Treacherous Is the Night

by Anna Lee Huber

  We reached Poperinghe just before midnight, finding most of the town slumbering. The city had operated as a billet town and a divisional headquarters for the British for much of the war. Consequently, it had flourished, protected from the Germans’ artillery by the notorious Ypres salient bulging outward toward the east, even while the countryside surrounding it on three sides had not. What a precarious situation it must have been to live here though, never knowing if the Allies’ lines would hold. Had that salient been lost, Poperinghe would have been reduced to rubble just like Ypres.

  Sidney parked Alec’s Porter near The Great Market and we split into pairs. Rose and Alec would go to the Gendarmerie, or rather Rijkswacht, as it was called now that we were in Dutch-speaking Flanders, to enlist their aid. With any luck, Landau had gotten through to them already and they were anticipating our arrival. If not, then perhaps the sight of Alec’s gunshot wound, if not his foreboding, pain-pinched face, would propel them into action quicker.

  Sidney and I planned to visit the hotels to locate Max and his aunt, and warn any other tourists, and the officers working for those tour companies, about the road to Boeschèpe and the cemetery there. Fortunately, there were not many hotels of the quality Lady Swaffham would expect. At the second one we tried, we were forced to wait to speak with the clerk, so I wandered deeper into the lobby, peering into the drawing room. Finding it empty, I turned back to rejoin Sidney, when a familiar figure suddenly strode down the hall toward me.

  “Verity? What are you doing here?” Max asked in shock. His face was more haggard than I’d ever remembered it being, and the lines bracketing his mouth seemed deeper than ever. I could guess what had caused it, and I cursed his aunt for dragging him through this. If our trip through the devastated country this evening had been bad, I could only imagine what a full-day’s detailed tour would be like.

  “Thank heavens,” I gasped in relief, reaching out to touch the sleeve of his coat. Part of me had continued to worry we might not reach him in time.

  His eyes continued to scan mine in bewilderment.

  “Is there a place we can sit down?” I glanced behind me at Sidney, who had seen Max and was now joining us. “We have something urgent we need to tell you.”

  Given the animosity of their last interaction, I expected a bit of awkwardness between the two men, but they seemed to gloss over it easily enough as they shook hands. Although, if possible, Max looked even more perplexed.

  “Kent, you’re here, too. What is going on?”

  Sidney’s expression softened to one of empathy, perhaps noting the same changes I had in Max. “Come on, Ryde.” He pressed a hand to his shoulder, guiding him toward a settee beside the entrance to the drawing room. “Have we got a story to tell.”

  By necessity it was brief, but no less affecting at that.

  “So, this Moilien intends to bury bombs in the road so that our tour company will drive over them, all because he wants revenge on the British,” Max summarized, shaking his head at the lunacy of such an idea. “How can he be sure it will be our motorcars that trigger them?”

  “I don’t think he can,” I admitted.

  “But . . . but that’s insane.”

  “We know. But the insanity of it all only makes Moilien more dangerous. He’s erratic and unpredictable. The logic one would normally use doesn’t seem to apply.”

  Max looked as if he wanted to argue further, but he scrubbed his hands over his face and nodded in resignation. “If you say it’s true, then I believe it.” He glanced at Sidney. “What do you want me to do?”

  Sidney stubbed out the cigarette he’d been smoking. “Speak to all the tour company operators. Stop them from taking the road to Boeschèpe and the cemetery.”

  “But how can you be certain it will be the road to Boeschèpe?”

  “Because that middle-aged man who was so eager to sit next to Madame Zozza at the séance was working for Moilien. He heard your aunt talk about the cemetery,” I explained.

  “Yes, but that’s not the only site she mentioned.”

  I sat forward. “What do you mean?”

  He frowned. “Perhaps you weren’t attending, but she also talked about Kemmel Hill. That’s where her son fell. He was later transferred to one of the casualty clearing stations at Remy Farm near Boeschèpe, where he died.”

  I glanced at Sidney in alarm. What if we were wrong? What if it was at Kemmel Hill where he meant to enact his revenge?

  “It must be the road to the cemetery at Boeschèpe. His letter to the War Office specifically said ‘the peaceful would be shaken from their repose,’” Sidney argued.

  “Yes, but there’s also a cemetery next to where Kemmel Château once stood,” Max said.

  Sidney rocked back in his seat, taken aback by this new information.

  “There’s an older gentleman on our tour,” Max explained. “Considers himself an amateur historian, and I’ve been listening to him drone on all day about these things.”

  I only listened with half an ear, studying my husband’s face. “Moilien’s letter also said ‘the silence of the battlefield would be broken by one last cry for vengeance.’ And I’m not sure I would call a farm filled with casualty clearing stations a battlefield.”

  His head turned so that he could meet my gaze and he nodded. “I guess we’ll have to go to both. For he must be planning to bury the bombs tonight if he intends for them to explode in the morning. There will be less chance of interruption.”

  “You said he intends to bury the bombs,” Max interrupted. “But what type are they?”

  “Some type of aerial shell.”

  He frowned. “Then they must be fitted with impact detonators. Which means he’s going to need the motorcars to do more than drive over them. That won’t be enough to set them off. He’s going to need to cause the wheels to drop down on them with as much force as possible. And that still might not trigger them.” He tilted his head. “Of course, that’s assuming he knows what he’s doing.”

  Sidney reached out to grasp Max’s arm, halting his words. “Do you know a place where the road drops?”

  “I think so. And it’s out by Kemmel Hill.”

  “Then we definitely need to check it out,” Sidney replied, rising to his feet. “We can send Captain Xavier, Madame Moreau, and whatever Rijkswacht officers they are willing to spare out toward the road to Boeschèpe. If we find Moilien, we can always double back for reinforcements,” he told me.

  Max held up his hands. “Now, hold on. You two aren’t going alone. I’m coming, too.”

  “Then who’s going to warn the tour companies,” Sidney pointed out.

  “I’m sure my amateur historian friend would be thrilled to. Besides, no one is going anywhere until the morning.” He slid his hands into his pockets, arching his eyebrows. “In any case, you don’t know the site. You’ll find it quicker and be able to rejoin the others if we’re wrong. And if we’re right . . . well, you might need all the help you can get.”

  Sidney scrutinized him, and I rolled my eyes at the sheer obstinacy of men. And they called me stubborn.

  “Do you have a pistol?” he relented.

  Max nodded. “Just allow me a few moments to collect it and contact that fellow.”

  CHAPTER 30

  In a quarter hour, we were back in the Porter, driving southeast of Poperinghe back into the war-torn countryside. Landau’s telephone call had proved effective, for the Rijkswacht were being more than cooperative, eager to spare any lives they could after so much devastation. They did not have a large force, but what officers they could, they put at our disposal. Several accompanied Rose and an injured Alec out to the Boeschèpe cemetery, while others would be positioned to block any vehicles from traveling that way. Another pair of officers would be sent after us toward Kemmel Hill as soon as they could be roused from their sleep.

  This part of Flanders was covered in undulating hills with a larger ridge stretching from east to west, across the French border. In the darkness, we co
uld not see the knolls, but the guidebook assured us they were there. The state of the roads steadily declined as we entered the old battlefields and winding lines of trenches.

  “Has the tour more or less followed the same route as the Michelin Guide?” Sidney asked.

  “Mostly,” Max replied.

  “Then we should make the turning at La Clytte and approach Kemmel from Locre,” I directed Sidney as I examined the map in the light of my torch.

  “No, I think we should go the other way,” Max argued. “Come up on him from behind.”

  I glanced at Sidney, bowing to their greater knowledge of such tactics.

  His brow furrowed in concentration, his eyes glued to the dusty road and rubble illuminated in the headlamps. “Explain to me the lay of the land.”

  “If we continued straight, we’ll reach Kemmel village. Or what remains of it. Which according to this, is basically nothing but ruins. Beyond it lies the remnants of the château and its cemetery. To reach the hill, we have to turn right at the village. The book warns that the road skirting the foot of the hill is completely churned up and only passable because of a series of bridges, which have been thrown up over the shell holes.” Having crossed over these rickety contraptions on our drive earlier that evening, I did not look forward to doing so again. “The road to the top of the hill is inaccessible.”

  Having absorbed all this, Sidney flexed his fingers around the driving wheel. “Then I suspect you believe he intends to utilize those existing shell holes in some way,” he said to Max.

  “That was my first thought. If he could find a shallow enough one and dislodge the bridge or camouflage the depth, then when the motorcar dropped into the hole, it might generate enough force to trigger the bomb.” He sounded unconvinced. “It would be more likely if he tampered with the mechanism in some way.”

  “Well, it’s too late now to wonder whether the man is familiar enough with ordnance to make certain they detonate,” Sidney replied. “I think we have to assume he does and pray we’re not too late to stop him from succeeding.”

  We all fell silent as we steadily drove onward into the night. A creeping mist began to rise up from the soil and debris in patches, coating the ground in gossamer blankets. There was no sound beyond the purr of the motorcar engine.

  At Kemmel village, I directed Sidney through the narrow turnings between the ruins of wood and stone onto the road which hugged the base of the hill. There he rolled to a stop, switching the headlamps off.

  Blackness enveloped us, thick and cloying with the scents of exhaust, Flanders mud, and decay. Hours seemed to pass, even though I knew Sidney was merely waiting for our eyes to adjust to the darkness. It was impossible not to be conscious of my heart beating a steady tattoo inside my chest, as well as the breathing of the two men on either side of me. I knew I had made my choice, that my heart was already given to Sidney, and yet the warmth of Max’s leg pressed against mine was not unwelcome.

  Sidney was the first to move, shifting the motorcar into drive. “If we have any luck,” he murmured, “we’ll see the light of his lamps long before he hears us.”

  We slowly rolled forward, the tires crunching in the dirt. At first there was nothing but the same devastation we’d viewed through the headlamps, just with a narrower, shrouded view. The shape of Kemmel Hill was visible as a darker line against the starry sky. We passed the ruins of a few machine gun nests, and then the road rounded a turn.

  I reached over to grip Sidney’s arm just as he came to a stop.

  “I see it,” he whispered.

  In the distance shined a hazy light obscured by mist.

  “Got you, you son of a . . . ,” he swore, inching forward again.

  “Should we be moving any closer?” Max murmured. “Sound travels further in the night.”

  “Yes, but not that far. And not in this mist. Just a little closer . . . There.” He braked at the edge of a shell hole and its temporary bridge, and turned off the engine.

  “Now, what’s the plan?” Max asked.

  “Well, I see at least two shadows moving in and out of that light, but there may be more.” He glanced to the side out over the morass lining the road. “I wonder how passable the terrain is around that hole. The safest bet would be to somehow sneak up, surround, and incapacitate them.”

  “I agree. I’d rather avoid actually firing our pistols. Who knows if they have guns?”

  “I would assume they do,” I said, my mind turning over an idea.

  “What are you thinking?” Sidney turned to ask, evidently having heard the contemplation in my tone.

  “Maybe we should use Moilien’s paranoia to our advantage.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, he thinks we’re dead. That’s what Smythe said. And this landscape . . . with the mist . . . and . . . well, we all know it still contains corpses yet to be unearthed.” I glanced between the men. I couldn’t see their faces clearly in the darkness, but Sidney’s voice was grave.

  “I think I know what you’re suggesting. Tell me how we do it.”

  * * *

  I shivered as the breeze brushed through my loose curls and across my neck. The night air was certainly cool, but that was not what had made the tiny hairs along my arms and down my back stand on end, my senses finely tuned to my surroundings.

  Before me, several yards further down the road, stood Moilien in a shallow shell hole with another man I’d never seen before, working in concert with him. I could hear their muffled voices, the strikes of their shovels, and the shuffle of dirt. At least one of the bombs had already been lowered into the crater, for we had watched them carry it over from their vehicle.

  Sidney and Max had both scrambled out in opposite directions over the quagmire of the surrounding fields and the slope of Kemmel Hill. Their paths had to be wide enough so that Moilien did not spot them as they circled around, but not so deep that they became stuck in the mire. I could only be grateful the top layer of soil was fairly dry, otherwise their slog through the sucking mud would have been even more difficult.

  For my part, I simply had to wait on the road for their signals. This seemed the easier task, but I found that as the minutes stretched by, so did my nerves. I had thought the abandoned battlefield quiet, but I discovered I was wrong. The scrabbling of rats through the dirt, the clicking of insects, the whistling of the wind through some hole in the twisted metal wreckage—all was amplified.

  And then there was the knowledge of what lay out there under the upheaval of that earth. Left out here on my own, it would be all too easy to fool myself into believing the spirits of those who died were still wandering these unhallowed fields.

  Which gave me heart that this plan just might work. For surely, I wasn’t the only one unnerved to be standing on this unholy ground in the black of night.

  I expected to see Max’s lighter flicker first, for he had the easier of the two hikes, but it was Sidney’s lighter that flared a short distance up the expanse of Kemmel Hill. Then a moment later, I saw Max’s. Both were barely a glimmer, like a firefly passing through a forest, but I knew it was them. Inhaling a deep breath, I moved forward, praying this would work.

  Steadily, I drew ever closer, shocked Moilien and his partner hadn’t yet noticed me. When still they didn’t look up, even though my steps were taking me nearer than I felt comfortable, I elected to moan. At first I felt ridiculous, but the longer I did so, the more fitting it seemed as I poured myself into playing my role, mourning my supposed, untimely death. Both men slowly lifted their gazes as I came to a stop about twenty yards away, purposely halting at the edge of a shell hole, as if to hover over it in my rippling skirt.

  At first, neither of them moved, but then Moilien shook his head. In the moonlight, I could see he’d removed his mask. “No. It can’t be. You’re dead.”

  The second man dropped his shovel and stumbled backward. He tripped over his own feet, falling to the ground. That’s when Max scrambled up onto the road to stand over the crater, pointing
his pistol down at the man. Sidney emerged more sluggishly from the muddled dirt of the hillside, his gun aimed at Moilien.

  But this proved too much for the man, for he let out an infuriated, terrified cry. He clambered out of the shallow hole and darted into the field from which Max had emerged. His steps were too quick for him to be paying any heed to where he was stepping. Then Sidney lowered his weapon and took off after him.

  “No!” I shouted even as he vaulted over a pile of debris. “Sidney!” I moved to the edge of the road, searching for his silhouette against the horizon, but his form had been swallowed up by the darkness. “Forget him. It’s too dangerous.”

  Initially, I could hear the sounds of their fumbling footsteps, but even that was soon lost to the night. Clenching my fists, I paced a circle in the road. “Blast him! Blast him!”

  “It will be all right,” Max assured me as he ordered the other man up out of the hole. “Sidney knows what he’s doing . . .”

  Before he could even finish that statement, there was a tremendous boom. It shook the earth and knocked me to the ground. At first, I worried one of the bombs Moilien had been burying had exploded, for who knew how he’d tampered with them. But then I realized I was not hit, and the terrifying flash of light had come from the middle of the field, not the roadway.

  I pushed myself upright, staring out over the black field, my eyes momentarily blinded in the darkness that descended after the searing light. The patter of dirt raining down filled my ringing ears.

  “Sidney,” I gasped, blinking into the distance, trying to clear my eyes. I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t hear him. Where was he? “Sidney!” I screamed.

  Oh, why had he followed that madman? Why? He could have let him go.

  How close had he been to that blast? Could he have survived? Was he lying out in that field injured?

  I couldn’t see!

  “The lights, the lights,” I turned to yell at Max, who was kneeling in the dirt. “Point them at the field.”

  He was stumbling to his feet to do so when the sound of something approaching arrested us both. Through the darkness, a figure emerged. My every nerve strained toward it, desperate for it to be my husband.