The lorry slowed on a corner as Hector took her to the tailgate. She pushed open the canvas, pretended to be vomiting, unhitched the tie-down line, and said, “Follow me. Now.” In one rapid movement she was through the canvas cover and over the tailgate. She rolled away from the road the instant her feet touched ground and had a half-image of Hector’s startled face staring down at her from the lorry. The world dropped away, and she was falling. Her hands grasped desperately for a grip, but the hill was almost vertical. She ricocheted off a rock and groaned in pain, for a brief moment stood nearly upright, but slipped and was shocked to be underwater. The river spun and rolled her. She fought to reach the surface, she fought to breathe, and she fought hard against the current, until it slammed her against a rock, and the fight was over.
19
Bodyguard Thompson—his job title had long since become his name—did as was requested, entered Winston’s bathroom, and sat on the toilet.
“Loofah please, Thompson,” Churchill said from the bath. He was sitting up with a board across the bath on which lay his papers and an ashtray. On the right was a tall stool for his brandy. “It’s that long thing at your feet.”
Thompson gave him the loofah, and Churchill pushed his spectacles up his nose to inspect it. “It’s a fruit, did you know? Popular in India and China, but they insist it must be eaten before it ripens. Do you think she did it, or perhaps him, or was it perhaps a larcenous partnership?”
“Hmm,” Thompson said, to delay answering, because he had not expected the abrupt question and had no answer ready.
“Do not hmm me, Thompson. You know better than that,” Churchill said and emitted a great cloud of cigar smoke. “Take off your bodyguard hat, and put on a detective one. In your opinion as a professional sleuth, was it our mercurial Welsh socialist, determined to ransom the Jewels for her own perfidious political ends—a Cromwellian Britain or perhaps even a Welsh one—or is Lord Hecky a member of Die Brücke and about to bring the country to its knees? The question is, whodunit?”
“I do not know, Sir.”
“There are no clues? All mysteries have clues.”
“When we loaded the Jewels at the Tower, Miss Colline did ask me not to padlock the horse box. She said if it was unlocked, people would assume there was nothing of value inside.”
“A clever lass, that one. Go on. Tell me more.”
“I was wondering about the actual theft. The horse box was found in Greenock, but that might be to send us off on a wild goose chase, so to speak. They stopped several times on the way, and each stop was an opportunity for theft.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. Well done. The Jewels could have been taken anywhere along their route. Where did they stop?”
Thompson pointed to the board. “There is a list there, Sir.”
Churchill shuffled through the papers, dropped several into the water, ignored them, and found the list. “The Ashtonthorpes of Cockleford; the Madison-Hardynges of Walvert Frome; Marlton, Hector’s home; and Mauchline House, the Gordons.” He made a sour face. “All good British families of impeccable pedigree. Do we have any information on them?”
“The Gordons’ son, James, is missing at Dunkirk, believed killed, and there is a rumor that the Ashtonthorpes might be inclined toward Die Brücke.”
“I hope not; they are such an old family. Should we have them watched?” Churchill said.
“A careful eye wouldn’t hurt.”
“A brisk search of the estate would have better results. An immediate one, and investigate all the others too. We will tell them there were reports of German parachutists landing in the area, so we are concerned about their safety. Take this.” Churchill handed him the board and stepped out of the bath. Thompson was a modest man by nature and had never gotten used to Churchill being oblivious of his own nakedness. “Towel.”
Thompson handed him a towel. Winston sat on the edge of the bathtub and wrapped it around his belly, where it remained for only a few seconds before sliding to the floor. He seemed not to notice. “Lord Hector comes from an old, if sadly diminishing family, the bedrock of England, and I cannot see what he could possibly gain from such a theft. Caitrin Colline is a shining, brilliant creature, who I thought was inherently honest. Is it possible she dazzled me with her intelligence—the Welsh are mercurial and quick-witted by nature—and in doing so fooled me about her true intentions?”
Bethany Goodman’s immediate answer to his question about the existence of the all-female 512 organization surfaced: “Women are invisible, so we try harder.” We do underestimate women at our own peril. “We have to find them, Thompson, and time is not on our side.”
* * *
Something soft, wet, and cold snuffled in Caitrin’s ear. She opened her eyes and looked up at a bright-eyed, black and white Border Collie staring down at her.
“That is Fiona,” a woman’s voice said. “She was the one who found you, and finders keepers; you now belong to her. Don’t move or she’ll lick you to death.”
Fiona licked Caitrin’s face to show she would do just that as the woman took a seat on the bed. She was a vision, a tiny angel. White hair cascaded down her back, and she wore a long robe of some homespun material cinched at the waist by a cord belt. But it was her eyes that held the focus. Hector had dangerous eyes, even though he himself wasn’t, but this woman’s eyes could make you cry. She saw you, saw who and what you were.
“Fiona found you, Wee Wendy brought you home, and I put you to bed.”
“Wee Wendy?” Caitrin said. She was wrapped in flannel sheets, lying in a bed, in a cottage. The room was small with book-lined walls, and her clothes were hanging to dry in front of a peat fire.
“Wee Wendy’s my pony. I’m Maggie Mhòr. Mhòr’s Gaelic for big. Big Maggie.”
“You don’t look big.”
Maggie laughed. “My old name was Margaret Little. The locals have their own sense of humor, so I am now Big Maggie.”
Caitrin sat up, wincing at her bruised ribs. “Where am I?”
“In Iolaire Cottage in Glen Coe.”
“How long have I been here?”
“An hour or so at most, I would imagine. I have no clock.”
“Are my clothes dry?”
“Almost.”
Caitrin stood and wrapped a blanket around herself. “Where’s the road?”
Maggie pointed to the outside.
Fiona followed Caitrin to the door. It was low, making her stoop as she went through it. Outside there was no road; there were only white peaks looming over her and a primitive empty valley stretching ahead. The river was barely visible in the distance, and a feathering mist was erasing detail. The cottage, whitewashed and sod-roofed, was tiny in the landscape. She shivered and went back inside. “You said locals. What locals?”
“The village of Ballachulish, on the loch some way farther down the glen,” Maggie said and waved a vague hand at the distance. “You should eat for your strength.”
