Serpent in the Heather

by Kay Kenyon

  When at last they had heard the complete story of the disaster, Robert’s mother had utterly broken down. Then, at some time during those awful weeks, Ellen sought comfort from her remaining child. She had told Kim, though their daughter had been only eleven. It had all been grief and madness. Within two months Ellen had gone back to the United States, taking Kim with her.

  This event spiraled on through their lives, breaking the family apart. With Kim’s return to Wrenfell three years ago, for a time Julian had hoped they might patch something of it together again.

  Of course, it could never be put right. He knew that.

  18

  WRENFELL, EAST YORKSHIRE

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 19. Kim knelt in front of the open trunk and surveyed its contents, the last things they’d kept of Robert’s.

  “There’s not much left,” she said to Alice. “We gave his clothes away.” Well, Julian had. She wasn’t sure she could have done it, so perhaps it was best he hadn’t told her.

  Alice drew up a dusty stool and sat down. Behind her, morning light streamed in through the gable window. Her flaming red hair always gave the impression that something dramatic was going on in her head. At any given moment, it might even be trauma view, a vision of people behaving their worst.

  Kim carefully placed the diary on top of Robert’s papers and mementoes.

  Here on the unused third floor of Wrenfell, the smell of dust and old timbers was strong, especially as the sun flooded over the floorboards. Her heart felt raw after a night of reading entries in Robert’s journal. In mid-October of 1914 he had come home on leave, and it must have been then that he put his journal in the upper shelf of the closet.

  “This business with Martin faking his visions,” Alice said. “An awful thing to do.”

  Closing the trunk lid, Kim sat on the floor next to the chest, cradling her arms around her knees. She wanted to forgive Martin, but it was hard. “Maybe he didn’t know. If you’ve never experienced the death of someone you loved, maybe you don’t know how long the pain lasts.”

  Alice was having none of it. “His parents did say he had a problem with lying. And this was just bloody awful of him.”

  “Well, I’m giving him another chance. I don’t want to kick him out on a first offense.”

  “A rather large offense,” Alice sniffed.

  It was a death twenty years past. She was getting over it. Surely, in fact, she had gotten over it. “Mrs. Babbage says Rose is excited to have another young person around. They’re doing crossword puzzles together. She’s already devoted to him.”

  Alice sighed. “If James gets word of what happened, it’ll be more proof that Martin is a rotter.”

  “We won’t tell him. But can you see if James will relent on the counseling sessions? He’s only making Martin feel more worthless.”

  “I shouldn’t think I’m the right person to bring it up. Not at the moment.”

  Kim shot a look at her.

  “You see, I’m going to tell him. James. I’m going to tell him I have a Talent.” She noted Kim’s surprise. “And I don’t care what happens. It’s just bloody well time to let it all out.”

  “Oh, Alice.” She hadn’t realized how relieved she would feel to hear her friend say something just like this. Surely, if anyone was to know something so personal, it would be the person you hoped to marry. “But you do care, of course. You are being frightfully brave.”

  “Not brave, just steamed up. I picture myself barging into his study and blurting it out all at once, then defying him to make something of it.” A self-deprecating smile. “Probably I’ll be more tactful.”

  “When?”

  Alice smirked, pushing a strand of hair back into her updo. “When I get my courage up.”

  All very well to urge honesty on other people. Kim thought of her own web of secrecy, going back twenty years.

  “Never mind about James. We have work to do.” Alice nodded meaningfully. “The operation.” She cut a look at the doorway, then lowered her voice. “Kim. I’m going to be brought in on it. On the Crossbow mission.”

  Surprised, Kim put her hand on Alice’s. “Good. That’s very good. The two of us plying our Talents, then?” Her mood soared. She got up to close the door. Not that anyone else would be up here on the third floor, but advisable just in case.

  In case it might be her father who would eavesdrop.

  She checked down the hallway. No one there. The thought came to her: I don’t trust my father. Her discomfort with him had increased since she had been inducted into the service. Julian could not be spying for the Germans. But then why did she feel he had secrets of his own?

  Closing the door, she turned back to Alice. “What have they told you?”

  “The murders. The Nazis. The bloody red baroness.”

  “That’s what they’re calling her?”

  “It’s what I call her. I’m catching up on the dossier. Powell Coslett and his leadership ambitions, the Dutchman, Idelle Coslett’s mention of Flory Soames . . . The baroness isn’t just funding Nachteule, she’s funding the youth murders as well. The two operations are related. Killing Talents. That’s the link.”

  “Well, it’s proof we need. And we can’t investigate the Cosletts properly until we establish motive or more suspicious ties. Ones that will convince Whitehall. Polish up that trauma view, my girl.”

  “I shall. And when you go back to Wales, I’m going with you. I’ll be your traveling companion. Women shouldn’t travel that far alone. The old woman would appreciate that idea.”

  “Am I going back?”

  “That’s where the baroness lives, our only suspect. So, to Sulcliffe.” Alice grinned. “I’ve got to see this place.”

  POPLAR, EAST END, LONDON

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 20. In the front hall, Lloyd Nichols smelled the greasy odors of Bill Dorne’s morning fry-up. Spotting Dorne’s copy of the London Register, he bent down and picked it up. Riffling through it, he soon found the Tavistock article.

  Oh, it was a big, grand feature, just like Slater had planned for his own story. He snorted. “Places of Power: The Earth Mysteries Movement.” A headline taken straight from a tourist circular, it was. He stared at what should have been his scoop, spread across the page like a bruise. The usual pictures of Stonehenge, and henge this, henge that, as well as a picture of the baron, grinning his arse off.

  And there it was, the cockchafer’s byline: Kim Tavistock.

  He read it through to the end, so intent that he didn’t notice when old Dorne opened his door.

  “ ’Ere now! My paper, ain’t it?” He was wearing a sweater over his pajamas, shuffling into the hall in his bloody slippers.

  Lloyd glared back. “Guess I thought it was mine.” He handed it to the old scrote, and made a show of looking around the hall for his copy.

  The old man slammed the door, leaving Lloyd to climb the stairs to his flat, his little corner of the empire, a drab nest in council housing. But not for long if he didn’t find work.

  He stopped just inside the door to his flat, looking at the mess of the last four days since Maxwell had sacked him. Plates crusted with dried gravy and gobbets of jam, a greasy pan on the small gas ring in the corner, a sweater thrown on the coffee table, his trousers crumpled on the ladderback chair.

  On the kitchen table, strewn notes from his own article on the subject. He planned to sell it to the East End Express, and it was worth ten pounds at least, he figured. Maybe fifteen. But now hadn’t the bitch beat him to it, so it would look like he was riding her coattails? Riding her coattails. She purloined his story, her with her toff airs and big Register byline. It galled, it did.

  The smell of Dorne’s morning sausages wound up the staircase, reminding him that he was hungry. He turned on the gas ring to heat up the leftover grease in the pan. When it started to smoke, he mopped up a hunk of bread in it, turning up the flame for a nice crust.

  As he chewed, he thought about asking Slater for his job back. But the blighter mig
ht take it amiss if he sold a story to another paper, a story he might claim was written on the Register’s time. The fry bread sat in his gut, churning.

  CHEAPSIDE

  THAT EVENING. It was a delicate matter to find a child to kill in London. And in the exact right place. Patience and luck were needed. Lately, Dries Verhoeven seemed to have both.

  So as not to attract attention, when they emerged from Bank Station, he and his companion had separately strolled down Cheapside. Dries looked in store windows, watching reflections, waiting for the right youngster. Across the narrow street, St. Mary-le-Bow would suit perfectly.

  And there she was. A girl of secondary-school age entering the church in company with adults. Dries leaned against the brick wall, reading a map of the Square Mile, as Londoners called their financial district. He could sense that his accomplice across the street was not happy about stopping. They both knew it signaled they had a possible target.

  Then the stroke of fortune. From the door that was thrown open to the warm evening, the girl wandered out. How cruel of St. Mary. God and St. Mary were no cowards, he observed, to dare him this way. Inside, he could see a few parishioners gathered in the hall. The girl, wearing a navy-blue dress with a charming white yoke, walked out the door, away from the group, along the long wall of the church.

  Dries crossed the street to join his helper.

  His companion was always nervous when it came down to the act itself. “We can’t!” he hissed. “Her parents . . .”

  “Are talking to the vicar.”

  “Too many people! We’ll be seen.”

  It was infuriating to have to deal with his helper’s possible defection at this moment, but he spoke reassuringly. “I must take this girl. She has presented herself to me, you see.”

  “Don’t you understand? This place is too public!”

  “Another feature that recommends it. We strike at the heart of the City. And at a church. Don’t you see?” Oh, the handsome baron didn’t see. His face was always bland and guarded except when he smiled in that way that he assumed charmed everyone.

  “You’re barking mad!”

  Dries took a long, appraising look at Powell Coslett, the man he had been saddled with for a helper. He said, slowly and with relish, “I’ll tell your mother.”

  It was the line Dries had been wanting to use on Coslett since the beginning. And, indeed, it had the desired effect. The man’s rebellion wilted, he could see it.

  “Ga nou!” Dries hissed. Come on! He pushed his accomplice toward the side of the church. Coslett would administer the anesthetic, and they would lower her to the ground and drain her. It had to be now. The opportunity was begging for consummation, with her over there, already in shadows.

  He must leave England soon. His demanding masters required him elsewhere, for more important work. England was a side issue for them. However, for Dries, it was of the essence. For the record—if there would ever be a record—he did not enjoy killing these youngsters. What he must have in satisfaction came from the terror of the British. He lived and relived the finding of the young bodies. He savored the panic and despair that now slowly crawled over the country. He was quite willing to conduct the work of the French murders, and the Polish . . . yes. Ah, but the British work, that was of a different order.

  He grasped the scalpel in his coat pocket. Now, in the moments before the cut, came the flames, surging down the long hall of memory, curling the wood, paper, bones. Coslett was at his side, bringing out the reeking cloth. How slowly the ritual unfolded. Blade, flame, rag.

  Coslett stepped toward the girl, as he must, the one without an accent, the one with the handsome appearance and inimitable air of breeding.

  Dutiful now, Coslett said, “Excuse me, can you help me?”

  The girl turned to look up at him, her face framed by the square, hand-stitched yoke. She glowed with—what would most people say? Health, perhaps.

  As his helper clumsily slapped the cloth over the girl’s face, Dries moved in behind. As always came the memory of scorching, blistering heat, and skin—so frail a barrier. Through it all, he thrust out quickly, pulling the blade under her chin, severing the artery of the neck. She was already unconscious, dying, as they lowered her to the ground. They grabbed her by the armpits to sit her upright, just so.

  Dries removed his coat, now stained red, and turned it inside out, throwing it over his arm.

  He and his companion slowly walked from the square, picking up their pace once on Cheapside. Well on their way to St. Paul station, they heard distant screams. Dries Verhoeven stopped a moment, closing his eyes to savor it.

  A PUB NEAR COVENT GARDEN

  It took the distraught baron two pints to stop shaking.

  The patrons in the pub had no idea what had just happened in Cheapside. In the morning they would read about it, knowing with certainty that the rampage—as the papers delightfully called it—wasn’t going to stop.

  Dries watched as Coslett, this fine specimen of British aristocracy, sucked down his beer. It was an odd alliance, the aristocratic Cosletts and Heinrich Himmler. Himmler wished for Nachteule to come to England. Dorothea wanted a slight change: could the targets be adolescents? She bragged to Dries how Himmler had been happy to comply, proving how high was her regard in the eyes of the Third Reich. And it was true, she had important inroads with a person Hitler wished to influence: the English King.

  Coslett had begun to calm down. “You are better?” Dries asked.

  The man nodded, his face grim, eyes beginning to soften with drink. “I should be getting back.”

  “There is no hurry. Have your drink.” A little warmth was in order, for the man had performed rather well, at the end. “You must bear in mind that we have only done what is necessary.”

  “I know, I know. But you’re wasting time. The youngsters needn’t be gifted. It’s enough that they’re young.”

  “Ach, but what can I do? You have your purposes, Himmler has his own. He wishes me to continue the . . . Talent theme, you might say. You know this, it is not new.” The baron always found reasons to whine and bleat after one of their outings. Dries continued. “You and the baroness did not mind so much when I hunted down Talents in Poland and Czechoslovakia.”

  “That was on your own time. And Mother recognizes that military assets like those could affect the outcome of the next conflict. They must be controlled—”

  “Please. Eliminated. Do not be squeamish.”

  “But you are here now. And the time it takes to find them! Any young person would suit, and we would be done the sooner. When will we be finished, man?”

  “Soon,” Dries said. “You are maturing. Your power grows within you, this is evident to me. If you do not have faith, however, you will push it away. People will follow you—in fact, they have begun to do so. I do, you see.”

  Coslett snorted. “That’s utter nonsense. I follow you, God help me.”

  Dries made a placating gesture. “Together. We are—what shall I say? A team.” This was the last thing the man wanted to hear. He wanted to keep a seemly distance from a lowborn antique doll restorer. And a foreigner. One mustn’t forget the British disdain of their Continental inferiors. “Yes, a team.”

  It was a curious thing. The more people wished to be superior in the world, the easier it was to make them suffer. The low had no hope to rise, and therefore were inured to existential anguish.

  Dries lifted a finger to the waiter to bring another round. “One more,” he soothed. “You can sleep on the train.”

  “And you?”

  “I will sleep in some cheap hotel in Hackney. One place or another. It is where your countrymen expect one like me to sleep.”

  Coslett lifted hopeful eyes to meet his companion’s. “You said I was maturing. Is that what you really think?”

  “I have said so. It is what I hope for. We will see.” Another two pints appeared in front of them. Dries softened his tone again. Coslett was accustomed to it: support and belittleme
nt. One, then the other. Dries used it like the old serpent herself.

  “You will have your normal life back soon enough. And you will be stronger, able to carry on the family legacy. And it is time for you to marry. A nice fat wife is something to look forward to.”

  “I think of that sometimes.”

  “I am sure that you do.”

  “Not a woman just to get children on, if that’s what you mean. Someone to care for me. And me for her.”

  To replace your mother, Dries thought.

  “I’ve met someone, actually. I think she fancies me. Not at my station, but I do like her. Her name is Kim.”

  “Well, you must be able to support her, Coslett. Ancient Light will keep you and Sulcliffe going. You can dress your Kim in robes and chant away your days.”

  “If you’re going to mock me . . .”

  “Do pardon. I am just envious.”

  “She’s a reporter. Her article came out this morning. It’s very good, even Mother will be pleased.”

  Dries had not heard of this. An unpleasant surprise. “What article?”

  “On the earth spiritualism movement. It featured us. She came out for a weekend at Sulcliffe.”

  “You let a reporter come to Sulcliffe? A bit rash, was it not, given our enterprise?”