Sir Alfred was led down the long, gray, polished hallways of the Judicial Police station by a uniformed police sergeant, and ushered into Captain Ladoux’s office. As Sir Alfred entered, the door was closed promptly and quietly behind him.
Captain Ladoux lifted his eyes coolly and fixed them on Sir Alfred, watching as the man shouldered out of his cashmere overcoat and draped it over his arm.
“Good morning, Captain Ladoux,” Sir Alfred said cordially. “It is a cold, miserable morning, and I hear we may have some snow.”
Captain Ladoux nodded, indicating toward the chair before his desk. “Please be seated, Sir Alfred.”
The men did not shake hands and Captain Ladoux did not offer to take Sir Alfred’s coat. Sir Alfred sat, glancing around Captain Ladoux’s office, noticing the bookshelves overflowing with old books, and the desk cluttered with papers.
“I shall get right to the point, Captain Ladoux. As you were informed by my messenger yesterday, Thursday, November 5th, I am here to kindly request the immediate release of my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Tracey Rutland Bishop, from the Saint-Lazare prison, where she has been held since September 17th.”
Captain Ladoux folded his hands and lifted his chin. “I could have saved you a trip, Sir Alfred. I’m afraid that what you request is quite impossible.”
Sir Alfred crossed his long legs. “Oh, come now, Captain Ladoux, it is not impossible at all. A simple signed release from you and from the Magistrate, Pierre Bouchardon, will certainly do the trick, I should think.”
Captain Ladoux remained still, his jaw set. “Sir Alfred, I can appreciate your position and your many…let us say… official political connections. However, Mrs. Bishop has been arrested for spying for Germany against France. That is a very serious offense, and one that cannot be so easily disregarded or dismissed.”
Alfred’s voice deepened, his eyes taking on some fire. “Captain Ladoux, I have reviewed all the evidence you have against Mrs. Bishop, and so has my son, Thomas, who works for British Intelligence, along with a number of his colleagues. We have examined this so-called evidence and concluded, quite frankly, that you have no real evidence at all against Mrs. Bishop.”
“So you say, Sir Alfred… but this is France, and not England.”
“Shall we examine the evidence, Captain Ladoux? You have a note that was given to Mrs. Bishop by one of your planted agents in De Steeg, that was to be delivered to Mata Hari. You deem that as proof that she was somehow working with Mata Hari, who is now supposed to be some kind of double agent. Now as to whether Mata Hari is, or is not, a double agent is of no concern to me. Captain Ladoux, what you did to Mrs. Bishop was blatant entrapment. The note contains no damning information regarding Mrs. Bishop whatsoever. Frankly, I am at a loss, and quite baffled, as to how you can use that little note as any evidence at all. Your further evidence states, quite astonishingly, that my daughter-law was likely a spy recruited, trained, and operating out of Antwerp, in occupied Belgium. Ostensibly, she was involved in a German espionage network run by Elsbeth Schragmuller, better known as the Fraulein Doktor. This accusation is, first of all, baseless, and secondly, completely absurd. You have no shred of proof at all, Captain Ladoux. You maintain that because Mrs. Bishop’s origins cannot be traced to any one family, country or locale, this must mean she is a German spy. I am told, Captain Ladoux, from the nuns who are praying for her soul at this moment, that Mrs. Bishop cannot even speak German.”
Captain Ladoux leaned back in his chair, offering a little triumphant smile.
“My regrets, Sir Alfred, that you deem French intelligence so inferior to British Intelligence. But I can assure you that we have all the evidence we need, not only to convict Mrs. Bishop, but also to have her brought before a firing squad. Whether you like it or not, Sir Alfred, we are at war and Mrs. Bishop has spied against France. I can assure you, sir, she will be tried, found guilty, and executed.”
Sir Alfred let out a weary sigh. “Captain Ladoux… your theatrics are impressive.”
Captain Ladoux bristled at the obvious insult.
Sir Alfred stared at him, his eyes flinty. “In 1913, I had the honor and privilege of having President Poincaré as my personal guest at Bishop Manor in England. Last evening, I dined once again with your good and honorable President, Raymond Poincaré, at the Hotel Lutetia. We spoke at length about Mrs. Bishop and, as such, I presented him with the entire tenuous evidence you have assembled against her. I told him of my son Edward’s sacrifice for the Allies, and for France in particular. I told him that Edward had been married in France, and that he had died in France. I told him that my son loved and respected the French and had the greatest admiration and respect for French culture and French justice. Captain Ladoux, I told him that Edward’s wife, my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Tracey Peyton Rutland Bishop, was rotting away in Saint-Lazare Prison, falsely accused of being a German spy.”
Captain Ladoux’s body stiffened, his face went rigid. His nervous eyes began to shift, as he adjusted himself in his chair.
Sir Alfred’s voice took on an edge. As he uncrossed his legs, his eyes moved from accusation to contempt, to anger. “I told President Poincaré that it took me over a month to learn where my daughter-in-law was, because the French military, French intelligence and the French police made it practically impossible. I was finally able to learn of my daughter-in-law’s whereabouts thanks to a letter she wrote to me, and then managed to have delivered to the British Embassy, just five days ago. I relayed to President Poincaré my disappointment, regret and bewilderment at such incompetent and unfortunate behavior from such a respected and honored agency of France.”
Sir Alfred slipped a hand inside his black, woolen suit jacket and drew out an envelope. He stood, pulling himself to full height, his eyes flat and hard. He paused for effect and then, deliberately, Sir Alfred placed the envelope on the Captain’s desk.
Captain Ladoux’s eyes grudgingly slid down to view the envelope, as the silence stood between the two men.
“Captain Ladoux, I have lost my son. I do not intend to lose my daughter-in-law because you, sir, are obviously incompetent at finding the true enemies of France, a great country and true ally to England in this terrible war. That is a letter from President Poincaré, instructing you, personally, to release Mrs. Tracey Rutland Bishop from the Saint-Lazare prison immediately. Please read the letter carefully, sir, if you wish.”
Captain Ladoux’s face turned crimson with rage, his eyes not lifting from the envelope to meet Sir Alfred’s.
“I’m sure I do not need to read it, Sir Alfred,” he said, in short, clipped, angry words.
“As you wish, Captain Ladoux. Then I trust that President Poincaré’s orders will be carried out to the letter, and that Mrs. Bishop will be released immediately?”
Captain Ladoux gazed up at Sir Alfred, his eyes flaming. “Yes… Of course it will be done.”
“Excellent, Captain. I will have a car waiting at the main building on rue Saint-Denis. Oh, and please ensure that Mrs. Bishop’s passport is returned to her. Thank you, Captain Ladoux. Good day.”
After Sir Alfred closed the door, leaving Captain Ladoux alone in his quiet fury, he slammed a fist down hard on the desk and shouted, “Va te faire enculer, bâtard anglais!”
CHAPTER 31
Trace was lying on cool clean sheets, covered by a woolen blanket, in a quiet, private hospital room. As her eyes fluttered open, she stared in perplexed reflection. There were fresh flowers beside her bed, giving off a glorious scent, and through the curtained window she turned her head to see a far meadow covered with snow.
Where was she? She made an effort to sit up, but she was too weak. She lay there, feeling a dragging resistance. Her bones felt hollow. Her body numb, lifeless.
Was the stench from that prison gone—the stench that had permeated her hair, her clothes, her skin?
The scent of rose and vanilla answered her question, and the warm, comfortable bed soon caressed her back into a delicious sleep.
When she awoke next, a single light glowed from a table at her bedside. Outside, it was dark, the curtains pulled. When she heard a soft, deep voice, she slowly rolled her head toward the sound.
“How do you feel?”
Her foggy eyes searched the dimly lighted room. Someone rose from a chair, and a tall shadow approached the foot of her bed. She narrowed her eyes to see a man, dressed impeccably, in a dark suit and dark tie. His face was kind, his smile warm.
Trace swallowed twice before she could speak. “Where am I?”
“You are in a private hospital, north of Paris.”
Had she returned to her own time. “Paris? What day and year is it?”
“It is Tuesday, November the tenth, 1916.”
Trace closed her eyes in disappointment.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Yes… Not so strong yet… but better.”
She opened her eyes. “You’re the man who came for me, aren’t you? Are you Mr. Bishop, Edward’s father?”
“Yes. I’m Alfred Bishop. I received your letter and I am so pleased you wrote to me.”
Trace fixed her eyes on him. “Thank you for coming…”
He moved to the left side of her bed, offering a little smile of reassurance. “Of course I came. I would have come sooner if I had known where you were.”
Trace didn’t speak for a moment. Her mind whirled and worked to snap all the pieces together. “Yes…Edward’s father.”
“I returned to Paris to find you after we buried Edward in England.”
She looked at him slowly, carefully. “You came looking for me?”
“Yes. Of course.”
She shut her eyes, tears forming, and then she turned away, letting them trickle down her cheeks.
“Is there anything I can get you, Mrs. Bishop? Anything at all?”
She shook her head. “Thank you… Thank you for getting me out of there. I thought I was going to die.”
“You still need care. And rest. When the doctors say you are ready, I would like to take you to England. If you are agreeable, of course.”
She turned to face him. “England?”
“Yes. It is best that you leave France… the sooner the better.”
She knew exactly what he meant.
“Do you have any plans to travel anywhere else, when you are recovered?” Sir Alfred asked.
“No. None. I have nowhere to go.”
Trace saw a flicker of relief in his eyes. “Then I hope you will return to England with me, when you are ready and able.”
Trace looked at him earnestly. “I am so sorry about Edward… your son.”
“Thank you. Edward wrote to us about you. He was emphatic that I promise to protect you and take care of you.”
Trace turned away again, feeling an unbearable sorrow. “I loved your son very much, Mr. Bishop. It happened so fast… I mean our love for each other. I don’t know, maybe it was the war that sped everything up. Maybe it was a thousand things. Maybe that’s why I came here to this time. I don’t know.”
“Came from where, Mrs. Bishop?”
“Please call me Trace.”
“If you wish, Trace. All right.”
“Edward was a very special man, and I will never forget him.”
She tried to hold back the tears that continued to run down her cheeks. Sir Alfred removed a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted the flow.
“Everything is going to improve now, Trace… We must begin anew. We must think of the future now. I know it is what Edward would want us to do. So, while you continue to recover, I want you to consider not only returning to England with me, but also remaining there and making it your home. As I’m sure Edward told you, he provided handsomely for you in his will, both in money and property. As I said, I made a solemn oath to my son that I would always look after you, and that is what I will do, if you will permit it. My wife, daughter and Edward’s brother are all looking forward to meeting you and welcoming you into our family. You don’t have to decide now, Trace, but please consider it. Just give it some thought. Meanwhile, get plenty of rest, and if there is anything you need or want, please let me or the nurse know, and you shall have it.”
Trace couldn’t stop the tears. After all she’d been through—after the losses and the cold dark nights—after all the mounting anxiety, uncertainty and confusion, the hopeless life in Saint-Lazare Prison, she couldn’t possibly stop the flow of tears. And now, lying there, taking in Edward’s father’s kindness, warmth and generosity, she couldn’t stop them.
Sir Alfred remained by her side, drying her tears, until she drifted into a deep sleep. And then he sat, a quiet shadow, his hands folded, head bowed, wondering who this pretty, young woman was, where she had come from, and what he was to do with her.
CHAPTER 32
Bishop Manor was a striking, three-story, Georgian-style manor house that sat on nearly 34 acres in a quiet, rural area, with fenced pastures and eye-catching hedged gardens and fountains.
Trace sat in the rear seat with Sir Alfred, being chauffeured in a 1916 Napier motor carriage that Sir Alfred proudly stated was manufactured in Acton, West London.
While Alfred talked, Trace stared out the window with childish wonder, as they continued past old trees, rolling meadows, and stone field walls. The magnificence of Bishop Manor soon came into full view, the slate roof, soaring columns and substantial balustrades, revealing a classic elegance, a world far beyond anything she could have ever imagined.
Trace’s full attention was focused on the impressive house, the gardens, the manicured hedges, and the pond, and she only half-listened as Alfred rambled on about the car.
“Trace, I find that I like the automobile more than I would have ever believed. I still love my horses, of course, but I must admit that I enjoy the look, the feel, and the smell of this new machine. It seems manly and masculine somehow.”
The car rumbled ahead, turned into the gated entry and advanced across the winding crushed stone driveway, flanked on either side by tall, majestic trees.
Sir Alfred pointed, enthusiastically, as they advanced toward the stone courtyard.
“Over there, Trace, is farmland, and additional flower gardens. See the Coach House and pond? And a little further on—just past those trees—is a graceful stone cottage. That cottage is yours, my dear, the one Edward left you in his will. It includes a garden, private meadows, and woodlands, with walking and riding trails. I hope you can ride a horse, Trace.”
She looked at him, turning her hand this way and that, as if to say, “More or less.”
Sir Alfred continued. “Well, don’t you worry about that. I’ll teach you to ride. Later, we can take a stroll over and I’ll show it all to you. It’s a magnificent piece of property.”
His voice dropped a little. “If you wish, once you have settled in, I’ll walk you to the family cemetery, where Edward is buried.”
Trace turned away, unsure. “Yes, I’d like that.”
Sir Alfred forced a brighter tone. “Of course, this is the end of November, Trace, and things look rather brown now, but in the spring, this whole area explodes with color and beauty. You will love it.”
Trace eased back in her leather seat, and looked again at Bishop Manor, nearly overcome. “It’s so big, Sir Alfred.”
He laughed, taking her hand. They had become very good friends in a short amount of time. They’d laughed and cried, and as Trace had grown stronger, they’d walked the hospital paths in prayerful silence after sharing stories and loving memories of Edward. When Sir Alfred had asked where she’d come from and how she’d arrived in Paris, Trace had been evasive. “I’ll tell you everything someday,” she’d said, “when the time is right.”
Sir Alfred followed Trace’s eyes as she explored the manor and land.
“Yes, Trace, I’m afraid it is all much too big.”
Sir Alfred turned thoughtful. “It has twelve bedrooms, ten bathrooms, six reception rooms, a grand hall, two libraries and my study,
where I can escape from the world and get away from it all. But the war has changed everything, Trace. Houses like this one won’t be around much longer, or at least the families who own and run them won’t be around. Who can afford them? I’ve already had to sell off some of the land. Look at the great house, Trace. It is a relic from another time and place, like me. At least that’s how I feel sometimes.”
Trace turned to him with fondness, linking her arm in his. “Sir Alfred, believe it or not, I know what you mean about feeling like you’re from another time and place.”
“Do you, my dear?”
“Yes, Sir Alfred, I do indeed. “
“And stop calling me, Sir Alfred, Trace. You are family now. You’re my new daughter.”
“I like calling you Sir Alfred. It suits you and your regal bearing. If anyone should be called Sir Alfred, it’s you.”
He laughed, squeezing her hand. “You always cheer me, Trace. It is so easy to see why Edward fell in love with you.”
They were close to the circular courtyard now, and the Bishop family and servants were standing at the entrance of the Manor, in lines, opposite each other. The entire scene made her think of the popular TV series, Downton Abby.
“They’re waiting for us, Trace, ready to welcome you. There’s my wife, Gwendolyn, my daughter Bryanne, and my son Thomas.”
Trace was buzzed with excitement and anxiety as the car drew up to the entrance and came to a bouncing stop. A tall, silver-headed butler, in a dark suit and white tie, leaned, opened the door, and offered Sir Alfred a cordial greeting as he exited.
“Good to see you again, Sir Alfred,” he said.
“And you, Charles, thank you. All is well, I trust?”
“Yes, Sir Alfred. All is quite well.”
Trace inhaled a bracing breath and reached for Sir Alfred’s hand as he helped her from the car.
The Lost Mata Hari Ring Page 22
