Maggie Bright (15 page)

She remained silent, but before it grew awkward, William Percy said, “Mr. Hillary, please get to your point
 
—I have very important business to attend to in the area, but wish to hear this business first.”

He drew himself up. “Well, it’s certainly none of yours.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Hillary,” Clare assured.

“Miss Childs, this is a private matter. I couldn’t even tell your dear uncle. I am quite uncomfortable disclosing
 
—”

And Clare laughed.

Mr. Hillary’s eyes inflated with shock.

“I’m sorry
 
—it’s just . . . Look, I’ve heard the most awful news today. Shocking and dreadful and . . . you will all know soon enough, though I suspect Captain John may know some of it already. The truth is, I don’t feel that any matter is private anymore. Not now.” She looked around at Maggie’s crew, at this young man she barely knew, at the captain and the Shrew, at the man searching for blood on his handkerchief, at the hazel-eyed man on the aft locker with the photo of his sister in his wallet. She felt a rush of affection for these friends and strangers. She could lose them all. Nothing much mattered now, except to say no to a man who kills children.

“You can disclose anything you want in front of these.” She raised her chin. “It’s a day for the worst possible news, so do your worst, Mr. Hillary.” And in her heart, she braced.

“Suit yourself, Miss Childs,” said the lawyer, with the long-suffering air of one accustomed to the poor judgment of the young. “A few weeks ago, I was filing some papers I’d received from the lawyer of Arthur Vance. And something struck me, which I believed warranted further investigation on behalf of longtime clients. You see, Mr. Vance’s lawyer had suggested that your father, Gordon Childs, was a boyhood friend of Arthur’s. He said as much in his letter. But it isn’t true.”

Clare blinked. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Your father was born and raised in Manchester. But one of the
papers, a deed of ownership transferal, stated that Arthur Vance was born in a little village called Ockham, Surrey, where he lived for many years.”

“That is odd,” said Clare slowly.

“Those places far apart?” Murray asked, looking from one to the other.

“About a country apart,” Clare said.

“Miss Childs,” said the lawyer patiently, “do you not remember?
You
were born in Surrey.”

“Well, yes, I know that. I was adopted out when I was
 
—” Clare broke off.

“You were born in Ockham.”

After a moment, William Percy said sharply, “Are you all right?”

She was clutching the locket.

“Adoption records of course are sealed,” Mr. Hillary continued, “but not the full disclosure of wills. For a shilling you can read one at the Sommers House in London. A few weeks ago, I went to London, paid the shilling, and read the will of Arthur Murray Vance. It turns out that he had left his houseboat to his firstborn. A daughter. Her name listed in the will is . . . Clare Ada Childs.”

Clare remained very still, until at last, she found the eyes of Murray Vance; she likely had the same sort of look on her face as he.

“In the event of refusal, it was to be passed on to his second born, Murray Arthur Vance, of Bartlett, New York. For reasons unknown, Arthur had instructed his lawyer to say that the behest came from a boyhood friend of Gordon Childs. In any correspondence, you were never referred to as anything other than the daughter of his boyhood friend.”

“My old man got around,” Murray said softly to Clare, adding a quick artificial grin. “Prob’ly one of us in every port.”

“
That
was unnecessary, young man.” Mr. Hillary gave him a very stern look. “Perhaps it’s how you talk in America. It isn’t done here,
and not to my client.” He turned to Clare. “I gave it long thought, and decided you should know.
I
would have wanted to.”

“Well. It’s good to know this
now
, isn’t it?” said the Shrew, hands on her hips. “I had you two married off, but this is even better
 
—his
blood
runs in your veins. Right, then; would anyone like some tea? I’ll just go make some. That and a few digestives seem just the thing.” On the way to the companion hatch, she gave Clare’s shoulder a quick squeeze, said quietly, “We’ll sort it out later, my dear,” and went below.

“You need not pay back the shilling,” Mr. Hillary said magnanimously.

“How do you like being the daughter of a two-timin’ snake?” Murray said.

“Now see here,” Mr. Hillary began severely.

William Percy rose. “She’s the daughter of a national hero.”

Murray rose. “Must be you’re talkin’ about her adopted daddy. On behalf of my ma, ain’t no one callin’ my old man a hero in front of me.” He looked him up and down with clear disdain. “Who are you again? Some kinda bobby?”

“Detective Inspector William Percy. Scotland Yard.”

“Yeah? Why don’t you go solve a crime?”

“Murray,” Clare began. “He’s here because
 
—”

“What did you say I already knew?” asked Captain John, the anxious expression from this morning on his face. “Do you know anything about my Jamie?”

Clare hesitated, then said carefully, “It appears that the army is in desperate straits.”

“
Who
is in desperate straits?” asked Mr. Hillary, twisting to have a look at everyone.

“The BEF,” said Percy. “They are cut off and surrounded. The entire army.”

“What?” cried Mr. Hillary, jumping to his feet. “Impossible! I haven’t read this in the newspapers! I haven’t heard it on the wireless!”

“Belgium is all but finished. They are expected to surrender anytime. For France, it could be a matter of days.”

“But we are allies!” said Mr. Hillary. “France would never surrender!”

“No,” said Percy grimly. “But they will fall.”

“Great scott! What’s to become of England? There’s no one left! Mussolini is an onerous piece of tripe, and if Roosevelt is anything like his sorry ambassador, then
 
—”

“Please,” said Captain John, looking from Clare to Percy. “Do you know anything of the Queen’s 9th Lancers? Only, I haven’t heard from Jamie in weeks.”

“Nothing, I’m afraid,” said Percy. “I do know they’re converging on Dunkirk, and that a rescue operation
is
under way. My brother-in-law serves under Admiral Ramsay. Best stay close to the wireless. The king is sure to make an announcement soon.” To Clare, he said, “I’m going to canvass the area and ask if anyone has seen Klein.”

“Mr. Percy, I’ve thought of something
 
—I do have an extra cabin. It’s filled with junk, but I could clear it for you.”

“Thanks, but I noticed the Anderson shelter at the boathouse. I’ll stay there. Better vantage. He’d have to pass by me to get to
 
—the
Maggie Bright
.”

“Wait. Who’s Klein?” asked Murray.

“Oh, dear me,” said Mr. Hillary, shoving his handkerchief in his pocket. “I must get home. I must see to my dog. I must cycle out my Anderson perishables. Must get the mail, and I have an order at the butcher’s.” He quickly made his way off the boat, and hurried down the dock.

“Mr. Hillary!” Clare called. “Thank you for coming!” He didn’t answer.

“My good fellow,” Percy said to Captain John, “would you mind terribly if, for a few days, I posed about your boatyard as a hired hand? Perhaps as a fisherman?”

“Wait, Mr. Percy.” Clare looked at his clothing. “I think a yacht
owner would be far more plausible. You fit that bill much more believably. There is that lovely little
Argo
in dry dock, Captain John, the Chris Craft with the beautiful mahogany hull; perhaps Mr. Percy could pretend to work on it. Act as though he’s readying it for the water.”

“I haven’t the faintest what you’re talking about,” said Captain John, bemused.

“Yeah
 
—what’s goin’ on?” Murray asked.

“I’ll leave you to Miss Childs for that,” Percy said to Murray. He looked at Clare, and his eyes briefly held hers. Then he turned to Captain John. “Come, my good fellow, I will tell you what little I know. You’ll likely read about the BEF before the day is out, but there is another matter, about a man named Klein.”

When they stepped from the boarding plank to the dock, Clare heard Percy say cheerily, “You’re an old navy sod, correct? Well, as far as the BEF is concerned, they’ve got the entire Royal Navy on the job, pulling in destroyers from everywhere. The navy to the rescue of the army
 
—now that must be a very entertaining thought. . . .”

With one of Maggie’s crew in the keeping of William Percy, whom she felt to be another, Clare called down the hatch, “Mrs. Shrew, can we take tea up here?” She couldn’t go below. She had to be in the bow, near the foremast where she loved Maggie most. She had to be in the open air, facing south, where the hope of England lay on a foreign, embattled shore.

“Certainly,” the Shrew called up. “How many? I heard some go off.”

“Three. Counting you.”

“Righty, then.”

For the first time, brother and sister were alone.

“No wonder you’re good-lookin’,” Murray quipped.

“No wonder you talk so much.” They regarded one another for a moment, and Clare blurted, “Maggie is just as much yours as she is mine.”

“Nah
 
—for once, my old man did the right thing.”

“Oh, Murray
 
—he’s done so much more than that. I don’t know where to start.” She hesitated. “Please, I would like to . . . If it’s not . . . Do you mind?” And she stepped closer. How very strange to see some of the same traits she saw in the mirror.

Hesitating, she touched his cheek, for the set of the face was hers. The bridge of his nose, the shape of the nostrils. His eye color was a deeper brown, but the way his eyes turned downward slightly at the edges . . .

“The worst day of my life is turning out to be one of the best,” she said.

A charming grin came, as if he’d held it back. “Ain’t it a kick? Can’t wait to tell the Fitz. Say
 
—what did the bobby mean? Who’s Klein?”

“Murray, I have to know
 
—what was the photograph that changed your friend?”

“What?” he said, confused. “Oh
 
—the senator. Boy, we must be related. You don’t stay on track.”

“I hope it changed him for the good.” Her breath caught. “I saw a picture today. I have to know I’ll come out all right.”

Eyeing her, he put his hands in his pockets and jingled change. Then he looked up at the top of the mainmast. “Come on. Let’s go forward. I like it best, there.”

“Me too,” she said, surprised.

They sat next to each other on the locker near the foremast, watching the east-flowing waters of the Thames.

This young man was her brother.

She couldn’t absorb it. It was too enormous.

“About that picture,” Murray said. “They said I should read the papers to get ideas for my work, and I did, and maybe political satire is where the dough is but I figured out it ain’t me. So I do my own thing, but one guy got my attention when I was lookin’ into
politics
 
—Senator George Norris, Nebraska. Old Georgie pie was all isolationism and noninterventionism up ’til Shanghai. Changed when he saw a picture of a baby.”

Erich von Wechsler’s face came laughing before her.

“The picture’s called
Bloody Saturday
. You prob’ly seen it. A baby’s sittin’ all alone in bombed-out Shanghai, when the Japanese took the Chinese by surprise. It was all over in the papers and newsreels. He’s just sitting there, cryin’. All by himself.”

“I remember.” No one could forget it.

“Norris changed after that.”

“For the good, do you think?”

“Some said no, some said yes. But you know what I liked? He followed his conscience. Didn’t care what any party said. I got two questions:
A
, what picture did you see today, and
B
, what about that Klein fella?” He jerked his thumb to where William Percy had gone. “Why’s he got that bobby all Eliot Ness?”

“Who?”

“Ness? Guy who got Capone?”

“Oh. Capone the crime lord.” Clare’s stomach fluttered. “Capone’s a fairy godmother compared to Waldemar Klein. Murray
 
—did you know that your father had been working with Scotland Yard? That Maggie had been used to save lives? Did you know that they’re killing defenseless children, the ones they say have no use in society? The picture is one of those children.”

He watched a seagull alight on a dock piling. “I knew. The Fitz told me. Rocket Kid saved ’em.”

“What do you mean?”

He gave a short chuckle. “People thought I stopped drawing. I got a whole stack of unpublished strips where Rocket Kid and Salamander save them kids, and Hitler and the Nazis get theirs, and I think it’s some of my best work. But guess what? It’s all fiction.”

She shrugged. “You try to make things right, with your work.
What’s so bad about that?” She muttered darkly, “‘It’s all fiction.’ Nonsense! I see shades of my uncle in that.”

Murray went still. “Say that again.”

“I see shades of
 
—”