Serpent in the Heather

by Kay Kenyon

  The train slowed for Pengeylan, where Powell was waiting, unless he had sent Awbrey after all. She would certainly try to coax more from the old man if he were her driver.

  As the train pulled into the tiny station, she saw people crowded on the platform, wearing holiday attire: broad hats and sturdy walking shoes and carrying rucksacks and picnic baskets. Fair-goers, she guessed. Alice might be among them. She peered out the window.

  She saw Powell on the platform, standing in front of the ticket office, watching for her. The sun glinted harshly off the waiting-room window behind him. The sudden burst of sun made him seem to burn brightly, as he had termed it.

  She stood to retrieve her suitcase from the rack. And hesitated.

  The train had stopped. Doors slammed along the length of the train as people began to debark. She pulled her suitcase from the rack and rested it for a moment on the bench seat. She chased an odd, sudden thought.

  Might that have been a spill ? That some people burned brighter . . . Could Powell have meant that the gifted actually shone with a visible light?

  Was it possible that someone in Ancient Light was able to discern such things?

  Seeing him on the platform just now with the sun glinting in the window sparked this idea, perhaps an absurd one. And yet, might it be a Talent to see such things, a Talent not recorded in the Bloom Book? But perhaps one known to the German military. It could explain how the youngsters with Talents were identified.

  She gathered up her camera case, along with her suitcase and handbag and walked in a daze down the corridor.

  It was a crazy idea. And yet: to burn brightly. Was this something that Powell desperately wished to hide, so that he was susceptible to spilling it? Talents were generally related to human emotions. Fear and guilt and strong desire to hide things were the emotions that the spill thrived upon. So, when Powell said that some people burned more brightly than others, he might not have been referring to luck and privileges. He might have meant something completely different.

  She found herself on the station platform, facing Powell Coslett. The sun was no longer reflecting off the window. Powell was an ordinary, dark human being.

  But she wondered: Do I burn brightly?

  ST. MARY-LE-BOW CHURCH, LONDON

  LATER THAT DAY. Martin had twice been to London with his father, but never alone. He had even been to St. Paul’s, but standing in its shadow now, he hardly cared to look at it. It was the other church he had come to see, the one where Jane Babington had died.

  He turned away from the crowds in St. Paul’s churchyard, walking down Cheapside with what assurance he could muster. He thought people looked sideways at him, but why should they notice him or figure out that he had come to London and would be in trouble about it? At Wrenfell, though, they were probably already wondering where he was. Miss Kim had gone to Wales to write another article on that earth-worshipper group, so she wouldn’t find out until she got back. But when she did, she’d kick him out for sure.

  He saw the spires of a building that had to be a church. It wasn’t at all regular how this church was crowded in with other buildings, but there it was, with its tower and little courtyard. Turning into the courtyard, he glanced around but didn’t have to guess where the murder had happened. Flowers lay heaped near the deeply shaded, moss-covered wall of the church.

  He knew that he wasn’t the only one with visions who had been at the scene. The police would have had their best site view people there, he figured. But he had to see for himself, to know what had happened to Jane Babington. If he had one of his visions, he might be able to see an Adder mark on the murderer, or hear them talk about the Adders. Well, he had come here on the chance of it. And if he was honest, also with the hope of proving that he had site view. Had it so strong sometimes it scared him.

  The day was hot, and he was thankful for the shade. Over there, on the other side of the open space, was a man having a cup of tea or something from a cart. He didn’t watch Martin, but he was the only other person in the courtyard.

  Martin bent down to place the flower he had brought from Miss Kim’s garden on the paving stones.

  The day fell into gloom. Not just the shade of the buildings surrounding the courtyard, but the fog of site view. His chest cinched up in preparation. He was going into the sight, as he thought of it. Falling, falling into it.

  There was a young girl, startlingly pretty. Her skin was pale, her clothes the color of oyster and storm clouds. The visions were always like this, soft grays and murky white, as though the effort of pulling the past into view could not manage the bright, vibrant things.

  Her face was at first serene, then curious, then alert. His view of her and the little patch of courtyard was dim, but charged suddenly with loathing, and at the edges, something fiercer: fire.

  Two men walked toward her. The courtyard jumped with flame, surging, receding. But what was burning? The two men did not feel the flames; they brought the fire with them, spasmodic thrusts of horror and pain.

  One of them said, in a strangled site view voice, Can you help me?

  Just as her expression turned to alarm, a rag came up in one man’s hand and swiftly covered her face. Her arms flailed out wildly. The fire spurted and seethed, rushing to consume her long brown hair. She wobbled and sank, resting back into the arms of the man with the cloth, as though grateful for his support. Another man slid in close to use the knife. A scream died in Martin’s throat. No! No! But already, a black liquid streamed from her neck, down the front of her dress.

  Martin tried to rush forward to help her, to staunch the flow, but he could not move.

  The two men lifted her up and pushed her into a sitting position against the church wall. Then they walked away, leaving Jane Babington sitting there, the black stream still pumping with the rhythm of her heart. She lay still, her eyes softly closed. One man, with thick glasses. The other . . . was one he recognized. He had seen him before, the man with the handkerchief, the man in whose arms the girl had reclined.

  “You’re Martin Lister, aren’t you?”

  Martin turned. Someone had come up to him, a man in a green-and-brown plaid cap. The day was back in its proper order. Martin’s voice cracked as he tried to answer. What business of yours? was what he should say, but he was confused by coming back from then into now. The paving stones were strewn with flowers where her bleeding body had been.

  “Martin, isn’t it?”

  “Yeesss.” Martin whispered.

  “Everything all right? I’ve come from Wrenfell. Miss Tavistock asked me to come for you.”

  Martin staggered back. Miss Kim knew he was here? How could she?

  “Who are you?” He had begun to shake.

  “My name’s Louis. I can take you home now, if you’re ready.”

  “No,” Martin said, staggering back. The man had been watching him. He turned to run, but the man had him fast by the shoulders.

  Martin yelled. “Help, somebody help!”

  “Settle down, lad. No need to . . .”

  Martin thrashed away from him as someone came running to his side, a young bloke with an angry face, breaking up the man’s grip on his shoulder. “Here now, let go of him!”

  “I don’t know him, he’s trying to kill me!” Martin yelled, backing up as several people moved in, faces dark, starting to clamor against the man in the plaid cap.

  As more men came forward to restrain his attacker, Martin pushed through the crowd and tore around the corner of the church onto Cheapside. He heard shouting from behind, in the courtyard, as he ran down the street. He ducked into an alley, a narrow canyon with well-dressed people walking, some with briefcases, who stared at him as he pushed forward in a frantic dash. Panic fueled his strides as he skidded around another corner into an even tighter street, with pavements an arm’s length wide. He ran until he saw some market stalls. Slowing, he turned in. He walked, pretending to look at merchandise, as his heartbeat slowed. Out of the heat, the perspiration on his face
went cold like a mask. He looked at watches and bars of soap and little statues of St. Paul’s.

  He didn’t hear shouting anymore. Deep into the market, he watched the entrance with its blinding wall of sunshine. The man in the plaid cap hadn’t followed him, but who had that been? The man had been watching him. And had almost kidnapped him, or killed him.

  Thoughts banged around in his head, fueled by the memory of what he’d seen, the murder . . . and a face, a face he recognized. The man with the cloth who covered the girl’s face, it was the same person he’d seen in a photo. The man from the castle.

  Miss Kim had shown him her newspaper article, and the man with the big smile, standing in front of the stones and the sea. It was the same man. In his vision the smile was gone. He had held Jane Babington while a man with glasses cut her open with a knife.

  The startling realization came to him that Miss Kim had just that morning set out for her assignment. And wasn’t she going back to that same castle? She didn’t know; she thought it was a place that could give her another newspaper article.

  But it was more than that. It was the home of the killer.

  SULCLIFFE CASTLE, WALES

  At the tea table in the raspberry room, Kim sat before the box of cartridges and the snub-nosed Colt revolver. She could hardly remember the drive across the headland to the castle, so hard had she been concentrating on acting naturally. Powell drove, charming as always, but with a reserve she hadn’t seen in him before, except when he was recognized on the railway platform and surrounded for a few moments by Ancient Lighters arriving for the fair.

  She removed six cartridges from the ammunition box and lined them up in a row.

  She had no proof for her theory, but if someone had an ability to see other Talents, perhaps like some kind of aura, it would explain so much. How the young people were identified, and the Continental victims as well.

  This might be the man with glasses—the Dutchman, the perpetrator they had been calling Talon. Or perhaps two people with this seeing Talent, since there were purportedly two at the scene of the Merkin attack. Or the second one might be an ordinary person, one who believed the gods wanted blood.

  Picking up the revolver, she knocked out the Colt’s cylinder and pushed the rounds in, rotating the cylinder until it was fully loaded.

  The thing about guns was that she had never shot anyone. In her training at the Estate, she had mastered the various types of guns, and had made progress at target practice. But shooting someone would be a different matter. She regarded the heavy gun in her hand. She hoped that she would never need to kill someone; in the back of her mind she always thought that she would wound them instead. Even though at the gun range her trainer had often said, Never draw your gun unless prepared to kill.

  An agent couldn’t afford such doubts, yet she had them; and hadn’t shared them with anyone, not even Alice.

  She clicked the cylinder into place and tucked the gun in her shoulder bag.

  Checking her watch, she noted the time, 11:56. Powell would come back to the castle from his field duties at 1:30 to walk her to the fair.

  She stared at the sandwich waiting for her on a tray, her mind moving too fast to consider food. Might Talon have a terrible ability to identify a Talent’s visual signature? Well. It was more likely that she had conjured up a theory that conveniently explained how the murder victims were selected.

  And yet, might this be a meta-ability that the Germans had discovered and were using to their advantage?

  A Talent that could discern Talents. If it existed, people like her, like Rose, and Martin, might be as obvious to such a Talent as a person wearing a strong color or holding a sign: I have a Talent.

  Kill me.

  25

  SIS HEADQUARTERS, LONDON

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 28. At 54 Broadway, Julian led Owen through the office of Veteran Benefits and up the back way to a third-floor landing with false office fronts. The security guard unlocked the door to the office of Empire Press, and they entered the suite of the Secret Intelligence Service.

  “Now I do feel like a spy,” Owen muttered.

  Julian made a silent laugh. “And you didn’t at Monkton Hall? The Historical Archives and Research Centre, indeed. Your lot wouldn’t know history if it reared up and bit you.”

  “Point taken. But in case of need, if I come up those back stairs, the guard lets me in?”

  “ ’Fraid not. Let Miss Hennessey know you’re coming. She’ll arrange it.” As they approached her, Olivia was conferring with a colleague by the window. She nodded at Julian and returned to her conversation.

  “The secretary gives me clearance?”

  Julian stopped for a moment among the cluster of cubicles. “Hennessey is E’s assistant. She wields more power than the deputy director and has orders to shoot anyone on the third floor she doesn’t recognize.” He led Owen onward. “Or who calls her a secretary.”

  “Quite.” Owen was learning the politics of the Office, nearly as important as tradecraft. Since nothing could be more political than the academic environment at Cambridge, the man would no doubt quickly grasp the workings of a new one.

  In the conference room, Elsa and Fin were setting up the displays. As Owen took a seat at the table, Fin crossed over to Julian. He was dressed for the street, looking more like a dockworker than an agent.

  “Martin Lister’s run away.”

  Julian frowned.

  “Left Wrenfell this morning an hour or so after Kim. He’s in London, but Rory lost him.”

  “What the devil is he doing in London?”

  “That’s what we don’t know. Rory decided to tail him when he went into the village. He wasn’t expected to get on a train, but when he did, Rory followed him.”

  “And where is he?”

  “He was at St. Mary-le-Bow.” A pause while Julian absorbed this piece. “Rory approached him. Tried to get him to come home, but it turned into a bit of a row, and Rory lost him in Cheapside.”

  E entered the room, nodding to Julian and Fin, and took a seat at the table. Julian murmured, “He went to the place to try his hand at site view.”

  “Too bloody right.”

  “So the boy still thinks he can see the past. And the murdered girl was an Adder, the same as Martin.”

  The group was waiting for them at the table. “We’ve got the police helping to find him,” Fin said. “We’re watching Kings Cross station to see if he tries to get up to Cambridgeshire.”

  “The River Ouse murder,” Julian said. “Rupert Bristow, also an Adder. All right, keep me informed.” He frowned at Fin. “Good God, couldn’t Rory bring home a fifteen-year-old?”

  “He couldn’t contact us for instruction, so he decided to keep him in view.”

  Julian moved to take a seat. Martin was a young idiot, still trying to claim a Talent for himself.

  As he passed E, seated at the head of the table, E looked up. “Tell me Crossbow’s got something, Julian.”

  “A dozen fragments, but nothing that connects. We’ve sent in a trauma view asset to try and penetrate the Ancient Light fair.”

  “Trauma view.” E’s tone told what he thought of the Talent idea: undependable; slightly unsavory.

  “Well, she helped crack the Sturmweg operation this spring,” Julian said. He got a scowl. E did not seem in the best of moods.

  Julian introduced them all to Owen, and waved for the briefing to begin.

  On the chalkboard was a list of the crime victims and their locations:

  Ewan Knox—Portsmouth, Hampshire, object reading;

  Rupert Bristow—Ely, (River Ouse) Cambridgeshire, disguise;

  Frances Brooke—Avebury, stone circle, Wiltshire, precognition;

  Jane Babington—London, St. Mary-le-Bow, attraction;

  George Merkin—Stourbridge, Worcestershire, mesmerizing.

  Elsa began to tape up photos of the victims, but E shook his head. “We’ll do without portraits.” This wasn’t Scotland Yard, and his sense
of propriety didn’t tolerate pictures of children with their throats cut.

  Elsa began. “The Nachteule killer, or one of them, was identified in Cracow as a man in his early thirties with heavy glasses, having what might be a Dutch accent—although it might have been mistaken for German—and likely an expert in antique dolls. Although the slayer’s method and the victim profiles have been different in Britain, the targeting of Talents connects the two operations. At the Merkin farm, when one of the attackers was wounded, the father identified a thirtyish man wearing glasses. The youngster, George Merkin, is still in hospital and struggling to regain his memory of the attack. There was an accomplice. White male, beyond that the father wasn’t able to provide a description.”

  “If the farmer was a better shot, we’d be done by now,” Fin muttered.

  Elsa ignored this. “The boy might have used his mesmerizing Talent to fight off his assailants. It might not be a strong Talent, according to his parents, but it could have given him the edge. He’s a big boy.”

  Moving on, Elsa pointed to the map of Great Britain, with large Xs on the crime sites. “As you can see, we don’t have a meaningful geographic grouping of the murders. The victims were variously taken in an alley, by a river, a stone circle, a farm, and a church in London. They ranged in age from thirteen to fifteen, all with Talents, or purportedly so.”

  E turned to Owen Cherwell. “You’re sure none of the victims was registered as a Talent?”

  “Not a one. We don’t normally test youths, but sometimes their parents register them. The few we know of now have had police protection since the third murder.”

  “Discreet protection, I presume.” E had his marching orders from the intelligence committee; there would be no public announcement of Talents as targets.

  Julian weighed in. “Local police are keeping an eye out. The families have been asked not to discuss it with anyone.”

  “How robust is the National Task Force in the whole pursuit?” E asked.