Turning to check himself in the mirror, he notes that the weight of the gun does nothing to spoil the cut. He makes a mental note to thank his tailor.
***
At 23rd Company headquarters, Lieutenant Beaumont is puzzling over a chart with his commanding officer.
“This can't be right, sir. It puts us well off the beach.”
Captain Walker jabs a finger at a point in the light blue portion of the map. It's marked clearly with a circle, and a number indicating depth.
“That's where he wants it. Acting on expert advice, of course. This Professor Pardoe, who we've yet to meet.”
Beaumont stares at the chart, then at his superior.
“But we'll need special equipment for this, sir! Probably naval divers.”
“All on their way, I'm told. It seems that expense is no object for this particular venture.”
Realizing that he's not going to make any headway, the younger man folds up the chart.
“It seems a hell of a lot of trouble to go to, sir, given the circumstances.”
The captain gives a wry grin, then opens a desk drawer to take out a quarter-filled bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He is known to his men as 'Johnny' Walker.
“Ours not to reason why, Tony,” he says, pouring two generous measures.
“Very true, sir,” says Beaumont. “But I seem to recall the next line of that particular poem ends with the phrase 'do and die?’”
“Well, there is a war on. Cheers!”
***
After a little more talk at the inn, Reverend Black says his farewells to the young people, recovers his bicycle by the churchyard wall, and sets off for his new parish. As he watches the East Anglian countryside roll past the window, he thinks about the young soldier, apparently injured by some kind of wild creature, and left so shaken that he is unable to speak.
It really is most peculiar, he thinks. But not entirely unprecedented. Which is somewhat alarming.
He thinks back many years when – as a new parish priest – he consulted the records for Duncaster and found some odd anomalies – things barely mentioned, or skirted around. At irregular intervals his predecessors had recorded the burial of outsiders. These burials had always seemed to require a closed coffin.
Perhaps, he thinks, those people fell victim to something best left alone?
He thinks of the question the young American pilot had asked about Redwald's resting place.
Best not to find him at all. No. Best not. One can never tell.
Reverend Black arrives at the nearby fishing village of Brigstock to find someone waiting for him at the lodge. It's a middle-aged woman with dark-rimmed eyes and a pale face.
“Are you still having the dreams, Mrs. Glover?” he asks.
She nods.
“And your doctor?”
“He just gave me something he said would help, but it didn't.”
The priest offers what solace he can, listening to the details of the strange nightmare that has plagued the woman for days. She has always seemed unimaginative, but her visions are apparently as vivid as they are terrifying.
“All I can really remember is this terrible place under the sea, and these men who try to stop me taking something away from them. And I know I have to take it, even though it'll be the death of me.”
“I'm sure that all this loss of sleep is just down to anxiety about the war, Mrs. Glover,” he says. “Your eldest is in the army, I believe?”
“Why, yes,” she says. “I do worry about him a lot.”
“Sometimes, dreams are born of the anxieties we suppress in our waking lives. I believe that is the case with you.”
After a cup of tea served by Black's housekeeper, the woman leaves. Sitting in his study, his own cup of tea forgotten on the mantelpiece, the old priest wishes he could believe the rational explanation himself.
Chapter 7
Back at the Green Man, Reverend Black's whiskey begins to make itself felt on Rachel. Her disturbed night's catching up with her, and she finds herself starting to nod off during one of Carl's anecdotes.
“Hey, I can't be that boring!” he protests. “Maybe you'd better have a nap? I'm sure Molly's made your bed by now. She's very punctual.”
“Good idea,” she says, getting up carefully to her feet.
Drinking before noon, not a good idea, even for a tough reporter with an iron constitution.
She manages to navigate her way to the stairs and begins to climb cautiously, keeping her eyes on her feet. As she passes the first landing, the door to Room 1 opens and the civilian she saw earlier, emerges.
“Oh, pardon me,” he says, stepping back to let her pass. “These old places are so very cramped.”
Something about his manner irritates her. He is polite to the point of oiliness.
“Thanks,” she says.
“My pleasure, Miss Rubin,” he replies.
She's already opening the door of her room when she realizes that he used her name.
So what? The guy can read a hotel register. Big deal. He's a real Sherlock Holmes.
But it still creeps her out a little.
She takes off her shoes and lies down on the bed, noticing that Molly has put a little vase of wildflowers on the windowsill. She ponders the morning's events and wonders what – if anything – it all signifies. Then she gives up and sinks into a doze.
***
Bryce goes to the small reception desk and rings the bell. Soon, Molly Bishop appears.
“I'm terribly sorry to bother you,” he says. “But I wonder if I might trouble you for the use of your telephone? I will of course reimburse you the few shillings involved.”
He reaches into a pocket and produces some change.
“Of course, Mister Bryce, it's just through here.”
She shows him into a combined office, store room, and parlor. The phone is the old-fashioned kind, fastened to the wall.
“I'm most obliged,” says Bryce, and waits for her to leave. He then goes to the closed door and listens for a moment. He can hear the woman talking to a customer in the bar. He returns to the phone, unhooks the receiver, and dials a direct line to London.
“Hello? Bryce. Yes, uneventful. So far no joy, no. But I need some extra information. The name is Rubin, American, accredited agency reporter. The usual. Yes. Well, make it half an hour. I'll be waiting.”
He hangs up without saying goodbye. He is not a man to waste words.
***
The thin, nondescript man behind the desk might be a provincial bank manager, or perhaps a librarian. Major Johan Kessler has to remind himself that he's in the Berlin office of the second most powerful man in the Reich. Some might say, the most powerful.
Heinrich Himmler, supreme commander of the SS and Germany's Minister of the Interior, among many other titles, continues to write, ignoring the young man who was just ushered into his presence. His desk, Kessler realizes, is orderly but heavily burdened with files and documents. Himmler is famously hard-working.
The thin man stops writing, blots the paper he's been working on, then puts it in a tray marked Urgent. The only other tray is marked Extremely Urgent. He then stands to give the familiar straight-armed salute.
“Heil Hitler!”
Returning the salute, Kessler can't help but notice how far Himmler falls short of the physical ideal he requires for SS recruits. He is no specimen of blond, blue-eyed Nordic manhood like Kessler himself. Instead, Himmler looks like an unfit, bookish individual. For all his fine uniform, it is no secret that Himmler has never fought for Germany. He wasn't fit for military service in the last war.
Kessler realizes with a jolt that he is being scrutinized just as carefully by his commander. The eyes behind those familiar wire-framed spectacles are shrewd.
Nothing feeble about old Heinrich's brain, he thinks.
“Major, what do you know about England?”
The question surprised him, and he begins to speak without thinking.
“The
English are a once-great people fallen into decadence, Churchill is a drunken old fool, and their already depleted armed forces will soon crumble beneath the onslaught of our invincible -”
Himmler interrupts him with an irritable gesture.
“I don't want to hear Doctor Goebbels' speeches repeated in a parrot-fashion, major! I hear them on the radio every day. I want to know what a bright young officer, a rising star, according to your immediate superior, thinks of a country in which he spent over three years before this war.”
Kessler relaxes. At least he's not in trouble and things are starting to make sense. He recalls his time at Cambridge University, where he made friends and grew to admire many aspects of the English lifestyle.
Best not say that, though.
“The English are amiable enough, sir, but they are not good organizers like we, Germans. Their transportation system is archaic, their industries are in dire need of modernization, and their political system is corrupt -”
Again Himmler silences him.
“I do not need you to tell me what I can read in official dossiers! What of their character? What of their spirit?”
“They are brave enough, I suppose, but badly led. A few more defeats like Dunkirk and they will sue for peace – if they haven't begun to do so already,” Kessler says.
Himmler looks at him sharply at that last comment.
“It may not surprise you to learn, Major, that there are a few sane men in that fat, lunatic Churchill's government, men who would like to negotiate a just peace. Tentative approaches have recently been made via the Italian Embassy in Switzerland. The Fuehrer, of course, never wanted war with England. He sees our future in the East, where we will subdue the sub-men, the Slavs and Poles, and destroy Bolshevism.”
Kessler braces himself for an extended tirade on the glorious destiny of the Master Race. But instead, Himmler pauses, then goes on speaking in a more restrained tone.
“The Fuehrer and I both believe that this war is not merely a clash of armies, an affair of men and machines. We are convinced that it is also a battle for the soul of our great Nordic race, and that the English are our natural allies. And it is for this reason, the war must be prosecuted on a plane other than the merely earthly.”
As his boss talks on, Kessler realizes that his knowledge of England is expected to be of more than theoretical value.
“Come!” says Himmler peremptorily, breaking off his rant. He leads Kessler out of his office and across the hall, into a room that the young major has never entered before. Though he has heard rumors.
“As a loyal Aryan, you are no doubt familiar with the work of the Ahnenerbe?” asks Himmler, closing the heavy oak door behind them.
“Of course, Reichsfuehrer. I follow its vital work with keen interest, as do all my comrades.”
Everyone in the SS knows about Himmler's pet project. The Ahnenerbe was set up to research the heritage of the German people, but since being taken under SS control it's become focused on the occult. Himmler is obsessed with proving that Nordic folk had ruled the world in prehistoric times. Expeditions have been sent as far afield as Tibet to find evidence for his theory. What real science can't support, pseudo-science is happy to endorse.
Kessler has little time for occult stuff. He once consulted a gypsy fortune-teller who told him that he was destined for great things, and would live a long, happy life. He takes such predictions no more seriously than newspaper astrologers. But Kessler never voices his opinions, since some of his superiors actually believe in hexes, witchcraft, and astrology.
Judging from the books that line the shelves of the room, Himmler has delved deep into all those topics and more. Here is the Malleus Malificarum, or 'Hammer of Witches', one of the first European texts on demonology. It sits next to theosophical works by Madame Blavatsky, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, and the Nameless Cults of von Junzt.
As well as hundreds of occult volumes, Kessler sees trophies plundered from museums and private collections across Europe. In one glass case are three cups of various sizes, all obviously very old, and all ornately decorated. The label reads “Reputed Holy Grails.”
“A small collection, I know, but one destined to grow as the Reich's boundaries expand,” says Himmler, pondering his loot. Seeing Kessler's puzzled expression he explains, “There are at least five candidates for the Holy Grail in Europe – very soon, we will be able to compare them all and finally establish which is genuine.”
“Ah, I understand,” says Kessler, trying to sound enthusiastic.
Am I working for a lunatic? No, dangerous even to think such a thing!
“This breastplate,” Himmler adds, pointing at a piece of curved iron in another case, “belonged to the Emperor Charlemagne, and I'm sure I don't need to tell you the origin of the so-called Holy Lance of Longinus – that is the head of the spear, of course. The wooden shaft must have rotted long ago.”
“Very impressive, sir!” says Kessler, gazing with what he hopes is an enthusiastic expression at a lump of ancient iron.
“It is of course a temporary arrangement. A more suitable display will be set up for the education of the German people in due course. But first, we must complete the collection. Starting with this.”
He points to an empty case with a dark velvet lining, Kessler looks closely at the label, then raises an eyebrow in puzzlement. He has never heard of this 'Crown of Redwald'. It does not sound very impressive.
“A remarkable Aryan artifact which you will help procure for the Fatherland. Your mission is, of course, one of great secrecy, and carries a considerable element of risk. But the risk is in proportion to the glory of our inevitable victory!”
Kessler clicks his heels and salutes again.
“I will not fail you, Reichsfuerher!”
“Of course not,” replies Himmler, with a grim smile. “Failure is not an option when the fate of civilization hangs in the balance! Now tell me, do you suffer from seasickness? Or a fear of confined spaces?”
“No, Reichsfuehrer!”
“Very good. Now, let me outline your mission.”
As the little man speaks, Kessler realizes that he is indeed destined for great things. Whether his destiny also includes a long and happy life, however, is much less clear.
***
Rachel wakes feeling comfortable and refreshed. She checks her watch and finds she's napped for just over an hour. She swings her legs off the bed, stretches, and gives a huge, enjoyable yawn. Then she glances at the window and finds that she's being watched.
A large black cat is looking in at her with huge, golden-green eyes. She likes cats, but this one has such a fixed stare that makes her feel slightly uncomfortable. It seems to see right through to Rachel's soul, as if it's assessing her – perhaps finding her wanting. She feels an irrational impulse to get the animal on her side.
“Hey there, kitty,” she says.
As if it can hear me through the window.
Rachel puts her shoes on, and when she looks up again the black cat is gone. She goes to the window, but there's no sign of the animal.
Probably a lot more interesting stuff to see around here.
She opens the window and takes a deep breath of sea air. She notices a few soldiers milling around, and yet another truck arriving. The country lanes are getting pretty torn up. Then, Rachel sees Carl heading up the street. She watches him discard a cigarette and get into the red phone kiosk. Clearly, she isn't the only one who needed to check in with their boss. She feels a slight pang of concern – will he have to return to base? He's been good company, apart from that weird moment when he rushed out of the church.
Rachel turns from the window, picks up her purse from the dresser, and is about to go downstairs when she sees her notebook and pencil lying open on the bedside table. She can't recall putting them there, but then again, she was a little out of it. She picks up the notebook and notices something odd.
On the page opposite her account of the incident involving the soldier, is so
me faint writing. It seems to have been made with her pencil, but the handwriting certainly isn't hers. The letters are poorly formed, mixing upper and lower case, as if written by a child.
Or maybe an uneducated adult.
Rachel can still make out the scrawled phrase, though.
LeT Him nOt STeAL iT
I've heard of drunk-driving, but not drunk writing!
They are words she heard earlier that day, or at least she thinks she had. Does that explain her writing the phrase and then forgetting she did it?
Except, it's not my writing. And why would I do it anyway?
Something tells her that this latest mystery is bound up with Duncaster, its history and legends. She thinks of the scarecrow that shouldn't have been there, and of other strange things glimpsed.
So, I'm seeing things.
The familiar phrase, with its overtones of mental illness, is not reassuring.
But what if the things I'm seeing are real? Then, it's the world that's crazy, not me.
Rachel goes downstairs and chats briefly with Molly before going out. She glances up the street to the phone box, hoping that Carl has finished his call. But he's still inside – she can see the distinctive blue of his uniform.
He'd better make it quick. People are waiting. Well, a person.
She can see someone else standing near the kiosk, presumably waiting to use the phone. The figure is half-hidden in the shadow, close by the wall of a cottage. Whoever it is seems to be wrapped in a colorless cloak of some kind – a woman in a shawl, perhaps. Although, Rachel feels there's something man-like about the posture.
For a moment, she thinks about waiting for Carl, but then decides that it might send the wrong signal. She's too old for crushes, and in high school she spent more than enough time on guys who took her for granted. Besides, she needs some exercise to clear her head, maybe bring some of the day's weirder events into focus.
Sentinels (The Sentinels Series Book 1) Page 6