Not by Sight (34 page)

“I still don’t understand why I’m not allowed to go to Margate,” Becky Simmons complained as the women dressed for their last day of work.

“Not another word, Simmons.” Clare shot her a warning glance while she cinched the belt at her trousers. Shrugging into her trench coat, she added, “I’m tired of listening to you go on. We can’t all have what we want, you know.”

Becky glared at her while Lucy flashed a look of sympathy that only fueled Clare’s anger. She was sorry she’d ever mentioned Daisy to any of them. She didn’t need their pity. “What are you two looking at? We’ve got work to do.”

“Easy for you to say, Danner,” Becky said. “You’ll get to go right past my family’s village, while I have to stay here . . .”

Clare was surprised to see tears in Becky’s eyes. “What’s wrong with you? Are you still homesick?”

The woman shook her head and continued dressing. Clare relented and said, “Look, if it were up to me, Simmons, I’d
let you go. But Mrs. Vance is our supervisor and she gives the orders.”

When Becky said nothing, Clare sat to lace up her boots. She glanced over at Agnes, who scratched at her hands through her gloves. “Still have that rash, Pierpont?”

Agnes nodded. “I changed the bandages, but the sulfur the doctor gave me doesn’t seem to be working.”

“I’ve never had such a reaction before.” Clare scrutinized her. “You must have very sensitive skin. What were you doing handling fertilizer on Sunday, anyway? It was our day off.”

Agnes paled. “I . . . I met with Mr. Tillman. He asked if I wanted to make extra, taking care of Lord Roxwood’s rose garden.” She tipped her chin. “I could use the money.”

“Yes, a woman’s got to live, right?” Clare said, tossing Agnes’s words back at her. She thought again about the letter Agnes had mailed on Monday and fumed. In truth, she would rather go to Margate with Becky. At least Simmons was grateful to Grace for her help, unlike this one who seemed more interested in getting paid her back wages than in the fate of her mistress.

“Breakfast!” Mrs. Vance poked her head through the bedroom doorway and beamed. “I cooked up eggs and a bit of sausage for our last day, ladies. So let’s make the most of it.”

Once the women finished dressing, they headed downstairs. Seated at the kitchen table minutes later, Clare looked over at their supervisor and wondered what the future held for Mrs. Vance. If they were all to move south, what of her budding romance with Mr. Tillman?

She soon had her answer. “I suppose I should tell you all now.” Mrs. Vance’s features had taken on a glow. “I’ll be staying on at Roxwood . . . as Mrs. George Tillman.”

Several gasps rose from the table before the kitchen echoed with a resounding cheer and a flurry of congratulations. Mrs. Vance laughed and suddenly seemed years younger. “Yes, he’s
asked me to be his wife,” she said. “My friend, Millicent Foster, is in need of a few extra hands in her gang, so you’ll meet with her at the Mortimer estate tomorrow and take up the task of showing those women how it’s done.” Her eyes held a suspicious gleam. “I’ve already told her how proud I am of all of you. Not only have you done exemplary work, but you’ve shown each other respect and teamwork. I couldn’t have asked for a finer gang of women in all the Corps.”

Less than a half hour later, hugs were exchanged and a few tears shed before Clare and Agnes made their way outside and down to the barn, where the horse cart was loaded and waiting.

“I think congratulations are in order,” Clare called as she spied Mr. Tillman adjusting the tack on the horses. He looked up and colored, but his broad smile spoke volumes.

“You will take good care of our supervisor, won’t you?” she asked once she and Agnes climbed into the cart.

“For the rest of my life,” he said solemnly.

His words pierced her. In her heart of hearts, Clare had hoped one day to share that with Marcus . . .

Mr. Tillman eased the team forward. Clare let go of the thought as she looked back to see Lucy and Becky walking toward the barn while Mrs. Vance stood near the doors. They all waved, and she raised a hand to them in return. She’d said her good-byes to Lucy, who would be gone by the time she returned. Clare realized how much her WFC sisters had come to mean to her and was thankful for their support and encouragement. Like her, they believed Grace would soon be free. They also believed Clare would find Daisy.

She turned back to face the road ahead, feeling renewed determination. She must keep that belief also.

Jack remained concealed between two lilac bushes growing alongside the gatehouse wall and waited nearly an hour until the last of the women left.

Entering the women’s quarters, he climbed the stairs and proceeded to make a search of the bags and boxes beneath each bed. Fifteen minutes later, he found what he was after. Having learned about Agnes Pierpont’s family from Marcus, he plucked a photograph from the bag beneath one of the beds near the window and surmised he’d found her possessions.

He emptied the rest of the bag’s contents onto the bed, but after an extensive search through various articles of clothing, toiletries, and stationery, he came up with nothing.

Had they been wrong? So far, Agnes Pierpont had turned out to be exactly what she seemed: a domestic who put on a good show, but in the end worried more about wages than her mistress; a citified fieldworker who had forgotten to wear gloves before handling fertilizer.

The woman who had been Grace’s one hope.

He stared at the empty bag, and for the second time he prayed for a miracle, some shred of evidence he’d overlooked. He was no magician to pull a rabbit out of a hat, though, unless Agnes Pierpont was a well-seasoned spy . . .

He plunged his hand inside the bag, his fingers searching for a false bottom or hidden compartment.

A moment later, he smiled.

———

Jack took off at a half run back to the manor with his proof in hand. He’d no sooner closeted himself into the study and picked up the telephone than Knowles rapped at the door. “Sir Marcus Weatherford has arrived, milord.”

“Excellent! Show him in.” Jack waited until his friend entered the study. “I was about to call you. I’ve found something.” He bent down to retrieve Agnes Pierpont’s bag from the floor.

“I’ll go first.” Marcus closed the study door and moved toward the desk. “After I spoke with you last night, I contacted our people in the War Office. We’ve this remarkable woman who has a real knack for deciphering various mediums used in making invisible ink. Maud was able to detect the sodium nitrate and make visible the code used in Agnes Pierpont’s letter to Alfred Dykes. Early this morning, New Scotland Yard sent two detectives over to Swan’s.” He eyed Jack with barely concealed excitement. “And guess what?”

“I’m on tenterhooks,” Jack said, his heart hammering in his chest.

“They searched the floor manager’s rooms and found code books, also maps of our Naval Yards, directives written in German and Dutch, and a healthy supply of sodium nitrate. When he was confronted, Dykes confessed all. It seems he and his agents have been using Patrick Mabry and Swan’s to transmit classified British naval secrets to the enemy. Mabry couldn’t have known the people he was corresponding with were put in place by the Germans for precisely that reason. His letters would be unsealed, coded with invisible ink, and resealed to be forwarded on to those contacts.”

Marcus’s brown eyes gleamed. “The letter to James Heeren you found aboard the
Acionna
is just such an example. And it was Agnes Pierpont who gave that letter to Chaplin the night of the ball, not Grace. She’s innocent, and so is her father.”

Jack felt as though the sun had just come out. Relief and elation filled him. He grabbed the bag and thrust it at Marcus. “Take a look.”

Marcus peered into the bag, then reached in to remove a code book, several sheets of stationery, a photograph, and lastly a neatly folded handkerchief.

“Agnes Pierpont’s possessions,” Jack said. “I took the liberty of searching their quarters. As you can see, those sheets of
stationery have brown markings—lemon juice. No doubt she was practicing her craft. The code book speaks for itself. But you’ll see in the photograph what appears to be barbed wire behind the women.”

Marcus nodded, looking grim. “According to Alfred Dykes, these two are Agnes Pierpont’s mother and sister. They’re being held at a concentration camp in Germany. It would explain why she felt compelled to spy for the enemy. I feel certain she was being blackmailed.” He held up the handkerchief. “And this?”

“I would guess it contains the sodium nitrate she used in her letter to Dykes.”

“I need to get her back to London,” Marcus said, replacing the contents in the bag. “Any idea where she is?”

“Down at the farm, I imagine.”

“Let’s take my car.”

Minutes later, Marcus’s Pierce-Arrow pulled up alongside the barn. Mrs. Vance came outside and appeared shocked when Jack, still wearing his mask, strode directly up to her and addressed her. “We’re here to see Agnes Pierpont.”

“She . . . she’s not here, milord,” the woman stammered. “Agnes is with Clare Danner and Mr. Tillman. They’ve taken the last load of hay into Margate and should be at the train station by now.”

“Let’s go.” Marcus led the way back to the car.

Once they were on their way to Margate, Jack said, “When will the Mabrys be released from New Scotland Yard?” He wondered if Grace could ever forgive him. Perhaps once she learned of his help in bringing Agnes Pierpont to justice? He had treated her father abominably, though all indications at the time proved Patrick Mabry’s guilt.

Would Grace understand? Jack didn’t dare to hope.

“They’re still at the precinct in Westminster, but I’m certain with the new evidence, it will be only a day or two before they’re
free to go,” Marcus said. “I will tell you I’m relieved about the turn of events, more than you can know. I haven’t seen or spoken with Clare Danner since the day after the dance, and frankly I’ve been afraid to.”

He shot Jack a grimace. “She and Grace are close, and no doubt I’m being blamed for taking her friend off to jail. I hope once we’ve sorted this business and Grace is released, Clare will still be amenable to my courtship.”

Jack turned to him. “You really are keen on her, aren’t you?” he said softly.

“Enough to imagine a future with her,” Marcus said. Then he flashed a humorless smile. “But one step at a time, old boy. I haven’t exactly won her affection yet.”

They had just passed through the village of Wreston a couple of miles from town when overhead Jack heard the whine of plane engines. “Marcus, do you hear . . . ?”

Marcus slowed the vehicle and glanced up. “Dear God, no,” he said. A formation of German Gotha planes was flying up from the south and heading into Margate. They began dropping bombs. Marcus floored the accelerator. “Clare!”

Moments later, explosions rent the air. Black smoke rose against the horizon.

Scant minutes later, the Pierce-Arrow entered town, and the two men witnessed the devastation and destruction. The enemy planes had disappeared, having dropped their bombs. Buildings lay in rubble. Fires burned out of control in various places. Cars had been overturned. And the bodies . . .

“Marcus!” Jack pointed toward the train station, where a huge inferno blazed. “The hay, it’s on fire!”

The road was blocked with debris. Marcus braked the car, and they exited, rushing forward on foot. Unconcerned for their safety, the two approached the station to search out the three from Roxwood.

Others who had managed to remain safe now rushed from houses and buildings and began rescuing victims of the attack. A dozen men—railway personnel and a few shopkeepers—hauled buckets of water to try to douse the flames while shouting for the fire department.

Jack and Marcus found Mr. Tillman first, his leg crushed beneath a large timber several yards from the burning cart.

“Where is Clare?” Marcus grabbed the injured farmer by the collar.

“Easy.” Jack pressed a hand to his friend’s shoulder. He’d never seen Marcus look so wild with fear.

“The blast,” Mr. Tillman groaned. “Over there.” The farmer pointed to a cratered outbuilding near the station.

Marcus started to leave, but Jack said, “Quick. Let’s get this beam off of him.”

They freed the farmer’s leg just as two other men approached to offer their assistance.

“Come on. Let’s go!” Marcus urged. “They’ll take care of him.”

Jack followed his friend as they ran to the outbuilding. “Clare!” Marcus shouted, and Jack caught a glimpse of black hair amidst the rubble.

She sat on the ground behind a foot of debris, leaning against the building’s one undamaged wall. Though her midnight hair was discernible beneath the concrete dust, the rest of her looked disheveled.

“Clare!” Marcus leaped over the pile of wreckage and knelt down beside her. Jack moved to her other side. Agnes Pierpont was there as well, her head lying motionless in Miss Danner’s lap.

“She saved me.” Clare Danner blinked at Marcus, looking dazed. Tears streaked her dusty cheeks. “Agnes . . . jumped in front of me when the block flew at us.” With a shaking hand,
she pointed to a cinder block that had once been part of the building. “After the bomb . . . she saved me.”