Maggie Bright (4 page)

“Murray, tell me I’m not dreaming.”

Murray grinned. They sat down. “I’m here to haul your fanny
back to the States. Say, I got some black licorice in my suitcase from Helen
 
—I mean, Mrs. Fitz
 
—but they won’t let me bring it in. Bobbies, they call ’em. Sometimes constables. I like the way they talk, but can’t understand ’em half the time. Gee, it’s good to see you! This is the best I felt in two weeks. That’s how long it took to get here. Well?” Murray looked around, tapping his fingertips on the table. “Where do I sign you out? How does it work? They take American cash? I brought a lot. Just in case. Emptied out my bank account. Left some for my mother in case I explode from a mine.”

Pleasantries over, he finally eyed David. “Frankly, Father, I’m glad you ain’t dead. You was reckless to come, but we’ll put it behind us and chalk it up to live and learn.” He adjusted his shoulders. “It’s dangerous here. This country’s at war. Don’t look like it, but it is. Over
there
, they say, south of here, on the continent. Not even their land.
That
shoulda been a big fat clue against goin’ to war.”

That old glorious rapid-fire speech, that American accent. David closed his eyes. “Just keep talking, Murray.”

“
Keep
talking? That’s the first time you said
that
. Where do I post bail? They know about bail, right? Things are different here. We speak the same language, but things ain’t the same.” He grinned. “Remember when you posted bail for me? Eh? Never thought I’d return
that
favor. Say, you’ll never guess
 
—met someone at the train station who knew me. Ain’t it a kick? All the way to England? He’s fifteen. Him and his friends thought I kicked the bucket. They had a wake. Lit candles. Cried. Real somber affair. Says he wants to grow up and draw too. I only half believed him ’til he said he has every
Rocket Kid and Salamander
ever published. Can you beat it? Even when it was just
Rocket Ki
d
! His dad got him the last two he was lookin’ for for Christmas. Not even my ma has every one. She’s missing volume 2, number 11. Yeah, yeah, I know,
A
,
B
, and
C
, but guess what? I offer the kid fifty bucks for it. Fifty bucks! Guess what he said? ‘Nothin’ doin’.’ Offered a hundred. No dice.
Glad he didn’t take me up on it. Kid’s the real deal, you know? They ain’t all rat finks.”

And as Murray babbled, hope bloomed.

One more chance.

Of all people, that chance had to be Murray.

“I told the fella at the desk you ain’t a bad man. You’re just misguided.”

David couldn’t help a chuckle. For years, that’s what he’d told others about Murray. He clasped his hands together. “Listen, Murray . . .”

“Let’s get outta here, eh? I’m starvin’ and I ain’t slept. Too much changin’ ships and trains and cabs. Where do I ante up?” He looked around, tapping his fingertips. “I left a lotta dough with that bobby. I don’t like it outta my sight.”

“Murray . . . a man from Scotland Yard said the courts won’t allow for bail until I tell them why I was on the
Maggie Bright
. She’s beautiful, by the way.”

“Well,
tell
them why, and we’re on our way.”

Absolutes never went well with Murray. David folded his hands. Whatever happened, he determined to remain calm.

“I can’t.”

“Sure, you can.”

“I can’t, and you know why.”

Murray’s cheerfulness dissolved. He stared at his tapping fingers, which had picked up pace.

“So nothing’s changed,” he said, face coloring.

“
A
,
B
, and
C
, Murray,” David said, hoping his calm tone would help to avert a scene.

“Everybody keeps telling me
A
,
B
, and
C
. You don’t think I’ve outgrown that?” Murray raised his eyes. “Why didn’t you listen to me? What’s the
matter
with you to come?” His voice rose. “Scaring her to death? Leavin’ her in that state? You know you made her cry?”
He raised a fist. “If I had half a brain I’d stick this right down your throat! For makin’ her cry, and for believin’ filthy lies!”

“Your father didn’t lie. There is proof. I came to get it.”

“I’m tired of you defending him!”

“Keep it down over there,” a policeman warned.

“And I am tired,” said David. “I am so very tired of always trying so hard to get through to you.”

Surprise, like water, dashed over the glowering face.

“Why is it always a fight, Murray? You’re the most stubborn, pigheaded, obstinate fellow I know. If you don’t want to believe it, out the window it goes. If it’s not funny, or pleasant, or happy, or fascinating
 
—it has no part of your world. You’re just as blind as the people you draw those posters for.”

“It ain’t our war!”

“Dead children are my war.”

“Charles Lindbergh said
 
—”

“I don’t care what Charles Lindbergh said! I cared what your father said!”

Murray snarled, and clamped his fists over his ears. David wanted to throttle him.

But . . .

But relentless compassion struck David’s heart. Why, God, did you create some people thus? Murray was ten times more aware than the average person of
everything
, and his imagination was the keenest receptor of all; David had come to understand that if someone said
ocean
to Murray, he tasted salt and rode the swells
 
—he encountered the enormity. Murray’s keen reception faculties meant that he had encountered what Arthur Vance had brought to them. He took it in, he knew it, he felt it more than David ever would. It meant he knew evil like David did not, like he never would.

“Murray,” he said heavily, knowing he was about to murder the final scrap of innocence in him, “your father’s friend, the American
journalist in Berlin
 
—he confirmed that it’s true. He confirmed every word. God help us.”

Murray’s face broke, and his chest heaved. He shoved himself arm’s length from the table, gripping the table’s edge. He put his head down. “There ain’t nothin’ for Rocket Kid in this. Ain’t nothing he can do.”

“Murray, there’s a packet. A parcel of some sort. We have to
 
—”

“No one could let that happen.” Murray was shaking his head. “No one could go along with it. I won’t believe it!”

People in the room stopped talking and stared.

Why had it fallen to David Fitzpatrick to do, and to say, such terribly hard things?

“You’re not a child anymore, Murray. Act like a man.”

Murray went very still.

David sent a swift glance about to make sure no one was listening, and leaned in. “The packet has photographs. The photographs are evidence. They’re pictures of documents, of ledgers, of . . . children. Evidence of everything your father told us. Someone risked his life to get it to the journalist. We have a moral duty to find it. We must bring it home, and get it into the right hands.” He hesitated over the next part. It would be hard for Murray.

“The
Maggie Bright
is docked at Elliott’s Boatyard on the Thames in a small village called Bexley. It’s just west of a town called Teddington
 
—not far from London. Just get to the Thames and follow it west. Your father hid the packet aboard the
Maggie Bright
. Find that packet, Murray. You’ll believe me.”

Murray raised his face, white from encounter.

David’s resolve nearly faltered. “Oh
 
—son.” He resisted the urge to caress that head. “Maybe I don’t know what I’m asking of you. But the packet is so important that I am alone. I trust no one but you. We must find it and get it home. The world needs to know, so that we can do something about it. Your father was to bring the packet to the
States. I had arranged for a meeting between him and Congressman Wilson, when we got word of . . . his death. The journalist told me that your father
 
—” No. Not that, not yet. Maybe not ever. “That . . . he told an English bishop about the packet. This bishop has the ear of Anthony Eden, and Eden has Churchill. Churchill, God willing, will one day have Roosevelt.”

Murray was very still, his face impassive, and white, and hard.

“Look around you. Would I have risked this if it were not true? Would I have come all this way, would I have left Helen
 
—”

Murray snatched his hat and stood abruptly.

“Murray
 
—no! Wait!”

He was nearly to the exit when he stopped, turned, and came back. His face was as cold as his voice. “Two days out on the Atlantic, I get a call to the captain’s room. Helen sent a cable. Baby was born May 7. It’s a boy. You’re a father, Father. Congratulations and I got you a cigar. And now it’s two you left. Just like my old man.” He shook his head. “I came to fetch you home, knowin’ all the while you don’t deserve them, not when you pull a stunt like this, but I’ll tell you what
 
—that kid ain’t growin’ up without a father. Not her kid. You think I care about some packet? I’ll get you out if I gotta bust you out ’cause you ain’t some savior, not anymore
 
—you got a family.
You
made that choice, and if you won’t take care of them
 
—” he shook his head, lip curled in disgust
 
— “savin’ the world don’t matter. It’s lost already if a man can’t take care of his own.” His tone lowered. “You listen to me: Something happens to you ’cause of this, then
I’m
moving in,
I’m
taking over,
I’m
Helen’s man. I’ll raise that kid as mine, and I ain’t ever gonna tell him about you. Ever. You just think about that, Padre.”

He went to the door, slammed it on the way out. A notice of rules fell from the back of the door.

So much to sort through, so much all at once, but one thing shone clear
 
—for the first time since David had known him, Murray
hadn’t thrown a fit when very angry. He stayed calm. He kept it under control. He acted like a man.

He leapt to his feet, shouting, “Well done, Murray! Well done!”

“What difference does it make if he has more than one visitor in a day?” Clare Childs demanded of the man behind the desk. “You’re saying I have to pay
another
fare to come all the way from Teddington
 
—with a miserable amount of changes, not to mention the
time
it took . . .”

“I don’t make the rules.”

She pressed her fingers against a headache. “Well, if I can’t get in to see him today, I’d like to be reimbursed for my fare, thank you very much.”

“I’m sorry. That’s not possible.”

“But this is unreasonable! How am I supposed to know if I’m getting here before anyone else?” Tears stung Clare’s eyes, and she hated that they did, but they were tears of frustration for wasted money. “One visitor per day
 
—ridiculous! Who makes these rules? This is outrageous!”

The middle-aged woman behind her patted her shoulder. “You poor dear
 
—is it your husband? Your fiancé?”

A slammed door took the attention of all.

A harassed-looking young man with dark hair stood glaring at no one in particular. Then he came up to the desk next to Clare.

“I’ll have my bag now.”

The accent caught her ear.

“Excuse me
 
—there is a queue,” said the lady behind Clare with some indignation. He looked at her, then at the sergeant behind the desk.

“Say, how does bail work here?” he asked the sergeant.

The sergeant pointed to the end of the queue. “There’s a
queue
, the lady said.”

“What’s a queue?”

“Yanks,” the man muttered. “A
line
. You must wait in line. Wait your turn. They take turns in America, don’t they?” He looked at Clare, shaking his head in disbelief. “You want your fare reimbursed?” He jerked a thumb at the young man. “Talk to the Yank. Next, please.”

Clare stepped aside, staring at the American. He put his fists in his pockets, and went to the end of the queue. He looked rumpled and tired and very out of sorts.

He
was the one who visited the Burglar Vicar?
He
usurped her visit?

Were they friends? Were they in cahoots? Some sort of criminal ring?

Were they related? They didn’t look alike. The dear BV, of whom she suddenly felt unaccountably protective, had light-brown eyes, thin brown hair, and was of average height. This American had nearly black eyes, black hair, and was taller. If anyone was a burglar, it was this fellow, not the other. Had a rather dark, intense look . . .

How could she possibly leave without saying something?

What could she possibly say?

He certainly had the attention of everyone in the room
 
—his accent, his apparent agitation; Americans were very demonstrative, it was true, but . . . and yes, oh dear, he was
muttering
to himself. . . .

She walked past very slowly and stopped to slowly button her jacket. He was not only talking to himself, he was fidgety. Hands in his pockets, hands out. Back in, back out. Off went his hat, tossed from hand to hand, back it went on. And all the while he chattered to himself in a low murmur, as if he were in the room all by himself.