Heathersleigh Homecoming

by Michael Phillips

  Confident of the direction again, Barclay led the way, moving along to the sound of the water slapping against shoreline, hulls of boats, and quay.

  “A U-boat is waiting to take us to England,” he said as they walked across the quay toward the pier. “We will arrive at Hawsker Head.”

  “I may need to go to London to carry out the remainder of our assignment,” added the Prussian. “I have been told you have contacts that will enable us to move freely.”

  “It can be arranged,” rejoined Barclay. “But why London? I thought you only needed to retrieve Spengler.”

  “There is one other matter involved. That is why my friend here is along.”

  “What kind of matter?”

  “It is top secret. Can your people get him to London?”

  “The Fountain has friends,” said Barclay, liking the direction of this mission less and less. “Our network can take you anywhere in England with relative anonymity.”

  He certainly had no intention of taking them there himself, thought Barclay silently. London was the last place he was about to show his face!

  They walked out across the planked decking toward the waiting vessel, which had put in only two hours before for the express purpose of this clandestine rendezvous. Behind them they still saw nothing. But they were not alone.

  Minutes later they stepped onto the deck of the sub. Barclay took once final glance back.

  There was that old woman again, standing halfway out on the quay! Just standing there staring at him! Had she followed them all the way from the hotel? What was the old crone’s game?

  His eyes narrowed. But he could do nothing. Already a German officer was shoving him along to the hatch and pushing him down into the bowels of the undersea craft.

  On the pier, Amanda waited until he had disappeared, then turned and hurried away. It was time to retrace her steps and get out of this city. She had finally heard the missing clue she had followed Barclay to learn. They were on their way to someplace called Hawsker Head, with some other secret matter to follow involving London.

  She wouldn’t even go back to the hotel. She had told the cabdriver to wait out of sight. She would go straight from here to the station and make for the coast of France by whatever route would get her there.

  Hawsker Head . . . she had never heard the words in her life. And what was the Dauntless?

  Whatever it was all about, one thing was clear—this part of her work was done. She had to get to London as fast as she could. It was time to get the information to England.

  From here, maybe she might be able to go to Calais and cross from there. It would be much faster than going all the way back to Paris and then to Cherbourg.

  What about the things she had left at the hotel in Paris?

  She couldn’t worry about that now. She would contact the hotel later.

  They needed this information in England and fast. If a trap was set, it meant someone was in danger.

  There wasn’t a moment to spare.

  81

  Beneath Channel Waters

  Hartwell Barclay was no seaman.

  It was the middle of the same night and sleep was useless. He would get all the sleep he wanted in the comfortable bed in his own room in the house with the red roof at Hawsker Head. They would arrive at first light of day.

  If only the seas weren’t too rough to prevent their being able to put ashore. At least beneath the surface the movement was minimal, although still sufficient to keep him awake and his stomach queasy.

  The craft lurched starboard a few degrees. Negotiating a channel crossing on the surface, with the wind blowing twenty to thirty knots, would have been impossible. The rough water above, however, did little to disturb their crossing down here, which thus far had been as smooth as he could have expected. That didn’t mean he had to enjoy it.

  Knowing he was on his way back to England again filled Hartwell Barclay with strange sensations as it had earlier, reminders of his former life, and with them a growing unease about all this he had allowed himself to get involved in. It was not his conscience that was speaking. He had shut that up for good long ago, and its voice hadn’t bothered him in years. But English blood was in his veins after all, and it was impossible altogether to dismiss the inconvenient nagging of duty, decency, loyalty, and all the similar attributes which stir in the inbred soul of the English psyche.

  He had planned simply to run this fellow Wolfrik across to Yorkshire, spend a day or two at the lighthouse until the Spengler defector was taken care of, however he planned to do it, and then bring them back across and be on his way returning to Vienna—over and back under the Channel undetected—along with the young fool Halifax, who had better have taken care of that greater fool of a wife by this time.

  Now Wolfrik was talking about London!

  Barclay didn’t like it. That’s where he would put his foot down. He would absolutely refuse to leave Yorkshire.

  What could be the other mysterious assignment? These two he had brought on board with him were a couple of rum customers, that much was certain. He could see it in their eyes. Who was this other seedy character with Wolfrik anyway? Why was he along? He had the eyes of an assassin if he had ever seen one. He reminded him of the madcap Princip, who had started this whole bloody war back in Sarajevo.

  Gradually Barclay fell into an uneasy sleep.

  When he awoke, he glanced at his watch. It was morning. They should be sitting off the Yorkshire coastline and getting ready to surface by now.

  He would be in McCrogher’s dinghy within the hour, and on land again shortly after that.

  82

  Channel Reflections

  Amanda stood on deck of the channel ferry waiting for the lines to be cast off and to begin the voyage over the twenty-one miles of sea separating Great Britain from the mainland of Europe.

  She had traveled most of the night between Antwerp and Calais, taking what trains were available and snatching catnaps while she waited in deserted stations. She was exhausted and still had a whole new day ahead of her.

  Getting back out of Belgium and into France had proved a little difficult, especially with the war front so close. She doubted the French officers in charge believed a word of what she said about possessing vital information and needing to get to England right away. But it didn’t matter. They let her through, and now here she was on board the first ship of the day.

  She squinted through the morning’s cloudy sky, as if hoping she might, even now, be able to catch a faint glimpse of the Dover cliffs. But it was no use. The storm had passed, but lingering haze and clouds still obscured the vision. Yet just knowing that England lay over there, and that in less than two hours her feet would feel English soil once again beneath them, was enough, in spite of the fatigue, to send tingles of excitement through her whole body.

  Maybe she could find a chair inside and catch an extra few winks once they set off. But right now she wanted to savor the scent of the channel waters in her nostrils, and the thought of returning to her homeland.

  She hadn’t anticipated feeling this way. National pride was the last emotion she expected to rise in her breast. But after all she had been through, and the horrible months in Vienna, and the terrifying flight across Austria and Italy . . . all of a sudden she very much wanted to be back . . . back in England.

  The very word rang in her mind with safety and hominess.

  Her thoughts turned to her father. Why, she couldn’t say, but she did not resist them. Strangely, for the first time in a long while, no anger or bitterness came with them. He was a patriot, she thought, who loved his country—more than she had in recent years.

  What had come over her to allow her mind to be so clouded by all that ridiculous Fountain of Light talk? And that caustic pamphlet she had let them put her name on. What in the world had she been thinking!

  Her father was ten times the man Hartwell Barclay would ever be.

  A hundred times!

  She had been gone from Eng
land not quite a year, and from her home for eight years. She had no one to blame but herself for all that had happened to her. Her parents had tried to warn her, but she hadn’t listened.

  What have I done with my life? thought Amanda.

  Over and over, it seemed, she had done one stupid thing after another, always leaving when the going got rough. She left home, she left the Pankhursts,’ she left Cousin Martha’s, she left Vienna, she left the chalet. Always leaving . . . always running away.

  Again her father’s face came into her mind’s eye.

  Actually, now that she considered the idea, it might be all right to see her father again. It might even be good to see him. Perhaps she was finally ready.

  Maybe it was time she started growing up and facing some things. Like herself. Facing what she had let herself sink to . . . and maybe facing what she wanted to become.

  Before her thoughts could go farther down that road, Amanda felt the boat jerking beneath her and the waves of the Channel beginning to rock it in a gentle, swelling motion.

  They had cast off. She was on her way back to England!

  83

  What Next?

  Amanda arrived at Charing Cross Station about eleven that same morning. She was filled with so many thoughts and emotions she could hardly think what to do with them all.

  Over and over she was reminded of Ramsay’s words, I know where Amanda goes. I’ll find her.

  Even as she departed the train and walked into the station, excited to hear English being spoken everywhere and to see the familiar sights of the station again, unconsciously she glanced about nervously, as if any second Ramsay might appear from out of the crowd to nab her. He had turned up in every train station she had been in for months!

  But she mustn’t forget the urgency of her mission. And the foremost question in her mind was: What to do now?

  Now that at last she was back in London, she had to get in touch with somebody and tell them what she knew.

  But who?

  Whom should she tell what she had overheard in Vienna and Antwerp? She couldn’t just walk up to Westminster Palace or Ten Downing Street and announce, “I have important information. Please let me in to see Mr. Asquith immediately.”

  Maybe she should march up to the gates of Buckingham Palace, she thought with a smile, and say, “Hello there, King George. I met Queen Victoria when I was a little girl, and now I’m here to help you win the war!”

  The thought of such a sight almost made her laugh out loud.

  She would never get within a mile of the prime minister or the king. She would be turned away on her heels with the words, “Shoo, little girl . . . don’t bother us!”

  Who did she know who might be able to help her figure out what to do?

  Her thoughts suddenly turned to the only person in London who fit the bill—Rev. Timothy Diggorsfeld, the man who had led her father toward his conversion to Christianity.

  For so many years she had resented the very thought of the London minister, blaming him, as she saw it, for the disruption of their family. But now she realized he might just about be the only person in the city she could completely trust. And there was no way Ramsay could know anything about him. With him she would be safe from Ramsay.

  She would go see Rev. Diggorsfeld immediately.

  84

  Surprise Caller

  Within the hour Amanda found herself walking along Bloomsbury Way from the corner where she had asked the cab to leave her.

  There was the sign and name exactly as she remembered—NEW HOPE CHAPEL, T. DIGGORSFELD, PASTOR.

  She took a deep breath, then walked to the door and tried the latch. It was open. Slowly she walked inside. She had not been inside a church for so long, the very atmosphere filled her with inexplicable feelings she could not describe. There was no sign of life, only cool, dark silence. For several seconds she took in the peaceful, quiet ambiance, then began looking about. She saw a small placard reading PASTOR’S STUDY, and followed in the direction indicated by its arrow. A minute later she was knocking on a door which stood slightly ajar. From inside she heard movement.

  The door swung open. There stood Timothy’s tall, lanky form. A bright smile of welcome, disbelief, and a host of other emotions only he could have identified immediately broke across his face.

  “Amanda!” he exclaimed, as if he wasn’t quite sure whether he was gazing at an apparition or the real thing.

  “Hello, Rev. Diggorsfeld,” she replied.

  “Come in . . . come in!” he said exuberantly. “It is so wonderful to see you again!”

  “I’m not really here on a social call,” she said, following him inside.

  Not to be dissuaded of his enthusiasm, nor the inward rejoicing of his heart for this answer to prayer, he offered Amanda a chair.

  “You are welcome for whatever reason you have come,” he said cheerfully. “And if it is not social, why have you come, then? What can I do for you?”

  “I know it may be somewhat awkward,” Amanda began, “and that I haven’t been the kindest to you. I’ve been out of the country, you see . . .”

  As she spoke, Timothy nodded. He knew far more about her sojourn in the far country than she realized.

  “In fact, I only arrived back this morning,” she went on. “I came to you immediately. I haven’t even had anything to eat all day.”

  “Oh, then by all means,” said Timothy rising and starting for the door, “I’ll have Mrs. Alvington prepare us some lunch.”

  “There’s no time for that,” said Amanda.

  “No time . . . why?” asked Timothy, pausing and turning back.

  “I’ve been involved with some people, you see, who are on the side of the Austrians,” said Amanda. “Actually, I think they are spies. One of the men is English, and . . . I know it sounds crazy, Mr. Diggorsfeld, I think I may have information that the War Office needs. But I don’t know where to go or whom to see.”

  “I see,” said Timothy, his tone immediately serious. “I’ll get my coat and hat right away.”

  “What do you think I should do?” asked Amanda, not quite understanding him.

  “Just give me a minute. I’ll grab something quickly for you to eat on the way.”

  Before Amanda could say anything further, Diggorsfeld disappeared. He returned two or three minutes later with a small bag and wearing coat and hat.

  “Your father is acquainted with Mr. Churchill,” he said, gesturing for Amanda to follow. “I have never met him myself,” he went on, leading her out of the church, “but perhaps he will see you. If it is important information, we might as well go to the very top.”

  “We?”

  “I will take you straight to the Admiralty myself,” said Timothy.

  Already they were on the street and he was urgently waving for a cab.

  85

  The Admiralty

  After a good deal of searching about, inquiries, and red tape, the unlikely duo of Amanda Rutherford Halifax and Rev. Timothy Diggorsfeld at last reached that portion of the Admiralty they hoped might be in the vicinity of the office they were looking for.

  They had come down a long, wide corridor, luckily without being stopped as they already had at several previous junctures, and now stood before two large closed doors, upon which in bold black letters were painted the words FIRST LORD OF THE ADMIRALTY.

  “I think we have found it at last,” said Timothy. He opened one of the doors for Amanda. She entered and he followed.

  “We would like to see Mr. Churchill,” said Timothy when the door was closed behind them.

  “And you would be—” said the receptionist, gazing up from her desk to look upon the most unmilitary and unmatched pair of individuals she had ever laid eyes on, with an aloof expression of humorous scorn.

  “Rev. Timothy Diggorsfeld,” replied Timothy. “It is really most urgent that we speak to the First Lord of the Admiralty.”

  “In the middle of the war? Surely you can’t imagine that he can—”


  “What we must see him about concerns the war,” persisted Timothy. “I have with me here Miss Amanda Rutherford.”

  “Really, Mr. Diggorsfeld, I am afraid your seeing Mr. Churchill is absolutely out of the—”

  “Rutherford . . . did I hear the name Rutherford?” now sounded a gravelly voice somewhere. It appeared to have come from an adjacent room whose door stood ajar.

  A moment later the massive form of the First Lord of the Admiralty filled the space between the reception area and his inner office. He looked over the two visitors without betraying his thoughts by any change of expression.

  “I am sorry to disturb you, Mr. Churchill,” said the secretary. “These two people were just leaving. I have explained that you are extremely busy and just making plans to—”

  “Who is the Rutherford around here?” interrupted Churchill.

  “I . . . I am Amanda Rutherford,” said Amanda, who could not help being intimidated by the presence of the man.

  “What Rutherfords? You’re not by chance the daughter of Sir Charles?”

  “Actually, yes . . . I am.”

  Churchill took in the information with a knowing nod.

  “So you’re the young lady who wrote that troublesome political pamphlet a while back,” he said.

  “I am sorry to have to admit it, but I’m afraid I am,” replied Amanda. “Much has changed since then. All I can say is that I feel very badly for my part in it, and I am no longer associated with the people who put me up to it.”

  “I am very glad to hear it, Miss Rutherford,” intoned Churchill. “It was a grief to your father to see how they were using you to retaliate against him.”

  “I’m sure it must have been,” said Amanda. “I will apologize to him later. But there’s no time for all that now. The reason we are here concerns those same people, and something far more serious than just a pamphlet.”

  “In what way?” asked Churchill, growing steadily more intrigued. Gradually he approached from the doorway.