Maggie Bright (10 page)

While two of the men
 
—Griggs and a bloke named Curtis
 
—acted like Christmas came early with a new toy to sport with, the other three
 
—Balantine, Grayling, and Baylor
 
—were the regular, decent sort who showed appropriate concern for Milton, especially when they learned he was in for the Victoria Cross. Baylor, who’d had some medical training, had unwrapped the bandage and cleaned the wound. He admired the stitch work of the Belgian doctor and pronounced it a gruesome work of art. When Jamie asked if the skull around the wound seemed dodgy, as the doctor seemed to think, Baylor gingerly applied pressure with his fingertips. He didn’t seem to like the result any more than the doctor.

“Seems a bit spongy.” He had looked at Milton with more concern than before. “He shouldn’t be walking around, that’s for sure. His skull is likely fractured, and his brain could be swelling. No idea how to set a skull. Don’t let him wear his helmet anymore. It’s too heavy.”

At the top of the stairs was a hall. The door at the end of the hall was open. He saw moonlight.

He came into the room, pushing the door wide.

It looked like a child’s bedroom. One bed against one wall, another against the opposite. In the middle of the room was a dormer window, with a small desk. From the window came a brilliant stream of silver moonlight. Milton sat on a small chair he had placed in the moonpath.

Very strange, the clumping footfalls of a heavy British Army boot in a quiet French bedroom. He could never have imagined where he’d be, one year earlier. Never imagined himself an invader of privacy, even if the residents were not home. Felt like they were.

“Captain?”

He came alongside the captain, who gazed at the moon. Dark hair tufted from the white bandage, which in the moonlight wash had a lavender tinge. The moonlight made the shadows beneath his eyes deeper, greenish; his lips, the color of pewter. He looked positively done in. He shouldn’t even be upright, looking like that.

For the first time, a nudge of real worry came. How bad was that head, on the inside?

“Here’s an idea: next time, just lie there quietly and say your lines to yourself. You won’t break things, and people will sleep. What do you say, Cap? Speaking of, wish you’d come to your ranking-officer senses
 
—this lot could use a captain. The bloke below us is
reading
. Can you believe it? On watch? Dunn would kill him on the spot.”

The captain gazed at the moon, his fingers twisting the wedding ring in place. Then Jamie realized why he seemed to appear extra wretched
 
—he looked as if he had come fresh from finding out about his men. Battered sorrow lay heavy upon the moonwashed face.

Jamie sat on the bed closest, coiled springs squeaking. He watched the twisting ring.

“Tell me about her, Milton.”

He didn’t answer, though Jamie noticed a falter in the ring twisting.

“She’d know what to do with you, mate,” Jamie said softly. “She’d know what to say if you’d lost your . . .” And though he couldn’t bring himself to finish it aloud, the ring twisting stopped.

Jamie gazed at the ring. What would his father do? He’d know what to say. He was good with people.

He rested back on his elbows. He looked about the room.

“Do you know what, Milty? I’m gonna open a pub someday. I came to it on watch one night, few months back. I’ve got it all planned out. It’ll be a nice place, a place you can get a decent meal, cheap. Comfortable, warm, great lovely fireplace, with a mantel I’ll make myself. I’d like to open it on the street that ends at my dad’s
boatyard, except for one problem
 
—there’s a place there already. Evelyn’s. I could never give her the competition, I’d go straight to hell
 
—she’s the kindest soul you’ll ever meet. And yeah, it’s true
 
—no one can beat her puddings. But mine would be a
different
sort of place. Hers is more of a café. Mine, I want more manly. Mine, I want a cup on the counter for folks to toss in change for those down on their luck, and there’s sure to be those after the war. I want a place where a man can come in, order a plate of chips and fried fish like he had pockets of money, enjoy it like a king, and if he’s flat broke, he can leave without paying, no questions asked. We’ll just take it out of the cup.”

The ring twisting started again.

“But do you know what’s the centerpiece of my place? It’s a very modern wireless, maybe a top-of-the-line Ekco, right at the end of the bar where folks can gather with their pipes and mugs and listen to King George tell how Lord Gort came back in mighty force and whipped Hitler and all his men. This isn’t the end, you see, this running for England. I know it in my heart.”

The captain’s fingers stilled.

“And I want you there, with your wife and kids, when the king tells us this war is over, and your men and the little girls in that ditch have been avenged. You and I will look at each other across the room, and we’ll lift our mugs.” He swallowed hard. “I think you quote Milton because your heart is broken, mate, not your head.”

A look of anguish passed over the moonwashed face.

“Look, I’m going on too much. Let me just say this and I’ll shut up forever: You lost your squad of men. That’s the worst thing in the world. But you
saved
another. And that’s the best. You keep that close, captain.”

The lavender lips twitched, and then a sound came from the captain, a strange, guttural clicking sound. He shifted in his chair, his fists grew white, his body seemed to stiffen, and at first Jamie feared
a fit, feared the man was choking. Jamie shot up, unsure what to do, should he run for Baylor, should he
 
—?

“J-J-J-J
 
—”

“Milton! You all right?”

“J-J-J-J
 
—Jacobs,” he gasped. The fists relaxed, and he sat exhausted. “Jacobs.”

Jamie stood very still. After a moment, he eased back onto the bed.

“Well. Good to know you, Captain Jacobs,” he said softly.

One painfully stammered word was all he could manage to deliberately speak, yet Milton’s words flowed from the captain’s lips easy as moonlight fell on his face.

And this time, the captain spoke with unusual grace.

“Half yet remains unsung.” He lifted his face to the moon. “Good he made thee, but to persevere he left it in thy power
 
—ordained thy will by nature free, not over-ruled by fate.” He half turned to Jamie. “God towards thee hath done his part
 
—do thine.”

He seemed to expect a response.

Jamie shrugged. “Sure. Will do.”

But the captain reached and clutched a handful of Jamie’s jacket. He shook him. “God towards thee hath done his part
 
—do thine.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll do my part.”

“God towards thee hath done his part.” A tighter clutch, more insistent shaking, and now a build of anxiety. “Do thine. Do thine!”

“I don’t know what my part is! You’ve got to calm down, you’ll only
 
—”

Wait.

If
he
made it, if
Jamie
made it, then maybe to Captain Jacobs, it would be as if his men did.

Jacobs would have gotten someone home. Jamie’s part was to get home.

“Someone’s got to open that pub,” he said quickly.

The captain closed his eyes. His hand dropped away, and he lifted his face to the moonlight.

Jamie said, “Come on, mate. Upsadaisy. Lots of walky-walky tomorrow. Let’s rest that buggered head while we can. Nope, turn around, this way
 
—two steps, right over here. Easy now. There we are. See? When’s the last time you slept in a bed? Who knows, Milty
 
—perhaps by this time tomorrow, we’ll be in sight of home. I wonder where you live. Maybe that can be your next word.”

Jamie went to the bed opposite and dragged a coverlet from it. By the time he draped it over the captain, he was asleep.

“Good night, Captain Jacobs.”

He stood over him for a moment, then went and settled in the chair, and lifted his face to the moonlight.

As you are no doubt aware, the scene has darkened swiftly. . . . If necessary, we shall continue the war alone and we are not afraid of that. But I trust you realize, Mr. President, that the voice and force of the United States may count for nothing if they are withheld too long. You may have a completely subjugated, Nazified Europe established with astonishing swiftness, and the weight may be more than we can bear.

 
—NOTE FROM CHURCHILL TO ROOSEVELT,
May 15, 1940

At the moment it looks like the greatest military disaster in all history.

 
—DIARY ENTRY OF GENERAL SIR EDMUND IRONSIDE,
May 17, 1940

The unthinkable must sometimes be thought about.

 
—JOHN LUKACS,
Five Days in London: May 1940

CLARE CAME OUT OF
the police station and hurried down the steps. She stopped at the bottom and grabbed the iron handrail. The pebbled glisten of the pavement caught her in a momentary trance.

It will change you,
Murray had said of the packet.
It will change everything.

Oh, why had she come? Why hadn’t she listened to Murray?

She came to herself, clutched her jacket together, and started walking.

It’s supposed to prove something that cannot be true.

“No,” she whispered fiercely, panic on the rise. “It cannot.”

The people on the street, the buildings and the automobiles, the very color of the air
 
—all took on a menacing cast. All was poison and darkness and lost and hopeless if
 
—

The walking broke to a run.

Oh, Murray! No wonder you chose isolation!

She had to get to him as fast as she could; she had to tell him she understood . . . Where was the bus stop? She stopped short
 
—and someone from behind knocked her flat.

“Oh, gosh
 
—awfully sorry!” he said. “Are you all right, miss? Here, let me help you up. Goodness, what a tumble. Nothing broken? Here’s your purse, here’s your hat
 
—quite a smart hat it is. Good job my sister isn’t about, she’d pinch it in a second. I should pinch it for her. Well, you’re quite a runner, Miss Childs. Didn’t expect that.”

Clare paused in brushing off her pleated skirt, and looked at the man. He was dressed for the office, early thirties, rather boyish face, very light-colored hazel eyes. He touched his fedora.

“William Percy. Scotland Yard, Westminster. We followed you from the police station. This is my associate, Frederick Butterfield.” His associate, a shorter and rather portly fellow in a checkered vest and a bowler hat, came chugging up.

“There’s a new tack,” the older gentleman gasped. “Knock ’em off their feet. Splendid, Percy, we’ll put that in the manual.”

“Awfully sorry about that,” Percy said with a wince. “Are you quite all right?”

“Perfectly,” said Clare.

“And you are Clare Childs?”

She looked from one to the other. “What’s this about?”

“Why did you run?” said Butterfield, breathing hard.

“Why are you following me?”

William Percy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You seem upset, Miss Childs.”

“I am upset!”

“Yes, you might be,” he said, “if you learned anything from the priest.”

She looked again from one to the other. “I won’t believe it. It’s impossible.” But the unchanging looks on their faces said something else. “It would mean others had gone along with it,” she found herself
trying to explain. “That makes it impossible. I couldn’t hear another word, I had to leave. Anyone decent would.”

“Have you seen this man?”

Percy reached inside his suit coat and took out a cream-colored envelope. He took a photograph from it and handed it to her. She studied the image of a man in a busy place, a train station or someplace else with a lot of people. He was looking over his shoulder. High cheekbones, thin face, thin hair. The image was a bit streaky, she couldn’t tell his age. Somewhere above thirty, below sixty.

“No.”

“Are you sure? You haven’t seen him about Elliott’s Boatyard? Or your uncle’s bookshop?”

She eyed William Percy, and then studied the photograph again. “Quite sure. I’ve never seen him. Who is he? What’s this all about?”

“He wants the same thing your vicar wants, for a very different reason,” said Butterfield. “Can we go someplace to talk, Miss Childs?”

“We’re doing fine right here.”

“There’s a café right across the street,” said Percy. “Right in shouting distance of the police station.”

“You can always run,” said Butterfield. “You’re good at that.”

“I kept up,” Percy said mildly.

“I don’t want tea.” She wanted to beg Murray’s forgiveness, though at the moment she didn’t know why.

“They do have nice biscuits,” said Butterfield. “Fresh made, every day. Lovely cottage pie. Of course, it’s not pie time . . . unless we can convince them.” One eyebrow rose conspiratorially. “Shall we give it a go? It’s an absolute restorative. I’m not in this part of town often enough.”

“Might be a good thing,” Percy commented.

She stared from one to the other. These men had no idea she was one second from a complete psychotic breakdown.

“Look
 
—just say what you have to say quickly. I need to catch a bus.”

Percy nodded at the photograph in her hand. “That man wants a parcel of papers that Arthur Vance may have hidden on his boat. He must not get them.”

“It’s not there. Same as I told the vicar. I’ve gone over every inch.”

“So have we.” He added, “Before the boat was yours, of course.”

She studied the photograph. “What does he want it for? Father Fitzpatrick wants to bring it back to the States and give it to a congressman.”

“This man wants it for Hitler.”

Clare stared at William Percy.

“Arthur Vance died to keep it from him.”

She looked at the picture.

“Vance was working with us. Until he was murdered.”

Clare handed back the photograph. “I’ll have that tea now.”

Most people found it fascinating when she told of her plans to be the first woman to single-handedly circumnavigate the globe in a ketch-rigged yacht. Not William Percy.

He gave no sign he was the least bit impressed, offered no polite comment or inquiry, and she found this deliberate disinterest off-putting and rude. Frederick Butterfield, on the other hand, was charmed.

“Oh, well done!” he exclaimed. “How very thrilling. You’re sure to have some marvelous adventures. Always thought it would be quite exciting to round Cape Horn on some replica of a clipper ship, myself. Lashed to the foremast for fun.”

The three sat at a table along the street side of the restaurant, where the police station was perfectly framed in the window.

William Percy once again took the cream-colored envelope out of
his inside jacket pocket and laid it on the table. He produced a small notepad and a pencil and laid these neatly beside the envelope. His movements were just so, she noted. Surely the uptight sort.

“Such a lovely boat you have, the
Maggie Bright
.” Butterfield poured tea for Clare. “Didn’t I say so, Will? Belongs in the Royal Yacht Club. You can sail, then, Miss Childs?”

“Well
 
—not quite. I’m taking night classes in London. Navigation, twice a week.” She would not tell them she’d only recently managed to pin down a barter for the lessons, promising to take the instructor’s elderly parents for cruises on the Thames during the summer.

“Why, you ought to talk to William, here,” said Butterfield.

“Do you sail?” Clare said, surprised.

“I should say,” said Butterfield. “Won a race in some posh little yachtie affair last year. Who was it that sponsored you?”

“The Royal Yacht Club,” Percy said. He laid his hand flat on the envelope. A curious little action. After a moment, he said rather peevishly, “Look, I have a difficult time with pleasantries when I am in no mood for them.”

“William,” said Butterfield.

Percy glanced at him, surprised, then looked at Clare and said, “Oh. Sorry.” If he stopped there it would have been fine, but he had to add, “Didn’t mean to say it aloud.”

“Oh, I’m not fond of pleasantries either.” Clare gave a frosty smile. “Especially if they’re unpleasant.” She looked at the envelope. “What else is in there, then?”

Later, she would remember William Percy’s hand upon the envelope.

Their story came in bits and pieces, or maybe that’s how Clare took it in. It’s hard not to think in patches when the world goes off a cliff.

She pressed her fingertips on her forehead, averting her eyes from the three photographs that Percy had taken from the envelope and laid out in a neat line.

“Biscuits are a bit stale today,” Butterfield said unhappily. “And no pie.”

Percy poured tea for Clare. “Might be a good thing.”

“I don’t care.” He lifted his chin. “I shall never have a torso like yours.”

“
Torso
.” Percy passed the sugar to Clare. “Such an odd word.”

How could they speak so conversationally; how could they pour tea?

“Tell me, please,” she said, trying desperately to get her bearings and starting with something more manageable, “why exactly is the Burglar Vicar locked up if you
know
he is innocent?”

“Burglar Vicar, is that what you call him?” said Butterfield, appreciatively. “I like it much better than the Thieving Priest. Oh, he’s a lamb. Adore the man. Of course, we must adore him from a distance.”

“We’re using him as bait, you see,” said Percy, rather too cheerfully. He tapped the first photograph in the line of three, the one he’d shown to her on the street. “We hope our man will show up to visit the priest.”

Something finally made sense, and she looked accusingly from Butterfield to Percy. “Thieving Priest. I suppose
you
had planted in the papers that the BV had made off with ‘a mysterious package.’ We wondered where they’d got that.”

“I have a friend at the
Daily Mirror
,” Percy said, and gave a tight little unflattering smile.

“Well, I certainly wasn’t
tearfu
l
,” she retorted. “Positively humiliating.” She looked at the photograph of the man. “What’s his name again?”

“Waldemar Klein,” said Butterfield. His tone became less congenial. “He wants that packet quite desperately. We’d been watching your boat, hoping Klein would surface, and then along came the
American priest. Didn’t know what to make of him at first. Thought he might be working with Klein.”

Clare steadfastly ignored the other two photographs. She wished they would put them away.

“But an English bishop, whom we’d rather not name,” Butterfield continued, “another lamb whom we adore
 
—”

“Oh, honestly, Fred,” Percy snapped.

“
 
—had learned of his arrest because of the very useful Thieving Priest publicity, and came forward to tell us otherwise; unknown to us, Arthur Vance took matters into his own hands. Got hold of your Burglar Vicar to come to his aid. Didn’t think the authorities were doing enough.”

“We weren’t doing enough,” Percy said.

“We were,” Butterfield said carefully, “but in a different way. In a broader sense.”

“Why else would he have acted alone?”

Butterfield patted his mouth with his napkin. “Let’s not argue in front of company, William.”

A flush rose in Percy’s face. “Arthur Vance did something real. What have we done?”

“He acted independently.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. He saved lives.”

“Yes. Admirable. And it got him killed. Can we remember that part? No more saving lives for him. Might have saved many more, had we worked together.”

Clare watched the exchange, fascinated and completely confused.

“He saw what’s coming, Fred,” said Percy in a curiously private tone. He ran his middle fingertip along the rim of the teacup, round and round. She took the chance to observe him. He reminded her of Murray Vance in the cab, when he’d stared out the window and went to a place where no one else was invited. Like Murray, he seemed to be decent enough, and like Murray, he had little peculiarities
 
—that
fiddling with the teacup, the way he’d laid out the things on the table. The way he’d laid out the photographs.