The scratching continued, a background whisper to his thoughts.
It would take a stout man indeed to face the prospect of a firing squad without flinching. But the intellectual and conversational maneuvering required to bring such a flinching about could fill any number of weeks. Meanwhile, von Rundstedt’s Army Group A hovered across the Channel; England, and Jennifer, remained at risk.
There had to be a method of speeding along the process.
“Ready.”
“My next step involves increasing the pressure on Faust via all means possible. The forged trial documents you have promised and which I presume are en route should be of material assistance there. Re-establishing a trusting relationship with the prisoner, which seems to have been damaged by my angry accusation, will be more difficult and will require delicate handling. More than ever, I regret my self-indulgent moment.”
He’d worked hard to develop an accord with Faust. But the shattered expression on Faust’s face when he’d left the sitting room office the final time told Stoner better than any words his mistake had cut to the soul. He rubbed his eyes, gritty and tired; how he’d heal Faust’s suspicion was more than he knew. It was difficult to imagine even this unworldly young man falling for such a line a second time.
“Ready.”
“I believe that should do it, my dear.” He stretched and swiveled his chair back to face the desk. “Can you type it for me, before the last batch of notes? I’m expecting a dispatch case at any moment and this must go through to Brigadier Marone as soon as possible.” He pulled forward his tattered stack of notes.
But no pages shuffled behind him. He glanced back. Allison stared into space. Then he blinked, and it was Jennifer, her high forehead furrowed and her eyes downcast, although not at her notes. Such moments had been happening too often lately, as he confused Jennifer with her deceased mother, and as usual, he felt thirty years older with the blink.
“You’re not going to say anything about Harriet?” she asked.
Thirty long years older. “Brigadier Marone is aware of the situation. There is little I could say which he does not already know.”
She glanced up. Pain lingered in her glorious hazel eyes, red-rimmed and as tired as he was. Beneath the pain, he recognized the same rage that simmered within him, and he reached out to squeeze her hand atop the pad.
“Did he do it?” Her voice dropped to a shaky whisper.
If only he knew. He looked away. “I don’t know.”
She wrapped her other hand atop his. “I don’t understand that man. I thought, well, he’s a poet, he’ll be soft and dreamy. But he’s nothing like that.”
“There is a sensitive side to him, one which mourns the loss of his friends and wishes to be liked, even under these circumstances. But his flip side is a practical engineer with a trained military eye which misses little.”
After a moment she sighed. “I can’t believe he didn’t do it. And I promise I’ll rip his eyes out.”
“If he murdered Harriet, I shan’t blame you. However, please permit me to obtain the date of the invasion first.”
Her laugh was shaky. But she rose and gathered up her notepad. “Not a moment longer, though.” She kissed his cheek, pressing her face to his, and left.
But before he could do more than sort through his notes to find his conversation with Wurlitzer — there had to be a means of re-establishing rapport with Faust and perhaps the old tutor had said something to guide him — she was back, two dispatch cases in her hands. “These just arrived.”
Neither case was heavy, which lightened his weary and burdened soul. “Has the courier left yet?”
“No, he’s waiting to see if there’s a return.”
The first case was from Brigadier Marone and contained the documents he’d been expecting, a fake petition bringing suit against one Hans-Joachim Faust for wartime espionage against the United Kingdom in violation of the recently-passed Treachery Act of 1940, properly stamped as if it had been filed with the court; plus a forged affidavit, supposedly signed by Eduard Best, stating he had been expecting an individual, identity unknown to him, to parachute into the area during the diversion of a bombing raid near the city of Oxford, with the avowed intention of assisting Best with said wartime espionage. They looked impressive, but for some reason Stoner wondered if Faust would be suitably impressed.
“What should I tell the courier?”
“A moment, my dear.”
The second dispatch case held smudged and scruffy copies of handwritten notes. For a moment Stoner stared at the pages, nonplussed. It seemed to be two documents, one written in a hard hand with closed loops and large flourishes below the writing line, the other a thin spidery scrawl which reclined across the page as if its writer held his words and himself on a tight rein.
Stoner read a few lines from the first document.
I did not recognize the man at first and he did not tell me his name. He drove me in his car to a position overlooking the fields before the Aa Canal, showed me the disposition of the German troops bivouacked there, and explained how tired the troops were from the six-week campaign. Then he spoke of the orders the German troops had received —
Recognition dawned. “Ah. It’s the reports from those two captains, Brownell and Clarke.”
“The courier, Dad.”
Excitement rose within him. This now, was fact, and something with which the practical side of Faust would have a difficult time arguing.
“Have him wait, my dear. Turn the radio on for him, put him in the billiard room, give him a bottle of my best whiskey, just do something with him while I read this and prepare a response. Then type that report for Brigadier Marone as fast as ever you can. Oh, and please ring Mrs. Alcock and ask her to make cuppas for us all, please.”
Jennifer didn’t move. “Are you serious about the whiskey?”
“No, I am not.”
“Just checking.” She left again.
Stoner read both reports fast and sat back, stunned. Then he read Clarke’s report twice more over his tea, taking notes with a trembling hand. He added a few comments of his own while draining the pot, added an urgent request for a new forged document, specified the details he required, then rang for Jennifer and handed her the lot.
“Is the report finished?”
She nodded. “Just now.”
“Then can you type this for me immediately? And then send our poor courier on his way at top speed with the originals?”
She turned her wondering gaze from him to the small sheaf in her hands. “Um, yes, I can. But there are two men here to see you.”
“Is it important?”
She looked up. “Scotland Yard.”
For a moment he had no idea what she meant and couldn’t imagine why the police wanted to speak with him. But in a flash he remembered. Harriet was dead; not only dead, but murdered so horribly neither Constable Mercer nor Dr. Harris would describe her injuries to him. Again he wondered if the knowing could possibly be as bad as the not-knowing.
“Well, that’s important, isn’t it?” He smiled at her with all of his love and pain. “Please send them in.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
the same afternoon
Bowdon and Patchley Abbey
When Faust clambered from the mouth of the ravine, a handful of soldiers awaited him, led by Tanyon and an equally weathered staff sergeant.
“Gentlemen, such a pleasure.” He glanced at Tanyon. “Cooled down yet?”
“Not until you’re back in your cage.”
“I did warn you it was a lovely day for a walk.”
The sergeants fell in on either side. Beneath the pounding pain of his bleeding arm and his bantering façade, real resentment snarled. It had felt so good, driving himself across the English countryside, breaking from prison and stretching his body; being outfoxed and trapped so soon, even if he had expected it, was a rough blow to take. When the rifle shot had blasted behind him, he’d tumbled down half the hillside and kn
ew he’d ripped his arm trying to stop his fall. Whoever had assisted Bruckmann was someone he wanted to meet, particularly as they were likely to match wits again in the future.
His first glance at the engineering major confirmed his worst expectations. Now it wasn’t merely a matter of getting past Bruckmann and Tanyon; with this competent, experienced man waiting on the sidelines, escaping just became much harder.
“Kettering,” the man said, and extended his hand.
At second glance, Faust couldn’t help but like him. There was a sympathetic and delighted twinkle in his green eyes which spoke of action seen in France and gratitude their positions weren’t reversed. If escaping was harder, at least he didn’t have to worry about being shot accidentally in the process.
“Faust.” Without thinking he extended his own hand. Fresh pain sliced up the back of his aching arm. His elbow shuddered and collapsed against his side. He gasped and cradled it there. “I’m sorry, it’s just not working right now.”
“My fault,” Kettering said. “I was warned.”
Faust glanced at Bruckmann. Damp tendrils of white-blond hair were plastered about the lieutenant’s ears beneath his peaked cap, streaks of dirt finger-combed into them. But his pale blue eyes glinted and his smile was satisfied.
“Lieutenant, how are you today?”
“Much better now, thank you.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Kettering cocked his head and eyed Faust, one vertical line between his brows. “You know, I was picturing someone rather older. But come along now; I promised the leftenant here we’d have you back in time for tea.”
Great. All his work, renewed injury to his arm, grime all over him and fresh dirt rubbed into his uniform, and he hadn’t even interrupted their meal schedule. Next time, he’d have to work smarter. He strolled between the two officers and glanced at Bruckmann, glowing beside him. “Do I get tea?”
“If you find you don’t,” Kettering said, “give me a ring. I’ll nip over with a pot and a flask, and you and I can talk shop.”
Three Bedford trucks were parked on the road beyond the hamlet; the lorry and additional Bedfords, it seemed, remained near the Austin outside the chicken farm. So they rendezvoused back there, Bruckmann riding in the cab of the lead truck, Faust and Kettering amiably chatting in the second. Tanyon rode in the back with some of the men, including their own, while the staff sergeant, Gregson, marched the remainder back through the forest.
When they arrived, Bruckmann made straight for the lorry. “I’ll report in.”
“It’s been a pleasure,” Kettering said to Faust.
Faust smiled. Even if Kettering was a serious roadblock in his escape plans, he had to like him. “Wouldn’t mind doing it again sometime.”
After Kettering left, striding back to his row of Bedfords, Tanyon glared at Faust. “Oh, I heard that, I did. Now get in.”
“Poor old lorry.” Faust lifted one foot to the step and grabbed left-handed for the supporting side. “It’s seen kinder days.”
“Ehhh.”
“You know, sergeant, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh. Or seen you smile, for that matter.”
“I said get in.”
Bruckmann appeared beside them, a worry line creased between his pale eyes. “Carmichael’s not answering the radio.”
“Sounds like a problem,” Faust said. When Tanyon glared at him, he hefted himself up.
But before he swung his leg into the lorry, someone screamed. He glanced back.
A stout woman, just about as wide as she was tall, scrambled from the farmhouse toward the line of Bedfords. Various bits of her wobbled in all directions at once. But Faust didn’t laugh because her face was twisted and she howled for help. Her hands clawed the air as if it hid an invisible someone’s face.
“None of your business,” Tanyon said. “Move.”
His instincts, including nosiness, told him otherwise. But Tanyon rested one hand on his holstered Webley. Cornered, Faust gritted his teeth and swung his leg into the lorry, settling on the bench farthest from the exit.
Tanyon and half a dozen young soldiers clambered in to join him. Norris sat nearest the exit and shot him a smoldering look. One side of his face was darkened and swelling.
“It was nothing personal,” Faust said.
But Norris turned his shoulder.
He sighed and leaned back. More good intentions gone up in smoke. And speaking of smoke, he desperately wanted a cigarette.
Kettering jumped from the cab of the lead Bedford and strode to meet the woman. They converged in the middle of the road. She was still screaming. He put his hands on her shoulders and shook her, causing more multi-directional wobbles. Short as she was, she could easily make two of the dapper engineer.
Tanyon’s glare cut across his thoughts as the lorry’s engine rumbled to life and the bed quivered beneath them. “You can put that bleeding sling back on now.”
Oh, very well. Faust yanked it from his pocket. As he slid it over his neck and the lorry pulled from the verge onto the road, he saw Kettering, hands still on the hysterical woman’s shoulders, turn and stare after them.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
the same afternoon
Margeaux Hall
At first glance, Stoner thought Chief Detective Inspector David Hackney looked more like Watson than Holmes. A decade or so younger than himself, Hackney was starting to get stout around the middle and light on top, with a florid face which spoke more of blood pressure than a pub. His brown eyes were small and closely set, above a large nose and greying handlebar mustache. His police sergeant, Axel Arnussen, wasn’t much younger, a small slight man who looked as if a good gust of wind could blow him over but with clear grey eyes full of understanding and compassion. They were the sorts of men who would get results, and Stoner welcomed them into his office with all the warmth he could muster.
After the initial courtesies Hackney jumped straight in. “Will you tell us what happened?”
Stoner described the dance on Saturday night and Harriet’s insistence upon attending. As he spoke, Hackney’s eyes fastened onto his face and refused to let go, rather like the teeth of a bulldog. Beside him, Arnussen rested a pad on his knee and took notes.
“And as usual,” Stoner finished, “she got her way.”
Hackney grunted, sounding so like Tanyon, Stoner widened his eyes in surprise.
“A girl should be able to get her way occasionally without being murdered for it. The dance was held at the local pub, you said?”
Stoner nodded. “The Abbey Arms, publican Homer Owen.”
“Yes, we’re staying there while we’re in town. Would he be able to tell us who all attended the dance?”
“If he can’t, try Beth Mercer, the constable’s wife. She’s the morale officer for Patchley Abbey.” The detective’s stare was rather threateningly penetrating. Stoner looked down at his desk. “At first I thought Harriet had simply run away for whatever reason, and I asked at RAF Patchbourne of several young pilots if they had seen her. One, a Flight Lieutenant Langley, recalled dancing with her but didn’t remember seeing her in the air raid shelter after the alarm sounded.”
“So it’s possible she snuck off with someone, a pilot, say?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What was she wearing?”
“A bright yellow sprigged muslin with a square-cut neckline and white crocheted collar.” Stoner swallowed. She’d been so lovely and the colors had suited her dark hair and clear complexion so well. “It was the same shade as the eye of a daisy.”
Hackney’s stare softened and Stoner was reminded of a sad-eyed hound. “I need a photograph of her, a recent one I can keep with me while I work.”
Stoner dispatched Jennifer on the errand; the courier had just left for London with his report and request. After she left, the only sound in the room was Arnussen’s pencil scratching across his notepad. It sounded like Bruckmann, studiously noting down every word said. Stoner found himse
lf glancing over his shoulder, expecting to see his young lieutenant at his post. But of course Bruckmann was still off, trying to catch Faust.
“What sort of establishment is this?” Hackney asked.
Stoner hesitated. It was an indiscreet question but for a good cause. “I’m afraid it’s rather hush-hush.”
“Can’t discuss it, eh?”
“No, I can’t.”
Hackney and Arnussen glanced at each other. Stoner’s understanding stabbed deeper, and with it quivered an even deeper horror.
“How much did Harriet know about this operation?” Hackney asked.
“Unlike Jennifer, she was never told of it,” Stoner said. “How much she figured out or assumed, well, I can’t say. She did wander the office a certain amount after school hours.” He swallowed his fear; if the Wildflower operation was compromised as well as his granddaughter murdered, his problems had just multiplied and he knew he’d never forgive himself for exposing her to such a danger. “Do you believe she was murdered for what she might know? Is this the sort of crime you’re starting to see?”
But Hackney shook his head. “It’s the sort of crime I’m afraid of starting to see any day now but haven’t yet. This is all supposition right now.”
Stoner closed his eyes and managed a shuddering breath. The possibility had not been removed. If Faust had fooled him and was after all an espionage agent, it was possible he had tortured Harriet to death to learn details of the Wildflower operation. The thought brought cold resolve; the man who killed her would not escape justice.
Jennifer entered and handed Hackney a photo, shooting a concerned glance across the desk. Stoner recognized the black oak frame; it was the studio photo of both girls he’d had taken in London the previous summer, prior to the outbreak of war. He smiled his approval of her choice.
“It’s the most recent photo we have,” Jennifer said to Hackney. “It’s about a year old. But I don’t believe she changed much, except she grew her hair a bit longer.”
Deal with the Devil Page 18
