Serpent in the Heather

by Kay Kenyon

  There were many such. For the fallen who were recovered weeks or months or years after death, the bones had become separated, the clothes torn or just gone. When authorities could find nothing else, they buried a skull or a foot. And though the war had been over for nineteen years, the Belgians were still burying the dead when farmers plowed up remains. It was good of them to maintain the graveyards, as they did with meticulous care, clipping the grass and straightening the headstones, which tended to sink into the earth as though the land wished to be done with remembrance.

  Today a great sinkhole had opened up in a cornfield, swallowing a tractor, but it was not unusual. The combatants had dug miles of tunnels, which were now slowly collapsing. During the war, both sides had laid massive amounts of explosives in tunnels next to enemy enclosures, exploding them with devastating effect. In these trenches and tunnels the war had been fought, an unimaginable war. A bad war, all the way around. Pointless, some said, including Gustaw. Now the next one was coming. Perhaps it had started already, with Tilda.

  Well. These were dark thoughts for a warm summer day. He drove on, into the small hamlet of Beselare.

  This was the sixth doll maker on his list. His directions were to a house of a restorer who, like many, worked out of his home. Gustaw left his car on the rutted driveway before a tidy home with a deep-sloping roof pierced by a gabled entryway. He knocked, but finding no one answering, he went round to the back, where a dilapidated stoop looked out on a field with a moss-covered gun emplacement, long abandoned.

  He peered in a back window. An orderly kitchen. Next, a small bedroom. Sunshine lapped at a white counterpane where a girl appeared to be resting. No, a doll, but so lifelike it gave Gustaw a start. The house hardly looked lived-in.

  Back in the village, he stopped at a pub for a luncheon of smoked sausage and a pint of bitter. He placed his package secured with twine on the bar. He had practiced how to say a very good doll with an arm missing in French and Dutch. The owner looked at the package, and mentioned the name on Gustaw’s list, Monsieur Verhoeven, who lived nearby, but he did not know where the man was at present.

  “He is not in here, then,” Gustaw said amiably, looking around the dark pub, well occupied with a crowd for lunch.

  “Non,” the innkeeper said.

  “Spectacles?” Gustaw said, as he always did, for he had little else to describe his Dutchman. “Does he perhaps wear glasses?”

  The innkeeper shrugged. “Aveugle sans eux.”

  Gustaw’s French was not up to this remark. “Pardonnez-moi, je ne comprends pas.”

  The innkeeper turned back to the work of rinsing glasses in the sink behind the bar. In carefully enunciated English, he said, “The man eez blind without them.” He twisted around to look at Gustaw, perhaps wondering if the man even spoke English. He made a gesture, rounding his hands and bringing them up to his eyes like binoculars.

  Gustaw’s attention was now riveted. “Do you know how I can reach him? Please, it is for a very special doll. My daughter’s.”

  “Non.” The innkeeper shrugged expressively. “Many people repair the toys. Not only Monsieur Verhoeven.”

  Gustaw kept his face neutral, but his excitement propelled him from his half-finished sausages. “Merci, monsieur. Merci.”

  As he made his way to the door, a middle-aged woman followed him out, tucking her hair into a scarf that fluttered in the wind. “You were asking for Dries Verhoeven. You know that he lives just up the road?”

  “Yes, I have stopped by, but he is not at home. Do you know where I can find him?”

  “I do not, but Auberte may know. She knows most things.”

  “Thank you so much. Who is Auberte?”

  “Auberte Cloutier.” She pointed down the street.

  Across from the village post office was the ground-floor apartment of Auberte Cloutier. But today, it seemed, was a day for no one to be home. Madame Cloutier did not answer his knock.

  Gustaw was not discouraged. He was close to the man with the crooked light in his eyes, he was sure of it.

  And if he was, then Julian Tavistock would be most interested to hear. It had taken five days for the message to reach him, having gone first to Polish authorities, who finally found him in Antwerp.

  The British intelligence service had decided to share what they knew. With conditions. Ah, well, it was a start. And very interesting: Nachteule had come to England, but in a changed form. What it could mean, he did not know, except that, now that the British were in the game—with the best intelligence services in the world—Gustaw had new hope to find the assassin.

  He drove back to the steep-roofed house.

  At the rear door he withdrew from his pocket a small piece of hardware and jiggled it in the lock until he heard the tumblers fall into place. Pushing open the door, he entered Verhoeven’s house. Inside, it was not so clean as it had looked from the window. Everything was in order, almost rigidly so, but the stove shone with a film of grease, and broom sweep marks suggested a resident who was tidy but not thorough.

  A narrow hall led away, and Gustaw followed it to the front of the house. The parlor had been converted into a workroom, with two long trestle tables with benches, and a line of shelves around the walls at shoulder height.

  On every surface, a doll, or part of one. Arms, feet, torsos, legs. And clothes: tiny shoes arranged by size. To the left of the fireplace mantel, a shelf for heads, some with the eyes open, and some closed, as though some would sleep but others could not. It was a workshop that must be typical of those who repaired dolls.

  Here were spare parts for missing hands, legs, and heads and, as well, the dolls who came to find what was missing, such as the porcelain doll nearest him on the trestle table, a rosy-cheeked girl. The right hand gone at the wrist. Next to it, a small hand just emerging from a block of wood. One of the fingers was beginning to show evidence of a fingernail.

  A man who would work at carving and repairing in his parlor was one who had no other life. Possibly no friends to invite in, no interests outside of work.

  Well. He had been interested in Tilda Mazur. Perhaps Dries Verhoeven had a sideline. Murder.

  He went to the large front window and drew the curtains aside. Past his car parked on the verge, a hundred yards away was the roadway to town. A hay truck rumbled by.

  In the small dining room across the hall, a place mat showed where Dries Verhoeven took his meals. Lace curtains, once white, but with holes repaired, filtered the sunlight from the sun just summiting the steep roof.

  Upstairs, three more rooms, tiny, sparse, and stale. In one room, the chest of drawers contained folded sweaters for a cooler season. The closet contained a neat rank of coats and jackets. On the floor, shoes and boots, arranged by type: loafers, lace-ups, boots. For the big doll, Gustaw could not help thinking.

  He made his way downstairs to the room where a doll lay against the pillows like a pampered lady. The specimen was clearly fine, clothed in a smoky-blue silk gown, with high-heeled black shoes. Most striking were the large and lustrous blue eyes. Open, but with eyelids that might close. The steeply arched eyebrows and perfect rosy mouth gave the doll a grown-up aspect, even with the childish body.

  In the closet and chest, Verhoeven’s simple wardrobe, folded and hung. On the bureau, a framed photograph of a woman holding an armful of books. She stood on the steps of what might have been a library. The picture was of poor quality, the face barely visible. Wife? Mother?

  Back in the dining room, where Gustaw had seen metal filing boxes, he flipped through files containing orders, receipts and invoices. Dutch, French and German addresses. He would like to comb this house more thoroughly, but he would need something convincing that tied Verhoeven to the murders.

  He returned to the parlor. Standing in the dim and cold of the fading afternoon, he gazed at the scattered limbs and heads. The macabre thought intruded that the doll heads—the ones with open eyes—were ready to speak. They knew the doll maker who lived and worked here,
his darkness and his shattered life.

  Come, Gustaw. It is no crime to be in possession of broken dolls, and to fix them.

  But he wished the dolls could tell what they knew.

  THE BLOOM BOOK

  TALENT GROUPS

  GROUP 3: PSYCHOKINESIS

  This group of meta-abilities produces changes to objects and environments that are not acted upon by any measurable force. Military applications, as well as use in crime and terrorism, make this group a vital field of study. Particular notice must be paid to the role of those individuals with the ability to link with others for a common, more profound effect (choristers, described under the Hyperpersonal group.) The Psychokinesis category requires further definition based upon case studies.

  Cold cell. Practitioners cause a rapid decrease in outside temperatures over a territory. The effect is often accompanied by precipitation and other locally anomalous weather disturbances. Manifestations are variously initiated. Depending on the practitioner, they may be spontaneous (often initiated by emotional experiences) or may be under conscious control.

  Damaging. To cause disruption, breakage or wounding at a distance. Few case studies. Controlled by the intention of the practitioner.

  Darkening. To cause the blockage of light. A heavy shadow, though not absolute darkness, may be exerted over a wide area, often several acres. Neither the practitioner nor those around the individual are able to defend against it. Controlled by the intention of the practitioner. Few case studies.

  Sounding. To produce high-decibel noise that may sound variously as a crack, explosion, distant boom, or shelling. Witnesses report reactions of fear, but it has not been established whether this is a natural reaction or induced as a separate effect. Few case studies.

  Transport. To exert upon an object a force that can move the object. The range in size and weight of objects susceptible to be acted upon are proportional to the strength of the Talent rating. Individuals studied have not demonstrated control over direction and speed. Existing studies have been limited to practitioners of ratings 3 or lower. This circumstance has suggested to some that transport Talents at higher levels may not exist, although it is an unconfirmed theory. Controlled by the intention of the practitioner.

  PART III

  BLOODLINES

  24

  THE TRAIN TO PENGEYLAN, WALES

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 28. “I say, you’ve got the wrong timetable there, you know.”

  In the first-class compartment, a rotund, amiable man sitting next to Kim and wearing ill-fitting tweeds offered her the timetable to Chester.

  Kim smiled at him. “Oh, yes, I know. But I do prefer this one.” He blinked in confusion and, murmuring an apology, tucked the timetable into a breast pocket.

  The timetable in her hands was her usual, for the London and North Eastern Railway, which did very nicely for most trips, if not this one. It always soothed her nerves to see the connections one could make right out of Uxley, and she had committed a great deal of the LNER timetable to memory. Helpfully, it included a map of England on the back, complete with designations of other railway lines. One could hardly get lost in England if one knew the railway system, and as a kind of newcomer—born in England, yet a stranger—she had long depended on the railway system maps to make sense of things.

  The train clacked and swayed, heading southwest to Chester. She had just had time, when changing trains in York, to pick up the Yorkshire Post, with its blazoned headline, FOILED IN STOURBRIDGE.

  Frank Merkin, the attack victim’s father, was suddenly a national hero, and communities throughout Great Britain had begun prayer vigils for young George, who had awakened but was still weak. According to Owen, the boy’s memory of the assault had not returned as of Thursday night. She thought how satisfying it would be if Frank Merkin had managed to kill Talon. He had been wounded, or his accomplice had, and so he was possibly dead or dying. Devoutly to be hoped. But they couldn’t count on that.

  She gripped the LNER timetable, glad that Martin, who was of an age to be a target, was well under guard at Wrenfell. From her window seat, she gazed at the undulating pastureland. Not far out of Leeds it began changing to uplands, with graceful dry stone walls weaving up scars and fells, separating the farms.

  She missed Alice’s company, with her strength and surety. Alice’s opinions were not often shaken by ambiguities. It was the right disposition for an agent, unlike Kim, who was always thinking, and crawling around to the other side of issues to see the truth of things. Her adversaries were masters of deception, causing one to doubt first impressions and, often, to distrust outright proof. One never knew if a realization had been planted as misdirection.

  She wondered how Alice’s confrontation with James would go, when she finally told him the truth about who she was. In any case, Alice, having been disinvited by Dorothea Coslett, would now try to gain anonymous entrance to the Ancient Light fair. To do so, she had gone ahead to stay at Pengeylan, the village near Sulcliffe. She was settled into lodgings at the Llewellyn House, where she had been able to make contact with people gathering for the fair. Kim’s last update from the dead drop in Uxley had provided the hotel name and phone number.

  This might well be her last chance to gather the intelligence that would allow the authorities to descend on Sulcliffe. But it would have to be a convincing link to the murders: knowledge they might have of the murdered young people, details of the method of the murders that they could not otherwise know, or a motive for the killings of young people. Once SIS felt they could justify an investigation, they would hunt down the Coslett connection, whether they were friends of the King’s or not.

  As an American, she found it difficult to accept the British deference toward peers of the realm. It wasn’t just a heightened sense of courtesy toward the upper classes. It was more deeply ingrained than that, and more infectious to the workings of justice: the establishment simply could not imagine that one of their own would be involved in treason. They did not wish to think it, and for the most part, they never did.

  As mistress of the spill, all Kim could do was wait for the Cosletts to incriminate themselves. Had she been a higher-rated spill—such as an 8 or 9, she likely would have had her quarry by now. But even as a 6, Kim was the intelligence service’s best in that arena. Nor did the police have anyone with a better rating. Alice was a 5 for trauma view. If Britain had been testing people as long as Germany, by now they would have had time to find their 9s and 10s, those higher, rarer ratings. And Kim would be relegated to smaller operations. She had to admit she did not wish for it, not at all, now that she was in the most exclusive club in England, the SIS.

  That she had been recruited into the intelligence service still thrilled her. It was an outcome, a livelihood, that even six months earlier she could not have imagined. Fascination with the work had soon gripped her imagination, stripping away a faltering interest in journalism and replacing it with a fierce sense of purpose and challenge.

  The rhythmic beat of wheels on tracks lulled her, bringing to mind her first opponent in espionage, Erich von Ritter. She vividly remembered that rain-soaked afternoon at the abbey. Blood seeped from his wound as they huddled together, waiting to die. The soldiers, heading into the trap. The suitcase, with its wires and explosives. The gunshot from across the ruins.

  She didn’t think that von Ritter would have approved the murder of children. Yes, he had been Nazi SD. He had been in the advance guard for a planned invasion of England. But when she thought of her former adversary, she often reflected that there had been honor in him, no matter how misguided. He had freed her, at the end. And he had taken his own life, granting a reprieve to the soldiers who pursued him onto the moors. No, he would not have been party to a twisted version of Nachteule.

  The train slowed to a stop, waiting for the signal to change at a roadway crossing. Then a whistle blew and they shuddered forward, the wheels squealing and gripping. Her camera box rattled in the luggage rack, sharing space with her revo
lver, a piece of equipment she would have a hard time explaining at Sulcliffe if it were found. Owen said she was to go armed this time. She hoped pictures would be more the requirement. But she would do what needed to be done.

  So much easier if the dowager did not manage to discern that, this time, her guest came armed.

  She changed trains at Chester. Powell would meet her at the station at 11:16. Powell, an unhappy man, who visited spiritual sites to be “receptive” to a gift that the heir of Sulcliffe Castle must surely be destined to receive. She knew, however, that a meta-ability would never come to him. He was, according to his dossier, thirty-five years old, which would have made him an adolescent during the mass outbreak of the bloom. If he were to have a Talent, it would have come to him then.

  And yet, a spiritual gift could still be a motive if Powell believed in some kind of communion with Sacred Earth. Did he think, pagan-wise, that the gods wanted blood? When he had mentioned being open to his gift, perhaps he hadn’t meant through meditation. It was hard to imagine gentle Powell going down such a dark path.

  But if he wasn’t directly a part of the operation, his mother well could be. She with her framed portrait of the Führer and the bleeding of her fortune into the Nazi cause.

  An hour and a half later the attendant brought coffee and newspapers, this time the Manchester Guardian with its three-inch headline: VICTIM #5 SURVIVES. She sipped from the china cup and thought again about the Adder clubs. It might be a dead end, since only two of the victims, Rupert Bristow, who died near the River Ouse, and Jane Babington in London, were confirmed members. Then there were the possible sleeper cells, spies who might have taken note—and passed on to their handlers—the names of those in various towns and hamlets who claimed to have gifts.

  The train clattered on as they sped toward Wales. Out the window she caught views of the Irish Sea. In barely glimpsed fiords along the coast, the August sun shone brilliantly, warming the land, the village roofs, and the sea. It did not seem a day when she would be entering a vale of killers.