So, Rachel turns north, walking away from the village, and sets out to explore the cliff-top road. She's enjoying the walk, admiring the wild flowers and taking in lungfuls of fresh air. She keeps looking out to sea in hopes of spotting a ship, but there's only the unbroken metallic blue of the water.
Rachel suddenly has the impression that someone is walking alongside her, or hanging back a couple of paces, so that they're visible only out of the corner of her eye. She turns around to look, but there's nobody.
Or rather, there's a black bird, like a big crow. A raven, maybe? The bird gives a loud caw and flies off in a noisy whirl of black wings.
I'm spooked by everything. Need to get a grip.
She resumes her walk, wishing now she had human company. Straight ahead is the dirt road to the next village. It seems someone else is out for a walk about half a mile ahead of her. There's a dark figure on the roadway, though whether it's heading her way or not is impossible to tell at this distance. She then sees something worth investigating on the landward side of the road. A group of young women in a field are engaged in loading some kind of produce onto a horse drawn wagon. She guesses that the denim-clad girls are members of the Women's Land Army, urban volunteers replacing farm hands who've been enlisted.
Now, there's a good angle for my piece about quaint little old England – city girls down on the farm!
She makes her way across the field. The Land Girls – Elsie, Jo, and Grace – turn out to be friendly and willing to chat about their work. It doesn't hurt that, like a lot of Brits, they find talking to a real live American exciting. Rachel has novelty value out in the country, and it's proving useful.
“It's sugar beets we're harvesting,” says Elsie, who's in charge. “Sugar's hard to get from the West Indies, now.”
Rachel thinks of the Atlantic convoys and gives an involuntary shudder. The war is never far away, even on this idyllic coast. They chat for about ten minutes and she's about to thank them and move on when one of the girls looks past Rachel and points.
“What's that, a boat?”
They all look out to sea and, sure enough, there's a dazzling flash of reflected sunlight. Another flash, and then another, coming from something just below the horizon.
“It's not a boat, not moving that fast!”
Between flashes, Rachel now makes out a dark blob that grows bigger, seems to sprout dark wings. Now, she can see whirling propellers and a cockpit of glass panels. The bomber climbs sharply, seems to just miss the edge of the cliff. The women all duck instinctively as the plane roars overheard, its engines so loud, Rachel can feel the vibration in her bones. In a few heartbeats, the Nazi plane is just a dark blob again, then it vanishes behind the tree line. Soon after, they hear the sound of machine guns fire from the encampment behind the inn.
“Too little, too bloody late, boys!” says Jo, the youngest, who seems to be enjoying the spectacle.
“That was a Junkers-88, I think. They fly low like that to stay under the radar,” explains Elsie to Rachel.
“Do they pass over here a lot?”
“First time I've seen one on this bit of coast. But they've been a lot bolder lately.”
“Reckon the bastards think they've already won,” says Grace grimly.
The engine noise, which has faded, starts to grow again.
“Cheeky bastard's coming back!” says Jo.
“Smile, he's probably taking pictures,” adds Elsie.
The dark-green bomber flies straight over Duncaster and out to sea. Again, there's a desultory rattle of anti-aircraft fire from the encampment. Five seconds later, the sleek aircraft is out of sight.
“Home in time for tea, or whatever they call it,” observes Jo.
“Best get back to work,” says Elsie, gesturing at their half-full wagon. “Maybe we'll see you in the pub later, Miss?”
Rachel thanks the volunteers and sets off back to Duncaster. The sleep's certainly been cleared from her head and she's seen more than local color.
Again, she senses someone walking just behind her. But this time, she doesn't turn her head, and as she enters the village, the mysterious presence – if it was ever really there at all – is gone.
Chapter 8
Rachel and Carl are finishing lunch at the inn when a newcomer clatters down the stairs. It's a middle-aged woman, about Rachel's height and build, with bobbed iron gray hair and a cheerful manner. She introduces herself as Jane Pardoe.
“So you must be the expert from the British Museum?” asks Rachel.
“The very same!” Pardoe replies. “’Just arrived and ready to go,’ as I believe you Americans say!”
“So where exactly are you going to start digging?”
“Ah, well, this sort of thing isn't always about digging, you know!” replies the scientist. “We're very interested in mapping out the area, as there's really been no proper survey since Victorian times.”
“Why is that?” asks Rachel.
“Well, it seems that the local landowner was rather averse to the idea for some reason. But now the estate has changed owners and it seems they are more accommodating.”
Before Rachel can ask any more questions, the professor is bustling out of the inn.
“Must rush! Things to do! But do come along if you'd like to help; we're very keen to get as many volunteers as possible!”
Smiling at one another, Rachel and Carl follow her out into the pleasant afternoon sun. For a moment, Rachel stands shading her eyes, enjoying the contrasting blues of sea and sky. Across the latter, are two white scratch-marks.
“Vapor trails,” says Carl, following her gaze.
“They're pretty,” she says.
“Yeah, from down here,” he says.
Professor Pardoe has gone ahead and they start to follow her.
“Well, those pretty vapor trails are down to water droplets condensing when they come out with the engine exhaust,” explained Carl. “The point is, they give your position away to every other pilot for twenty or thirty miles. And also to every anti-aircraft gunner on the ground, of course.”
“So that bomber pilot this morning, he had the right idea? Keep low, avoid being a target.”
“Yeah, I guess.” He gives a rueful grin. “But low-flying's risky in other ways, otherwise we'd all do it.”
They catch up with the professor, who leads them into a newly-erected tent next to the soldiers' marquee. Inside, several army officers – among them, Tony Beaumont – are waiting, along with the dark-suited civilian. There's a table at the front with a hand-stenciled sign reading DUNCASTER SURVEY 1940. Folding wooden chairs have been set out for volunteers helping with the archaeological survey. As well as some locals, Rachel recognizes the Land Girls she'd met earlier.
Rachel and Carl take a couple of seats near the front. Looking around the tent, she notices a couple of guys who don't look like local farm workers. Local press, she thinks. Sure enough, when she takes out her notebook, they do likewise.
The meeting begins when the engineers' company commander, Captain Walker, introduces the creepy civilian as Mister Bryce from the Ministry of Information.
Yeah, right, “Information.” But does that mean he gives it out or keeps it from us all?
Bryce steps forward, and while he doesn't exactly wave the captain aside, it's clear from their body language who's in charge – and how hard it is for Walker not to show his resentment.
Interesting. Why would a civilian be given control over the military on something like this?
“Welcome, everyone, to this remarkable example of military and civilian co-operation. I'm sure some of you have questions.” He glances briefly at Rachel. “And I hope we can answer them fully. But please bear in mind that, as a military unit is involved, certain facts cannot be reported under wartime restrictions.”
This isn't the first time Rachel has heard of the Emergency Powers Act, a censorship measure passed in the first days of the war. As far as she's concerned, this all-pervading law doesn’t
apply to American reporters. Some might disagree.
“What exactly is Professor Pardoe trying to find?” asks one of the local hacks.
“If I can answer that?” asks the scientist, eagerly. Bryce gives her a curt nod.
“Well, we know that this was a thriving town for many centuries, dating back to Roman times. We believe that it might have been the capital of a small kingdom founded by a Saxon chieftain called Redwald, and that his boat-grave is somewhere in the vicinity.”
“Boat-grave?” asked the second journalist.
“Yes,” says Pardoe, “a ceremonial site much like the one they found at Sutton two years ago.”
“The one with all that armor and jewelry?”
“The very one!”
A boat-grave. What would that be like?
Rachel remembers her dream, the strange submerged vessel and its weird inhabitants.
“It's under the sea!” she blurts out, startling herself as well as the people around her.
Heads turn, and Bryce gives Rachel a calculating stare. Jane Pardoe, her carefully prepared presentation interrupted, looks mildly annoyed.
“I'm sorry,” says Rachel, “I meant to ask, what if the boat-grave is under the sea now? I mean, this coast has retreated for miles down the centuries, hasn't it?”
“Well, of course if the sea has advanced that far we won't be able to excavate it –” the professor begins, but Bryce cut in.
“We are in fact planning an undersea survey, Miss Rubin. It so happens that our army friends have had special amphibious training – hence their assignment. But it was not to be announced at this early stage.”
“Well, that's a very heartening development,” says Pardoe, looking puzzled.
“I take it this is news to you, professor?” asks Rachel.
“Well -” The professor looks to Bryce.
But before Rachel can press the point, she notices a stir amongst the audience. Rachel can't make out what's being said, but there's plenty of muttering and some worried looks. Interestingly, the Land Girls seem as puzzled by this as she is.
So, it's just the villagers who are upset? Interesting.
“Professor Pardoe has only just arrived. Plans are still somewhat fluid,” says Bryce smoothly.
After some more questions from the local press, the meeting breaks up. The volunteers and reporters are ushered out of the tent with the promise of refreshments at the Green Man. Pardoe goes along waving a bewildering array of maps and documents.
As Rachel gets up to leave, Bryce, who is accompanied by Captain Walker, asks her to come outside for what he terms a 'stroll and a little chat'. She doesn't get the impression that it's optional.
Carl obviously wants to stick with her but Walker takes him aside, saying, “Look, old boy, this really isn't any of our business. Wartime restrictions and all that. And it's not as if the young lady is going to come to any harm, now is it, eh?”
Carl still hesitates.
“I'll be fine,” she assures him, following the man in black outside, where he leads her over to the cliff-tops, well away from prying ears.
***
When she gets back from the market, Betty Jones puts her shopping away, then starts the week's washing. As the weather's fine, she tells Mary to go out and play. “But don't go anywhere near that old church!” she adds sternly. “It's dangerous!”
Young Mary seeks out newly-made friends. The children of Duncaster are mostly evacuees who've recently discovered the countryside and are always keen to explore. For many of them, rural England was an unknown country before the war. The arrival of the soldiers only added to the sense of adventure. But this afternoon, Mary and her playmates are shooed away from encampment by a frowning sentry. No free chocolate, then, and no spare cap badges or used cartridges for collections of war souvenirs. For a moment, it looks as if the afternoon's been spoiled.
“Let's go and play pirates!” says one freckled boy, and the whole gang races for the woods. They have a splendid pretend-pirate ship – a great hummock of earth, complete with a row of trees on top that are just like masts. It's ideal for repelling boarders.
Only Mary hangs back, unsure whether they'll be as welcome in the trees today as they have been before. Soon, she's trailing far behind the gang, and she stops at the edge of the forest, unwilling to venture into its silent shadows. But she also doesn't want to be left alone. As the others scamper into the shade of the leafy canopy, she forces herself to keep up, afraid that if she loses sight of her playmates she might find herself in much less pleasant company. It seems she doesn't have to run very far, because the would-be pirates seem to have found something new, and much more interesting, just inside the woods.
***
“Well, Miss Rubin, you do have a way of stirring things up. Quite the modern career woman, I must say. Very assertive.”
Standing with Bryce on the cliff-top, Rachel gets her first close look at a face that doesn't exactly inspire trust. The man's cheekbones seem sharp enough to draw blood, and his thin lips and deep-set eyes gave him a ghastly appearance. She thinks, inevitably, of the undead – of zombies and vampires from Hollywood movies.
But this guy is real.
Another thing about Bryce she's noticed, is something he doesn't do; when men meet her, they generally look her up and down, often quite unconsciously. Once she called out a guy on it and he said, Just takin' in the view, doll face!
But Bryce always looks her straight in the eye. It's disturbing, somehow, as if she's facing an entirely cerebral being, someone impatient with the trivial passions of flesh and blood.
“Now, Miss Rubin,” he begins, raising his voice above the shriek of the seabirds that hover around the cliffs. “Perhaps we could lay our cards on the table, so to speak?”
She takes a deep breath.
Attack is the best form of defense.
“Maybe you could start by telling me who you really work for? Because I'm sure you're not just some guy who briefs reporters for a living.”
For a moment, no trace of emotion shows on Bryce's face. Then his slit-like mouth twists up at the ends in a smile that's faint and mirthless.
“Well observed, Miss Rubin. I can see your reputation for acute observation is not exaggerated.”
He reaches inside his jacket and takes out a wallet, opens it to show her his ID. She reads, Bryce, J., Senior Official, Ministry of Information. Then he slips the card out with a deft thumb to reveal another ID underneath.
“Colonel J. Bryce, Military Intelligence. I'm guessing the J doesn't stand for Jolliness.”
She's excited to meet someone who is, officially, a British secret agent, but also slightly daunted.
Am I in trouble? Is my assignment in England going to be over before it's properly gotten started?
“Mister Bryce will be quite sufficient for our purposes. And of course, if you claim that I am not a humble civil servant at the ministry, I will simply deny it. Your word against mine, and you'll find that mine carries more weight.”
He puts his IDs, fake and real, away.
“The real question is not who am I, but who is Rachel Rubin?”
Without really thinking she reaches for her own ID papers, but he raises a finger to stop her.
“I don't mean who you are officially – all that's on file. I mean where do your sympathies lie? Whose side are you on? Your background is somewhat ambiguous.”
“What do you mean? I'm a citizen of a neutral country, here to report on wartime England.”
“I'm glad to hear it,” says Bryce, taking out a silver cigarette case. “But that may not be quite good enough. You see, what we have in Duncaster is a rather sensitive situation. One that could actually alter the course of the war. Or even bring this conflict to a disastrous end.”
“Yeah, right,” she says, sarcastically. “And you're telling me all this because you don't know if you can trust me?”
“Sometimes, in my line of work, the person you don't trust and who doesn't trust you,
can still be your best ally,” he counters.
“And what does that mean?”
“It means, quite simply, that so far as I can tell you are, as you claim, a neutral observer. You're someone whose reports on our activities will not be suspected of, well, let's call it manipulation. Assuming that all goes according to plan, your reports in the American media could be very useful to the war effort.”
“You want me to put out propaganda? No deal, pal! I don't take orders from anybody except my editor – and sometimes not even from him. If I write a story about what's happening here, it will be based on facts and honest opinions, not some kind of party line you want me to follow!”
Bryce offers her a cigarette. She shakes her head.
“I'm very glad to hear it. Because the problem with propaganda, as a wise man observed, is that it always sounds like lies, even if it's true. Whereas your story, will be a straightforward account of a Nazi conspiracy thwarted.”
Rachel feels conflicted. The idea that she might break a big story almost overwhelms her judgment. But against that is the mistrust she feels for Bryce.
Am I being played? One thing's is for sure – he knows how to interest an ambitious young reporter. I'd better be careful, play it by ear.
She takes a deep breath.
“Okay, Mister Bryce – tell me more.”
***
“We should tell the soldiers!” says Mary, plaintively. But the boys ignore her and continue to study the man. He lies face down in the leaf-mold, arms extended, fingers clawing at the ground.
“I reckon it's a German pilot!” says the freckled boy.
“Or a paratrooper!” says another.
“No, he's not wearing the right clothes,” scoffs a third boy. “And anyway, where's his parachute?”
It's true – Mary saw a real pilot that very morning, and he wore a nice blue uniform with badges shaped like wings. The dead man's not tidy or smart, and hadn't been before he died. He lies in the green shadows, patches of sunlight on his old brown coat and ragged pants. He has no shoes on, and his socks are full of holes.
Sentinels (The Sentinels Series Book 1) Page 7
