*
The constable asked, “You keep your own garden?”
He couldn’t hide the incredulity in his voice. It seemed he had a hard time imagining Will, seated there in his Savile Row finery, mucking about in the dirt.
“Yes,” said Will. “For my brother’s foundation. Leading by example, you see. His Grace is dedicated to supporting the war effort. As am I.”
“When did you hurt your hand?” asked the constable.
“Yesterday.” The constables shared a look.
“Just an accident, then?”
The skepticism came across clearly. Will couldn’t understand why the police were so interested in his bandages. “Indeed,” he said.
“Looks serious. You seen a doctor for that?”
“It’s why I’m so very late, in fact.” At least that was true. “But enough of my troubles,” said Will. “What was this about a billfold?”
Constable Dennis relayed the story of an arrest he and his partner had made the previous evening. It was a strange tale. (“In the lake, you say? Good heavens.”)
Inspector Hill took over after the constable finished his story. He said, “You can see, sir, why we wanted to speak with you.”
“I appreciate your diligence. Truly excellent work,” Will said, “but I suspect somebody is having fun with you.” He took care to reach into his pocket with his good hand. “As you see, I haven’t misplaced my billfold.”
The constable opened a desk drawer and produced a similar billfold. “This doesn’t belong to you, then?”
Will laughed. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I admit to a certain extravagance in my sartorial tastes. But that does not extend to owning multiple billfolds.”
Hill said, “Is there any possibility you’ve misplaced some papers? Anything that might have found its way into this?”
“I doubt it. May I?”
“Please.”
Will thumbed through the contents of the mystery billfold. “Sorry, gents. I don’t recognize a scrap of this. I mean, look at this! Knightsbridge? That’s no address I recognize. Certainly not mine. How I wish it were. Quite nice. Always struck me as a good place to settle down, Knightsbridge.”
“Do you recognize her?” The inspector pointed to a color photograph (interesting, that) of a lady with striking blue eyes and a dusting of silver in honey blond hair. She looked a fair bit older than Will, but pretty just the same. Her expression was something between a smile and a scowl, equal parts irritation and fondness, as though the photographer were somebody dear to her and had surprised her in an unguarded moment. Will couldn’t help but wonder who she might be, and who the photographer had been.
“Sir?”
Will realized he’d been lost in thought. “Lovely lady,” he said. “But I don’t know her. Wish I did.”
The inspector unfolded another piece of paper. It appeared to be a driver’s license. “This is your full name? And your date of birth?”
“Yes.” Will looked at the date of issue, and frowned. “But clearly this is a hoax. 1963? How silly.”
Dennis said, “Yeah. We’re a bit puzzled by that.”
“Any notion how your name might have ended up on these papers? Anything at all?”
“Not a crumb.”
The inspector referred to his notes. “Do you know a John Stephenson?”
Will blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“That’s the name this fellow gave. I see it’s familiar to you?”
“I just spoke to John Stephenson not a quarter of an hour ago. Quite a riddle, isn’t it? I’m as perplexed as you. Although…”
Will trailed off as another thought struck him. Marsh had been speculating about enemy surveillance. Was that it?
The inspector patiently prompted him. “Yes?”
“Well, I’m not entirely free to discuss this, it’s all very hush-hush, you understand, but I have been doing a bit of work for HMG.”
“What sort of work?”
“I’m sure you gentlemen will understand that the making of war occasionally raises issues of a sensitive nature. Suffice it to say that I’ve been asked to bring certain skills to bear on the problem.”
*
I wanted to punch the wall. Better yet, I wanted to punch Will. Anything to shut him up.
Jesus Christ, Will. Why don’t you just come straight out and tell them about Milkweed and the Reichsbehörde while you’re at it? I knew Will had read the Official Secrets Act. But I hadn’t realized the basic idea hovered so far above his mental grasp. Stephenson would have been apoplectic had he known Will was practically traipsing over hill and dale, singing about his secret work for Whitehall to anybody who would listen to a few measures.
Right then I knew that I could never confide in Will if my mission was to succeed.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Nor, I suspected, could the coppers. What could this chinless toff possibly bring to the table?
*
“Skills?”
“I mustn’t say any more,” said Will. “But rest assured that we’ll give Jerry what for, when the time comes. Yes, indeed.” He winked.
Dennis said, “So you think your work for the Crown—”
“Not so loudly, if you please. The walls have ears, as they say.”
Inspector Hill sighed. Then said, “Your work might be related to this?”
Will said, “It’s been brought to my attention that I might be followed. I could be under surveillance.” He paused before whispering, “By the Jerries.”
*
God damn it. This was my own fault. I had warned him about the surveillance after I’d returned to Britain with Gretel as my prisoner. That had been long before I’d finally understood what she was. Enemy surveillance had seemed the only explanation for how she known about me and Liv and our newborn daughter.
The constable said, “Francis had figured the codger for a Jerry spy.”
“If he is, he’s a poor specimen,” said Hill. “The Jerries would at least make certain their agents in the country had real money on them. Not this rubbish.”
This provoked a general discussion among the policemen, who speculated about German agents at large in London. Which, I suddenly realized, was the root of the niggling itch at the back of my mind.
My legs buckled under the crushing weight of new remembrances. I kicked the wall and dropped to the cot; its frame groaned in protest.
“Oy, quiet down in there!” yelled a copper.
Will had lost his finger yesterday. But what I’d forgotten, until that moment, was that Klaus had come to pluck Gretel from the Admiralty building the very next evening. Which meant he was already in the country. Which meant the siblings would escape tonight. And I had to be there when that happened.
I knew, from reading the Schutzstaffel operational records long after the fact, that Klaus had arrived via U-boat, following instructions that Gretel had left in a letter prior to swanning off to become my prisoner. That sub was lurking off the coast right now, waiting to bring the siblings back to Germany and the farm.
Which meant free transportation to the Reichsbehörde. A golden opportunity. But the U-boat wouldn’t wait forever.
I had to get my younger self on that sub.
And with that, another cog in Gretel’s grand plan slipped into place for me. This was the one thing I’d never been able to square away: What purpose had it served for her to play at being my prisoner? Why did she let me take her to Britain, only to leave with her brother so soon afterwards? Long ago I’d given up on ever knowing the answer, resigned to the fact that Gretel and her machinations were inscrutable.
Now I knew my planning was on the right track, because Gretel’s actions suddenly made perfect sense. She’d come to Britain to meet me.
But there was more I had to do. So much more.
Klaus’s spectacular infiltration of the Admiralty building had forced us to acknowledge Milkweed’s shortcomings. Which meant that unless I stopped him and changed the sequence of
events, Will would leave tomorrow in search of the other warlocks. But that, at least, would take care of itself, as soon as the coppers escorted Will to my cell.
Or so I thought.
*
The policemen were deep in conversation, embroiled in speculation. Will hadn’t solved the mystery surrounding the billfold’s provenance for them, but he’d given them food for thought. They latched onto the surveillance issue, though with relief or dread, Will couldn’t tell.
Either way, he’d done his part. They’d get it sorted. And Will wanted to get back to the lexicon while the Eidolon’s declaration was still fresh in his mind. He cleared his throat.
“Well, then. If that’s all?” He scooted his chair back. “I’m sure you gents will put it right soon enough.”
Inspector Hill said, “Very well. Though if we have further questions?”
“Of course. Do call on me as needed. Best of luck with your mystery man. Ta.”
*
Oh, no. Don’t you dare, Will. Don’t you dare walk out of here without first seeing me.
I cradled my face in my hands. Will was leaving without bothering to see who had been carrying his billfold. And the coppers let him.
You stupid, chinless toff! I wanted to scream. Something strange has happened and you need to follow it through! You need to survey the situation. Gather information. For all you know your life could be at risk! And for Christ’s sake, if you were under that level of surveillance, so would we all! It’s your responsibility to find out what you can and report back to Stephenson. Report back to me.
But it was too late. Will was gone.
Which left me back where I had started. I had less than twenty-four hours to get out of this cell, recruit my younger self and convince him to leave his wife and newborn daughter behind on an open-ended undercover mission, and to stop Will from recruiting the warlocks.
I had journeyed across twenty-three years to be here now. Yet still I faced the same problem as always: time.
three
13 May 1940
Walworth, London, England
Liv’s fingertip traced the puckered knuckles of Marsh’s hand where it rested on her stomach. She’d pulled his arm around her while spooning up against him after Agnes’s 3 A.M. feeding. It had roused him from a horrible dream about gardening shears. He’d lain there half the night, listening to her breathe, watching the gentle rise and fall of her alabaster throat, inhaling her scent.
She’d been awake for a while before he’d realized it. It was a game she played, feigning the long slow breathing of a deep sleep and wondering if he’d notice. She was good at it. They’d lain awake together while the sun rose. They hadn’t made love since they’d brought Agnes home. Not since long before France. But Liv hadn’t been out of hospital long. He wouldn’t press; he could wait until she was ready.
Her fingertip paused in its wanderings. She whispered, “And what about this one?”
“Which one?”
She was counting his scars. He had a few.
“Ring finger. Just above the second knuckle.” She kissed the spot.
“Ah. That one.” He stroked the knuckle across her navel. Liv inhaled, flinching from the tickle. Her rump pressed against him. He kissed the nape of her neck.
“Well?” Liv feigned immunity to his attentions. But the flush rising on her skin put the lie to that. “It must be quite a tale for you to remember it so vividly. How old were you?”
Marsh’s fingers tapped her stomach as he counted off the years. “Seventeen, maybe.”
“Aha!” she exclaimed in a stage whisper. “Now I know I’m in for a truly fine story.” Liv delighted in the tales of his misspent youth—unlike so many women, who might have simply pretended their husbands didn’t have a past. But he was glad she never asked how he’d managed a job with the Foreign Office given such a colorful record. So he’d never needed to account for how Stephenson had had his record wiped clean. Though of course his job had nothing to do with the Foreign Office.
“And where,” she asked, “does the curtain rise?”
“Lympne.”
“What on earth were you doing there?”
“Seeing the sights. Rode down with some mates.”
“Right. Sightseeing. Of course you were.” She rolled over, hooked an ankle over his calf, and peered into his eyes. “What was her name?”
“I’m wounded by the implication.”
“Mmm-hmmm.” She tapped his ring finger just above the pale crease of scar tissue. “So. Sharp, are they? These famous sights in Lympne?”
“Not particularly. But window glass can be.”
“I’ve heard. How did you break a window?”
“Boosting a car.”
“Tell me you weren’t.”
“I was in a bit of a hurry, Liv.”
“Were you, now?”
“Not by choice. The sights, after all. But there was this rather angry bloke.”
Now she feigned concern. “Angry? With you? Whatever for?”
“It seems he’d come home to his flat to find somebody dangling from the bedroom windowsill.”
“Somebody.” Liv rested her forehead on his chest. Her warm naked body rubbed against him, shaking with suppressed laughter. It felt wonderful. He held her tighter. God, he loved this woman.
“Yes. But when he raced ’round back, and found me innocently collecting my shirt in the alleyway, he immediately leaped to conclusions. Unfounded conclusions.”
“The fiend.”
“Poor fellow. I would have boosted a different car if I’d known it was his.” He waited for her laughter to taper off. Then he added, “His sister never forgave me.”
Liv dissolved into giggles. That was rare. The giggling became tickling. Then kissing.
Downstairs, the telephone rang.
“Bugger,” he said.
“Not just now. And the telephone will wake your daughter if you’re not quick about it.” Her elbow nudged him gently in the stomach. “Move, sailor.”
“Maybe they’ll call again later.”
But Agnes began to wail on the third ring. Liv groaned. She yanked Marsh’s pillow from under his head and hugged it over her ears. “Go. And tell whomever it is to kindly sod off.”
Marsh levered himself into a sitting position. His foot tapped at the floorboards until he found his slippers. He staggered into the nursery, fumbling with the sash of his robe. He bounced Agnes in the crook of his arm as he descended the stairs.
The telephone rested on a table in the vestibule, next to the blanket and bowl of water Liv kept on hand for sealing the door in the event of a gas attack. Above the table hung the framed watercolor they had received as a wedding gift. The phone was still ringing when Marsh finally reached it. He croaked a serviceable hello into the handset.
“Why aren’t you interrogating the prisoner right now?”
Marsh sighed. Rubbed his eyes. “Good morning, sir.”
Stephenson said, “We need to know why she’s here.”
“Yes, sir.”
The stairs creaked under Liv’s feet. She waved at the handset in Marsh’s hand. Hi, John, she mouthed, while taking Agnes from him.
“Incidentally, sir, my wife wanted me to tell you she’d like you to so—”
She swatted at him. “Don’t you dare.”
“—to know she’s cross with you for making me miss the birth of my daughter.” Liv knew he worked for Stephenson, and that they’d known each other for many years.
“Tell her to take it up with Hitler,” said the old man.
Marsh waited until Liv had passed into the kitchen, out of earshot. “I’ve done my best with the girl,” he said. “Perhaps somebody else should give it a go.”
“Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but we’re a bit short of hands.”
“There’s Lorimer. Or Will.” The line fell silent for a long beat. Marsh conceded, “Fair enough. Scratch that.”
Will’s concept of discretion left something to be desire
d. He was still new to the world of tradecraft. Plus, in his weakened state, he was in no position to deal with her. The imperturbable gypsy girl would run circles about him. Only the Eidolon—Marsh shuddered—had evoked a genuine emotional reaction from her.
Fragmentary images from last night’s dream, of shears and fingernails and butterflies with newsprint wings, fluttered across his mind’s eye.
Stephenson said, “Lorimer is busy.”
In the kitchen, Liv filled a kettle, simultaneously cooing to their daughter and dodging the fine spray of water that spat from the leaky faucet.
“Me, too,” said Marsh. He failed to keep a hint of pleading out of his voice.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
Liv lit the gas hob on the stove. Click-click-whoosh.
Marsh sighed again. “May I eat breakfast first?”
“Only if you’re quick about it. The PM wants answers.” Stephenson’s voice faded and then came back, as if he’d paused in the act of hanging up to add: “As do I.” Click.
Their refrigerator held no eggs, on account of the rationing, but their pantry was well-stocked with dried egg powder. Liv opted to try a recipe given in one of the Ministry of Food’s War Cookery leaflets (“English Monkey,” from Leaflet Number Eleven.) Marsh would have preferred a different experiment, the so-called “Spanish Omelet,” but it was too early in the season for herbs from the garden. And he’d been too busy capturing foreign operatives to get anything planted.
Marsh opened the cupboard while Liv crumbled the last of their stale bread into a bowl. The sleeves of his robe fell back as he reached up to fish out a pair of plates.
“Those are new,” she said, pointing at his forearm, the one she hadn’t been studying in bed. Three thin scabs traced the contour of his arm, like a fragment of Morse code etched into his flesh. They were fingernail marks; the gypsy girl had clenched his arm in terror when Will’s Eidolon arrived.
“That happened on the Tube yesterday,” he lied. “Got a door slammed on my arm.”
“Poor thing. Those doors are evil, aren’t they? I once had the hem of my skirt caught. On an express. I had to stand all the way to Paddington. Quite embarrassing.”
Marsh took the time to enjoy a proper breakfast with his family, and the old man be damned. Later, he would remember this morning, and weep with gratitude for the memory.
Necessary Evil (Milkweed Triptych) Page 5
