by Kay Kenyon
“And we think their nasty little plan might migrate here?” Elsa asked.
“We’ll take precautions,” Julian said.
Precisely at eleven thirty, the tones and clicks of the transmission began. Fin pulled his writing tablet close. After the sign-on code, when he put his pencil to the tablet, Julian and Elsa knew the report had substance. In Fin’s right hand his pencil scratched away, while in his left the cigarette ash grew long. After six minutes the transmission ended with the sign-off code.
Fin flicked his ash on the floor and opened the code book. “Our boy was talkative.” He bent over the encrypted message and began transcribing as Julian and Elsa waited in silence. “If you stare at me like that,” Fin said, grinning, “it’ll throw me off.” And kept working.
Ten minutes later he handed the message to Julian. “By God, he’s got her,” Fin said. He looked up at his associates, eyes alight. “Coslett, Dorothea Coslett, is our benefactor. Seventy-eight years old. A dowager baroness in Wales.”
Julian read the report twice before passing the tablet to Elsa.
Fin asked, “Ever heard of her, boss?”
Julian paused. “Maybe. The woman’s involved in some kind of big spiritualist group.”
“Spiritualist?” Elsa asked. “You mean like Ouija boards? Contacting the departed?”
Fin looked at his dead cigarette. “I had a dog once. Wouldn’t mind hearing how he’s doin’.”
Julian looked at the tablet and felt the familiar hungry attention that dead-bang intelligence always produced. Dorothea Coslett, was it? They couldn’t admit they knew her connection to Nachteule without compromising the Woodbird source, but Julian could imagine the Foreign Office cooking up a story that her charitable donations were being used for underworld crime.
“Work up a dossier on Coslett and her spiritualism set, then,” he said to Fin. “Elsa, you’re working with Monkton Hall to locate our highest Talents and get them coverage.”
“I’m working with Owen on the list,” she replied, getting to her feet. As the group made ready to disperse, she said, “Dorothea Coslett. Sounds like a harmless old lady.”
As Julian and Fin both gave her a look, she smiled sweetly and patted her straw purse with its .38 revolver.
10
ST. JAMES’S CHURCH, PICCADILLY, LONDON
MONDAY, AUGUST 3. Julian tucked his sopping wet umbrella under the pew and flicked water off his hat, which he placed on the pew next to a funeral program that someone had left behind: In remembrance of Winifred Holt.
St. James’s was a small church by London standards, but it was Julian’s favorite. Its galleries on three sides provided a sheltering aspect; a man in tattered clothing must have felt the same, for on the other side of the sanctuary, he slept on a pew. Other than him, Julian was alone in the church.
The carved screen in back of the altar, a spectacular Grinling Gibbons, offered a focal point for contemplation. Today, however, his thoughts were mundane. He hadn’t been able to get through to Olivia for four days. One would think that a Secret Intelligence Service officer could find his own mistress.
Right on time, Elsa slid in next to him. Her chalk marks on an Albemarle Street lamppost had signaled a need to meet.
Julian contemplated the Gibbons screen. “Are you religious, Elsa?”
“Can’t say that I am.”
Julian couldn’t find it within himself to be a religious man, but when he contemplated the art that God had apparently inspired in others, he took comfort that someone believed.
They kept their voices low. “But you’re not immune to the peace of it all? The beauty?”
Elsa looked up at the vaulted ceiling. “The business we’re in, boss. Hard to believe we’re all being looked after. Especially today.”
He cut a glance at her.
“You might have read there was a child killed yesterday in Cambridgeshire. Fourteen years old.” Julian nodded that he had. “Throat cut with a sharp blade. And it followed the same crime scene features as that of another murdered boy, one down in Portsmouth. The victim was found sitting propped up against a tree, as though asleep.”
The rain came harder against the stained-glass windows, and the day’s darkness seemed to deepen. “The bodies were displayed, then.” He shook his head. “Looks like it’s the same perpetrator.”
“The police are convinced of it. Rather as though the killer wanted to shock with the almost-lifelike position of the bodies.”
He heard the muffled sound of the front door of the church closing. Julian turned around just far enough to glance toward the vestibule.
“Rupert Bristow was the second boy’s name,” she went on. “And here’s the worst part—”
“There’s worse?”
“Yes. The police have shared with us that the first young person murdered, Ewan Knox, had a Talent. And this afternoon they’ve found out that the second young murder victim did as well.”
“Christ,” Julian breathed.
“It could be coincidence. The killer targeted two young people. Maybe they just happened to have, or were claiming to have, Talents.”
“Right, could mean nothing.” No reason it would be the start of a trend. No reason it would be related to the Nachteule murders, either. His mind searched for patterns too much, perhaps.
She went on. “No sexual contact. Both youths were missing only a few hours before being found. No sign of torture, but one of the boys put up quite a fight.”
A heavily built man came into the sanctuary, carrying his leather cap. He sat on the other side of the aisle, three rows forward of Julian and Elsa.
“How did they find out the boys had Talents?”
“Their friends knew. Ewan Knox’s Talent was object reading. And Rupert Bristow, disguise.”
“Disguise, by God?” That was a Talent Monkton Hall hadn’t encountered very often.
“Yes, the Bristow boy. His friends said he had the knack of adopting expressions that made him look rather unlike himself. Maybe it was just an ordinary ability to mimic, or else it was the real thing, mentally influencing what others see. But Rupert thought he had one, because he joined a club, supposed to be a secret club. Called the Adders, a bit of a fad in schools these days, apparently.”
“I’ve heard of them.” Julian had assumed Martin’s club was the only one. But he hadn’t asked either Kim or Martin about the group. “We’ve had a bit of a dust-up about an Adder club in Yorkshire. Are the clubs common, then?”
“They’ve spread, not sure how far. The clubs are frowned on, and some schools have banned them, but that just drove them to secrecy. It was one of the club members who told the police about Rupert.”
“These club members could be lying. Bragging.”
“Yes, they could. I expect the clubs are attracting all sorts of misfits.”
Julian chewed on all this for a time. Kim was the wrong age for the apparent targets. But Martin Lister fit right in. It was very odd to have two concerns about British Talents at the same time: Nachteule migrating to England, and a murderer of adolescents on the loose. Christ God, it was a miserable world.
“All right, Elsa. I’m going to attach you to the police investigation. If we have another murder that fits the MO, you’ll track down any correlations amongst the victims. Not that this is going to go further, but if it does, we need to know if the targets have Talents.”
“Do you think these two murders are tied to Nachteule? In both sets of crimes, Talents die.”
“We’ll watch for possible connections,” Julian said. “The moment any more victims are clearly Talents, that’s when we take a closer interest. Meanwhile, let’s look into these clubs. If young Talents are the target, then this is one way victims could be chosen. Find out if there’s any communication among them, any ring leaders or adult contacts.”
The Office’s sister organization, the Security Service, wouldn’t like them elbowing in on what might appear a domestic matter, but he’d leave that problem to E.
/> Elsa passed him a dossier. “Fin’s report on our British Nachteule benefactor. Dorothea Coslett is the Dowager Baroness Ellesmere. Lives in North Wales. Her son is Powell Coslett, Baron Ellesmere. The baroness has been an unabashed supporter of the Nazi cause since Hitler came to power, and twice travelled to Germany where she met with some of the inner circle. Her group is called Ancient Light, boasting of two thousand followers scattered throughout Great Britain, but only about eight hundred of them tithe regularly. They are loosely connected, meeting at local sites of standing stones, barrows, and so forth, especially at the equinoxes and solstices. Occasionally, they have fairs, bringing larger numbers together at the Coslett estate. The old woman’s grooming her son to take charge of the sect and is also spending down her fortune on various right-wing causes.”
“Nothing left for the son, if the money’s gone? Or does the estate have an income?”
“Some of the donations go to upkeep for Sulcliffe Castle, considered by the group to be on a sacred site, at least by their standards. Without them, the baron would barely make the tax payments.”
“Like a lot of country estates these days.”
Elsa gave him a look, as though, since he was landed gentry himself, she didn’t care to hear him complain. “Are we going to share the Nachteule benefactor information with the Poles?”
“I doubt the Foreign Office will want that.”
“How about sharing with the police?”
“We don’t want the authorities following up with the Cosletts. We’re involved with a peerage, so we have some sensitivities. And other than the death of Talents, we don’t have any similarities between the two sets of murders.”
Julian watched as the heavyset man left his pew and walked past, his face tear-stained. “Stay with the police investigation, Elsa. Dig into the Adder clubs. Meanwhile, on the Nachteule front, the Foreign Office has informed Coslett that her contributions to German causes are likely being misused and must stop. She pretended dismay and has complied. So, we’ve shut down the money flow. That’s it for now.”
After she left, Julian waited a decent interval, using the time to let his thoughts settle. Two murders, with specific presentation of the bodies. Pray God the killer was done now. But no guarantee. He thought of young Martin Lister. The boy would have to wash off that damn snake drawing on his wrist. He was always pulling his shirtsleeve down to cover it.
Julian picked up his hat, noting the program on the seat beside him. The service included the hymns “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” and “Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise.” He thought of Rupert and Ewan and a wise God.
He had tried many times to reconcile faith with the brutality of the world. He envied Elsa. At least she had given up.
MONKTON HALL, NORTH YORK MOORS
LATER THAT DAY. “How is Pip doing?” Kim asked. She glanced at Miss Drummond’s toy spaniel, who slept in a basket by her desk.
“As well as can be expected.” Miss Drummond looked over the top of her glasses at Kim, warning her that they were not friends and would not be chatting.
Kim put a finger to her lips. “Mustn’t wake him, then.”
No one presumed to chat with Miss Drummond, even if the woman had uncovered Kim’s and Owen’s artless sleuthing over the Prestwich Affair and had gamely lent a hand. Kim wasn’t sure if Drummond had done it for king and country or for Pip. Fitzroy Blum had had it in for the dog. But the woman might well have taken a liking to her after Kim had managed to cover up a doggie mistake on the premises just before Fitz discovered it.
It was precisely eleven o’clock, by her Elgin. She ascended the great staircase to Owen’s office on the mezzanine.
Monkton Hall had long been stripped of its Victorian furnishings, but government use of the old manor could not entirely cloak its personality. Decorative gargoyles and carved woodland creatures embroidered the walls and coved ceilings as though trying to free themselves from the plaster. Even better, an ancient chapel lay closed off behind the back wall, a remnant of the sixteenth century, when it had been dangerous to be a Catholic. It was fitting that in this hall of spies, even the stones and walls held secrets.
She knocked twice at Owen’s door, and entered to find him wearing a cap bristling with knobs and wires. A dynograph occupied a corner of his desk. He adjusted a knob and stared at the readout that fed out in a stream of paper.
He motioned for her to join him.
“It’s the new Sherrington Four,” he said. “I wouldn’t try it on our people until I tested it myself.” He made a note on a pad and then lifted the cap off. His hair sprang back as though electrified.
Kim pulled up a chair. “How do you like it?”
“Remains to be seen, remains to be seen. We’ll get you rigged up and see what we can learn.” Kim’s brain waves changed when she elicited a spill. The dynograph showed what areas of the brain were active when a Talent manifested. “Manifested” was the word Monkton liked; while some Talents appeared to be “on” at all times, others came and went, sometimes under control, and sometimes spontaneously, as with the spill.
“Lewis is eager to get you hooked up to the thing.”
“Is that why I’m here? The Sherrington?”
Owen pursed his lips. “The dynograph? No, no. It’s head office, as a matter of fact. Wanted me to have a talk with you about security.” He rustled through the long readout piled up on the floor, gathering it up and stacking it in a hopeless tangle on top of the dynograph before taking his seat behind the desk.
“We have some intelligence that our agents could be in danger. You’ll want to be watchful and take extra security measures.”
A buzz like an electric current spun through her. “Something’s afoot.”
“Enough to put you on your guard, yes. Nothing direct yet, but keep your eyes open and avoid isolated locations. The usual precautions. I said the same to Alice Ward at her last testing appointment.”
Interest surged, but she kept her peace. Clearly, he wasn’t going to say more. She thought the “agents in danger” comment rather odd. Which agents, she wondered? And most of all, why?
“Got it,” she said. “I’ll stay alert. But how serious is it?”
“Could be risky, but nothing definitive.” Owen was tapping his pen against the desk, almost a nervous tic, as the conversation ground to a halt.
“They’re killing off Talents,” he said. “All on the Continent so far, but we really don’t know who’s in their sights.”
Then he closed his eyes a moment, shaking his head. “Did you just do what I think you did?” He flicked a glance at her. “Please do stop.”
“I didn’t do anything, as you very well know, Owen.”
“Yes, I know you can’t help it, but it’s rather annoying when it happens.” A slow, rueful shake of his head as he considered the spill that had just happened.
“Sorry,” she said, hoping it sounded sincere.
This was a part of the controller/agent relationship that they had discussed before. How Owen, as her handler, could maintain the distance he needed, and Kim could be sure she didn’t foster a spill environment, and potentially damage an operation relying on secrecy. Whatever a spill environment was. She could not control her ability, but she had become adept at playing out silences and fostering trustful conversations.
And now: an operation to kill Talents. She would take care, of course, but she didn’t worry for herself; she only longed to get in the thick of it. Where on the Continent? France? Belgium? And now England?
“Sorry,” she said again. Owen nodded, and it was smoothed over.
While she was rather pleased about what had just happened, at the same time she didn’t want her Talent to scare off the paranoid old men at the head office. She was an agent, not a case officer, and therefore she was not in the gentlemen’s club of the intelligence services. Nor was Owen. He was the handler for a few Yorkshire assets, and probably preferred it that way.
“Well,” Owen said, recovering from hav
ing slipped a secret. “I know you’re curious. But we must let this play out. If there’s a way for you to be involved, you’ll be called up. Good enough?”
“Yes, boss.” Wouldn’t dream of prying.
“Sit tight, my girl. We shall no doubt have need of you for something ere long. If it were me, I’d send you off to charm Herr Hitler in a trice.”
“I’ve been studying German.”
“Gut.” He rose and wandered back to the dynograph.
Poor Owen really had been happier in his lab. And here he was, trying to manage his spy assets and a government operation that was England’s best hope for parity with the German war machine. She didn’t want to make his job any harder. Still: “Perhaps you could make a suggestion to the higher-ups? About my being eager to work?”
“I shall take it up with my superior, you can rest assured.” And he was back poking at the Sherrington Four.
And who was Owen’s handler? A man who no doubt withheld certain pieces of the truth from him, and so on up the line until, she supposed, only one person had the whole picture. The spymaster, whoever that was. How lovely it must be to know it all.
THE BLOOM BOOK
TALENT GROUPS
INTRODUCTION
Talents may be usefully grouped into three areas: Hyperpersonal, Mentation, and Psychokinesis. Any system that attempts to classify human behavior cannot escape making at least a few arbitrary distinctions. Thus, the composition of the Talent groups may be thought of as a catalogue of convenient reference more than an empirical classification system. The groups described below are widely used among the Allies of the Great War. What follows is a summary. For details, see Meta-Abilities Diagnostic Manual. MADM 4001-5749.37.
GROUP 1: HYPERPERSONAL
These abilities are characterized by close interpersonal transactions, where one individual exerts an influence over another’s thoughts, attitudes, or perceptions, or is privy to others’ traumatic memories or feelings beyond those that are readily apparent.
