by David Hough
“That hat makes you look ridiculous, sir,” DeBoise said and then yawned.
“Buffalo Bill has a hat like this.”
“Exactly my point.”
“I’ll try to bring you back a buffalo skin.”
“A buffalo steak might go down better.”
DeBoise nestled back beneath the sheets. After Wendel had gone, he lay awake for another ten minutes until the bedroom door opened and Marie crept into the room. The bed creaked as she slid in beside him.
“I hope Billy Donohoe didn’t hear you coming here.” DeBoise snuggled closer to her and reached out a hand.
“Private Donohoe will keep his mouth shut, whatever he hears.”
“Meaning?”
Marie shifted until she was on her side, staring back at him. “Last night I saw him downstairs drinking schnapps with the Goossens’ young maid. My guess is that he’ll have plied her with sufficient alcohol to loosen her reservations and then taken her to his own room. Right now, he won’t give a damn about us.”
“You’re sure the maid had reservations?”
Marie giggled. “Probably, to start with. But Private Donohoe has a silver tongue when he puts his mind to it. They say the Irish have… how do you English put it? The gift of the gab?”
“A touch of the blarney, I think they call it in Ireland. Something to do with the Blarney Stone.”
“Whatever they call it, he has it.”
DeBoise cast his thoughts back to the silence Donohoe had fallen into when he heard of the executions in Ghent. “I thought he might be grieving over Danielle’s death. He liked the girl.”
“I’m sure he is grieving, and I think this is his way of dealing with it. Smothering his past feelings with something new. He has a way with girls, like I said.”
“Has he tried to chat you up?” DeBoise tried to suppress a sudden image of other men languishing in Marie’s arms. It troubled him.
“Tried, but with absolutely no success.” Marie laughed. “However, the maid is young and impressionable. She also speaks perfect English.”
“So?”
“Every one of Billy’s silver words would have been understood. I’m certain he’s had his way with her by now.”
DeBoise ran the palm of one hand lightly against her skin. “He’s had his way with too many girls, if his stories are to be believed. He once told me he ran away from Ireland after getting a girl pregnant.”
Maria pulled his other hand closer. “Don’t worry yourself about him, Charles. You have me.”
*
“Pull in over there, Captain.” Lieutenant Hart-Wilson pointed to the side of the Menin Road as they came near an area of thick woodland. “This is as far as I can lead you. You’ll be on your own from here.”
Wendel drew the car to a halt and allowed the engine to tick over. Dawn was well advanced now, but the flashes from the enemy guns still lit up the sky. The sounds were louder here, a sure sign he was getting closer to the action.
“Thanks for your help,” he said.
The Lieutenant sat still in the passenger seat for a few seconds. “I don’t know what your mission is, except that you want to get to Gheluvelt, but I wish you luck.” He pointed along the road. “From here, the Menin Road runs straight as an arrow to the village. When you get there, look for the church on the left hand side. The Château Gheluvelt is just to the north of it.”
“You’ve seen it.”
“No, but I’ve studied some detailed maps.” He snapped himself alert and opened the passenger door. “There’s nothing more I can tell you. Except to remind you that if you’re found out, you’ll be shot.”
“Been in that position before. But thanks for the reminder.”
Hart-Wilson paused. A vague grin cross his face. “Oh, I almost forgot to say… in that ridiculous hat…”
“Don’t tell me. I deserve to be shot.”
“Your words, Captain.”
When his passenger was gone, Wendel drove on slowly. Dawn was giving way to full daylight when he came to the first German sentry. A lone soldier stepped out onto the tarmac and gestured him to halt. A rifle was slung over his shoulder. Wendel guessed that other German soldiers would be aiming their weapons at him from the safety of the trees.
He slowed to a halt and leaned out of the car window. “Hi there, buddy. You want to see my papers?”
The soldier stepped closer. “Wohin gehen Sie?”
Wendel adopted a puzzled look. “Sorry, buddy. American war correspondent. Don’t speak a word of German.”
The soldier sniffed and yawned. His face was dark and unshaven. “Where are you going?” he asked in halting English.
“Down the road to Gheluvelt. Got papers here that guarantee my safety. You wanna see them?”
The soldier stared at the Stars and Stripes spread across the bonnet. He yawned again. “Go on, American.” He turned away and shuffled back into the trees. Nearby, a faint sliver of daylight glinted on a rifle barrel. Leaves rustled and the barrel disappeared.
Ten minutes later, Wendel slowed the car alongside a stone wall in the village, stopping at a gate where he was able to view the Château. It was an impressive building, on a par with the Château-Sur-Le-Massevigne, the edifice that was destroyed when he killed General von Hahndorf. He had no intention or need to destroy this place, but the German army might think differently if it came to a firefight in the vicinity of Gheluvelt.
He drove on into a drive that led up to the house, parking the car in full view of anyone who might be at a front window. Curbing his increasing uncertainty about the wisdom of his ploy, he walked slowly towards the front entrance. Could he be certain of finding the Countess here? More importantly, could he persuade her to leave? He was, after all, playing the part of someone not directly involved in this war: an American with a cowboy hat. As he came nearer to the Château, he saw the door open and a young woman stepped out. She was staring at him.
He stopped just two yards from her, immediately taken in by her rare beauty. She wore a dark blue pleated skirt and knitted blue jumper, but it was her delicate flawless skin that first took his attention. Her beauty was further emphasised by long silky hair draped about her shoulders, and her slender figure.
He removed the hat and held it in front of him. “Howdy, ma’am. You live here?” Was that how an American might greet the girl? He hoped so.
“Who are you? What do you want here? We do not expect visitors.” She spoke English with a strangely lilting accent. He was unable to place it exactly because it had streaks of French as well as German.
“Name’s Joe Cassidy. New York Chronicle. Wondered if I might get an interview with the people who live here.”
“Why?”
“’Cos you’re on the German side of the line and the British army is gonna be pushing this way in the next few days. Listen to them guns. Reckon you could find yourselves in the middle of a battle pretty soon, and it ain’t gonna be a nice experience. Wondered what your plans are.”
“We can look after ourselves.” She eyed him suspiciously. “You don’t sound American. Not real American.”
He shrugged, wondering if he had already given himself way. “What do you expect an American to sound like, ma’am?”
“I really can’t be sure, but you sound English. Are you English?”
“No, ma’am. Grew up in New York. Any chance of me coming inside and chatting to you? Don’t mean you any harm, and I’d sure welcome anything you can tell me.”
“Come inside, if you must.” She stepped to one side, allowing him to step into a tall-ceiling hallway.
Ornately decorated walls, richly hung with old oil paintings, stretched away in front of them. The girl’s face still betrayed an air of suspicion. “You will be welcome only as long as you talk to me. Please do not get ideas about annoying anyone else here.”
“Who else would I wanna talk to, ma’am?”
The girl had a presence that demanded his attention, and it was clear that she knew it. She sp
oke confidently. “That rather depends upon you, Mr Cassidy, and what you really aim to gain from coming here.”
“Just a chat, like I said.” It seemed like she doubted his motives already and that worried him. He forced himself not to be taken in by the young woman’s self-confidence. “You’re Sophia von Birkensaft, ain’t you?”
“How do you know that?”
“Asked a few questions before I set out this mornin’.” He glanced around. “What about your brother? He’s here in the Château as well, ain’t he?”
She frowned, a dark expression taking hold where only beauty had previously held sway. “Pierre?”
“Yeah. Pierre von Birkensaft.” He spoke the name slowly, meaningfully.
“Why do you want to know about him?”
“Figured he might be able to tell me what he plans to do if the British army gets this far down the Menin Road.” Or maybe, he thought, the boy was already up to his eyeballs in preparation for that eventuality.
“Pierre is upstairs. He is resting. I do not intend to disturb him just to satisfy your editor’s demands, Mr Cassidy.”
“And when the British come?”
“Pierre will stay here and help me guard our Grandmama.” The girl abruptly turned her back on him and swept into an adjacent room.
Wendel followed her into an ornate library. Leather-bound books adorned floor-to-ceiling shelves along three walls. A big mahogany table sat at the centre of the room. Two armchairs were positioned either side of a marble fireplace. The girl impatiently gestured to one of them.
“You had better take a seat.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He sat down uneasily.
“So… you are an American, you say. Even though you do not sound like one.” She remained standing, looking down at him. Her lilting voice suddenly took on the hard edge of suspicion. “I suppose the German army allowed you to freely cross the front line?”
“Yeah. I got all the right papers, you see.”
“How convenient.” The hostility in her voice went up another notch.
“We’re neutral, ma’am. You ain’t got nothing to fear from me.”
She chewed at her lower lip for a few seconds, as if trying to figure out whether she could believe him. Her deliberations ended with a sudden shrug and she glanced through the open door to where a servant was standing.
“Just wait here a moment, Mr Cassidy. There is something I must attend to.”
She walked back out to the hallway, straight to the servant. Through the partly open door, he saw her speak quickly and angrily, but her words were too low for him to hear. The man pointed towards the front entrance and seemed to be anxious to leave.
The girl raised her voice marginally. She spoke in clearly enunciated German with no regional accent. “No. It is not necessary. I expect he is who he says he is.”
“And I say you are wrong, Fräulein!” With a scowl, the servant hurried away.
The girl drew back her shoulders and returned to the library. She sounded anxious. “I am sorry to keep you waiting.”
Wendel stood up automatically, as if he was acknowledging her status. “That’s okay.” But he seriously wondered if it was okay. Something wasn’t right.
“I hope you really are an American journalist. It could be awkward for you if you were caught here under false pretences.”
“Trust me,” he said, and felt a tingle of alarm run through him.
“You could leave now and nothing would be lost.”
For a moment he wondered if she was begging him to leave. Maybe he was mistaken. He shrugged and said, “Guess I’ll stay a while if you’ll allow it.”
“Very well.” She let out a deep sigh and sat down directly opposite. “Tell me exactly what it is you want to know, Mr Cassidy. I will try to answer your questions as best I can.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Another sense of unease ran through him. The girl’s attitude had changed. She now sounded almost accommodating in a resigned sort of way. He sat down gingerly. “Perhaps you can begin by telling me about your life here at the Château.”
“You said you had been asking questions before you came here, so you should know already that my brother and I live here with our Grandmama.” This time her smile was disarming. “Why should we three be of interest to the American public?”
“Because your Grandmama is the widow of a Belgian Count. She’s on the wrong side of the line.”
“It is of no consequence. The Germans will not harm us.”
“Why not? Why don’t they take all of you into captivity?”
“Does it matter why? As long as they leave us alone we have nothing to fear.”
“On the contrary, ma’am. You have a lot to fear. By my reckonin’, the British army is soon gonna come charging down the Menin Road and the German troops ain’t gonna like it. There’s gonna be a battle and you could find yourselves in the middle of it. Wouldn’t be at all nice for the Countess.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” She stood up suddenly. “I am being most inhospitable. Let me get you a hot drink. A cup of coffee, maybe?”
“I’d be most obliged to you, ma’am.”
Wendel gazed around the room after the girl had left, but his mind was not on his surroundings. His thoughts were centred on Wood Wine.
If only he had been able to make contact with C and find out the agent’s identity. He had his suspicions, but he needed to be certain. In the meantime, he had to continue playing this game, and it wasn’t an easy game to play.
Sophia von Birkensaft returned five minutes later carrying a silver tray laden with coffee and biscuits.
“Are you short on servants, ma’am?” Wendel asked cautiously.
She set down the tray on a side table and picked up the coffee pot. “Most of them retreated back to Ypres before the Germans closed in on us. They wanted to be on the other side of the front line.”
“And the one who left the house just now?”
“He has other things to attend to.” She kept her gaze focussed on the coffee cup as she poured. “Do you take milk and sugar?”
“Please. Two lumps, as the English say.”
“I thought Americans drank their coffee without milk.” She handed him the cup, but kept her gaze averted.
“A myth, ma’am. Just a cowboy myth.” He eyed her warily as he took the cup. “Tell me about your Grandmama? Better still, any chance I might get to speak to her?”
“I told you would be welcome only if you talk to me.”
“Mentioned it purely a matter of courtesy, ma’am.”
A strange look crossed the girl’s face, as if she was mentally interrogating him, searching out his true motives. “Would it keep you happy if I allowed you to meet her?”
“Ecstatically happy, ma’am.” He said it with irony in his voice, but he wasn’t sure if she noticed. Maybe she didn’t understand English irony.
“She is at her breakfast.”
“Always thought breakfast was a good time for talking.”
The girl seemed to be struggling with her thoughts for some minutes. “Grandmama might not think so.”
“I could give her a whole page spread in the New York press. And it might help if people knew what you’re facing here. I mean, you’d not want your Grandmama to get harmed because no one realised she was in danger.”
“I do worry about her, I must admit.” Finally the girl made up her mind. “Very well. Finish your coffee and I will take you to her.”
“You’re a most obliging young lady, ma’am.”
Sophia led him down the hallway to a pair of tall doors which she threw open. “In here, Mr Cassidy.” She walked ahead of him into the dining room and stepped up to where an elderly lady was seated.
She spoke in English. “Grandmama, we have a visitor. An American journalist. He has asked if he might speak with you.”
Beatrice, the elderly Gräfin von Birkensaft, was seated at a long, well-polished table. Wendel frowned at her appearance. It was more formal than he had
anticipated. She wore a white dress, embroidered with gold and buttoned up to her neck. Her grey, almost white, hair was neatly arranged, as if some considerable effort had been put into it: the work of her granddaughter perhaps? A haughty expression covered her face, a look that warned of aggression from the start. Clearly, this was not going to be easy and he had yet to begin.
“You are interrupting my breakfast, child,” the old lady replied in German.
“If you could give him a few moments of your time, he might be able to explain our position to the outside world. Just a few moments and then he can be on his way. I am sure he is keen to be on his way soon.”
“Explain our position?”
“Why we choose to remain here at Gheluvelt.”
Wendel stepped closer. “Be glad to do that, ma’am.”
The Countess addressed Sophia, seemingly ignoring Wendel. “I thought everyone knew why we remain here.”
“Not everyone, Grandmama. And the American press is very influential. It could serve our purpose to speak to this man.”
The old lady turned and stared at Wendel through eyes that seemed to suddenly take on an expression of understanding. “Very well, however disagreeable it might be. Come forward, young man, whoever you are.” She spoke English with a thick German accent.
As quickly as she had acknowledged him, she shifted her gaze away and sipped from a china tea cup. Her thin body was proudly upright, her face still resolutely fixed with its expression of arrogant determination.
Wendel strode to the opposite side of the table and coughed lightly.
“Your name?” The old lady cast a suspicious look over him.
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am. I’m Joseph Cassidy.”
“You are an American journalist, Sophia tells me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He paused. This would be the difficult bit. He coughed lightly before he continued. “I am also an unofficial emissary from the Belgian government.”
“Really?” A frown creased the Countess’ face.
“You did not tell me that!” Sophia turned a dark expression upon him.
Wendel raised a hand to halt the girl’s protest, and he continued addressing the Countess. “When the Belgian authorities knew I planned to come here to Gheluvelt, a government minister came to see me. He implored me to get to see you, ma’am. The thing is, you see, the Belgians want you to accompany me back to Ypres.”
