Angels in the Gloom wwi-3 Page 6

  The Peacemaker replied with a single word. “Why?” He did not like the Irishman, nor did he trust him, and lately he had become too demanding. Unless he proved himself more valuable than he had so far, he would have to be disposed of. And since he had a great deal of knowledge, that disposal must be final.

  “You want to stop the American munitions reaching England safely?” the Irishman asked, almost without inflection. He had no accent; he had deliberately eradicated the soft music of his native burr. It was part of his anonymity, and he had learned never to let it slip.

  In contrast to him, the Peacemaker was highly memorable, a man whose dynamic appearance and extraordinary character no one forgot.

  “And keep your very considerable interest in Mexico?” the Irishman continued. “It takes money.”

  The Peacemaker had a strong suspicion that many of the guns in question, as well as the ammunition for them, were going to end up in Ireland, but just at the moment that was less important. “I do,” he answered. “It is in both our interests.”

  “Then I need six thousand,” the Irishman told him. His face was expressionless, as if he were afraid of letting any fear or need show itself, anything at all that could be used against him. “For the moment,” he added. “We have to have men on all the ships, and they are taking a considerable risk planting smoke bombs in the holds. If they get caught they’ll likely be shot. I can’t rely on anyone doing that for love, or hate. We need at the least to guarantee that their families will be taken care of.”

  The Peacemaker did not argue. He must handle this with exactly the right mixture of skepticism and generosity. Their goals were different, just how different he did not yet wish the other man to appreciate. He knew that his aim was a free and independent Ireland, and a touch of revenge thrown in would add to the savor.

  The Peacemaker’s purpose was an Anglo-German Empire that would lay peace not only on warring Europe, but upon the entire world, such as the British Empire had across Africa, India, Burma, the Far East, and the islands of the sea. This would be greater. It would end the strife that had torn apart the cradle of Western civilization for the last thousand years. Europe and Russia would belong to Germany; Africa was to be divided. The rest, including the United States of America, would be Britain’s. They would have the best of the art and science and the richest culture in the world. There would be safety, prosperity, and the values of free exchange, law, medicine, and literacy for everyone. The price would be obedience. That was a fact in the nature of men and of nations. Those who did not obey willingly would have to be forced, for the sake of the vast majority whose lives would be enriched and who would be more than willing, eager to grasp such moral and social wealth.

  Naturally, Ireland was included, and would have no more independence than it did now. It was by nature and geography part of the British Isles. But of course he would say nothing of this to the man opposite him.

  “Very well,” he agreed reluctantly. “Make sure every penny is used well.”

  “I don’t waste money,” the Irishman answered him. There was no emotion in his voice; only looking at the steady, pale steel-blue eyes did the Peacemaker see the chill in him. He knew better than ever to underestimate an enemy, or a friend.

  The Peacemaker went over to his desk and withdrew the banker’s draft. He had had it made for six thousand, because he knew that was what he would have to settle for. He had made his calculations in advance.

  “Some of that is for Mexico,” he said as he handed it over. The Irishman would never know if he had had two drafts there, one for each amount.

  The Irishman took the paper and put it in his inside pocket. “What about the naval war?” he asked. “I’ve heard whispers about this project in the Establishment in Cambridge. Are they on the brink of inventing something that will defeat the German navy?”

  The Peacemaker smiled; he knew it was a cold, thin gesture. “I will inform you of that if it should become necessary for you to know,” he answered. He was startled, uncomfortably so, that the Irishman had even heard of it. He obviously had sources the Peacemaker was unaware of. Was that his purpose in asking, to let him know that? Looking at his smooth, blank face now with its prominent bones and relentless eyes, he judged that it was.

  “So it is true,” the Irishman said.

  “Or it is not true,” the Peacemaker replied. “Or I do not know.”

  The Irishman smiled mirthlessly. “Or that is what you wish me to think.”

  “Just so. Travel safely.”

  When he was gone, the Peacemaker stood alone. The Irishman was a good tool—highly intelligent, resourceful, and in his dedication incorruptible. No money, personal power, luxury, or office, no threat to his life or liberty would deter him from his course.

  On the other hand he was ruthless, manipulative, and devious. He was impossible to control, which the Peacemaker both admired and recognized as dangerous. The time was fast approaching when disposing of the Irishman would become a matter of urgency.

  Half an hour later the post arrived with several letters and the usual bills. One envelope had a Swiss stamp on it, and he tore it open eagerly. There were several pages written in close script, in English, although the use of words was highly idiosyncratic, as of one who translated literally from another language before committing it to paper.

  At a glance it seemed ordinary enough, the account of daily life of an elderly man in a small village at least a hundred miles from any battlefront. Fellow villagers were mentioned by Christian name only, most of them Italian or French. It was full of gossip, opinions, local quarrels over small matters of insult, jealousy, rivals in love.

  Read with the Peacemaker’s knowledge it was entirely different. The village in question was not some rural Swiss community but Imperial Russia; the local characters, the groups and players on that vast stage of tragedy and upheaval, war and mounting social unrest. New ideas were boiling to the surface and the possibilities were almost too huge to grasp. They could change the world.

  But this was just one man’s thoughts, sensitive and acutely observed as they were. The Peacemaker needed more information, a better ally, a man who could travel freely and make informed judgments, one who had the breadth of experience and the idealism to see the humanity beneath the cause. The Irishman’s intelligence was acute, but his dreams were narrow and self-serving. There was too much hatred in him.

  The Peacemaker thought again with regret of Richard Mason, whose commitment had been wholehearted a year ago. Mason too had witnessed the abomination of the Boer War, and been sickened by it. And in this present conflict he had seen more than most men. His occupation as war correspondent had taken him from the trenches of the Western Front to the blood-soaked beaches of Gallipoli, the battlefields of Italy and the Balkans, and even the bitter slaughter of the Russian Front. He had written about them all with a passion and humanity unequaled by any other journalist, and with unsurpassed courage.

  He had been not only the ideal ally, but the Peacemaker had honestly liked him. Losing him last year had been a double blow. He could still remember his shock even more than his anger when Mason had stood here in this room, exhausted and beaten, and told him that he had changed his mind.

  That had been the doing of Joseph Reavley, of all people! Reavley, whom he had discounted as a useless dreamer, a man who would wish well, and lack the nerve to act.

  Damn Joseph Reavley and his stupid and desperately misguided emotionalism. He was exactly like his father, and he had cost the Peacemaker his best ally.

  Nothing he could say afterward had changed Mason’s resolve. But now, a year later, it was time to try again, even harder, to swallow his own pride and win him back. Argument did not work. He must use emotion, as Reavley had, and his very considerable charm. It might be inwardly humiliating, but for the sake of the greater peace it would be infinitely worth it. And such peace would not come without cost to them all. He should not expect to be immune, professionally or personally.

&nb
sp; He moved away from the window. He would begin tonight.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  Hannah heard the front door bang, and Luke came running up the hall. She had told him a score of times not to run inside the house. She turned to tell him again just as she heard the vase topple off the hall table and crash to the floor. She knew from the sound of it that it had smashed, not into a couple of pieces, but dozens.

  Then she heard Jenny’s voice, strident and sharp.

  Hannah stormed into the hall. “Jenny! I’ve told you not to use that word! Go to your room!”

  Jenny’s face crumpled. “That’s not fair! It was Luke who broke the vase, it wasn’t me!”

  “Tell tale tit! Tell tale tit!” Luke sang, hopping up and down.

  “And you go into the garden and pull the weeds in the vegetable patch until I tell you it’s enough!” Hannah barked at him. “Now!”

  “But I . . .” he started.

  “Now!” she repeated. “If you want any supper.”

  “It’s not fair!” he complained. “It was an accident! She called me . . .”

  “If I have to tell you again, you’ll have no supper,” Hannah warned him. She meant it. She was furious and frightened. Loss seemed to be crowding in on every side, like a darkness falling, and she knew no way out.

  Both children went to obey, Jenny crying, Luke stifling his misery as a matter of pride.

  Joseph came in through the side door, holding it open for Luke, who did not even glance upward at him.

  “Thank you!” Hannah called after him. “Where are your manners?”

  Luke ignored her and disappeared.

  Just as miserable herself, she bent to pick up the pieces of the shattered vase. It had been her mother’s, and was not just beautiful, but full of memories. There were too many fragments even to think of mending it. She felt bereft, as if a part of her history had been taken from her. In spite of all she could do, the tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

  Joseph bent down beside her and, with his good hand, picked up some of the shards and put them on the table. He said nothing about her shouting at the children, nor did he go after either one of them to undo the pain she had caused.

  “Say it!” she charged him accusingly as she stood up. “You think I’m unfair, don’t you?”

  He looked at her, smiling, and it was a moment or two before she realized it was not kindness but amusement.

  “You think it’s funny!” she said furiously. She was ashamed of herself. Alys would have done so much better, but she was damned if she was going to tell him that.

  His smile did not lessen in the slightest. “You’re just like Mother,” he answered. “I remember her flying off the handle at Matthew when he was late home from a football match, and some other boy had been hurt. She was afraid it had been him. Judith came in complaining about something else, and she shrieked at both of them and told them they’d get no tea. Mrs. Appleton took them up plum pie and custard, but it was Mother who asked her to. I think it always was, it was just a fiction that it was Mrs. Appleton’s soft heart.”

  “Are you inventing that to make me feel better?” she demanded, terrified how much she needed it to be true. She wanted above all to be like her mother—to create safety, warmth, a sense of peace out of the uncertainty.

  “No,” he assured her, then his smile vanished. “They’ll pick up your fear, Hannah, even if they don’t know what about. They won’t be frightened as long as they think you aren’t, but if you crumble, so will they.”

  She looked away from him. He was right, but she needed more time. “Do you want to be the hero?” she asked.

  “Hero?”

  “Take up the pie and custard. It’s Mrs. Appleton’s day off.”

  “Yes . . . I’ll do that.” He touched her gently on the arm. “I’m sorry about the vase. I’ll see if the antique shop in the village has something like it.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t be the same.”

  “It wouldn’t to you. It might be for Luke,” he pointed out.

  Tears threatened to choke her again, and she said nothing. She was still frightened, still hurt, but her anger was at herself.

  Joseph went to bed early. He was tired after a very short time up, and the pain in his arm and leg was constant. He had said nothing, but Hannah knew it was there by the shadows in his face.

  She sat alone mending sheets, turning their sides to middle. It was a job she hated because she was always acutely aware of the seam when she lay along it, and she imagined others were as well. On the gramophone she was playing Caruso singing “O Sole Mio.” It had been a tremendous success a month ago. She knew that if Joseph could hear it upstairs he would like it, and she had left the door open on purpose. She was startled to hear the front doorbell ring. She put down her sewing and went to answer it, taking the needle off the record carefully as she passed. The sudden silence was breathless.

  The woman on the step was in her late twenties, but grief and weariness had added years to her. Her hair was pretty, but she had tied it up and back without care and pulled the wave out of it. In the light from the hall, her skin seemed to have no color. She was dressed in a plain dark blue blouse and skirt, and it was apparent at a glance that she had lost weight since Hannah had last seen her.

  “Abby! How are you?” she said quickly. “Do come in.” She stepped back to make the invitation almost a command. “You must have time for a cup of tea, or something.”

  Abigail Compton hesitated, then agreed as if the battle against such determination were one she knew she would lose. “I only came to ask if you could help to organize people for knitting more socks,” she said awkwardly. “It doesn’t matter how little time they can give, anything at all will help. Sometimes even children can do the straight bits, if an adult can turn the heel.”

  “Of course,” Hannah agreed. “Good idea. Would you like a cup of tea? I’m doing the mending and I hate it. I’d love an excuse to stop.” She smiled hopefully.

  “Just for a moment or two,” Abby accepted. “I’d like to sit down, I admit.” She looked ready to drop.

  “Kitchen all right?” Hannah led the way without waiting for an answer. Abby looked so wretched she determined to get her hot pie and cream as well. Her husband had been killed in France several months ago, but she looked as if the reality of it had struck her only now. There was an awkwardness in the way she moved, almost a clumsiness, as if she were only half aware of her limbs.

  The oven was still warm. Hannah took the apple pie from the larder without asking if Abby wanted any, and opened the damper for the heat to increase enough to crisp the pastry again. Then she filled the kettle and set it on the hob to boil.

  “I heard about Plugger Arnold,” Abby said softly. “Gangrene. Is that true?”

  “Yes. That’s what they said.”

  “Paul never told me about that sort of thing.” Abby gave the ghost of a smile. “Have you noticed how the newspapers have changed lately? They don’t write about heroics so much. They don’t use the sort of language that comes out of King Arthur anymore. I like to read Richard Mason, even though it leaves me in tears sometimes. He makes people so real; they’re never just figures.”

  “I know what you mean,” Hannah agreed. “You feel as if even the dead are not left without dignity. He must be a very fine man.” She indicated the chairs and they both sat down.

  “Talking about fine men,” Abby went on. “Polly Andrews told me your brother Joseph was wounded. Is that true?”

  “Yes, but he’ll be all right. I haven’t seen Polly for ages. You mean Tiddly Wop Andrews’s sister? He’s in Joseph’s regiment.”

  Abby smiled. “I used to be crazy about him when I was fourteen.”

  “He was awfully good looking,” Hannah agreed.

  The kettle boiled and Hannah made the tea and served the warm, crisp apple pie. The custard was gone but she had a little cream. They ate in silence. Perhaps from pleasure, but more pr
obably from good manners, Abby finished everything on her plate.

  “Thank you,” she said with a smile. “That’s the best I’ve had in a long time. Are they your own apples?”

  “Yes. This time of the year they’ve been stored all winter and they’re not much good for anything but cooking,” Hannah replied. She wanted to be more help than memories of the village and remarks about housekeeping, but she had no idea how to reach the pain that was so obvious in Abby’s face and the crumpled bowing of her thin shoulders. What did one say or do to touch the loss of her husband? Perhaps that was the ultimate loneliness; everyone was helpless in the reality of it and frightened because they knew it could happen to them, too, tomorrow or the day after.

  Alys would have known what to say that would offer some kind of healing, a moment’s respite from the drowning pain. How did people survive it? They went to sleep with it, and woke up with it. It walked beside them close as their skin for the rest of their lives. What could Hannah offer that was not facile or intrusive where it would be blundering in, making it all worse still? She remembered the name of Abby’s son. “How is Sandy?” she asked.

  Abby’s eyes filled with tears. “He’s well,” she answered. “He’s starting to enjoy reading and always has a book with him.”

  Hannah seized the subject, realizing that Sandy was about the same age as Luke. “Has he favorites? Tom used to love all sorts of imaginative fiction, but Luke’s a realist.”

  Abby hesitated, and then answered slowly at first, trying to think of titles. Then as they shared their observations about boys curled up in bed reading in the middle of the night, it became momentarily easy.

  But all the time Hannah had the increasing feeling that there was something Abby wanted to say, and yet dreaded it.

  Outside in the spring night, the wind rustled the leaves with a heaviness as if it might soon rain. Inside, the heat from the oven was close on the skin, making the room seem oddly airless.