He wanted to swear again but there was no point. He couldn’t compete with Tanyon there. A flash of lightning flared across the sky, giving him a brief glimpse of himself. This had to be the most ruddy impressive way of reporting to his commanding officer — wet, muddy, and disheveled, one humongous train wreck. Overhead, the thunder crashed.
“I know. Let’s get it over with.”
Chapter Fifty
early evening
Margeaux Hall
The front door gaped open. Stoner paused, Homburg in hand, staring at this irrefutable testament of some breach underway within his defenses, and paradoxically felt relief — at least he wouldn’t have to venture forth into that horrendous storm. He waited in the shadows of the corridor, out of Ellington’s sight, relief fading into a more appropriate anger, and presently was rewarded by the sight of two drenched subordinates, one tall and slender, the other shorter and stouter, silhouetted behind flashlight beams and running like mad through the downpour toward the entry.
He waited until they were inside, the door closed behind them, before switching on the overhead light. It was a glass-walled vestibule, of course, and so made no difference regarding his flaunting of the blackout regulations. But the timing was important.
It worked. Ellington jumped like a startled cat, his chair slithering back toward the filing cabinet. Bruckmann and Tanyon whipped about to face him, guilt written over them with a heavy hand. Both were drenched as if by a fire hose. Mud splattered Bruckmann’s entire front, from his collar and tie to his puttees, and smears dripped from his nose and forehead. Tanyon’s face, although clean, was swelling in several places, most noticeably his left cheekbone and eye. Neither met his gaze.
The situation was undoubtedly serious. But Stoner knew he’d treasure the memory of this tableau for the rest of his life — unless, of course, Faust was not recaptured, in which case he would rue it for the same duration.
“I believe, sergeant,” he said, “upon analysis of the situation, we’ll find that once again you allowed the prisoner to approach too closely.”
Tanyon flushed the color of the swag drapes in the ballroom. “I’m sure you’re right, sir.”
He stared a bit longer. Nobody moved.
“Perhaps, gentlemen,” he said after another suitable pause, “I might trouble you to attend to this inconvenient little matter.”
They moved, scrambling for the stairs as if joined at the shoulders. Ellington gingerly tucked his chair back beneath the desk.
Stoner flipped off the light and unbuttoned his greatcoat. “In the meantime,” he said, more to himself than to any of them, “I must telephone my granddaughter and inform her I shall be late for dinner.”
Chapter Fifty-One
early evening
Margeaux Hall
Something trickled down his forehead. Bruckmann paused in the guardroom doorway and swiped at it. A chunk of mud flew from his hand and slid down the molding. Anger colder than the rain tightened his stomach around the empty spot in his middle. It wasn’t possible to live down such a scene; it would color his relationship with Stoner forever. Oh, Faust would pay for this.
Tanyon pushed past him and strode to the rifle storage, wet boots squeaking on the floor and leaving little puddles marking each step. More evidence of their fiasco, if any was needed, and if Sally didn’t kill them all tomorrow, she’d certainly want to.
“Pym, call downstairs and get the squad up here,” Tanyon said.
Pym’s grey eyes grew rounder as he stared. Then understanding dawned and he lifted the telephone receiver. “Faust?”
“Brilliant guess, corporal.” Bruckmann reached over Pym’s head, grabbed the call signs notebook from the shelf, and flipped through it until he found the right page. He pulled the spare headphones down, plugged them in, switched the transmitter to voice communication mode, swirled the frequency dial to the correct setting, and squeezed the pressel button beside the microphone as he glanced over the open page. “Wildflower Base to Piccolo Base. Come in, Piccolo Base.”
Storm static crackled. “Piccolo Base here. Go ahead, Wildflower Base.”
“Is Piccolo Eight available? Over.”
The hissing of the open radio line spread through the guardroom as Pym replaced the telephone receiver. Tanyon hauled Lee Enfields from the rack, the rifles clacking as he aligned them on the work table. Nothing distracted Bruckmann from the cold voice inside him whispering the situation was out of control.
Then Kettering’s voice spoke through static that fluctuated with the rumbling thunder. “Piccolo Eight here, Wildflower Base. Do you require assistance? Over.”
Bruckmann’s heart lifted. “Affirmative, Piccolo Eight. Over.”
“What’s your situation? Over.”
Bruckmann paused. “Same ruddy thing. Over.”
If Kettering laughed, he had the decency to keep his finger off the button until he finished. “Where shall we meet your forces? Over.” His tenor was calm and dapper as ever.
Bruckmann paused again, his finger off the pressel, and glanced at Tanyon, hauling boxes of live cartridges from the ammunition storage. “Here?”
Tanyon nodded without looking his way.
Bruckmann pressed the button. “Can your forces come to our base? It’s a mile further along the road from the chicken farm. Over.”
“We’ll be there with bells on.” Kettering paused in his turn. Thunder rumbled overhead and static burst on the line, punctuating his words like an audible full stop. “Make that raincoats. ETA approximately one hour. Piccolo Eight out.”
Bruckmann ripped off the headphones. “Oh, we needed this.”
The squad reported for duty, young nervous faces lining the walls. Norris’ bruise from Tuesday bloomed several shades of purple. Peckham flexed his shoulders as if itching for a fight but his eyes were not confident. Ellington, torn from the switchboard for the emergency, at least had his mouth closed. Tanyon issued weapons and live ammunition while they pulled on waterproofs and covers.
Pym picked up his book. “I thought he was awful quiet today. Not like him, is it?”
Bruckmann’s temper flared. “Just for that, corporal, you can assist the search and get drenched with the rest of us. Carmichael, you’re on the radio,” he leaned so close he could smell the dinner on the secondary radioman’s breath, “and if you leave it for a moment, this time it’s official. Am I clear?”
Carmichael’s eyes were guileless. If he looked suddenly happy, perhaps it was because he’d stay dry. “Yes, sir.”
Bruckmann stepped back and glanced at Tanyon. The sergeant, his face swelling and darkening by the moment, handed him a holstered revolver.
“Right, then,” Tanyon said. “Pym, Norris, Glover, Sloane, you four try to find where he went over the wall. Pym, you’re in charge. Two of you cover the outside of the property, two of you inside. Start at our gate and work in both directions. Use torches and don’t be shy about it. Watch for a red signal flare and report back immediately if you see one. Any questions?”
The four glanced at each other. “No, sergeant,” Pym said. His face had lengthened dramatically.
“Then get going.” Tanyon waited until their footsteps sounded on the staircase. “Ellington, Peckham, Reynolds, you three search in here.”
“In here, sergeant?” Peckham asked. “You mean, inside Margeaux Hall?”
Bruckmann froze. No point searching inside unless — “We don’t know that he did escape.”
“Exactly, lieutenant.”
The line of notebooks beneath his secretarial station, where he always bumped his knees, holding the complete records of the Wildflower operation; Stoner, aged and infirm, alone downstairs with only his personal revolver in the top desk drawer. Their defenses were thin indeed. If Stoner, the sterling diviner of men’s hearts, had misjudged Faust and he was after all a spy, then this was the chance he needed to undo all their work.
“Peckham, you check the garage, the stables, and Peter’s quarters,” Tanyon sai
d. “Reynolds, you check the outside of the building, and Ellington, you’ve been good lately, you check the inside. Look for wet spots where he might have entered. Watch for a red signal flare — well, as best you can. Reynolds, we know he went out through the lavatory window; start at the bushes beneath there and see if you can follow a path to the wall.”
Reynolds grinned. “You mean the rose bushes, sergeant?”
Bruckmann glanced at Tanyon. “One bright spot to the evening.”
Tanyon’s lips curled. “Carmichael, when we leave, turn the light out and open the drapes. Watch for the signal flare. If you see it, it means I’ll contact you on the lorry’s radio and have you relay a message to Piccolo Eight.”
“Yes, sergeant.”
“Get going.”
They trooped from the guardroom. Carmichael sat at the radio, poring over the call signs of the local garrisons. Bruckmann shook his head. As if Carmichael didn’t already know them by heart. But at least he wasn’t making Pym’s mistake.
“Lieutenant, we might change into dry clothes,” Tanyon said.
Bruckmann glanced at the guardroom window. Rain pounded behind the blackout curtain, as hard as ever. “Can you give me one good reason why I should bother?”
Tanyon shrugged and reached for his greatcoat.
Chapter Fifty-Two
early evening
Woodrow
The table was set, the pork loin sliced, the roasted potatoes and green beans on the warmer, the Mercurey Burgundy at the right temperature and ready to open. So when the telephone rang, Jennifer instinctively knew the message before she heard it.
“You’re going to be late, aren’t you.”
Stoner paused, the telephone line crackling. Sometimes she hated herself. She couldn’t have phrased that more callously if she’d tried. After all, she’d prepared this special supper to help him relax, to slough off some of his worry and despondency before she hit him with her own concerns. He didn’t need for her to add to his burden any more than necessary.
“We have something of a situation developing here,” Stoner said.
Her skin tingled. She’d known someone stared at her, had sensed rather than seen motion outside through the imperfectly-closed blackout drapes. “And I think I know why. Dad, he came this way.”
“You saw something?”
“I believe so.”
“My dear, you must close those drapes properly.” He paused again. “Although perhaps in this case our mutual touch of carelessness should be applauded as helpful. Thank you, Jennifer. I shall relay your information.”
It helped. But not enough to matter and she still needed to speak with him. “Should I bring you a tray, do you think?”
“In this weather? My dear, it would be soup before it arrived.” He sighed through the crackling static. “I’ll ask Mrs. Alcock for something. Don’t wait up.” He disconnected.
Don’t wait up, blimey. She slammed down the receiver. He did not have to fight the war alone and he would not evade her questions so easily. She ran for the kitchen.
Chapter Fifty-Three
early evening
at large near Margeaux Hall
The sign on the road read Wynant Dairy in white letters on a dark background, a second, smaller line beneath proclaiming Delivery Available. Faust grinned, still buoyed by a delicious sensation of freedom. Cold rain coursed over him in a steady stream. Even if he caught his death and even if the last cigarette in his breast pocket turned to mush, it would be worth it. He slid over the dry stone wall into the meadow.
Half a mile away across the field, a farmhouse perched atop a small rise, barns and sheds in clusters behind it and meadows stretching to the looming backdrop of the Dark beyond. Faust followed the line of the wall, keeping it between his movement and the house. Cows in the first barn, liquid eyes peering at him through the gloom, equipment in the next shed, more cows in the next barn — sooner or later he’d run into a farm dog guarding its territory — hay piled to the roof, more equipment — how many cows could even a dairy hold — and finally he found the stable, the smallest building all the way at the back of the property. He closed the door behind himself.
Two dark and unlovely equine heads turned at his entry, large stout cart horses capable of hauling milk all over the district. But this wasn’t a beauty pageant and they’d do. Even with his night sight fully developed, he could barely discern the harnesses hanging on one wall, the feed bins along another, and — yes — saddles and bridles on a third near a rickety staircase that disappeared into the eaves.
The darker horse slanted its ears back and turned away as he approached, tack in hand. The other leaned over the open half-door and whuffled at him, a wide white blaze gleaming in the dark. No sense making a fight of it, so he chose the second, friendlier horse, tickled the snaffle bit into its mouth, threw the saddle over its back and settled it left-handed, yanked the girth tight, and propped open the outer door. The mare followed him willingly into the rain and stood still while he wedged his boot into the stirrup, toe braced against the girth, and jumped. I on my horse, and Love on me doth try Our horsemanship —
But the mare started off toward the front gate and the road before he’d swung his leg all the way over her rump. For a gut-dropping moment he balanced on one foot, left hand tangled in mane and reins, rain pouring over him and equipage moving beneath. The unfriendly horse inside whinnied. Doubtful the sound would carry all the way to the house. He’d better take a moment and sort himself out.
“Brrr.” Without thinking, Faust tried to stop the horse in German, then scrabbled atop wet leather when she proved unilingual. He let go the mane and yanked the reins, grabbing with his right hand for the saddle. The mare stopped, jibbing, and he leaned on her neck as he swung his leg over her rump, foot fumbling for the stirrup. But before he found it, she again set off for the front gate, the wrong direction. He pulled her up a second time, and she threw her head back as she stopped.
Something scraped overhead. Startled, Faust glanced up. A sleepy face leaned out of an open second-floor window.
“What the bloomin’ blazes you doing with that horse?”
The deliveryman slept over the stable. Great.
There was a stirrup somewhere down there on his right side. But he no longer had time to hunt for it. He clapped his heels to the big mare’s flanks and gripped with his calves, tugging her head toward the rear of the farm. The Dark continued south from there, he knew from his perusal of the maps with Stoner and Hackney.
She jibbed again and tried to turn back toward the gate. Faust smacked her rump with the flat of his right hand. Pain flashed across his biceps, radiating all the way down to his fingers and up through his shoulder joint. The mare flattened her ears and leapt into a lumbering gallop, finally headed in the right direction, a rollicking tabletop like a pogo stick multiplied by four.
“Oy! Come back here with that horse!” The voice diminished behind them as the rain and the night closed in, shielding them in a dark cocoon of wet chaos.
Chapter Fifty-Four
early evening
between Woodrow and Margeaux Hall
In the garage, Bruckmann automatically went to the passenger’s side of the lorry, and noticed Tanyon just as automatically headed for the driver’s side. They’d driven out together several times before, and each time the same thing had happened. Perhaps the sergeant showed respect for him, the officer, by doing the menial work of operating the vehicle. But no. It might be the excuse Tanyon gave, but the truth was more brutal. The sergeant maintained control over the situation by putting himself, literally and figuratively, in the driver’s seat.
Bruckmann sighed and scrambled into the cab. Tanyon still didn’t trust him to handle an emergency. Remembering his own inadequate response to Stoner’s silent accusation in the vestibule, he couldn’t blame the sergeant. As the officer in charge of the squad, he should have said something rather than standing there like a scolded schoolboy. Next time, he’d take action fi
rst and think later.
The vestibule light had been switched off and the night was blacker than Hades. Tanyon worked the lorry around Margeaux Hall and between the flower beds to their gate. Whiteside opened it for them. Tanyon stopped outside, short of the road, setting the hand brake on the slope and killing the engine. They slithered out into the slamming rain as Whiteside closed and locked the gate with himself on the inside.
Bruckmann had taken two steps when the radio crackled to life behind him. “Wildflower Base to Wildflower Two. Come in.”
He spun about and dived back into the lorry, grabbing the mike. “Wildflower Two here. Go ahead.”
Tanyon hung listening on the driver’s side, sheltering beneath the lorry’s lip although drowned vermin weren’t so wet.
Even through the storm-static, Carmichael’s voice sounded rattled. “I just spoke with Wildflower One. Don’t have a call-sign here, but someone saw movement right outside her window a few minutes ago. It’s gone now.”
Tanyon grunted. “Miss Stoner, he means, outside Woodrow.”
Bruckmann shivered and not from his rain-drenched uniform. Hackney had spoken so reassuringly of blood types and bootprints, alibis and evidence, and claimed Faust could not be the murderer. But to know he’d passed so close to Woodrow that Jennifer had seen him through the night’s savage rain chilled Bruckmann more than the cold. At least they knew for certain he had, indeed, left Margeaux Hall behind and wasn’t stalking their secrets nor Stoner. It meant the old man was on the right track after all, and all Bruckmann had to do was recapture Faust so he could be finished off, which would be the best possible revenge.
He squeezed the pressel. “Understood, Wildflower Base. We’ll take up the search there. Wildflower Two out.” He returned the mike to its stand. “Gather the squad, all right? I’m heading to Woodrow.”
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