Deal with the Devil

by J. Gunnar Grey

  No light showed from the gatehouse windows, not even a chink where he could observe undetected. The Wainwrights, it seemed, took the blackout regulations more seriously than the Stoners. He sighed again, crossed the half-hearted little garden that Mrs. Wainwright half-heartedly cultivated, and knocked on the gatehouse door.

  After a moment, Wainwright opened the door a crack, a broad band of light slicing through the night. “Mr. Stoner.” He glanced beyond into the dark, as if expecting someone else to materialize. “Is anything wrong?”

  So the quarry lay low in its den. “Mr. Wainwright, did anyone inform you Major Faust has again escaped?”

  Wainwright shifted. He moved as if to step outside, then paused, glancing at the rain dripping from the flint roof above his dry head. “No, sir, no one’s said anything to me. Do you need my assistance?”

  If his hair was dry, he hadn’t set foot outside. Stoner’s next breath came more easily. “You must guard your household. Keep your rifle handy.”

  Wainwright nodded jerkily, as if an inexperienced puppeteer pulled his strings. “I will, sir. Thank you.”

  “Good night, Mr. Wainwright.” Stoner nodded in response and walked back up the path toward the Hall, flicking off his flash after a few steps.

  The light from the open door vanished behind him.

  Stoner stepped off the path into the grass and doubled back, sweeping the little light into the hidden corner behind the gatehouse. It was deserted. He checked the walkway for footprints and found the usual confused scuffles, examined the closed windows of Margeaux Hall, then glanced in passing at the magnificent iron gate, rusted shut and useless.

  It hung open by a foot.

  He paused. Unreasoning dread drenched him, colder and heavier than the rain. But he was unarmed and cautious courage could too easily become blatant foolhardiness. Instead of investigating, he flicked the torch off and splashed through the puddles back to the residential wing’s front door, arriving in time to catch Jennifer, hat and coat on, before she stepped out into the rain.

  “There you are.” She stepped back inside.

  He followed. “Where was Carmichael?”

  “In the loo. Dad, Sally’s missing. I just checked her bedroom but she’s not there.”

  His heart gave an odd double-thump then tripped along, steady enough but too hard and fast. He’d worried so about his surviving granddaughter, he hadn’t spared a thought for the housemaid.

  “You still have the revolver?”

  “Of course.”

  “Run upstairs and wake the Alcocks. Ask them both to dress and join us here.” He took her arm and held her still. “Then run back to the guardroom, fetch the spare Lee Enfield from Carmichael, and ask him to load it for you. Bring both weapons back.”

  She hesitated. “Are we leaving him unarmed?”

  “My dear, should any enemy advance so far into our stronghold, it will matter little whether Carmichael is armed or no.”

  “It might to Carmichael.” She ran.

  “Granted.” But she’d already gone. He settled to watching the gatehouse through the intervening curtain of rain. Wainwright would not wriggle away and if anyone lurked outside the gate, there they would remain. He could do no more. But even as he stood guard, he knew in his heart it was too late and he’d failed. If Sally died, he was responsible, as if she was one of the soldiers he’d ordered to charge a German machine-gun position twenty-five years before.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  evening

  northwest of Oxford

  Without warning, the mare trotted from the forest and trailed to a stop, blowing for breath. Her ribcage expanded and contracted between Faust’s legs. He sat back, kicked his feet from the stirrups, and stretched his tired thighs and calves.

  They were on the crest of a rise, the Dark behind them, another stone wall and more farmland ahead. In the blackout he couldn’t discern any houses or other buildings, but it was a good bet somebody lived down that hill somewhere. Rain still drummed down, more gently now, no longer a raging storm but still a determined washing, and it trickled over his face, down his neck, and into his boots. He laughed, incredulous delight bubbling within him. Let it rain; he couldn’t possibly get any wetter.

  The stars were hidden. Without their guidance, he wasn’t certain where he stood on the mental image he now carried of the surrounding countryside, stolen from the maps he’d studied with Hackney and Stoner. An unknown landscape spread before him, all reference points hidden by the night and the rain and the blackout, and he had more chance of riding into someone’s farmyard than into safety. And he didn’t care.

  Because the landscape before him was utterly dark. There were no discreet bursts of light, no little bright cones from flashlights sliding across the ground. No line of Kettering’s soldiers spread across his path. He laughed again, closing his eyes and lifting his face into the giddy rain. The mare whuffled in answer and shook her wet mane, and he leaned onto her neck and hugged her, the beautiful ugly beast.

  He rested his forearm against the mare’s neck and peered about. The landscape to right and left looked the same, empty paths stretching between the forest’s edge and the dry stone wall, both sloping gently downhill. But somewhere to his left and ahead was the city of Oxford with its beloved dreaming spires. Best not to get too close. And one thing was certain: he wouldn’t convince this cart horse to jump over that wall.

  He shuffled his feet back into the stirrups, shoving himself erect. The mare lifted her head, flicking an ear back. He slapped her neck, turned her to the right, and squeezed his legs, and she sauntered off in the rain. He gritted his teeth. Her faster paces were lousy at best and his legs ached almost as badly as his arm, but Kettering could still be close and he didn’t have time to pamper her. He kicked her and she trotted, ears slanting at a discontented angle, head lifting toward him. He kicked again, harder, and finally she lumbered into a canter, rollicking along the wet turf beside the wall.

  She could slip or stumble, throwing him into a tree or the flint wall. But he had to make time. He wrapped his legs about her table-top girth and held on.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  evening

  the Abbey Arms

  Hackney left Arnussen threatening the British Army with the most outrageous ruckus from the civil authorities if Kettering and his two companies weren’t recalled to base, and headed upstairs to dry off. He’d already telephoned Constable Mercer and arranged for the elderly bobby to keep an eye on the blacksmith, Sullivan Gilbert. He’d rung Harry Oldfield, the commander of the local Home Guard, to encourage every man with a daughter, wife, sister, female cousin or neighbor, between the ages of ten and forty, to stand over her that night with his American-made rifle, respected or not. He couldn’t think of any other calls he should make, anyone else he could protect or eliminate; but in the back of his mind niggled an unnamed worry he couldn’t dismiss.

  In his room, he stripped off and rubbed himself down with the big terry towel Homer had given him. Determinedly, he kept his back to the mirror, bolted to the inside of the door; himself fifty pounds overweight was not a sight calculated to cheer him, especially not stark.

  He’d put on weight when he and Carolyn first married, back in naught-eight. He’d been a bobby on the beat then, getting plenty of exercise, but nothing could hold out against her cooking and he’d heard about it from his mates and sergeant. It had taken both he and Carolyn, working together, to slim him back down, and he’d put it all back on once the cancer had taken her.

  He sighed and toweled his back. It seemed his entire world came to an end with her death. Until then, he’d managed his career, his family, his weight, his life. Now he had to wiggle the towel into the creases about his waist and abdomen. He was a farce, a parody of his old self.

  The murders of Harriet and Grace weighed on his mind as much as the fat padded his middle. On impulse, he wrapped the towel about himself and went next door to Arnussen’s bedroom. The table there was crowded with t
he bootprints’ plaster casts, the photographs from both crime scenes, the rolled-up maps with Faust’s routes traced on them, and all their accumulated papers. Behind the plaster casts he found the framed photos of the living girls: a cheap pine frame for Grace, her bow poised over her violin and eyes up, dark hair held back by a light ribbon, sitting among the string section of the Patchbourne symphony orchestra; elegant black oak for the studio portrait of Harriet and Jennifer, the dark and bright heads leaning together, one smooth and serious, the other with flowers on.

  Someone might join their ranks tonight. His grimaced at the thought. Surely he’d done everything possible, protected everyone he could — but his nagging inner voice would not be silent. He’d missed something. And if the investigation dragged on much longer, he’d miss something else and someone else might die.

  The connecting point. There was always the connecting point.

  Hackney hurried back to his room, still clutching the photos. He closed the door, set the photos carefully atop the washstand, and dropped the towel in a damp heap on the floor. Clean drawers were in his hand when, clear as anything, Carolyn’s rich gay laugh rang in his mind.

  For a long moment he stood motionless. He was acting the coward and Carolyn would be disappointed. Slowly he turned and faced himself in the mirror.

  Twenty minutes later, freshly shaved, hair rubbed and combed, wearing a clean shirt and tie, he rejoined Arnussen in the pub.

  “Another one, guv?” Homer called from behind his lowered newspaper.

  Hackney shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ve had enough for one night. Got to work now.”

  Arnussen glanced up from his reams of paper. He adjusted his glasses and stared, a crease between his eyes. “You’ve had a thought, haven’t you?”

  Hackney opened a crisp new manila folder atop the interlocking dark rings on the table. The folder contained a blank notepad, the crime scene photos, the autopsy reports, the serology and fingerprint reports, and the photos of the living girls, removed from their frames. “Just a thought, Axel, old lad.”

  He advanced the lead on his mechanical pencil and began to write.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  night

  Wynant Dairy

  What a stinking night.

  Bruckmann slouched against the side of the lorry; he couldn’t get any dirtier or wetter. The entire evening had been a complete cork-up. He’d been embarrassed before Stoner, Tanyon, himself, and his entire miniscule command. He was wet through and coated with mud from mucking about in the unspeakable sludge of the dairy’s pastures. His little command had vanished, scattered beyond his control during their search. The prisoner was long gone, his keys to a secret military installation were lost — and now Stoner reined him in, as he might call out a useless puppy from a hunting pack.

  If Stoner reassigned him in disgust, it would be no surprise. But hopefully not until he’d seen Stoner rip the stuffing from Faust.

  “And so ends tonight’s big adventure, gentlemen.”

  “It’s not such a loss as all that.” Beside him, Kettering seemed fresh and lively as ever, smiling even with rainwater pouring over him. “There’s not a lot we can do now in any case except await news of our quarry and get in out of the wet.” He clapped Bruckmann’s shoulder. “Call me should you need me, leftenant.” He strode off into the rain, mounted his motorcycle, revved the engine to life, and rode away.

  “There must be some disaster out there, something in this wide, evil world, to cure that man of his never-ending cheerfulness.” Bruckmann turned to Tanyon, still hanging half in the lorry’s cab and staring at the wet seat. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my keys?”

  Tanyon scoffed. “I can’t see my feet in this.”

  He straightened. “We need to round up the squad.”

  “Not you, sir. You need to report back. I’ll go play in the mud.” Tanyon paused. “Take the lorry. We’ll walk back. We’re already wet as can be.”

  “Good idea, sergeant.”

  “Sir.”

  “Except I’ve lost my keys.”

  Without a sound, Tanyon handed over his.

  “Thank you.” Bruckmann waited until Tanyon slogged off through the mud, then dragged himself behind the big horizontal steering wheel. The night couldn’t possibly get any worse.

  The rain was lifting and the blackness no longer seemed impenetrable. Still he almost ran the lorry into Caspar Wynant’s dry stone wall en route to the road. Bruckmann stopped in time, danced a few measures between brake and clutch and accelerator to keep the lorry from stalling, then reversed back onto the driveway and shifted to first.

  At the road he paused and glanced both ways, but paused again before swinging the big wheel for the left turn. Bright cones from multiple flashlights danced in the next pasture, across from Margeaux Hall’s main gate. Such blatant disregard for the blackout regulations couldn’t be instigated by anyone short of Stoner. Bruckmann guided the lorry onto the verge and killed the engine.

  He clambered from the cab into the drizzling rain, flash in hand. One cone of light angled his way. “Jack? Is that you?” It was Stoner’s voice.

  “Yes, sir.” He leaped the puddle on the side of the road, squelched through sodden grass to the wall, and leaned over. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes, I suppose you could say so.” Despite his jocular words, Stoner’s voice sounded sad, disembodied without even a silhouette behind the flashlight. The cone of light flickered over a huddled mass on the ground, then shied away like a frightened horse.

  The view had been too brief for Bruckmann to understand the shapeless lump. He shot his own flashlight at it. It took him a moment’s staring to recognize Sally, or what was left of her. He turned his back and leaned against the sharp-edged flint of the dry stone wall. He needed all the support he could get while he decided what to do with his dinner.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  dawn

  northwest of Oxford

  With grey light beginning to tint the world, Faust halted the mare atop a rise. Ahead sprawled the Oxford skyline, spires dreaming in a sea of mist. They’d passed the wall and gates of Blenheim Palace in the rain and hadn’t even seen them.

  Ten miles; he and the mare had traveled about ten miles in a straight line from the dairy she called home. Not far, considering they’d trotted for hours with few breaks. But so much of their energy had been wasted circling about farms, even that much seemed a considerable achievement. And the mare, blowing beneath him like a steam engine, was spent.

  He’d hiked here as a student and his memory released clear images of farmlands, pastures, and villages. But not all of the residences had been farms. There were rich men’s homes up here, with rich men’s toys. Including foxhunters.

  He let the mare amble while he peered through the grey dawn, ears alert, for signs of equine civilization — manure in a field, a distant nicker, a fence sectioned off for the hunt. Slowly the light rose about them, the rain dwindling to a mist drifting on his skin. Steam rose from the mare’s shoulders and flanks, and his anxiety grew with the light. If he stumbled into a farmyard now, on an exhausted cart horse, he wouldn’t be able to run from a three-legged cow; a farmer with a pitchfork could reel him in. Perhaps he should hide for the day. But anywhere he hid, people could find. And ten miles was nowhere near far enough from Stoner for safety. No, he had to keep going, tired or not.

  Suddenly the mare stopped, threw up her head, and whinnied. He yanked on the reins and cut her off. But from the mist another horse answered, then another.

  “Yes.” Faust dismounted and led the mare to the wall. In a moment, a horse stepped from the mist as if past a curtain, a tall rangy horse with a cresting neck and dark coat that glowed in the dim light. Other horses, less bold, paused beyond the mist’s edge; he could see their elegant shapes as outlines drawn, grey on grey, with restless heads and hooves.

  He stripped the saddle and bridle from the mare, stacking them atop the wall, and turned her loose with a grateful
slap. She wouldn’t go far from the other horses; someone would find her and return her to Wynant Dairy, Delivery Available on any other day except today. He laughed at his own wit.

  All the horses crowded up to the wall, watching with pricked ears, long before he finished. But he selected the first, bold one, slipped over the wall, and caught it by the halter. It was a stallion, he learned when he bent down to fasten the girth. Excitement bubbled within him. Stallions were intrepid rides, just what he needed to cross England without being caught.

  He mounted, found his stirrup, and touched his heel to the horse’s side. The stallion moved off instantly — no kicking needed here — and they trotted across the field through the mist, the mares following behind, the cart horse lumbering along outside the wall. Faust found the stallion’s rhythm easily and posted the trot, his confidence growing as he settled into the one-two beat.

  A long, low, dark line loomed ahead — the wall bordering the field. Faust squeezed the stallion into a canter and aimed him at the jump. The stallion flicked his ears, crested his neck, picked up speed. The mares scattered. Faust rose in the stirrups and held on with his calves, his heart galloping, too. If this beast balked, he was a goner.