Two Blackbirds (14 page)
“Rosemary Lewis. Daughter-in-law to Margaret Lewis.” Rosemary held the saucer and cup and waited.
Sharon tried to think. She remembered a rough woman in a two-door Morris van and the stink of chicken feathers. “How is your husband?”
“He's back from Italy. Healing up from shrapnel wounds. He'll be fine.” Rosemary pointed at her chest. “That makes us related in a roundabout way. Your mother was kind to Margaret. She never forgot it.”
“How is Margaret?”
That's it! Rosemary's husband Bill is Uncle
Marmaduke's illegitimate child!
“Still selling chickens and milk in her Morris van. Happy that Bill is back and not likely to be called up again.” Rosemary took another sip of coffee.
“You've been kind. Thank you.” Sharon felt close to tears again.
“Margaret and Honeysuckle talk at least once a week. We're all very proud of you. We know what you've done. We know that Mar-maduke has stayed safe at home, sitting on his fortune, while you, Linda, Harry, and Michael have been fighting for us. Everyone says your mother would be proud.” Rosemary saw the tears in Sharon's eyes. “I'm sorry if I've upset you.”
Sharon reached out with her left hand and touched Rosemary's arm. “Actually, you've made me feel much better.”
“She shot down another one last night,” Sean said. Sharon glared at him. “She always starts to perk up when she gets her wind up. She's furious that I've mentioned it.” Sean smiled.
The door to Rupert McGregor's office opened. “Sorry for the delay.” He held out his hand. “Michael. Good of you to come. My condolences.”
They filed in, Rupert shut the door behind them, and creaked over to his desk. He put both hands on the arms of the chair and lowered himself into the chair. “These documents provided by Sean are remarkable.” He looked up at Sean. “By the way, have you read them?”
Sean shook his head no and looked at his sister.
“Much of what I'm about to say falls under attorney-client privilege. Will anything we say be repeated outside of this room?”
Sharon looked at Michael, who smiled, and Sean, who shook his head. “Understood,” she said.
“Apparently, Marmaduke Lacey and his wife were quite close to Norah Elam and Diana Mosley; both were interned in Holloway Prison.” Rupert picked up one of the documents as if offering it into evidence.
“Father always said that Marmaduke had backed the wrong horse in this war,” Michael said.
Rupert held up another document. “He also profited handsomely because of it. A very astute businessman. Being connected with the fascists before the war and profiting from it mightily from the safety of Lacey Manor will not sit well if word of this gets out.”
“I want nothing to do with Marmaduke,” Sharon said.
“And I'm sure he wants less to do with you. These documents, however, may assure you of a substantial inheritance. I believe an American might call it leverage.” Rupert looked directly at Sharon, then lifted his artificial leg up off the floor, adjusted it, then dropped it with a thunk. “It will give me great satisfaction to see Marmaduke Lacey separated from a sizable portion of what he values most.”
“What does he value most?” Sharon asked.
“Money and status, of course.”
[WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 29, 1944]
“Antwerp has been under heavy V-2 rocket attack
for the past two days.” Petrie sat in the front seat of the Rolls-Royce. He barked rather than spoke, and Sharon was sure he was used to being obeyed. She'd noticed how the others at Harry's funeral had deferred to him. And how Michael didn't argue when Petrie announced that the three of them would ride east to Leeds in his car.
Sharon looked neither right nor left. Michael sat on one side and Linda on the other. They hadn't discussed the funeral.
I know they're
both thinking that the coffin was a little light. The funeral director had
advised they have a closed coffin, which I'm sure meant that there was
very little of Harry left to bury.
Petrie turned around to reveal a square jaw, grey, close-cut hair, and moustache. He looked at Sharon. “You're Lacey?”
Sharon nodded. “That's correct.”
“Shooting that Junkers down without killing the crew provided us with some valuable intelligence. Good work.” Petrie glanced at Linda.
Sharon cocked a thumb in Linda's direction. “She picked the Junk-ers up on radar.”
“And I would have killed them.” Linda continued to look out of the window.
“So you're the bloodthirsty type, are you, Miss Townsend?” Petrie didn't smile, but there was humour in his voice.
“The Nazis killed her father and mine.” Linda met Petrie's gaze.
“And to those in the know, Lacey here is reported to have ten victories in the air.” Petrie shifted his eyes from Linda to Sharon.
“You are very well-informed,” Michael said.
“A necessity of my profession.” Petrie turned to his driver. “We'll drop them off at
RAF
Leeds so they can catch their ride back to White Waltham.” He turned to face the trio in the back seat. “That should have the three of you back in time for supper. It's certainly odd to have a group like you lot in the back seat of one car.”
Sharon asked, “What do you mean?”
“Three people who have done remarkable things, yet will probably never have their work recognized in the papers or on the radio.” Petrie faced forward and was quiet for the rest of the trip.
Douglas was waiting for them at the Leeds airport. As they settled in the cramped seats of the Anson, he said, “Mother got a high-priority call to pick up the three of you. What have you been up to this time? A meeting with ministers of state?”
Sharon looked out the window.
“My father's funeral,” said Linda.
“Oh.” Douglas turned and busied himself with starting the engines and operating the aircraft.
It was a quiet flight to White Waltham.
Sharon kept her mind occupied with thoughts of the operations of the airfield, personnel, and aircraft. On approach, she spotted a Jeep with a white star on the hood parked next to the hangar. She tried to see exactly what was happening, but was too far away.
After Douglas taxied up close to the hangar, she was the first out the door, and what she saw set her on quick boil.
Sergeant Beck stood toe to toe with Ernie, who only reached up to the
MP
's chin, but was not about to surrender any ground.
Douglas shut down the Anson's engines.
Sharon heard Beck say, “I've received a report that stolen United States property is in this hangar, and I intend to do a search.”
Ernie's face reddened. “And I'm saying you're not going anywhere near my tools, you murdering bastard!”
Sharon closed the distance quickly while being careful not to run. “Sergeant?” Beck turned and put his hand on his holstered .45. “Shouldn't you be dealing with me?” She intentionally put Beck in the awkward position of being caught with Ernie behind him and her in front.
“Then I'm telling you I'm taking a look inside of this hangar.” Beck looked down on her.
“Do you have a written request from Colonel Wilson?” Sharon moved closer to the sergeant and sensed that Michael, Linda, and Douglas were behind her.
Beck stepped sideways. “Not yet.”
“Then I suggest that you get Wilson's written request, then make an appointment with me, and I will give the request the consideration it deserves.” Sharon crossed her arms.
Beck opened the flap of his holstered automatic.
Sharon took a step closer. She got a whiff of cologne and alcohol and saw that the sergeant had a cut just under his chin.
The sergeant stepped sideways, walked to his Jeep, climbed inside, started the engine, released the clutch, and sprayed them with gravel as he accelerated away.
Sharon looked at Ernie, who was so enraged he was unable to speak. “Let me handle this,” she said. She walked to dispersal and found Mother behind the counter.
“My condolences,” Mother said.
She studied him. His grey hair had been roughly combed.
Good,
there are no dark circles under his eyes.
“Anything new?”
“Besides a visit from that bastard who murdered Edgar?” Mother did not smile. “Any idea who told the good sergeant there was stolen
US
property in the hangar?” she asked.
Mother looked Sharon in the eye, then glanced over her shoulder in the direction of Lady Ginette, who was sitting at a table with three other pilots. Her loud laughter made talk momentarily impossible.
Mother focused on Sharon's eyes. “Our mechanic and a certain pilot had a difference of opinion two days back. Apparently, the pilot believes that people like you, me, and the mechanic need to learn to defer to our betters.”
Sharon nodded.
Harry said I could handle her, but I have no idea
what to do next. I know what to do in the air when there is an enemy, but
here, on the ground, in this kind of situation, I'm at a loss.
She noticed Lady Ginette turn and glance at Mother. Ginette turned back around, and a moment later, laughter erupted at the table.
Sharon felt a sudden rage. She thought back to Molly Hume's isolation, then turned to Mother. “How many chits do you have waiting for deliveries?”
Mother fanned six chits. Sharon took them, walked over to Lady Ginette's table, and looked down at the pilots gathered around. The room grew quiet. Lady Ginette met Sharon's gaze.
“There are six deliveries waiting,” Sharon said.
“Just catching our breath, Flight Captain.” Ginette smiled.
Sharon caught the condescending tone attached to the words “Flight Captain.” “While you lot are catching your breath, aircraft aren't being delivered.” She passed out the chits. “Now get to the duty Anson and get moving!”
The pilots, led by Lady Ginette, gathered their kit and headed out of the door.
Sharon saw that Mother did not smile at any of them. He met Sharon's gaze. Not a word passed between them. She went to pour herself a cup of coffee. Her hands shook as she added cream and sugar.
Sharon had a few minutes to think
as she sat in the back seat of the Anson while it flew the short distance to the Hawker factory's Langley Airfield on the south side of London.
This is the first trip into
Holland
.
It's only a short hop to Volkel in a Tempest. Less than an hour.
As she did before every flight, she'd calculated time, course, and distance in her mind. Still, she wasn't prepared for the reality she saw upon reaching Holland. From the air, Volkel was the typical stretch of runways in the shape of an awkward X. Bomb craters concentrated at the centre of the X and spread out across the surrounding snow-coated farmland.
Sharon landed on the repaired runway and taxied to a hangar, which was more rubble than building. She shut down the massive Napier engine and watched the propeller slow to a stop. She went through her final checks, climbed out of the cockpit, and slid down the wing into a pile of snow.
A mechanic, bundled in so many layers of clothing he was almost unrecognizable, looked her over. “
NAFFI
wagon is there.” He hitched a thumb over his right shoulder.
Sharon stamped the snow from her boots, took her parachute in one hand and her kit bag in another. She looked at a gathering of tents. About fifty yards from the canvas encampment were the remains of several wrecked aircraft. Some were Allied and others bore swastikas.
In five minutes, she had a cup of coffee and a sandwich and was sitting at a table inside a tent with its familiar scent: a mixture of green-dyed canvas, sweat, coffee, and greasy food.
An
RAF
pilot at the next table said, “Christ, first we bomb the hell out of Volkel, then we fix it up enough to fly out of it so we can live in tents. Ain't war grand?”
A New Zealand pilot said, “At least the grub is tolerable.”
The third pilot was from Canada. “Intolerable.”
The sound of a circling aircraft reached their ears, then the siren of a crash wagon headed for the runway.
“Something's up!” The three pilots got up and went outside. Sharon stuffed the remainder of the sandwich in her mouth, picked up her coffee, and followed.
The three pilots looked up. Sharon did the same and saw a Tempest circling. One leg of the plane's landing gear was down; the other remained stubbornly tucked in its wing.
“He'd better bail out.” The Canadian pointed to the pile of wrecked aircraft. “Remember what happened to Freddy when he tried a wheels-up landing?”
The New Zealander nodded.
“Burnt right down to the bone,” the
RAF
pilot said.
They watched as the pilot climbed to about eight thousand feet. He rolled the Tempest on its back. The pilot dropped out. Sharon waited for the parachute to open.
The chute blossomed. The wind caught the silk and the pilot drifted north.
Sharon remembered to breathe.
The pilotless Tempest started an inverted flat spin and hit the ground about half a mile away. The sound of the explosion from the resultant fireball reached them seconds later.
A Jeep started up. They watched it drive after the pilot, who grew smaller as the wind carried him north.
Half an hour later, Douglas arrived in the Anson. He squeezed out the back door, waved at Sharon, and headed for the latrine. Ten minutes after taking on fuel and refills of coffee, they walked toward the Anson.
A Jeep pulled up. The top was down despite the winter cold. In the back of the Jeep, a body was wrapped in a parachute. The three pilots came out of the tent.
“What happened?” the New Zealander asked.
“The wind carried the poor bastard to the river,” said the Jeep driver. “He drowned.”
