“I would like nothing more,” Max replied politely. “But unfortunately we are contending with a rather pressing matter.” He paused for a brief second, his sharp eyes appraising the other man. “But you might be able to help.”
“Of course, what can I do for you?”
“You were a friend of my father’s.”
“Well, yes, I suppose you could say I had the honor,” he replied, almost preening at the compliment. “The late earl was very knowledgeable about his Roman antiquities.” He rocked back on his heels. “We enjoyed many an hour of enjoyable discourse on the topic.
“And he visited the villa often?”
“Oh, yes. Four or five times a year. He seemed to like to come with the change of the seasons.”
“Do you recall the last time he visited? It would have been a short time before his death.”
He nodded his head. “Yes, it was about a year ago, I believe.” He turned to survey the site. “Yes, I remember, they were just beginning to cut down the—” His words broke off as he inhaled a swift breath. “Oh, but how neglectful of me. Of course! I know why you’re here.”
CHAPTER 18
Max blinked in surprise as Mr. Oglander began to search through his pockets, of which he seemed to have many. “You do?”
“Yes!”
My heart quickened at his eager assurance.
“Now . . . where did I put . . . ? Aha!” He extracted a leather pocketbook from the inside of his coat. “I knew I had it,” he declared, opening it to begin leafing through its contents. “Your father gave this to me in the strictest confidence. Asked me to keep it on my person at all times. That you would come to retrieve it from me in about a year’s time.” His fingers finally hit upon the item he was searching for, extracting a folded sheet of paper.
My hopes deflated at the sight of the thin letter. Another clue? For this could not be the cache of evidence we’d hoped for.
Max took the paper from him. “Did he leave any instructions with it?”
“Only that I was to give it to you when you came looking for it.” He frowned. “Should I know more?”
He assured his father’s friend that he should not and then promised to pay him another visit soon to explain, before hustling us away. We retreated to Sidney’s Pierce-Arrow, somewhat more deflated than when we’d arrived. Rather than turn the starter, Sidney swiveled in his seat to join the rest of us in watching Max unfold the letter.
Max cursed. “It’s another code.”
“May I see it?” I asked softly.
He passed it to me before turning away, fuming in silence.
The paper was wrinkled and worn from being carried inside Mr. Oglander’s pocketbook for a year, but the writing had been scrawled in a dark pen, making it perfectly legible. Though it appeared to be nonsense, I could discern the block formation of the text.
“It appears to be the same code as his previous letter, or one very similar,” I informed them. “And since George told me how he decrypted the other, I should be able to decipher this one rather quickly. I just need a pencil and paper and a few moments’ quiet.”
“Back to Nettlestone, then?” Sidney queried of us.
When Max didn’t reply, instead continuing to glare out the window, I made the decision for him. “Yes.”
Sidney cast one more glance at Max before nodding.
I could empathize with Max’s frustration, for I felt it, too. His bloody-minded father might have been worried about whatever evidence he’d collected falling into the wrong hands—namely, Ardmore’s—but this dashed quest he’d sent us on was placing us in even more danger. After all, we weren’t knights seeking the Holy Grail. And unlike Arthur’s knights, we didn’t even have the benefit of knowing precisely what lay at the end of this search.
But voicing my aggravation would not help Max. Not when he was likely feeling double the exasperation I was. So I remained silent, tucking the letter we’d retrieved into the pocket of my coat for safekeeping.
We returned to Nettlestone Hall in what I suspected was record time, but perhaps my sense of distance had been skewed by the roundabout route we’d taken to the villa in the first place. There was no sign of Ardmore’s men, but we all knew they were about someplace. Now that we’d pricked their pride by foiling them, there was the risk that they might be more volatile than before. So, taking no chances, Sidney pulled the Pierce-Arrow as close to the door as he could safely manage, and we all exited on the near side of the motorcar.
Once inside without incident, I retreated to my bedchamber to begin work on the cipher while the men retired to the parlor. I set my handbag, the Webley pistol Max had loaned me still tucked inside, on the desk before removing my gloves and hat and tossing them on the bed. Then I got to work on the code.
Though not precisely the same cipher as the birthday letter to Max, it was a slight variation and, not being a lengthy note, easy to render into plain text. I sat reading the four lines over and over, trying to decide what the devil the old earl was referring to. It appeared to be a poem of some kind, or a riddle. But not one that I could comprehend.
Pushing back my chair, I rose from my seat to take the paper down to the parlor, when I saw movement from the corner of my eye. I shifted to the side, just as an object swung down at my head, narrowly missing me as it crashed into the chair with a loud thwack.
Twirling away from my attacker, I reset my balance before striking out with a knee to the man’s groin. However, he was too quick, swiveling to the side, so that it glanced off his thigh. I struck upward with the flat of my palm toward his nose, but he pulled me into his body, redirecting the impact to the center of his chest. His greater bulk easily drove me back toward the bed, where he forced me down into the bedding, pressing against my windpipe with his forearm.
Had there been a hard surface against my back, I would have lost consciousness in a matter of seconds. But the yielding mattress both saved me and prolonged the torture as I gasped for air, tugging futilely at his arm. He had the greater leverage, and I had no hope of dislodging him, even as I bucked beneath him with all my might. Flinging out my arm, I scrabbled for something to fight back with, encountering nothing but the leather of my gloves and the wool of my hat.
All the while, his crystalline-blue eyes laughed down at me, his face twisted into a sneer of delight, and I realized I’d seen him before. Not in London or any place in England, but at a temporary brigade headquarters west of Bailleul. This, then, must be Basil Scott. The same Captain Scott—now Major—I had tangled with after delivering that message to General Bishop. They were one and the same.
“I’m not supposed to kill you,” he hissed, leaning close enough that his breath washed over my skin. It smelled of onions and American cigarettes, but in doing so, his body had shifted just a fraction, relieving some of the pressure on my trachea. His eyes glinted. “But then, no one is here to stop me, are they, my little traitor?”
Terror shot through me at the realization he might be right. The box or paperweight intended for my head that he’d smashed into the chair might not have been loud enough for anyone to hear. And the cipher had been so swiftly decoded, it was unlikely Sidney would be coming up yet to check on me.
I swept my hand over the bed again beside me, wishing I’d dropped my handbag here, too. Then something pricked my thumb. Clawing with my fingers, I dragged my hat closer, wrestling to extract the hat pin I’d stuck into the side as spots began to dance before my eyes. Once I’d wrangled it free, I struck out with savageness, driving it into the side of his face.
He howled in pain, releasing his hold on me as he lifted his hand to his face and cursed me foully. I rolled, toppling him off the bed before scrambling away from him toward the desk. I nearly stumbled to my knees as I gulped great gasps of air, trying to steady myself as my head whirled from being deprived of oxygen for so long. Yanking the pistol from my handbag, I turned to aim it at Scott, who was struggling to rise to his feet. Blood oozed through the fingers of the hand he
clutched over his cheek.
“Stop!” I ordered hoarsely before lowering the gun and firing a shot into the floorboards. I trusted the loud bang would bring the men running. With the pistol once again trained on Scott, I leaned my weight against the desk. “You’re the one working for a traitor,” I panted.
My words seemed to have no effect on him. In fact, if possible, his eyes only filled with more venom. Though, I didn’t miss the way they darted toward the paper at my feet. Keeping the gun pointed at him, I bent my knees to retrieve the decoded message and then grabbed the original from the desk. Experience had taught me how quickly the tables could be turned, so before I could change my mind, I sidestepped toward the hearth, tossing the papers into the fire.
It was then that Scott exploded up from his position, hurling my gloves at me, which must have fallen to the floor with him when we rolled. I flinched, giving him the time he needed to strike out with a blow to my side. I fell to the floor, but rather than attack me, he scrabbled for the papers in the fireplace, apparently remembering his real reason for being here. Lifting the pistol from my position on the floor, I fired into the burning hearth once and then again.
Scott pulled back his hands, hunching as the striking bullets sprayed ashes. His head jerked around at the sound of pounding footsteps approaching down the hall, and he dashed toward the French doors. I hesitated in taking another shot directly at him with the Webley from such an awkward position, not wanting to kill him when we needed him alive for questioning. But by the time I’d sat up on my knees, he was already through the door.
Sidney burst through the door first, followed by the others. “He’s on the terrace,” I puffed, pointing toward the open door.
Alec set off in pursuit, while Max darted back out into the hall, presumably intending to cut him off from a different direction. Sidney knelt beside me, his frantic gaze taking inventory of my ragged appearance and the blood splattering my tweed suit.
“It’s not mine,” I told him.
His gaze lifted to the smear of blood Scott had left behind on the door frame, the red handprint stark against the white paint. When it returned to mine, I could see an almost savage light glinting in his eyes. Taking the pistol from my unresisting fingers, he pulled me to him and I buried my face in his starched collar. He held me close, almost uncomfortably so, but when he began to loosen his hold, I clutched him even tighter, and he squeezed me close again.
Several moments passed before I realized I was shaking. “We . . . we sh-should help the others,” I croaked.
“They can handle it,” Sidney stated firmly, gripping my shoulders to take better stock of my appearance. His gaze riveted on my throat, which ached every time I swallowed. I could tell from the tormented look in his eyes that it must already be beginning to bruise. “Bloody hell! I should have stayed here with you.”
“We couldn’t have known . . .”
“We should have suspected,” he snapped.
I couldn’t dispute that, for I was already berating myself for not suspecting Ardmore’s men to make such a move. I should have been better prepared.
“What happened?” Sidney asked more gently as he helped me to rise to my feet and then perch on the edge of the bed. But before I could answer, Alec returned through the French door.
“He got away,” Alec panted. “Had his cohort waiting in a motorcar on the other side of the stables.” His gaze skimmed over me from head to toe. “How’s Verity?”
“I’m fine,” I replied tersely, lest the men start talking about me as if I wasn’t there. “Just a little shaken. Where’s Max?”
“Here,” Max replied, emerging in the doorway behind Alec. “I was hoping I’d be able to cut him off, but their motorcar was parked closer to the barns than I believed they would dare.” He scraped a hand through his dark blond hair, echoing the same frustration it was clear Alec felt. “What happened?”
“I was just coming to show you all the deciphered note when I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye.” I nodded toward the pewter candlestick laying on the floor by the desk. “I dodged just in time to avoid that, and then struck out with a kick and a punch of my own. But he overpowered me.” My gaze met Alec’s as my hand lifted almost unconsciously to my neck. “It was Scott.”
“Who’s Scott?” Sidney demanded.
“Major Basil Scott. Former Military Intelligence,” Alec replied. “He worked for Charteris and then Cox out of Haig’s headquarters.”
And unbeknownst to me until now, apparently we’d met before.
“Fortunately, I was able to reach one of my hat pins and fend him off.”
“Is that where he got that nasty gouge down the side of his face,” Alec drawled, a vicious smile curling his lips as he shared a look with Max. “He’s going to need stitches.”
However, Max’s thoughts were focused on something else. He strode toward the desk, fanning out the blank papers scattered over the top. “What of my father’s letter? Did he get it?”
“No, I . . . I burned it. Along with the translation,” I replied. He turned to stare at me in astonishment. “I figured that was better than allowing him to get his hands on them.”
“Do . . . do you remember what it said?”
“Oh! Oh, yes,” I said, realizing why he was still so stunned. “I have an excellent memory. Though, perhaps I should write it down again, lest I forget, so we can all memorize it.” Moreover, my throat hurt, and I didn’t think I could keep repeating myself ad nauseam.
I returned to the desk and began copying out the translation. When I was finished, I sat back, letting the men read over my shoulder.
On land where Boadicea may have trod, and earth once met the sea,
Stands a sullen fortress proud, above waves that reach the knee.
At the point where sails tip the tall tower, with thy back against the flint,
Beneath the rubble lies a tale so troubled, the wide sky reflects its tint.
Alec was the first to speak, and he didn’t spare his words. “Was your father barmy?”
“No,” Max replied shortly and then sighed. “Maybe.”
“Boadicea was from Norfolk, wasn’t she?” I asked, ignoring the aspersions Alec had cast about the late earl in favor of figuring out the riddle.
“Yes, but she and her army also came south to ransack London, remember,” Sidney said.
“Yes, but where the ‘land once met the sea’ seems to imply somewhere near the coast.”
“Except England’s current coast isn’t the same as it was in Roman times,” Max pointed out. “And there are almost a dozen Saxon shore forts, stretching from the north shore of Norfolk to Portchester Castle across the Solent, built to defend Roman Britain from marauding Saxons. Much like the Martello towers of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century were meant to defend the British shore from a French invasion.”
“Could it be Portchester?” I asked, since it was so close to our current location.
Max considered the possibility and shook his head. “I don’t think Boadicea ever trod in Hampshire.”
Alec pivoted to lean his hip against the desk. “Do you have a map of these Saxon shore forts?”
“I’m sure my father did. He has quite an extensive collection of books on Roman Britain in his library.” Max turned to stride toward the door, with Alec close at his heels.
I rose to follow, only to feel Sidney’s hands fall on my shoulders. “We’ll join you in a minute,” he called after them before turning me to look up at him. “Are you sure you don’t want to lie down? After all, you were just attacked.”
I scowled. “If our situations were reversed, would you want to lie down?” I countered, hating that my voice sounded so hoarse.
His lips curled into a humorless smile. “No.” His hands ran down my shoulders and trailed over my arms to grip my hands. “Then is there anything else I can do?”
I exhaled wearily, realizing he was trying to help. “Have some tea brought to the library.” My nose wrin
kled as I caught sight of the blood splattered across my coat. “I’ll join you after I change.” I could only hope someone among Max’s staff would have a knack for removing bloodstains.
His gaze trailed toward the French doors. “Why don’t I wait with you?”
My stomach quavered at the reminder of what had happened the last time I was alone in this room, perhaps proving I wasn’t quite recovered from the encounter after all. “Yes, that’s a good idea.”
In short order, I had changed into a white voile blouse with pale green collar and cuffs and a navy-blue botany serge skirt, and brushed my bobbed hair, all while avoiding gazing too closely at the dark bruises rising on the skin across my neck and collarbone. After swiping a bit of rose-pink stain across my lips in almost a defiant gesture, I tucked the paper with the decoded text in my pocket and joined Sidney where he stood gazing out the window at the midday sun streaming light over the garden. He stubbed out his cigarette in a pewter ashtray on a nearby table and then turned toward me.
Whatever he saw in my face brought a look of such tender regard to his eyes that I felt my fragile poise begin to crumble.
“Please, don’t,” I whispered brokenly.
I could read in his eyes that he wanted to pull me into his arms, which would have shattered me completely, but instead he mastered himself for my sake. “All right.” His gaze dipped to my mouth. “Who is it you’re wearing this for?” he murmured archly as his hand lifted to touch my chin. “It’s a dashed nuisance, if you ask me. Makes it difficult to hide what one has been doing, and depending on the shade, with whom.” He tilted his head in speculation. “I’ve changed my mind. I do like it.”
A Pretty Deceit Page 22
