Visions of unthawed turkeys danced through my head, but I smiled bravely and said, “It sure is.”
Paul relaxed. “Been looking forward to it, madam. Very kind of you to invite me, I’m sure.” He gripped his cap with both hands. “Don’t mean to rush you, but the storm’s left the city in a bit of shambles, and it may take some time for us to—”
“We’re on our way,” I said, and called for Julian to drop his toast and grab his jacket.
“Never seen nothing like it,” Paul muttered. The window separating driver from client in the long black limousine was never closed when I was Paul’s passenger. “Lived in London my whole life, madam, and I’ve never seen snow like this.”
The blizzard had indeed left Paul’s beloved birthplace in a bit of a shambles, but it was a peaceful shambles. The storm had forced many businesses to close, thereby reducing the number of harried, list-toting shoppers to near zero. Few pedestrians, it seemed, were willing to clamber over the vast mountain ranges of plowed snow piled at each intersection, and even fewer drivers trailed in the wake of the exhaust-belching snowplows that now ruled London’s streets.
As a wealthy residential district, Belgravia received priority treatment from the city’s fleet of plows. Paul had little trouble maneuvering the limousine through the snow-tunneled thoroughfares to the gates of Havorford House. While Julian spoke into a gatepost-mounted intercom, requesting an interview with Lady Havorford concerning her brother, I craned my neck to view the mansion Kit had fled on that cold February night four years earlier.
Havorford House was several centuries removed from Stepney’s postwar council housing, a rigidly symmetrical Palladian palace in silver-gray stone that rose, gleaming, from the center of a small but exquisite walled garden. A filigreed wrought-iron fence separated the garden from the street, and a half-circular drive curved beneath the mansion’s porticoed entryway. If snow fell again that day, it would not fall on Lady Havorford’s guests.
Gold glittered everywhere, as if the mansion had been gilded for Christmas. Each tree in the garden was hung with tiny golden lights that bobbed in the breeze like dancing fireflies. Golden baubles dangled from the topiary yews lining the drive, gold mesh bows crowned the gates, and candles burned in every window, before massed groupings of white poinsettias. I gazed at the splendid golden wreath adorning the front door and felt my heart burn with envy. I was willing to bet my handmade Italian boots that Felicity Havorford’s Christmas tree didn’t list.
“It’s perfect,” I said dismally.
“Too perfect,” Julian noted.
I took what consolation I could from his words, knowing that no one could possibly aim that particular barb at the cottage.
The gate finally swung open and Paul cruised past the topiary yews, coming to a stop beneath the colonnaded porch. Two dark-suited young men trotted out to open the limousine’s doors. One of the men escorted Julian and me into the mansion while the other stayed behind to give Paul instructions on parking.
“I’m Budge,” said our escort, after Julian and I had handed our coats over to yet another dark-suited young man. “Please, come with me.”
Budge led us down a mirror-lined hallway hung with crystal chandeliers to a set of double doors leading to a sumptuous library. As he bowed himself out of the room he informed us that Lady Havorford would be with us shortly.
Once Budge was out of sight, I let loose a pent-up sigh of admiration. The library was unlike any I’d ever seen. Panels of gilded plasterwork, as delicate as the finest embroidery, ornamented the coved ceiling, and a gilded balcony reached by a white-painted spiral staircase gave access to the upper shelves of books. The cream-colored shelves were set in arched niches separated by gold-veined marble pilasters topped with gilded cornices.
A pair of Chippendale chairs and a delicate gilded table sat on one side of the fireplace, facing a sofa upholstered in gold brocade with gilded arms and legs. The floor was covered by a creamy carpet overlaid with a peach-and-gold Aubusson rug, and a wood fire burned merrily in the gold-veined marble hearth. A ponderous mahogany desk set at an angle in the far corner struck the only wrong note in the room.
“Oh, Julian, isn’t it magnificent?” I said, hugging Kit’s carryall to me as I took in every glittering detail.
“I suppose so.” Julian tapped an index finger against his lips and frowned at the Chippendale chairs. “I’m trying, but I can’t picture Kit in this setting. Can you?”
I shrugged. “Which Kit? The one I found or the one with the Savile Row tailor?”
“Good point,” said Julian.
The double doors opened in concert, as if on invisible strings, and a voice sounded from the mirrored hallway. “The brunch guests will be arriving within the hour, Budge. See to it that the drive is kept clear.”
“Very good, my lady.”
A woman glided into the room and the double doors closed behind her. She was tall and slender, dressed in a full-skirted, floor-length gown of ivory satin topped with a form-fitting, cropped satin jacket. Her dark brown hair was swept upward in a casual arrangement of soft waves that must have taken hours to perfect. Diamonds glittered on her breast and dripped from her earlobes.
There was no mistaking her identity. She was a good deal older than Kit, but the family resemblance was still strong. Her pale, long-fingered hands were exactly like his. She had the same high cheekbones and curving lips, but her eyes were a faded powder-blue and her expression was curiously lifeless. She seemed more remote standing before us than Kit had lying unconscious in his hospital bed. If Kit’s beauty drew people toward him, Lady Havorford’s held them at bay.
I noted the similarities and differences, then murmured, “You have Kit’s hands.”
“Kit?” Lady Havorford regarded me coolly. “A distasteful sobriquet. While you are in my home you will refer to my brother as Christopher. Unless, of course, there’s been some mistake—”
“There’s no mistake,” said Julian, stepping forward. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Lady Havorford, but Ki—Christopher is gravely ill. He’s at the Radcliffe Infirmary, in Oxford. He’s been in a coma for more than a week.”
“I see.” Lady Havorford motioned for us to sit on the sofa, then glided over to sit gracefully in the chair nearest the fire. Her gaze drifted to Kit’s carryall as I placed it on the floor at my feet, but if she recognized it she gave no indication. “Did Christopher ask you to come to me?”
“He wasn’t able to,” Julian replied.
“Then how did you find me?” she asked.
I gave Julian a quick, puzzled glance. Lady Havorford’s questions were beginning to seem somewhat odd. She hadn’t asked about the nature of Kit’s illness or his prognosis. She hadn’t asked how or where Julian and I had come to know her brother or what our relationship was to him. It was hard to tell what was going on behind those powder-blue eyes, but so far she’d betrayed no sign whatsoever of sisterly concern.
“It’s rather an involved story, Lady Havorford,” Julian told her. “Suffice it to say that Ms. Shepherd and I made certain inquiries on your brother’s behalf which led us to Saint Joseph’s Church in Stepney. The vicar there led us to you.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed Lady Havorford’s face, but she said nothing.
“Your brother will need someone to look after him while he convalesces,” Julian prodded gently.
“I don’t think Christopher would care to be cosseted by me,” said Lady Havorford. “He renounced his family four years ago, when he handed over his inheritance to that perversely popish little priest in Stepney.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but snapped it shut when Julian’s foot nudged mine.
“There are those,” he said carefully, “who believe that your brother should be confined for his own protection, once he recovers from his present, physical ailment. Do you agree with them, Lady Havorford?”
I leaned forward, eager for her answer, and watched in fascination as her eyes began to glisten. A
moment later, as if of their own accord, two perfect pear-shaped tears rolled down her motionless face.
“My brother may very well be insane,” she said evenly, “but then, so might you be, if you’d killed your own father.”
Lady Havorford surveyed our shocked expressions with cool indifference. “You don’t believe me. No one ever does. But my brother knows the truth and so do I.”
“Would you be so kind as to share the truth with us?” Julian asked.
“Are you certain you want to hear it?” she returned.
“We are,” said Julian.
Lady Havorford carefully blotted her tears with a lace-edged handkerchief drawn from the sleeve of her satin jacket, then rose to her feet. Her gown rustled as she glided to the mahogany desk, where she lifted the receiver of a white telephone. She spoke into it briefly before returning to her chair.
“We shan’t be disturbed,” she said, adding vaguely, “It will be the first time in ten years that I’ve left it to my husband to welcome our guests.”
I look from her impassive face to the handkerchief twisted tightly in her clenched fists and wondered queasily what she’d say next. I didn’t believe for one minute that Kit had killed anyone, much less his own father. Perhaps, I thought, gazing at those white-knuckled hands, it wasn’t Kit who was insane, but his sister.
“The curious thing,” Lady Havorford mused aloud, “the thing that throws everyone off the scent, is that Christopher grew up adoring Papa. Sir Miles was a hero, you see, a highly decorated member of the most elite corps in Bomber Command.”
“Your father was a Pathfinder,” I guessed, glancing at the canvas carryall.
Lady Havorford seemed unsurprised by my remark. “You’ve no doubt heard of the Pathfinder Force lectures Sir Miles gave at Oxford.”
“Y-yes,” I stammered, as another piece of the puzzle dropped into place. Kit’s father had indeed been a university lecturer, just as he’d told Luke Boswell. “We knew he’d given the lectures, but we didn’t know what they were about.”
A slight frown creased Lady Havorford’s smooth brow. “How, then, did you know that my father was a Pathfinder?”
“We didn’t,” I said, “but … here, let me show you what Christopher had with him when he was admitted to the Radcliffe.”
I took the water-stained suede pouch from the carryall, teased open the drawstrings, and upended it over the gilded table beside Lady Havorford’s chair. As the medals spilled onto the table, she caught her breath, then pursed her lips in a disapproving frown.
“Papa’s medals,” she said, laying the handkerchief aside. “They were the only things Christopher would accept from the estate, and just look what a mess he’s made of them.” Her hands hovered briefly over the tangled pile of decorations. Then, with swift, precise movements, she began separating one from another, smoothing the wrinkled ribbons and laying them out in orderly lines. The exercise seemed to stir more memories, for she continued to speak of the distant past.
“We lived in the country when Christopher was small,” she said. “He had a horse, called Lancaster, after the first bomber Papa piloted. Christopher would gallop Lancaster along the bridle path, dropping his make-believe bombs neatly on make-believe submarine bases, then dash back to the manor house to tell Papa about his precision-bombing runs.”
She paused to examine her display with a critical eye before placing the golden eagle above the other medals, bars, and badges on the table.
“It sounds an idyllic childhood,” Julian prompted.
“It was,” Lady Havorford agreed. “Then Mother died, and when Papa remarried he sold our country house and we came to live in London.” Her voice softened. “It broke Christopher’s heart to give up Lancaster, but he never complained. As I said, he adored Papa.”
A log fell on the fire, sending up a shower of sparks, and a clamor of voices sounded from the mirrored hallway, but Lady Havorford went on as if there’d been no interruption.
“At school, Christopher never tired of telling his chums of the medals Sir Miles had won,” she said. “One day, one of the boys, out of jealousy or spite, pointed out that no campaign medal was ever struck to honor the men of Bomber Command and for good reasons. It wasn’t until Christopher read history at university that he discovered what those reasons were.”
“Area bombing,” Julian murmured.
Lady Havorford’s eyebrows rose. “You have done your research, Father Bright,”
Julian turned to me. “It was in the book I borrowed from you, the one from Luke Boswell’s shop. During the Second World War, the RAF intentionally bombed civilians, hoping to destroy German morale. No one outside Bomber Command knew much about it until after the war.”
“Christopher was horrified to think that Papa’s bombs had fallen on schoolyards as well as submarine bases,” said Lady Havorford.
“Many people were horrified, once the truth was known,” Julian pointed out. “That’s why the men of Bomber Command were never awarded a campaign medal.”
“But they were soldiers,” I said, “and it was war. They were only—” I nearly said, “They were only following orders,” but the implications of the phrase silenced me.
“They were doing what needed to be done,” Lady Havorford stated flatly. “Christopher, however, saw things differently. He called Papa a monster. He said that Papa was no better than the terrorists whose bombs kill innocent passersby. He moved here, to live with me, and a short time later he left university to work for a friend who owned a stable.”
“Did Sir Miles respond to the accusations?” Julian asked.
“He began writing a memoir,” said Lady Havorford, “to explain himself to his son.” She rose from her chair and returned to the mahogany desk. She stood over it for a moment, gazing down at the blotter, the inkwell, the green-shaded reading lamp, then sat behind it, facing us across a vast expanse of polished wood.
“He compiled most of it at this desk, after long days spent at the Imperial War Museum.” She opened a side drawer and withdrew from it a thick sheaf of papers bound with a black ribbon. “Papa worked on his memoir for more than a decade,” she continued, placing the manuscript on the blotter, “but Christopher showed no interest in Papa’s work. Neither he nor I saw the memoir until … after.”
“After what?” coaxed Julian.
Lady Havorford folded her hands atop the manuscript’s black ribbon. “Four years ago,” she said, “Papa was asked to travel to Normandy, to participate in the ceremonies commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of the D-day invasion.”
“Another honor for Sir Miles,” Julian commented.
“It would have been,” Lady Havorford acknowledged. “He was, alas, unable to attend. The D-day ceremonies took place in June, you see, three months after Papa had remembered quite another anniversary.” She looked from Julian’s face to mine. “Does the thirteenth of February mean anything to you?”
Four years ago, in February, Kit had fled his sister’s home to search for the patron saint of aviators. Had he quarreled with his father on the anniversary of a long-forgotten battle? Even as I shook my head, I wondered nervously if Kit had somehow injured his father, then gone to Saint Joseph’s, hoping for some kind of absolution.
“On the thirteenth day of February, 1945, my father flew a mission deep into Germany,” said Lady Havorford. “As a Pathfinder, he carried a full load of incendiaries to mark the target and set it well ablaze. He fulfilled his mission brilliantly. By the end of the first night’s bombing, the glare in the sky above the target could be seen from two hundred miles away.
“By the end of the second night,” she continued, “some twenty-five thousand people were dead—twenty-five thousand men, women, and children, residents of the city as well as refugees fleeing from the Russian army, burnt or blasted or suffocated by the firestorm that sucked the oxygen from their lungs.” Her hand caressed the manuscript. “The target wasn’t a munitions factory or a submarine base. It was a virtually defenseless medieval city
renowned for its art and the beauty of its architecture. You may have heard of it. It was called Dresden.”
The fire’s pleasant crackle seemed to rise to a menacing roar, and the wheezing sighs of sizzling sap sounded eerily like agonized screams. The room’s decorative giltwork shimmered as though licked by tongues of flame, but Lady Havorford’s eyes were as cold as ice as she raised her hand and pointed to the gilded balcony.
“On the thirteenth day of February,” she said, “fifty years after the raid on Dresden, my father hanged himself, just there, above his volumes on military history.”
Somewhere beyond the double doors a sweet tenor voice warbled “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.” I thought of Kit, standing in the rain at the end of a weed-grown runway, murmuring prayers to the empty sky, bereft of all comfort and joy.
Lady Havorford’s hand came back to rest on the manuscript. “Christopher was here that evening,” she said. “He found Papa’s body. He also found the letter in which Papa confessed to crimes against humanity and sentenced himself to the proper death for a war criminal.”
Julian seemed to wilt beside me, as if the weight of Sir Miles’s tragedy had fallen on his own shoulders. “The poor, tormented soul,” he murmured.
“My father requires no man’s sympathy,” said Lady Havorford, her voice filled with disdain. “Sir Miles was a great man tormented by an ungrateful son. Christopher cherished the world my father fought to preserve even as he condemned the way in which my father fought to preserve it. Papa was a hero. Christopher is a hypocrite as well as a murderer.”
“He’s not a murderer,” I put in gently. “Your father committed suicide.”
“Christopher drove him to it,” snapped Lady Havorford. “Sir Miles never lost a moment’s sleep over his part in the war until Christopher filled his mind with doubt.” Her hands turned to fists atop the memoir. “It was only after his son lost faith in him that he lost faith in himself.”
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