by Kay Kenyon
“Well. But it sounds like we don’t have much so far,” Owen said.
Julian agreed. They were all slim leads. But once the third youth victim turned out to be a Talent, Julian had wanted to contact SIS counterparts in friendly European countries. Especially Gustaw Bajek in Poland. But E wouldn’t have it, fearing that soon foreign agents would be sniffing after the Cosletts and stumbling over local operations.
Owen was shaking his head as though he were still trying to deny it all. Finally, he came up with, “But this is England.”
Poor chap. Despite all he’d been through with the Prestwich Affair, he still believed that their island nation would be spared what was coming. “Herr Hitler has been known to suffer from boundary confusion.” Julian went on. “We’ll be checking into this baroness but treading carefully. We need someone who can investigate without appearing to do so.”
“One of our Talents, then,” Owen surmised.
“Yes.” Julian looked at the statue, and that famous, vulnerable heel. “Someone with a credible journalism background to provide cover.”
“I see. Despite the fact that the individual I believe you have in mind has a Talent and could be in danger herself.”
“I’m afraid so.”
They sat for a few minutes as the evening deepened. In the distance, they heard the shouts from a cricket match as the day faded.
“It’s none of my business,” Owen said, “but it seems a pity Sparrow doesn’t know you’re on the same team.”
“Can’t be helped, I suppose,” Julian said. The Office had a way of isolating one. It was always king and country first. Lately, it seemed as though the dictum had become king and country only. He’d already lost his daughter in many ways, and now Olivia. Perhaps Olivia. The thought had occurred to him that he had chosen her for that very reason. Because at a deeper level, he wished to be alone.
“We have a cover story for her,” Julian said. He patted the manila envelope. “It’s all in here. Top priority. No time to lose.”
“Of course.”
Julian walked back the way he’d come, leaving Owen with the briefing packet that would soon be in the hands of his daughter. Worry for Kim was not very far from his thoughts. But he couldn’t spare her from the hard things. She would hate him if he did and she found out. This was her job. It was his to see that she did her job.
Work your magic, my dear, he thought. He very much wished he could say it to her out loud.
A COUNTRY ROAD, YORKSHIRE
TUESDAY, AUGUST 11. Kim and Owen leaned on the split-log fence, watching sheep lazily swinging their undocked tails as they grazed. Owen’s car, parked on the verge next to her own, creaked as it cooled. Kim found the lovely checkered fields of the Wolds a jarring contrast with Owen’s unnerving details on two sets of murders.
The German code phrase for the Continental plot was Nachteule, which she knew from her German studies meant “night owl.” And the connotation of the word did not elude her, either. Predator. One that struck without warning, gliding silently on heavy wings. Fifteen murders in France, Poland, and Czechoslovakia.
And now a new outbreak of Talent murders, targeting young people. She glanced at the packet Owen held, containing, he’d said, pictures of the crime scenes. She did not look forward to opening it. With the third adolescent murder, public fears were rising that the killer would strike again. It was front-page business now, with even the Coomsby Herald calling the crimes a “grim rampage.”
“We’re not sure our local murders are related to the Continental exterminations,” Owen said. “If they are, this is going to be a major operation. In any case, you’ll be one of several people working on it.”
He’d already mentioned that she would go to Wales to attempt a spill from an elderly baroness reportedly quite ill from cancer. Dorothea Coslett, Lady Ellesmere, had been sending funds to support the Nachteule operation, and Kim would be angling for any clues that might tie the woman to the youth Talent killings. Owen had revealed the murder method used with the young people: their throats cut, the disturbing lifelike tableaux. Her imagination conjured the scenes. There were worse things than violent death, she knew. How a person died added terror to sorrow. She knew this. And found herself darkly zealous to track down this killer.
Owen looked down the one-lane road, watching for any vehicles. He had chosen this tucked-away pasture of the Landry farm for emergency meetings by virtue of the isolated locale. “At Whitehall’s direction, the police are withholding the information about the youths having Talents. No point in causing the families of Talents alarm right now. And it could ruin our registration numbers,” he added heartlessly.
“How likely do we think it is that the Continental murders are tied to our own?”
“Only a hypothesis. The timing is suspicious, certainly. And, three Talent murders . . . Young Frances Brooke, the latest victim, was known in her village for precognition.” He held up a finger. “Which is?”
She quoted from the Bloom Book. “The ability to view potential future events.” Owen was taking refuge in analysis, but she kept thinking of the innocence of the victims, and the utter waste of it all. Frances had only been fourteen. The fat manila folder drew Kim’s eyes, where it balanced on the fence under Owen’s hands.
“As I said earlier, your main target is Dorothea Coslett, Lady Ellesmere, who until Whitehall put a stop to it, was funneling cash to the German operation. She heads up a spiritualist group called Ancient Light, and apparently they attach a mystical significance to cairns and stone circles and the like. Ever heard of it?”
“Not really. There are quite a lot of mystic groups around these days.” It was a phenomenon of the Great War. After those horrors, people sought comfort in contact with the departed, or if not that, then at least intimations of a nearby realm of lost ones. So much more comforting than some far-off heaven. She knew the impulse, for it had come in the guise of a site view Talent in Robert’s old room.
Owen went on. “This Avebury murder has piqued our interest in Coslett. Young Frances was killed at a standing-stones site, the type of Neolithic and Bronze age ruin the Ancient Light group sets store by. We intend to follow every lead, no matter how fragile.” He noted her skeptical look. “The Office does not assume the baroness or her cult is involved. You’ll proceed with utmost discretion, staying strictly in touch. Everything through me.
“So, you’ll get next to the Cosletts,” Owen went on, “and hope for a bit of luck with your spill. Ingratiate yourself, write a flattering newspaper piece, and establish any bonds that you can. Get invited back.”
“I’m to write up this group, that’s the cover story?”
“Yes, you’ll write an article for the London Register on the earth mysteries movement in Great Britain with the angle that Ancient Light is a good example of the trend. We’ve asked the editor at the Register to arrange for your interview with the dowager baroness. And the paper will run the piece, so your credentials will hold up.” He lifted the fat package. “Here are the details of the murders, and background on Dorothea Coslett and this fellowship, as they call it, of Ancient Light.” He handed her the folder. “Read it and burn it. If you gather any evidence, we’ll take it from there. Dorothea Coslett comes from a frightfully good family. We can’t afford a misstep.”
It was so typical of the British that the upper classes got astonishing leeway by virtue of their position in society. It still galled her, having spent most of her life in the States, that such gilded treatment was simply the way it was, even if the person from a frightfully good family might be murdering young people.
“One other thing. Not that the two sets of murders are necessarily connected, but we have a description of someone who may be involved with the Polish murders, perhaps the assassin himself. His description is in the file. There may be other Nachteule killers. But for now we’re thinking there’s one. Code-named Talon. And our operation against him, of which your infiltration of the Coslett group is a part, will be Crossbow.
”
“How are the targets identified? We don’t wear signs saying, I have a Talent.”
Owen flattened his mouth. “That’s a troubling aspect. On the Continent, it could mean they’ve breached government secrets.”
“But in the case of our murders, the young people weren’t registered with Monkton Hall.”
“You’ll see we have one lead, clubs called Adders in secondary schools. They’re not approved of, and the students involved keep them secret.”
With a small shock, Kim realized it should have been the first thing she thought of when she’d heard the young people all had Talents. “I know a little about them.”
“Yes, well, it’s all in the report. We’ve got people on that one. However, neighbors, family, friends could all be unwittingly helping. There are a lot of ways for the truth to leak out, aren’t there? But the fact is, we don’t know how the victims are identified. Scotland Yard is setting up a National Task Force. We’re working closely with them, but without sharing the Nachteule side of things. One of ours has been attached to the task force to cover our interests.”
“You’re sure the Monkton Hall log is secure?”
“It’s in my safe when not in use. But of course, the horses might be out of the barn. My predecessor may have disclosed all of our assets’ names to the Germans.”
They locked gazes. Including mine, she thought.
“On that score, be aware that the baroness herself could have a Talent. The Ancient Light literature suggests that they feel great leaders are gifted in some way. Nothing definitive, but try to find out early on what ability she might have.” Owen handed her the envelope. “Tread carefully with this Coslett woman, Kim. We’re only allowed a limited operation. You must deploy your witless-American mode to perfection.”
She snapped a look at him. “I didn’t know I had one.”
“What? Oh, yes, quite a good one. Charging around all innocent and eager. Top-notch.” He patted his coat pockets for his keys. “If you make headway, it comes straight to me and I pass it up the line. Understood?” Owen waited. “You do understand.”
“I do, you needn’t repeat yourself.”
“Yes, I do need to repeat myself. We won’t have you blithely ringing me up to inform me that you’re haring off on your own.”
She had taken the initiative in the Prestwich Affair. When no one else would. Now with SIS, she knew she’d have to toe the line. She’d already run one line of work into the ground, her reporting career that ended abruptly at the Philadelphia Inquirer. They had not approved her eagerness to report on animal laboratory testing. Initiative. Eagerness. Women must be careful about earning those labels. Unless one just couldn’t help oneself.
To placate, she threw out, “That was before I was official.”
Having found his keys at last, Owen fixed her with a piercing look. “Well, good luck, then, Kim. It’s a risk to use you in an operation where Talents are at hazard, but I know that won’t stop you.”
No, it wouldn’t. Dorothea Coslett was going to spill her guts—if Kim could control her keen wish to have a spill, an intention that tended to keep confidences at bay. And this was the first she’d heard that the woman might have a Talent. How annoying that a spy agency couldn’t find out which one or how strong.
“One last thing,” Owen said. “The police are using site view artists at the crime scenes. They’re picking up on some intense emotions, as would be expected, but one anomaly has popped up. Images of a conflagration. A fire.”
“In the victims’ minds or the murderer’s?”
“They couldn’t distinguish.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t seem to tie in, does it? Well, it’s our job to connect the dots.”
Connect the dots. It was so satisfying to view the world as a puzzle. If one stood back and yet kept it all in view, the solution would emerge, inevitable and complete. She held on to this enduring belief even in extreme doubt. Perhaps then more than ever.
Owen pulled away in his old Vauxhall, trailing a cloud of exhaust. Molten sunshine pressed down on the country lane and Kim’s shoulders. It would be best to read the file in the comfort of her parlor, but she wanted to get the pictures over with.
She slid out the handful of glossy prints. The top picture was of a girl leaning against a stone. One side of her dress, black with blood. The gash at her neck . . . Kim put out a hand on the fence to steady herself, breathing deeply to dispel the fist of pain in her stomach.
She quickly looked at the photos of the two boys. Ewan Knox and Rupert Bristow.
Her mind reeled. It was one thing to hear about the killings, but seeing them . . . Three young teens with their throats cut, and in those casual, seated postures. She went back to the Avebury victim, Frances. The girl had been treated a bit differently from the boys, with that awful clump of flowering thistles lying across her lap. The killer was beginning to elaborate on his methods.
With shaking hands she shoved the photos back into the file.
As she drove home, the world with its green and gold fields and bleating sheep seemed wrongly tranquil. There should be a lowering sky and weeping.
The sun shone on.
PART II
A CROOKED LIGHT
13
WHITECHAPEL HIGH STREET, LONDON
FRIDAY, AUGUST 14. “I’m taking you off the earth mysteries story.” Maxwell Slater rolled up his shirtsleeves in the stifling office of the London Register and stared balefully across his desk at one of his reporters, Lloyd Nichols.
Lloyd couldn’t have been more surprised if Slater had told him to drop his trousers. “What’re you talking about? We’re just about ready to put it to bed.”
“Well, it’s not going in the direction I want.”
“And what direction might that be? You haven’t read it yet!” Lloyd felt his face grow hot, and he barely managed to remain seated.
Slater had his big fist around his pencil and was making doodles on a notepad, like always. “Last time I checked, I was still the editor of this rag, and I’ll make the calls on the assignments. Fact is, we’ve got an opportunity, someone who’s onto the topic and is going to make a splash with it.” He wrote “splash” with two underlines.
“You’ve giving it to someone else? Who the hell is he? Not Gardiner. Tell me you’re not giving it to Gardiner, that bugger!”
“No, it’s someone new. Name’s Kim Tavistock, she had a stint with—”
“A woman? From the outside?” Lloyd had passed from chagrin to outrage. “What the devil are you up to?”
Slater went on as though he hadn’t been interrupted. “—a stint with the Philadelphia Inquirer. Happens to be living in Yorkshire now, and we’ve taken her on for a few pieces.”
A Yank paper. A woman from Yorkshire. He couldn’t believe this was happening.
“I need you on a different story, Lloyd.”
“Well? I can write two stories at once. This ain’t grammar school.”
“No, I mean a major feature. On unemployment.” He made a note of that, writing it out big on the notepad.
Lloyd stared at the notepad in disbelief. Once it ended up on Slater’s doodles, it was set in stone. “Unemployment? Unemployment? Might as well talk about the price of hogs. Nobody wants to read about that. People live it every day. It ain’t news, or have you lost your touch?”
Slater picked up a well-chewed cigar and rolled it around his mouth. He’d given up smoking but still liked the taste of the rolled tobacco. “Pack it in a moment and listen. The unionist movement is gaining steam, lots of controversy there. And you can tie it into that Soviet five-year plan and get folks heated up on the socialist issue. It’ll sell papers.”
Lloyd lowered his voice as though talking to a madman. “It’ll kill papers. It’ll kill me. Give that one to Gardiner.” He felt suddenly vulnerable. They were trying to give him a dog of story in order to have a reason to sack him. Three jobs in the last two years. The London Register was the end of the line. “Please, Maxwell. At least r
ead what I’ve got so far. It’s damn good.”
“For Christ’s sake, you’re not some rookie who can’t bear to have a piece cut. Get out of here before I lose my battle with cigars and light this fucker up.”
Lloyd slouched to the door, then turned around. “Say, put her on the unemployment scoop!”
“Out,” Slater said, pointing to the door with his cigar.
SULCLIFFE CASTLE, WALES
LATER THAT DAY. The impression that Sulcliffe Castle was at the edge of the known world was greatly magnified by the long, deserted roadway following the contours of a rocky headland, with the Irish Sea pounding below. As well, there was the four-hour train ride from York and, once in Wales, those end-of-the-world-sounding names: Penmaenmawr, Llanfairfechan, Dwygyfylchi.
Kim’s ancient driver, who had introduced himself at the railway station as Awbrey, drove furiously along a road hugging a cliff. The car was an older model from the twenties, with patched mohair upholstery. She hoped its engine was in better repair.
“No speed limit, then,” Kim said, gripping the seat with whitened hands.
“Not seein’ so well as I once did,” Awbrey rasped. “But I kin find my way home blindfolded.”
The last stretch lay across a rugged plateau. In the distance, silhouetted against the sea, she spied the castle, squat and stony, its corners anchored by four jutting towers. Anyone approaching Sulcliffe would be visible for several miles. Kim wondered if they watched now, peering from the slit windows. She wondered what they knew about the slain young people. But at this distance, Sulcliffe did seem the sort of place that would guard its secrets.
With a last-minute careening turn, Awbrey pulled into the castle’s car park in front of an imposing wall of stone. Once out of the car, Kim noted an iron-banded door that must do for a front entrance. Fat raindrops began pelting the bonnet of the car.