by Anne Perry
Monsieur glared at him. “We’re not helpless! Where do you come from? You have a funny accent. You don’t sound English at all.”
Joseph’s throat tightened. He dared not look at Matthew. He reached under the shelter of the tabletop and took Lizzie’s hand, and felt her fingers grasp his.
“I’m not,” Schenckendorff said calmly. “I’m Scots. From the Western Isles. We spoke Gaelic when I was young.”
Joseph prayed silently that no one in the room had the faintest idea what Gaelic sounded like. Actually, he had none himself.
Monsieur seemed satisfied. “Really? Western Isles, eh? Rains a lot, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Schenckendorff went on, turning to the woman. “You can make the most ordinary ingredients taste good. That is an art.”
“There’s no more,” she said ungraciously, but there was a flush of pleasure in her cheeks and she very nearly smiled at him.
Joseph slept well. It was the first time he’d had a real bed in more than half a year, since he had been at home on his last leave in the spring. He was woken violently by a banging on the door. Even before he could sit up, it burst open and a large Belgian policeman stood just inside the room, a German pistol in his hand, pointing it at Joseph.
“Get up,” he ordered. “Slowly. Don’t touch your uniform!”
“I can’t get up without my clothes,” Joseph pointed out. “Who are you, and what’s wrong? We’re British army officers and volunteers, going back to London with important information.” He was sick at the thought that perhaps he had actually been posted as a deserter, and Hook had sent out his information. Surely not so soon?
“Maybe. Maybe not.” The man moved toward Joseph cautiously and, with one hand, picked up his uniform shirt off the back of the chair where Joseph had left it. He shook it hard. Papers fell out of one of the pockets. He dropped the jacket and picked up the trousers, shaking them also.
“I’m not armed,” Joseph said patiently, controlling himself with difficulty. “If you look at the collar, and the insignia, you’ll see that I’m a chaplain. I don’t carry weapons.”
“How do I know the uniform’s yours?” the man demanded. “Anyone could wear it.”
There was no reasonable argument to that. It was true. Going through the lines last year Joseph had worn a Swiss chaplain’s uniform to which he had had no right. “They could,” he conceded. “But why bother? What is it you think I am? An army deserter, with a war correspondent, two army officers, a nurse, and an ambulance driver?” He tried to convey the absurdity of it in his voice.
“No, I think you’re a collaborator trying to get a German occupying commander out of Belgium before we can catch him and hang him, like he deserves,” the man replied quite calmly. “We’ll give you over to the families of those he murdered.”
Joseph looked at his face and saw the years of suffering burned into his heart, the deaths he was helpless to prevent, and, more bitter than that, the corruption of fear and loneliness and greed that had destroyed what had once been clean. He had found weakness and disappointment that peace would never have revealed. He did not want to forgive.
Joseph felt real fear, hot and sick inside him. Lizzie would be hurt, and Judith. They did not spare women. He and Matthew would be killed. They would never catch the Peacemaker now. Bitter, terrible irony—the Reavleys would never exact their own vengeance.
Would John Reavley have wanted vengeance? Probably not. When Joseph thought about it, after four years of mutilation and death, he felt that his father would definitely not have. It ended nothing. The Peacemaker must be stopped because of the damage he could still do; no more than that.
“There may be such people, I don’t know,” he said quietly. How much of the truth should he tell? One lie, if caught, could kill them all. But they must all tell the same story, true or false.
“Let me get dressed, and we can all answer your questions. I presume you do not wish to imprison British army officers on military duty. Or perhaps you do? Maybe it’s you who are helping the occupiers to escape, and you think we will discover that, and—”
The policeman lifted the gun and swung his arm around. Joseph only just managed to fend off the blow, but he did it hard, with his weight behind it, and the gun clattered to the floor. He thought for an instant of diving to get it first, and realized he would be just too late. He forced himself to stand still.
The policeman watched him, eyes hard and angry, then bent and retrieved the gun, pointing its muzzle at Joseph’s stomach. “Wise,” he said between his teeth. “Very wise. I’d have shot you.”
“I can see that,” Joseph answered. “You would have had a lot of explaining to do to the British army as to why you’d shot an unarmed priest in his bed, but it would have been a bit late to help me.”
“You say you’re a priest. I say you’re a collaborator.”
“By then it would be obvious that you didn’t care. You just wanted to shoot someone, and you didn’t have the guts to pick anyone who could fight back,” Joseph said with contempt. He was frightened, especially for Lizzie and Judith, but he was beginning to be angry as well. “For heaven’s sake, think about it! We’re in British army uniforms. The ambulance is pretty obviously a real one; you can see the state of it. There’s years of blood on its boards, it’s splintered with shot, and any fool can see it’s at least four years old.”
“Oh, it’s real enough,” the man agreed. “I don’t doubt you stole it from a real British hospital. But we got reliable information that you have a German officer with you who’s one of those that led the invasion and occupation of our country. To collaborate with the enemy makes you one of them. Worse, you betrayed your own.” He said it with total conviction, the contempt in him scalding like acid. “Put your clothes on, priest. You’re going to answer to the Belgian people. Unless you want to come as you are?”
Ten minutes later they were all downstairs in the gray early-morning light, shivering and silent. There were three more policemen, all with guns. Madame and Monsieur were there, too, bristling with anger because they had been made fools of, their hospitality abused. Madame, her puffy face gray, her hair in a thin braid over her shoulder, glared at Joseph in particular and spat, her loathing too deep for words.
The man who seemed to be in charge, who was narrow-shouldered and tall, assumed that Joseph was the leader, since he appeared to be the oldest in uniform. Mason he disregarded, and Schenckendorff was the focus of his suspicion.
“You say you are taking information back to London. That’s absurd. Doesn’t take six of you, and women, to do that. And if it’s urgent, as you say, you wouldn’t go in an ambulance that’s old and ready to fall to bits. You’ve got no papers of authority, no money, no supplies, no extra fuel. If you were on genuine army business, you would be properly equipped. Now tell me the truth and we might believe you.”
Joseph looked across at Matthew. At least nothing had been said about desertion. They might have one chance left, but it would be only one.
Judith was next to Lizzie, so close as to be almost supporting her. Joseph could only guess how ill Lizzie must feel at this hour.
Schenckendorff moved his weight from one foot to the other to ease the pain. He looked as if he was trying to decide whether to speak or not.
Mason smiled as if the whole thing was faintly ridiculous. But under the bravado his shoulders were stiff, and the graceful posture was only half convincing.
“What on earth is it you think we’re doing?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “Last week of the war, and after four years here we’re deserting now? We’d still be shot, you know. As lunatics, if nothing else.”
Joseph winced at mention of deserting. Was it a piece of bravado too far?
“We know what you’re doing!” the narrow-shouldered man replied. “You’ve captured a German commandant and you want him for yourselves. He’s plundered our works of art, paintings, reliquaries, ornamental weapons, and if you spare his life he’ll give them t
o you. Well, we’ve caught you, and after we’ve tried you and you’ve told us where you’ve hidden our material treasures, we’ll execute you as thieves, and him as the murderer he is.”
Matthew looked at Joseph, then at Schenckendorff. A single thought had occurred to them all.
“There may be such a man,” Matthew said in a voice that was very nearly level. Only Joseph, who had known him all his life, heard the fear in it. “It is not Colonel Schenckendorff, who I admit is German. But he is a senior officer in Berlin, and at no time was part of the occupation of Belgium. I am Major Reavley of British Secret Intelligence Service, and I am bringing him back to London, where he can expose certain collaborators we have of our own. We are doing it this way, in an ambulance and without papers of authority, because the collaborators concerned have spies in many places, and are attempting to stop us naming them even now. If you attempt to prevent us, I can only assume that you are in league with these collaborators yourselves. Perhaps you owe your own people a more detailed account of your part in the occupation of your country than you have given them so far?”
The narrow-shouldered man was startled. A counterattack was the last thing he had expected. He was thrown off balance.
“By all means try us,” Matthew pressed his advantage. “We shall try each other!”
The Belgians looked confused.
“Don’t listen to them!” Madame said bitterly. “They’ll talk their way out of it.” She looked at the leader. “Aren’t both of your sons dead?” She turned to another of them. “Isn’t your sister a widow? You used to be rich. Where’s your house? A pile of rubble. Wasn’t your daughter raped before she killed herself? What do those people know of what war is really like? It’s over, and they’re going home again. Where are our homes, eh?” She swung her arm violently and only just missed knocking a chipped candlestick off the mantel to the floor.
“Lock them up,” the leader ordered. “We’ll find the people who say this is the German commandant. Someone must know.”
Before anyone could move to obey him there was a knock on the door. Almost immediately it opened, and Sergeant Hampton came in. He glanced around the faces and stopped when he recognized Joseph. “’Morning, Chaplain. You seem to be in a spot of bother.”
Joseph was weak with relief and astonishment. “Yes,” he gulped, drawing in air as if he had suddenly come to the surface from being close to drowning. “We are finding it hard to prove we are who we say.” Then, like sudden nausea, he realized that Hampton might have come to arrest him for desertion. At least the others could go on!
“Really?” Hampton looked at the Belgians. “Captain Reavley is chaplain with the Cambridgeshires at Ypres,” he said solemnly. “Major Reavley there is with the Secret Intelligence Service. Mr. Mason is one of our most distinguished war correspondents. Miss Reavley is an ambulance driver, and Mrs. Blaine is a nurse. I can swear to this because I have been conducting an investigation in which they were of assistance. Fortunately it is all cleared up now.” He fished in his pocket and brought out his police identification. “Sergeant Hampton of the British military police.” He displayed it but kept it in his hand.
“And him?” the narrow-shouldered man asked, looking at Schenckendorff. “Can you swear for him, too?”
“Of course. He is Colonel Schenckendorff, whom they are escorting to London. I would not like to have to insist that you permit them to go on their way unhindered, but I shall have to become unpleasant about it if you do not.” He had a revolver in his hand and was holding it with the muzzle pointing up, a little toward the middle of the man’s chest. The shot would undoubtedly have killed him. “Let us part amicably,” he said with a chilly smile. “This would be an ugly end to a war that we entered originally on your behalf, in order to keep a rather rash promise we made to you, before…all this.”
The Belgians looked at one another, uncertain now, and embarrassed.
Hampton did not wait. “I suggest you go outside and get back into your ambulance,” he said to Matthew. “I shall follow you, when I am certain there will be no…ill-considered behavior.”
Matthew did not hesitate. He led the way, and the others went after them, Hampton bringing up the rear.
Lizzie looked ill. Judith put an arm around her, half holding her up. Matthew went to the front. “I’ll drive,” he said, giving Judith no chance to argue.
Mason cranked the engine, then, as it fired, got in beside Matthew.
Joseph helped Schenckendorff, who was limping badly. Hampton was the last to get into the back, slamming the door behind him.
They jerked forward, then picked up speed, bouncing and lurching over the potholes in the road and slithering where the surface was wet and covered with mud.
Joseph looked at Lizzie. She smiled at him, eyes bright with relief.
“Thank you,” Schenckendorff said sincerely to Hampton.
“How did you know where to find us?” Joseph asked him.
Hampton gave a slight grimace. “Deduction,” he replied. “And a few discreet questions. You’ve chosen the best route. I did the same.” A ghost of warmth crossed his face, enigmatic rather than friendly. “You have friends.” He said something deeply uncomplimentary about the Belgians they had just left behind. “Won’t happen again,” he added, tapping his gun, which was now in the holster on his belt.
Joseph wondered if Hampton was actually part of some intelligence service rather than merely a military policeman seconded to Jacobson. If not, why had he bothered to come after them to be helpful rather than to arrest Joseph for desertion, and possibly Judith for taking the ambulance? More than that, how had he known that Schenckendorff would be with them? Had they been far more careless than they thought? No one had seen them leave.
Did Matthew know that he could be trusted, and had he told him the story? But if Hampton had known Matthew, he would never have allowed Jacobson to suspect him of having killed Sarah Price.
He couldn’t ask Matthew; he was in front at the wheel, separated from them by the back of the cab.
He glanced at Judith, next to the front wall, on the seat beyond Hampton.
She stared back, eyes wide.
Schenckendorff and Lizzie were on the opposite side.
Schenckendorff must have picked up some look, some motion of anxiety in Joseph, perhaps in Judith also. Maybe he, too, was wondering how Hampton knew him.
Then suddenly it was obvious—he was an accomplice of the Peacemaker!
Hampton saw it and understood. His hand went to his belt and the gun appeared, leveled at Joseph.
“You are a good detective, Chaplain, but not good enough. Shortsighted as always. A man with a small vision, loyalty to a little idea, in fact parochial. For a man who claims to serve God, you should think of the whole world, not just your own, narrow few. I cannot allow Schenckendorff to betray the greater cause.” He lifted the gun a little higher and moved it from Joseph to Schenckendorff.
At that moment Judith stood up behind him and hit him as hard as she could over the head with the first-aid box.
He slumped forward, the gun slipping out of his fingers. But he was only stunned.
Lizzie dived for the gun, and her hand closed over it inches before he reached it.
“You won’t!” Hampton said with a sneer.
She pulled the trigger and the bullet struck him cleanly between the eyes. Then she dropped the gun on the floor and was sick.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Lizzie was deeply shocked. Joseph took off his own jacket and put it around her. Still she sat shivering and white-faced. She did not say anything at all, but Joseph knew what must be racing through her mind. He had seen young soldiers like this after they had shot their first enemy, even though it had been in battle and all those around them had been doing exactly the same thing. This was different. Hampton was a man she had known, spoken to civilly over many days. He was as English as she was, and wearing a British uniform. She had stood less than a yard from him, looke
d in his face, and killed him.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “You’ve saved all of us, and I know it has been at great cost.”
“Schenckendorff,” she murmured, even though she knew that Schenckendorff himself, sitting in the back of the ambulance only a couple of feet away from her, had to hear all she said. “Not the rest of us.”
Judith was outside. She had found some water, albeit muddy, and cleared up the mess where Lizzie had been sick. Matthew and Mason had taken Hampton’s body, and Joseph had not even asked them what they intended to do with it.
It was Schenckendorff who answered Lizzie. “If he had shot me, as he apparently intended to, he would not have allowed you to remain alive. He would have killed all of you, then very probably have made it look as if the ambulance had gone off the road. He might have set fire to it, rather than have it obvious that you were shot. Your courage saved the lives of all of us.”
Lizzie blinked and frowned at him. “I suppose so. I hadn’t thought of it, but you are right.” She smiled very slightly. “That does make me feel less…brutal.”
A slight amusement touched Schenckendorff’s face, softening the lines around his eyes. The instant after, it was followed by intense sadness.
She looked away, not to be intrusive.
Judith came back into the ambulance. She looked anxious. “Matthew and Richard aren’t back yet,” she said, turning from Lizzie to Joseph. “They don’t need to bury him! You didn’t tell them to, did you?”
“No, of course I didn’t.” Joseph stood up awkwardly in the narrow space. “I said to hide the body, that’s all. Better he isn’t found. We don’t need any more trouble than we have. He may have spoken to the authorities about us, and they’ll follow up on him. We don’t want them to find him. I’ll go and see what they’re doing.”
But he had barely straightened up outside in the road when he saw Matthew and Mason a dozen yards away walking briskly across the rough grass toward him. They were both mud-stained, and Mason’s jacket sleeve was torn.
