by Tracy Groot
How easily he called her Clare, as if they’d known each other all their lives. Though it would be strange, she supposed, if he called her Miss Childs. Still, he was so informal. The familiarity was both refreshing and faintly uncouth.
“Of course it was evil. Maybe I really liked that picture. It was particularly innocent.”
The spoon paused, midair. “Pictures got power, I’ll say that. Guy I know changed his politics ’cause of one.” The spoon resumed.
“Changed his politics? Because of a picture?”
“Yep.”
Goodness, she hoped he didn’t eat like this all the time, especially for breakfast. She saw her profits eaten up right before her.
“I should mention,” she said delicately, “in case I didn’t make it clear earlier, that only breakfast is included in room and board.”
“Say, can we get more of this bread? Hey—mister! You there, mister . . . waiter guy.” He stifled a belch, and said to Clare, “What do you call ’em here?”
“I’m sorry, but that was a bit rude,” Clare said, eyes slightly wide to make her point. “You are an American, but still—you must learn the rules of the road.” She turned to the waiter and said smoothly, “Yes, very sorry, but could we trouble you for another plate of bread, please? Thank you very much. Very sorry.” Behind her hand she whispered apologetically, “He’s American,” and gave a wink. Hoping the exchange educated, she turned to Murray. “Did the photograph change his politics for the good?”
“Nope. The good senator shoulda stayed an isolationist.”
She couldn’t help a smile. “You are talking to a Brit.”
The young man grinned. He was a few years younger than she, and when he smiled, he seemed positively boyish. “A, you can’t help that. B—”
“B, did the Burglar Vicar tell you anything interesting?” Clare said in a rush. “Sorry, but I’m quite mad to know his business with the Maggie Bright, and can you possibly blame me? It’s my boat. It’s my home. What could he have been looking for? I have no money. Spent my entire estate acquiring the boat. It was bequeathed to me, you see, but I had to pay a dreadful amount of back taxes before I could get it. Spent all I had. My point is, I have nothing of real value, except for a necklace which has sentimental value only. So why was he there? Why the Maggie Bright? I have a right to know. I don’t believe for a moment it was a random burglary. And why am I sure he is a good man, not a bad one?”
Murray’s face hardened, and oh dear, that place of dark intensity returned. “He is a good man. He’s here because of a bad one. He’s here because of lies the bad one told.” Then he shook his head, as if catching himself. He looked at his spoon, dropped it in the bowl and pushed it away. “All that business is his, not mine. I’ll say it straight—I’m outta this with a ten-foot pole. You wanna know, you heard what the bobby said—be first in line tomorrow. He got himself into this fix, he’ll do the talkin’. Not me. So don’t ask me again.” He adjusted himself, and then muttered with less heat, “Please.”
Clare slipped her hands into her lap so that he wouldn’t see white fists.
All was amiable up until now. Now, Murray Vance sat in a closed, moody silence, and Clare could think of nothing to say.
The American paid the check, leaving a ridiculously huge tip—which Clare did not correct—and they hailed a taxi, not a bus. Clare felt somewhat recompensed that someone else wasted money today.
“No references?!” the Shrew staccato-shrieked in Clare’s head. “You—didn’t— get—references—on—this—man?! Where is that teakettle?”
“Do you mind if we make a stop at my uncle’s bookshop?” Clare asked Murray over Mrs. Shrew.
They shouldn’t. He looked very tired. She was being a very bad hostess.
Murray surfaced from his dull gaze out the cab window to say, “Yeah. Sure.” Even tired, he was an amiable sort. He also seemed to have completely forgotten his rude forthrightness at the café. She wasn’t sure she liked it that he had forgiven himself so entirely.
She gave directions to the cab driver, and settled back, brooding.
Why should she care what Mrs. Shrewsbury or the captain thought?
Clare pondered:
She did indeed care about Mrs. Shrew’s approval. (This surprised her.)
She cared about Captain John’s approval. (This did not surprise her; he was a dear.)
Murray was a complete stranger with no references. They would never approve his presence on the Maggie Bright.
But Murray was the key to Father Fitzpatrick. They must approve!
They would make her life miserable if they didn’t.
She did not care what her uncle, the Privately Amused, thought.
He made her life miserable regardless.
Not anymore! Ha-ha! Remember that, Clare.
Why did she want to parade Murray to him?
The last thought startled her.
The glorious freedom since she’d quit working at the bookshop and started the B and B took on ever-new psychological significances: What was her motive to go to the shop right now? Was it to flaunt her independence in a shallow, childish way? Certainly. But she frowned. It wouldn’t change her uncle. That superior, condescending, manipulative, privately amused, and quietly vicious man would still find reason to apply that superior, condescending, manipulative, privately amused, and quietly vicious smirk.
No, now that she truly thought on it, her uncle did not factor in. Clare’s heart rose. She wanted less to display her freedom to come and go as she pleased than to buy time to get to know this Murray Vance. Then she could pour heaps of details upon Mrs. Shrew, and so soften the calamity of a reference-less tenant. For surely, Mrs. Shrew would be convinced that yet another American sought to murder her in her sleep (or do far worse) if Clare could not immediately convince her otherwise.
Clare’s motives were correct. She cared what the right people thought. It meant Uncle’s hold on her was lessening, soon to have the strength of a cobweb before a crashing bayonet. Her heart rose to a smile.
“Right,” she said crisply. “I need to know more about you. Lots more.”
He roused with a snort, and wiped his mouth. “Was I droolin’?”
“To be frank, Mrs. Shrew—sbury will want to know that you are not a potential exhibit for Madame Tussauds. I must convince her of your conventionality.”
“My what?”
“Your normalness.”
He gave a short chuckle. “Never accused of bein’ normal.”
“Nor I. Nevertheless . . . do you have a girlfriend?”
“She left me for an older man.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I design posters for the Keep America Out of War committee and other isolationist and noninterventionist groups.”
“Oh dear.”
“It’s great work. They’re well funded. I make as much as I used to. Well—almost.”
To the cab driver she called, “No, no—the next left. After Brumby Court.”
“Is that a problem?”
Clare bit her lip. “How do you feel about lying? We could say you design posters for the opera. Or the movies! I have a splendid Wizard of Oz paste-up that a friend gave me. Seen it three times. You see, Mrs. Shrewsbury is an ardent politician. Keeps me apprised. And unfortunately, is not a fan of current American foreign policies—she is especially not fond of your ambassador, Mr. Kennedy. Calls him very rude things. No offense.”
When he didn’t answer, Clare ventured, “Are you offended?”
“I’m too tired to be offended. In fact, I can’t remember what you just said.” He rubbed his eyes. “Remind me in the morning. Won’t speak to you for a week. See, I ain’t slept in . . .” His hands dropped from his eyes. “Huh. Must be a long time. The only time I don’t talk a lot is when I’m tired.”
“You must not be very tired, then,” she suggested. She added soothingly, “We’ll get you sorted soon. Your cabin is the best. It’s my favorite, but I need to
be in the captain’s cabin. I need to be in the heart of everything. Listening. Aware. Alert to the slightest change, and you will not know what that change is until it comes. Once you know your vessel, the slightest alteration to its daily rhythms, anything out of the ordinary, will get your attention. Dreadfully important on a boat—it’s your life, you know.” She added, “Captain John is a dear. Teaches me a great deal about the feeling things of being a sailor. It’s how I discovered the Burglar Vicar: keen alertness. Right. Your parents. Your siblings. What can I tell the Shrew about them?”
Murray smacked each side of his face, and gave himself a shake. “Ah, let’s see: Tell her my old man was a philanderin’ yutz who left when I was four. Later he died. My ma’s a retired secretary, lives in a cute little bungalow in Bartlett. You kinda remind me of her. She’s chatty, see. And strict. You make me wanna watch my grammar. I got the bungalow for a song. You should see the place. Proudest day of my life, drivin’ her up. Got a nice carport, garden. She always wanted a garden. No siblings.”
His voice had grown hoarse with fatigue. She cracked on mercilessly.
“How were your grades in school? Were you an exemplary student? Did you do anything noteworthy or hopefully heroic in your community? Where did you go to college to design posters, or does it come naturally? And how are you connected to Father David Fitzpatrick?”
“Terrible grades. Nothing heroic. Noteworthy . . .” He chuckled, his expression rather sly in fond remembrance. “Yeah. Lots of noteworthies. Not the kind you want, I think. What were the others?”
“Schooling,” Clare prompted. “And Father Fitzpatrick.”
He smacked his face. “National Academy of Design, New York City. The Fitz put me through. I dropped out my last year ’cause I got famous and boy, the padre blew his stack on that, tried to get me to—no, no, no, that’s all I’m gonna say about him.”
He sat up. “You ain’t gonna trick me. I ain’t that tired.”
“You mean . . . he paid for your schooling?” Clare asked, very interested.
“Mostly. I worked odd jobs. I think some of the dough came from my old man, though I ain’t supposed to know. Could never figure out where the Fitz got it. He’s poor. Always givin’ stuff away. Kind of irresponsible. Most irresponsible thing he ever did, outside of comin’ here, was make me his kid’s godfather. I wanted to crack his head.”
“He sort of . . . directed your schooling? In the absence of your father? Well, that’s very decent of him. Would you say he is sort of a father figure for you?”
Another expression of remembrance came, this one soft.
“He stepped in cement for me.”
“Is that an American metaphor?”
He came to himself. “No, no, no—I ain’t gonna fall for it.”
“Oh, bravo! I knew he was decent. Now. I must learn very important facts about yourself, and quickly. Tell me something comfortable and inspiring. Do you read books? Smoke a pipe? Oh dear. I wish we’d known each other all our lives. I wish you were an American cousin. I don’t suppose we could say you are. You see, I need to tell them something that says, This man is not a burglar or a killer.”
He shrugged. “Tell ’em whatever makes you know I ain’t.”
“A million things. They won’t appreciate the subtleties.”
“Like what?”
“A bad man doesn’t talk as much as you.”
“Holy smokes, sister—you must be a saint.”
“A bad man does not come all the way to England to retrieve an errant priest.”
Amusement left. He looked out the window.
“What was he here for, Murray?” said Clare.
“A package, Clare.” His voice had gone hoarse.
“What’s in it?”
“It’s supposed to prove something that cannot be true.”
“About what?”
His face was pale, whether from fatigue or something else, Clare didn’t know. But now something else descended on it, a darkness, a down-pulled shade.
She shouldn’t intrude, not on this. Something felt very wrong. Here, that boyish innocence left and something alarming took its place.
Rubbish. “What is it supposed to prove?”
He shook his head. “It will change you. It will change everything.”
“I’m a big girl. What’s it supposed to prove?”
“It’s supposed to prove something about humanity. If it’s true, we’re finished. It’ll mean somethin’ got inside us. If it’s true—I quit. I’ll find a place where none of this can find me. I’ll find a place where things are how they’re supposed to be. I won’t tell you ’cause you’re nice, Clare. It’ll change you. It’ll change everything.”
“I notice your grammar improves when you are upset,” Clare said a bit breathlessly, fascinated by that dark intensity.
He turned a hostile look upon her. “Why did he give you the Maggie Bright?”
It shocked her speechless.
“Why you?” The next words came slow and deliberate: “Why did it go to you?”
How slowly the world turned at moments like these.
“How could you possibly . . . ?” Clare looked out her window. “I don’t know. I’ve wondered ever since.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Whatever I say will sound silly.”
After a moment, he said, “Try me.”
Oh dear.
“The owner was an old friend of my father’s. My parents died when I was eleven. Ever since, I’ve been looking for a place to call my own.” She felt for the locket. “I didn’t know that a place looks, too. You see, I believe she was meant to be mine. She wanted me. It was less that I had come to her by some whim of a man’s allegiance to a boyhood friend, than that she had come to me, as if she were sent to me, as if—” she waited through the ache in her throat—“as if my parents had sent her from heaven. I know how silly that sounds. But I like to believe they are still trying to take care of me, that they sent me another home because the one with my uncle was unbearable.
“I know with all my heart Maggie Bright was meant for me, because she changed my life. She was glad the day I owned her. She trusts me, and because of that, I trust her. And she tells me that this Father Fitz had very good reason to be where he was, as if they are coconspirators, more than Maggie and I, and she tells me I should—” To the cab driver, she suddenly called, “I’ve changed my mind. We’ll go directly to Bexley-on-the-Thames, not the bookshop.” Gazing out the window, she said, “I don’t belong there anymore. Freedom doesn’t look back.”
The only place she wanted to be was on her boat, and with the thought came the glorious joy that it was hers to go home to all of her days.
After what must have been a very long while, she came to herself, and looked to see what the American thought. He was fast asleep. His arms were crossed. His face was utterly free of care, and rather bunched up and puckered with his head sunk on his shoulder. She didn’t know him well enough to think he looked rather adorable, but if she did, she would.
She also felt quite sure that a potential exhibit for Madame Tussauds would not feel free to snore in the presence of a stranger.
“Blake again. William Percy, please. Yes, I thought you might be interested to know that your suddenly popular prisoner had two other guests today, besides the Murray Vance I called about. Well, I don’t know—one was female, lovely, and British—I didn’t count her at first, because she didn’t actually see him, she couldn’t get in because of the one-visit rule, but she certainly came to see him. It just now struck me that you might want to know. And now the latest visitor just left—another American, male, much older. Rather ratlike. A bit shady. The word furtive comes to mind—you could cast him in a Hitchcock film. Yes, he was American. No, he wasn’t German, didn’t I just—No, no—I said I didn’t get their names, as—Hang on! There’s no cause for that. I can’t very well ask them to sign their names if there’s no visit, now, can I? Is that sensible? This is a courtesy call,
sir, I thought it might interest you.” He replaced the receiver without saying good day. “Sodding . . . rude . . . relics of . . .” He mustered a smile. “Next, please?”
“WHAT IN ME IS DARK . . .”
“Yes, yes, illumine,” Jamie finished for him. “Drink up, mate. Thatsa boy. Probably filled with sheep bits. Captain Milton, meet Mr. Belgium Doctor. He’s going to fix you up.”
The angry little doctor stood in the middle of the small, dark hay shed, one hand on a hip. His neat white shirt stood out in the gloom. He turned in place, shaking his head.
“C’est impossible,” he finally declared, flinging out a hand. “Zee light—terrible. My, my, my tools—no antiseptique. And zee Germans. Zey come! C’est impossible!”
“Mr. Belgium Doctor, meet Mr. Bren.” Elliott raised his rifle. “Fix him, or you’ll need fixing.”
Disgusted, the doctor went to a stack of musty hay bales and set down a small brown leather case the size of a large wallet. He began to roll up his sleeves.
It had taken two hours to find him. Another half hour to get him to come, and that, only when Jamie had unshouldered his rifle. Another half hour to scout out the nearest shelter and drag the semiconscious captain to it, another half hour to find water in a sheep trough.
“British thug.”
“A thug, eh? I’ve been eight months in your country. Eight months on a line erased in a day, like it never existed. Eight months, for your protection! This is how you repay us?”
The Belgian’s dark eyes pierced. He rolled a sleeve with precise movements. “You are not here for me. You are here for your safe island. Get me bandages.”
Jamie took the captain’s rucksack and rummaged. He found a battered book—Paradise Lost by John Milton. He tossed it back, rummaged, found several rolled bandages. He took one and regarded it with a twinge of guilt; two days, and he hadn’t yet changed the bandage. He was too afraid the wound would come apart if he did. He handed it to the doctor. “There’s more if you need them.”
