Maggie Bright (24 page)

“He’s gone crackers,” said an awestruck Curtis.

“He’s already crackers,” said Griggs, rising.

“Not like this,” said Curtis, horrified.

It was hard to say, exactly, what Milton was doing.

Trying to match body parts to corpses was a good guess.

He worked feverishly in the mangled pile before Jamie could pull himself from a momentarily appalled state.

“Milton! What are you doing? Stop that!” He put a hand on his arm, but Milton threw it off and continued his frenzied activity. “Captain Jacobs!”

It had no effect. Milton turned over a body and tried to match a severed arm to it. Jamie grabbed hold of his shoulder, and once again Milton threw him off.

“Don’t you see?” said Baylor in horrified awe. “He’s trying to save his unit. He’s trying to . . . put them back together. In his mind.”

Milton gazed about for body parts, picking them up, testing them out, discarding and trying again. If he hadn’t already unraveled, he did so now, and it shocked Jamie to inaction. Just when they thought he was getting better, just when he gave his name . . .

“My God, what do we do?” Baylor put his hands on his head. “How would the psychiatrists deal with this? Anything we do could have dire repercussions!”

“Oh, sod this.” Griggs stepped over the mouth-skewed corpse and picked his way through to Milton. He grabbed a handful of Milton’s jacket, twisting it into his grip, then dragged him backward, bumping over debris and the corpse out into the street, well clear of the macabre mess, where he threw him off with more force than needed.

Baylor followed, saying, “Freud would say he’s undergoing
 
—”

“Shut it, Baylor!” Jamie went to Milton and warily went to a knee, waiting first to see if he would pull away at the hand on his shoulder, then checking under his bandage when he didn’t. “Hope you haven’t buggered those stitches.”

“Who
 
—me or him?” said Griggs, lighting up a cigarette.

“Both of you!” Jamie shouted.

Milton sat, breathing hard. He made no move to get back to the bombed men, but that face
 
—maybe Jamie expected what he saw in the moonlit bedroom, just haggard misery. This was something else. Milton’s face was utterly blank.

Jamie tilted his head up. He pushed up the eyelids to look into
his eyes. Patted his cheeks. “Come on, what’s the matter with you? Wake up.” It was like Milton wasn’t even there.

He never thought he’d want to see that misery again. This blankness was far worse. He let him go, and looked to the sea. Wait till they got to the beaches, the man said? How bad was it? What would Milton do then?

“Will you stop making this so hard?” Jamie all but shouted. “What am I supposed to do, blindfold you on that beach?” After a moment, with less heat, “Come on. Up we go.” Baylor went to the other side and helped get him up.

“Did you notice, the whole time he was about that horrible business he didn’t quote any Milton?” Baylor said an hour later, pushing up his glasses. “Hasn’t since. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

“I just want to get him home. I want to be done with him.”
He’ll be hers, then.

They’d found a spot to fall out and eat pilchards and plums before they got to the beach, a relatively rubble-free bus stop at a street corner, and Balantine even found a tin of Carnation milk that must have fallen from the sack of someone on a foraging spree. They shared it around.

“This tastes absolutely smashing,” said Baylor with his mouth full, passing the tin. “And I hate milk and fish.”

“Then you haven’t had pilchards the way my mother makes ’em,” said Balantine, wiping his mouth. “She serves them in a mash, spread on toast. Salt, pepper, herbs. Brilliant.”

“Sounds disgusting,” said Griggs, who couldn’t bear to go without being contrary for long.

Tired as they were, no one could sit, except for Milton and for Jamie who sat beside him, making him eat. The men watched soldiers and civilians hurrying about in different directions, and listened for the Stukas.

“Make an awful noise when they dive,” Balantine commented, gazing under his hand toward the beach.

“I believe he’s suffered a setback,” said Baylor, watching Milton. “He was doing much better earlier.”

“Baylor, would you just
 
—?” The fact that Jamie refrained from finishing the sentence was apology enough for his earlier eruption. He was used to telling Griggs to shut up, but not Baylor.

“Sorry.”

Jamie tossed aside Milton’s empty tin, and got up to stand beside Baylor.

“I’m worried about the beaches,” he said, low enough so the others couldn’t hear. “We’re heading into nothing good, and I don’t know what will happen to him. I don’t know how he’ll react. I wish we could . . . drug him or something. Have you got anything like that?”

“No. But don’t worry, I’ll help you with him. There’s something about him, isn’t there?”

Sometimes he wished Baylor didn’t say things so openly. But he was glad someone else felt it. “Yeah,” he said.

“I want to read
Paradise Lost
again, with completely new eyes. It says something about epic poetry, don’t you think? It takes things out of our hearts.”

“Baylor, if my mates thought I might agree with you, they’d beat me up.”

“I’d hold you down,” Griggs said, passing by and flipping up the back of Baylor’s helmet.

“Griggs, you are a twice-uncircumcised Philistine,” Baylor observed, righting his helmet and his glasses, “yet, you do have your qualities.”

“Twice? How is that possible?” said Jamie.

“I wanted emphasis.”

“Come on, let’s go,” said Balantine. “We’re almost there, I can see the Channel through those buildings. Fall in.” He waited until
they were in usual formation, started walking, then stopped and turned. He briefly looked each in the eye. “Whatever happens, we stick together, right?”

“Yeah, you said that once,” Griggs complained. “Never met such a group of women.”

“I’m glad you’re the prettiest,” said Jamie. “Lots of men on that beach.
We
won’t get bothered.”

“Oh shut it, Elliott. It’s the captain who’s the prettiest but I don’t think they’ll fancy a lunatic.”

Another time, not long ago, Jamie would’ve had a go at him. This time he only said, “Well, then you’re twice safe.”

Even Curtis laughed.

And Milton, first time talking since the bombed-out storefront, said softly, “What in me is dark, illumine. What is low
 
—”

“Raise and support,” the others chorused. A delighted Baylor added, “Well done, Milty! You’re back!”

WILLIAM PERCY PULLED
into Elliott’s Boatyard and parked on the other side of the lorry. He turned off the engine and rested his wrists on the steering wheel. He couldn’t see
Maggie Bright
from here; she was at her berth at the end of the dock, obstructed from view by the boathouse.

He had no logical reason to be here, yet he couldn’t stay away.

The operation, day before last, had gone well. Quite well, in fact.
It was boring,
one of the surgeons had told them in an effort to ease their minds.
Just how we like it.

The infection surrounding the spleen had been cleared out, and part of the spleen was removed
 
—they were assured that Clare would get along fine with a partial spleen. Then the surgeon said, with the first hint of gravity, that now all they had to do was wait for several days to make sure no vestige of infection had entered her bloodstream. She was allowed no visitors during that time.

He got out of the car and pocketed his keys, shutting the car door. He jingled the keys in his pocket, looking around. He heard singing, wasn’t sure where it came from.

What could he say to explain his presence? He’d known her less than a week.

He had the keys out of his pocket and the car door opened, when something about the boatyard made him look again. Where was John Elliott’s fishing trawler? And the ratty house tug they had commandeered from the old recluse to follow after
Maggie Bright
? What about the Chris Craft vessel with the mahogany hull, laid up in dry dock?

Mrs. Shrewsbury came singing around the corner of the boathouse, wearing a dress and a hat, carrying gloves and a purse. She stopped short when she saw him and waved enthusiastically.

William cursed under his breath and produced a wave.

“Hello, Detective Inspector!” she sang as she approached. “I was just on my way to St. Mark’s to pray for Clare, and the BEF, and Captain John, and Minor Roberts. Would you care to join me?”

Minor Roberts
 
—the recluse who owned the ratty house tug. Handy in a pinch, that man.

“Actually, is Murray about?” he asked, the first thing that came to mind to get out of it. He shut the car door.

“Yes, he’s on the
Maggie Bright
, in the bow.
Drawing
,” she added significantly, leaning in with a raised brow. “I couldn’t resist a
very
clandestine peek, and there he was for the first time in five months: Rocket Kid.” She withdrew, beaming, as if William should know what she was talking about and rejoice.

“Oh. Yes. He’s an illustrator or something. Well, I best get along then. Got a bit of news for him about Father Fitzpatrick.”

“He’s to be released?”

“This afternoon.”

“Wonderful!”

“Butterfield will pick him up from the American embassy and bring him by. They are making arrangements to get him home to the States.”

“Arrangements for the States. Think of it: ordinary travel plans. Isn’t it lovely that we are all carrying on just as if the barbarian were
not
at the gates? I must pick up a cake for the dear Burglar Vicar, and just think of that: an ordinary cake. Of course, I’m sure I have a far better recipe, but that awful galley stove does not deliver consistent heat. Not for a cake. It shall be a Dundee cake, then. Oh, you must come for the cake, Mr. Percy! Mr. Butterfield, too. We’ll have a regular party.” She put a hand to her cheek. “
Such
a pity that Clare cannot be here. And that man. She’s the heart of the boat, and I do believe Maggie misses her. Well, there’s nothing for it. Stiff upper lip.” She gave a firm nod. “Off I go. Infection doesn’t stand a chance, all the prayers that have gone up in this land. Heaven is stormed, Mr. Percy, and our prayers for Clare ride some very formidable coattails. I wish I could actually
see
it, the whole cosmic scope, as my Cecil does. Right, then. I will see you soon, Inspector.” She started off.

“Mrs. Shrewsbury
 
—what did you mean, to pray for Captain John and Minor Roberts?”

She stopped short, surprised. “Haven’t you heard? They’ve gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Why, Mr. Tough from the Teddington boatyard came by the other day
 
—the day our Clare was in surgery. They’re collecting boats. Bringing them down to South End. He had a weather eye upon Maggie and other worthies.”

“For what?”

“Well, no one knows
exactly
, though they can’t think we are complete idiots, can they? All the things we’re hearing from Dover and Ramsgate? Surely . . .” She softened, gazing toward the boatyard, likely at the place where Captain John’s trawler had been. “Surely, for an heroic venture. ‘Awake, awake, English nobility . . .’” Then she
smiled at him. “Shakespeare. Henry VI. What must be borne shall be borne, and we shall fight on. Yes, Inspector?”

“Yes, Mrs. Shrewsbury.”

“Good day, then.”

He touched his hat. “Good day.”

She started off.

“Mrs. Shrewsbury!”

She turned, and he never felt more foolish in his life because it was one thing to bandy words with a fevered woman, quite another with a lucid woman off for church and Dundee cake.

“How do you suppose prayer works?”

Mrs. Shrewsbury tilted her head, very interested. “What a wonderful question. I’m not sure how it works. I can say what I believe it
does
. I believe prayer kicks things out of the way. I believe it does so to make room for a better outcome. I believe prayer illuminates our paths so we can see more clearly, choose our way more wisely.”

“Clare spoke of a shatterer, that it has come against us.” Good Lord, what was he trying to say? He gripped the car keys short of puncturing skin.

“Did she?” She came a few steps back, her expression thoughtful. He didn’t like that thoughtfulness. She shouldn’t take him seriously. “Well, why do you think the king has called for prayer?”

“I say shatterer, and you seem to know what I’m talking about.”

“We all go to war, Mr. Percy. You shall go to war, and so shall I.” Then the stark-blue eyes crinkled into a smile. “And I shall doubtless come again rejoicing, bringing my Dundee cake with me. Good day to you, sir.”

“Good day.”

He watched her leave.

She had a bit of Clare in her. Something spellbinding.

He was here because she was right. Clare was the heart of the boat, and that is where he wanted to keep vigil. And if he wasn’t sure he
believed as she, that prayer could actually
do
something, he was glad Mrs. Shrewsbury was praying.

Murray was in the bow, but he wasn’t drawing. He sat on a coil of rope, a drawing pad and pencils at his feet. He watched the river.

“Three boats missing,” said William. “It’s a small boatyard. You feel it.”

Murray looked over, but didn’t answer.

William sat on a sail locker. “May I have a look?” he asked of the open drawing pad.

Murray shrugged. He pushed the pad over with his toe.

William did not know art, but these drawings were good. Very good, in fact. He flipped through a few pages.

“So this is the famous Rocket Kid.”

Murray didn’t answer.

He read the captions and studied the drawings. He chuckled. “Good to see justice
som
e
where. If Hitler saw these, you’d be enemy number one on the Nazi hit list.” He looked closer at one particular drawing. “I don’t think they’d fancy . . . whatever it is this fellow is doing to Hitler.”

“Zappin’ his guts out with a ray gun,” Murray murmured.

“And all of this is . . . ?”

Murray looked. “His guts flyin’ out. Kids like guts. Editors don’t. Sam will ax the guts, but before he does, I want the colorist to see it. He’ll love it. We think alike. Then afterward, we’ll have ourselves a requiem for the axed guts.”

“A requiem?”

“A wake to say good-bye to the good stuff.”

“Who’s this little fellow? He has some . . .
guts
on him.”

“Salamander.”

He handed back the drawing pad. He found a pack of uncrushed
cigarettes in his pocket and offered one to Murray. Murray cupped his hand around William’s lighter, and withdrew. He lit one for himself and they smoked in silence, watching the waters of the Thames.

William closed his eyes. He could actually feel her here. This boat was so her, everything about it, the paper Chinese lanterns, the decorated
Bed and Breakfast
sign, all so light and free-spirited, so aching to spread canvas to the wind, and yet held at anchor for a time. The first woman to single-handedly circumnavigate the world, she’d said at the restaurant; so declarative and projecting
 
—to think he once thought it perversely naive and boasting. It was utterly sincere.

“Why are you here, bobby?”

“Because she’s here.” His eyes flew open. There was no recovering from that one, so he said quickly, “I’m here because the B
 
—because Father Fitzpatrick is released. He’s at the embassy for travel arrangements. My associate is picking him up and will bring him by.” He added, “I saw Mrs. Shrewsbury. She’s getting a cake for him.”

Murray half smiled.

“Butterfield is arranging for dual passage. You can accompany him, if you like.”

For the first time, Murray looked directly at him. “What if I don’t like?”

William eyed him and drew on his cigarette.

“What if I wanna stay and fight Nazis?”

An eyebrow rose. He pressed out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe, and tossed it overboard. “The other day Mrs. Shrewsbury told me you’re an isolationist. You’re in some group.”

“That was before Waldemar Klein shot Clare.”

A scalding red flash to his gut.

A boat motored by. William mustered a smile and a nod, the skipper nodded back.

“Klein killed my father?”

Another scalding flash. “Yes.”

“You know what their mistake was, bobby? They went after kids. They do that . . .” Murray shook his head. “Ain’t no politics no more.”

“That’s what your father believed.”

“Look there.” He turned and pointed with his cigarette to the base of the foremast. “That’s to honor Mags and my old man. Clare said she wanted a record of her exploits.” The number
5
stood out, carved neatly into the wood. “Our press always showed up Hitler as a joke, you know?” He flicked the cigarette overboard. “Just an empty-headed, jumped-up sad sack with these big old delusions, and we all figured it was just a matter of time before he got his butt kicked back to where it belonged.”

“That didn’t happen.”

“Now it will.” He hesitated, then said, “You think Clare’ll make it?”

“I know Mrs. Shrewsbury’s praying.” He was glad he came, just for that. She was so sure of herself. She believed prayer worked, she wasn’t the sort to go off and do it if she didn’t believe it would help, and something about that was old-fashioned, and stout, and . . . needed.

You shall go to war, and so shall I.

“Hope she’s handy that way, like with the kettle.” Murray chuckled. “You shoulda seen what she did to one of Klein’s men.”

“If you stay, what will you do?”

Murray shrugged. “I dunno. I wanna fight. Maybe join one of them foreign legion things. I can’t wait around for America to go to war.”

“You might wait a long time for that.”

“I don’t know. Roosevelt said something that stuck with me. Remember when Warsaw was bombed? And all them innocent people died? Frankie made a speech. He said even a neutral can’t be asked to close his mind or conscience. And he left it hanging, what a person should do with that. Left it to
you
to follow
your
conscience. Wasn’t sure I liked that. It was too broad, you know? Anyway, it gives me hope that America will get involved.” He looked at the drawing
pad at his feet. “And if I can’t join up someplace, there’s something I
can
do. And make people laugh at him to boot.”

“Excuse me
 
—is the owner of this vessel about?”

They looked to see a thirtysomething uniformed seaman standing at the end of the dock. He carried a clipboard.

They rose, and went to the port rail.