The Sleeper

by J. Robert Janes

  The spare key was where it always was, under the stone nearest the door. As chairperson of the grounds committee, she had the right to enter at any time, but had she the right to tell Ash’s wife where her daughter now was?

  Leaving the door open, she hooked it to the wall but stepped inside. Would she wait out of the fog, wait until the woman came up the walk … and then? she asked.

  There were no lights on, but above the altar the last of the daylight filtered in through the stained glass. Walking up the aisle, she hesitated, for everything seemed to be telling her not to say a word about Ash’s daughter, that it wasn’t right of her, that Anthony had had no right to tell her, but why, then, had he?

  The smell of beeswax came to her, heavy on that of the mustiness. She and Anthony had been married in this church, but what had it all meant? ‘Ash,’ she said in a whisper, and only to herself. ‘Ash, I really could have helped you.’

  Returning to the entrance, to darkness now and the feel of the mizzle against her skin, she found that his wife had still not come, but when she heard someone on the road, she hesitantly said, ‘Is that you, Mrs. Ashby?’ and knew in her heart of hearts that she should never have used the woman’s proper name.

  Hacker let her come towards him, he standing on the other side of the gate, and when she got there, caught her by the wrist and said, ‘Out having a stroll, are we?’

  ‘Dear God,’ wept Ruth.

  ‘Exactly where is Mrs. Christina Ashby, Mrs. Pearce, or is it Mrs. Christina Talbotte she’s still calling herself?’

  ‘Please let me go. I … I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘But she was to have met you here, that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’ve only just got here myself, so she can’t have seen me following you from that school of your husband’s. Been down to Saint Ives, I have, Mrs. Pearce, only to find the bird flown. Where’s Ashby got her now?’

  ‘I … I don’t know. He … he wouldn’t tell me a thing like that!’

  Then someone else must have. ‘They moved the Bonnie Jean, Mrs. Pearce. Now that MacDonald couple either took the girl with them or they sent her somewhere else. Which was it, eh? And please don’t try my patience. I’ve been run off my feet, and am not about to take no for an answer.’

  Ruth tried to yank her hand away, but he was far too strong. ‘I … I don’t know what you’re talking about. Karen’s certainly not at the school.’

  ‘But you’ve managed to find out the child’s name.’

  ‘At last. Now if you’ll allow me, Colonel, I really must get home.’

  Had the Hoffmann woman heard the two of them? he wondered. Was she that close, this one afraid he would realize it, or had the woman simply been detained and would soon show up? ‘Has the door of that church been left open for her?’

  ‘Yes, but I had best close and lock it.’

  ‘And she was to have met you there?’

  ‘Colonel, please let me go. I … I don’t know anything and I don’t want to!’

  As he touched her tears, the Pearce woman bleated, ‘Please don’t harm me.’

  ‘I won’t, but only if you keep my presence to yourself and leave that damned door open.’

  When she reached the sitting room of Headmaster House, Ruth poured herself the stiffest, couldn’t help but let her hand shake just like Anthony’s always did. Grimacing, she tossed off the Scotch. Hanging up her coat and scarf, she pulled off the kerchief and only then realized that there was a light on in the corridor upstairs.

  ‘Anthony …’ she called out. ‘Anthony, is that you?’

  It couldn’t be. He and all the others, Ash included, were at the meeting Anthony had called to announce and discuss the accounts’ arrears.

  Neither Anthony nor herself had ever locked the doors. In all the years she had lived at Grantley’s, such a thing had never been felt needed.

  Christina Ashby was sitting on her bed, propped up by the pillows and smoking a cigarette. There were grass stains on the coverlet. Bits of grass still clung to her shoes.

  ‘Hacker,’ said Christina. ‘Did you let him know we were to have met at that church?’

  Ruth turned away and started for the door, the woman calmly saying, ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you.’

  ‘I didn’t tell him. I didn’t! He …’

  ‘Made you, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes! but … but I didn’t tell him I knew where Karen was being taken.’

  ‘And do you?’

  There was something metallic in the woman’s hand. Backing away, Ruth tried to understand what she had gotten herself into.

  Out in the corridor, she reached the stairs, said faintly, ‘Please, I’ll … I’ll tell you where.’

  ‘But will you then tell Hacker that you did, or will it be Ash?’

  The blade that leapt out of that thing was silvery-grey, double-edged, razor-sharp and a good five inches long.

  At 0320 hours on Saturday, Burghardt shook sleep from himself and told his housekeeper to go back to bed. Tearing open the envelope the young Gefreiter from wireless had handed him, he read:

  WICHTIG. ATTENTION.

  At 0217, Bridgwater sent:

  Security breached. Osier not known. Am shutting down.

  The verdammt embassy must have listened to the general’s daughter, or she had got them to contact that father of hers and had then done what she should never have done. Motioning to the boy, he said, ‘Come in, mein Lieber. Komm. Take off those wet boots and jacket. Don’t leave puddles or that housekeeper of mine will come back and make you wish you hadn’t!’

  Going into the kitchen to light the gas ring and set the kettle to boil, he reached for Frau Albrecht’s brandy and her tooth glass and said, ‘Down that and then have another and another while I write a little something to send in answer. Who would have thought this weather possible, eh? Even my lettuces are complaining.’

  Indicating that the boy was to make himself a cup of coffee, he retreated to the office he kept here at home, though few knew he ever used it. Closing the door, he went over to the desk to switch on its lamp and reread the damage that woman had caused. What should he do now that she had not only put Bridgwater at risk but everything else? Had MI5 followed her? Would they wait until she had returned before jumping on that set and shutting it down themselves? Ach, why couldn’t she have stayed married to that schoolteacher and been a Hausfrau und Mutter like she ought to have been?

  Knowing that it couldn’t be avoided, he would have to send something, for she would have demanded that Bridgwater tell him to get Osier to make contact with her, would expect himself to send Bridgwater details of when and where such a meeting could be expected, and since a record was kept of all transmissions in and out, Berlin would have access to whatever was sent.

  And Bridgwater? he asked himself, wishing he had downed a little of that brandy himself. What would that one do if the general’s daughter did take it upon herself to make contact again, which she definitely would? Could he gamble and stall for just a little?

  Taking up a pencil, he wrote:

  At 0217 tonight, send Bridgwater the following: Imperative remain in contact AST-X Bremen. Osier awakened but not yet fully briefed. Take whatever measures necessary to protect security.

  Only time would tell how this was going to end, but were MI5 on to her yet?

  Saturday morning’s early light was definitely unfriendly, the telephone cold. ‘Sir John, Bunny here. I drew a blank in Saint Ives. Bastards gave us the slip. Came up here to the school to nose round and spent far too much of the night in a church.’

  Masterson chuckled. Bunny never failed to amuse. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve decided to take Holy Orders?’

  ‘Piss off!’ Hacker let him have the news, then asked, ‘Any line yet on that trawler of MacDonald’s?’

  ‘Gone north pro
bably to Inverness, old cock. The MacDonald woman’s father runs a bed-and-breakfast. Perhaps you should stay over and have a word.’

  ‘Let someone else handle it. I’ll work the brush down here and find out who turned that key on me.’

  There was a pause on the other end of the line, Sir John not usually one for such. Had there been trouble? wondered Hacker.

  ‘Bunny, it would be most unwise of you to nose round that school. Talk is cheap, and in little places like Kilve and the Dogs of War, it is especially so, but talk there has been. Take the road north. Drive up so as to give them time to settle in. We’ll find your key-turner in time, no fear.’

  ‘It wasn’t Pearce, nor do I think it that wife of his, but by the way that key was rapped at the door and then dropped on the doorstep to let me know they had got the better of me, I have to believe it a woman.’

  ‘Bunny, let me warn you again. Eggs you may break from time to time, but not until the current nest is tidy.’

  6

  At just after supper on that Saturday, Hilary borrowed the little Austin-10 that Dotty and Albert used. Even with the side screens rolled down, it was warm and she was glad she had worn a light cotton frock, plain and simple, nothing fancy.

  The hops, having been sprayed with Bordeaux mixture to stop the blight, were copper-green under the slanting sun, the light soft and gentle on field and wood. Kent really was incredibly beautiful, and it had been good coming home. Right away Albert and Dotty had taken charge. Already Karen was beginning to feel she might belong.

  There hadn’t been anything untoward since the man on the train. Perhaps he hadn’t been following them, perhaps simply there to watch over them, though you’d think he would have said something of it.

  Set among rolling hills and dales, the inn was spacious and sprawling, part hunt, golf and tennis club. Always it had brought rising expectations of good times, though now, as she parked the car, she dreaded what she had to do.

  Enclosed porches fronted the main dining room, which overlooked the golf course, while the one that opened off the lounge faced the river and duck pond. There was a grand piano in the bar. Maroon walls and drapes set off lithographs of hunting scenes, while little round tables with Windsor chairs were clustered about the fireplace. Hilary knew they would all crowd in here after the annual dinner. She would have to take a table and wait out the speeches, would then have to speak to each of them, they no doubt saying, Hilary, luv, where have you been? she answering, Cornwall, as if they hadn’t already known.

  Kay Wynne-Thomas came first, looking radiant in a smashing red dress and heels and saying, ‘Hil, darling, why haven’t you rung? I’ve got the most fab news. Gerald and I are engaged.’

  Brushing cheeks, they hugged each other. The ring was shown and exclaimed over, Gerald given a hug and a kiss on the cheek, he grinning from ear to ear and asking, ‘Care to join us?’

  ‘I can’t. Sorry. Maybe later. I’m … I’m waiting for someone.’

  Eyebrows were raised, of course, and so it went, for suddenly there was talk all round her, and when the singing started, she tried to remain apart, yet not look too out of it, for they were good people and meant well, but they really didn’t know a thing about her present circumstances.

  Lionel Dandridge took up his post on one of the bar stools, coffee and brandy to hand. Giving her a toss of his head, he indicated the far doorway, and she settled down, for Lionel had answered the telephone when she had called the number she had been given for MI6 to let them know Karen and she had safely arrived.

  The tuxedo was just a bit too tight, the shirt and bow tie a little too worn, Dandridge’s long legs stretched out as, with affectation, his slim hands set coffee down and drew out cigarettes, offering none to anyone but himself, and that, too, was typical. Once handsome perhaps, now jaded, the thick, wide and greying brush of a full moustache went with the roguishly bushy eyebrows, the iron-grey hair and dark eyes that searched, laughed when called upon or were teased by some wayward thought.

  She didn’t know the men on either side of him but that was nothing new. Estates changed hands and Lionel always thought he might buy one. Never still, he talked as much with his hands as his lips, the heavy gold cufflinks, the last of his father’s wealth, catching the light.

  Presentable he might once have been, but confidence he simply did not inspire.

  ‘My dear, your dress is most becoming. May I?’

  Drawing out a chair, the speaker sat down, she blurting, ‘Brigadier, I …’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. You’re waiting to meet someone. How’s that father of yours? Still not pining after your mother, or was it the brother? I can never remember.’

  Smoothing both hands quickly over the back of his balding head, he folded them on the table. ‘Cornwall to your liking?’ he asked. ‘I seem to recall something about a novel. Going well, is it?’

  A dark look could not be prevented and this he noted as she said, ‘Brigadier, you’re not the person I asked for and was led to believe I would meet.’

  Not trustworthy? he wondered. ‘Be that as it may, you’ve not answered my question.’

  Brigadier Charles Edward Gordon, retired, was in his late fifties. Unlike Dandridge, the tuxedo and regimental tie were immaculate. A few wisps of short grey hair still sprouted from the wind-burnished crown of his head. The eyes were the bluest of blue, their expression invariably as if gazing off to the horizon or up into the clouds after one of his hawks, when not breeding hunters or in the boardrooms of the nation discussing how best to put down a crippling labour strike.

  That continued gaze of his simply reinforced her opinion of him. ‘Look, I’d rather not talk to you, and certainly not here where everyone in creation can see us!’

  Anger had made her colour rise, she still remembering lost acreage and Clarington’s south pasture, thought Gordon, she thinking, no doubt, that it had been stolen from that father of hers, ‘swindled,’ as some said; others: ‘bought for a song.’

  Catching a passing waiter by the sleeve, he said, ‘John, old chap, bring me that bottle and two glasses. This young lady has just had her birthday.’

  Damn him! ‘Brigadier, don’t you dare play games with me. It’s nowhere near my birthday. I need help or I wouldn’t be here.’

  As the singing and the piano grew louder, he leaned closer and said, ‘Help you most definitely need. Now please, a little … shall we say, trust? It’s wisest we be seen among friends. Were I to have driven up to that house of your father’s, it would have been quite a different matter, especially as it is being constantly watched.’

  ‘But … but I haven’t seen anyone watching the house and grounds?’

  ‘Surely your assessment of things is far better.’

  Was he lying and if so, why? ‘Who and how many of them are there?’

  ‘As to whom, that we do not yet know. As to how many, enough.’

  Several were singing, laughing and jockeying for space round the piano, Lionel remaining at the bar but having turned to watch herself and the brigadier.

  As a bottle and two glasses were set on the table, Hilary noted the label, a Gevrey-Chambertin, Clos de Vigneau, a red Burgundy from the Côte d’Or, the reminder hatefully clear, Gordon asking her to pronounce things, which she wouldn’t, he then asking, ‘Still keeping in touch with the family, are you? The sister, hmm? An old school chum, I gather.’

  There was no use fighting him. He would get what he wanted of her. ‘I write to Adèle Vigneau at Christmas and Easter, and whenever I feel I should, Brigadier, but whatever happened between that brother of hers and myself is finished, so don’t for a moment think I or they would be of any use to MI6 in France.’

  ‘Then enjoy the wine and tell me about your little problem. I’ve been briefed, of course, by my opposite number, but had best hear it from yourself.’

  He had been on to someone in MI5. ‘I’d prefer
we at least went out to the porch.’

  ‘The patio might be better.’

  Gordon found them a table under the willows by the fishpond. Here the sound of the singing was subdued but broken from time to time by bursts of laughter and applause. Others were seated about—the older set and one young couple bent on holding hands, she glancing at them in dismay, perhaps at what she herself was missing.

  Letting her talk the Ashby thing out, he found that there was much she still didn’t know and that she was very much on the run. Detecting an interest in Ashby, he wondered if it might be useful, so too, a softness towards the child, the mothering instinct perhaps. And when she was done, he said, ‘I should tell you, my dear, that I greatly fear the German Abwehr is in earnest. Wireless signals indicate that there definitely is something in the wind. Invariably the small hours are used, but when one of their clandestine sets sends a brief, terse message at 0217 and then, exactly twenty-four hours later, receives a longer, sharper directive, it implies that said wireless agent was standing by for his AST-X Bremen response and that something has definitely caused a stir. Herr Hitler is, I greatly fear, very much in earnest. My other half believes a sleeper has been awakened, and that you may expect an attempt at any time.’

  AST-X Bremen and a sleeper … but had the brigadier intercepted her request for help and pounced on it for purposes of his own? And who was his ‘other half’?

  ‘Sir John Masterson’s an able man, Hilary. A bit off the tick in the tea and spice trade at the moment, but you should insist on seeing him. Yes, I think that would be best. Be sure to ask him exactly what they have in mind.’

  MI5. ‘And this Colonel Hacker?’

  And sickened by it too. ‘Ah yes, Bunny. Now there’s a fellow with a past. Tough, well disciplined, a soldier like myself. A bit too raw when it comes to dealing with subversives. No patience but damned thorough. Oh my, yes. Bunny was rather hard on the gun runners in Burma, but still, a good man when all’s said and done.’

  She had yet to touch her wine, was far from happy about their meeting, and when she said, ‘Does this mean you won’t help me?’ he caught the note of desperation.