Soon the sun disappeared behind the sky’s winter gray shroud. Few people were about. Will tipped his bowler to an ARP warden on his way home from his nightly rounds. A newspaperman heaved stacks of fresh papers from the back of a cart to the pavement alongside his stand. Will chose to avoid the morning headlines.
By the time he reached the door of his flat in Kensington, the winter chill had seeped through his clothing into the blood sloshing against his elbow. His arm felt as though he’d dunked it in the North Atlantic. It hurt. Numb fingertips fumbled the key, but he managed to get it into the lock after a few attempts.
He emptied the bladder into the jar of pig’s blood in the refrigerator. Weskit and shirt hit the floor on the way to the bedroom. The leather straps left perfect impressions in his forearm when he undid the buckles. The empty bladder went into the chest at the foot of his bed, beneath several layers of books and papers.
Will had just washed up, and was pulling back the sheets in preparation to slide into bed, when somebody knocked at the door. Somebody insistent.
He knew that knock. Only one person was sufficiently brazen to call at such an indecent hour and be demanding while he did it. The “commander” wanted a report.
Can’t you give me a few hours’ rest?
Will pulled on his dressing gown, and tied the sash around his waist as he returned to the front door. The knocking grew more insistent.
“Yes, yes,” Will called. “Not one for social niceties, are you? Can’t you let me—”
He opened the door. His caller was indeed Marsh. But not the Elder.
Long thin scabs crisscrossed his gaunt face. He’d been in a fight and taken a few slashes. His hair, poorly trimmed and lank, stuck out in uneven tufts. What on earth had happened to this man?
“Hi, Will, long time no see. I need a favor,” said Marsh. He bulled his way inside with somebody in tow.
Will stood in the doorway, incapable of anything but gaping. His mind had seized up.
“You’re alive,” he managed.
“Yes. Now please shut the damn door,” said Marsh.
Will managed this, too, but only just. He embraced Marsh. Marsh winced. “Welcome home, Pip! Welcome home.”
Marsh’s companion tossed back the hood of her overcoat. Gretel said, “Hello, William. How is your hand?”
*
Marsh’s adventures during the long months of his disappearance had done nothing to lessen his intensity and focus. The man actually had the gall to believe he would visit just long enough to suborn Will into minding Gretel for a few days. The impudence, expecting he could swan right back out again without a word of explanation or even a cursory catching up. But Will was having none of that. He refused to cooperate unless Marsh filled him in.
It seemed he was making a habit of sitting stupefied in his own parlor while listening to a long, improbable tale from Raybould Marsh. If a third Marsh appeared on his doorstep, brimming with news of the distant past, Will decided he’d have to turn the fellow away. Two were more than enough, thank you.
Gretel sat in a satin striped armchair that matched the chaise longue. It was almost too big for her; her toes barely reached the floor. She listened impassively to the exchange. The expression on her face lay somewhere between boredom and tolerant amusement. It never changed. Not even when Will feigned ignorance regarding one Commander Liddell-Stewart, though of course she knew the truth.
Marsh had flitted off to Germany before Will undertook his warlock recruitment drive. He knew nothing of the current status of Milkweed, or its efforts during the past half year. Will summarized the situation. But he omitted the part where the commander turned him into a double agent, and how together they were working to undermine and destroy the warlocks.
Will told his visitors about the increased radio traffic. “It’s truly done? Von Westarp’s farm is no more?”
Gretel yawned. She hopped to her feet and shuffled into the kitchen. Marsh followed her with his eyes.
“Yes,” he said. He nodded toward the kitchen. “She’s among the last. There are two others. A pair of twins.”
His movements were stiff and awkward. Will could see the bulges of bandages under Marsh’s shirt.
Marsh said, “I assume it was you who sent the Eidolon to find me.”
“Yes.” Will hoped Marsh wouldn’t dig deeper. This was another topic skirting the thorny issue of the commander.
“Thank you, Will. I’d still be rotting in a Schutzstaffel dungeon if you hadn’t done that.”
Will grinned. “I’m delighted to know it worked.”
China rattled in the kitchen while Gretel rummaged through Will’s cabinets. Will lowered his voice to a whisper. “Why did you bring her back with you?”
“It wasn’t easy getting here, you know. There are flights from Berlin to London these days, but they don’t take passengers.” Marsh shook his head. “Even with her help, it still took a fair bit of doing.”
“Ah.” Another series of clinks and rattles came from the kitchen. Will raised his voice. “Do be careful, won’t you? Those dishes are expensive, and difficult to replace.”
“I’m hungry,” Gretel said in her throaty German accent. Will flinched, imagining the uproar if his neighbors heard her. She held the teakettle under the faucet.
Over the click-click-whoosh of the gas fob, Will asked, “How will you explain this to Stephenson?”
A terrible weariness settled over Marsh. He sat, silent, unmoving, deep in thought. When he cracked his knuckles against his jaw, his sleeve slid down to reveal terrible gashes on his arm. At last, he admitted, “I don’t know. The old man’s going to lose his nut when I turn up. I need to confer with the commander before I do that. But until I see Liv, they can both hang.”
He slapped his knees, then stood. He slung his haversack over his shoulder. “I can’t stay any longer. I need to go home.”
Oh dear. This was going to become very complicated and rather quickly.
Gretel found Will’s toaster and set it on the counter. Marsh said, “Keep an eye on her for a few days, won’t you?”
“I don’t like this. What happens when they call me for another negotiation? I can’t bring her along.”
“A few days. That’s all I’m asking.”
Will sighed. “Very well.”
“Cheers, Will.” Marsh turned for the door. Gretel rattled the kitchen drawers in search of a spoon. The teakettle whistled.
Without thinking, Will blurted, “There’s something you need to know about Liv.”
Oh, sodding. What am I to say? She’s being seduced by your older self? She has developed an emotional connection with another man? Another version of you?
“The thing of it is,” said Will, “she’s, that is…”
You nearly broke her when you disappeared, and then she had a terribly close call. You weren’t there when her life needed saving. I don’t know how she’ll receive you.
I don’t know which of you deserves her more.
“Well, she went to Coventry, you see.…”
In the kitchen, Gretel fell silent.
Marsh’s gaunt face turned ashen. He took Will’s arm in a grip of banded iron. His fingers dug painfully at the strap imprints. “What are you saying? What happened?”
This had been a mistake. Now the poor fellow was terrified. “Never mind,” said Will. “I’ve kept you long enough. Go home to your wife and daughter. They’ve missed you terribly.”
In the kitchen, a teacup shattered. Then came the bong and splash of a teakettle crashing to the floor, and the gurgle of boiling water.
Gretel screamed.
2 December 1940
Walworth, London, England
Despair worse than anything he’d ever felt in the SS prison turned Marsh’s blood to ice water as his taxi approached Walworth. From Will’s flat in Kensington, the route took him east, across the Thames. Bomb damage became increasingly prevalent the farther toward the East End they went. The Luftwaffe had been busy.
I’ve finally solved a long-standing problem.
She went to Coventry, you see.…
Coventry was already on their list.…
Was Liv your long-standing problem, Gretel?
Just three streets from his home, Marsh watched a milkman climb over a pile of rubble, the bottles clanking in his wire basket. Bloody close, that one. Liv and little Agnes must have felt it, all alone in their shelter.
Alone.
Dear God, was he frightened. He had abandoned his family. The why of it didn’t matter, here in the Blitz-ravaged ruins of the city. The grand strategies of covert warfare meant nothing to widows and fatherless babes. He may have been a decent soldier, a faithful defender of the realm, but he was a failure of a man.
What would Liv do when she saw him? Was their relationship dead? How big was Agnes? Restless tendrils of anxiety squirmed through his gut like a nest of asps. Sweat soaked the underarms of his shirt.
Had Liv moved on? Had she assumed the worst?
Will had wanted to deliver a warning. Anything he might have said was delayed indefinitely by the rush to apply first aid to Gretel. They couldn’t risk taking her to the hospital, but the girl was damn lucky. If there was one thing any warlock always had on hand, it was a supply of clean bandages. She’d recover, though she’d carry the scars for the rest of her life.
Marsh had noticed the cracks in Gretel’s imperturbable façade as soon as he returned from Berlin. The woman no longer affected her air of perfect sangfroid. She was edgy.
The scene in Will’s kitchen was no mere crack. It was complete disintegration.
But then his house came into view, and all he could think about was holding his baby daughter again. He paid the driver with cash borrowed from Will. It emptied his pockets of everything but a few shillings and a bloody rag. No ID, no billfold, no house key. Nothing to anchor him in his home country; no means of walking in and surprising Liv. He’d have to knock on the door like a common salesman. And hope to hell she didn’t slam the door in his face.
Flowers. Should he have brought flowers? No. Not if he didn’t want to be insulting. No gesture could atone for his absence. To suggest it might would only make things worse.
The house sat proud and silent, outwardly untouched by the surrounding devastation. He knocked. Waited. Knocked again, harder. Marsh tried to peer through the front windows, but it was still morning and Liv hadn’t yet pulled the blackout curtains aside. No answer.
He went up the street, cut through an alley, and came around behind the house. The garden gate creaked; for once, he welcomed the racket, in hopes that Liv might be feeding Agnes in the kitchen, where she could hear it. Though if that were the case she’d have heard him knocking, too.
Surely Liv wasn’t … sleeping elsewhere. Surely there was a simple explanation. Perhaps Agnes had been crying, crying for her morning feeding, and Liv hadn’t heard the door. Or couldn’t get to it.
He’d expected to find the garden in a shambles: untended, choked with winter-brown weeds. But Liv had done a fine job with it. The plot was neat, the soil clear of weeds and ready for next spring. It appeared she’d even grown things atop the Anderson. Clever. She’d done quite well without him. Marsh tried not to take that as an omen.
The kitchen door rattled under the blows from his fist.
“She isn’t home,” said a gravel-and-whiskey rasp.
Liddell-Stewart emerged from the garden shed, looking just as wretched as he had on the night he’d spun the lie that convinced Marsh to undergo his mission in Germany. He carried a bundle wrapped in a handkerchief. They shook hands. Strong grip, the commander.
“Welcome back.” He handed the bundle to Marsh.
It contained Marsh’s National Registration Identity Card, billfold, and keys. He hoped the relief wasn’t too evident as he filled his pockets. He went to unlock the kitchen door.
“First things first,” said the commander, nodding toward the shed. “Let’s have a chat.”
Marsh said, “I haven’t been home in over six months, mate. Just try to stop me.”
The scents of home washed over him when he opened the door. A dusting of Agnes’s baby powder, on the table. The last slivers from a cake of hand soap at the kitchen sink. Watery tea, long steeped in a pot beside the stove.
The commander waited at the kitchen table. Marsh went through each room, pulling back the blackout curtains as he went. Agnes’s baby blanket lay on the floor of the den, alongside her bassinet. Upstairs, he found the bed unmade on Liv’s side. She had taken a wedding photograph from the mantel downstairs and set it on the bedside table. It faced her side of the bed, so she could stare at it while she lay on her side. Stephenson’s wife had taken it on the day of their wedding. House dust coated the wooden frame.
But where was Liv?
Back in the kitchen, Marsh laid a hand on the teapot alongside the stove. It was cool to the touch. She’d boiled the water at least a couple of hours ago.
Had they evacuated? Relief and disappointment tore through him like shrapnel. Knee-sagging relief at the thought that his wife and daughter were safely away from the bombing. Heart-pinching disappointment, after waiting so damn long to be with his family again to miss them by just a few hours.
No note, though. That wasn’t like Liv.
Liddell-Stewart said, “Are you quite finished?”
“Where—”
“She’s safe. We debrief before we play.”
“I haven’t seen my family in half a year, mate. Where do you get off telling me to wait longer?”
“Where do you get off putting your personal issues before the safety of the country?”
Christ, what a bastard. But Marsh joined him at the kitchen table.
“It’s done,” he said.
“Tell me everything. Omit nothing.”
“I’ve a better idea,” said Marsh. Maybe it was better Liv wasn’t here for this. “Let’s start with your tale about the mole in Milkweed. Spun from whole cloth, wasn’t it?”
The commander looked ready to burst. “What did Gretel tell you?”
“Nothing. But once I got on that wretched U-boat it became clear she’d arranged the rescue herself.”
The commander sighed. “Yes. It was a lie.”
“You fucking unbelievable bastard.”
“We had a narrow window. I had to get you on that boat. Believe me, this was the best way. I know you better than you think. You would have argued all night long.”
“The best way? Your lie put me in a Schutzstaffel prison cell for months! You’ve no idea what it was like. I spent months savoring thoughts of how I’d mess you about.”
The commander matched Marsh’s fury. “I’m not sorry. You have no idea how terrible things might be right now if you hadn’t gone to Germany. So stop acting a bloody martyr and tell me what happened.”
It took two hours. Marsh started his story at the moment he drove off with Gretel and Klaus. He detailed their voyage in the U-boat, his arrival at the farm, his interactions with members of the Götterelektrongruppe. He described the menial work of cleaning and feeding Kammler. He explained how Gretel arranged the long detour in Berlin. Spoke of the long, dark months in prison. Described his interactions with Himmler. Related the Eidolons’ role in his escape and the destruction of the files. (The commander picked through this part of the story with exasperating diligence.) He drank two glasses of water before moving on to his reunion with Gretel, the death of von Westarp, their use of Kammler, and finally the battle at the farm.
Marsh said, “Got some souvenirs for you. Bit early, but Merry Christmas.” He reached into his pocket, then tossed the bloodstained rag to the commander. “Menstrual blood, from one of the Twins.”
Liddell-Stewart tucked it away. “Well done.”
“That’s just part of it.” Marsh opened the haversack and set von Westarp’s journals on the kitchen table. “Voilà.”
The commander flipped through the top journal. “What the hell are these?”<
br />
“The personal journals of Herr Doktor von Westarp. His every secret and discovery. Decades of his brilliance. All rendered in the master’s own hand.”
“I didn’t say anything about bringing these back.”
“I improvised.”
“You went off mission.”
“The mission was spectacularly flawed.”
“Your instructions were—” The commander drew a deep breath. With visible effort, he reined back his temper. “Very well. I’ll see these are properly cared for.”
He truly was a bastard, the commander. Demanding. Rude. Impertinent. Marsh tried to look past it. “The rag is for the Eidolons, isn’t it? You intend to use them as bloodhounds, to track down the Twins.”
“They’re the last loose end. They’re all that’s left of the Reichsbehörde.”
“Not quite. Those two, plus Gretel.”
“You let her live?” The commander slammed a fist on the table. The veneer broke apart in a long, jagged crack. An empty saltcellar bounced across the table. He stood. “That’s the worst bloody thing you could have done!”
“Perhaps you missed the part of my story where the SS had every goose-stepper and hausfrau in the Thousand-Year Reich watching for me. Without her help, I’d never have made it off the Continent. And have you forgotten her little quirk? How on earth do you kill a woman who knows the future? It’s impossible, which you’d know if you ever tried.”
The commander squeezed his eyes tight, pinched the bridge of his nose. He rasped, “And where is she now?”
His wreck of a voice trembled with such hatred that he reminded Marsh of an Eidolon. It brought flashbacks to the archives of Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, where shadows slithered and men screamed away their sanity. He shook his head, but the waking nightmare clung to him like dusty cobwebs.
“Will’s flat,” Marsh said. “He agreed to watch her for a few days.”
“Are you mad? Beauclerk can’t handle Gretel.”
“I’m not so sure. She’s … changed. And besides which, she won’t be walking anywhere soon.”
The commander fixed him with a narrow gaze. He crossed his arms across his chest. “Tell me.”
Necessary Evil (Milkweed Triptych) Page 31