Delta Green: Denied to the Enemy (16 page)

Finally, reading the dejected look on Barnsby’s face as they boarded the bus, Arnold offered some advice as they stowed their suitcases and sat down.

“Relax, Al. You were playing by London rules. They were playing by Whitby rules. I was playing by Brooklyn rules. The first rule is, Brooklyn rules always win.”

The aging bus tumbled down the rough roads outside of Whitby filled with quiet chatter from the small groups of spinsters who occupied the back seats. Several heavily bundled up children sat up front near the clunky heater, which spit an unsteady stream of warm air that smelled suspiciously like exhaust. One boy was solemnly playing with a hand-carved wooden Hawker Hurricane, maneuvering it through imaginary dogfights with invisible enemies. The other kids were eyeing him or looking out the window, either overcome with jealousy or boredom.

Arnold and Barnsby sat in one of the frontmost seats, watching as the landscape shifted from houses and barren dales to natural glens and deadfalls, covered in a thin haze of snow broken only by thin copses of trees and rocks. As they rose over the crest of a gradual hill, a beautiful valley covered in snow and trees opened beneath them like a painting. Arnold was suddenly struck by the cold beauty of England, something which seemed to be lost on the passengers of the bus. He turned to look at Barnsby but he was looking away, eyes unfocused and distant.

They rode through various towns, stopping for ten minutes at a time, groups of people getting on and getting off, and it was more than an hour and a half before the driver stopped in the quaint town of Helmsley.

Barnsby unloaded his suitcase and Arnold followed, and they found themselves standing in an empty cobblestone square beneath a bruised grey sky as the bus drove off to the south. The square looked like some sort of public market to Arnold, and it split the town into sixths. Arteries of tiny roads spread out from the center of the plaza like the limbs of a giant starfish. Cluttered streets of old, small houses took up most of the town, although a single large bell tower hung to the west above the rooflines, dominating the horizon. Snow, thicker than they had seen near Whitby, covered everything. Trails of smoke floated from dozens of buildings, and they could smell meat cooking somewhere.

“Where to?” Arnold asked.

Barnsby trudged off to the north following one of the arteries. Arnold followed, wondering if he had stepped on some toes with the Whitby incident. Barnsby stopped and stamped his feet free of snow beneath a sign which read “The Black Swan.” He opened the door and entered, holding the door politely for Arnold. A rush of warm air poured out to meet his callused skin.

Although it was three in the afternoon the pub was filled with people, who all looked up, not unpleasantly, at the two men when they entered. It was warm and the air smelled of bitters, beer, and roast chicken. Barnsby retired to a small table in a corner near a coat rack bursting with garments. Dozens of eyes tracked them as they sat. All the best tables, those nearest the roaring fire, were taken by the oldest or the biggest in the room, and the children sat right at the grate, shoes off, laughing and talking. Arnold liked that system. Barnsby removed his coat, but not his gloves, as usual.

A man appeared from a room in the back, followed the gaze of the crowd, and walked up to their table, wiping his hands perfunctorily on his apron as he approached. Balding, smiling and cordial but a bit gruff. Arnold found he liked the bartender.

“What can I get for you two gentlemen?” He asked in a solemn tone, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Can I buy you a pint of bitter?” Barnsby offered. It had been so long since he had heard him speak, it almost took Arnold a moment to place the voice.

“Sure,” Arnold said, and noticed the bartender look him over as he detected his accent. The bartender rushed off to fill their glasses.

“I’m sorry about that mess back in Whitby. I just didn’t want to see you get creamed our first day out,” Arnold said, honestly apologetic. He watched Barnsby nod with understanding, and, for the first time since the beginning of their trip, smile.

“Yes. I’m afraid I’m not at all good at this. Unluckily I have...a limited repertoire.”

“What exactly are you doing here, Barnsby? If you don’t mind me asking... “The bartender placed two overflowing glasses of deep, dark beer in front of each of them and Barnsby passed him a pound coin. The bartender attempted to make change but Barnsby waved him off, astounded. When he left Barnsby continued.

“I’m what you Yanks would call a ‘specialist’ in occult matters. I have enjoyed success in endeavors like this one before. The Major has great faith in me, but, unfortunately, I am not all that good with people. As you have no doubt discerned.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re finally talking to me. I was about ready to check your pulse.”

Arnold was gratified to hear Barnsby emit a shrill laugh as they both took a strong tug on their pints. It seemed, finally, that some type of bond was developing. Arnold glanced around and was met by several kind nods from townsfolk.

“Anyway, the locals here look much nicer,” he mentioned over his shoulder. Barnsby let out a grunt of agreement as he downed the last of his beer.

“So, where to start?” Barnsby asked, wiping the foam from his lip.

“Should we head out to the ruins today?”

“Certainly. Another round for courage?” Barnsby asked, smiling. Despite himself, Arnold had to admit he was beginning to like the little guy. Arnold finished his nearly full glass in a gulp.

The old man chided his two horses as they pulled the carriage with Arnold and Barnsby inside. The driver’s name was William Duncombe, and he had been recommended by the owner of the Black Swan as a fine guide of the local landmarks. Barnsby and Arnold had taken a room there, leaving behind their essentials in the largest room that the rather meager establishment had to offer.

They rode in relative silence to the northwest, the lulling sound of the horse hooves on the stones accentuating the dreariness of the weather, the Guiness keeping the chill from their bones. The land stretched out in gradual rolling hills covered in snow on either side of the road. Occasionally they would pass a tree or a sign marker indicating that the thin, poorly kept cobblestone path lead to Rievaulx Abbey.

“What is Rievaulx Abbey, William?” Barnsby shouted over the clack of the horses hooves.

“Oh. That’s a fine ol’ ruin out there on the moors, sir. Owned like everything ‘twas by my family back in the days of knights and castles. Just like the Jermyn estate. It’s owned by the Ministry of Works now, sir. We’ll pass it on yer left before we leave the road.”

“So the Jermyn estate is owned by the Ministry now, you say?”

“Oh yes, sir. Most of these ol’ places are. Helmsley Castle, Spout House, Whorton Castle.”

“Are there any caretakers out there?”

“Oh no, sir,” old William snickered.

“I see.” Barnsby said in a quiet voice.

They rode on in silence for a time, and slowly, nearly imperceptibly, the sky, heavy with clouds, began to darken. A light snow began to fall. Arnold found himself nearly hypnotized by the repetitive drone of the horses’ hooves on the paving stones. Barnsby leaned forward and shouted again, raising Arnold from his reverie:

“Does anyone live out here on the moors, William?”

“Oh no, sir.”

“What do you know about the Jermyn family, William?”

William pushed his hat back and looked into the back of the buggy over his shoulder with a mischievous grin.

“Oh, sir. That’s a fine tale, that one is. The house, that is Jermyn House, was built by Walter l’Espec, a lord or some such thing way back in the eleven hundreds. This l’Espec fellow built Rievaulx Abbey and Helmsley Castle. Very, very up on his buildings, this l’Espec was.”

“Rievaulx Abbey was routed round about...the fifteen hundreds I suppose, and all the big houses in the area were left behind by the people occupying ‘em. Don’t really know why. Never paid much attention in school, I guess.” William offered a gap-filled smile in apology for his lack of details.

“My family, the Dumcombes, took all this area over in the fifteen hundreds, but lost it later. So the manor house out near the abbey gets a lord in seventeen hundred and fifty seven, that’s Lord Wade Jermyn, you understand, a famous explorer he was. That’s how he got the title, you see.”

“Where did he explore?” Barnsby leaned forward as he asked the question, his face rapt.

“Oh. Down in that Congo in Africa. He crawled around in the jungle there for nearly ten year. Wrote books on it and everything. Married the daughter of a Portuguese trader and brought her back to Jermyn House to make a family after his time in the bush was up.

“But no one ever saw her, the wife of Sir Wade, that is. He kept her locked up in the west wing of his house like the Emperor of China. The locals had a lot to say about that...local talk, y’understand.

“In 1755 he took his bride back to the Congo, leaving their son behind here at the manor, looked after by a bunch of darkies. She died down there and Sir Wade came back to look after his boy himself, young Philip...

“Now it was that Sir Wade took to drinking in Helmsley, at the Black Swan in his later days, getting deep in his cups if you get my meaning. And when he was in a nasty state he would go on and on about a great grey city he found out there in the middle of the Congo. About how things lived there, things he had seen with his own eyes back in his day. T’wouldn’t keep his mouth closed about that place, and eventually, as his estate began to suffer, he was carted off to the madhouse in Huntdington.”

Arnold looked over at Barnsby as a chill ran through him. It was not the cold that caused it.

“Now, young Sir Philip was an altogether loathsome sort. A little, hunched thing, but terrible strong. He killed a groundskeeper in his fifteenth year for accidentally trampling one of his hounds, and not a word was said about it. Too much money, y’know. My mum used to tell us that if we were bad, Sir Philip would come for us in the night.” William let loose a braying donkey-like laugh.

“Philip took up with the daughter of a local and made an heir for himself, if you get my meaning. Some said she was a gypsy, but others say she was Chinee. Whatever she were, she produced the only Jermyn who looked normal. Oh, that’s the Rievaulx Abbey there.” William’s knotted hand came up, pointing to the west.

In the growing dark Arnold could make out the ruined arches of a once-great building. Snow-covered stones and gaping doorways broke the black silhouette of the remaining structure. William clucked and the buggy turned off the main road, cutting a sharper path to the northwest, leaving a trail of hooves and wheels in the seamless white snow.