Maggie Bright

by Tracy Groot

“Dead children are my war.”

  “Charles Lindbergh said—”

  “I don’t care what Charles Lindbergh said! I cared what your father said!”

  Murray snarled, and clamped his fists over his ears. David wanted to throttle him.

  But . . .

  But relentless compassion struck David’s heart. Why, God, did you create some people thus? Murray was ten times more aware than the average person of everything, and his imagination was the keenest receptor of all; David had come to understand that if someone said ocean to Murray, he tasted salt and rode the swells—he encountered the enormity. Murray’s keen reception faculties meant that he had encountered what Arthur Vance had brought to them. He took it in, he knew it, he felt it more than David ever would. It meant he knew evil like David did not, like he never would.

  “Murray,” he said heavily, knowing he was about to murder the final scrap of innocence in him, “your father’s friend, the American journalist in Berlin—he confirmed that it’s true. He confirmed every word. God help us.”

  Murray’s face broke, and his chest heaved. He shoved himself arm’s length from the table, gripping the table’s edge. He put his head down. “There ain’t nothin’ for Rocket Kid in this. Ain’t nothing he can do.”

  “Murray, there’s a packet. A parcel of some sort. We have to—”

  “No one could let that happen.” Murray was shaking his head. “No one could go along with it. I won’t believe it!”

  People in the room stopped talking and stared.

  Why had it fallen to David Fitzpatrick to do, and to say, such terribly hard things?

  “You’re not a child anymore, Murray. Act like a man.”

  Murray went very still.

  David sent a swift glance about to make sure no one was listening, and leaned in. “The packet has photographs. The photographs are evidence. They’re pictures of documents, of ledgers, of . . . children. Evidence of everything your father told us. Someone risked his life to get it to the journalist. We have a moral duty to find it. We must bring it home, and get it into the right hands.” He hesitated over the next part. It would be hard for Murray.

  “The Maggie Bright is docked at Elliott’s Boatyard on the Thames in a small village called Bexley. It’s just west of a town called Teddington—not far from London. Just get to the Thames and follow it west. Your father hid the packet aboard the Maggie Bright. Find that packet, Murray. You’ll believe me.”

  Murray raised his face, white from encounter.

  David’s resolve nearly faltered. “Oh—son.” He resisted the urge to caress that head. “Maybe I don’t know what I’m asking of you. But the packet is so important that I am alone. I trust no one but you. We must find it and get it home. The world needs to know, so that we can do something about it. Your father was to bring the packet to the States. I had arranged for a meeting between him and Congressman Wilson, when we got word of . . . his death. The journalist told me that your father—” No. Not that, not yet. Maybe not ever. “That . . . he told an English bishop about the packet. This bishop has the ear of Anthony Eden, and Eden has Churchill. Churchill, God willing, will one day have Roosevelt.”

  Murray was very still, his face impassive, and white, and hard.

  “Look around you. Would I have risked this if it were not true? Would I have come all this way, would I have left Helen—”

  Murray snatched his hat and stood abruptly.

  “Murray—no! Wait!”

  He was nearly to the exit when he stopped, turned, and came back. His face was as cold as his voice. “Two days out on the Atlantic, I get a call to the captain’s room. Helen sent a cable. Baby was born May 7. It’s a boy. You’re a father, Father. Congratulations and I got you a cigar. And now it’s two you left. Just like my old man.” He shook his head. “I came to fetch you home, knowin’ all the while you don’t deserve them, not when you pull a stunt like this, but I’ll tell you what—that kid ain’t growin’ up without a father. Not her kid. You think I care about some packet? I’ll get you out if I gotta bust you out ’cause you ain’t some savior, not anymore—you got a family. You made that choice, and if you won’t take care of them—” he shook his head, lip curled in disgust— “savin’ the world don’t matter. It’s lost already if a man can’t take care of his own.” His tone lowered. “You listen to me: Something happens to you ’cause of this, then I’m moving in, I’m taking over, I’m Helen’s man. I’ll raise that kid as mine, and I ain’t ever gonna tell him about you. Ever. You just think about that, Padre.”

  He went to the door, slammed it on the way out. A notice of rules fell from the back of the door.

  So much to sort through, so much all at once, but one thing shone clear—for the first time since David had known him, Murray hadn’t thrown a fit when very angry. He stayed calm. He kept it under control. He acted like a man.

  He leapt to his feet, shouting, “Well done, Murray! Well done!”

  “What difference does it make if he has more than one visitor in a day?” Clare Childs demanded of the man behind the desk. “You’re saying I have to pay another fare to come all the way from Teddington—with a miserable amount of changes, not to mention the time it took . . .”

  “I don’t make the rules.”

  She pressed her fingers against a headache. “Well, if I can’t get in to see him today, I’d like to be reimbursed for my fare, thank you very much.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s not possible.”

  “But this is unreasonable! How am I supposed to know if I’m getting here before anyone else?” Tears stung Clare’s eyes, and she hated that they did, but they were tears of frustration for wasted money. “One visitor per day—ridiculous! Who makes these rules? This is outrageous!”

  The middle-aged woman behind her patted her shoulder. “You poor dear—is it your husband? Your fiancé?”

  A slammed door took the attention of all.

  A harassed-looking young man with dark hair stood glaring at no one in particular. Then he came up to the desk next to Clare.

  “I’ll have my bag now.”

  The accent caught her ear.

  “Excuse me—there is a queue,” said the lady behind Clare with some indignation. He looked at her, then at the sergeant behind the desk.

  “Say, how does bail work here?” he asked the sergeant.

  The sergeant pointed to the end of the queue. “There’s a queue, the lady said.”

  “What’s a queue?”

  “Yanks,” the man muttered. “A line. You must wait in line. Wait your turn. They take turns in America, don’t they?” He looked at Clare, shaking his head in disbelief. “You want your fare reimbursed?” He jerked a thumb at the young man. “Talk to the Yank. Next, please.”

  Clare stepped aside, staring at the American. He put his fists in his pockets, and went to the end of the queue. He looked rumpled and tired and very out of sorts.

  He was the one who visited the Burglar Vicar? He usurped her visit?

  Were they friends? Were they in cahoots? Some sort of criminal ring?

  Were they related? They didn’t look alike. The dear BV, of whom she suddenly felt unaccountably protective, had light-brown eyes, thin brown hair, and was of average height. This American had nearly black eyes, black hair, and was taller. If anyone was a burglar, it was this fellow, not the other. Had a rather dark, intense look . . .

  How could she possibly leave without saying something?

  What could she possibly say?

  He certainly had the attention of everyone in the room—his accent, his apparent agitation; Americans were very demonstrative, it was true, but . . . and yes, oh dear, he was muttering to himself. . . .

  She walked past very slowly and stopped to slowly button her jacket. He was not only talking to himself, he was fidgety. Hands in his pockets, hands out. Back in, back out. Off went his hat, tossed from hand to hand, back it went on. And all the while he chattered to himself in a low murmur, as if he were in the room all by hims
elf.

  “Treat me like that. Think I haven’t outgrown A, B, and C? Here’s an A for you: I shoulda married your wife. Eh? Whaddya think of that? Here’s your B: That kid should be mine. That ain’t enough? How ’bout a C? That kid should be mine. How ’bout a D? That kid should be mine. E: that kid should be mine. F: that kid—”

  “Should be yours?”

  Startled, he looked down at Clare. It seemed to take a moment for him to register that she had said anything at all. In fact, it took a very long moment, and oh dear, what was meant to be a cute little sympathetic yet introductory quip threatened to prove an insult. Then he noticed all eyes on him. A flush came, and he looked away.

  “You’re from America, the sergeant said?” Clare said brightly. “Oh, I’ve always wanted to visit.” She wanted nothing of the sort. Couldn’t stand America because of its isolationist policies. “Heard so much about the Grand Canyon. Have you been?”

  He shook his head, not meeting her eyes, though his discomfort seemed eased. At least it seemed he’d come away from a very intense place. “Too far away,” he murmured. “I’d like to go. Ain’t been outside New York much. This is only my second time. Don’t know how I’d get there, ain’t learned to drive yet, probably never will—probably go by rail, then.” He shrugged, and brightened a bit. “Might be fun. Ma’s wanted to go. We could pick up my uncle Bill and aunt Fran in Philly. That’s the kind of—”

  “You’re from New York, did you say? Oh—I’ve always wanted to visit New York City!” She hated big cities. “What’s it like?”

  “It’s swell.” Then he shook his head, as if catching up with his words. “No, no, it’s not swell. Not all of it. I can only take so much, then I want to get back to Bartlett. I only work there, see, I don’t live there. When you say you’re from New York they all think you mean the City. New York’s a big state. From Bartlett it’s forty-three minutes by train, 57 percent of . . .” He shook his head again, as if to clear it, and didn’t speak for a moment. When he did, he spoke with more reserve. “No offense, miss, I got a lot on my mind. I don’t feel like talkin’, unless you can talk bail.”

  “Bail?”

  “I gotta post bail for my friend. You got bail bondsmen here, right? They do that in England?”

  “Your . . . friend?” she dared to ask.

  “Father Fitz. Came all the way here to get him, and now . . . Well, it’s not lookin’ too good. They won’t let him out ’cause he won’t talk. Maybe I can talk for him. I can straighten it out, like he always done for me. Who do I gotta talk to? The bobby behind the desk?” He looked around the room. “Someone else high up?”

  “Talk about what?” she asked innocently, hoping to catch him off balance for a few more details. Oh, she was shameless!

  “Well, see—” But he closed his mouth. “Well done, the padre said. He saves it for when he’s really impressed, and he’d be impressed to know that for once, I shut my mouth.” He grasped his lapels, now looking very pleased with himself. “I don’t gotta lay all my cards on the table. It’s been a pleasure, miss. You’re a real inspiration. I hope you get to the Grand Canyon someday. If you do, give it my regards.” He lifted and replaced his fedora, and turned his attention to the front.

  She couldn’t contrive a single reason to keep standing there, so she murmured, “Likewise,” and walked out the door.

  “Daft?” she asked herself outside the police station, thinking furiously, pacing three steps to, three steps back. “Don’t think so. There is something odd and peculiar about him, but not in a criminal way. He’s certainly gabby. Reminds me of Giles Wentworth.”

  I hope you get to the Grand Canyon someday? Give it my regards?

  “Well, that was certainly sweet. And he meant it.” Something about him was very much like the dear BV.

  What did G. K. Chesterton say about the talkative man? He doesn’t have anything to hide. Or maybe it was that the talkative man has no pride. He is not so careful, he doesn’t watch himself, not like someone with pride. Or someone with a guilty conscience. Something like that.

  The chatty American was not a criminal. She had a feeling for criminals. Well—she had a feeling for malice, and neither of these men had malice within.

  Not like her uncle, the Privately Amused.

  They were quite different from him.

  Clare stopped pacing. The dark American reminded her of the BV in the same way that he reminded her of—but, really—two, at the same time?

  “Oh, you are being foolish,” she told herself fiercely, and wondered if she had indeed developed a dreaded fixation.

  She realized her hand was pressed upon her heart. She felt for the locket.

  “I miss you,” she whispered, tears suddenly stinging. “More than ever. I haven’t had anyone to remind me of you. And now there are two.”

  The American emerged from the police station, carrying a suitcase. He looked very unhappy. The intense look had come back, very dark and inward.

  He stood quite still for a rather awkward amount of time while people passed. He simply stared at the street, didn’t move an inch. Then he looked left and right, as if trying to decide which way to go.

  “Oh dear,” she said.

  Cards, said he?

  Put them all on the table, she told herself.

  She walked up the steps, murmuring, “Courage. Vision. Singularity of purpose.” She produced a cheerful smile. “Hello again. I’m—waiting for my bus.”

  He nodded. “Hello.”

  “Listen—wherever you’re staying in London, I’ve got a better place. It’s quiet, and it’s just outside this poisonous city.”

  “Poisonous?”

  “I can only take so much of it. Then I want to get back to . . .”

  She went all electric, felt lifted to her toes.

  “Look,” she said quickly, “I own a boat on the Thames, and I’m raising money to be the first woman to singlehandedly circumnavigate the globe in a ketch-rigged yacht. It’s currently a bed and breakfast. Your friend paid a visit a few weeks ago in the form of a foiled burglary. I came today to find out what he was looking for. I have one cabin available, and you can stay in it if you like. The price is seven pounds a week, and that includes breakfast. It isn’t cheap, but it’s . . . unique and idyllic. Who wouldn’t want to stay there?”

  She was trembling and hoped it didn’t show.

  “Captain John Elliott owns the boatyard. He keeps an eye on my boat, and on me. He is very fond of me because of my sailing dream, and has become my . . . sworn protector. If you try anything he will kill you. Mrs. Iris Shrewsbury is a current paying tenant, and is skilled at swinging kettles and shrieking. There. That is all of it.”

  “What’s her name?”

  She knew instantly what he meant, wondered at it.

  “Maggie Bright.”

  He gave a very strange smile, one of bitter amusement and something else. She couldn’t tell what, and didn’t know if she couldn’t read him because he was an American or because he was a stranger. He certainly looked very uncomfortable.

  In fact, he looked miserable.

  Just as she was ready to turn and run as fast as she could, he said, “I ain’t stayin’ nowhere.”

  “Well—well, what a providential coincidence,” Clare said idiotically, because she could think of nothing else. “You do look awfully tired.” He looked very sad, too, as woefully wretched as had the BV. “Some tea would be just the thing. Shall we find a place to grab a pot, and you can think it over?”

  He nodded, and she led him away.

  Inside the police station, the sergeant behind the desk suddenly remembered. He held up a hand to the next in the queue, and picked up the telephone. He sorted through the clutter on his desk, and found the card. William Percy. Youngish to be a Scotland Yard detective.

  “Yes, this is Blake. Westminster Station. William Percy, please. Thank you. Yes, Blake here—you wanted to me to ring up if anyone visited the American priest? Yes, he just left. His name is Mur
ray Vance. Yes, I’m quite sure. Yes, Vance, that’s the name. Well, I’m looking right at his signature. No, I haven’t a clue. Hang on—there’s no call for that! Well, it wasn’t a long visit, you wouldn’t have had time to get here, would you? No, I don’t have that kind of manpower, that’s your job, as you frequently tell us. Good day.” He replaced the receiver, muttering, “Snotty . . . bloody . . .” Then he said brightly, “Next?”

  THE TOPIC, AND HE STARTED IT, was why on earth did England go to war—Clare nearly spat tea. Oh, I don’t know—has to do with a fellow named Hitler and his roving gang of thugs who thought Europe belonged to them and they blew things up and killed people to get it. Nothing much.

  Honestly!

  Murray Vance was his name. After the waiter had taken their order for corned beef stew, bread, and tea, Clare had exclaimed in a nervous rush, “Well, isn’t it interesting! The man who owned my boat was a Vance. But he was British, you see. Died in January. Heart attack I’m told. Terrible shame for him. Terrible inadvertent good fortune for me. Wait until you see her. She will absolutely break your heart.”

  The subject meandered from Britain’s declaration of war in September of ’39, to the long “phony” war as the papers called it, to the fall of Denmark just a month ago, and all the devastation since—Norway fell, and Holland only last week, and now Belgium and France were under siege. Not so phony after all.

  Cursed decorum! She wanted to push past all this opening nonsense and get to the Burglar Vicar and whatever business brought him to England.

  Clare sipped her tea and tried to think of things to say while he ate. She did harbor a particular fury over what happened to Norway.

  “I saw a picture, once. A collection of peaceful Norwegian sheep farmers in a lovely mountains-and-lakes setting. It’s absolutely awful, what’s happened. The Norwegians were neutral. It somehow made them more innocent than the Poles. It was the suddenness, I suppose, this ransacking ambush of Hitler’s. The suddenness seemed particularly evil. So pouncing. On peaceful people.”

  She tried not to notice as Murray ate stew with disturbing precision. Clearly he was famished. The bites were huge and rather off-putting. He swallowed, and said, “You sayin’ it was less evil of Hitler to wipe out Poland than it was to take over Norway? Ain’t buyin’. Where does that make sense, Clare? Twelve thousand innocent civilians died in Poland. Ain’t that evil?”