Catherine and Thomas sat in the red roadster at the main gates to Brantley, a surly home guard sergeant leveling his carbine at them.
‘I tell you,’ she insisted once again, ‘I am Mrs Fitzgerald. This is my home.’
‘They’ll be along presently, ma’am,’ the sergeant said. ‘You just sit tight. No sudden moves, please.’
‘But this is absurd.’
She felt a hand at her arm, and turned to face Thomas.
‘This is no time for decrees, Miss Catherine. You don’t reason with a gun; you just sit tight like the man says.’
Thomas was right, she knew, but still it rankled that she should be denied entrance to her own home. They sat for a few more moments in relative silence, the car engine still running and the headlights casting twin antennae into the night. The grounds of Brantley looked as if there were hundreds of fireflies flittering about, and she only slowly came to understand that these were campfires and hurricane lanterns of police and army men who had come to protect her uncle. The roads leading to the estate had been guarded as well; she and Thomas had had to go through two separate sets of roadblocks just to reach the main gates. They would all have a cold night outside, she thought, and then felt badly for her complaints to this sergeant. After all, the man was only doing his job, trying to keep Uncle Adrian alive. I should be grateful rather than complaining, she castigated herself.
Yet she could not help it: she was anxious to get to the house, to see her husband, to find out exactly what Agent Niel had told him. She could hear footsteps coming down the drive; saw the bouncing beams cast by hand-held lanterns and a group of legs illuminated in their globes of light.
‘Sergeant Carson?’
Catherine recognized Chief Inspector Lewis’s gruff tones.
‘Over here, inspector,’ the sergeant answered, never taking his eyes off Catherine or Thomas. ‘Lady here says this is her house. Got a colored fellow with her.’
‘Catherine?’
This was her husband’s voice, and as the men approached she could make out his tall, straight form.
‘Yes, Edward,’ she called out to him. ‘Do please save us from execution in the morning.’
‘Open the gate, sergeant. It’s my wife.’
She could see him clearly now, illuminated in her headlights along with Lewis and another policeman, and the sergeant fitted the key in the huge lock. There was a clinking and clanking of metal against metal and the gate opened. Edward trotted out to the car.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said. ‘I’ve been worried sick trying to call you at Poplars all evening and getting no answer.’
‘I wanted to be with you,’ she said simply and honestly. Then teasingly she added, ‘I brought Thomas along for protection.’
‘The police on duty in Washington should never have let you leave,’ he said. ‘After what Niel told me today about M being at Poplars, I didn’t know what to think.’
‘I couldn’t stay at Poplars alone. I belong here, with you.’ And saying it, she suddenly realized that it was true.
‘Yes,’ Edward said reproachfully. ‘But all the same, it was damn silly of you. You shouldn’t have let her do it, Thomas.’
‘Don’t blame Thomas,’ she said sharply.
‘How in the name of God did you get by the guards at Poplars?’
She smiled. ‘I told them we were off to an embassy party.’
A half smile crossed his lips at this, she noticed.
‘May we get to the house now, or do you want to search us first?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he spluttered. Then turning back to the gate, he called out to Lewis, ‘We’ve got a couple more visitors. Best alert the men in the house.’
Catherine put the roadster in gear. ‘Hop on the running boards,’ she said, and to her surprise, Edward did. They traveled up the drive like that, with Edward hanging on for dear life as she drove along. Lights were everywhere, she noticed again. There were men scattered so thickly about the grounds that not even a field mouse could get into the house tonight.
There seemed no way for Max to be able to get to Adrian.
‘I could use a nice hot toddy,’ she said, turning off the engine and climbing out of the roadster.
‘You need a good firm reprimand,’ Edward said, jumping off the running board and suddenly hugging her to him. ‘But it was marvelous of you to come,’ he whispered in her ear.
Later, after freshening up, Catherine sat at one end of the dinner table, Edward at the other. In between, on opposite sides, were Niel and Lewis. Appleby sat next to Lewis. Dress was country casual. At the door to the dining room were two massive policemen introduced to Catherine as Scott and Paxton, though she was unsure which was which. It was a relatively quiet meal, at least as far as Catherine was concerned. When meeting Niel again she nodded but turned away before he could make polite talk.
She smiled prettily for the men and picked desultorily at her roasted potatoes and veal.
‘This is a quite decent bottle of claret, Edward,’ Appleby said.
Fitzgerald looked up from his plate distractedly. ‘Pardon? The wine. Yes, it is drinkable, isn’t it?’
Catherine was surprised at his distraction; Edward is usually so attentive, she thought. Clearly all this has been affecting him as much as any of us. She cut a small chunk of the veal and forked it into her mouth. It had no taste for her; neither did the potatoes or the wine.
‘What is it?’ Appleby went on. ‘St Emilion? It has that sort of lime soil aftertaste.’
‘Californian, actually,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘The Napa Valley.’
Appleby held the wine glass out at arms length in shock. ‘You’ve got to be joking.’
‘No,’ Fitzgerald said, smiling. ‘They’re beginning to put out some fine wines there.’
Appleby shook his head, holding the glass in front of the candles in one of the silver candelabra on the table, and examined the deep red color in the flame’s light. ‘Incredible,’ he said. ‘Next they’ll be making wine in Australia. Gold diggers and convicts become the great vintners.’
Thomas entered the dining room quietly, surprising them all by a sudden question: ‘Shall I clear for desert now, Miss Catherine?’
She quickly surveyed the plates. ‘Not yet, Thomas. I’ll call.’
‘Very well.’ He backed out of the room, a faint smile on his lips.
A violent pounding at the front door suddenly sounded. Scott and Paxton on duty in the dining room drew their weapons. Suddenly another policeman from the hallway rapped on the door to the dining room and Scott opened it carefully. The policeman at the door had wide eyes and was out of breath. He sucked in air and said excitedly, ‘They’ve got him, sir. Down by the front gates.’
Max drove north out of Washington on Connecticut Avenue, suspecting that the roads leading more directly to Brantley Hall, either along the Potomac or via River Road, would be closely watched, perhaps even blocked. He was amazed at how quickly he reached the countryside of Maryland. Here and there along the roadside were lights in the windows of the great estates, brick-pillared entryways in front. An occasional car passed, heading south into the city. No other traffic seemed to be going his way. The moon, low on the horizon, came out from behind a haze of clouds and lit the winter landscape all around.
Max was not dressed for a motorcycle, wearing only the army tunic and breeches he’d borrowed from Karl at the hobo camp. He had discarded the coat and derby he’d stolen this afternoon at Union Station, opting to keep the military uniform. After all, he reasoned, Washington is full of service men, and there are sure to be more at Fitzgerald’s estate. Why risk buying or stealing a new set of clothes when the military uniform could still be my best disguise?
But it did little to keep the chill out as he sped along the nearly deserted country road. A rabbit skittered across the road in front of him at one point, and he gripped the brakes, skidding across the road into the opposite lane. No traffic was coming, but the incident brought him out of his planning reverie and he realized he had traveled far enough north. He then headed west on small back roads, using the moon as his direction finder. In his mind was a fair reproduction of the road systems leading to Brantley Hall from the northeast, a direction from which the police would not, he hoped, be expecting him.
He was wrong about that, however. Some three miles above Brantley, Max caught a glimpse of brake lights ahead of him. He pulled over, cutting his engine immediately. It could just be a cautious driver, he thought. A sharp curve ahead. But he could take no chances. The night silence became profound after the noise of his engine died and his ears took a moment to adjust, like eyes to night vision. He heard the slamming of a vehicle door up the road, voices, then the gunning of an engine and the slow grind of a truck pulling away and going through its gears. More silence as the truck got further and further away. Then the sound of voices again from just up the road.
Max pushed the motorcycle off the side of the road into a thicket of bushes and concealed it under branches. There was nothing he could do about his footprints in the snow leading in and out of the thicket, but by the feel of the air temperature now that he was not moving, he knew there would be a melt tonight. Besides, he reasoned, who will be coming along with a light tonight to search for footprints in the snow? They’re looking for me on the roads, not in hiding. By the time it’s light, I’ll be long gone from here.
He made his way along the side of the road for a time, the puttees quickly becoming soaked in the calf-high snow. Ahead he caught the glimmer of lantern light, and the sound of voices was even more distinct. As he approached the light, he maneuvered further off the road, making his way now through a copse of bare trees that provided a modicum of cover for him. The moon was in front of him; there would be no backlight to silhouette him. He moved cautiously through the snow, careful not to step on branches or stumble in the dark. Soon enough he could see the source of the light: two policemen with a roadblock effected by their car turned sideways to halt traffic. One of the police was stumping up and down the road in front of the car, while the other crouched near a fire built out of scrub brush.
‘Crazy son of bitches at the Bureau,’ the one walking suddenly called out to his partner.
The man by the fire said something so low that it was unintelligible to Max.
Then the first one continued his complaint: ‘Nobody’s coming along this road, for God sake. Not even Santa Claus.’
More grumbling from the one by the fire and Max made his way around the roadblock, following the road at a distance of a hundred yards or so. He would have to go the rest of the way on foot. If there were a roadblock this far from Brantley, then the roads closer to the estate would be crawling with police, he figured. He kept the moon to his left as he made his way; the rough layout of roads was in his head. He should come to an intersection soon and then he would have to head directly south.
After an hour of walking, he skirted the intersection he was looking for, bypassing yet another roadblock, this one manned by six police. They do mean business, he thought, and grinned into the night as he continued walking stealthily off the roads. The game pleased him: to win against all odds, that would be a lovely thing.
After another hour he had to leave the road systems completely and head cross country, for police were stationed at odd intervals along the roads and he could not risk being seen. He reckoned Brantley was, in fact, just over the next rise. It was hard going up the hill and the moon went behind dense cloud cover for a time. He floundered off course and before he realized it he stumbled into a barnyard, the great black hulk of the barn looming up suddenly in front of him.
A dog nearby set up a staccato barking and a door opened suddenly to his left. Max dove to the first cover he could find, which turned out to be a muck heap, but at least it was warm. He watched as a tall reedy man in a wool shirt and baggy work pants came out onto the porch of a small farmhouse, carrying a lantern in front of him. The timid light lit up the whole of the darkened barnyard, and Max quickly took note of his surroundings: the barn; the ramshackle house; a plough he had almost dived onto just by the pile of muck he was hiding behind; a dog kennel next to the barn with a short-legged dog setting up a racket still.
‘Quiet, Brutus,’ the man on the porch called, and the dog stopped barking, but still whined as it looked directly at Max not fifteen feet distant.
Max then noticed that the man carried a shotgun in his left hand. He held the lantern up to the night, peering into the darkness, and Brutus gave another yap.
‘Shut up, you mongrel!’ the man growled, and the dog obeyed, its tail curling under its rump.
The man looked to right and left once more, sniffed the night air, then went back into the house, slamming the door in back of him.
Max sat still for another few minutes, breathing shallowly, not making a sound. Then finally he got to his feet and the dog began to whine at him again.
‘Shh, Brutus,’ Max whispered, and he could see the dog’s ears in silhouette perk up at the sound of its name, and its tail began to wag. Max passed out of the barnyard unmolested, reached the crest of the hill, and began the downward ascent. He could see a house in the distance with lights on and surrounding it seemed to be an army of more campfires.
Jesus! he thought. They do have Appleby protected. He moved on stealthily, half bent over to the ground, for there was little cover now as he approached the gates to the estate.
As he reached a safe watching position just across the road from the main gates and hid in a clump of bushes, all hell broke out across the way from him. There was confusion and shouts and lots of motion. A pair of policemen even ran by the bushes where he was hiding to aid in the disturbance at the main gates. Soon he saw a car driving down to the gates and saw in the light illuminated now by more than a dozen torches and lanterns Fitzgerald himself get out of a black car along with a big rough looking fellow, the one who he had taken as a human shield at the Willard, and also by yellow vest. Max stilled his thoughts, listening to what was going on across the way.
‘Good job, men,’ the big one said to the officers at the gate who Max now could see were holding a man by his arms, a gun to his head.
‘For God sake!’ Fitzgerald shouted. ‘You fools. That’s not the German. That’s my land manager, Ned Blakely.’
‘I told ’em, Mr Fitzgerald,’ the lanky man whom the police were holding called out. ‘But they wouldn’t believe me.’
‘Your what?’ the big man said, exasperated.
‘I told you, Lewis. It’s Blakely. He was coming over tonight to discuss spring planting. I thought it would help to pass the time.’
‘Brilliant,’ yellow vest said in a voice full of irony.
Max was beginning to enjoy the show.
‘Well, you heard what Fitzgerald said,’ Lewis told his men. ‘Uncock that gun and let the fellow go.’
The men did as ordered and Blakely shook his rumpled coat free of their hands.
‘Come on Blakely,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘I’ll give you a stiff drink back at the house. Sorry about this.’
Max continued to watch as the men got back into the car, first Blakely, then Lewis, and then yellow vest and Fitzgerald as they were caught in a silly male dance of ‘No, you first’ and vied for last position. Fitzgerald won, but not without a clumsy sort of brushing against each other, mistaking who would go first. But finally the car was packed and set off back to the main house, the police on duty chastised for being too quick on the draw.
Max stayed in position for several more minutes. I know two things now, at any rate, he thought. One: Appleby is still at Brantley. And two: there is not a chance in hell for me to get through the police lines to him.
Feet moved by the bushes where he was hidden and stopped. He could see the scuffed toes just inches from him; see mud splattered on the blue serge cuff. His entire body tensed. So busy had he been watching the scene and plotting his next move, that he thought he would be invisible to all watchers. Now he was not so sure. He reached silently for his gun. They won’t take me without a fight, he determined. Perhaps I should feign sickness; pretend that I’m just one of them who had to sneak off into the brush to relieve himself.
The policeman lit a cigarette, and Max could now see his face in the yellow globe of flame: hawk nose, long black moustache, thick fingers curling around the cigarette as he breathed smoke in deeply and then let it trail out slowly through his clenched teeth.
Max had his gun out now and eased the safety off.
Another deep inhalation, and then the guard moved away.
Max breathed deeply; his racing heart began to calm down.
I can’t stay around here hoping for a chance meeting; for a lucky shot if and when Appleby makes an appearance outside. That would be pure stupidity. I have a matter of hours to get to the Englishman now. How to do it? There were some uniformed soldiers at the main gate, Max now noticed, but their uniforms were different than his. The tunics were longer and they wore no puttees.
I could ambush one of them, he thought. Kill him, hide his body and take his uniform and get close enough to the house to … To do what? he wondered. There are sure to be more inside: bodyguards who will let no unauthorized person close to Appleby.
Max waited for the smoking policeman to walk further away, and then moved out of his hiding place in a crouch, heading back up the hill. Several hundred yards from the road, he turned and surveyed the scene again. Maybe I’m going about this the wrong way. He thought of the silly incident at the gate and smiled at the incompetence of the police.
Suddenly a plan came into his mind, complete and perfect; all of a piece. It was as if he had been planning it all along.
I’ll need to go back to the hobo camp for this, he told himself. I’ll need help. He turned the plan around in his mind’s eye quickly again, like a jeweler examining a diamond before making his cuts.
It had been a long day for Fitzgerald. The grotesque mix-up over Blakely had capped it off. He had spent an hour with the land manager in his downstairs office once he’d calmed the man with a stiff whiskey. But neither of them had really felt in the mood to go over planting schemes after all the turmoil. They had sat silently for the most part, listening to the wall clock tick. He and Blakely had an unspoken sort of male friendship in which words played little part. They had hunted grouse together on the estate and plotted fields. They talked for a time of Mrs Blakely who had been recently ill, and then of the European war, and Fitzgerald had felt himself going mute on the subject. He was no longer so sure about anything, the necessity for war included. But it was much too late for such second thoughts.
By ten he was on his way upstairs to join Catherine who had retired half an hour earlier. Adrian, true to his word, had had a bed made up for him in the root cellar off the basement. His watchers, Scott and Paxton, were keeping post down there with him.
Yes, a long day, Fitzgerald thought as he reached the first landing and headed for their corner bedroom. He knocked lightly before entering the room. Catherine turned from the mirror of the low make-up table where she was seated. She wore a white muslin nightgown cut high to her throat. A brush was in her hand.
‘I think I’ll let my hair grow out again,’ she said, smiling at him as he entered. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think that would be a lovely idea. If you want to.’
‘But what do you want, Edward?’ She pulled the brush through her short thick hair, looking at him now in the reflection over her shoulder.
‘I like it long.’ He took off his jacket and let it drop on the bed, watching her as she fidgeted more in front of the mirror.
‘What are you looking at?’ she said.
‘The woman I love.’
He thought he saw tears come to her eyes; her hand trembled as it brushed her hair. ‘Edward …’ she began.
‘Look,’ he said at the same time, their voices sounding together.
He nodded at her, but she said, ‘Go on. What?’
‘I haven’t been quite truthful with you,’ he said. ‘And it makes me ashamed. You’ve put your life at risk for your uncle, for his telegram. At the theater, now here again you’ve come to be with me. Expressly against my orders, may I remind you.’
‘Don’t be a stuffed shirt, Edward. What is it you want to say? How have you been untruthful?’
‘The damned telegram. There, I said. At first I had my doubts about it. The British government is not above forgery. But initially that did not matter to me. And I lied to you about that. I let my political goals take precedence over my oath to you as a husband. I apologize.’
‘And now?’ she said. ‘Any more doubts?’
‘Absolutely none at all.’
There was a moment of silence. ‘Thank you, Edward. I am grateful to you, more than you will ever know. That was important for me.’
It was as if he blushed at such praise, she thought.
‘And what is it you were going to say?’ he asked.
And then she told him about the mysterious ‘South African’ who had saved her from rape. His face went white when she recounted this. She told him of losing her journal and how she suspected that this was the same man who came dressed as a soldier to Poplars this morning.
‘He was very kind to me after … after the incident. Talked to me. Helped me work through the shock.’
‘But you never said a thing about it to me.’
‘No, darling,’ she said. ‘I suppose I was too embarrassed, too angry at myself for being caught in such a weak position.’
‘How awful it must have been for you.’ He came to her, cupping her head in his large hand tenderly.
‘I do believe Niel suspects me of some relationship with this M as a result. He behaved quite strangely this morning. I had to ask him to leave the house.’
‘He’s a jumped-up corner policeman. If he’s bothered you, I’ll have his badge.’
‘No, no, Edward. Just to let you know. The man is very ambitious. I do believe he hopes to make his career with this case. With or without our cooperation.’
He looked at Catherine with deep affection.
‘Maybe we’ve both dealt in half-truths with each other long enough. Maybe it’s time for a new beginning.’
It was as if she gave herself up at that moment, he thought, let her body sag completely into his, and he picked her up, took her to the bed, and lay her down like a rag doll.
‘You’re exhausted from all this. You need a good night’s sleep. I’ll bed down in the spare room next door.’
She grabbed his hand as he was backing away. ‘No. Stay. Stay with me. Make love to me.’
Later they slept curled together like spoons as they had when first married.
Outside, the wind came up out of the south, blowing warm, and the moon appeared again from behind the clouds, buttery yellow on the snow-covered fields. An occasional clicking of rifle against bandolier and the rustle and creak of leather belts sounded from the men on duty outside the house, but Fitzgerald and his wife did not hear: they slept together deep and dreamlessly, almost innocently.