Lammas Night (13 page)

He forced down the reflex anger and made himself relax. He supposed he could not blame Alix for asking, but it simply was not true.

“Only you,” he replied with a tight, resigned smile, “and you know how far that's gone. I would never do that to David—or to you. And as for W—”

“Hush,” she said, laying a finger across his lips. “Forget I mentioned it or even thought it. I'm considering something quite unorthodox, and I had to ask.”

“May
I
ask?”

“All in good time.”

She was silent for several minutes. Graham eventually shut his eyes against the sight of her face, unreadable and closed. Finally, he was startled to feel her hand on his again, the soft, graceful fingers gently stroking his.

“I'm sorry to put you through this,” she whispered as he opened his eyes. “All of this. I know how difficult it would be for me, if David were having to do what you're doing. Sometimes I'm glad he's at sea so he can't. It's selfish, I know, but I'm afraid it's how I feel.”

He managed a brief nod, but he did not trust himself to do more. He had no idea what she was leading up to. After several more seconds, she squeezed his hand.

“Gray, would it help if I gave you permission to confide in William?”

He blinked, unable to believe what he had just heard.

“Do you mean that?”

“Yes.”

“But—why?”

“Because of what you said before. He's your friend, Gray—something I think even you are only beginning to realize.”

“He's also a prince of the blood,” Graham whispered.

“And of the old line,” Alix agreed. “Maybe that
is
why you feel such an affinity. Your instincts are usually good, though. If it will ease your mind—having someone besides us to share it with—then I think we have to give it serious thought.”

Graham found himself staring at her dumbly, hardly able to comprehend what she was offering.

“David and I have burdened you with a heavy responsibility,” she went on softly. “It's only fair that you should receive some of the privileges that go along with it. One of those privileges includes exercising your own discretion as to how much is safe to tell an outsider—this outsider, in particular. I'm sure you realize that we don't often do this, but there are occasionally—exceptions.”

An enormous weight seemed to lift from his shoulders as he saw her reassuring smile and knew she really meant it. It was only then that he realized he had been contemplating telling William, anyway, with or without Alix's permission.

He had no opportunity to explore his newly granted freedom before he had his first taste of a new kind of frustration. Several days before he was to drive to Windsor for his visit with the prince, he made his first contact with one of the leaders of the groups they were trying to recruit. The experience left him more confused than ever.

He had hoped to approach one of the younger men first, in accordance with what the cards had suggested, but his first subject turned out to be a woman—not a man, and certainly not young. From his research, Graham knew she must be around fifty. She could also sway a sizable number of very able occult practitioners to their side if she chose to cooperate. Alix knew her well and had already spoken to her at least once—with infuriating lack of success.

He caught only her silhouette initially, though that was distinctive enough. He spotted her as he and Denton were driving along Knightsbridge, heading back to the office from a rather tense but unproductive meeting that had necessitated wearing full uniform. She had ducked through one of the park gates and was walking briskly along Rotten Row in Hyde Park.

On impulse, he had Denton circle the park and let him out on Bayswater Road, setting his hat precisely at prescribed military angle and adjusting the belt over his tunic. Perhaps the authority of the uniform would lend extra weight to her first impression of him. Entering the park near the Serpentine, he soon located his quarry lingering to admire the swans. He approached slowly, as if he, too, were only out for a casual stroll, carefully framing his opening words.

He had never met her in person, but he had studied her photographs and heard her described in detail by both Alix and Selwyn. She was short and apparently heavy set, but that was difficult to judge under her sweeping black cloak. Though a wide-brimmed hat shaded her face, the features matched her photographs. Her dress flashed brilliant sea blue through the parting of the cloak as she neared. Something in the spring of her step and her air of confidence triggered a response in Graham, and he had no doubt of her identity as he stepped into her path.

“Mrs. Evans, I believe?”

She stopped and looked him up and down, steady eyes appraising him in question and confirmation, then nodded and took the hand he offered.

“I don't believe we've met before, colonel—”

“Graham. Sir John Graham,” Graham supplied. “I'm a friend of Lord and Lady Selwyn.”

As he spoke their names, he used his free hand to trace a symbol on the back of the one he held. It would not have been known to Alix or even to Selwyn, but it was known to his companion. He felt her give a slight start, quickly masked, then respond with a peculiar pressure of her thumb and a touch of her other hand. Giving him a curt little smile, she firmly withdrew her hand from his.

“Yes, Sir John, I believe you are,” she said softly, “though you are both more and less than they, I see. To what do I owe this chance meeting?”

He returned her smile, well aware that she knew the meeting was not chance at all, then gestured toward a lesser-used path that would take them toward one of the north gates. So long as they remained in the open, they were quite safe from being overheard.

“Shall we walk?” he replied. “I know that Lady Selwyn has already approached you on a matter of some delicacy, but perhaps she did not make herself clear. May I be candid?”

“Please do.”

“Thank you. In short, I assume that she made you aware of what some of us are planning for Lammas night. Am I correct?”

She gave a brief nod, not looking at him directly as they moved slowly along the path.

“You are.”

“Yet you haven't agreed to help us.”

“Nor do I intend to. Surely you're aware, Sir John, that my people do not work with other groups and traditions. We will not oppose you, and we certainly do not disagree with what you are trying to do, but we do not recognize the authority of either you or Lord and Lady Selwyn to call for this kind of direct action. We prefer to handle things in our own fashion.”

Graham sighed. Alix had warned him to expect this kind of reaction. He had hoped she was mistaken.

“May one inquire why you believe it impossible to handle the matter in your own fashion and also in concert with others of like intent?” Graham asked.

She smiled sweetly. “I could give you several reasons, Sir John, but I fear none of them would satisfy you. Please believe that I bear you no personal emnity and that I would never do anything to hinder you in your plans—but it is not my way, and it is not the way of my students and colleagues. You must do what you feel to be your duty, and we must do ours. There is really nothing more to be said.”

“I see.”

They had reached the Marlborough Gate, and he followed her a few steps west along Bayswater Road before accepting that it was a lost cause. She stopped when he did, pivoting to glance at him sympathetically.

“They've given you an awesome task, haven't they, Sir John? Not that there's any way to avoid it, I suppose—someone must do it, with Lord Selwyn at sea—but I don't envy you. Alix told me a little of why they chose you.”

“She did?”

“My dear, I've known Alix Jordan for many years,” she said, touching his arm lightly. “Just because we don't agree on this particular matter doesn't change our friendship. Please greet her for me when next you see her. Good-bye.”

She clasped his hand again and smiled, then turned and walked away. He watched her for nearly a block, until the Bentley pulled up beside him and Denton reached across to open the passenger door.

“Sir, you look like a man who's just been jilted,” Denton quipped as Graham got in and pulled the door shut. When Graham did not respond, Denton returned to his driving and said no more.

What an extraordinary woman!
was all Graham could think as he reviewed their conversation. It was some minutes later before it registered that she had, indeed, refused him flatly.

C
HAPTER
6

The Hyde Park setback caused Graham to postpone any attempt at further contacts until he could rethink his methods. Even more upsetting, he lost an agent that weekend—one of those only recently reassigned to the
Rote Adler
investigation. The man's control did not know precisely what happened—only that his charge finally turned up in a Frankfurt alley with his throat slit.

Both incidents were still troubling Graham by the Monday he planned to visit William, but he tried to put them out of mind in light of the more immediate considerations regarding the prince. He spent the morning drawing up a simplified version of William's astrological chart, but by early afternoon, as he guided the Bentley into the lower ward of Windsor Castle, he was still undecided as to how much he wanted to say.

William, at least, was in fine humor. The day was fine, so the prince had horses saddled and waiting at the Royal Mews as he had promised. Soon he and Graham were cantering easily beside the Long Walk toward Royal Lodge, laughing and enjoying the weather, the company, and the feel of fine animals beneath them. At the Copper Horse, they slowed to a walk to let the horses blow. Graham could sense the question coming before the first words were out of William's mouth.

“So, is this the proper time and place to tell me more about my horoscope?” William asked, glancing aside at Graham as he patted his bay's neck. “No one can overhear us out here—though I warn you, you won't be rescued by Wells or some admiral's surgeon this time!”

Graham allowed himself a sparse chuckle and relaxed a little, withdrawing a single folded sheet from an inside pocket.

“If I thought I'd need rescuing, do you suppose I'd have let myself be maneuvered into this position? Here. I brought you a copy of your chart.”

William grinned delightedly as Graham handed across the paper, but after only a glance at its contents, his face fell.

“Very funny, Gray. Now translate it. You know I haven't a clue what all these numbers and odd squiggles mean.”

“Very well. Where would you like me to begin?”

“You mean I shan't have to browbeat you for a direct answer?”

Graham only shook his head and smiled.

“Marvelous!” William considered for only an instant. “That day in Dover, you started to mention something about Mars and—Scorpio, I think it was. How about starting there?—unless something else is customary, of course.”

“No, that should do well enough. Let's see. There's the symbol for Mars,” he said, leaning across to point it out, “and that's the house of Scorpio. Your Mars is at slightly more than twelve degrees Scorpio. As I think I mentioned before, this placement, in addition to the Scorpio moon, bodes well for success in undercover-type activities—which we know is certainly true, judging by your past performance. Mars is also squared by Mercury.”

“Squared?”

“That simply refers to a relationship between the positions of the two planets,” Graham replied, trying to keep it as simple as possible. “Mercury square Mars can be the signature of a very bright mind, which it certainly is in your case, but it also has its touchy, even irritable aspect—which can be an attribute of a Cancer sun as well. It can also be very impatient. I don't suppose that sounds like anyone you know?”

William drew rein and stared at Graham in amazement. “You can tell all of that just from a few symbols and numbers?”

Graham returned a sheepish smile. “I told you in Dover that it was an art.”

“I dare say. I do dare say.” William was quite frankly staring. “And if the astrology is an art, one has to wonder how much of the rest goes beyond theory, too. It isn't all just counterpropaganda, is it, Gray? You really do believe in it.”

It was the perfect lead-in if William continued to be receptive. As they walked their horses toward Great Meadow Pond, Graham briefly related what had surfaced as a result of Michael's film: the mysterious
Rote Adler
, who seemed to have connections with satanic lodges in Germany; the even more sinister Sturm—who might be
Rote Adler
himself; and Grumbaugh's suspicion that
Rote Adler
was Hitler's new master adept, working black magic to help win the war for the Germans. He also mentioned the murdered agent in Frankfurt. When the prince did not seem too taken aback by his matter-of-fact discussion of occult activities in Germany, Graham confided his fear that
Rote Adler
or Sturm or whoever was working magic in Hitler's behalf might interfere with the occult measures that were being taken in Britain to prevent an invasion.

“Are you telling me
we
have people who are doing that kind of thing?” William asked incredulously.

“Well, not in the same manner, I should hope, but—yes, there are those who are trying to stop the invasion.”

“With
magic
?”

“There's ample precedent in English history,” Graham hedged as they let their horses stand knee deep in the pond to drink. “Some of the people you'd least expect have been involved. One of the most solid examples has to do with Sir Francis Drake and the sinking of the Spanish Armada. Did you know that he was reputed to be a master magician?”

William made a face. “You've been reading too much folklore, Gray. Drake was a minister's son.”

“True. However, according to legend, Drake stopped the Armada by calling a grand coven to raise a Channel storm.”