Sentinels (The Sentinels Series Book 1)

by David Longhorn

  And he's old, she sees that from the gray in his hair and the straggling beard. Old, just like Granddad back home, she thinks. Maybe this man was kind and funny like Granddad. And now he's dead and she wants to cry.

  “What do you think killed him?” asks a fat boy, gazing in fascination at the body.

  “I reckon it was a heart attack!” says a pretty girl with blonde pigtails. “Old people get heart attacks all the time!”

  Mary knows what killed him. She can see one of the Raggedy Men standing not far behind the freckled boy, the hollows where its eyes might be staring at the cluster of children. Like the figure on the ground, the one that stands unnoticed among them is clad in torn, threadbare clothes. The body under the clothes is ragged, too, in a way. What's left of its skin is dry and hangs loosely on its bones. It's stiff, gaunt, and far older than anyone should be. As it moves, its joints creak dryly. Can only Mary hear it? When it sees her looking, the thing raises a finger to where its lips once were. Does it mean she shouldn't tell anyone it's there, or that she should keep quiet about the poor dead man?

  Mary looks away.

  “We should tell the soldiers,” she repeats, quiet but firm in her opinions, and then walks away, unnoticed.

  Chapter 9

  Rachel can hardly believe what Bryce is telling her. She suspects he is trying to make her look like a fool, playing some propaganda game of his own in which she's just an ignorant pawn. And she's afraid that he has the power to really screw up her career.

  “I've heard some crazy ideas in my time, but this one takes the biscuit!”

  “I see you've picked up some of our quaint English idioms,” returns Bryce, throwing down his cigarette butt and grinding it under a shiny leather brogue.

  “You're telling me that Adolf Hitler himself is aware of what's going on here.”

  “According to our sources, it's more likely that Himmler drew the Fuehrer's attention to it, but yes, the Fuehrer is very interested indeed.”

  “Then he really is insane, like my dad says?”

  “Quite possibly. But it remains the case that the Nazi hierarchy is fascinated by all things occult and supernatural, and that Himmler is actively seeking a number of supposed magical artifacts. He's very keen to obtain the Holy Grail, for instance, and may already possess what is said to be the Lance of Longinus.”

  Seeing her puzzlement he adds, “The lance that a Roman centurion used to stab Jesus on the Cross, according to the Bible. A potent symbol, imbued with great power, if you believe in that sort of thing. Himmler certainly does. He's quite crazy, in that respect.”

  Rachel feels light-headed. The thought that a modern nation could be run by people fixated on weird ancient legends was too disturbing. And yet here's Bryce, not a man you'd suspect of being a fantasist, telling her that it's so.

  But only a gang of lunatics would have wanted this war in the first place. Of course they'd believe all sorts of insane crap.

  “So Himmler wants to present Hitler with the last of the Saxon crowns? And when he does this, will that somehow bring England to its knees and seal the triumph of the Reich for a thousand years? That's the goddamn Nazi master-plan?”

  “Well, to be fair, it's only one of their plans,” says Bryce, giving another razor-thin smile. “But let me flesh it out for you. After our defeats in France and Norway, and the imminent threat of invasion, many otherwise good people here have got what we call the jitters. There's a real fear that if Hitler gets his hands on the crown he might take it as an omen in his favor and press ahead with an invasion. Adolf certainly believes in omens. It could prove the decisive factor out of all the many influences on him and his twisted sense of destiny.”

  Rachel recalls newsreels of the dictator ranting and gesturing. Hitler's absurd Charlie Chaplin mustache and cowlick of hair somehow make him more sinister. She can believe anything of a man like that, and of those who idolize him instead of laughing. But that doesn't make Bryce's story less outrageous.

  “So now, you geniuses are planning to give him the omen he needs? If what you've told me is true, why are you going to all this trouble to find this crown? Wouldn't it be more sensible to just leave it where it is? At least for the duration of the war?”

  Bryce looks slightly disappointed by the barrage of questions.

  “My dear young lady, I had expected better of you. Isn't it obvious?”

  Rachel's baffled expression answers him.

  “It's precisely because we learned of the German plan to steal the crown that we approved Professor Pardoe's survey and brought in the military engineers. We know from decoded transmissions that there's an enemy agent operating somewhere in the East of England, probably not far from here. It seems probable that he will try to steal the crown at some point. We'll make sure it's unearthed and put under minimal guard, give him an easy target. When he makes his move we will capture him, interrogate him, and disrupt Nazi espionage as well as denying Hitler his omen.”

  Rachel looks for any evidence that Bryce is feeding her a fake story. If he's lying, he's really good at it.

  “Does everyone running this goddamn war have to be insane?”

  “If you fight with madmen, you have to think like them.”

  Rachel's struggling to find a response when she hears someone calling her name. Carl is waving at her from the other side of the road.

  “They found a body in the woods!” he shouts.

  Without another word, Bryce sets off sprinting. Carl waits for Rachel and they set off together, past the tents and towards the belt of trees.

  “It was a bunch of kids playing in the trees who found it,” he explains. “Gave them a hell of a shock.”

  “Do they know who it is?”

  “No idea, but it's weird that it should be so close to the place where that soldier, Jenkins, was attacked. I mean, it's just a few dozen yards from it.”

  They reach the scene to find Bryce and the military keeping back nosy villagers. The Royal Engineers clearly aren't used to this kind of duty. They look uncomfortable standing in a rough circle, rifles at the slope.

  “It is a German pilot?” asks someone.

  Rachel notices a group of children. Some of them are in tears, but most look as if they're having a real fun day. Among the tearful is the little girl she nearly bumped into that morning.

  “Please keep everyone back,” says Bryce to Captain Walker. “This is not a carnival.”

  Rachel takes a chance and goes to talk to Mary.

  “Hello, again! Remember me?”

  The girl nods.

  “Can you tell me what you and your friends found, Mary?”

  The girl stares at her, tears drying on her cheeks.

  “It's a poor man. His clothes are all torn. He didn't have any shoes on.”

  The girl looks down, then speaks so softly Rachel can hardly hear her. The girl says something that sounds like 'raggedy'.

  “You mean the man you found was wearing rags, like a hobo?”

  Mary shakes her head, looks as if she's about to cry again.

  “It was the Raggedy Men that did it!”

  The phrase rings a bell, but Rachel doesn't want to push the little girl any harder. Instead, she stands and asks the bystanders, “Does anybody know anything about this?”

  “I reckon it's old Johnny, miss,” says a local man standing nearby.

  “Who's old Johnny?”

  “An Irish beggar. He used to come around here every year in the summertime. He was harmless enough, just a bit daft because he got shell-shocked in the last war. Poor devil, he had a rough time on the roads in all weathers. And now this.”

  Another local says, “He probably just dropped down dead. It's a crying shame.”

  “Got some more news,” says Carl, walking up to Rachel. He lowers his voice. “Seems like there were wounds on this old hobo's body. Something like the ones on that soldier this morning, from what I can gather.”

  “These people know him,” says Rachel. “According to t
hem, he was a harmless kind of guy.”

  “Well, let's go and tell whoever is supposed to be in charge,” he says.

  The soldiers forming the line around the body let Rachel dodge through with Carl. She finds Bryce and Captain Walker crouching over what looks, at first, like a heap of old clothes. The dead man is half-hidden by the undergrowth. The two Englishmen are having a heated discussion, which they break off when the Americans get within earshot.

  “Well, Mister Tanner? Anything to contribute?” asks Walker.

  Rachel sneers at the implication that she has nothing to say, and Carl puts a calming hand on her arm.

  “Miss Rubin thinks some of the locals could identify the body, sir, as they seem to think it's a beggar who often passes through Duncaster.”

  “That would explain his clothes, and the absence of an ID card,” says Bryce. “Beggars often drop dead on the road – or in this case, the woods.”

  “Even if he did die of heart failure, it wouldn't explain his injuries,” retorts Walker.

  Bryce shrugs.

  “Wild animals – foxes, for instance – might well interfere with a body, post mortem.”

  Carl is bending over the dead man, now, while Rachel stands a few paces behind him. He looks at her to say,

  “The amount of blood suggests the wounds on his legs and hands were made before death. The heart was still pumping.”

  “How very knowledgeable you are, Mister Tanner,” says Bryce, with a hint of a sneer.

  “Well, I grew up on a farm, Mister Bryce,” replies Carl. “So I've seen animals die in all kinds of ways. Men aren't so different.”

  “Well, if he was attacked and killed, what am I supposed to do about it?” demands the captain.

  “Well, one can only advise on such matters, of course,” says Bryce. “But if I were you, I would hand the problem over to the local constabulary. Out here, that probably means a constable on a bicycle from the next village, I assume? He will call in a detective from Ipswich, who will probably put out an alert for a pack of wild dogs, or maybe a big cat escaped from a private zoo.”

  “But we've had no reports of dangerous animals anywhere near here!” says Walker.

  “I know,” says Bryce, starting to walk away, “but at least, it's a rational explanation. If you want me, I'll be making a phone call from the inn.”

  He stops for a moment to speak to Rachel.

  “We can finish our conversation later, Miss Rubin. But I think you already have the gist of it. Please take it seriously, however bizarre you may find the idea.”

  He strides off without another glance at the remains of the body.

  People are either useful to him or they don't exist. He's dismissed that poor guy from his universe.

  “The locals are over here, sir, they've got some information,” says Carl, leading the captain away. Rachel peers at the corpse but decides not to get any closer. She didn't grow up on a farm and doesn't want to throw up in front of the soldiers and villagers.

  But she does spot something the others have missed. She notices something colorful in the undergrowth. Stooping, she picks up a red ribbon with a metal object dangling from it. It's some kind of medal.

  Maybe they can identify the poor guy from a serial number or something?

  But the medal bears no serial number and seems to be made of iron, not bronze or silver. So maybe it's a low status thing? Looking closer, she sees that it's decorated with a stylized crown and inscribed 'For Valour', in the quaint British spelling. The word conjures up images of knights in armor. It seems absurd to apply it to a dead drifter.

  As she walks away, there seem to be a couple more soldiers standing guard than before. She sees what must be a man in camouflage lurking among the trees. It seems pointlessly stealthy in the circumstances.

  ***

  Professor Pardoe and Lieutenant Beaumont have missed all the excitement in the woods. Accompanied by a small team of engineers, they're struggling with surveying equipment on the cliff-top near St Michael’s church. Equipped with chart table, maps, theodolite and other gear, they've been so absorbed in their work, that they didn't notice the approach of Reverend Black.

  “I really must speak to your commanding officer,” says the priest, without his usual polite introduction.

  Beaumont's surprised by the old man's intense manner.

  “Is anything wrong, sir?” he asks.

  “It's this survey,” says the clergyman. “It really won't do. I have become convinced that you are stirring up things best left alone.”

  Jane Pardoe sneers at that, sensing interference. She's encountered troublesome locals before, and knows amateur antiquarians like the priest can often be the biggest nuisances.

  “Won't do?” she asks. “What about it won't do, exactly?”

  Reverend Black hesitates.

  “May I ask, madam, what you are doing here, exactly?”

  “We are trying to narrow down the location of the boat-grave, as set out in various old texts,” says Pardoe.

  Reverend Black looks out at the cove, then at the maps that were clipped to the chart table.

  “And this site is under the sea, in the remains of the old town?”

  “Most historical accounts put it right under the town square,” says Beaumont. And then he begins to outline plans to get at the long-submerged site.

  The priest interrupts him, jabbing a finger at the chart.

  “If anything lies there, it should not be disturbed! What you propose is simply a form of grave robbery, nothing more or less!”

  The professor grows red in the face.

  “With all due respect, sir, it is none of your business! We hold all the proper official permits for this survey, and if we choose to excavate -”

  But rather than stay and be lectured, Reverend Black sets off down the road into the village.

  ***

  “So, what did that guy Bryce say to you earlier?” Carl asks Rachel as they walk back to the Green Man.

  “He told me this incredible story! You won't believe it.”

  And she recounts her conversation on the cliff-top, relieved to be able to share it with a fellow American.

  “Wow. That's got to be some kind of double bluff,” says Carl. “I mean, how can there be a Nazi agent in a tiny place like Duncaster? Is it Molly Bishop, or maybe Reverend Black?”

  “Yeah, or one of the refugee kids!” she laughs.

  “Or maybe it's Bryce himself,” he says.

  They stop walking for a moment, both looking around to see if they're being overheard. Nobody is nearby.

  “I'm not joking,” he goes on. “Who better to steal this crown than someone with the power to have it dug up in the first place?”

  It makes sense. Wouldn't a traitor in high places be more valuable to the Nazis?

  “Just because he's a creep doesn't make him one of the bad guys,” she says, reluctantly. “After all, why confide in me? An enemy agent wouldn't. Bryce didn't have to tell me anything. He could have just had me sent straight back to London under emergency powers. He certainly has the pull to do that.”

  “Yeah, these Limeys – they don't get the whole First Amendment thing,” he agrees.

  “Say,” she says, “did you get things sorted with your boss?”

  “Huh?” He looks confused.

  “This morning, you were on the phone with your squadron chief, group leader, or whatever they call it? They fix your plane yet?”

  “Oh, yeah, right. He's okay with me staying for another couple of days. I'm due that much leave. But of course, if anything big happens, I'll have to go straight back to base.”

  “Well, let's hope it doesn't!”

  Then she remembers the medal, and takes it out of her pocket to show him.

  “I found this in the woods near that poor guy. I was going to give it to Captain Walker, or maybe Lieutenant Beaumont. Do you think the guy was an old soldier?”

  Carl takes the metal cross in his hand and starts staring at it, a
s if hypnotized.

  “Oh my God. I never thought I'd get to hold one of these!”

  “Is it important?”

  He laughs.

  “Well, it's the Victoria Cross! They don't give these away with breakfast cereal. It's the highest award for bravery any Brit can get. Put the letters VC after your name and you're a genuine hero. But it's clear it doesn't guarantee you a job or a roof over your head.”

  He stares at the medal for a few moments longer. Then, with obvious reluctance, he hands it back to her. Maybe he's pondering his own future in combat, and whether he'll ever prove worthy of such an honor.

  “Captain Walker seems to have vanished again,” he says, looking around. “But maybe you can catch him later.”

  She pockets the medal, wonders what legacy she might leave behind.

  Well, let's hope I don't have to worry about that for a while yet.

  Two soldiers take the body into one of the tents to await the arrival of the police. The crowd breaks up, some grown-ups taking children home while others linger to gossip about this latest development. When Reverend Black arrives to convene an impromptu meeting outside the inn, he finds a ready audience for his message. Rachel and Carl stand on the outskirts of the small crowd, trying not to look too conspicuous.

  When she starts to take out her notebook, Carl shakes his head, leans close.

  “I get the feeling some people might resent it. Better rely on memory this time.”

  “My friends,” says the priest. “It gives me no pleasure to say that the strangers who've arrived in this village may be interfering with things best left alone. I think we all know what I mean.”

  “You mean the crown!” shouts a woman. Heads nod, and there are approving noises.

  “And the Sentinels!” says a man in a lower voice, which prompts nervous glances and resentful murmurs.

  The priest holds up his hands for silence.

  “Some things are best left unsaid, I know! We are all aware that there have been – let's call them issues, here, in the past. While I'm sure we all support our brave troops, I think the proposal to literally dredge up the past, out there, is ill-advised.”