Deal with the Devil Page 10

  After the usual murmurs, Bruckmann said, “Constable Mercer to see you, sir.”

  Stoner’s face tightened and the lines about his eyes deepened. “Perhaps he’s found my missing granddaughter. Herr Major, I must ask you to excuse me while I handle a personal matter.”

  He rose. “Of course.” Was the mysterious Harriet still missing? He wanted to ask but didn’t want to pry further.

  Stoner rose, as well. “Sergeant Tanyon, please return the prisoner to his quarters.”

  Chapter Eleven

  the same morning

  Margeaux Hall

  Stoner rose behind his desk, strangely giddy as he watched Faust stride for the door, Sergeant Tanyon behind him. Constable Mercer would not report personally unless he had momentous news to impart — in short, unless he had found Harriet. But as to why he hadn’t simply telephoned or sent the girl home, well, that set his old heart to double-thumping again.

  A general pile-up ensued at the door as Constable Mercer didn’t wait to be announced. Stoner stiffened; if Faust felt threatened and wanted a hostage, it was a dangerous opportunity. Mercer had been constable of Patchley Abbey all his life, and like Stoner had been recalled to service for the duration when his replacement went off to war. At his age he’d be no match for a trained combat soldier, even an injured one, although he wasn’t precisely frail with his stout dumpy build and shovel-shaped hands. Stoner was certain, in his day, he could have emptied a brawling pub without breaking sweat.

  But Faust stepped aside for the older man, even bowing slightly from the waist. Mercer gave the German uniform a quick glance but it seemed his mind was on other things, and with barely an acknowledging nod he rolled past Faust and into Stoner’s office. After one horrified glance, Tanyon closed the door behind them.

  “Blimey,” Bruckmann whispered, barely breathing. “That was close.”

  Mercer glanced at him, eyes alert. Although he didn’t truly want to, Stoner let himself smile. Perhaps there was snow on the chimney; fire remained in the boiler.

  “Is that the German caused all the fuss Saturday night?” Mercer asked.

  “Yes,” Stoner said.

  To his surprise, the constable thinned his lips and shook his head. “Never can tell with foreigners. Seems a gentleman, don’t he?”

  “Constable, have you found my granddaughter?”

  But Mercer merely stared at him, indignation draining from him like beer from an overturned bottle. His mouth opened but no words came forth, and when it closed again it was with finality.

  “I see.” Stoner sat down and leaned back in his chair. He forced himself to breathe deeply. It would do her no good to have a heart attack. “I take it the news is not good?”

  “No, sir. I’m afraid it isn’t.”

  He knew, without hearing the words he knew. But he had to be certain. “How bad is it?”

  Mercer’s big shoulders drooped. “As bad as it gets. I’m sorry.”

  He’d been so certain she was fine, simply run away for a bit — for pique, for romance, even for fun or spite. But he’d been so certain she’d reappear when her mood changed. This, the worst news of all, he’d never expected.

  He found himself staring at his cot, in the far corner of the room, and at the little table he used as a nightstand. He crossed the room, suddenly aware of how difficult it could be for an old man to walk, and lifted one of the silver frames nestled there. Jennifer and Harriet, aged eleven and nine, grinned out at him from the profusion of flowers in the garden of his old Oxford home. There were carnations in Jennifer’s slender hands, daisies in Harriet’s two tails, and Asiatic lilies hemmed them in on both sides, wavering behind their hair, bright and dark.

  Harriet in her long white nightgown, eight years old and first arrived in his quiet home, sitting in his lap, beating her fists against his chest and howling for her mother who would never return. Harriet at ten, again dressed for sleep, climbing into his and Daphne’s bed for her bedtime story, no, she wasn’t too old for that and she wasn’t going to sleep until she had her way. At fourteen, wildflowers in her hair, swinging with the big bands on the radio all around the living room until he’d give ten years off his life for a bit of the quiet he used to know. Just two days ago, in her bright yellow dress and with her dark hair fluffed about her face, resplendent in pink lipstick and nail polish, no, she wasn’t too young to go to the village dance and help entertain the pilots who were defending England, it was her civic duty and she wasn’t going to be quiet until she had her way.

  As usual, she’d had her way. He had given in; he hadn’t supervised or protected her; he had let her go off with Sally who wasn’t two years older. And now he’d have all the quiet he’d ever wanted, which was much more than he could bear.

  He hugged the frame to his chest as if he could still shelter her there, as if she could still beat against him with her fists, not for her dead mother but for her dead self. Was he crying? If it brought his littlest girl back to him, he’d bawl without shame.

  He turned. The two men stood, staring. Bruckmann’s eyes were huge, shocked and disbelieving. Constable Mercer, the bearer of bad news, huddled before the desk like an errant and aging schoolboy.

  “Please tell me whatever you can,” Stoner said.

  Mercer drew a deep breath. “We found her in the Dark.”

  “Was it an accident?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Some wild beast?”

  “A male one.”

  Bruckmann made a wordless noise. He sounded sick.

  “My poor little girl.” Stoner returned to his desk, still cradling the framed photograph. He maintained enough self-control to sit carefully, rather than collapse, for the way his old heart ached it would be a collapse indeed. “There’s one thing I must know, constable. When did she die?”

  Mercer hesitated. “I need Dr. Harris to make certain.” Before Stoner could speak, he rushed on. “But I think she died the night she vanished.”

  “Of course. The night of the dance, when the off-duty pilots from RAF Patchbourne crowded our little village.”

  “Sir.” Bruckmann hesitated.

  Stoner said it for him. “It was also the night of the air raid, when a German officer ran loose across the countryside and was captured exiting the Dark.”

  “Exactly.” Mercer squared his shoulders. “Major Stoner, please understand — I’ve never had to investigate a murder before.”

  “Which of us has?” Stoner arranged the frame on his desk, angling it to keep the picture hidden from anyone across from him, jealously guarding her image from prying eyes. If only he’d been as protective Saturday night.

  “I have to call the Metropolitan Police for help.”

  Granted, asking a village bobby to investigate a murder was rather like asking Stoner himself to break a trained German intelligence agent. A welcome core of rage grew within him. Neither he nor Mercer was disabled yet. “Of course, constable. I’ll cooperate in any way I can.”

  After Mercer left, Bruckmann stepped forward. “Sir, I am so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Yes, Jack. Please send Jennifer in. And leave us alone for a bit.”

  Chapter Twelve

  the same morning

  Margeaux Hall

  The third-floor bedroom door closed behind him. Faust again shivered when the bolt snapped home, then listened to the footsteps of Tanyon and his young assistant with the lousy haircut, Carmichael, as they clumped down the corridor and away. It was a lonely sound. And wilt thou leave me thus? Wyatt had asked, as usual phrasing Faust’s emotions almost four hundred years before he felt them. Like Stoner, Wyatt was so perceptive he should have been outlawed. Granted, he nearly had been.

  Faust usually didn’t mind being alone, but with the burden of Stoner’s interview weighing on him, a discussion with Barrington or Wurlitzer, those gentle souls, would help him sort out his thoughts. Even Munting, the original ass, would go down a treat just then — anyone would help, rather than sitting and
staring at a cold, stark room with a barred window.

  But he shouldn’t have thought of them, either. He missed them too much, and the hole left in his life by the absence of his two closest friends was heavier than Stoner’s allegations and more painful than his arm and side. Munting would laugh at him and pick a sly argument, but Barrington would lean his chin on a fist, a little smile lifting his lips, and talk him through the problem. If, of course, he could be heard through Munting.

  The tray of dirty dishes and shaving gear was gone; otherwise the room was just as he’d left it, with the bed rumpled and the faded patchwork quilt tossed over the chair. He sighed, hissing when his side complained. Brother Harmonious had raised him better than this. Left-handed, he straightened the sheets and hoped to straighten himself out at the same time.

  Stoner’s war story bothered him. Such treatment of a captured enemy officer was immoral, and while he didn’t expect reality to obey his own poetical views, the confirmation of how low Germany had sunk was too similar to that pig Greis.

  He stilled, bent over the bed. Surely Clarke had reported his adventure, meaning the name of Faust was not unknown in certain English military intelligence circles. Another chill, a big one, climbed his spine. He’d have to be certain to say nothing of the affair to Stoner. No matter how intriguing he found the old codger, he fully expected the man to do his duty and the Clarke affair was blackmail bait of the worst magnitude. If he was sent to a prisoner of war camp full of Nazis and the story was leaked, the English guards would find him dangling from the rafters some morning. At best.

  The allegations of espionage were no more comforting and he didn’t find that aspect of Stoner charming at all. It was a disquieting thought. Having survived Erhard’s outrageous misadventure, it would be unthinkable to die now, executed for something as stupid as this. Did they shoot spies or hang them? He paused with the quilt in his hand. Did he really want to know?

  Not a chance he could fold the quilt one-handed. He draped it as neatly as he could manage across the foot of the bed. Then, chores done, he dragged the chair around the table so he could watch out the window, easing his left shoulder against the laddered back and cradling his right arm in his lap.

  A horse and rider trotted across the distant expanse of lawn, beyond the rose beds and near the hanging boughs loaded with green apples. The horse, a chestnut hunter with a glossy coat and powerful haunches, held his attention for the first glance. There was an escape attempt right there if he could find an unguarded gate; the wall was too high for even a nice beast like that. But then he realized the rider was a woman and the horse faded to the background.

  She rode astride, her legs long in high boots and gently flaring breeches, wrapped about the horse’s barrel as if molded there. Even across the distance, he could trace the elegant tear drops of her breasts and her narrow hips. Her face at least wasn’t ugly although the shadow of her derby hid her eyes, and her hair shone brilliantly golden in the sunlight. It rippled about her shoulders as her body pulsed with the motion, following like an echo as the horse trotted along. It required no stretch of his imagination to picture a man there instead of a saddle and his blood warmed.

  Somewhere in the quiet building, someone shouted.

  Moments later a woman ran stumbling across the lawn, auburn hair and tweed skirt flying. Faust sat up straight, squinting through the bright sunlight, as the horse shied and the rider stilled it, and Jennifer ran past them as if they didn’t exist. She collided with the wrought-iron postern gate camouflaged beneath the overhanging branches, then slammed it with her open palms and slumped against it. For a long moment she hung there, her body shaking visibly even over the distance. Then she dug a key ring from her pocket, fumbled about, and unlocked the gate. She charged through, leaving it open behind her. The sumptuous rider kicked the horse back into a trot, rounded the corner, and vanished from view.

  If Constable Mercer had found Stoner’s missing granddaughter, the news was not good. Poor Jennifer, so upset; perhaps her missing sister had snuck off to visit a friend and been caught in the air raid. No matter how disappointed he’d been when he realized she wasn’t the most beautiful girl in the world, he was sorry for her.

  Nevertheless, he eyed the gaping postern gate. If they left it open, he’d found the first chink in their security. But a soldier followed Jennifer’s path to the gate, glancing over his shoulder as he scurried across the lawn. It was Carmichael of the bad haircut. Still stealing glances back the way he’d come, Carmichael pulled the postern closed and locked it with his own set of keys, then returned at a trot to Margeaux Hall.

  So there was an entry to the Hall on the west end of this wing. If Carmichael had been alone on duty at the front door, he’d left his post to seal the breach in the Hall’s defenses. Or perhaps someone else had been on duty and had called Carmichael to go lock the gate. But then there was no reason for the furtive glances toward the windows of the Hall, where officers and sergeants might lurk. No, that had been the mien of a soldier away from his post. Faust filed the information away; Carmichael could be lured.

  Now nothing moved on the green expanse of lawn; not even a breath of wind shifted the apple leaves nor the yellow and pink blooms of the roses in their formal beds. He rested his elbow on the sill and his chin on his fist, feeling his shoulders sag. Out in the corridor, men’s voices rose, one shrill and excited, the other subdued. Before he could make out their words, a door closed and cut them off.

  Why had he ever left Paris? So Ritzi broke up with him. So Oberst von Maacht chewed him out. Again. So what? He’d lost girlfriends before. He’d been reamed before. It was just the way women, and the Army, worked. But he had suddenly needed room — all the room between Paris and Le Havre. He couldn’t even advance the excuse of being close to Erhard and needing a brotherly hug; he regretted the man’s death, of course, but if ever somebody asked for it, it was Erhard. Besides, Faust hadn’t set out for Le Havre; he’d just started driving and wound up there. It was still astonishing he and Erhard had found enough to discuss for an entire day, morning, afternoon, and evening. Whatever it had been, he still couldn’t remember it. Or, as Wyatt phrased it, The stars be hid that led me to this pain.

  No, something had changed him during the French campaign, rubbing his normally prosaic nerves raw. And he didn’t need even one guess to know what it had been.

  Bugger Greis. Bugger Clarke. Bugger himself, for being so thin-skinned he could be rattled so deeply.

  Behind him, keys rattled and the lock snapped. Faust twisted on the chair, gasping and flinching as his unconsidered motion sent a spasm of pain wrapping about his ribcage.

  Sergeant Tanyon filled the doorway, legs spraddled. His poker face had cracked; his eyes were narrowed, nostrils flared, teeth clenched. Rage pulsed from him like steam from a locomotive.

  “What’s wrong?”

  The sergeant stepped back into the corridor. “Come on, snap to it. Don’t have all day.”

  Everyone was upset, not just Jennifer. He eased into the corridor. Maybe he could take advantage of a general distraction. A swift glance about showed, this time, Tanyon was alone. Faust turned west into the corridor, toward the blaze of sunlight and toward Tanyon, who moved to block his path.

  “Not that way.”

  They were close — too close. It was a chance; Tanyon alone here, Carmichael at the entry, then the keys to the postern and away.

  But just as the thought crossed his mind, Tanyon dropped his hand to his holster. Before Faust could react, he heard the snap, and then he stared down the barrel of the sergeant’s Webley .455 revolver. He froze, their gazes locked, and he knew the moment was past. He forced himself to relax despite the barrel aimed at him.

  Tanyon’s smile was cruel. “Your eyes give you away.”

  More than ever he wanted to have it out with the jerk. “And yours glow in the dark.” Before Tanyon could respond, he turned around and trudged down the corridor toward the eastern staircase and the skylight’s dim glo
w.

  Behind him, Tanyon grunted. Although he listened for it, Faust never heard the snap of a closing holster, though it was maybe lost in the sergeant’s clumping tread. The knowledge left an odd, tense sensation between Faust’s shoulder blades, as if a target had been painted there. It didn’t cool his temper.

  Tanyon clearly was the lynchpin of Stoner’s staff. Bruckmann was a junior lieutenant, clever but inexperienced, and he’d seen no other officers so far. All of the soldiers he’d seen — what utterly English names, Carmichael, Ellington, who knew what else — they were all teenagers and seemed frightened of both him and the war.

  But Tanyon was a different matter. He was a career soldier and had seen action somewhere, perhaps in France with the B.E.F. His experience handling aggressive prisoners seemed limited; otherwise, he’d never have let Faust get so close. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t get that particular opportunity again, and he had the sneaking suspicion he’d have to fight for his next one.

  “To the right here,” Tanyon said. “Down to the infirmary and go straight in.”

  They had only descended one flight and were in a narrow hallway on the second floor — the English first floor, Faust reminded himself. He followed directions and passed several closed doors before he came to an open one on the left. His swift glance swept over a guardroom, with rifles standing in a vertical case, a transmitter-receiver on a stout table, a radioman wearing headphones, an empty prison cell with its door hanging open, and several youngsters in British Army uniforms bent over clipboards but eyeing him as he passed. Good; now he knew what part of the building to avoid. The rifles he’d ignore unless his situation became desperate; the English would go after him with a vengeance if he grabbed a weapon and it wouldn’t be worth it for a short-term advantage.