Dolby didn’t know where Christina was staying or when, exactly, she had last been in, but said, ‘I’m keeping out of it until Daisy’s settled.’
‘I didn’t kill her, Mr. Dolby. How could I have? And I don’t really know who did, but promise I’ll find out.’
‘You do that then,’ said Dolby. It was damned fishy, all this business of wives claiming to be someone else and asking questions about the murder of the ex-husband’s lover. Damned fishy, too, young Arnold finding the woman down at those ruins and then in Daisy’s barn. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, Captain Ashby, you want to watch that wife of yours. It isn’t seemly, her coming round here like that and you not knowing she’s anywhere near.’
‘Could I use the telephone?’
Was it that necessary? The look in Ashby’s eyes said that it definitely was. ‘All right, but mind you pay up and while you’re on about it, I’d be pleased if you would settle your account.’
Banfield clasped Peachey by the shoulder and told Dolby not to worry. ‘George and I will stand the captain whatever is needed until the impasse is over. Isn’t that right, George?’
It was, and they trickled out with the others, Dolby beginning to tidy up. Since the loss of Daisy, he hadn’t been able to find a replacement. Either they didn’t have her way with the customers, or they were too afraid the same might happen to themselves.
When Ashby had finished making his call, he stood at the bar so lost in thought, Dolby wondered if it had been good news or bad.
‘She’s safe,’ he said at last, though still worried about it, and putting change on the bar, paid for the call and then settled his account with a cheque.
Dolby shook his head. ‘Tear it up. I spoke out of turn, Captain. I’m not myself.’
‘Nor am I.’
Banfield and old George were hanging round, waiting for news over by Roger’s car. God help the two of them if tobacco should ever be rationed. Ashby grinned at the thought. It was good to be with them, good to know he could count them amongst his friends. ‘She’s safe,’ he said.
Dolby caught sight of them and called from the door, ‘I say, look, Captain, does this business have anything to do with that soldier fellow with the ginger moustache?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because, amongst all the rest of it, that wife of yours was making inquiries about him.’
Kneeling before the fire in her room at the Rose and Thorn, Christina warmed her hands, then rubbed her arms and shoulders. Could she sleep, would she sleep? she wondered. She was so keyed up, she didn’t know how she could. Everything depended on the Pearce woman, on that chance meeting, but would the woman let it slip that they had met? If so, Ash would be waiting in that churchyard, and if not there, then he would soon know where she was staying. Osier had still not made contact. Gott im Himmel, was Burghardt blind to what she could do with such assistance? Werner would have been far more suitable as head of AST-X Bremen. Werner understood her and would kn
ow how anxious she was, how driven, no matter the cost.
Having come in late, she had missed seeing the envelope that was leaning against the bedside table’s lamp. Powder blue, and of the very best of stationery, it was even scented, but there was no other address than that of Mrs. Christina Talbotte, care of the Rose and Thorn. Had Ash found out where she was? Had Osier?
Opening it, and the folded sheet of heavy white bond, she found nothing other than an address. The embassy had come through. Vati had seen to that, for they would have contacted him first, and he would have told them they had better or else.
Memorizing the address was not difficult, and this she did because she couldn’t let it fall into any other hands, especially those of Mr. Harris Blackburn from Leeds.
Tomorrow she would go to Bridgwater, but must be very careful to see that no one was following her. She would get Burghardt’s wireless operator to send a message demanding that he order Osier to make contact immediately.
As the envelope and its contents caught fire, she could hardly contain her excitement. Sleep didn’t come. Instead, she kept thinking that if Ash should ever find out where she was, he might then inadvertently lead this Colonel Hacker to herself, and then, what then?
In the morning, she found the shop on a narrow, cobbled street in the heart of Bridgwater. Perhaps two dozen cottontail rabbits hung by their hind legs from meat hooks along the iron rail above the window. Clusters of others hung on either side of the fluted wooden columns that framed the entrance.
In the warmth of that Friday, 3 June, flies buzzed about or settled on glazed eyes, while in the centre of the window, a boar’s head stared at passerby. Tufted bows of white paper protruded from its ears. Sugared hams were ranked on either side, the V of them expanding into trays of chops, ribs and coils of sausage or blood puddings.
Looking back down the street, searching through the faces of the everyday, Christina still wasn’t satisfied she hadn’t been followed. Crossing the road, she went into a greengrocer’s and bought two pounds of potatoes and some onions while checking the butcher shop a last time. Bunches of cut blue irises in the corners of that window helped to frame the gilded letters of DAVIDSON’S PORK, BEEF AND POULTRY.
‘Your change, miss.’
‘Oh, sorry. Thanks. I am new to your lovely town. Is that butcher shop reliable?’
Ted Daigles caught the accent right away. ‘Run by a countryman of yours, miss. Ernie married into the business after the war. Say, why are you people kicking up such a ruckus over Czechoslovakia? Seems this Hitler fellow really means war.’
Tossing him an innocent look, she smiled and found delight in his shyness as she said, ‘But why should those people want war any more than we do? Oh, I see, you have thought …’
Taking the proffered hand, he felt its coolness as she said, ‘I’m Mrs. Talbotte, Mr. … ?’
‘Daigles, ma’am. Ted it is.’
‘Ted. I will remember that. My husband is a barrister, so you see, I too am …’ She would give him another smile. ‘Married into the business, so to speak.’
Once across the road, the smells of sawdust, blood, and that raw, bone-and-marrow odour of all butcher shops came instantly as the bell above the door announced her arrival.
Standing before the glass cases and the counter, Christina realized that there were only the two of them in the shop, a stroke of luck.
Ernst Reiss laid the knife he had been honing aside and placed his big hands on the chopping block in front of this beauty. Instinctively he knew she was of money and of home, and he had the idea she hadn’t come to buy a verdammt thing.
Taking in the soft cream frock with its pleated skirt, the plain and open neck with its large and floppy collar, he noted the high, firm breasts and commanding expression, his heart sinking. ‘What can I do for you?’ he hazarded.
Wary … mein Gott, but he was. ‘Are we alone?’
‘Should it matter?’
He was all butcher and about forty-five. The muttonchops were thick and untidy, the hair that shade flax would get when it had ripened too long and the rain had got at it. Small and grey-blue, if faded, the eyes were intent, the nose overly large and florid for a man who must constantly hide himself, the fleshy cheeks, lips and expression sour. Taking all of these in, she found the urge to tell him exactly where things were at almost overpowering, but mustn’t let him get her riled. ‘Let us just say, Herr Reiss …’ she began in Deutsch.
‘Mr. Reiss, madam,’ he retorted in guttural if defiant English. ‘I left all that behind me the day the British let me out of the prisoner-of-war camp where they had very kindly kept me for more than two years but had allowed me to find useful work on their farms and with one of their butchers. So, what will it be, madam? Some nice back ribs, a few Wiener schnitzel to remind you of home? Some sausage? I can give you …’
‘Herr Reiss, the embassy was reluctant to divulge your identity, but being the daughter of a high-ranking general who is a close associate of Herr Himmler and others helped.’
‘Ach, I can’t believe that. Me work for those Wehrmacht bastards? They left us stinking in the trenches, Madam General’s daughter. Now if you want anything, please, you have only to choose.’
He indicated the display cases, then swung the ham of a hand to the porkers that hung with sides of bacon and ropes of sausage and blood pudding behind him.
‘Has Osier contacted you?’ she asked.
‘Osier? Do you mean this?’ he snorted, swiftly reaching for a willow basket. ‘Eggs? Was it eggs the madam wants?’
She took two and smashed them on the chopping block. ‘Don’t be a fool, Herr Reiss. If you don’t help me, I’ll let the British know that you have a wireless set either here or hidden elsewhere.’
Lieber Christus im Himmel, die Schlampe had flicked egg at him! Tossing her a towel, he silently cursed the day the Nazis had come to him in 1935 with promises of extra cash, a harmless enough activity then, it had seemed.
Reiss drew a tray of chops from one of the display cases and ran a finger up and down the rows, this creature, this slut of a Frau, selecting two. Giving her a grunt she would not like, he tore off some brown paper before flinging the chops onto the weigh scale and said in Deutsch, ‘Whoever you are, I know nothing of this Osier. Ach, they don’t tell me, do they? I am given messages that are wisely left only where I want them left, and I then simply send them over and see that any replies are also delivered in the same way. None of them know me, meine gute Frau, and I do not want any of them knowing me.’
A middle-aged man and woman, both with bicycles, had stopped outside the shop, the woman’s with the carrier basket of just such a shop and a string bag of groceries. His wife? wondered Christina, knowing that it must be. ‘For how long have you been sending messages only to AST-X Bremen?’
Was he going to have to kill this countrywoman of his? wondered Reiss, but said, ‘Long enough.’
‘And you honestly don’t know if Osier has contacted you to send something over?’
Reiss threw an anxious look towards the street and shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t. I don’t even know any of their names, only their numbers, but you ought to be more careful. It was stupid of the embassy to have given you this address, stupider still for you to have come here. Did you think the British MI5 would respect your being a female, let alone so well connected you could pry such secrets?’
A bit of string was yanked from the overhead spool, the package then being wrapped. ‘No, wait,’ said Christina. ‘Some bacon. Five hundred grams.’
And yet another mistake. ‘A pound, I think,’ he said, licking sweat from his upper lip, for everything about this beauty raised hackles.
‘I need something else, Herr Reiss. A knife.’
She would hear him on the stairs, thought Reiss, would hear him as he crossed the floor above, would hope perhaps that the wife would not come into the shop
in his absence.
When he returned, he held it in his hand, and when the blade leapt out at her, she blanched and stumbled back as he said, ‘If you want help, ask it of this Osier. Those are the rules.’
Retracted, the blade disappeared inside its stainless steel haft. ‘Forget where you got this, or you will find another where you don’t want it.’
There was blood on the chops and this made him grin as he laid the knife on top of them before adding the bacon. Out on the street, she paused—another mistake, thought Reiss, silently cursing her.
Pulling off his apron, he tossed it onto the chopping block, reached for his jacket and hurried outside. ‘Laura, my love,’ he said to his wife, ‘I will be back in a few minutes, yes? William, it is good to see you again,’ he added to the man. ‘Forgive me for rushing off, but that one has forgotten her change.’
Once round the corner and out of sight of the shop, the woman who had said she was a general’s daughter went into several shops in succession, making small purchases in each. If she saw him, she didn’t let on. Twice she doubled back and that was good, he felt, knowing now, if ever one could be absolutely certain of such things, that she hadn’t been followed by anyone other than himself.
When she got into her car six blocks away, she swung those long legs towards him and he had an eyeful and then the ghost of her smile, she drawing him near to say in no uncertain terms, ‘AST-X Bremen, mein Lieber. Tell them Osier must contact me late this evening at the Rose and Thorn, for I may, by then, have all the information needed.’
Friday was at last coming to a close, felt Ruth. Fog had crept in over the land, bringing the smell of the sea but increasing her nervousness. Saint Mary Margaret’s had been built in 1642 and she would wait inside, would wait, as she must, for Ash’s wife since she had said she would.
The Sleeper Page 14