by Tracy Groot
As consciousness came, so did an awareness of pain. Something hurt. She wasn’t sure what. “Murray?”
A wave of nausea, oh how she hated to throw up, if she could just get some ginger ale . . .
“Where are the papers, Miss Childs?”
A foreign accent.
Her eyelids fluttered, she tried hard to open them. “What papers?”
“Arthur Vance came aboard with them. I was watching when he did.”
She rolled to the side and vomited. The action sent out shock waves of pain. She clutched her side. Surely a rib was broken.
She opened her eyes, fought to keep them open.
“We are on our way to a warehouse in London. You will save us the trouble of tearing apart this boat board by board if you simply produce the papers. It is a nice boat. A beautiful boat. I am sure it is worth a lot of money.”
Waldemar Klein stood over her.
“I have no interest in you or your companions. Give us the papers, and we will cut you loose.”
She was lying on the couch that lined the port side of the living area. She tried to sit up, but nausea and pain kept her down.
“Where is Murray? Where’s Mrs. Shrew?”
“I’m here, Clare,” said Murray, somewhere behind Klein.
“You will not speak,” said Klein over his shoulder. Clare looked to see Murray at the dinette, a man in dark clothing with a gun standing beside him.
“Are you all right?” Clare said. His mouth was bleeding. “Where’s the Shrew?”
“They locked her up.”
The man in dark clothing struck Murray, and Clare cried out.
“You will not speak,” Klein said calmly. He turned to Clare. “The papers.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He struck Clare.
Murray lunged from the table for Klein. The other man tackled Murray, scuffled with him, struck his head with his fist, and then yanked a dazed Murray to his feet and threw him back to the dinette. Klein pulled out a gun, and aimed it at Murray.
“No!” Clare screamed.
The gun came around and pointed at Clare’s face.
“You do and I’ll kill you!” Murray shouted.
And Waldemar Klein smiled.
He turned to Murray. “Where are the papers?”
“What papers?” Murray said.
His eyes on Murray, Klein kept the gun pointed at Clare’s head. Then he lowered it, aiming at her leg, and pulled the trigger.
“Murray . . .”
Banging, pounding, and somewhere Mrs. Shrew was screaming.
She reached for a place of fiery pain.
She opened her eyes. She was looking at the port bookshelves, above the couch. Murder on the Orient Express. Jane Eyre.
A clatter of boards—Murray had opened the engine compartment.
“Don’t give it to him.”
It’s all the hope William Percy has.
“A, I got a sister, now.” His voice was shaking. “B, I ain’t gonna risk her for some papers.”
But we have no allies.
We are alone.
“William Percy has a sister too,” she heard herself say. “She has Down syndrome.”
Those papers are meant to . . . make an impression . . . cause a fuss. . . . She couldn’t recall what they were meant for, she was sinking fast, but knew they were very important.
“That is interesting, he has a sister like that,” Waldemar Klein commented thoughtfully. “Too bad.”
She roused a bit. “Too bad for you. Those papers will show the—”
“Those papers will one day show how to solve problems like the inspector’s sister. For now, they are pearls cast before swine. The Führer will be misunderstood.”
“We understand him at last,” Clare murmured. She’d not last long, so she tried one last time, clear as she could: “Murray—your father died to keep them from him.”
“A, he was your father, too.” A dull thud as the lid came off the fake holding tank. “B, given the same choice, our old man woulda picked you.”
TIME PASSED, AND THINGS HAPPENED, though she wasn’t sure what.
She heard voices, and they were close. She wanted to assure them all was fine, for these were good voices, and that with vision, courage, and singularity of purpose she’d rise from this bed in no time.
It was just that she couldn’t fully wake up. She was in some kind of pressed-down, sluggish stupor. She couldn’t even open her eyes.
“What’re your intentions?” said one of the good voices. “Maybe I ain’t sayin’ it right. I ain’t got practice bein’ a brother. You got references? I gotta ask around. We ain’t got an old man to do the vettin’. This is old-man territory. Maybe the Fitz can—”
“What the devil are you talking about?” said another good voice.
“You like her, bobby.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Yeah? I saw how you was when you got there. How long you known each other?”
“We’ve just met.”
“Oh, don’t gimme that, frosty pants.”
“Look, I quite assure you—”
“Boy, I can’t wait to get home. ‘I quite assure you.’ My friends don’t talk like that. Father Fitz’ll—”
“Fadda Fitz.” A snort. “My friends don’t talk like that.”
“You got friends? Ha! You make the room cold, bobby boy. I can draw, but that’s some feat.”
“That’s quite enough,” said Mrs. Shrew. “She may hear you. I think she’s waking up.”
“I must go,” said William Percy quickly.
“No, no, please wait!” Mrs. Shrew called. “I’m sure she’d like to see you.”
No, she wouldn’t, Clare thought bleakly, and stopped trying to wake up.
She couldn’t bear to look at him. The packet was gone.
The last thing she saw was Murray handing the packet to Waldemar Klein.
“There she is,” someone sang.
Clare opened her eyes to a rather alarming close-up of Mrs. Shrew, sprouting bright blue-eyed sunshine. She withdrew, satisfied.
Clare sat up a little and looked about. Maybe she had dreamed that earlier conversation. Murray and William Percy were not in the room.
It was a private hospital room, clean, bright, orderly. Afternoon light came in at the window. There was a vase full of flowers on a narrow table at the foot of the bed.
“You’ll never guess who those are from: a desk sergeant at a police station.”
“How long have I been here?”
“This is day three. They’ve had you on entirely too much morphine. I shouldn’t wonder it feels like a week. I told them to back down the grains by two or three and give you a chance to feel pain and wake up.”
“Actually, I could use a few more grains.” Curious word. That’s what Agatha Christie called units of morphine. She didn’t know the medical profession did. Never had a chance to find out. “What have I missed?”
“You had surgery to remove a bullet.”
“I think I remember that.”
“Good, because there is so much to tell you. All of London is in an uproar.”
Clare stared. “Because Maggie Bright was—”
“Oh no, no, no.” She reached for a newspaper and her reading glasses. “They’ve printed some of the king’s speech. My dear, brace yourself: the king has called Britain to a day of prayer.”
She came fully awake. “He’s done what?”
“It’s true. For the BEF and our doomed nation. The balloon has gone up, my dear, and all is black as night.” She pulled up the newspaper and looked through her glasses. “Listen to this, it’s right from the king’s speech: ‘Let no one be mistaken: it is no mere territorial conquest that our enemies are seeking. It is the overthrow, complete and final, of this Empire and of everything for which it stands, and after that, the conquest of the world.’”
“He said that?” Clare breathed in awe.
“Oh, this is verbatim. I hear
d the speech, as he spoke it, with my own ears. The nurses have a wireless down the hall. It was quite a moment to share with my countrymen.”
“I’ll bet it was.”
Mrs. Shrew laid down the paper, and lowered her glasses. “Whenever has a monarch called our people to prayer? To a day of prayer? Do you know what this means?”
“That all hope is lost for the BEF,” said Clare, her head falling back on the pillow.
“Rubbish! Why do we assume that to resort to prayer is some kind of death knell? Is it not to prevent such a death knell? No, I meant this: King George has acknowledged God.”
“Well . . . we are a Christian nation.”
“If that were true, how many of us go to church? Isn’t that what one does when one is a Christian? For the ‘fellowship of the saints,’ to learn how to love people, and how to stop being annoying, and live a good useful life and all that? But who actually goes to church these days? Monarchs and old ladies, to keep up a good show.”
“You go to church.”
“I’m an old lady.”
“Keeping up a show, then?”
“No, I am not.” She drew herself up. “I believe.”
“Ow.” Clare adjusted her leg, wincing. But she’d have to assess injuries and shriek for more grains of morphine later—there was too much to find out. “When is this day of prayer?”
“Sunday, the twenty-sixth. I am light-headed. Cecil must be dancing. I wonder if he’ll see the prayers ascend. What a sight that would be, if they were actually visible. I’d planned to go to services at Westminster Abbey, as this occasion seems to demand, but upon further reflection I feel it quite appropriate to fall in with my usual gang at St. Mark’s.” A very small smile, and: “Captain John wishes to go. For his son.”
It was the first time—that Clare could recall—Mrs. Shrew had referred to him as something other than “that man.”
“He told me something interesting. A man at the pub said he’d never go hat in hand to God that way. And Captain John said, ‘For my son, I’ll go. Hat in hand.’ It was quite poignant.”
“What day is it today?” Clare asked.
“Today is the twenty-fourth.”
“Good. I should be up and around by the twenty-sixth. I shall join the masses.”
“With a shot-up leg and a broken rib?” Mrs. Shrew raised a brow. “And after all the time I’ve tried to get you to go to St. Mark’s . . .”
“Well, this is for England. And for the BEF.”
Mrs. Shrew softened and patted Clare’s hand. “Yes, it is. Good show, my dear.”
“Now.” Clare tried to control the stomach flutters and braced herself. “What’s the other news?”
Mrs. Shrew snatched the newspaper and peered through her glasses without putting them on. “They’re making plans to evacuate the children. Some have already arrived in London from Dover. And listen to the response from Mass-Observation regarding the king’s speech: ‘Just what was wanted,’ said a man from Bristol. Others said, ‘A grand effort . . . greatly appreciated.’” She snatched another newspaper. “This is from the Daily Telegraph: ‘Now is the time for the British people to show the stuff of which they are made. . . .’ Hm, hm . . . ah, here: ‘Hitler’s peace propaganda before the war was directly designed to spread terror. Duty calls us to close ranks at home against the slightest sign of national disunity.’” She thumped the paper. “Close ranks! That is proper journalism!”
“Mrs. Shrew. Not that news.”
She lowered the paper, and looked at Clare.
“Not that I can bear to hear it.”
“Bear to hear what?” said Mrs. Shrew, perplexed.
“That Klein got away with the documents. That all of William Percy’s hope is gone.”
“But my dear,” Mrs. Shrew protested, “he didn’t get away with the documents. Though he did get away. And that did provoke a cascade of despair in the young detective inspector. Despair puts it mildly—Mr. Percy wanted to kill that man. He would have preferred the loss of the documents over the loss of the criminal. He told me so. I’ve gotten to know him, you see. He’s been by to visit you every day.”
Clare reached for Mrs. Shrew’s hand and held it tightly. “The documents are safe?”
Mrs. Shrew smiled and squeezed Clare’s hand. “They are safe.”
The nurse gave Clare a dose of morphine, took her temperature and frowned at the result—a frown was automatic with this nurse—then plumped the pillows, and left.
At Clare’s anxious request, Mrs. Shrew had gone home to the Maggie Bright to make sure she was truly secured in her berth at Elliott’s Boatyard. But when Clare had suggested hiring a cleaning crew to clean up the vomit and blood, Mrs. Shrew got a high and formidable light in her eyes and said, “Rubbish. That man has already dug up the anchor, and has splayed the lines back together. Or whatever the word is. Maybe spliced. It’s quite nautical, and it’s an art form. Fascinating to watch. Anyway, the two of us plus Murray makes three to put things to rights. Vomit and blood, nonsense; I’ve cleaned up buckets of the stuff as a schoolteacher, and I’ve just the remedy to get the blood out of the couch cushions.”
Clare was shot in the thigh, just above the knee. The surgeon had removed the bullet and asked Murray if he thought Clare would want it for a nice little souvenir since it was a German bullet. Murray punched him, was escorted from the hospital, and was asked not to return.
A light tap came at the door, and it came open a few inches.
Looking very uncomfortable, it was William Percy.
Clare sat up, surprised. “Why, Mr. Percy. Do come in.”
“I’ve brought someone with me. I can never say no, the little vixen. I think Fred put her up to it.” He looked down at a small someone behind the door. “Did Uncle Fred put you up to this?”
A little girl with blonde hair, blue almond-shaped eyes, a pink dress, and a white sweater peered around William Percy, clutching the hem of his suit coat.
“It’s all right.” He gave her a very gentle push. “Go on then. That’s Miss Clare. She’s got something for you, Miss Clare.”
“You must be Cecy,” Clare said warmly, holding out her hand.
“So you know my vixen?” Percy frowned. “I cannot trust Fred.”
Cecy went shyly to the bed, sucking on two fingers. She held out something with her other hand, and Clare displayed her palm. Cecy dropped a sticky sweetie into it.
William waved to get Clare’s attention. “You don’t have to eat that,” he mouthed, shaking his head, eyes wide. “Heaven knows where it’s been.”
Clare regarded Cecy, and popped the slightly furry sweet into her mouth. She concentrated, and then rolled her eyes. “Oh—absolutely delicious! How did you know peppermint’s my favorite?” The little girl smiled around the fingers. “Thank you ever so much. I get no sweets in here. Isn’t that tragic? I dearly love them.” She followed Cecy’s gaze, which had wandered to the vase of flowers. “Aren’t they lovely? You can play with them. Mr. Percy, could you please take them down for her? Perhaps you can make a garden, Cecy.”
“Are you sure?” Percy said doubtfully. “I guarantee, they won’t look the same when she’s done with them.”
“Of course I’m sure.”
He took the vase, glancing at the card. “Sergeant Blake?” He snorted. “Yes, you did seem to make an impression on him. Too bad he’s old enough to be your father.” To Cecy, he said, “As for you, my little pink poppet, why don’t you sit here.” She sat on the floor, and held her hands up for the vase. He set it in front of her. She looked very small and sweet next to it, and Clare smiled.
“All right, Cecy-Peacey. Take them out one by one. Like this.” She watched him solemnly. “Give it a go.” She carefully selected a daisy, and laid it on the ground. She looked to him for approval. “Oh, well done. Try again.” She did so. “You’ve mastered it. Go on, then. Make us a lovely garden.” He rose, and watched her for a moment.
“Please sit down, Mr. Percy,” Clare said.
He took Mrs. Shrew’s chair near Clare, and pulled it out a little from the bed. He settled in and watched Cecy. He looked uncomfortable. He brushed at a surely nonexistent spot on his trousers, and just when it seemed neither of them could find something to say, commented, “You can call me William.”
“All right then. William. I’m warning you: I’m on morphine.”
“Excellent. I’ll extract your worst secret and blackmail you later.”
Clare laughed.
“Of course, I’ll wait until you’re better. Wouldn’t be sporting.”
She laughed again, a little too hard. The morphine was quite pleasant. It not only took the pain away, it made Clare feel rather carefree.
She sobered; it also made her feel not quite in control.
“I’d rather have the tiniest edge of pain,” she said distinctly. “It grounds me. I do not wish to abdicate control.”
“Of course you don’t. Especially you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not sure if that’s an insult.”
“On the contrary,” William said, not taking his eyes from Cecy.
Clare turned away.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, his tone still gentle.
“I wish you weren’t being nice to me.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“It makes me feel dreadful.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either.” She laid an arm across her face.
Good heavens, what troubled her? This pain in her chest, and the sort of cry that rose within—it was the same as when her parents died, when she had cried herself deaf. Oh, please, not in front of this man. . . .
And then she realized it was because of this man that she wanted to cry. The instant Clare saw Cecy, this sweet little girl put a face on Erich von Wechsler.
“I’m on morphine. All must be excused, even this, when I say that I—” a little gasping sob for which she hated herself—“I’m so very sorry Klein got away.”
Clare heard a little sound at the side of the bed. She pulled away her arm. Cecy stood beside her, offering a daisy.
Clare gave a small involuntary cry, and sat up, wiping tears. “Oh, you darling thing!” She took the flower. “Thank you, Cecy.” She smelled it, pretended it smelled heavenly. “You’ve made me feel ever so much better.”
