Lammas Night (39 page)

“None. He's always been the ideal aide: efficient, discreet—I find this very hard to believe. What possible motive could he have?”

“He's coming around,” Denton murmured, turning the prisoner's face full on by the chin as the eyelids fluttered. “Come on, mate, we know you're awake. No use trying to fake it.”

Wells moaned as he came to, apparently too dazed initially to fake anything. The sight of the four of them staring down at him sobered him fast, especially the brigadier with his weapon. He turned wide, frightened eyes on William in appeal, but his employer was not receptive.

“I should like to believe this is all part of some ghastly mistake, Mr. Wells, but somehow I fear the mistake was yours,” William said. “Do you want to tell me your version of what happened?”

Wells grimaced and stretched his neck from side to side several times, apparently still disoriented, testing his bonds.

“Someone hit me from behind, sir,” he whispered almost reproachfully.

“That occasionally happens to people who go snooping where they have no business,” Graham said. “You realize, of course, that Sergeant Denton or the brigadier would have been perfectly within their rights to shoot you instead of just knocking you out?”

The prisoner's head jerked up in response. “For looking in on a reception? Come off it, colonel! I was trying to see whether I was needed inside again. I didn't want to disturb something.”

“Indeed?” William said. “I thought I ordered you to London. Do you have the dispatch you were sent for?”

Wells lowered his eyes. “No, sir.”

“Why not?”

When Wells did not answer or look up, Graham shook his head and turned away. So much for the hope that this might be easy. Michael joined them and handed over a black medical bag, which Graham passed on to Denton. The sergeant withdrew to the desk a few feet behind Wells and began selecting items from the bag.

“Very well, let's start with a simpler question,” Graham said, returning to their prisoner as the brigadier settled in a nearby easy chair where he could keep the man covered. “Where is His Royal Highness's car? You hid it in a nearby lane so you could sneak back here, didn't you?”

“I have nothing to say.”

“That attitude isn't going to help your case,” William said. “You're going to have to talk eventually. You know that.”

Silence. After an extended pause, Graham glanced at Michael.

“Did you notice the car outside?”

“No, sir.”

“All right, it can't be far away. Alix, go with him, please. You don't need to be here for this.”

He went with them to the door, closing it behind them, then beckoned for William to join him. Across the room, Denton was rolling up Well's left shirt-sleeve while the brigadier looked on, the automatic now stuck in his belt. Wells, tight-lipped and almost grey with fear, had turned his head away and closed his eyes. Graham stared intently past the prince at Wells for several seconds, then flicked his glance to William.

“Do you think he's innocent?”

William shook his head, looking at the floor.

“He can't be.” He paused a beat. “We're going to have to kill him, aren't we?”

“Sooner or later, I expect so. A lot depends on what answers we can get out of him. Denny is giving him something to loosen his tongue, but if he
was
outside the door long enough to figure out what was going on—well, how do you lock up a former royal aide with information like this? All he has to do is open his mouth once and you and we have had it. If you can think of another solution, I'm willing to listen, but I'm afraid it doesn't look good for old Wells.”

William shoved his hands in his pockets, still not looking up.

“I hate this kind of thing. It's bad enough to have to kill a man in self-defense before he kills you.…”

“That's exactly what this is,” Graham murmured.
“Exactly
. In any case, you won't have to do it.
If
we decide it's necessary, Denny or I will give him an overdose at the end. He won't feel a thing. Then we'll—arrange for an auto accident on the London road: your car, a ruptured petrol tank and explosion, with lots of fire.… There won't be any question. He's overdue at the Admiralty al—”

“Get him under fast!” the brigadier gasped as the other side of the room erupted in a scuffle and assortment of grunts and muffled exclamations.

Wells was struggling to escape from his chair, head whipping frantically from side to side and unbound legs flailing. The brigadier fought to apply a choke hold around his neck, and Denton tried to immobilize his arm long enough to get a needle in it. As the chair went over with a clatter, Graham launched himself across the room and sat astride the squirming Wells, helping Denton pin the arm while William tackled the scrabbling legs. At that moment, the brigadier found his pressure points and clamped down hard, holding doggedly until Wells twitched and went limp. Denton slid his needle home in the same instant, simultaneously loosing the rubber tourniquet and injecting Wells with several cc. 's of the drug.

When no one moved for several seconds, including Wells, Denton sighed heavily and straightened, holding the syringe steady until the other three could ease the chair and its unconscious occupant back to an upright position. As Graham helped Denton tape the syringe in place, William indignantly brushed dust from his uniform and glared at all of them.

“Will someone please tell me what that was all about?” he muttered. “I thought you two had things under control.”

Ellis, his hands still resting cautiously on Wells's shoulders from behind, shook his head and let out a relieved sigh.

“Sorry, sir. Gray, you're not going to believe this, but I think he's one of us. I saw his aura shift.”

“You what?”

Graham left Denton to finish up and moved with Ellis a little apart from their prisoner. A thoroughly bewildered William watched both men mutely.

“I think he was trying to go into some kind of trance,” Ellis said, retrieving his automatic from where it had fallen in the scuffle. “I was watching his aura, and it started the same kind of compacting and shifting that yours does when you're going on the Second Road. You don't suppose he belongs to one of our guests, do you?”

“That would be
too
much coincidence,” Graham replied. “But if he isn't one of ours …”

As his voice trailed off in speculation, William pulled at his sleeve.

“What do you mean, ‘If he isn't one of ours,' and ‘watching his aura'? What are you two talking about?”

Graham sighed. “It appears your Lieutenant Wells may be a trained occultist of some sort, William. After a while, one learns to recognize the signs. When people start working in the esoteric disciplines, it's as if they've sent up a psychic flare. It's visible to anyone else with the psychic eyes to see, both around the physical person and on the Second Road. I don't read auras as well as Wesley, but those who do can almost always spot the signs, especially if the person is observed actually doing something.”

“What was he doing?” William asked uneasily.

“It looked to me like he was trying to do a sending forth—a kind of telepathy,” the brigadier said. “He seemed pretty desperate about it, too—which is good reason, right off, not to let him do it.”

“Won't he just try again when he comes to?”

Ellis shook his head. “Not with the drug in him. A small amount might actually help, but Denny's given him too much for that. My question is, if he was trying to send forth, to whom, and why?”

William stared at the brigadier, mouth agape at this new aspect revealed, as Denton dragged his chair back to the side of Wells's now well-secured arm and sat down. The syringe, two-thirds filled with a pale, straw-colored fluid, was taped along the inner forearm, the needle hidden by a ball of cotton. Wells's eyelids were fluttering open again, and he gradually managed to raise his head under his own power, but it was obvious the drug was having its effect.

“He's about ready, colonel,” Denton said, adjusting a last length of tape.

Graham brought another chair and set it backwards in front of Wells, straddling it in an easy, casual motion. William stood at his back and slightly to his right, and the brigadier settled in the wing-back chair to his left. Graham liked the direction this encounter was taking less and less.

“How do you feel, Mr. Wells?” he asked neutrally.

Wells gave his inquisitor a look of stony fury, but it was not nearly as effective as it might have been, had he not been drugged.

“You bloody bastard!” the man whispered through clenched teeth. “I might have known you'd be in on this. You're going to kill me, aren't you?”

“That depends a great deal on you, Mr. Wells,” Graham said. “The problem is that this is wartime and you disobeyed a direct order. That certainly could be construed as a capital offense.”

Wells snorted. “Not in any court in the realm, and you know it. That isn't why you're going to kill me, either. It's because of what I saw.”

“And just what is it you think you saw?” William asked, folding his arms across his chest.

“I saw enough. I know who those people were. And you, Mister High and Mighty Prince—you were right in there with them!”

“Watch your—”

“Why don't you let me handle this, William?” Graham interjected smoothly. “Mr. Wells, if you know who they were, suppose you tell us? You had the guest list. Is that what you mean?”

Wells chuckled brokenly, a little hysterically, shaking his head. “Oh, no you don't. I know how you people operate. If I don't tell you, then you don't know for sure. Not going to get me that way.…”

At Graham's glance and slight nod, Denton's thumb tightened on the plunger and injected another half cc. of the drug. Wells bit his lip, eyes half closed, but he soon relaxed visibly. After another thirty seconds or so, his head began to nod. Quietly, the brigadier rose and went to stand behind him again, close enough to support the nodding head against his waist, hands resting lightly on the shoulders.

“Who were those people, Andrew?” Graham asked quietly, shifting to the man's Christian name. “Do you know anything besides their names?”

Wells nodded slowly. He was having trouble focusing.

“Yes.”

“Tell me who they are, then.”

“Freemasons,” Wells breathed. “And Rosicrucians … magicians … witches.… One was even a Jew.…”

Graham could feel William stiffen next to him, but he had no time to spare for righteous outrage just now. If Wells knew
what
the guests had been as well as who, he could not have learned that from any of them. The Freemasonry, yes—but not the others. Nor could he had inferred that much from what he might have seen and heard.

“Were they, now?” Graham murmured, glancing up at Ellis. “Who told you that was who they were?”

“I—knew. They told me.”

“Who told you? Those people?”

“No.”

“Who, then?”

“My chiefs.”

He could feel William's eyes on him even more urgently, but he dared not interrupt the line of questioning now that Wells was talking.

“Are you a member of a secret organization, Andrew?” he asked.

Wells smiled dreamily but made no reply.

“He is,” Graham muttered under his breath. “Andrew, is it one of those in the room?”

The tranquil face contorted in scorn.

“Not a chance.”

Graham paused for a moment, frowning, watching Wells drift when he was not actively involved in responding to a question, then glanced over at Denton.

“I'm going to try something, Denny. Keep him at this level if you can. I don't want him to come up, but I don't want him much farther under than he is right now, either. Can you do that?”

As Denton nodded, Graham leaned forward and held his hand a few feet from Wells's face and slightly above eye level, snapping his fingers to catch the man's drifting attention. If Graham's growing suspicions were correct, Wells would have received extensive indoctrination and training in the use of trance, and likely of a far more submissive type than Graham would dream of using with his people. If such conditioning could be shifted to put Graham in control …

“Watch my hand, Andrew,” he said softly, snapping his fingers again and noting the way the eyes tracked instantly to his fingertips. “No, just follow with your eyes. Don't lift your head. That's right.”

Seeing what Graham was about, the brigadier slid his hands up to support the prisoner's head lightly. Wells's eyelids fluttered more and more erratically with fatigue and the drug as Graham brought his hand closer, a few inches above the bridge of the nose.

“That's right,” Graham murmured. “Watch my hand. Your eyelids are getting heavier and heavier. It's an effort to keep them open. Relax, Andrew. Watch my hand. That's right.
Wache die Hand und schlafe nun.…”

As he shifted into German, he touched Wells lightly between the eyes. The effect was almost electric. With a little whimper, Wells's eyes rolled upward and then closed, his body slumping almost bonelessly, head lolling against the brigadier's hands.

“Ist gut, Andrew,”
Graham whispered.
“Erschlaffe. Es ist sehr gut.…”

Cautiously, he withdrew his hand and glanced back at William, shaking his head and holding a finger to his lips when William would have spoken. Folding his hands along the back of the chair he straddled, he returned his attention to Wells. He hoped his German was up to a prolonged questioning.

“Ich bin deiner Chef, Andrew. Kannst du mich hören?”
he asked.

“Ja,”
came the scarcely breathed reply.

“Gut. Höre gut zu. Du hast etwas wichtig gesehen. Sage es mir doch.”