“Even if they are, they no longer have anything to do with us. It’s all dust in the past, Kitty, over and done with. I’m on the this side of the door now.”
“And maybe someone else is, too.
He thought about that.
“If there was someone, I expect I would have recalled it last night when I remembered the letter. I’m inclined to believe I’ve recollected everything of substance that happened at the wall, Kitty.”
“But that sense of being clutched at, Robert. What accounts for that?”
“There was shrubbery all around me, trees and low branches overhead. In truth, I chose the spot because it half hid me from the Pike.” He closed his eyes, thinking. “I moved, the stone wobbled. Perhaps I shifted to avoid a branch moving in the breeze, or the buzzing of a late season wasp or bee. And then the stone rocked and I lost my balance. I may have grasped at something as I fell. A bush. The bough of a tree.” He looked at me. “Perhaps it was I who … clutched, pulling a branch against myself.”
I sighed wearily and Robert stroked my hair. “Is there something else that worries you?”
I shook my head, then nodded.
“Yes? No?”
“Not worried,” I said slowly. “Just … disappointed. Cameron has outdone my lowest expectation of him. I take back everything nice I ever said about him.”
“You’ve said something nice about Mister Finlay?”
“Well, recently I’ve thought nice things. Or thing, singular. I thought he would share my concern for the children. I thought he would want to deal. You know, for the children’s sake. I never thought he would use them like this. I never saw it coming.”
“You wouldn’t,” Robert told me. “You could never conceive of doing such a thing yourself—” He broke off, aware that there was no point in pursuing the subject.
“You are quite done in, Kitty,” he went on, slipping his arms around me gently. “Such a day it has been.” After a while he added (probably to distract me): “I had another memory. Alfred put me on it, as a matter of fact.”
I pulled away a little so I could see him better. “Alfred? Alfred of Magnum Investigations? Alfred, our bumbling detective? That Alfred?”
“The very one. Actually, it’s the bumbling part that put me in mind of Simmons.”
He lost me. “Who in the world is Simmons?”
“Private Simmons. Came from Nottinghamshire. Was my manservant. A more useless, stubborn, fussbudget there never was. Nor one so loyal.”
I smiled. “You liked him.”
Robert glanced at me. “He was annoying at times. Under foot, that sort of thing. But of course I liked him. He was loyal, as I said. Well-meaning. I had been trying to get him posted to a regiment back home, so he could see his family. He’s been soldiering for over twenty years; he deserves a rest. Peter promised that he’d see to it, should anything happen to me.”
“Couldn’t he just retire?” I asked, meaning Private Simmons. “Since he’s been in the army so long?”
“Retire!” Robert seemed much amused by the notion. “Once you’ve taken the King’s silver, Kitty, you’ve pledged your life — until you’re injured or too old, or a lengthy peace descends and the Crown no longer needs you.”
“But … isn’t there a term of enlistment? Three years, five years—”
“Term? There is no term. Do you mean soldiers have terms now? That they set specific lengths of enlistment?”
“Of course! You can’t just sign up on a till-death-do-us-part basis!”
“Why ever not? It’s very often the case, in any event.”
“I’m not talking about dying in the line of duty. What I mean is, soldiers should be able to resign, Robert, after a certain period of time — like anybody else. Or retire. You could have retired, Robert. You had that option.”
“Of course I did. I’m an officer. I can resign my commission. That’s quite a different thing, Kitty.”
“But the enlisted should have that choice, too! Otherwise it’s like…slavery!
My voice rose with righteous indignation. I was crusading now, championing the rights of the downtrodden like Private Simmons, who had been at Robert’s beck and call for goodness only knows how long, poor man.
“Nonsense, Kitty,” Robert said in his most patronizing the-little-woman-sure-is-confused voice. “Private soldiers are paid! Slaves aren’t.”
“Anyone who is kept in service or forced to work against his will is held in bondage,” I lectured him. “It doesn’t matter if he’s paid wages. What if a soldier wants to do another kind of work after 20 years of—”
“There is no other kind of work, Kitty! It is the class they belong to! There is nothing for them. The army is often the best they can do!”
I was dumfounded. “That’s it? They join for life, they make a decision at sixteen, and they can never change their minds?”
“Not just at sixteen, Kitty. Some of the lads are younger than that.”
I don’t know what astonished me more: the unyielding system of British enlistments, or the fact that Robert didn’t see a thing wrong with it. It occurred to me then that our politics would be vastly different. Most of my friends were politically somewhere slightly to the left of center. Robert, I was pretty sure, was somewhere to the right of Genghis Khan.
“I don’t think we should continue this discussion, Robert,” I said ominously.
“Yes. You have a point.” He smiled at me, amused. “It’s difficult to believe I once belonged to…what did you call it? Oh yes, the Age of Enlightenment. Isn’t that what your historians call my particular niche in time?”
“They weren’t specifically referring to you, Robert.”
“Evidently. But Kitty, I’m not yet done. I’ve had another memory as well. Went along with Private Simmons.”
In spite of myself, I was interested.
“ ’Twas about Sophie.”
Then again, perhaps I didn’t want to hear about this after all.
“Lovely bay mare,” Robert went on thoughtfully. “I shall miss her sorely.”
“Oh!” I said brightly. “She’s a horse!”
“Whatever else?” He glanced at me. “What did you think? Never mind. You should know I wouldn’t tell you that sort of memory.”
Which made me wonder what he hadn’t told me. I hesitated, then took the high road. “And is she the horse you rode that day?” I asked nobly.
“No, thank heaven! I was riding that beastly gelding…Gallant. Yes, that’s it. Gallant — ha! Head hard as a rock and a mouth to match. Yet he never so much as flinched at cannon fire, which is something to be cherished. Nonetheless…” He paused, evidently ruminating on the shortcoming of the miserable Gallant, then shook his head. “If Peter didn’t find him,” he went on, “some enterprising local will. With any luck he’ll make his way to plague a Rebel officer.”
This idea seemed to please him. He threw his head against the sofa back and closed his eyes. “No, Kitty,” he said, evidently still answering my question about the mare. “I left Sophie in Germantown, turned out for the day in a hayfield we appropriated. Simmons will take care of her and I had promised her to Peter, anyway.”
“Should something happen,” I supplied.
He glanced at me. “We all received instructions and commissions from our friends, Sweetheart — should something happen. Because it often did.” He mused for a moment. “Sophie shall do fine. As will the gelding, I expect — and Simmons, too. I was rather thorough on these points.
His head tipped back and he closed his eyes again.
“Speaking of loose ends … remember the other day when I told you I had a feeling that the inn was the object of that ride up the Pike, that Peter was subtly leading or maneuvering everyone there? I wish I knew why. ”
“Could it be something you … forgot?”
“No. I don’t think I ever knew.”
“Do you still believe it wasn’t official, this foray?”
“Yes Kitty, I do, for I was the
ranking officer, and would have received the orders and briefed the men had the expedition been official. Besides we were nearly all officers in this party. The composition was composed strictly for camaraderie, not combat.”
He sighed and looked at me. “It was Peter’s idea we go — a lark, he said, to kill the tedium of camp. But the more I think about it, Kitty, the more it seems a ruse. I’d bet fifty pounds he had an agenda of some kind. Though what it might have been I cannot imagine.”
He paused. “There’s another memory, but it’s just beyond my reach.”
“It will come,” I told him.
“Yes, I expect it will.” He glanced over at me and traced a worried finger down my cheek. “You’re still quite tired, aren’t you, Kitty? Come, let us sit out on the deck. The sun’s behind us now and it shouldn’t be so hot.”
So we poured ourselves tall glasses of iced tea and retired to the deck, where I collapsed gratefully onto the cushioned deck chair Robert dragged into the shade. For a long time I lay quietly, eyes closed, lulled by the sound of the sea. And then a breeze rose, a land breeze that brought with it mosquitoes. I could hear their quiet hum. And then I realized it was not the sound of mosquitoes after all.
It was the sound of a car coming up the drive.
Chapter 38
“Company?” Robert asked with studied casualness.
I opened my eyes. “Are you expecting someone?” I parried. “The lawnmower man, perhaps? The bicyclist from the ferry?” A CIA guy? Assorted government agents?
Together we went around to the side of the deck and peered toward the back of the house in time to see a Ford Bronco with an empty fishing pole rack mounted on the front bumper come to a stop at the top of the drive. A minute later a rather solidly built man emerged from the Bronco dressed respectably in jeans, a khaki shirt and boat shoes. Something about his square face and reddish hair looked familiar.
“Hello,” I called out.
The man looked up, spotted me on the deck, and offered a tentative smile. Beside me I could feel Robert tense.
“Do you know who he is?” Robert asked me, sotto voce.
I kept my eyes on our visitor, smiled, and gave Robert a quick negative shake of my head.
“I believe,” Robert continued in an undertone, “the gentleman is our deputy from the other night.”
I turned to stare at him.
“The fellow who, ah, interviewed us at the, um, constabulary.”
“Police station,” I supplied, and then a thought struck me. “Do you suppose that twerpy little detective—”
“Shush,” Robert cautioned, then added: “No. I don’t.”
“Mrs. Finlay?” our visitor called.
I looked back at the man in the driveway and raised my voice to a cheery pitch. “Yes, I’m Kathleen Finlay,” I told him. “What can I do for you?”
“I was just hoping to talk with you a second. I won’t take but a moment of your time.”
I knew, without being told, that whatever he wanted to say he did not want to say in front of Robert. Robert knew that, too. “Go down and talk to him,” he said. “I’ll wait here.”
So I went down the stairs and approached the man on the driveway. Behind me, I knew, Robert watched us from the deck.
“Iced tea?” I heard him call. I glanced over my shoulder and saw him raise his glass slightly to the deputy.
“Oh,” the deputy smiled, comprehending. “No, no thanks.”
“Wonderful stuff, is iced tea. Can’t imagine why we ever drink it hot. Though I suppose it’s more comforting that way in winter.”
“Yes, I guess it is,” the deputy agreed.
Behind my sunglasses I closed my eyes and prayed for Robert to shut up.
“Of course,” he went on relentlessly, “on this side of the pond, many people seem to prefer coffee. An outcome of the ah, Boston Tea Party, I should imagine.”
I turned around to the deck, slid my sunglasses down my nose and gave Robert a Meaningful Stare. Then I turned back to the deputy. “He’s English,” I said, as if that explained everything.
The deputy nodded. “I saw a TV program,” he said in an undertone. “On PBS or something. About eccentrics. Most of them were British.”
I smiled in agreement.
“My name is Mike Whalen. Do you remember me from the other night?”
“Of course I do, Mr. Whalen,” I said courteously. “What can I do for you?”
“Please understand that this isn’t an official visit or anything, and I don’t want you to think I’m, ah—”
“Intruding?” I suggested delicately.
“Or, um, being nosy, but—” Suddenly Mr. Whalen seemed hugely uncomfortable. He blushed and shifted from one foot to another. “Being that I remember your granddaddy and all, I thought I would just, um, mention…”
“Mention?” I prodded gently.
Mr. Whalen (Officer Whalen? Deputy Whalen?) took a breath and began again.
“I, ah, understand that you all were stopped on Monday for speeding, and that Mr. Finlay didn’t have his license on him.”
“Mr. Upton,” I corrected, deliberately dropping the military title.
“Yes, Mr. Upton. Excuse me. It was just sort of mentioned casually — about the license, I mean — when Bill — Officer Blakely — got back to the station. He said he stopped a real attractive lady and, um—”
“Yes?”
“A flaky English guy — his words, not mine — for speeding, and that the guy didn’t appear to have his license. Said before he could cite him, he had to intercept a possible DUI. So he let him go. The Englishman, I mean.”
“That was us,” I said agreeably. “And you’re right: the Flaky English Guy couldn’t find his license.”
“Did he have it ma’am, and just couldn’t find it? Or was he driving without it?”
“It was in the glove compartment,” I said levelly. “He didn’t want to carry his wallet, so he tossed the license and a credit card into the glove box, and they sifted down under some stuff. We found them after the officer left us, before we even drove away.”
I was turning into a consummate liar. Mr. Whalen watched me closely as I spoke, like he had me hooked up to a lie detector. Then he nodded.
“Officer Blakely wasn’t at the station the night you all were brought in. The night you didn’t have any identification on you. So he didn’t make a connection, of course. But I did. And another officer did. It’s the other officer who was…real interested. I figured it wasn’t any of my business. Just a coincidence. Some people forget their IDs like other people forget their keys.”
I looked at him and waited. Behind me, I knew The Flake was waiting, too. “So,” he continued a bit awkwardly, “I just wanted to alert you to be careful about the ID thing when you drive. I mean, it would be a hassle to get stopped again without it. You — he — could get cited, fined and all.”
It was a warning, kindly and well meant. Even better, it had nothing to do with Alfred Tubman. I smiled my appreciation. “You are absolutely right,” I told him. “I’ll keep a tighter rein on my houseguest.”
I thought he’d go then, but he didn’t. Instead he cleared his throat. “I guess I saw you at Sculley’s last night.”
“Yes,” I said cheerfully. “We were there. I’m sorry I didn’t see you.” (Boy, was I ever.)
“Well, you know, it’s kind of dark in there. Wouldn’t have noticed you if it wasn’t for your, um, ah, conversation.”
“Oh, yes! That’s right! We were talking about circumcision!”
Mr. Whalen flushed, which was what I intended.
“I suppose it did seem a little odd,” I added, wondering (since he apparently knew everything else) if next he was going to bring up Robert’s fascination with lawnmowers and bicycles.
“Well, yes it did. Seem a little odd, I mean. Not that I was eavesdropping, or anything.”
“Robert’s spent years in Africa,” I went on eagerly, “and knows the most fascinating things. We were c
omparing the Western practice of medical circumcision to African tribal customs and various male initiation rites…” I glanced over my shoulder and saw that The Flake had moved away from the railing and had thrown himself into a deck chair. He lay sprawled in the sun, head tipped back, iced tea glass in firmly his hand, seemingly oblivious. But he wasn’t, of course. Even without being able to hear us, I knew he hadn’t missed a single beat. “Have you ever been to Africa?” I asked brightly.
“Well, no ma’am, I haven’t—”
“Then come on up and have some iced tea! When you arrived we were just discussing kinship patterns among the Watusi. Robert was about to show me some interesting charts—”
“No! Thanks! Honest, that’s okay!” Mr. Whalen seemed truly alarmed at spending a cozy hour with us. Already, he was scrambling into his Bronco. “Like to, really would, but gotta run. I was, ah, just a little concerned and, um, since my dad and your granddad—”
“Of course. I understand—”
“—Didn’t want anyone to think Mr. Upton was an, um, you know…”
I waited.
“Illegal immigrant or anything—”
“Hardly that!” I smiled and waved while Mr. Whalen did a three-point turn and eased out of the drive. Then I went up to the deck, and stood over Robert who still lay in the sun.
“He thinks you’re an illegal immigrant,” I said.
Robert opened an eye and squinted at me. “I know all about illegal immigrants,” he said, waving to a pile of magazines by the chair. “But I can’t be one. I’m not Hispanic.”
“You don’t have to be Hispanic. Just illegal.”
“And?”
“He saw us at Sculley’s the other night. He thinks you’re a little odd.”
“I’m English,” he said, unknowingly quoting me. “Half the world thinks we’re odd, even on the…the other side of the door. Just ask the Frogs.”
“The who?”
“Oh hell, Kitty. The French.” He managed to make it sound like a bad word. “But he didn’t come to tell you that, did he?”
“There’s a deputy who’s very interested in your lack of identification. Not our visitor, but another guy. He heard that you were stopped for speeding and thought it was interesting that for a second time you had no ID. So Mr. Whalen kindly stopped by to alert us.”
Out of Time Page 29
