Necessary Evil (Milkweed Triptych) (6 page)

He introduced himself to the desk sergeant, and explained that he’d been called down to claim some lost property. Except, he quickly pointed out, it wasn’t lost at all, so wasn’t it a bit silly to waste everybody’s time over nothing? But the sergeant asked him to wait. He disappeared through a door.

*

By the time Big Ben chimed three in the afternoon, I was ready to climb the walls. But at long last I heard what sounded like a desk sergeant announcing there was a Lord William here, and had anybody called him?

Finally. Took your own bloody time, didn’t you, Will?

Typical.

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to bring a semblance of order and dignity to the tousled haystack. I tried to imagine how an elder warlock like Hargreaves would receive Will. I’d barely dealt with the man—or any of the warlocks aside from Will, for that matter—and wasn’t particularly saddened by it. Arrogant, standoffish, and nasty as the day was long. That’s what I remembered. Sitting on the cot didn’t seem quite right. Instead, I opted to stand in the center of the cell, hands clasped behind my back. One look at my face and Will would draw the obvious conclusion.

While I waited, I eavesdropped on the conversation that unfolded just around the corner from my cell.

*

The desk sergeant returned a moment later. He ushered Will through the same door, deeper into the station. Cannon Row was one of the stations responsible for policing the very heart of London, and as such, it was a busy place. The sergeant led Will through a warren of desks and filing cabinets, the room echoing with the clatter of typewriters, the ring of telephones, and a dozen conversations. They were met by a Constable Dennis something, and an Inspector Hill, at a desk along the rear wall close to a door with
CELLS
stenciled on its frosted glass pane.

“Lord William?”

“Hullo, hullo! I am tardy. Terribly sorry about that. Things have been just a bit manic. The war, you know.”

This was met with a general chorus of curses directed at the Jerries.

“Quite right! Now,” said Will. “I’m must confess, I’m a bit perplexed as to why I’m here.”

One of the constables fetched a chair for him. Without thinking, Will used his injured hand to pull it closer.

“Ouch … double damn.”

The inspector asked, “Why the bandages, sir? What happened to your hand?”

“What, this? Ah.” Will paused to think up a plausible explanation, but then rushed ahead with the first thing to spring to mind before his hesitation became awkward. “Silly thing. Bashed it with a spade. Victory garden, you see. Doing my bit for the war effort.” He attempted a laugh, which came off halfhearted. “Planting the seeds of victory, you might say.”

*

He had always been a terrible liar. But this was the Will I remembered from the old days. Before Milkweed had changed him. It felt good, hearing him be his old self again; I could picture him waving his hands about as he spoke. But there was a lot riding on this, and I couldn’t help rolling my eyes with frustration.
Oh, for Christ’s sake, Will. Just get on with it.

*

The constable asked, “You keep your own garden?”

He couldn’t hide the incredulity in his voice. It seemed he had a hard time imagining Will, seated there in his Savile Row finery, mucking about in the dirt.

“Yes,” said Will. “For my brother’s foundation. Leading by example, you see. His Grace is dedicated to supporting the war effort. As am I.”

“When did you hurt your hand?” asked the constable.

“Yesterday.” The constables shared a look.

“Just an accident, then?”

The skepticism came across clearly. Will couldn’t understand why the police were so interested in his bandages. “Indeed,” he said.

“Looks serious. You seen a doctor for that?”

“It’s why I’m so very late, in fact.” At least that was true. “But enough of my troubles,” said Will. “What was this about a billfold?”

Constable Dennis relayed the story of an arrest he and his partner had made the previous evening. It was a strange tale. (“In the lake, you say? Good heavens.”)

Inspector Hill took over after the constable finished his story. He said, “You can see, sir, why we wanted to speak with you.”

“I appreciate your diligence. Truly excellent work,” Will said, “but I suspect somebody is having fun with you.” He took care to reach into his pocket with his good hand. “As you see, I haven’t misplaced my billfold.”

The constable opened a desk drawer and produced a similar billfold. “This doesn’t belong to you, then?”

Will laughed. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I admit to a certain extravagance in my sartorial tastes. But that does not extend to owning multiple billfolds.”

Hill said, “Is there any possibility you’ve misplaced some papers? Anything that might have found its way into this?”

“I doubt it. May I?”

“Please.”

Will thumbed through the contents of the mystery billfold. “Sorry, gents. I don’t recognize a scrap of this. I mean, look at this! Knightsbridge? That’s no address I recognize. Certainly not mine. How I wish it were. Quite nice. Always struck me as a good place to settle down, Knightsbridge.”

“Do you recognize her?” The inspector pointed to a color photograph (interesting, that) of a lady with striking blue eyes and a dusting of silver in honey blond hair. She looked a fair bit older than Will, but pretty just the same. Her expression was something between a smile and a scowl, equal parts irritation and fondness, as though the photographer were somebody dear to her and had surprised her in an unguarded moment. Will couldn’t help but wonder who she might be, and who the photographer had been.

“Sir?”

Will realized he’d been lost in thought. “Lovely lady,” he said. “But I don’t know her. Wish I did.”

The inspector unfolded another piece of paper. It appeared to be a driver’s license. “This is your full name? And your date of birth?”

“Yes.” Will looked at the date of issue, and frowned. “But clearly this is a hoax. 1963? How silly.”

Dennis said, “Yeah. We’re a bit puzzled by that.”

“Any notion how your name might have ended up on these papers? Anything at all?”

“Not a crumb.”

The inspector referred to his notes. “Do you know a John Stephenson?”

Will blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“That’s the name this fellow gave. I see it’s familiar to you?”

“I just spoke to John Stephenson not a quarter of an hour ago. Quite a riddle, isn’t it? I’m as perplexed as you. Although…”

Will trailed off as another thought struck him. Marsh had been speculating about enemy surveillance. Was that it?

The inspector patiently prompted him. “Yes?”

“Well, I’m not entirely free to discuss this, it’s all very hush-hush, you understand, but I have been doing a bit of work for HMG.”

“What sort of work?”

“I’m sure you gentlemen will understand that the making of war occasionally raises issues of a sensitive nature. Suffice it to say that I’ve been asked to bring certain skills to bear on the problem.”

*

I wanted to punch the wall. Better yet, I wanted to punch Will. Anything to shut him up.

Jesus Christ, Will. Why don’t you just come straight out and
tell
them about Milkweed and the Reichsbehörde while you’re at it?
I knew Will had read the Official Secrets Act. But I hadn’t realized the basic idea hovered so far above his mental grasp. Stephenson would have been apoplectic had he known Will was practically traipsing over hill and dale, singing about his secret work for Whitehall to anybody who would listen to a few measures.

Right then I knew that I could never confide in Will if my mission was to succeed.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Nor, I suspected, could the coppers. What could this chinless toff possibly bring to the table?

*

“Skills?”

“I mustn’t say any more,” said Will. “But rest assured that we’ll give Jerry what for, when the time comes. Yes, indeed.” He winked.

Dennis said, “So you think your work for the Crown—”

“Not so loudly, if you please. The walls have ears, as they say.”

Inspector Hill sighed. Then said, “Your
work
might be related to this?”

Will said, “It’s been brought to my attention that I might be followed. I could be under
surveillance.
” He paused before whispering, “By the Jerries.”

*

God damn it.
This was my own fault. I had warned him about the surveillance after I’d returned to Britain with Gretel as my prisoner. That had been long before I’d finally understood what she was. Enemy surveillance had seemed the only explanation for how she known about me and Liv and our newborn daughter.

The constable said, “Francis had figured the codger for a Jerry spy.”

“If he is, he’s a poor specimen,” said Hill. “The Jerries would at least make certain their agents in the country had real money on them. Not this rubbish.”

This provoked a general discussion among the policemen, who speculated about German agents at large in London. Which, I suddenly realized, was the root of the niggling itch at the back of my mind.

My legs buckled under the crushing weight of new remembrances. I kicked the wall and dropped to the cot; its frame groaned in protest.

“Oy, quiet down in there!” yelled a copper.

Will had lost his finger yesterday. But what I’d forgotten, until that moment, was that Klaus had come to pluck Gretel from the Admiralty building the very next evening. Which meant he was already in the country. Which meant the siblings would escape tonight. And I had to be there when that happened.

I knew, from reading the Schutzstaffel operational records long after the fact, that Klaus had arrived via U-boat, following instructions that Gretel had left in a letter prior to swanning off to become my prisoner. That sub was lurking off the coast right now, waiting to bring the siblings back to Germany and the farm.

Which meant free transportation to the Reichsbehörde. A golden opportunity. But the U-boat wouldn’t wait forever.

I had to get my younger self on that sub.

And with that, another cog in Gretel’s grand plan slipped into place for me. This was the one thing I’d never been able to square away: What purpose had it served for her to play at being my prisoner? Why did she let me take her to Britain, only to leave with her brother so soon afterwards? Long ago I’d given up on ever knowing the answer, resigned to the fact that Gretel and her machinations were inscrutable.

Now I knew my planning was on the right track, because Gretel’s actions suddenly made perfect sense. She’d come to Britain to meet
me.

But there was more I had to do. So much more.

Klaus’s spectacular infiltration of the Admiralty building had forced us to acknowledge Milkweed’s shortcomings. Which meant that unless I stopped him and changed the sequence of events, Will would leave tomorrow in search of the other warlocks. But that, at least, would take care of itself, as soon as the coppers escorted Will to my cell.

Or so I thought.

*

The policemen were deep in conversation, embroiled in speculation. Will hadn’t solved the mystery surrounding the billfold’s provenance for them, but he’d given them food for thought. They latched onto the surveillance issue, though with relief or dread, Will couldn’t tell.

Either way, he’d done his part. They’d get it sorted. And Will wanted to get back to the lexicon while the Eidolon’s declaration was still fresh in his mind. He cleared his throat.

“Well, then. If that’s all?” He scooted his chair back. “I’m sure you gents will put it right soon enough.”

Inspector Hill said, “Very well. Though if we have further questions?”

“Of course. Do call on me as needed. Best of luck with your mystery man. Ta.”

*

Oh, no. Don’t you dare, Will. Don’t you dare walk out of here without first seeing me.

I cradled my face in my hands. Will was leaving without bothering to see who had been carrying his billfold. And the coppers let him.

You stupid, chinless toff!
I wanted to scream.
Something strange has happened and you need to
follow it through
!
You need to survey the situation. Gather information. For all you know your life could be at risk! And for Christ’s sake, if
you
were under that level of surveillance, so would we all! It’s your responsibility to find out what you can and report back to Stephenson. Report back to me.

But it was too late. Will was gone.

Which left me back where I had started. I had less than twenty-four hours to get out of this cell, recruit my younger self and convince him to leave his wife and newborn daughter behind on an open-ended undercover mission,
and
to stop Will from recruiting the warlocks.

I had journeyed across twenty-three years to be here now. Yet still I faced the same problem as always: time.

three

13 May 1940

Walworth, London, England

Liv’s fingertip traced the puckered knuckles of Marsh’s hand where it rested on her stomach. She’d pulled his arm around her while spooning up against him after Agnes’s 3
A.M.
feeding. It had roused him from a horrible dream about gardening shears. He’d lain there half the night, listening to her breathe, watching the gentle rise and fall of her alabaster throat, inhaling her scent.

She’d been awake for a while before he’d realized it. It was a game she played, feigning the long slow breathing of a deep sleep and wondering if he’d notice. She was good at it. They’d lain awake together while the sun rose. They hadn’t made love since they’d brought Agnes home. Not since long before France. But Liv hadn’t been out of hospital long. He wouldn’t press; he could wait until she was ready.

Her fingertip paused in its wanderings. She whispered, “And what about this one?”

“Which one?”

She was counting his scars. He had a few.