Maggie Bright (11 page)

She’d certainly rather look at him than the photographs. There they sat, three motionless tarantulas.

“All Arthur Vance wanted to do was send up a warning,” Percy said, cold and inward, circling the teacup rim. There was something quite arresting about that bitter tone. “And we didn’t listen, and all comes to an end.” He raised his eyes to Clare, and her heart picked up pace. She couldn’t look away if she wanted to. Such bitterness in that flat stare. Was it that? She couldn’t put a word on it. Despair? Defeat? Why did he not look away? She wanted him to look away; it wasn’t professional
 
—

“William,” Butterfield said, firm and quiet. “You’re frightening her.”

“I’m not frightened.” She blinked. “Not much. What comes to an end?”

Percy noticed his teacup. He took hold of it, and after a moment, seemed somewhat collected.

“It seems things have gone quite wrong with the BEF,” said Butterfield.

“The BEF,” Clare said, mystified.

“The British Expeditionary Force.”

“Yes, of course
 
—but what on earth have they got to do with . . . ?” She helplessly gestured to the pictures.

“It may all be moot,” murmured Percy, “with what is happening in France.”

She looked from one to the other. “What is happening in France?”

The two men exchanged a glance.

“Look, it’s all supposed to be quite hush-hush,” said Butterfield, “but you’ll know soon enough. Seems our boys are in trouble.”

“Whatever do you mean? Which boys?”

“All of them.”

“The entire British Army is in full retreat,” said Percy, tightly folding his hands on the table.

Clare felt a tingling rush on her skin, sweeping to her scalp, smarting her eyes and nose.

“What do you mean?”

“They are cut off and surrounded,” Percy said. “The whole bloody army. Belgium is about to fall. France will fall in a matter of days.”

“What?”

France? Belgium?
Fall?

The army in
retrea
t
? “Impossible,” Clare breathed. She gripped the edge of the table to keep from springing up and running in circles.

“Yes, a lot of that going on these days,” said Butterfield. “Lots of impossible things. But!” He thumped his fingers on the table, and said briskly, “Best we forget about the impending doom of England and all that is safe and good, and turn our attention to happier things like murdered humanitarians. Right. We’ve only told you about the photographs and the packet. We haven’t told you about Arthur Vance. You see, we got a bit uncomfortable when we learned you’d popped in to visit the priest, fearing some sort of well-meant intrusion, and so, upon a phone call from our trusty sergeant, why, we gathered up our skirts and dashed on down.”

Mr. Butterfield had transitioned to an amiable, competent professional. How could he? She took in the tightly folded hands of William Percy, and in a flash she understood
 
—the photographs, the retreat . . .

“Oh,” she said, very small. She sat back. “England is alone.”

Percy looked into her, and looked away.

She stared at the photographs. “Against
that
. Against
them
.”

She waited for one of them to contradict her. They did not. She felt for the locket through her blouse.

“Miss Childs, what was the nature of your visit to our vicar?” Butterfield said, as if the BEF were
not
cut off and surrounded, as if France were
not
about to fall.

“I . . .” She shook her head, blinking. “Well, I
 
—I wanted to know why he was on my boat, of course.” It came out a bit shrill. “Especially now that Murray Vance is here. He is staying in one of my guest rooms, aboard the
Maggie Bright
. The BV is something of a guardian to him. He came to fetch him home.” She softened. “Does Murray know about his father? That he worked with you? That he was . . . killed?”

“We have no idea,” said Percy. “Officially, Arthur Vance died of a heart attack. And he worked very
loosely
with us. He mostly worked with the English bishop on his own little scheme.”

“Doing what?”

He touched one of the photographs,
the
photograph, the one that sent the world off the cliff, and she gripped the locket. How could her life change forever with the simple placement of three photographs on a table? Each one confirmed the words of Father Fitzpatrick. Each one explained Murray Vance.

One was of the man Klein. One was a building called the Grafeneck Castle in Germany. And one was a child. This is the one he touched. Her stomach surged.

“I wish you’d put those away,” she said quickly.

“Put them away?” He gave her a sharp look. “Yes, why don’t we just put them away.” His voice rose. “Why don’t we put everything away, like we do.” He snatched the picture of the child and held it two inches from her face. “I wish he were front-page news all over England. All over the world.” She pulled away, but he kept it fast in front of her. “I hope you never forget him. I hope you can’t sleep at night. I hope he haunts your dreams.”

“Stop it!” she cried.

“Percy,” Butterfield barked.

He threw down the photograph, and looked away, face flushed. People in the restaurant glanced over, and presently went back to their conversations.

Clare picked up the picture.

It was a child with Down syndrome. He was laughing, his head thrown back, slanted eyes crinkled in delight, palms of his hands touching. She looked at the picture of the Grafeneck Castle. It was an aerial view of a very large building shaped like a squared-off horseshoe, at least four stories tall. According to Grafeneck records, this child had been sterilized as part of Hitler’s purifying eugenics program.

Sterilized.

Eight years old.

Two months later he was killed by an injection of phenol.

Tears filmed, made the photo blurry. “What was his name?”

Percy glanced at her. After a moment, he muttered, “Erich von Wechsler.”

“Erich,” she whispered.

The parents were told he had died of pneumonia. Four families from the same province received notices the same week
 
—that their children, patients at Grafeneck, an institution for those with mental or physical disabilities, had died of pneumonia. An unknown staff member at Grafeneck had risked his or her life to make photographs of other photographs, and of institutional documents, and get them into the hands of an American journalist stationed in Berlin. The journalist got them to an old friend from England. The old friend was Arthur Vance.

“What was the name again, of the overall program?” Clare said, digging into her purse for a tissue. “Charity something.”

“The Charitable Foundation for Curative and Institutional Care,” said Percy. “A title to whitewash hell. Doctors and midwives are now required to report all births with severe disabilities or malformations of any kind.” He leaned forward. “Did you catch that?
Required
to
report
them. Parents could lose custody of their children if they do not comply with sending them to these institutions.”

Clare froze, digging through her purse. “Mr. Percy, I cannot
take that in yet. I’m not past the eight-year-old.” She glared at him. “Forgive me, but I can only absorb one monstrous thing at a time.”

“Why, you haven’t even heard the worst,” he said acidly.

“William,” Butterfield warned.

Her heart raced, her lips trembled. She seized the locket once more. “How is anything worse than a sterilized and murdered child?”

“Because some are experimented on first,” he spat.

And that was it. He’d opened her up and all wilted. Her hand dropped from the locket. Tears spilled.

She wanted to run from William Percy as much as she wanted to reach for him as the only place of sanity in this room, for what could provoke such hatred on his face except for what she now saw so clearly within him: rage-filled helplessness.

And then . . .

There came again that capricious, reassuring wash that she had come full circle, she’d circumnavigated the world to a place where one man’s rage at such evil was a good thing, a safe thing, a strong thing.

A subtle change came as he looked into her eyes, an infinitesimal easing of his pain. Had he wondered at the easing of hers?

“What is it?” she demanded. To detract from this somewhat disturbing admission of that wordless communication, she picked up the photograph and pretended to study it. “I need to know something good.”

“Well, would it do you good to know that Arthur Vance was spiriting them away?” His tone had softened. “One day I will visit a tattoo parlor and have the number five burned on my arm.”

The child wore a little short-sleeved shirt with whimsically striped suspenders. A woman’s arm was about his shoulders. Only the lower part of her face was in the picture, a laughing smile turned toward the child. She had light shoulder-length hair, curled into fashionable rolls. Was she his mother? Someone at the institution?

Did this laughing child die trustingly, curious about the needle
and syringe? Did he ask for the woman in the photograph? Did he die alone?

Was he “experimented on” first, this little boy?

She wiped her nose. “Spiriting them away . . .”

“Vance and the American journalist made arrangements,” Percy said. “Someone would slip children across the waters from Emden, Germany, to Holland. There, Vance collected them and made four trips last fall, sailing five children scheduled for euthanization from Holland to Dover. Five lives, saved. The children were kept safe in a cottage not far from Dover Castle
 
—”

“Ashton Cottage,” Butterfield broke in, pleased. “Two grand old maids live there. Great fun to talk to. Though it’s hard not to stare at Mrs. Barden. She has a high forehead.”

“There they stayed until the bishop came to
 
—” He broke off, and looked at Butterfield. “What’s her forehead got to do with anything?”

He shrugged. “It’s just very high. Goes all the way back. Thought she was bald, at first.”

Percy turned to Clare and made to continue, when he looked again at Butterfield. “All I see in my mind are high foreheads. It’s disturbing. Thanks for that.” He looked at Clare and shook his head incredulously; but she did not miss a new expression
 
—it wasn’t a smile, but it was an easing of lines. She felt a welcomed lessening of tension, and did not miss the subtle satisfaction on Butterfield’s face as he wet his finger and dabbed at crumbs on his plate. It was a look Percy did not catch, and one Butterfield did not mean him to.

Percy continued. “The bishop collected the five and got them to safe places. Meanwhile, Vance asked his journalist friend to gather as much evidence as possible from his contact at Grafeneck. Once Arthur had it all in order, your Father Fitzpatrick was to come retrieve it for the States, in hopes to alert the American press and politicians.”

“Why weren’t the press and politicians alerted here?” Clare asked.

“That’s a little difficult to answer,” Butterfield said carefully.

“It isn’t difficult at all,” Percy snapped. “When Vance first came to us last September, I didn’t like him. He was smug, arrogant, flamboyant
 
—the sort who flits around with movie stars on the Riviera. He gave us these pictures and told us an incredible story about Grafeneck Castle, and that a German spy was after him. Sounded like a movie script. Asked for protection, and then told us to back him in the press when he went public with his story. We refused. Told him the whole thing was ridiculous.”

“That’s not the word you used,” Butterfield put in.

“We told him he had no
proof
. Said if we were to take him seriously, we needed names. We needed copies of documents and ledgers and institutional records. Not a movie script. He took it as a Yard-sanctioned directive. Acted as if he were part of a task force, came in week after week to boast of his progress. Said it was coming together piece by piece, and that he was collecting it into a packet. His visits were regular and annoying and the truth is, I thought he was a delusional nutter with a middle-age crisis on hand. And then
 
—” He paused. “And then at one of his last visits
 
—”

“I actually looked forward to those visits,” Butterfield broke in, with a fond smile. “He was quite entertaining. Knew
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
by heart. Told us lots of stories, places he’d been, famous people he’d met. Was enormously proud of his son. Told us all about the summer they sailed the Mediterranean. Arthur Vance certainly led a singular life.” He squinted, and tapped his chin reflectively. “Yet for all of that . . . I think he was lonely.”

“That’s beautiful. Can we keep on track? At one of Vance’s last visits, he . . . completely changed. It wasn’t paranoia. It was something far different.”

“He wasn’t arrogant anymore,” said Butterfield gloomily.

“He stayed for a very short time, said very little, and left. We didn’t see him for nearly a month. Then one day he showed up with the packet. Showed us photographs of ledgers, patient records, had it
all right on my desk. And for the first time, I truly believed him.” He paused. “For the first time, he became someone I wanted to know. But suddenly he didn’t trust us. Before we could ask what had happened, he repacked it all, tucked it under his arm and informed us that we were too late.”

“He
wha
t
?”

Percy gave that tight, unflattering smile. “Decided to take it to America because England, he said, was doomed. Said he hoped Klein didn’t get to him, said not to take it too badly if he did, bid us good day, and . . .”

“And Klein got to him,” Butterfield finished.

The three sat in silence for a time.

“Do you know?” Butterfield said wistfully. “I miss him.”

Another silence.

“Oh, Murray,” Clare murmured, a hand to her cheek.

“Yes, I do hope he gets back on the bike, with
Rocket Kid
.” Butterfield smiled sadly. “World needs a good laugh.”

“Because everyone can laugh in times like these,” Percy said. He’d taken to his teacup, tracing his finger on the rim. He closed his hand over it.