The Milkweed Triptych 01 - Bitter Seeds (21 page)

14 May 1940

Milkweed Headquarters, London, England

S
tephenson had already worked himself into something just short of a foam-flecked tirade by the time Will arrived. Will glanced over at Lorimer and Marsh for a show of solidarity, knowing he was in for the brunt of it. They stood silent and motionless. Stephenson let loose as soon as Will closed the office door behind him.

“How the
hell
did he know where to find her?”

Cigarette ash swirled around Stephenson as he paced. He used the cigarette like a baton, gesturing at his troops like a displeased commandant. Little white flakes settled on his suit and tie like dandruff.

He turned on Will. “And
you!
What in God’s name were you thinking? You insisted the prisoner wouldn’t see anything she hadn’t already seen. And then you bollixed everything up by
tipping our hand to the enemy.”

Will found himself standing at attention. Stephenson’s tirade evoked his grandfather’s rages.
I won’t hide. I won’t.
He rubbed the palm of his hand. At least Stephenson wasn’t drunk.

“She—I mean, I—it was the only thing that made sense,” said Will. “The only sensible explanation was that the Jerries had been communing with the Eidolons.” One of his grandfather’s worst habits, the most infuriating and belittling, had been the way he’d blame Will for his own irrational mistakes. Will pushed back. “Implicitly or not, you’d made that assumption when you brought me on board. I was working within the parameters you gave me.”

In the corner of his eye, he saw Marsh stiffen.

Bad move.

“My faulty assumption was that you could think for yourself, Beauclerk.” Stephenson dragged on his cigarette again before continuing. “As for their escape, how did he find her so easily?”

“Not through the Eidolons. However they did it, it was through human means.”

“Do you honestly think,” Stephenson said quietly, “that bastard was human?”

Will preferred him when he bellowed. He understood eruptions of temper; quiet rages unsettled him. Marsh’s patron had an iron presence that gave his gray gaze the intensity of a hammer blow.

Marsh piped up. “As a matter of fact, sir, I’m more sure of it now than ever before.” He’d known Stephenson most of his life, and so he didn’t quail before Stephenson’s fury. “They have fears and weaknesses just like the rest of us. Vulnerabilities.” His eyes went distant and unfocused for a moment. “Will’s right, sir. This has nothing to do with the Eidolons.”

“Back to my question: How did he find her?”

“The girl did know a great many things,” said Marsh.

“Your point?”

Marsh shrugged, shook his head. Will watched the gears turning behind his friend’s eyes, watched him sorting through puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit together. “At least we know her name now,” Marsh added. “Gretel.”

“Wonderful! In that case, I’d say we have this locked up tight. I’ll just pop on down to the Prime Minister, shall I? ‘No worries, sir, the Jerries caught us with our knickers down, but we have a single name now, so victory is assured.’ Is that what you’d like me to tell him?”

Will tried not to breathe.

“How the hell were we supposed to catch that minger?” Now Lorimer pushed back. “Can’t fight against something like that.”

Stephenson went very still, as though frozen in place with a veneer of ice. “Allow me to remind you gentlemen that our mandate, as handed directly to me by the Prime Minister himself, is to do exactly that.” One by one he stared them down as he continued. He stood nose to nose with Lorimer. “It is our job to
find
ways to fight them.” He moved in front of Marsh. “It is our job to thwart them at every turn.” Tobacco breath puffed across Will’s face when Stephenson stood before him to conclude, “And it is our job to do so discreetly. It is
not
our job to go flashing our knickers to everyone we meet.”

Stephenson finally sat down behind his desk. He’d moved his office, including some of the furniture and most of the watercolors, into the Old Admiralty. Leadership of MI6’s T-section now rested on other shoulders. The old man had parlayed all his political capital into the oversight of an obscure four-man operation.

“We need more men, sir,” said Marsh.

“And there, at least, is one area where your world-class cock-up might benefit us.”

“Sir?”

Pain returned to Will’s fingertip. Phantom limb syndrome, the doctors called it. Aspirin no longer took the edge off his pain. He checked the bandages while Marsh’s appeal echoed in his ears.
We need more men.

“How many people witnessed your fumble yesterday?”

“Hard to say, sir. A dozen. Perhaps more.”

“More,” chimed Lorimer. “At least that many saw him bring the lass upstairs after he found her. And they ran
through
that many again. . . .” He trailed off, head shaking.

“Congratulations,” said Stephenson. He turned toward Marsh.
“Your request for additional men and matériel has been granted. Those witnesses are your new recruits.”

“I don’t understand?” Will received the hammer-blow stare again in response to his question.

Marsh answered for Stephenson. “It’s damage control, Will. They saw something that we were supposed to keep under lock and key. Literally and figuratively. They know our secret and we need the men, so it makes sense to recruit them into Milkweed.”

“They already have stations,” said Lorimer. “What’ll we do, form up a press-gang?”

Stephenson opened a desk drawer. He produced a bundle of papers wrapped with a black ribbon. “No need. These will suffice.” He split the bunch between Will, Marsh, and Lorimer. Each page was embossed with the full Royal Arms, making it equivalent to a decree from His Majesty. “Find your witnesses. Give them these. Doubtless some of them have already talked. So work fast.” He nodded at Lorimer. “Be prepared to show the film in a day or two.”

Lorimer nodded. “Aye.”

Rusty spots marred the pristine white cotton tied around the stub of Will’s finger. They served as a strong reminder that he wasn’t up to snuff. He’d been foolish to volunteer his services. He wasn’t a competent negotiator; he was lucky the Eidolon’s price hadn’t been far worse.

Will divided his stack of papers in two. He handed one half to Marsh and Lorimer each. “I rather think this is a better job for you chaps.”

“We need to do this as quickly as possible, Will.”

“I fear that spies and soldiers won’t ever be enough.” He held up his ban daged hand. “And my contribution to this effort has been less than exemplary thus far. We need true experts, not a dilettante like myself.”

He turned to Stephenson. “With your leave, I’d like to do a little recruiting of a different sort.”

“You’ll need those papers.”

Will shook his head. “They wouldn’t do the least bit of good. The men I have in mind aren’t easily intimidated or impressed. Otherwise, they’d
have perished long ago.” To Lorimer, he said, “We
can
fight von Westarp’s people. If we have the proper men for the job.”

Stephenson nodded. “Go to it, all three of you.”

Lorimer stayed behind while the others filed out of Stephenson’s office. As Will closed the door, he heard Lorimer saying, “There may be a way to fight them. But I won’t know until I’ve disassembled the lass’s battery. . . .”

Marsh accompanied Will on his way outside. “Think you’ll have any luck?”

“Depends on what you mean. Good or bad?”

Marsh smirked. He scrutinized the face of everyone they passed. Will realized he was doing the same.

“I’d wager our luck is destined to change soon enough. Law of averages, you know.”

They exited the Admiralty, past sandbag revetments and sodden marines. The drizzle had stopped overnight, but now it was raining stairrods. Water sluiced between the stones in the courtyard and poured in little runnels from the brims of the sentries’ helmets.

Will opened his umbrella, careful not to jostle his injured hand. Marsh nodded at the bandages.

“How’s it feeling?”

“This?” Will steeled himself for pain before flexing his hand. “A minor inconvenience,” he lied. “I’ll be right as rain before you know it.”

“It’s an awful thing, Will. I wish I hadn’t done it.”

“Hi, hi, none of that. We do what we must. Ha! That’s a rather fitting epitaph, come to think of it.”

Marsh grimaced. “You may be right.”

“Keep your eyes and ears open. I might have something for you in a week or two.”

“Where are you going?”

“First, home. Then for a bit of a ramble through the country, I ex-pect.

“Take care of yourself, Will.”

“You, too, Pip.”

Marsh went back inside. Will ventured into the downpour. He slogged up Whitehall toward Trafalgar until he succeeded in hailing a cab. It took him to the Kensington flat Will rented with the allowance siphoned from his brother Aubrey every few months.

Will packed a suitcase with the essentials for what he guessed would be a fortnight of travel. Then he gathered up what he had of his grandfather’s papers. A hasty inspection while waiting for another taxi confirmed his expectations. The information he sought wasn’t there.

From St. Pancras Station, he called ahead to Bestwood. A car met him when he arrived in Nottinghamshire.

15 May 1940

Bestwood-on-Trent, Nottinghamshire, England

W
hat the devil are you doing here?”

“And a very good morning to you, too, Your Grace.”

Will looked up from where he sat cross-legged on a Turkish silk rug in the midst of a pile of books and papers he’d pulled from the shelves. It was just after dawn, the sun peeking through the gap between earth and leaden sky. Sunlight poured like honey across the polished rosewood and leather of his grandfather’s library, evoking a lustrous shimmer from the rug. His brother stood in the doorway.

“How long have you been here?”

“Got in yesterday evening.”

“Already making a mess of the place, I see.”

“I’m looking for something.”

“I can tell.”

Aubrey strode into the study. Four years Will’s senior, the thirteenth Duke of Aelred was fully six inches shorter and fifty pounds heavier than his brother. Whereas atavistic Will had inherited the fiery hair and pale eyes of long-dead Danish marauders, Aubrey had picked up a simpler combination of hazel eyes and mouse-brown hair. Which already
showed signs of thinning. The brothers were no more alike in appearance than they were in temperament.

Even at this uncivilized hour of the day, Aubrey dressed as though expecting His Majesty to call at any moment. His tie alone probably cost more than all the linens in Marsh’s house combined. Will, on the other hand, was quite content in his bathrobe.

Aubrey lifted the lid on the silver carafe sitting on the tea service Will had taken to the library. He sniffed. “You had the kitchen staff brew up coffee?”

“No. Tried making it myself. I really can’t recommend it. Terrible stuff. Cold now, I’m afraid.”

“You’ve wasted it, haven’t you. Typical. There is a war on, William.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Are you staying long?” asked Aubrey in a nonchalant tone that belied the preferred answer. He circled Will’s nest on the floor, looking for other misdeeds and affronts. Will half expected him to don a white glove and inspect the room for dust, the prig.

“I’ll be far and away as soon as I find some of grandfather’s papers. You wouldn’t know where Mr. Malcolm packed them, would you?”

“I thought you’d taken them.”

“Not all.”

Aubrey stopped before the diamond-shaped leaded-glass windowpanes overlooking the garden. A pair of ravens cawed to each other from the boughs of a yew. He turned. “What are you so keen to find?”

Secretive men engaged in secretive practices,
thought Will. Warlocks excelled at maintaining a low profile. In the oldest families, like Will’s, the knowledge had been whispered down bloodlines for centuries. But on occasion warlocks had been known to exchange tidbits of Enochian, like folk musicians trading old songs and melodies. Any warlock worth his salt kept a journal. If grandfather had ever noted where he’d acquired such tidbits, that information would be in his journal.