Werner leaned over and grabbed the book, then flipped it open to a random page. He tilted the mug against his lips again and swallowed, but this time more slowly as he read.
“You will not apply my precept,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?”
Werner let the book fall onto the table. “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?” The words, uttered by this fictitious genius, exploded in his mind with the force of a canon.
“Could it be?” He stroked his chin. His beard, once carefully trimmed, now spread in a tangled web across his face.
“Could she have done it?” It was impossible but there was no other option. Without money, resources or the necessary documents to leave the island of England, only one alternative remained.
“Northshire.”
Improbable but—in the words of Mr. Holmes—it had to be the truth.
Werner rose, shaken with the possibilities that played about in his head. A feeling akin to reverence swelled in his heart as he carefully replaced the book on the shelf.
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” His voice was a tight whisper. “They are right to idolize your genius.”
The ghost shifted into a full-bodied smile. It was possible that Britain’s greatest literary hero since the days of Robin of Locksley, had just aided the enemy.
Gulping down the rest of his beer, Werner slipped out of the pub. His nostrils flared as he skulked outside. The warm night air promised rain.
Jaëger licked his lips, reigning in his urge to sprint toward his flat. After a year of false runs and dead ends, the hunter had once again found the trail.
Chapter 32
Northshire Estate, Great Britain. August 1916
“There’th thomething thrange about you people.”
Werner gripped his black leather briefcase in a gloved hand, then shot a sidelong glance at the gnarled face of the gap-mouthed cabbie. “What do you mean, you people?”
He had instructed the driver to let him off at the top of the hill that overlooked a small village which bordered Northshire Estate and had been about to force open the dysfunctional door when the implications of the man’s words sunk into his mind.
The driver parked the car then jerked out a scrap of paper from his pocket. “You and the pretty blonde latht year,” he pulled a pen from behind his ear and scribbled his fee on the paper, “you both wanted to be let off at the top of the hill.”
He thrust the paper in Werner’s face. “The girl thaid cholera had broken out, but I didn’t hear anything about it. Like I thaid, thomething very thrange is going on.” He released a long flatulation, then sighed as he scratched his balding head. “Maybe thomething the police thould know, huh? They might pay me for my trouble!”
So, Leila has come to Northshire. That problem was solved. But now another presented itself: that of the loose-tongued cabbie who both knew and talked too much. He sighed inwardly. There was only one way to handle this sort of situation. Werner kept his face impassive as he fished in his pocket for both money and the length of garrote wire he carried at all times.
“Are you the only driver on the route from Northshire to London?” Covering one hand with the other, Werner slipped the tightly coiled wire into his right palm, then offered the payment with his left.
The cabbie bobbed his shiny scalp up and down. “Ever thince the thart of the war.” He snatched the money and shoved it in his pocket.
Werner pointed through the windshield at the sun which had just slipped below the horizon. A few glimmering scarlet rays spilled onto the empty road in patches. “Quite a view from this hill, isn’t it?”
The older man’s rheumy eyes followed the spymaster’s finger and Werner, with a fluidity born of experience, used the distraction to let the garrote uncoil in his right hand.
“Huh. Can’t thee further than my nothe nowad—” The cabbie’s voice melted into a ragged choke as the wire slipped around his neck and tightened. His wrinkled hands flew off the steering wheel, clawing in futile attempts to remove the string that bit into the folds of his leathery skin and crushed his windpipe.
Werner twisted the garotte’s handles, shifting to avoid his victim’s flailing arms. His eyes slid to his watch. Within three seconds the old man would be unconsciousness. Within two minutes, he would be dead.
One minute and forty-five seconds later, Werner opened the door. The last rays of the sun provided just enough light to discern a small patch of trees off the main road. He shoved the cabbie’s body to one side, slipped back into the still-running vehicle and drove the car into the grove.
He squinted then nodded. There was enough loose brush to conceal the vehicle during the night. If justice still reigned in Heaven, he would be back before dawn. Werner shoved open the rusty door, dragged his victim’s body to the back of the vehicle, opened its boot, then shoved the body into the small space.
A few branches and leaves scattered on the gray exterior of the vehicle made it indistinguishable from the foliage around it. Werner shrugged off his suit jacket and white shirt, then flipped open his briefcase. A uniform, the color of a starless night, lay atop an assortment of tools and weapons.
Within minutes, Jaëger was ready. He strode to the top of the hill, face covered by a balaclava mask, briefcase firmly in hand.
“I’m coming, Leila.” She had eluded him for a year but at last she was within his reach. He let his eyes roll over the village below, illuminated only by the light of a crescent moon. The spires of Northshire gleamed in the pale light, offering the promise of long-awaited revenge. He licked his lips.
I will not fail you, my son. Your spirit will rest in peace.
Death wooed him like an impatient lover and, with a snarl, Jaëger answered the call.
LUCAS JONES RUBBED his hands together over a small fire. The summer night air carried a distinct chill, bringing with it the promise of an early fall. Around the fire huddled one other agent who had accompanied him from London and reported to Robert Hughes. Their navy-blue uniforms and Enfield rifles matched those issued to the guards that had been hired by Sir Thomas Steele. Due to the vast size of the estate and their painstaking efforts to avoid all contact with Thomas’s men, their presence had remained undetected.
“How long until the boss recalls us?” His partner’s voice, harsh as a knife sliding across a piece of broken slate, intruded on his thoughts.
“Three days more at most,” Jones said. “Any longer and we’re bound to run into someone.”
“Have our orders changed?”
Jones shook his head. “Steele’s our man. We’ll keep a sharp eye on the girl but he’s the—”
His words died on his lips as an explosion near the entrance of the property shattered the tranquility of the night. Balls of fire leapt skyward with a thunderous roar. The force of the detonation threw both men onto their backs on the grassy hillock. The first blast was followed by another and still another.
Jones covered his head with his hands as shards of wood and other debris sped past him, impaling themselves in the dirt. After the third blast a momentary hush fell over the estate, but the quiet was soon broken by alarmed cries.
He lifted his head above his forearm then pushed himself upright. Jones stared for a moment, slack-jawed, at the inferno that engulfed the north-eastern entrance to the estate. Tongues of fire leapt toward the ebony sky, consuming nearby storage buildings. He shifted to the right, shielding his eyes against the bright glare. If left unchecked, the fire would spread to the wheat fields.
Jones pivoted on his heel. “On your feet!”
His partner shifted closer, muttering and rubbing his neck. “What do you think caused it?”
“Not what,” Jones pulled a pistol from his belt, “but who?” He pointed to the castle. “We go to the house.”
“The house?” His partner waved his own
gun in the direction of the raging flames. A stream of figures, mostly Thomas’s guards and some of the Estates’ tenants, were rushing toward the burning buildings. “We should be down there with the others.”
Jones shook his head. “Whoever did this planned well. An explosion like that’ll bring every man jack running, leaving the house unguarded. Our orders are clear; we keep watch on the house.” He slid the hammer back on his gun. “Any questions?”
Silence.
“Good.” Jones broke into a rapid trot. “Let’s move.”
JAËGER STOLE TOWARD the house, moving forward in a rapid half-crouch. He had left his briefcase in the trees just outside the entrance to the estate and now carried only his revolver and lock-picking tools at his waist. Pausing for a moment, he glanced over his shoulder at the conflagration behind him.
His balaclava concealed the white of his teeth as he grinned. The distraction had worked to perfection. A brief reconnaissance had revealed that Northshire Estate was heavily guarded, still another indication that Leila was within its walls.
Why would Thomas hire an army if there was nothing to protect? Now, those well-intentioned sentinels were rushing to curtail his destructive influence, leaving the doors to the castle unprotected.
Jaëger moved forward again, eyes intent upon the main entrance. He dropped to his belly as the tree line thinned out, then like a serpent, he wended his way forward until his fingertips touched the edge of a circular courtyard. He froze and lowered his face to the earth as the sound of booted feet echoed off the cobblestones. As he waited for the guards to pass, his mind probed the impulsive plan he had thrown together.
Under normal circumstances he would have devoted at least two days to investigating the property, analyzing his strategy for possible flaws. But these were not normal circumstances. Each passing second increased the risk that the volatile secret Leila possessed would be used against the Fatherland. Each passing second increased the torment of his murdered son’s spirit. In times like these, the risk of failure outweighed the importance of planning.
But he would not fail. He could not fail. Too much was at stake.
LEILA LURCHED UPRIGHT as the echo of the first explosion rattled her bedroom door. Her mind scrambled to orient itself and she stared, motionless for a few moments, at the strange orange light that flickered against her window. Untangling her legs from the bedcovers, she hurried to her window which offered a clear view of the northeast corner of the estate. Yanking aside the sheer curtain, she gaped at the sight that met her eyes.
Hungry flames licked at the shed that stood on the right side of the iron gate that marked the Estate’s entrance.
Northshire is burning.
Twin thoughts exploded in her mind just as two more detonations blasted the burning shed into splintered fragments. First, there was nothing combustible in that shed. Just today Elijah Farrows had stocked it full of early wheat. Whatever had caused the explosion had been deliberately placed there.
Second, hordes of men—the guards Thomas had hired to safeguard the estate—were now streaking toward the flames. Her mind flitted through possibilities as she tugged on her skirt.
An accident? Unlikely.
An attack? Frowning, she pulled her top over her shoulders. The blast had clearly come from the ground not from the skies. No German soldiers stormed up the path, which indicated that this was only a diversion.
Her mouth went dry. There was only one possibility—Werner’s men had found her.
“Leila are you alright?” Thomas’s muffled voice penetrated the thick door.
“I’m fine.” She jerked open her drawer and strapped her gun belt, holding a Luger semiautomatic, around her waist.
“God, help us all.” Slamming the drawer shut, she darted to the door and jerked its bolt back.
Thomas stood fully dressed, holding an empty bucket in both hands and carrying a bolt-action rifle slung across his shoulder. “It looks like trouble has at last come to Northshire.” He offered her a bucket. “I thought you would want to help.”
She grasped it then moved rapidly toward the spiral staircase. “Thomas, I think this is a trap.”
“You think they’ve found you?”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense.” Leila clutched the handrail as they hurried down the stairs. Greyson, followed by a troop of servants, hustled outside. Everyone would help tonight.
The fires blazed near the wheat fields, a massive conflagration that threatened them all in more ways than one. England’s food supply had been devastated by the war. The estate was largely self-sustaining, with more than three-fourth of the tenants growing their own produce. If the wheat was destroyed, this winter Northshire would starve.
“Stay close.” Thomas’s gruff voice brought her back to the moment. “If someone is trying to get to you inside the castle, you’ll be safest in a crowd.”
Outside, a wailing fire brigade from the village rolled to a stop near the gate. Women, serving in the absence of the men who were away at war, leaped from its open doors and uncoiled long hoses that they aimed at the shed.
“Come on, girls.” Their leader, a short, thickset matron, struggled to free the hose from its place aboard the truck.
Leila filled a gap in a long chain of workers and servants that passed buckets, brimming with water, from a small pond to those closest to the flames. Shouts rose on all sides as the inferno surged upward again.
Shrugging off his jacket Thomas dashed toward the center of the flames, emptying his own bucket and passing it to the person on his left. As soon as a bucket was emptied, it was handed to the person next to the firefighter and sent back to the lake in a long, jagged circle to be refilled.
Plumes of smoke wrung haggard coughs from her throat. Leila gritted her teeth and slammed a sloshing bucket into Jenny’s trembling hands.
“This is our home, Jenny.” Her voice was as unyielding as iron, her face twisted with fury. Burn Northshire? “Nothing and no one will take it from us.”
JONES SKIDDED TO A halt as he and his partner reached the edge of the woods that ringed the castle. Ahead lay the circular stone courtyard, illuminated by the high-reaching flames. A golden eagle, holding a saber between its claws, sat atop a thick marble pillar which stood in the center of the courtyard, glowering at the scene below. A few stragglers hurried toward the flames, but Jones’s gaze remained fixed on the eagle—or rather, the column supporting the eagle.
“Everything okay?”
“Chut!” Jones’s hand flew upward. He was certain he had seen movement at the base of the pillar. He squinted and waited as the courtyard emptied.
“There!” His whisper made the man next to him crane his neck. A shadow detached itself from the darkness at the pillar’s base and slunk toward the side door. Jones spoke in quiet, terse tones. “Stay here in case the blighter doubles back. I’m goin’ in after him.”
They waited until the intruder reached the dark corner outside the servant’s entrance, then Jones drew his weapon and slipped forward like a ghost in the night.
JAËGER GRITTED HIS teeth as he sank to his knees beside the small wooden door that was the servant’s entrance into the castle. He had seen her. Leila Durand, slayer of his son and traitor to the Fatherland, had passed within fifteen yards of him as she hurried off to save this pitiful heap of English stone. He placed his gun on the stones, jerking off his balaclava, and withdrew a long steel key-shaped tool from the kit at his waist.
He would have killed her, but she had been moving too quickly and had been surrounded by too many people. Escape would have been impossible.
Jaëger slipped the metal bar into the keyhole and began to wiggle it to the left and then the right. Thomas Steele had been at her side, as proud as any father could be. It was obvious that the conniving witch had worked her way into his good graces.
Jaëger grunted and twisted the metal slab hard one more time. He was rewarded with a soft clunk as the lock retracted but he remained motionless as he con
sidered his options.
The voice of experience in his skull urged him to retreat. So far he had been lucky. He was a man without a plan and was therefore tempting fate. Then an image of Leila flooded his mind and he shoved reason to one side. His reputation, his country, and his son’s spirit were all at risk as long as she lived.
Jaëger slipped the lockpick back into its sheathe at his belt, palmed his gun, and straightened. The choice was simple, really. For the first time in his life, he would listen to his heart. He would be guided by the hot impulse of his emotions and not the cold, rational mandates of his mind.
Jaëger moved back as he pulled the door toward him. He would search the house, find a secure hiding place and wait.
“Take one more step and you’re a dead man.”
The voice, as unexpected as it was loud, shocked him but Jaëger didn’t hesitate. His mind instantaneously calculated the speaker’s location and he spun while dropping to his knees on the unforgiving stone and squeezing off two shots.
A choked off grunt told him one of his bullets had hit home but his attacker, an older man, fired back while shifting to Jaëger’s right, cutting off access to the door.
“Drop the gun!” The guard pulled the trigger again. A bullet sped past Jaëger’s head and smashed into the wooden door.
Jaëger dove forward, scrabbling on the ground and twisting as he fired back. It was obvious the man wanted to avoid killing him if possible. If not, he would have been dead already. His bullet sparked off the stone and went wide.
He pushed himself to one knee and fired again just as his opponent leveled his gun with Jaëger’s eyes.
Jaëger pulled the trigger.
In a dying reflex, his attacker’s finger squeezed the trigger. Then his victim’s head snapped back, and his eyes flew open as though he hadn’t believed death could claim him so easily. Then his body crashed to the ground as the revolver slipped from nerveless fingers.
In the Shadow of Your Wings Page 33
