After we all got settled, she asked, “So I assume you saw your father, Finn?”
Finn nodded, setting his teacup down on the little table covered in lace next to him. “Yes. He doesn’t look well. How long has this been going on?”
“Well, your parents don’t tell me too much, but I believe he hasn’t been feeling well for about three months. It seems to be heart-related. He has trouble with the feeling in his limbs. The doctors aren’t certain.”
We chitchatted a while, getting to know each other and catching her up on our lives in New York. We told her about the last case and the gold pawn.
“Oh, that sounds just about as good as Agatha Christie’s Cards on the Table!” she exclaimed.
“You have that?” I practically shouted. It wasn’t slated to come out for a while in the U.S.
“Oh yes, it’s delightful! Here, my copy is over there next to the bed. Take it! I’d love to share it.”
I ran over and got the book, devouring the back cover as I walked back to them. I smiled at Vivian, one book lover to another. There was nothing as bonding as enjoying a good book with someone.
Just then, a knock came at the door, and a strawberry blond head peeked around the corner. Oh goody.
“Come in, Gwen!” said Vivian.
Gwen came in, bedecked in a deep purple ensemble. She truly enjoyed matching things; everything was the same color from her shoes to her hat, pinned neatly to her hair in her tight updo. She wore proper stockings, too.
As she set a large bouquet wrapped in paper on the table by the door, she said, “I just wanted to drop by to say hello and bring you these.” She took off her white gloves and hung up her coat on the coat rack, then came over.
“Why, thank you, it’s always lovely to see you. Can I pour you a cuppa, dear?” asked Vivian.
“That would be wonderful,” said Gwen, sitting on the other side of Finn.
He asked her, “Have you heard anything new about Father?”
“No. Nothing new. His heart is weakening and he is losing the feeling in his hands and feet. His breathing is becoming weaker, too. I’m afraid it doesn’t look good.”
“Oh dear,” said Vivian. She took a sip of her tea, then brightened up. “Is that what I hope it is?” she said, nodding with her head to the bouquet.
Gwen smiled broadly and said, “Yes! I finally got them ready. It will look lovely on your little table by the window.” She turned to me and said, “I dried a bunch of bishop’s lace for myself and Polly at the end of summer. With all this rain, it’s taken quite a while. Vivian has been asking for some and I had quite a lot. It did turn out wonderful.” She went to the table and carefully opened the bundle. “Shall I put them in the vase?”
“Yes, please. Oh, they look delightful. Reminds me of summer. Thank you, Gwen.”
“I love those, we call them Queen Anne’s lace in the States. I love how they’re so delicate,” I said, pouring another cup of tea for myself and topping off Finn’s cup.
Finn was quiet, lost in his thoughts. Gwen stood up and began arranging the dried flowers. She said, “Finn, I think your father would like to see you again. You know you really should see Sean, too. He misses you.”
I glanced at Finn as a look of indecision raced across his face, something I rarely witnessed in him. Then my eyes met Vivian’s. We shared a knowing look of solidarity. There was danger lurking within Finn’s family, but how could he not have a meeting? How could he say no to that?
“Well, I think missing me might be putting too positive a spin on it, but I can arrange to see Father again. If Sean wants to be there, that’s fine,” he declared.
“Excellent,” said Gwen. She busied herself making a quick call to the hospital on the phone set upon Viv’s desk, then she efficiently swept up the tea service and took it to the kitchenette. Everything about her was perfectly manicured. Her strawberry blond hair was neat and orderly, not a single wisp of hair breaking ranks. Every nail was filed to a pointy oval and polished in virginal light pink. Her purple suit dress was immaculate, not a wrinkle, not a fuzzy, not a crease. I self-consciously crossed my stockingless ankles beneath my chair.
* * *
Gwen left shortly after and then Finn and I could exhale a bit. We enjoyed a wonderful time with Vivian. She was a delight, and I had such fun getting to know her. We said our good-byes and arranged to see her again in a day or so. Before we met Finn’s family at the hospital, we took a cab to see Miles at his pub. He had sent word that he had some information for us already.
“Yeah, it’s a funny thing, Finn,” Miles began, taking a quick break to slosh down a gulp of Guinness in midsentence. “There isn’t any word about Daphne on the street. Not a one.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully at us.
“Oh, bugger,” said Finn, taking his own large gulp of Smithwick’s. I placed one elbow up on the bar, and took a good look at my partners. I was clearly missing something.
“But why is that so suspicious?” I asked. “Wasn’t she pretty good at hiding, keeping in the shadows all along?”
“Well,” said Finn, “you see, whenever a leader of the Red Scroll was around, at least back in the day, there was a lot of ruckus on the streets. It might not have been about a certain person, or specific actions, but there were rumblings. A lot of rumblings. It was like their very presence stirred up trouble. Like when you see a pack of dogs getting a walk and a little tiny mouthy one begins to nip at the heels of a bigger dog. It gets them all going and suddenly they’re all barking and nipping. The Red Scroll was like that.”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s just very odd to have it so utterly quiet,” said Miles.
Finn said, “Well, let’s go meet with that John friend of yours, and you keep an eye out for anything else. Maybe Daphne’s kept her presence on the lowdown just like in the States. But we need to be sure. She had to have a good reason to come all this way.”
“In the meantime,” said Miles, “I have a guy who has the pulse of the art scene. He’ll know if there’s anything stirring in that world, as well.”
“Do you have any German contacts?” asked Finn, his eyes going dark.
Miles nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I do. I know, we need to keep an eye on them. I have another contact who is well aware, if no one else is here, that Hitler is on the move. I actually told him to meet us here today. In his mind, he’s not a mover and shaker in the government. Yet. But he will be, mark my words. His views on the European state of affairs seem spot-on if you ask me. I think he has Hitler’s number. Jews are fleeing Germany and most other European cities and by the looks of it, they’d better. There are all sorts of frightening reports coming out of there. Mein Kampf was one hell of a scary read.”
Right at that moment I heard a rather loud and deep command. “I want that gin ice-cold and neat. One olive. Just glance at the vermouth bottle briefly and give the gin a decent pour.”
Miles was smiling freely; I’d never actually seen that look on his face. “Here’s my contact now in fact.”
Finn and I turned together toward the loud voice. The bartender looked like he was fully aware of the man’s strange feelings toward vermouth, a slight grin pulling at one side of his mouth.
“Here you go, Mr. Churchill. Just the way you like it.”
“Thank you, my man,” he said, taking a good long drink, his face reflecting his absolute enjoyment of the perfectly crafted beverage.
“Mr. Winston Churchill, I’d like you to meet my contacts from the States. Mr. Finn Brodie and Miss Lane Sanders.”
“Ah, yes. Mayor La Guardia’s aide and the detective who left our shores for those more receptive to his abilities.” We must have looked rather astonished as he went on to clarify. “My mother was American-born, you see. So I feel a certain tie to your country. And I like to keep tabs on my more, oh, let’s say interesting contacts here such as Miles and those he’d like to have me meet.” Behind me I heard Miles choking back a laugh. “Next to the president of the United States, the mayor of New York Ci
ty is always a powerful man indeed.”
“That’s right. Always a step ahead, right, Mr. Churchill?” said Miles.
“Always,” said the large man who had the general appearance of a bulldog. His eyes were deep and held all manner of secrets and intelligence. His receding hairline exposed a large forehead that added to the feeling that he was constantly thinking and mulling over options and opportunities. He was not the blur of activity that Fiorello was, but I was certain his mind never rested. He reminded me of what I envisioned Mycroft Holmes to look like.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Churchill,” Finn and I greeted him in turn. He shook both of our hands, then ordered a second vermouth-less martini.
What ensued was one of the most intense and lively discussions I’d ever had. This Mr. Churchill swept us all up like a force of nature. Turns out he was an author but wasn’t really an Anybody in the current parliament, yet he seemed to have his hands in everything. Mycroft Holmes indeed. He mentioned the recent abdication from the throne of Edward VIII, now Duke of Windsor since he stepped down. Churchill had been an advocate of the abdication. Which made me wonder, because most people thought that an abdication meant a weakened government. That thoughtful, intelligent bulldog face, though . . . he would never be inclined to intentionally weaken his country. So he must see other more positive possibilities in the abdication.
Miles asked him, “So is there any activity from Germany that’s reminiscent of the Red Scroll?” Miles turned to us then and added, “I filled Mr. Churchill in on our history with all this.”
“Oh, there is definitely activity in seized masterpieces. But that’s all the Nazis. I have heard accounts already of old families, mainly Jewish, who disappear overnight and suddenly their estates are in control of the government. But the Red Scroll? Not yet.”
I said, “Well, I guess that’s a positive note for our investigation.”
“I’m not sure it is,” said Finn.
“What do you mean?” asked Miles.
“Well, they’re not just vacationing. I figure I’d rather know what they’re up to,” said Finn.
“Yeah. The old wasp in the room, right?” said Miles.
“Mm, yes, yes. You’re certainly correct there,” said Mr. Churchill. “Well, I best be off. If I hear anything I’ll be sure to contact you, Miles. And thank you for the martinis. Mr. Brodie? Miss Sanders? A delight to meet you. I hope we’ll meet again. I’d like to hear more about your boss. He seems like a man I’d like to know. Good day.”
With that, he turned and left. He’d used the word wilderness when he spoke of his own government role at the moment. He’d been turned down for some positions and seen a lot of opposition, especially on his views of Germany. He’d been accused of alarmist speech. But there was something magnetic about him. He would not remain in that political wilderness for long, that’s for sure.
He may have thought of himself as a nobody, but as we talked, I remembered a small photograph of him, in the first issue of Life magazine that came out last November. I didn’t know his name or his face at the time, But I remembered it, because I had laughed outright, for the photograph was of him fingering a tooth that looked like it might have pained him. But toward the camera. And with his middle finger.
“You liked him, didn’t you?” asked Finn, searching my face.
“I did. He’s an interesting man. I can see why you have him as a contact, Miles. He seems like he has a good feel for what’s going on.”
“Oh, that he does, Lane, that he does. I saw you trying to reconcile his advocacy for Edward to abdicate. Did you figure it out?” he asked with an impish grin.
“No, not really. I was a bit surprised that he was for it,” I replied.
“I have a theory,” said Miles with a smug look.
Finn chuckled. “What do you think?”
Miles nodded smartly. “I think he saw a chance to get rid of a feeble leader. I think he’s on a campaign to get rid of hapless individuals.”
“Hapless.” I laughed. “Yes. I can see that. You may just be right about that. Now how about you buy me another pint?”
* * *
On the way to meet Finn’s family at the hospital, we discussed our next steps.
“I’m still wondering why Daphne came to London now, at this particular moment. And I’m more than a little concerned that we haven’t heard a word about her,” I said as the taxi driver took a corner with more speed than necessary, Finn bracing himself with a hand on the back of the front seat.
“Oi! Driver! Take it easy,” he said in an accent that was torn between Britain and Brooklyn, then turned to me. “Yeah, it’s making me nervous. But whether we locate her or not, we have a lot to be doing here regardless. Tomorrow, let’s head up to see Miles’s contact, John. I’ll try to get my family situation straightened out a bit. At least with Mr. Churchill’s confirmation, it seems that the Red Scroll is not up and running here. Time will tell if that will remain true. But for now . . .”
We pulled up to the hospital, and my shoulders began clenching as I prepared to see Finn’s family again. I wondered when I’d be meeting his infamous brother. The loathing I felt for him from the injustice and injury that he caused made my blood boil.
“Lane. Ah, lighten up on the grip?” said Finn.
“Oh! Sorry. Was caught up in my thoughts,” I said, letting go of his hand. I’d been crushing it, I was so entrenched. As we rounded the corridor where we’d head to his father’s room, a door suddenly slammed open, crashing against the wall. A blur of a large man with molten green eyes came at us. Before I knew what happened, he and Finn were in a death grip, then Finn slammed the man up against the wall. A fierce growl emitted from the guy as orderlies came running, trying to break up the fight. One large orderly apiece grabbed Finn and the other guy from behind, holding them back as best they could. They were very large men and the fury they were trying to hold back was fearsome.
“Sean!” snarled Finn. “What’s gotten into you?”
My head shot back to the green-eyed man with his black hair flopping over his eyes as he still pulled hard to get out of the clutches of the orderly. With a grunt he yelled, “He’s been poisoned!”
“Who?” yelled Finn.
“Father! And I know it was you.”
CHAPTER 20
Come what may, time and the hour run through the roughest day.
—Macbeth, Macbeth
Finn was utterly stunned. How can this be happening, he thought to himself. All of Finn’s strength just left him, bare and helpless as a child. The orderly who had been holding him back suddenly lurched and smashed Finn’s face up against the wall with more force than he’d intended because of Finn’s sudden stop.
“Finn!” yelled Lane, desperation darkening her face as she looked into his eyes, searching for him. “Let go of him!” she commanded in her best aide-to-the-mayor voice. Because of the strident command and the fact that Finn stopped fighting, the orderly carefully released him.
“You two go at it again, I’ll get the bobby in here. You understand?” the orderly said. Finn nodded, but Sean was still raging. “Take the hot-headed guy in there! Don’t let him go until he cools off.” The other orderly got Sean to stumble into the closest room. The door slammed shut behind them.
Finn was still panting. He turned to the orderly and asked, “What was he talking about? My father’s been poisoned?”
“I dunno what that’s all about. But I don’t like the sound of it.” He turned and motioned to the bobby that had been keeping his eyes on us from the front door. The bobby came over and decided that they all needed an escort.
They trooped down the hall, single file like good little schoolchildren. As they approached the door to his father’s room, Finn’s mother walked out. Even with all the fireworks, her eyes remained dull and uninterested.
She said, “Your father is sleeping. You cannot go in.”
“Mother, Sean said something about Father being poisoned. What’s going on?” deman
ded Finn.
“We thought that it had been his heart. But it turns out, poison is in his system. That’s what’s been causing his illness.” Her opaque eyes looked at him. No love, no kindness. She thought this was his doing, too. It was like he was a curse on the family. When he was around, bad things happened.
He felt the blood leave his face as it dawned on him. The haunting line from Voodoo Macbeth came to his mind, wrapping its claws into his soul. Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand? He hadn’t poisoned his father, but he felt the defeat of guilt. Nothing had changed in all the years he’d been gone. The crushing weight of being misunderstood and vilified left him limp.
He uttered softly, “How long has this been going on?”
His mother replied, “We don’t know. But I don’t need to tell you, Finn, that your timing here for a visit is quite coincidental. Is it not?”
He said, “It is.”
Lane gasped and said indignantly, “It is not! Finn, what are you talking about? We just arrived. Don’t be ridiculous! Poisoning like this had to have been going on for a long time. He’d been ill before we arrived.” Her eyes were sparking from the injustice and when she turned to his mother, he automatically put a hand on Lane’s arm to hold her back. She looked like she might punch someone. That thought simultaneously brought a small smile to his lips and cleared his murky thoughts. Lane was right.
He turned to his mother. “Thanks for your support, Mother. As always.” She pursed her lips and turned her face away in a huff.
He looked at Lane, her deeply caring eyes, so alive in every way.
“Lane,” whispered Finn, close to her ear. “She’ll never understand. Let’s go.” Before they could turn to leave, his mother pivoted and walked away like a mopey child. Lane let out a breath. Finn was close, both of them gathering energy and warmth from each other as the only sense of goodness and kindness around. Lane slipped her arm around his waist and drew him even closer, careless of who was watching. He, too, just wanted her touch, her closeness. The coldness that emanated from his family drew them toward each other, like a fire on a cold winter’s night.
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