Touchstone

by Laurie R. King

  Yes, he had badly underestimated the American. Not just the gloves the man had worn to search Bunsen’s motorcar, nor the slick way he had managed to ingratiate himself behind the wheel of that very motor: Those might be expected of any experienced agent.

  And it wasn’t just that he had managed to spirit Grey away. Carstairs had thought he might. In fact, he’d anticipated some considerably more daring rescue operation, appropriate to a penny-dreadful novel.

  But to walk in here in broad daylight, then lay out Grey’s rescue with the brutal subtlety of a chess master, that was unexpected.

  Still, the deed was done. And because neither man could be certain that their agreement would hold, Stuyvesant would not take Grey to Hurleigh House. By tonight, Carstairs would know where they had secreted him, but it hardly mattered, just so it was not at Hurleigh. He had his own plans for Hurleigh.

  All in all, Aldous Carstairs was satisfied with how things were going, as they moved towards the final hours of play. He felt the absence of Grey, but Stuyvesant had seen the problem: The amusement had gone out of handling Grey, once the man withdrew from competition. What fun was there in setting oneself against a man who had given up? And the very real benefits of Grey’s willing cooperation—thank you, Mr. Stuyvesant!—went far to mitigate any personal disappointment. After all, one could always lay hands on the man again: kidnapping, threat, blackmail. Or something more comple, given the leisure to create.

  Now, however, was time to concentrate on the larger affairs of Aldous Carstairs, and of his country. The Carstairs Proposal had made its rounds; it was on the minds of the powerful. It required but a single audacious—one might even say Machiavellian—demonstration for it to be seized and woven into the fabric of British law.

  No more slips, no time for hesitation. The country needed an uomo crudele ed espedito, a cruel and efficient man.

  Who had little more than twenty-four hours to get it right.

  Snow was glad for the instructions Carstairs had been able to give him concerning the maps. He had been right, the American had hidden his motor in the back road; on a fast motor-cycle, there was no problem overtaking him.

  He had a bad moment when he saw the driver was not the big American, but a small woman with hair the same color as Grey’s. However, when he shot past the motor, he spotted a large object in the back, and knew it to be the man.

  Changing his coat, turning it inside out, removing his goggles, adding a scarf, and keeping his distance along stretches of road where there could be no turning off let him follow the motor to the fringes of Hurleigh. He’d stopped at that last turning, which was just as well: a glance at the map had assured him that they could only be headed for one place, a tiny dot without so much as a name.

  He settled his goggles, tucked away the maps, and circled his motor-cycle back in the direction he’d come from.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  THIS TIME Stuyvesant managed to not shove a gun in the face of the person shaking him awake. Which was just as well, that person being Sarah Grey.

  “We’re here,” she told him. “At the Dog and Pony?”

  “You two go ahead.”

  It took him a while to extricate himself from the cramped bed, since one leg was asleep and his neck was frozen at an odd angle, but he made it to the ground without landing on his face. Once out, he stamped his feet and tried to crack the discomfort from his spine, which attracted the frank interest of two small barefooted children and a quizzical dog, who settled into a row to watch.

  “Not a whole lot in the way of entertainment out here, huh?” he asked them. The kids giggled; the dog grinned.

  Giving a final loud and satisfying crack to his neck, he left his audience to their bare stage, walked around the same bicycle propped against the wall, and ducked inside the Dog and Pony.

  Grey and Sarah were just concluding business with the innkeeper’s wife, who, it seemed, did have two nice, light, upstairs rooms, both with adjoining baths that could be considered private baths, since there were no other guests just at present, although the rooms weren’t next to each other, she hoped the lady and gentleman didn’t mind that? They were ever so nice, especially the one at the far end that had a view over the hills, although come to think of it, its most recent occupant had been a year before, or perhaps it was 1924, in any case it was the year the river flooded, but it hardly mattered because both rooms could be set to rights in just a shake, fresh sheets and all, if the gentleman and lady would like to sit in the garden for a while?

  She bustled off. The wizened innkeeper and his three customers (who appeared the same trio who had been in residence when Stuyvesant had been here a week before, in the same seats, wearing the same clothes) gazed in silence at the foreigners. Sarah beamed at them and led her brother out. Stuyvesant asked if there might be a public telephone box in the village.

  The gnome gave a jerk of the head, which turned out to be a remarkably efficient means of communication: The gesture indicated that yes, there was a phone box; the angle of the jerk said it lay to the north, and the slight simultaneous tip to the chin suggested that Stuyvesant should go out of the door before turning north. Stuyvesant thanked him, and found the box just where the man had indicated. Unfortunately, the gesture had failed to communicate that the instrument was not working. He went back into the inn.

  “It doesn’t seem to be working,” he told the innkeeper.

  “Goat chewed t’line. Two week back.”

  “I see. Is there another?”

  “Hurleigh village.”

  “That’s the closest public telephone?” The man just looked at him, which Stuyvesant took for a yes. “What about a private one I might use?”

  “Hurleigh House.”

  Clearly, the twentieth century was not in huge demand in this part of the world.

  Outside, he found the Greys sitting in the sun.

  “I need to be getting back,” he told them. “Will you be all right here, for a day or two?”

  “A door that latches on the inside and a pub downstairs; what else could I ask for? I’ll be fine.”

  Sarah laughed, taking his words as a jest.

  Stuyvesant told him, “I’ll come by first thing tomorrow, when they’ve settled to breakfast.”

  Grey scratched the hair on his chin, which was nearly enough to qualify as a beard. “You think the landlord would have a razor I could borrow?”

  Sarah said, “Thank goodness, I wondered if you were growing a beaver. While you’re doing that, let me motor Harris over to Hurleigh House.”

  “Oh no, that’d mean going clear into Hurleigh village and back. It would take you longer to drive than it would for me to walk it.”

  “Not much longer, and I need to see Laura for a minute. I’ll stop in the village on the way back and pick up a few things. I hadn’t planned on spending the night away, and Bennett’s come away without his suitcase.”

  “But—” He caught himself, before he could introduce Laura’s problems into the conversation, and changed it to, “In that case, I’m happy to save my shoe leather. If you need anything, Grey, maybe you could ask one of those urchins out front to bring a message to Hurleigh House.”

  Sarah stood up and kissed her brother’s cheek. “I’ll pick up a tooth-brush and a fresh shirt for you in Hurleigh. Anything else?”

  “Cigarettes.”

  “Fine. Come, Harris.”

  “You go on, I’ll be right there.”

  When she was out of earshot, he said to Grey, “Would you feel better about things if you had the gun?”

  “I can’t spend my life with a revolver in my pocket. And if I need to commit murder, I’m sure the innkeeper has a shotgun.”

  The touch of humor in the suggestion cheered Stuyvesant no end.

  “Carstairs isn’t finished, you know,” Grey said. “He has his eyes on a larger prize. He felt as much relief as he did frustration, when you offered your compromise. As if he was glad to have an unexpectedly difficult problem taken o
ff his hands.”

  “Any idea what the larger prize might be?”

  “No.”

  Stuyvesant sighed. “Well, we’re sure to hear eventually.” He started to put out his hand, then hesitated, but Grey reached out and grasped it.

  “Thank you,” the small man said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “And, Harris? In the absence of a father in my family, you have my permission to pay court to Sarah.”

  Stuyvesant laughed aloud.

  As Bennett Grey watched the American stride off to Sarah’s motor, he treasured the tiny pulse of bright optimism the man had given him.

  As Stuyvesant had thought, the road circled well away from Hurleigh House before returning in the direction of Hurleigh village. On foot, he would have been passing the chapel about the same time they came in view of the village church spire.

  “Look,” he said. “You don’t need to take me to Hurleigh House, just drop me here and do your shopping.”

  “Harris, I need to go there anyway, as I said, to have a word with Laura.”

  “But you told me you didn’t want to distract her.”

  “That was when I didn’t know where Bennett was. Now, if she doesn’t hear from me, she might start to wonder, if I’d found him after I talked with her on Friday.”

  “I could just pass on the message, if you’d rather.”

  “Oh no, it’ll just take a few minutes to motor you there, and walking it takes a half-hour.”

  Stuyvesant couldn’t think of any reason to keep Sarah from delivering her reassurance in person. However, he did want to stop in the village for his own reasons.

  “Okay, but can we stop here and you do your shopping first? I need to use the telephone, and that one in Hurleigh House is kind of public.”

  “Of course,” she said, and pulled over in front of the village store.

  “Oh,” he added casually, “do you by any chance know the number of that clinic? I forgot to tell them to send your brother’s suitcase to Cornwall, and I might as well do that, too.”

  She reached into the back for her handbag and took out an old, worn address book, copying down the number and exchange on a scrap of blue envelope.

  They agreed to meet in twenty minutes, and went off in separate directions.

  The secretary Lakely answered at the clinic number, but Carstairs was still there, and came on the line.

  “That unfinished business,” Stuyvesant said without preamble.

  “Yes, Mr. Stuyvesant. I trust you have had a good trip, and all is well?”

  “It’s going fine, we just stopped for lunch. Have you done anything at all the past three days other than sitting on Grey?”

  “Further information concerning our, hmm, mutual dilemma seems thin on the ground. It would appear that none of the…participants were informed concerning the ultimate purpose of the material, and without the missing man, we cannot be certain that…your friend was the purchaser.” In other words, the man who’d stolen the explosive didn’t know if Bunsen was the ultimate buyer or not.

  “You can’t find Shiffley?”

  “Names, Mr. Stuyvesant.” As if the exchange operator might be listening in for mention of a missing Communist.

  “You’ve lost him?”

  “He has thus far eluded us, yes.”

  “Lots of boats in an island country,” Stuyvesant commented. “Has anyone thought to look for…peripheral materials…in ‘our friend’s places of business?” Snippets of wire, the odd detonator.

  “Thus far, we have found nothing.”

  “Great.”

  “You will, however, remain vigilant?”

  “Yeah, vigilant, that’s me. If you mean am I going back to keep an eye on things at…at the meeting, then yeah, I’m headed there in a while.”

  “And you have found no indications there of…”

  “Not a thing.”

  “That is probably for the best.”

  Was it Stuyvesant’s imagination, or was there a trace of disappointment in Carstairs’ voice, at the thought of no bomb at Hurleigh House?

  “If it’s there, we’ll find it,” he said, and told Carstairs he’d talk to him Monday in London.

  He stood, looking unseeing at the village War memorial. If it’s there, we’ll find it.

  One way or another…

  He shook off the thought, and went to help Sarah carry her parcels to the car.

  This time, the entrance to Hurleigh House was not blocked by a neatly fallen tree, but the Duke’s man was there, swinging his heels over the pedestrian bridge. He recognized Stuyvesant and tugged his cap; Stuyvesant thought the guise would be more effective if the man had been given a fishing pole.

  At the house, they separated, Stuyvesant going in the direction of the servants’ hall to change his rumpled clothes, Sarah to the house for a word with Laura. They happened to return to the drive at the same time.

  “Much better,” she said, approving his unwrinkled shirt, shaved face, and fresh tie.

  “Did you see Laura?”

  “She’s looking a little harried. I’m glad I came, that’s one thing off her mind.”

  “I better get in there and see if there’s anything I can do.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning, Harris.”

  With servants looking on, she did not kiss him, but the touch of her hand made him smile.

  What man needed sleep, when he had Sarah Grey?

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  STUYVESANT FOUND THE HOUSE FULL of wandering men, cups of tea and glasses of punch in their hands, so he took it that he’d hit the break between the afternoon sessions. He asked one of the mine owners’ assistants if he knew where Lady Laura was, and the man told him he thought she’d been headed to her rooms.

  On the stairs, he passed Herbert Smith and Stanley Baldwin coming down. Baldwin had a pipe in his hand, and was saying something about Utopian ideals in the poetry of Coleridge. If Stuyvesant hadn’t known better, he would have thought the men were old school chums.

  He hesitated in the corridor outside the private rooms, then tapped quietly on Laura’s door. He heard footsteps, and she opened the door, looking so weary, he immediately regretted having disturbed her.

  “Mr. Stuyvesant—Harris. Do come in.”

  “No, you should be resting.”

  “I’ll rest tomorrow. Come.”

  “Are you sure I should—”

  “We’re grown-ups here, dear fellow, and during this week-end, this room is my office. Besides, I need to sit and I don’t want to shout at you in the corridor.” He stepped in, and she shut the door behind him.

  “I’m sorry you didn’t get more of a rest,” she said, dropping into the chair before the fire. “Sit down, please. Sarah told me you helped her find Bennett. Silly man, what’s he thinking, not to tell anyone that he’d gone to visit friends?”

  “I don’t suppose he was thinking too straight,” Stuyvesant agreed, thinking that he’d have to kick Sarah for not warning him of their story. “The sooner he gets back to Cornwall, the better.”

  “Very true. He’s all right at the Dog and Pony?”

  “He seemed comfortable enough. But Miss Hur—”

  “Laura, please.”

  “Laura, then. It might be a good idea not to mention where he is to anyone.”

  “Of course,” she said, a touch stiff. She thought he meant, she shouldn’t mention it to Bunsen, but he wasn’t going to argue.

  There was a knock at the door, and she excused herself. It was Gallagher, who needed clarification as to the evening’s seating arrangements. While she was going over the details with the butler, Stuyvesant picked up the day’s newspaper from the low table, accidentally knocking the envelope beneath it to the floor. He bent to retrieve the contents, half a dozen photographs, and was pushing them back inside when Laura returned.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I knocked these off the table. I wasn’t snooping.”

  “Which—? Oh, those. I used them thi
s morning when one of the mine owners lost his temper, just to remind him that we were talking about the livelihoods of two million men, their wives, and their children. I find that photographs help put a personal face on the issues. Take a look.”

  Stuyvesant pulled out the pictures. The first showed a weeping woman at a funeral. “That is Maisie Collins,” she said, her voice taking on the rhythm of an oft-repeated liturgy. “Maisie is burying her eldest son following a cave-in at a pit in Yorkshire, a mine whose owner is known for his disregard for safety—Mr. Branning knows him, is aware of his reputation: I didn’t have to tell him anything but the name of the mine. Maisie’s husband died in the same mine, under similar circumstances, seven years ago. Two of her other sons currently work in the mine, with a third due to go down next month, when he comes of legal age.”

  The next photograph showed a family of six seated down to a meal. The bowl in the middle of the table was not much larger than a porridge bowl, and looked like potatoes and carrots swimming in a pale broth. “Sunday dinner, after the miner has been out of work for two months following an injury. What meat they have is given them by their neighbors.”

  The other photographs were similar: happy children playing barefooted in a muddy road; a near-naked child smeared with black and standing beside a cart of coal, which the boy had been pulling through a tunnel too small for a grown man; a man with pale eyes looking at the camera, cradling his truncated right arm.

  “I asked him to bear in mind that Richard and Mr. Smith are here as the spokesmen for those men and their families, who take pride in their labor. I reminded him that we had less than forty-eight hours together, and that the health and security of the entire country depended on what we did here. He may not agree with them, he may even think them greedy and unreasonable, but we all owe them the dignity of respect.”

  Stuyvesant slid the photographs back into the envelope.

  “Now, Harris Stuyvesant, what can I do for you?”

  “Nothing. I just needed to let you know I was back, and see if there was anything I could do.”

  “Oh, no, thank you…well, actually, there is something.” She sounded uncomfortable.