“Lieutenant Arnold?” Abhirati called from the dining room.
Arnold went to dinner.
CHAPTER 9:
Movement between strange locales
January 3, 1943: In transit, London to Helmsley, U.K.
Barnsby and Arnold arrived in Whitby Station on the train from Scarborough, bleary-eyed and exhausted from transfers—Hull, Nottingham, Leicester, endless others—tracing a convoluted and choppy route across the country all the way from London command. They still had more than two hours of travel before them, out on the North York Moors, to the ruins of Jermyn House.
The Karotechia file Parsifal indicated that the ape-like specimen found in Antwerp by the Gestapo, which was the impetus for the huge Nazi investigation, was meant to be shipped to England’s Jermyn House before the lord’s unfortunate suicide in 1913. The files went on to state that German spies in the U.K. had been instructed to look into the history of Jermyn House in early November 1942 and, more specifically, into the history of its last resident, Sir Arthur Jermyn. This apparently had been carried out by the German network, as detailed information about the history of the house was provided in the German file along with a brief biography of the Jermyn family. If these Abwehr agents had openly questioned locals about such an obscure site as Jermyn House, Cornwall, Cook and Donovan all agreed, they had made a fundamental error. A spy remains a spy only through anonymity, and questions about Jermyn House would be necessarily conspicuous.
Lieutenants Arnold and Barnsby were to proceed to the town closest to Jermyn House, a little hamlet called Helmsley, which lay on the very edge of the North York Moors. They were to quietly poke around in the hopes of scaring the Abwehr agents into revealing their presence if they were still there, or to pick up their trail through questioning the locals if they were not. It sounded good in theory, until you had ten hours on a train to think about it. Then it began to feel like the tried and true method of smoking out a sniper by sending someone out into the open to see if he got shot.
Even after almost two days of forced interaction with Barnsby, Arnold had no idea what to think of the little man. His emotions ran deep, that much was certain, but they remained behind an opaque wall of civility which Arnold could not breach with his American camaraderie. Barnsby’s odd habits, however, revealed themselves immediately. The most obvious was that Barnsby was never without his gloves. Reading, smoking, eating, the gloves remained on his hands at all times. Arnold didn’t ask and frankly didn’t want to know. A burn, perhaps? Disfigurement? Barnsby had shaken hands with Arnold bare-handed once, and that hand seemed normal enough, but who could tell what his left hand was like? It just seemed odd.
As they stepped off the train in Whitby station, Arnold let Barnsby make the play. It was his country, after all. Barnsby maneuvered deftly around the small crowds of commuters, leading Arnold out on to the flagstone street into a chilly sea wind. The town was made up of ivy-covered wood-framed houses which hung forward with age, crowding in on the narrow streets. Past a knot of people gathered in front of a building, smoking, he could make out the distant ocean. A wind whipped up, rich with salt, so cold it brought tears instantly to his eyes. Barnsby trotted across the street towards a run-down inn with the unfortunate name of Jobling’s Private Hotel. Out front the two came to a stop. They looked out of place here, in their twenty dollar hats and Saville Row coats. Arnold glanced around at the locals.
“You been here before, Al?”
“It’s Alan, if you please, and yes.” Barnsby scrutinized the group of men on the hotel’s steps, who returned his gaze with ire. Shiftless and scruffy, the locals all looked rough around the edges to Arnold. Dock workers, probably, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He found himself wishing Barnsby wouldn’t stare at the dock men anymore. He stepped to the side to force Barnsby to turn away from them.
“So what’s the play?”
“It’s off to Helmsley, I suppose. Let’s see if the local lorries are running.” To Arnold’s dismay, Barnsby turned and walked up to a huge dock worker in front of the hotel. He was wearing clothes stained with sweat and time but no coat, although it was well below freezing out, and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, clenching it in yellow-black teeth. The group with the dock worker stopped talking the second Barnsby stepped towards them. They eyed him with a mixture of hate and incredulity. Arnold rubbed his eyes in disbelief and followed the little man’s lead. Well, at least he’s no coward, Arnold thought to himself. It seemed little consolation for a fist-fight in the making. Arnold spun his class ring around his finger in preparation.
“Excuse me, chaps, do you know where we can find the bus to Helmsley?” Barnsby asked in a polite voice.
The man straightened up and squinted down through the smoke of his cigarette at Barnsby. “Di’ you ‘ear something, Pete?” He grunted, looking at his companions.
Pete, a man who was lucky enough to have a nice pair of teeth, probably fake, squinted in a comic expression of wonderment.
“Nope, Henry, heard nothin’.”
Henry then proceeded to put out his cigarette on Barnsby’s overcoat, slowly, and obviously with great pleasure. Arnold stepped forward.
“Makin’ new friends, Al?” Arnold asked happily. The three thugs automatically shifted into a loose circle.
“It’s Alan, and yes, these gentlemen and I were just discussing—”
“A fookin’ Yank,” Pete said gaily, looking Arnold up and down like he would some exotic but harmless animal. The others began laughing, drowning out the last bit of Barnsby’s declaration. Henry cracked his huge knuckles in anticipation.
“Correction,” Arnold said and held a finger up as if to illustrate a point.
“A Yank,” he continued, smirking, and flipped his jacket open to reveal his Colt .45 automatic in a shoulder rig,”... with a gun. Where’s the fuckin’ bus stop, you fuckin’ slob?”
As Arnold and Barnsby walked away towards the bus stop, nothing was said. The thugs had long since scattered, after politely directing Arnold to the nearest bus stop, their eyes fixed open like they would never shut them again. The street they followed wound down towards the ocean, occasionally opening on fantastic views of cliffs which looked much like their French counterparts on the far side of the Channel. A group of old women and children had gathered at the yellow and black sign which marked the bus stop, clustered in a tight circle to avoid the chill of the sea air. Arnold and Barnsby drifted into the crowd, ignored and silent. Forty-five minutes later a dilapidated bus marked “Helmsley” pulled up from the seaside and everyone piled on.
Finally, reading the dejected look on Barnsby’s face as they boarded the bus, Arnold offered some advice as they stowed their suitcases and sat down.
“Relax, Al. You were playing by London rules. They were playing by Whitby rules. I was playing by Brooklyn rules. The first rule is, Brooklyn rules always win.”
The aging bus tumbled down the rough roads outside of Whitby filled with quiet chatter from the small groups of spinsters who occupied the back seats. Several heavily bundled up children sat up front near the clunky heater, which spit an unsteady stream of warm air that smelled suspiciously like exhaust. One boy was solemnly playing with a hand-carved wooden Hawker Hurricane, maneuvering it through imaginary dogfights with invisible enemies. The other kids were eyeing him or looking out the window, either overcome with jealousy or boredom.
Arnold and Barnsby sat in one of the frontmost seats, watching as the landscape shifted from houses and barren dales to natural glens and deadfalls, covered in a thin haze of snow broken only by thin copses of trees and rocks. As they rose over the crest of a gradual hill, a beautiful valley covered in snow and trees opened beneath them like a painting. Arnold was suddenly struck by the cold beauty of England, something which seemed to be lost on the passengers of the bus. He turned to look at Barnsby but he was looking away, eyes unfocused and distant.
They rode through various towns, stopping for ten minutes at a time, groups of people gettin
g on and getting off, and it was more than an hour and a half before the driver stopped in the quaint town of Helmsley.
Barnsby unloaded his suitcase and Arnold followed, and they found themselves standing in an empty cobblestone square beneath a bruised grey sky as the bus drove off to the south. The square looked like some sort of public market to Arnold, and it split the town into sixths. Arteries of tiny roads spread out from the center of the plaza like the limbs of a giant starfish. Cluttered streets of old, small houses took up most of the town, although a single large bell tower hung to the west above the rooflines, dominating the horizon. Snow, thicker than they had seen near Whitby, covered everything. Trails of smoke floated from dozens of buildings, and they could smell meat cooking somewhere.
“Where to?” Arnold asked.
Barnsby trudged off to the north following one of the arteries. Arnold followed, wondering if he had stepped on some toes with the Whitby incident. Barnsby stopped and stamped his feet free of snow beneath a sign which read “The Black Swan.” He opened the door and entered, holding the door politely for Arnold. A rush of warm air poured out to meet his callused skin.
Although it was three in the afternoon the pub was filled with people, who all looked up, not unpleasantly, at the two men when they entered. It was warm and the air smelled of bitters, beer, and roast chicken. Barnsby retired to a small table in a corner near a coat rack bursting with garments. Dozens of eyes tracked them as they sat. All the best tables, those nearest the roaring fire, were taken by the oldest or the biggest in the room, and the children sat right at the grate, shoes off, laughing and talking. Arnold liked that system. Barnsby removed his coat, but not his gloves, as usual.
A man appeared from a room in the back, followed the gaze of the crowd, and walked up to their table, wiping his hands perfunctorily on his apron as he approached. Balding, smiling and cordial but a bit gruff. Arnold found he liked the bartender.
“What can I get for you two gentlemen?” He asked in a solemn tone, eyebrows raised expectantly.
“Can I buy you a pint of bitter?” Barnsby offered. It had been so long since he had heard him speak, it almost took Arnold a moment to place the voice.
“Sure,” Arnold said, and noticed the bartender look him over as he detected his accent. The bartender rushed off to fill their glasses.
“I’m sorry about that mess back in Whitby. I just didn’t want to see you get creamed our first day out,” Arnold said, honestly apologetic. He watched Barnsby nod with understanding, and, for the first time since the beginning of their trip, smile.
“Yes. I’m afraid I’m not at all good at this. Unluckily I have...a limited repertoire.”
“What exactly are you doing here, Barnsby? If you don’t mind me asking... “The bartender placed two overflowing glasses of deep, dark beer in front of each of them and Barnsby passed him a pound coin. The bartender attempted to make change but Barnsby waved him off, astounded. When he left Barnsby continued.
“I’m what you Yanks would call a ‘specialist’ in occult matters. I have enjoyed success in endeavors like this one before. The Major has great faith in me, but, unfortunately, I am not all that good with people. As you have no doubt discerned.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re finally talking to me. I was about ready to check your pulse.”
Arnold was gratified to hear Barnsby emit a shrill laugh as they both took a strong tug on their pints. It seemed, finally, that some type of bond was developing. Arnold glanced around and was met by several kind nods from townsfolk.
“Anyway, the locals here look much nicer,” he mentioned over his shoulder. Barnsby let out a grunt of agreement as he downed the last of his beer.
“So, where to start?” Barnsby asked, wiping the foam from his lip.
“Should we head out to the ruins today?”
“Certainly. Another round for courage?” Barnsby asked, smiling. Despite himself, Arnold had to admit he was beginning to like the little guy. Arnold finished his nearly full glass in a gulp.
The old man chided his two horses as they pulled the carriage with Arnold and Barnsby inside. The driver’s name was William Duncombe, and he had been recommended by the owner of the Black Swan as a fine guide of the local landmarks. Barnsby and Arnold had taken a room there, leaving behind their essentials in the largest room that the rather meager establishment had to offer.
They rode in relative silence to the northwest, the lulling sound of the horse hooves on the stones accentuating the dreariness of the weather, the Guiness keeping the chill from their bones. The land stretched out in gradual rolling hills covered in snow on either side of the road. Occasionally they would pass a tree or a sign marker indicating that the thin, poorly kept cobblestone path lead to Rievaulx Abbey.
“What is Rievaulx Abbey, William?” Barnsby shouted over the clack of the horses hooves.
“Oh. That’s a fine ol’ ruin out there on the moors, sir. Owned like everything ‘twas by my family back in the days of knights and castles. Just like the Jermyn estate. It’s owned by the Ministry of Works now, sir. We’ll pass it on yer left before we leave the road.”
“So the Jermyn estate is owned by the Ministry now, you say?”
“Oh yes, sir. Most of these ol’ places are. Helmsley Castle, Spout House, Whorton Castle.”
“Are there any caretakers out there?”
“Oh no, sir,” old William snickered.
“I see.” Barnsby said in a quiet voice.
They rode on in silence for a time, and slowly, nearly imperceptibly, the sky, heavy with clouds, began to darken. A light snow began to fall. Arnold found himself nearly hypnotized by the repetitive drone of the horses’ hooves on the paving stones. Barnsby leaned forward and shouted again, raising Arnold from his reverie:
“Does anyone live out here on the moors, William?”
“Oh no, sir.”
“What do you know about the Jermyn family, William?”
William pushed his hat back and looked into the back of the buggy over his shoulder with a mischievous grin.
“Oh, sir. That’s a fine tale, that one is. The house, that is Jermyn House, was built by Walter l’Espec, a lord or some such thing way back in the eleven hundreds. This l’Espec fellow built Rievaulx Abbey and Helmsley Castle. Very, very up on his buildings, this l’Espec was.”
“Rievaulx Abbey was routed round about...the fifteen hundreds I suppose, and all the big houses in the area were left behind by the people occupying ‘em. Don’t really know why. Never paid much attention in school, I guess.” William offered a gap-filled smile in apology for his lack of details.
“My family, the Dumcombes, took all this area over in the fifteen hundreds, but lost it later. So the manor house out near the abbey gets a lord in seventeen hundred and fifty seven, that’s Lord Wade Jermyn, you understand, a famous explorer he was. That’s how he got the title, you see.”
“Where did he explore?” Barnsby leaned forward as he asked the question, his face rapt.
“Oh. Down in that Congo in Africa. He crawled around in the jungle there for nearly ten year. Wrote books on it and everything. Married the daughter of a Portuguese trader and brought her back to Jermyn House to make a family after his time in the bush was up.
“But no one ever saw her, the wife of Sir Wade, that is. He kept her locked up in the west wing of his house like the Emperor of China. The locals had a lot to say about that...local talk, y’understand.
“In 1755 he took his bride back to the Congo, leaving their son behind here at the manor, looked after by a bunch of darkies. She died down there and Sir Wade came back to look after his boy himself, young Philip...
“Now it was that Sir Wade took to drinking in Helmsley, at the Black Swan in his later days, getting deep in his cups if you get my meaning. And when he was in a nasty state he would go on and on about a great grey city he found out there in the middle of the Congo. About how things lived there, things he had seen with his own eyes back in his day. T’wouldn’t k
eep his mouth closed about that place, and eventually, as his estate began to suffer, he was carted off to the madhouse in Huntdington.”
Arnold looked over at Barnsby as a chill ran through him. It was not the cold that caused it.
“Now, young Sir Philip was an altogether loathsome sort. A little, hunched thing, but terrible strong. He killed a groundskeeper in his fifteenth year for accidentally trampling one of his hounds, and not a word was said about it. Too much money, y’know. My mum used to tell us that if we were bad, Sir Philip would come for us in the night.” William let loose a braying donkey-like laugh.
“Philip took up with the daughter of a local and made an heir for himself, if you get my meaning. Some said she was a gypsy, but others say she was Chinee. Whatever she were, she produced the only Jermyn who looked normal. Oh, that’s the Rievaulx Abbey there.” William’s knotted hand came up, pointing to the west.
In the growing dark Arnold could make out the ruined arches of a once-great building. Snow-covered stones and gaping doorways broke the black silhouette of the remaining structure. William clucked and the buggy turned off the main road, cutting a sharper path to the northwest, leaving a trail of hooves and wheels in the seamless white snow.
Delta Green: Denied to the Enemy Page 12