Deal with the Devil Page 5

  “The sweater incident.” If he didn’t prompt, Wurlitzer would keep him there all day while he fussed with his impossible brier.

  “Yes.” Wurlitzer gripped the pipe between his teeth. “Yes, that’s better. I believe I mentioned Faust was poor as the proverbial church mouse. He once confided to me his entire life savings amounted to something like five pounds sterling, and he was spending all of it for one year’s study here. As part of his economizing, rather than purchase a sweater for winter, he made one.”

  Stoner paused with a pinch of tobacco between his fingers. “Beg pardon?”

  “It seems the sisters at the orphanage taught him — not knitting, what’s the other homely handicraft?”

  “Do you mean crochet?”

  “That’s it,” Wurlitzer said, “one hook, not two needles. Actually, it was rather a nice sweater and nothing of which he need be ashamed — a pleasant light blue with a few bands of white about the chest, and it fit him well. But some of our more snobbish students ragged him over it. After that incident he never wore it outside his rooms.”

  “Presumably he didn’t wish to be ragged?”

  “Faust didn’t care whether he was ragged or not. In fact, he seemed to expect it, and perhaps it was such preparation, which enabled him to allow even the cruelest hazing to roll off. His friends were far more upset by it than he and there were some bitter words in his absence. But to the end of his time here, he never responded in kind.”

  Glancing down at his tobacco pouch, Stoner found he still held a pinch of weed between his fingers, forgotten as he listened. “Mannerisms from the Benedictines. I see what you mean; he’s an interesting study.”

  “Even more interesting, when he finally did take his degree at Munich, it was in engineering.”

  Stoner glanced up. “Are you saying he spent his entire life savings, not on his career — ”

  “The scholarship fund, of course, paid his university expenditures here. But when it came time to spend his own money, he put it toward the love of his life — English sixteenth-century poetry.” Wurlitzer’s teeth flashed again. “Granted, for as long as we kept in touch, he had difficulty putting together a career of any sort.”

  The tobacco was still between his thumb and index finger. Stoner dropped it back into the pouch and returned it and the clay to his sleeve. He seemed to dangle on the verge of a momentous discovery, and one incautious move would send him either tumbling headfirst into understanding or rolling away from the edge to safety. It was a disquieting sensation.

  “Are you saying he’s an Anglophile or just a silly idealist?”

  Wurlitzer shrugged, his robe swaying about him. “Perhaps both.” At Stoner’s sniff, he relented. “I’m saying you two have much in common.”

  The sun played among the clouds, throwing their lonely pathway into deeper shadow, and cold fear again encased Stoner. If Wurlitzer’s opinion was correct, the coming experience would not be pleasant, should Brigadier Marone confirm the assignment. He sucked in a deep breath and tried to keep his voice light. “That should make the cheese rather more binding. I must break him.”

  The sparkle faded from Wurlitzer’s face. He removed the brier from his teeth.

  “We are at war.” The reminder was unnecessary and Stoner hated himself for saying it. But he was always more secure in an argument if he built an invincible wall of logic to defend his position. “It’s possible he has information of value. His weaknesses, Timmy; tell me his weaknesses.”

  Wurlitzer puffed for a moment in silence. His pipe was finally drawing and smoke billowed as if from a steam engine.

  Stoner held his patience, examining the tracery of the arched windows before him line by line. His growing sense of comprehension confirmed which way he’d tumbled. Well, war was no time to consider personal safety, nor emotional comfort.

  “Should you feel the need to drive him,” Wurlitzer said into their silence, “you might prey on his insecurities, particularly his naiveté, presuming it’s still the driving force it once was, and also the nagging doubt telling him he’s missing something important. That, and keeping him locked up in prison so he can’t ramble about as he’s wont to do, will upset his equilibrium more than anything else I could suggest.” He paused. “Should you be able to lead him, which would be more in keeping with an honorably retired professor, you might offer him the one thing he’s never known.”

  It sounded like a Wurlitzer word game of the sort they’d played for thirty years. But when Stoner faced his friend, instead of the twinkle he expected, he found ice instead. A sudden gust billowed their robes.

  “And what might that be?”

  “A home.” Wurlitzer stared at the battlements of the massive tower, giving Stoner a good view of his sturdy shoulder.

  If the sod meant Jennifer, he could think again. Stoner turned his own shoulder, aware their silence this time was not so companionable.

  But the uncomfortable moment didn’t last long. “You’re right. We are at war, aren’t we?” Wurlitzer said. “Cedric, there’s one further action you should take.”

  Stoner didn’t turn even though the clouds thinned and the air glowed about them. “Yes?”

  “I recently heard from another former student of the same vintage as Faust, by the name of Grandon Brownell. What he told me was in the strictest confidence.”

  If so, Wurlitzer wouldn’t have mentioned it unless it was also of the utmost importance. Intrigued, Stoner glanced over his shoulder and met his friend’s earnest gaze head-on.

  “Grandon Brownell, you say?”

  “And Robert Trenton Clarke.” Wurlitzer looked up as the sun broke free, flooding the decorative risers and upper windows of the northern-facing Hall and Chapel. The lower windows and doors remained in shadow. “Presumably they filed reports of their adventures when they disembarked in Brighton after the evacuation from Dunkirk. I believe they serve with the Royal Warwickshires.” He sighed. “This is such an imposing quadrangle. I hope that’s enough for you to locate them.”

  In contrast to the Hall and Chapel, the stones of the southern-facing battlement were lit and each pane shimmered, clear and unhidden. “Rather like yourself, Timmy, old man. Stalwart and dignified. Yes, that should be quite enough.”

  Chapter Six

  the same afternoon

  Patchley Abbey, Woodrow, and Margeaux Hall

  The sun was westering in a pale sky as Stoner strode east along the lane, not fast enough to kick up a real angina attack but enough to give him some exercise. The summer had been a hot one, cool mornings and evenings with blazing days, interspersed with terrific thunderstorms, and the wildflowers were in roaring bloom at the feet of the dry stone walls on either side of the road. As he left Pamela Alcock’s chicken farm and Jerome Owen’s graceful rows of turnips behind, the lane surged up one last rise into the little forest the locals called the Dark, and his heart was starting to tighten as he paused atop the crest in the shade of the massive beeches.

  Below his resting point, the lane continued down the rise and escaped the forest’s reach into the glaring sunlight. Just beyond that demarcation, the old Roman rampart and another dry stone wall contained Caspar Wynant’s pedigreed Jerseys in their lush meadow. On the north side, his little farmhouse, Woodrow, nestled in its hollow below the rampart, with Jennifer’s kitchen garden occupying every sunny spot not already claimed by the dilapidated barn, the apple trees, or the rutted drive. Beneath the apple trees snaked the mortared stone wall, with the final hill rising beyond and, halfway to its crest, the looming Renaissance bulk of Margeaux Hall.

  Ivy trailed along the base of Caspar’s dry stone wall. Stoner plucked some, fleshing out the hothouse carnations he’d purchased in the Oxford market; otherwise there wouldn’t be enough for Jennifer’s vase and Harriet’s hair, if she’d returned.

  He’d been flabbergasted speechless when Brigadier Marone, in command of an experimental project to make use of captured German spies rather than seek their execution, had activated St
oner’s long-moribund Reserve commission and placed him in charge of the operation at Margeaux Hall. Once past the surprise, he’d been pleased; his years in a German prisoner of war camp during the first war, his enforced knowledge of the language, lifestyle, and mannerisms, could finally be of service to England. But the longer he managed the Wildflower base, enslaving men trapped between treason to their homeland and the English hangman’s noose, the deeper grew his cold fear. As much as he yearned to protect his nation and family against the looming German invasion, this was a long, slippery slope which threatened to spill him into something worse.

  He paused on Woodrow’s porch, arranging the greenery about the carnations. He’d now have to place young Faust within the same trap. Faust wasn’t so young, of course; if the birthdate he’d given was accurate, he had lived the better part of twenty-seven years and was entering what was blandly called the prime of life. And full of that life he was, with his active face which didn’t seem capable of keeping secrets, expressive dark eyes, restless hands and feet. If they’d met a few years earlier, Stoner would have tutored him in poetry and perhaps grown as fond of him as Wurlitzer.

  But with England’s back to the proverbial wall and the German Army poised on the shore of France, ready to invade, Stoner’s job was to destroy him.

  He straightened and entered the farmhouse. “My dear?”

  Jennifer appeared from the kitchen, apron over her flowered housedress and soapsuds to her elbows, a damp smudge plastering a lock of auburn hair across her cheek. “Dad, you shouldn’t.” She kissed his cheek.

  He returned her salute, her quick smile awakening his. “I know you like them.”

  “I do indeed.” She wiped her hands on the apron and vanished into the kitchen. Her voice trailed behind. “Any word on our bad girl?”

  “Nothing.” He heard the disappointment in his own voice; if she’d heard anything, she’d have said so at once. And while the drained, earnest-faced flight lieutenants at RAF Patchbourne had remembered dancing with Harriet at the pub last night, none of them recalled seeing her after the air raid klaxon had sounded.

  Jennifer reappeared with the carnations and ivy in a vase, setting it on the oak dining table they’d brought from Oxford. She lingered over it, draping the vines in patterns, tucking them close then stretching them out along the polished wood. “Where on earth can she be?” Suddenly she was angry. “What is she thinking?”

  Her hands were quick and delicate, sorting the flowers by height. The tug at Stoner’s heart had nothing to do with his health. The war was maturing her too soon and there was nothing to be done about it. She looked after her sister, typed reports, cultivated the garden, managed the house, and never had time for herself. She hadn’t even painted her nails lately. At nineteen, she should be at University or off on a grand tour of the continent — getting bronzed in Italy or philosophical in Greece, or laid in Paris, for all he cared. So long as she didn’t become Teutonized in England...

  Finally he said, “I suppose she’s just being young.”

  Jennifer’s sideways glance was ironic. “I was young once, you know. I never ran off.” She cocked her head, just as her mother used to do. “Did you?”

  She was enchanting and his smile appeared at her command. “No. I cannot say I ever did.”

  She smiled in return, her hazel eyes lighting up her face. Stoner wondered if Faust had seen her delightful inner beauty during the few moments he’d spent in her presence — with or without the shotgun. He’d seemed puzzled when she’d burst in on them, no matter how his eyes had lingered on her and no matter how efficiently she’d put him in his place. Stoner treasured the memory; like Jennifer herself, it was a keeper.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked.

  “I was going to ask Mrs. Alcock for something up at the Hall.” He glanced at the clock on the mantle. “I have a briefing with Jack and Sergeant Tanyon in five minutes.” He paused. He hated asking, but there was no one else. “Can you be spared?”

  “Of course.” Her hands vanished behind her back and the apron fell off. “Do I look all right?”

  “Ravishing.”

  “Which means I need to brush.” She balled the apron and threw it into the kitchen, ducking for the stairs. “Give me one minute.”

  It took her three, of course, but he didn’t mention it as they entered the inner keep of Margeaux Hall through the postern gate and crossed the lawn in silence. Only when they neared the military wing’s entry did Jennifer speak. “Is this about the new man — the one I caught?”

  “It is indeed.” He shifted his briefcase to his left hand and opened the door for her, eyeing her as she stepped past him. “You catch interesting men, my dear.”

  “Did you expect otherwise?” Her voice and eyebrows were arch.

  The vestibule of Margeaux Hall’s modern wing was of glass, after the fashion of the Crystal Palace, and the afternoon sun blazed in like a searchlight. The reception desk had been placed sideways, so the man at the switchboard could see out without having the sun fully in his eyes. Norris, currently on duty, noted their entry and the time into the log.

  “Any word on Miss Harriet?” he asked, his sharp Geordie accent for once gentle.

  Stoner shook his head. “Nothing, Norris, thank you for asking. Are there any messages?”

  “Awfully pretty girl,” Norris said. “Brigadier Marone rang up, sir. Lieutenant Bruckmann took the call, and he and Sergeant Tanyon are waiting in your office.”

  “No dispatches?”

  “Not tonight, sir.”

  “Thank you, Norris.”

  In the airy modern sitting room he’d appropriated for his office, Tanyon and Bruckmann rose from the two wing chairs before the desk as the door opened. Stoner entered, but Jennifer hung on the threshold.

  “Is it a report you need typed? I can get right on it.”

  “It is, my dear, but I’d like you to sit in on this meeting first. You should be aware of what this operation entails.”

  “Goodness.” She smoothed her dress, her face not quite straight, either. “My first briefing.”

  Stoner hadn’t changed from his uniform, so Lieutenant Bruckmann came to attention, his white-blond hair gleaming in the sunshine streaming through the French windows. Sergeant Tanyon, barrel-chested and Regular Army, held the pose longer.

  “I’ve an initial report for you, sir,” Bruckmann said.

  “Thank you, Jack.” Stoner gestured the two men from his work area to the sitting room proper, where sofas and more wing chairs congregated between one French window and the fireplace. “Before you begin, has Brigadier Marone reached a decision? I presume that’s why he rang.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bruckmann sat back on the sofa, sat forward, shifted away. “He confirms you are to undertake Faust’s interrogation yourself.”

  Stoner closed his eyes. He rarely swore, but such a disappointment deserved an indulgence. “He knows I have little experience in this field, and Faust is the biggest fish we’ve caught. I do wish he’d give the task to the London Cage.”

  Sergeant Tanyon sat in the farthest wing chair, his arms crossed and blue jaw tight. Without speaking, he stared at the fireplace, as if images of all the extra work this new project entailed weighed on his mind.

  Bruckmann retrieved Stoner’s briefcase, settled it on his knees, and twirled the combination. “He seemed to think the mutual Oxford experience — between you and Faust, I mean — might establish some rapport.”

  Stoner scoffed. “If Brigadier Marone believes reliving school-day memories with a tough, front-line combat soldier will break him, then he’s ready to retire. And he’s younger than I.”

  “You are retired,” Jennifer said.

  “Was, my dear. Reactivated for the duration.”

  Bruckmann’s lips curved in a small smile. “I don’t think that’s what he meant.” He cracked the briefcase open without looking inside and set it on the coffee table between them. “I think he meant something more along the lines of a professor-s
tudent relationship.”

  “Then he’s even — ” but before Stoner could continue, he remembered Wurlitzer’s comments regarding Faust’s insecurity. Most students outgrew the need for mentoring relationships, but a man uncertain of his position, locked in a tiny bedroom, deprived of stimulus and exercise, and under the intense pressures of interrogation, might be forced back into such a role. “Well. Perhaps.” He rubbed his tired eyes. “All right, we’re saddled with it. What do you have for me?”

  Bruckmann dragged a canvas sack from beside his chair and produced Faust’s field-grey uniform tunic. Stoner hitched closer.

  “The chap at the London Cage confirmed most of what we guessed.” Bruckmann spread the tunic across his knees. “Faust’s promotion to major came in the field and he hasn’t taken the time to visit a tailor for a full refit.” He pointed to the top of the sleeve. “Here, you can see where the old shoulder board was ripped out and the new one sewn in poorly. And he’s not wearing the white piping of a staff officer but the pink of a Panzerman, so he’s still in training. Also, as you noticed this morning, he didn’t wear a staff officer’s breeches with red stripes down the legs.”

  “And the ribbon is the Iron Cross?” Stoner asked.

  “Yes, sir. According to his paybook, Faust was awarded the medal Second Class in Poland and First Class in Norway.”

  Bruckmann draped the tunic across his knee so the shoulder strap faced up. At the fold, Stoner glimpsed the charred and bloody edges where shrapnel from an exploding aircraft had ripped into cloth and the human flesh beneath. In the first war, his own khaki trousers had looked the same after German machine-gun bullets slammed through them. The memory of his combat injuries, a war ago and a lifetime away, reminded him of the agony of hot sharp metal and what Faust endured. Stoner didn’t try to quell his sympathy. It was better to recognize such softer emotions as they occurred so he could prevent them from interfering with his judgment, and also allow a human face to show through the pressure he would apply to Faust. The deception was distasteful, but necessary.