World in Flames

“If you’re going in that direction,” said the schoolmistress.

“No problem,” said Robert. “Be glad to help. Just give me the message and I’ll—”

“Noo, lass—” called out the bus driver. “… Miss Wilson! Where you think you’re going?” Robert saw it was one of the schoolgirls across the road moving away from the group.

“Mother nature,” the girl replied.

“Up t’other way,” the driver instructed her. “And not too far from the bus, mind. We could lose you in this lot.”

The schoolmistress was leading Brentwood back to the car obscured by the bracken. It was the Prices’s.

“A terrible accident,” she said. “Perhaps we shouldn’t touch anything.”

“Christ!” said Brentwood, the mistress wincing at his blasphemy. “Sorry—” he went on, not wanting to look any further but feeling compelled.

“I think we should keep it quiet,” she said, her voice calm but nevertheless strained. “Until you reach Mallaig. No point in upsetting the girls any more than they have been. One or two of them saw the broken glass — otherwise we wouldn’t have seen the car in the bracken. Thank goodness Wilkins — our bus driver — had the sense to keep them away from it.”

“Yes,” agreed Robert. “Well, leave it to me, miss. I’ll tell the police in Mallaig. Maybe you should give me your name.”

“And you?” she asked. Robert showed her the U.S. Navy card with his photo. She was visibly relieved.

“Oh, thank goodness. I saw you leaving the ferry, you see, and wondered—”

Brentwood suddenly remembered something, too — the car speeding past him in the rain, shortly after he’d made the U-turn to come back. What if he and Rosemary hadn’t turned but, like the Prices, had kept on in the fog toward Mallaig?

“Listen, Miss Sawyers,” he said urgently. “I think we should all go into Mallaig. On your bus. Can we hitch a ride with you?”

“Why, yes, but—”

“I haven’t time to explain fully yet.”

He saw her suspicion return. “Look, when we get to Mallaig, you can call this number — here on my card. It’s the U.S. Navy attache at the U.S. Embassy in London. But right now I think it’d be best if we all go in together to Mallaig.”

“Perhaps one of us should stay here and—” she began.

“No,” cut in Brentwood. “No one stays here. Everyone gets on the bus.” The teacher and the driver looked uneasily at one another. “Trust me!” said Brentwood. “I know what I’m doing, believe me.” The driver made noises about sweeping the glass off the road. “Leave it,” said Brentwood. “Believe me, I know what I’m doing.”

“Very well, I suppose —” began Miss Sawyers. “You’d best get the girls back on the bus, Wilkins.”

“Yes, miss.”

The drive to Mallaig was a mournful one, only a few of the girls talking, a few giggling, trying to act nonchalant despite their having come across what Miss Sawyers had somberly told them was a “fatal accident.”

“But I didn’t see any damage to the car,” Rosemary insisted.

“It was on the driver’s-side fender,” Robert told her. “On the right side — you couldn’t see it from where our car was parked. Slammed right into the ditch. Price probably dozed off at the wheel.”

“How dreadful.” The Gravol hadn’t worked yet, and she felt so ill, she thought she was going to throw up.

* * *

When the bus reached the Mallaig police station, it was an anticlimax for the girls of St. Mark’s, who had thought they were in sole possession of knowledge of the accident. But the police said someone had already called it in. That being the case, Robert told the desk sergeant he was surprised he hadn’t seen any ambulance or rescue vehicle passing them on the way in.

“Ah,” replied the desk sergeant good-naturedly, “we wouldn’t be using flashing lights unless it’s an extreme emergency, sir. Air raid regulations, you see.”

The sergeant took down the statements from the three of them, spun the log book about, thanked Miss Sawyers and Wilkins for their help, and informed Robert that “the super’d like a word with you, Captain Brentwood, if you don’t mind, sir. I’ll have the corporal make Mrs. Brentwood a cuppa. Come inside the staff room if she likes, sir.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

The superintendent had Brentwood draw up a chair. “Well, Captain, I know you’re not a police officer, but I’d appreciate your assessment of the situation. In your line of country, I expect you’ve seen a few injuries?”

“Yes,” acknowledged Brentwood. “Well, from what I saw through the shattered window, I’d say the car was forced off the road, then they were shot. Both between the eyes — at short range. Bullet holes in the windshield. You couldn’t do that at speed — I mean, from a moving vehicle.”

“Were the doors locked, Captain?”

“I think so. If I remember correctly, on the way up here, the bus driver said he’d had to reach in through the shattered window glass to pull up the lock.”

“Silly man,” said the superintendent.

“He told me he used a handkerchief,” said Robert.

“Oh, aye. But now any other fingerprints on the door lock are probably gone.” The superintendent paused, running fingers through thinning white hair. “You’ve no idea of the weapon, I suppose?”

“Small-bore, I’d say. Neat hole in the forehead — the back of the skull was something else.”

“Strewn about, was it?”

Robert sat back in the uncomfortable wooden chair, face grim with the recollection. “Never seen anything like it.”

The superintendent was nodding. “A high-vel, most probably,” he mused. “Not much noise, faster than most, with a mercury-filled head. They like twenty-two-caliber. That’d explain the back-of-the-head business.” He looked across the desk at Brentwood. “Did none of the girls see tha’?”

“No. Wilkins, the bus driver, kept them away.”

“And quite right, too. How’s your wife taking this?”

“She’ll be fine. I told her it was an accident. I doubt she believes me but, well, when she’s feeling better, maybe…”

“Not much of a honeymoon you’ve had, lad?” the superintendent cut in.

Robert couldn’t remember telling him they were on their honeymoon. The sergeant saw his surprise. “Oh, we’ve been given the gen on you, lad. Ever since our boys got on to them in Surrey.”

“You’ve circulated their descriptions, I hope?” said Brentwood.

The corporal came in with two teas and the station’s ration of Peek Frean biscuits on a tray.

The superintendent dunked a chocolate sandwich, tapping it on the large mug showing President Suzlov being kicked in the butt. “I’m sorry, Captain. I’m not with you. How do you mean—’circulated their descriptions’?”

“Well, I mean whoever’s chasing us. Whoever’s trying to kill nuclear sub captains. Of course, I know they’re special Soviet agents — SPETS, I suppose — but I assume you know what they look like by now — or don’t you?”

“Och, mon, you’ve got it all mixed up. “ ‘Twas those bloody Prices who were gunning for you. Hoping for a lonely place on the stretch after the ferry. If our boys hadn’t caught up with ‘em, you’d be dead, lad.”

Brentwood slowly put his tea down on the superintendent’s desk. “Then who in hell were—” He gave the superintendent the description of the young newlyweds they’d met in the B and B. The ones with the confetti still in their hair.

The superintendent fished a file from his top drawer and, opening the folder, passed over an ID kit sketch. It was them. “The ‘charmers,’ we call ‘em,” said the super. “Real charmers, they are. Bastards change their name every other week.” The super hesitated. “Captain Brentwood, I hate to say this, but — well, first of all, I’d better make sure I’ve got the right info from London. Your naval attache informed us your leave’s up in a few days.