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Part 66

June 24th 1944 - Rosings, Kent

It's been lovely...but I have to S-C-R-E-A-M now.

Juliette reached Rosings with a scrunch of gravel and a very tired expression on her face. Annie-Bug came down the main stairs and strolled over to sit on the edge of the car.

"Charlotte Collins has been ringing after you all day." Annie-Bug frowned down at the car. "Where have you been all day?"

"London." Juliette got out of the car with some difficulty. "Mr Darcy seemed to think that my presence in town was of the utmost necessity...and unfortunately I'm in no position to argue such edicts on my time and leisure."

"Oh." Annie-Bug blinked and then goggled. "Who is that?"

"Whom is who?" Juliette looked more than a little confused as she paused in pulling bags out of the boot.

"Look by your left foot." Annie-Bug hesitated slightly before she spoke.

"Umm." Juliette glanced down and then grimaced. "That is Gaius Caligula and the latest objectionable...addition to my life. I am getting a headache and I'm going to go rest in my bedroom."

"What is that dog doing?"

"I couldn't say...apart from annoying me." Juliette cast a rather baleful glance at the dog. "I would not endeavour to embrace me unless you wish to endanger your health though."

"Why?"

"It's one of Mac's dogs and I've been reassured it is fully trained to protect me...which is a euphemism for it's an anti-social brute."

"Oh." Annie-Bug eyed the dog, considered what she knew of Mac's dogs. "When do you get rid of it?"

"I don't." Juliette glanced down at the dog again. "Apparently it is yet another...gift from Mr Darcy."

"You mean a gift like that evacuee he had forced on him at the beginning of the evacuations?"

"Precisely."

"What happened to it?"

"I have no idea." Juliette got the last bag out of the boot. "I sent her to Charlotte Collins and haven't seen her since.

"Couldn't you have said no?" Annie-Bug eyed the dog askance.

"Have you ever said no to Jim successfully?" Juliette's expression was rather bitter. "He didn't ask me to accept Gaius, I just acquired the...wretched animal. Apparently Gaius Caligula and Daoud do not get on well together."

"Well I am not ever going to live with another of Jim's monstrosities, regardless of who he does, or doesn't like. It was bad enough when it was Eoan!"

"Yes, well this one is likely to be even worse." Juliette stepped through the doorway and Annie-Bug skipped hastily backwards in response to a decidedly nasty look from Gaius Caligula.

"Well I'm going off to search for work then." Annie-Bug followed her sister at a discreet distance. "Will you give me a gardening reference?"

"No." Juliette glanced back over her shoulder with a wry grin. "I will however arrange for someone else to provide you with an assortment of references."

"Why won't you?"

"Are you daft Anneliese? I am your sister and the papers currently are of the view that I want nothing to do with you. No one is likely to believe a reference which comes from me about you."

"Oh." Annie-Bug scratched the side of her head. "How did it happen?"

"How did what happen?"

"This...this...the papers never seem to leave us alone, even when we're doing absolutely nothing. Most people merely get mentioned because they were seen here of there or had done whatever...but we've been mired down here for months and barely left the property and yet every other day there's some new...lie about us."

"Don't worry about it." Juliette pushed her hand through her hair. "There's a freelance writer who has a particular dislike for us, and though James might be able to silence the woman...well I can't and dignified indifference seems the best approach to date."

"Oh." Annie-Bug considered the matter. "If I leave will things become worse?"

"Not if you tell them the truth." Juliette suddenly gave a wide grin. "I can just see the headlines! Sister Leaves over Cousin's Dog."

"So can I." Annie-Bug grimaced. "Except he's not out cousin."

"True enough, but that will not disturb the papers."

"No, after all they're still fixated on the fact that you're after Jim's money...and you've barely exchanged a civil word with him in a decade now."

"That is incorrect, I was perfectly civil for the entirety of last year's Netherfield Benefit."

"That doesn't count. Neither does the muddle of months a couple of years ago when you decided it was a matter of family pride to make certain James did not develop an inclination for that...Lila was it?"

"Lila Thompson." Juliette sniffed. "And I was never even slightly concerned that he might develop...inclinations...or at least not for her." Juliette sniffed again. "I also resent the implication that I am only civil under duress. I was perfectly civil to him when he came down here over that row with what's-his-name."

"That was only because I was flicking breadcrumbs at you half the time. Admit it, Stelle, you haven't been voluntarily civil in years."

"He hasn't either!"

"Well..." Annie-Bug hesitated and then grimaced for Juliette had spoken nothing but the truth, James was never civil unless compelled by external pressure. "Do you think he'll acknowledge us at all now Grandmother is dead?"

"He must." Juliette spoke rather dryly. "I do have his dog after all."

"Oh." Annie-Bug closed her mouth and made a tired little noise. "I think I'll go visit Jeroen...let him know I'm coming if you can."

"Certainly." Juliette's brows hardly twitched at this news and she still hadn't moved when a distant door closed to signal Annie-Bug's departure. A car engine revved and finally Juliette stirred. "I think I will not be sleeping tonight." Gaius Caligula stared up at her with unblinking eyes and Juliette sighed again. Gaius Caligula was going to be a severe restriction on her social life. Juliette moved down the hall to the telephone, she was not even faintly in the mood to deal with the telephone at the present moment, but she was going to have to use it at some point so she might as well use it now.

"Fouchiard."

"I would have thought they might at least have reassured you that you were not up for a chat with the Air-Commodore." Juliette was more than a little relieved to have finally reached her target. "Your wife's on the way."

"I thought she was settled down there."

"She was...until about half an hour ago."

"What happened?" Jeroen sounded more than a trifle resigned. "Or perhaps I should ask whether I'll find it in tomorrow's newspaper."

"N-o, I don't think it's likely to show face in less than two to three days." Juliette hesitated for a moment. "Well, not unless really nothing is happening."

"What counts as nothing?"

"Umm...a situation where the fact that James has 'given' me a dog is the most interesting bit of news for the tabloids."

"Ah, now I understand why Annie-Bug is headed this way." Jeroen gave a snort. "Why doesn't she like his dogs?"

"More a question of why his dogs don't like her. Eoan was the only one who would even tolerate her...and if you hadn't realised, he only kind of does that."

"So why has Jim donated a dog to your cause?"

"He didn't actually explain...I'm assuming that it's belligerent behaviour makes it persona non grata at any other residence, particularly since it apparently requires a five mile run every day."

"Jim..." Jeroen gurgled to a halt.

"Precisely. Would you like a dog?"

"Not if it requires that much exercise."

"Pity." Juliette gave a tiny yawn. "Do enjoy tomorrow."

"What...?"

"That's when Anneliese is arriving isn't it?" The innocence in Juliette's voice was like a halo and it caused Jeroen to curse softly.

"Goodnight, Boots."

"Must you call me that abominable..." Juliette gave a faint squeak of frustration.

"Keeps you young and bad-tempered. Tell Jim I want his guts for garters if you ever see him again."

"Stand in line, I'm turning him into fish food long before you get at his internal organs." Juliette hung up the telephone with a bang and scowled darkly at the dim shadow of Gaius Caligula who was sitting almost on her feet. Just like James to 'give' her a 'present' who was highly annoying and would become even more annoying if not appropriately maintained. "Just what am I meant to do with you? You don't match any of the shoes in my wardrobe...with the exception of that perfectly ghastly pair of hiking boots I merely want reasons to throw away, not keep." Juliette glowered down at Gaius Caligula, who calmly grinned back and gently waved his tail. "Not only are you unwanted, you're also idiotic." Juliette was not in the mood for a dog who grinned cheerfully while practically sitting on her foot. "I'm going gardening." Juliette stalked upstairs, aware that she was in the wrong clothes for gardening. A brief altercation occured with Gaius Caligula when he decided that it was not part of his duty to remain outside while Juliette changed. Juliette was firmly of the other opinion, but conceded the point after Caligula practically smashed her door down. Successfully changed under Caligula's attentive eye, Juliette stalked downstairs to her telephone again and was relieved to get Mac after less than ten minutes.

"Have you any idea how moronic this dog is?"

"Which dog?" Mac had a very bad feeling as he heard Juliette's outraged tones over the telephone line.

"Gaius Caligula." Juliette spoke the name like a curse. "He was probably the most unstable of all the Roman Imperial Family and you had to name a dog after him? He's a menace!"

"Who is a menace?" Mac rubbed his forehead in a not very small degree of confusion. "The Emperor or the Dog."

"Gaius Caligula the dog, whom your wretched godson dumped on me."

"Jim...?" Mac was flabergasted. "I don't think anything can be done."

"I know nothing can be done...unless you want to sedate him with a tranquilizing dart at very long range and then blow his head off...which Mr Darcy will not thank me for. He's already driven Anneliese from the house and I'm expecting him to interfer with every aspect of my life until such time as Mr Darcy returns."

"Jim's gone?"

"I have no idea, but I do know that he's leaving else he wouldn't have foisted this obnoxious animal on me. If you see him before he departs will you kindly notify him that he will be homesick for the deepest levels of hell if he fails to return and relieve me of this animal."

"Need anything else?" Mac had thought for a long moment before finally choosing his response, he had a feeling this was little more than the sort of irritation Hope expressed after spending a week on some armload of calculations, only to find that the basic information supplied had been inaccurate.

"No thank you...though I might consult you later on how to maintain this animal's training."

"Certainly." Mac tilted his head slightly as an unusual thought ambled into his brain, and after a moment of consideration he decided not to vocalise the thought. "I'll pass on to Jim said curses should I see him, I'll mail you a training schedule for a dog of Caligula's charming temperament...and I believe Miss Bennet is inviting all and sundry to some...feast or other. I've no doubt you'll hear about it soon enough."

"Charming. My regards to Mrs McKenna and yourself, I hope the training is going well."

"Splendidly. Let me know how you manage with Caligula."

"I promise you I will." Juliette hung up on that rather dry note and headed out into the expansive, and now rather overgrown, gardens of Rosings Park. At best Juliette's activities against nature could be called sporadic, but as the war dragged on and her knowledge of plants grew, Juliette was to be found more and more often waging her own private war against the vicissitudes of mother nature. Late autumn and early winter were her favourite months now, for the weeds came out so much more easily. Tonight she was preparing to renew her war on the blackberries. She was in just the right degree of foul temper to endanger life and limb to those plants which were unquestionably possessed of Nazi souls inside each and every one of their vindictive thorns. By trial and error, Juliette had discovered that burning was the only way to prevent even the deadest looking twig from regrowing into a singularly hale and hearty patch of the nastiest thorns on the planet.

Juliette was dug well into one of the briar patches when Caligula began to growl. Juliette half turned her head to see some dim shadow standing about halfway across the garden.

"Who is it?"

"Mrs Collins."

"Right, I'll be out in a minute...but do stay where you are."

"Why?" Charlotte Collins had not so much as even twitched in the couple of minutes it took for Juliette to extract herself from the briars.

"Present from Mr Darcy." Juliette spoke rather grimly as she carefully eased bits of briar from her hair and clothing. "Gaius Caligula has to be the most anti-social brute he could find."

"Then why do you have him?"

"Have you ever successfully said no to him when he asks a 'favour'?"

"This is a favour?"

"Apparently...and oh, boy is he going to pay for this favour after the war."

"Is Alex able to come over?"

"I assume so since he said the brute is trained to protect...and I doubt that Alex counts as a risk."

"Good, because I have to go away for a couple of months."

"Trouble?"

"Of a kind, it's my sister...or her son to be precise. Matty's Hudson crashed after having an altercation with one of those fishing vessels the Germans put bloody big guns on. Why they shot at a Hudson I'll never know. Why the Hudson was that low I'll never know. Infact, I know absolutely nothing except that I have a crippled nephew whose mother is in no condition to care for and so I'm off to help."

"Then go...and don't worry about your garden."

"Thanks." Charlotte's expression was visibly grateful. "I'll be gone for months, so have no fear if you have a chance to rent the house out."

"I'll be renting it out to my sister if it's rented to anyone." Juliette was suddenly grim. "Unless I misunderstood my brother-in-law, he'll be joining the invasion before the end of summer, having shaken free of his desk-shaped shackles. Anneliese will need somewhere to live and I can promise you she has sworn not to enter a house where Gaius Caligula resides...and that mutt is not leaving my side any time soon if Mr Darcy is to be trusted." Juliette snorted. "He might at least have cursed me with a dog who would match my wardrobe of choice."

"Jim is usually reliable on such matters." Charlotte gave a tired smile and then looked down at the dog which sat calmly next to Juliette's left foot. Gaius Caligula was a decidedly regal animal in his own way, one got a feeling of timeless patience and a truly individual mind from that animal. Charlotte had a feeling that even if James Darcy did return, Juliette was going to have a faithful shadow who did not match her choice of wardrobe. Gaius Caligula had the air of a dog who was settled for life.

"When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow." Charlotte wrinkled her forehead. "Knowing Jim as I do...are you certain he didn't gift you with Caligula for a reason?"

"That would imply he has been very busy indeed recently." Juliette was looking rather grim. "He shouldn't yet be well enough to be that busy."

"Well, the Jim I know would never let something so pointless as poor health get in the way of work."

"Mm." Juliette's frown darkened and then she abruptly, and quite pointedly thrust all consideration of the matter from her mind. "Send a letter to Anneliese, tell her about Matty and ask her to be nice to your house if she gets some time away from Jeroen."

"I'll let someone know Alex is here...and that you've resumed your responsibility for the evacuee most grudgingly when faced with the necessity of my departure for family reasons."

"I'm amazed that I have any reputation left at all in these parts between my Grandmother and your own taste for delightful lies." Juliette had turned back to the briar and was kicking away at it. She really should have got it out several years ago.

"It was either lies or a scandal the likes of which has not been seen since your grandmother accused Jim of illegitimacy and his father returned from the dead. Oddly enough as I recall all parties elected against scandal and it was your choice that Alex came here."

"Fine." Juliette turned curtly aside. "I hadn't meant to insult you by that comment and I appologise. I'll be ready for Alex's arrival tomorrow morning and I hope all goes well at your sister's place."

"Thankyou." Charlotte smiled rather tiredly. "Good luck, I have a feeling you're going to need it."

"Send it Mr Darcy's way...he needs it more...particularly for what I'm planning when he finally takes this brute off my hands."

"You might grow attached to said brute."

"Pigs probably fly too." Juliette gave a brief snort. "I'll be seeing you and I'll even arrange for Miss Bingley to feed you as soon as I can afterwards."

"Such a kindly offer I cannot refuse...and now I must go or I will not get everything done that needs doing." Charlotte gave a quick wave and headed off back across the gardens while Juliette dug her way back in under the briars. Caligula had followed her and commenced digging vigorously around the roots of the briars Juliette was pulling on.

"What is it with Mac and the weirdest dogs in the Commonwealth." Juliette had rested back on her heels for a moment and couldn't help but shake her head over the grubbiness of Gaius Caligula, who was grinning even more widely than ever. This dog was even weirder than Brian O'Niell's Ronan, and Juliette had thought that dog strange.

June 30th 1944 - Apennines, Italy

If at first you don't succeed,
Swallow all evidence that you tried.

Annette had been studying the telegram for several minutes before she looked at her watch. The watch was not accurate, but Annette had long since developed a method of reading her watch such that she actually knew an accurate time from it. The telegram was simple, it mentioned a train and a time. The fact that there were few trains running at all, and none running at that time, would seem to be a complication, but Annette wasn't worried. Any telegram which came out of Berlin and had taken a week to reach its destination was of the variety which would explain itself if you attempted to follow its instructions the right way. The right way to follow this telegram had little to do with the time and nothing at all to do with a train service.

"Problem?" Rory had been drowsing in a nearby armchair of dubious comfort, and anything was preferable to counting the flies which buzzed around the ceiling.

"Telegram." Annette rose to her feet and reached for her hat.

"Anything I want to know about?"

"No." Annette gave a faint little smile as Rory groaned. "They'll hopefully just question you of my whereabouts and leave it at that."

"Oh, goody." Rory tried to settle a little deeper in his armchair, you never knew, it might get the springs out of his spine. "I do so love it when you get secret service-ish. Makes me feel that we live an important life in this war."

"I bet." Annette tugged on Rory's overlong hair as she crossed to the door. "Do persuade them to release my mail, Kitty promised me another book to read."

"Another book?" Rory sat up abruptly.

"Brand, spanking new, not a page read...and not even on the shop shelves yet." Annette gave an abrupt grin. "Someone connected to the lair has connections with William Collins and we have been officially volunteered to read a selection of their books."

"What do we do in exchange?" Rory looked abruptly suspicious.

"We do nothing...I write a short review." Annette shot through the doorway and slammed the door vigorously behind herself. Rory fumbled slothfully behind his head, but managed to retrieve the book his hand sought before sinking back into the depths of the chair once more. It was so fortunate that their last book from England had been a good one, Rory had read it at least fifty times since it had arrived...it would be nice to have a new book.

"Mmrph!" Rory surfaced from his slumbers and squinted at Mallern, who was looking more than a little flustered. "What is it? It had better be important...infact unless you're here to tell me that Hitler has surrendered I don't want to hear about it. If he has surrendered there's no point telling me." Rory closed his eyes again and endeavoured to go back to sleep

"It's SOE." Mallern had shaken Rory again. "They're not interested in what you want, they're interested in you."

"Oh." Rory rubbed his eyes and then scanned the room behind Mallern, he found the rather foggy forms of a handful of men. "SOE? They haven't bugged us since Cairo...what are we meant to have done?"

"I don't know." Mallern seemed to be becoming almost frantic. "They're...it's...oh, bother." Mallern dropped into a nearby chair with a curse. "Either wake-up or I'll throw a bucket of water on you."

"I am quite certain Annie hasn't left any buckets around." Rory reluctantly pushed himself up in the chair and squinted at the SOE officials. "If this is about the mail I'm intending to relieve the post office I don't want to hear about it. That mail is mine to retrieve...infact I'm ordered to retrieve it."

"It's about some telegram." Mallern was sounding exasperated now.

"Not mine."

"What do you mean it wasn't yours?"

"What I said. The telegram wasn't mine so they needn't have disturbed me." Rory squinted again. "Infact, it wasn't even vaguely addressed to me so I fail to see why they're here at all."

"It was addressed to your wife." Mallern shook his head and clearly indicated that the SOE could take over the interrogation.

"So what, Annie had a telegram...she gets them fairly frequently given the difficulties of communicating."

"Do you know what happened to this telegram?" It was the first time one of the SOE had spoken and Rory squinted at the man with an element of dislike.

"She pocketed it before she went out the door." Rory scratched his head. "Actually, she didn't pocket it." Rory scowled to see the men start looking around the room. "She didn't pocket it, but she did take it with her...in her hat I think."

"Why in her hat?" The man seemed confused.

"Why not in her hat?" Rory settled back. "Next you'll probably ask me what was in the tom-fool thing and all I can answer is that I don't know. Not in the habit of reading my wife's mail...particularly when I can't get a finger on it to read it by." Rory scrunched up his face slightly. "Not a bad idea that, reading by finger, I'll have to ask Annie when she gets back if it's possible."

"Is he insane?" The SOE men had turned away to talk to Mallern in less that subtle tones. Rory scowled at the backs of their heads for a moment and then fished around in the back of his collar. Annie had pulled his hair on her departure and Rory was suddenly suspicious of why. His collar produced a pencil stub, a very bad sketch of himself asleep in the armchair and the dried-up remains of a hair-ball from Diemos.

"No, he is merely mostly asleep." Mallern gave a slight shake of his head. "Give him a couple of minutes and he might wake up a bit more."

"Fat chance of that." Rory studied his new collection for a moment and then resumed fishing around his collar. A couple of bones were located next, along with a mouse which Rory released and then promptly recaught when he noticed Diemos' instant fascination with it.

"Believe me, you live with them for long and you get used to ignoring it." Mallern took the mouse and put it in his own pocket.

"Thankyou." Rory resumed fishing around in his collar and came to the conclusion that he'd got everything out.

"There's some paper behind your ear." Mallern handed the mouse back to Rory.

"Thanks." Rory fished the scrunchled bit of paper out from behind his ear, glanced at it and then shoved it back behind his ear. After a moment of thought he took the mouse back from Mallern and pushed it into his pocket. "Annie said goodbye before she left."

"Very kind of her I'm sure." Mallern took the scrunched bit of paper from behind Rory's ear, and straightened it before putting it in his own pocket. Paper was scarce and Mallern wasn't in the habit of wasting even the smallest fragment.

"I wouldn't do that." Rory crossed his eyes and shook his head. "It's that telegram they're after...could have sworn she put it in her hat."

"I put Felix in my hat." Annette had come back into the room at this moment.

"Felix?" Mallern was frowning.

"Felix." Annette pulled her hat off and pulled a small bird out of it. "Diemos has been chasing him all morning so I figured I'd take him along."

"You might have taken Mitch with you as well." Rory pulled the mouse out of his pocket and held it out.

"Mitch was perfectly happy in your collar."

"I wasn't perfectly happy about him being there though." Rory pushed the hair out of his eyes. "These people were interested in your telegram."

"That's because it indirectly came from Berlin."

"It came from Berlin by an indirect route...or Berlin was its last stop in an indirect journey?"

"Both." Annette pulled a book out from under her chair and headed back towards the door. "It came from Berlin, via England and I do not believe for a second that Berlin is where it began its journey...that is just where it was re-written for the telegraph system."

"Where did it come from?"

"I have no idea at all." Annette paused in putting her hat back on her head. "Possibly if I knew who had sent it I might guess...but I do not even have that information. Just an address and a few words. Train and time. However, there is no train...least of all at that time so I ignore it until I receive more information." Annette finished putting her hat on and had almost closed the door behind herself before the SOE officials realised what was happening. The hullaballoo that caused woke Rory up completely and he scowled darkly at the invasion of his rooms, Mallern usually knew better than to bother him when he was drowsing.

"She's only going to read at the hospital." Rory pushed to his feet and cracked his neck. "If you really think she'll be engaged in some illegal activity while reading..." Rory grabbed her hand and twisted it around so he could read the title of the book in it. "Lord, that again?"

"They like it." Annette snatched her hand back.

"I know, but it's got more cricket in it than...than..." Rory hesitated.

"Pickwick Papers." Annette sniffed. "I would probably be reading that if you hadn't thrown it out."

"I'd have preferred to have thrown Mike out."

"Mike belongs to neither of us to throw out, so that wasn't an option."

"You wouldn't have let me anyway."

"Of course I wouldn't. I wouldn't have let you throw out Pickwick Papers either...except you'd thrown that away before I knew you were going through my bag."

"I wasn't going through your bag. I told you we had to lose some weight and you gave me permission."

"I didn't think you were going to throw my books out."

"I only threw one out."

"It was a book."

"And I was carrying them!"

"I don't care, I thought you were going for clothes."

"Girls are meant to care about clothes."

"I don't." Annette gave a sniff. "Books are far more difficult to obtain than clothes."

"Oh, shut-up." Rory dropped back into his seat.

"Why should I?"

"Because I asked nicely."

"You didn't."

"If I tried?"

"You might try, but you never achieve." Annette gave a sniff.

"How do you know?"

"Because you..."

"WILL THE PAIR OF YOU PLEASE STOP BICKERING!" It was a howl from Mallern which stopped the debate dead in its tracks.

"Terribly sorry, Tom, didn't mean to disturb you."

"Definitely not, you just argue for the sake of arguing."

"You're a fine one to talk..."

"STOP IT!"

"Why?"

"You are giving me a headache."

"We always give you headaches."

"You're giving my headache a headache."

"That's just making excuses."

"If it's an excuse, it's a good one. Now either the pair of you shut-up, or leave."

"Fine." Rory grabbed Annette's arm and headed for the door. "Though I have no idea why you even pretended to give us a choice since you know perfectly well that we never do stop fighting."

"I suspect these gentlemen would not be happy if I simply kicked you out."

"Well they're quite welcome to join us as we hold our little fight on the way to the hospital...then they can stay and listen to Annie read from her very boring books, or choose to follow me as I..."

"My book is not boring."

"Is to."

"How do you know since you've never read it!"

"It's too thick, it has to be boring."

"It isn't half so..."

"OUT!" Mallern shoved them through the door and slammed it after them. Even the door wasn't thick enough to shut out the fight and it could be heard the whole way down the stairs and out onto the street.

"Are they always like that?" The SOE man was looking slightly shocked.

"No." Mallern grabbed a nearby sketchpad. "They're usually much worse...must have been behaving themselves because of visitors."

"That was behaving themselves?"

"Well, they didn't pull anyone else into the debate, they didn't draw up lines of battle across the room and all the furniture is still in place. Yes, they were behaving themselves remarkably well."

"Sir?" It was a rather hesitant interruption.

"What?"

"Ermm...well, we can't see them on the street and I don't think we know where they went."

"They went to the hospital." Mallern looked up with faint irritation from what he was working on.

"Which hospital?"

"What do you mean, which hospital?"

"Which hospital have they gone to?"

"How should I know...they probably aren't even going to a hospital since that's just them for going out."

"When will they be back?"

"No idea." Mallern returned to his sketch, then looked up in surprise as the SOE personnel departed.

"Did they find you?" Mallern glanced up curiously from his sketch pad when Annette and Rory let themselves back into the room.

"Who?" Annette had a thick pile of paper under one arm. "Mail for you, Tom."

"Who from?"

"Tiddles again, some institute of art or other, two from the papers and three from Baxter."

"What on earth can Baxter possibly want?" Mallern grabbed for his mail and tore into it, anything from the outside world was highly welcome...even the bill Rory had received in the previous mail collection.

"No idea." Annette handed the rest of the pile to Rory, with the exception of one firmly tied box.

"Note, she keeps the book for herself." Rory was ripping into the ten odd letters which had been handed to him.

"Of course, it's my book." Annette was busy reading the first page as she responded.

"Who might have found us?" Rory glanced up from a letter from Lucille.

"SOE ring any bells? The were in a fair flap when they realised that they'd lost you."

"How exciting." Rory returned his attention to the letter. "No they didn't find us. Annie you might be interested to know that Lucille and Co. are to be found these days at Pemberley, not Deraux Castle."

"Pemberley?" Annette looked up from the book in astonishment.

"Apparently Brian has been appointed Lord High Whatever...namely Steward."

"Oh, I am glad." Annette's attention returned to the book in her hands. "I'd been afraid that Jim would be sticky as hell about that when Luce wrote that they were hoping to get Pemberley."

"They moved there in late december and Lucille is already plotting to get permission to rebuild the house." Rory frowned. "Why would anyone want to rebuild one of those monsterou..."

"Shut up, Rory, I'm trying to read." Annette calmly interrupted what was promising to be one of Rory's more extensive capitalist rants.

"Why?"

"Because you've never seen Pemberley. Infact I doubt you've ever seen even so much as a picture of the place." Annette glanced up sharply. "Pemberley was one of the most beautiful pieces of architecture in northern England. There are no words to describe what that place was...but believe me, leaving it ruined is a crime. It's heritage...and it will cost a fortune the family can ill-afford to rebuild it."

"Then they shouldn't."

"You'll change your mind after you visit."

"I'm not..." Rory abruptly gulped and fell silent.

"Very wise." Annette buried her nose in her book again and Mallern finally turned back to his mail. Rory frowned for a moment and then returned to his mail, somehow he never could argue when Annette looked at him like that. It wasn't that she transmitted any particular emotion in the look, but somehow it stopped him in his tracks every time. It wasn't even that he was afraid to continue...or maybe it was, that expression tended to precede Annie's utter decimation of some verbal opponent, and Rory really felt no inclination to hand his head to Annie for the washing.

"What was everything about this morning?" Mallern had been thinking about the matter for several minutes before he finally voiced it.

"Nothing." Annette didn't even look up from her book.

"You deliberately lost the SOE on two separate occasions...even you don't do that for fun." Mallern was frowning rather darkly now.

"Sorry, this morning was meant to be about something." Annette laid her book aside with a frown. "To be perfectly frank I'm hoping that there was simply a change in plans...because otherwise something must have gone wrong."

"When will you know?"

"Couple of days, if things went wrong the Nazis will probably publish the matter far and wide with much fanfare."

"Ahh." Mallern went back to his mail.

"There is one other option." Rory was frowning too.

"What's that?" Annette looked more than a trifle doubtful.

"Things may have gone wrong and because of that the plan was re-written. The Nazis will publish nothing and no one would have come past."

"True." Annette gave a small shiver. "I hope it's not that though."

"Why?"

"Lila said I'd know the party...and most of the ones I know, and am known to know, are dead."

"What the hell would he be doing in Europe?"

"I don't know." Annette hesitated. "Do you think he would save himself if caught?"

"He has to, Annie, the scandal doesn't bear even imagining. There's also the slight matter of the reason why your throat got cut...if he's willing to let you risk death, then I'm quite certain he'd willingly hang himself for the same reason...infact I'm surprised he hasn't."

"He promised he wouldn't get himself killed...and not just to me."

"He's weird."

"Meaning you don't keep promises?"

"No, just that I don't go to insanely suicidal lengths in my efforts to keep promises." Rory gave a soft snort.

"True." Annette started to giggle, but it rapidly developed into a full laugh as Rory only responded with increasingly dirty looks. The rest of the evening passed quietly, until Mallern headed out to draw whatever took his fancy for the dark hours and Rory paused before following him.

"Annie?"

"Mm?" Annette looked up, slightly puzzled by the seriousness of Rory's tone.

"We'll find him after it's all over if need be...I don't believe he'll die for the war."

"Just a feeling?"

"Mm." Rory gave a brief nod, and then cursed as he realised that Mallern had already vanished down the street. "Unfortunately, that promise isn't much since I'm pretty certain we won't be needed."

"We may be needed to find out what happened...since Jim never tells anyone. Now scat and enjoy yourself."

"Sleep well, we shouldn't be too long." Rory gave a quiet smile as he hastened away into the shadows. Annette had given a quiet laugh for she knew that

Mallern never considered any length of time sufficient to spend on a drawing. If Mallern came back before dawn than Annette would be totally staggered, almost as staggered as she'd be if it turned out that today had not happened for a mundane reason. Nothing surrounding James Darcy was ever mundane, least of all a reason for failing to leave Germany on a pre-determined schedule.

Part 67

Posted on 2010-11-30

July 3rd 1944 - Strassbourg, Dritte Reich

Unity may bring success...but divided we shall most certainly hang. - James Henry

James Darcy was enjoying a patch of sheltered sunlight, he would even have stretched to make better use of it except that would have drawn attention to him and at the present moment attention was the last thing he wanted. He could see his big toe through a hole in both shoe and sock, but at least the reason for that hole was no longer apparent...well, it wasn't bleeding anymore at least. A disturbance at the far end of the courtyard brought James' head up, but the movement didn't matter because everyone had looked up to the disturbance. A small contingent of SS stood there, their leader was female and looked rather like nails and plowshares were her standard fare at the meal table, James did not envy the guard who was approaching that small contingent.

"We're here for Stephan Kalt." The words carried easily across the courtyard and James rather desperately hoped that this was not someone's idea of a brilliant plan. The other prisoners were already attempting to subtly shuffle away from him.

"And?"

"Either release him or give us an hour in private with him." The words caused James to pull slightly backwards into his corner, prison was not going to be fun if his fellow prisoners considered him to be a sneak.

"Why?"

"Because it is required that we relieve his mind...of worry." There was an undercurrent in those words and James was not surprised to see those around him drawing even further away. No one wants to be even vaguely connected to a man who has the interest of the SS...least of all when it is clear that the SS do not expect their interest to be reciprocated.

"In the back corner...and he'd better come back in one piece."

"Oh, what we do will not be permanent." There was something about those words that froze the courtyard as the SS came across. James watched them passively, scarcely blinked when a gauntletted hand made contact with the side of his face and hung limply when wrenched to his feet by the chains that bound him. No one else even blinked and James was not surprised when he recognised his destination as one of those lovely whitewashed rooms where the blood was relatively easily removed by the simple application of water...and usually the labour was supplied by the prisoner who'd lost the blood in the first place.

"You are Stephan Kalt?"

"Yes." James responded flatly.

"You were meant to depart for Italy last month."

"So I was lead to understand, but obviously the information was inaccurate."

"Your response is ill-chosen for a serving member of the Dritte Reiche." The cold words were belied by a worried flicker which had lasted in her eyes for less than a second.

"Grafn Hilde von Nickel." He spoke tiredly and with some difficulty. "Only child of Graf Georg von Nickel, descended of the royal line of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha and dishonoured in 1905. You were born in 1904 and recognised as the off-spring of your maternal grandfather after your father's dishonour. You grew up believing yourself to be Hilde von Ferzen-Alburg of the Austrian Imperial family...until you enraged your maternal grandfather by refusing to marry..." He choked suddenly and violently.

"You have made your point." Hilde's voice was soft. "Do you intend to betray yourself?"

"Only if you insist on courting death by attempting the impossible."

"It is not the impossible."

"You expect me to believe that le Deuxieme has approved of your intentions?" The silence which followed the query was deafening and answer enough. "Hilde, I will not permit you to sacrifice your life."

"But..."

"Hilde, this war is ending." James gave a small shrug. "There is perhaps a year left...but the allies have landed and held their ground in France. The allies have been advancing up through Italy for almost a year now. The Russians are advancing from the east...and not even the allies will succeed in stopping them if it comes to war."

"What are you saying?" Hilde's expression was frozen.

"You have refused both offers of extraction and have now endeavoured to sign your own death warrant. To work against Nazi Germany is not to work against Germany, do not throw your life and skills away..." James stiffened, gasped and then carefully drew in more air. "Help your people...they need you now more than ever." He closed his eyes, seemed to hesitate for a moment before subsiding limply onto his side. Hilde cursed in five different languages as she pounded on the door for the guard to enter.

"What?" The guard was cross.

"Get a doctor here, now!" Hilde practically screamed her frustration at the apathetic man and she followed his rapid departure with a scowl which would have curdled the innards of the dead. She was hoping that her fear would be mistaken for anger at the man's presumptuous temerity to have fallen unconscious without permission.

"What's the problem?" The doctor, when he finally came, seemed even more apathetic than the guard.

"No idea, the prisoner collapsed and is bleeding from the mouth and nose." Hilde snorted her annoyance. "Haven't even laid a finger on him yet except get him here."

"I can see that." The doctor had bent over with an expression of distaste.

"Make it snappy, I need him conscious for more questioning."

"Not likely to happen." The doctor had looked at James for less than a second before he got busy with a stethoscope. "The prisoner is bleeding from the lungs, not the mouth and seems to be suffering from a slight cardiac arrhythmia." The doctor dropped his stethoscope and shone a torch first into James' mouth and then up his nose. "Sorry, if you want the man for anything, he'll die if forced to come around...probably die anyway."

"Well save him, he knows about the English Intelligence system and I need that information."

"I'll do what I can." The doctor did his thing and soon retreated with James on a stretcher to where ever he plied his ghastly trade.

Hilde was uncertain how she left the compound, but she had a faint memory of frightened faces as she retched in the privacy of her own flat an hour later. Hilde's private history was a code green identifier, James was the only person who had the whole history and he had promised never to use it without good reason. Hilde did not agree that refusing to get saved was a good reason for anything...particularly if such an act would cost a life. James had made his wishes very clear though and Hilde's only task now was to figure out how to comply with them when every cell in her brain was screaming to get him back to England.

July 1944 - France - Italy

Odd meetings invariably are accompanied by odd circumstances.

Jeroen knew he was in trouble long before he lined up with the tarmac. The Mustang he was borrowing had got rather battered in the last little dust-up with a bandit and he'd known that the hydraulics were deteriorating before he left. Deteriorating was no longer even vaguely appropriate as a means of description for the situation. The hydraulics had been failing and reviving regularly for the entire trip, and as he lined up they failed and did not revive. Jeroen set his teeth, pumped the controls and hoped it wasn't his imagination when he thought he felt a faint resistance in the controls. If he didn't get his nose a bit further up soon big trouble didn't even begin to describe the predicament he was in. If he hadn't been so busy trying to save himself, he would undoubtedly have been cursing himself for extreme stupidity.

"I suppose you might call that a landing, sir." The mechanic who helped Jeroen extricate himself from the wreckage had more than a slight sniff in the tone of his voice.

"Personally I call it a filthy bad crash." Jeroen was nursing a gashed forehead and feeling remarkably fragile.

"You shouldn't have come in so steeply."

"I wasn't given a bloody choice." Jeroen finally turned a one-eyed glare on the man. "Check your books, you should have known there was a repairs flight coming in from France. Undiagnosed inconsistant hydraulics failure. The hydraulics were failing for most of the flight and failed completely as I was coming in to land. You try to bring the nose up when it's your arms verse several tonnes of aircraft which is just itching to take a nose-dive into the ground."

"You should have landed sooner." The mechanic was poking around inside the foam covered wreck, patently not having heard a word of what Jeroen said. The firemen were nothing if not enthusiastic when presented with a promising wreck.

"Ahh, thankyou for that amazing advice...have you any idea where I came from?"

"No." The mechanic looked up, suddenly wary of the silky kindness in Jeroen's tone.

"I came from the southern most aerodrome in France...and between here and there is Nazi territory and the Med...do you still want me to have landed early?"

"Err, no." The mechanic reddened slightly. "Sorry, sir, I just presumed you were one of the boys mixing it on the Gothic Line."

"At the present moment no...but in all likelihood, yes, within a week."

"I don't like seeing 'planes needlessly busted." The mechanic was poking around inside the cockpit.

"Neither do I...particularly if they bust around me." Jeroen stretched cautiously and came to the conclusion he was going to live, even if there were no medics to stitch his forehead shut.

"Why didn't you fly back to England?"

"Because Italy was closer." Jeroen got very carefully to his feet and then groaned as he saw the ambulance truck racing towards them with half a dozen people inside and two motorcycles following behind.

"Wing-Commander Fouchiard?" A man in Air-Force blue with a rather nauseating array of stripes jumped out of the ambulance and came over at a brisk run.

"That would be me." Jeroen gave a rather vague imitation of a salute with a bloodstained hand, he'd switched hands holding his forehead so he could salute at all. "Sorry about the crash, sir, but the hydraulics just weren't up to it."

"No surprise there." The Air Marshall had cast half a glance at the wreck before turning his attention back to Jeroen. "Got word you were coming and felt this was where you were most likely to arrive."

"Yes, sir." Jeroen's expression became rather wary, he hadn't spent months extricating himself from behind one desk in England just to be shoved behind a desk in Italy.

"Got a bit of a reputation for aerial photography haven't you?"

"Yes, sir." Jeroen's reply was reluctant for he did not like where this was going. The last time he was part of a conversation like this he'd ended up giving a bunch of pinwits the theoretical training for aerial photography...and that was very boring.

"We've had a request come through for some aerial photographs of the Gothic Line...The Nazis current hideout."

"Would have thought you had a mountain and a half of those things already." Jeroen looked at the Air Marshall in complete bewilderment.

"Oh, we do...several mountains in point of fact. The Army seem to want their hand held and Alexander is a bit stroppy because Clarke seems to think that we can't take photographs and is apparently asking for a special flight to be sent out."

"The Yanks don't like our photographs? What the devil do they want? Photographs of sufficient definition that they can identify every man on the ground, how worn their boots are and which factory the cement came from?"

"Probably." The Air Marshall gave a rather tired sounding sigh. "Look, just say you'll do it Fouchiard. I know you'll get the best photographs."

"Not in that wreck." Jeroen jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"You do have a point." The Air Marshall looked a little pensive. "I can have a Beaufighter for you by tomorrow."

"Umm." Jeroen looked at his hand and then grimaced again. "You might get the fighter, but I doubt the medic will let me fly it."

"Blast." The Air Marshall scowled.

"Anything you can get in a week?"

"Not for an Englishman."

"What nationality is required?"

"French."

"Just tell them who you want it for...I think they'll oblige." Jeroen gave a faint little smile. "Tell 'em we'll need it for at least a month and I promise not to bend it too badly...unless I bend myself as well."

"It's a D.520."

"All the better." Jeroen gave a sudden smile. "Lovely birds for photography work and come with the added advantage that the Nazis fly them as well. With a bit of luck they'll never even know I've paid a call."

"Enough of this." The medics abruptly pushed into the conversation, their professional dignity pushed too far by the Air Marshall who had been waving them back for the past five minutes. "He needs his head stitched and he needs to be checked out for other injuries."

"Good luck Fouchiard, I'll see you when they release you." The Air Marshall finally stepped aside and Jeroen gave a slight sigh as he was grabbed by a medic. Crashes were always they same, medics crawling all over the place, mechanics cursing and someone from higher-up wanting you to do something and then cursing you because you'd had the poor taste to crash first. Jeroen relaxed though, because he knew he was going to enjoy this job which had been waved under his nose. He had a fun job and there was even a chance he'd manage to run Button to earth and say hello before he had to fly out on it. Life was good.

"He's what?" Annette stared a Rory in such a bewildered manner that he was terribly tempted to check himself for extra appendages. In Rory's opinion, the news he had delivered seemed fairly commonplace and straight forward.

"Jeroen is near the Futa Pass."

"Doing what?"

"Flying I presume." Rory gave a rather disinterested shrug. "I heard that he'd had a rather nice crash on arrival."

"Is he alright?"

"Obviously, since he's not in hospital. A couple of stitches and a week of firm ground...though I don't believe for a second that he actually did stay on firm ground."

"I don't either." Annette got to her feet and dusted herself down vigorously. "Did you tell me that news simply to gloat...or did you tell me with the intention of dragging me over there?"

"Well, to be perfectly frank I hadn't thought dragging you would be a requirement." Rory gave himself a vigorous shake. "Infact I rather felt my job would be more one of restraint."

"Pthrrbb!" Annette grabbed her hat and stomped to the door.

"Now that was hardly polite." Rory pulled a few pieces of paper from his pocket and frowned at them for a thoughtful moment. "Particularly since I actually managed to obtain us in-date passes for the aerodrome where he is and a schedule so we'd arrive a decent time after he'd arrived...and sufficiently in advance of his next flight should it take our fancy to call."

July 18th 1944 - Weybridge, England

A quiet life is what we make it.

Mac had been taking what he considered a well-earned break from dog-training when they arrived at the gate. In Mac's opinion, if he could spend half an hour with each of half his dogs, then he deserved to get the rest of the morning to himself and fun...or in this particular case dozing in the sun with Nemo curled under one lazy hand. The two men had almost come through the gate twice, but Mac was feeling far too lazy to bother squinting up to identify the indecisive visitors. The third attempt saw one actually get through the gate, but his companion stayed put and Mac blinked in surprise to see the man clearly indicating his refusal to follow.

"Problem?" Mac had finally bothered to squint up, and great was his interest to note that Pyro was the visitor inside his gate.

"No." Pyro sounded more than a little disgusted.

"Right." Mac would have gone over to investigate further at that point had he not felt Nemo's hackles rising under his hand. "Pyro?"

"What?" Pyro turned back from his other conversation.

"Why are you in the company of the wrong...Darcy?"

"I'll explain as soon as he ceases wimping out over your dogs."

"He's afraid of the dogs?"

"Only the one under your hand." Stan finally came through the gate, now that he was certain Mac was paying sufficient attention to restrain his dog should it try to approach.

"Nemo wouldn't harm a fly." Mac stretched cautiously.

"I have no opinion on his views of flies...it's his views on Stans which concerns me, and his teeth have evidenced a willingness to damage them in the past."

"I told you not to kick him." Mac rose to his feet. "Anything I can do for you?"

"Not unless you can cover Jim for a week." Pyro smothered a bit of a yawn as he spoke.

"Which week?"

"Two weeks ago."

"Wasn't here then."

"Anyone around who could say he wasn't with you?"

"Couple of angels on high and Hope." Mac gave a shrug. "Wimpy went down in very odd circumstances and Hope and I had first bite before it was mentioned officially to RAE. Vickers know Jim's been around and they probably wouldn't be surprised to hear that Jim had been up there with us." Mac gave another shrug.

"Mm." Pyro scowled before dropping rather heavily onto the step. "Le Deuxieme issued an order that Stan here cover for Jim, who has apparently gone to earth somewhere. I've no idea what's going on...but so far only you and Miss Juliette have known that this wasn't the real one...which means Jim must have really gone to ground."

"Someday I may actually learn to worry about that boy." Mac looked across at Stan and sighed. "Just how does a man five generations removed from the family look the spitting image of the current head of house?"

"What can I say, it's better than someone with no connections to the house possessing the face." Stan's response was rather mild in Mac's opinion, but his next words explained the mildness of it. "Just how did you know I was related at all?"

"Commonsense." Mac gave a sudden shiver. "Well that, something you said, something Miss Juliette de Bourgh Darcy said...and something Ashie said."

"Ashie..." Pyro caught himself and then rephrased his words. "What did Ashie say?"

"Nothing really." Mac gave a shrug. "Stan here never surfaced until after Ashie died...s'far as I know none of us saw Stan before Ashie's funeral. Far as I know, Ashie never met Stan."

"What did he say?" Pyro enunciated each word rather markedly.

"Oh." Mac paused to frown for a moment. "Damned if I know what's happening Mac, but if Jim hasn't something up his sleeve I'm not half the godfather I thought I was...and I know I'm pretty rotten."

"Too right there." Pyro gave a sudden snort. "What sort of godfather takes a five year-old out to blast tree-stumps."

"Ashie." Mac bowed his head in sudden laughter as he recalled all too vividly the condition Ashie and James had been in when they'd returned from their 'day out'. Filthy barely even began to describe it, but both had been cheerful, and only Ashie had heard the clearly expressed opinions of Elizabeth Bennet Darcy on the subject of such behaviour. Ashie's expression really had been far too saintly after that lecture, and no one had been surprised to hear that he'd done exactly the same thing the very next day. No one had been surprised either to hear that Miss Beth's response had been to throw her hands into the air and laugh...before threatening dire retribution should anything worse befall her son than a bit of mud and some wood-chips.

"I don't believe this is going to work." Stan was scowling sullenly across the desk at a tired looking Pyro.

"We didn't ask anything...let alone whether you thought it would work." Daoud gave his head a small shake. "We have simply told you what you are going to do for the next six months."

"What if I don't choose to?"

"That you'll have to take up with le deuxieme...not us." Pyro rose. "Any other questions?"

"Only the usual of wanting to know who le deuxieme is so I may voice my protests and objections."

"You can search us and you'll find absolutely nothing. Either the people who do know are continuous and competent liars, or no one knows who le deuxieme is except perhaps for James...le deuxieme obviously knows."

"Then how can I complain?"

"Like the rest of us you do the decent and refrain. Le deuxieme doesn't issue orders for fun, so I would guess there's something pretty serious behind it. Morris will be around as usual to help if Daoud is not...and both will sit on you if need be. You know where the lair is and I can't think of anything relevent that you don't already know." Pyro rose to his feet and dusted himself down.

"Juliette?"

"Be civil."

"I am always civil." Stan frowned. "She's already pulled me out of this masquerade once and I rather think she'll be unhappy I've been jammed back into it."

"Leave that to Juliette and le deuxieme to deal with, since it is their concern and not yours."

"Have you any idea how irritating that suggestion is?"

"No...no, not really." Pyro frowned slightly. "No, I mean old Icey surely never put it that way...did he?"

"Sir?" Daoud appeared politely bewildered.

"Don't worry." Pyro gave a tired shrug. "Just...a bad habit."

"I would be guessing that if Mr McKenna were here he would have responded to that with something along the lines of Ashie and the Major disliking it." Stan hesitated slightly before he finally spoke up.

"You would be correct with that thought." Pyro smiled quietly before quickly finishing up the remainder of the day's business and taking himself off to his small flat not too far from the lair.

"The man sounded remarkably like Jim." Caroline had calmly let herself into Pyro's flat, and he looked up with a marked scowl at her words. "However, I'm guessing it wasn't since he wasted time on polite conversation." Caroline dropped into a battered armchair and deposited her feet on a nearby coffee table. "You'd better warn him of Jim's lack of manners when it comes to telephones and people he knows reasonably well."

"Did you want anything else?" Pyro's expression was getting progressively darker.

"Deal with that first, then we'll deal with any other reasons for why I may have come over to invade your precious sanctuary."

"Mm." Pyro moved over to the telephone and dealt very briefly with whoever answered the number he called. "Le Deuxieme says he should get the message pretty soon."

"You have a direct line to le Deuxieme?" Caroline's brows rose sharply.

"No, I have a direct line to the Darcy Townhouse and they will find both of them far sooner than anyone else."

"Point." Caroline gave a faint grimace and then settled more comfortably in her armchair. "There are definite advantages to such dodgy looking furniture as this."

"I doubt you came with the intention of either insulting or complimenting my furniture."

"How perceptive of you." Caroline seemed to sink even deeper into the armchair. "I came over to feel miserable with the only person I know I can feel safely miserable with."

"You can't be miserable with Kitty?"

"No, she isn't cleared for admitting that she knows Mr Darcy isn't Jim." Caroline moved her feet to the left and considered them for a moment before moving back. "There's also the slight matter that she only ever saw Ashie in a good mood."

"You're here because there's no one else who can talk of Ashie in a bad mood?"

"What can I say, he had a unique way of expressing himself." Caroline moved her feet again and then sighed. "Pyro, can you explain why the most infuriating people are the ones you miss most when they go away?"

"Possibly because you become accustomed to being infuriated."

"That is a nauseating idea." Caroline slid into a slightly more supine position and closed her eyes. "Infact you almost manage to remind me of my sister."

"Oh?"

"She reassured me many years ago that I needn't fear marrying Ashie since it is possible to become accustomed to anything."

"I can assure you, Ashie was not someone anyone became accustomed to."

"Why?"

"Because I swear he specifically studied to find new ways to annoy as soon as he ascertained that one form of annoyance was successful." Pyro gave a faint smile and finally laid his book aside. "Infact, I know that with bureaucracy he did study methods of annoyance."

"Are you telling me that Neddie's pronouncement was correct?"

"Which pronouncement? That young lady made quite a number of pronouncements."

"The one concerning Ashie and his propensity for threatening paperwork with heinous acts of extreme violence."

"She did seem to acquire his tendancy for finding the most complex way of expressing a simple idea...and what can I say, he successfully managed the Deraux Estates for more than ten years."

"Lovely." Caroline sighed tiredly. "He's been dead for almost two years and I still can't remember those stupidly obvious things about him."

"You say that as if you're thinking about something else."

"I am." Caroline was silent for a very long moment. "Chris is searching for le Deuxieme."

"What?" Pyro had bolted upright in his seat.

"Chris is searching for le Deuxieme."

"How do you know?"

"Did you know?"

"No." Pyro sank back in his seat with a rather nauseated expression. "Jim is so going to kill us."

"Only if he finds out so I suggest you throttle that brother of yours before he damns us all."

"O-oh Lordy love us all." Pyro abruptly lunged for the telephone and lost twenty minutes before he finally managed to get his brother on the other end. The conversation was brief and apparently accrimonious, at least at Pyro's end. Caroline closed her eyes and waited patiently for the conversation to end, James Darcy was incredibly touchy about his private affairs among 'family' and Caroline wouldn't blame him since the Nazis were much less likely to find anything of use if people hadn't been digging around and indicating where things of interest might be found. There was probably nothing to find, but it would take the Nazis a lot longer to confirm that if they were left alone.

"He has quit?" Caroline looked up as Pyro settled back in his seat with a groan.

"Yes."

"Why was he even looking? Jim specifically stated that there was nothing about le Deuxieme in his private files to avoid this precise situation."

"Chris never believes anyone about anything...and he couldn't find anything anywhere else." Pyro was quiet for a moment. "Do you think Ashie knew?"

"I think Ashie had some suspicions...but I'd say the actual identity of le Deuxieme is a well kept secret between two people. James Darcy and le Deuxieme."

"In otherwords le Deuxieme never was MAGI." Pyro gave a sudden smile. "Damn I love that boy, he seems to play everyone's game for them...and then afterwards you discover that actually he only ever played his own game, but your game was a nice protective cover for him and convenient."

"No wonder Chris is fit to be tied." Caroline gave a soft laugh. "Is the not-Mr.-Darcy le Deuxieme approved?"

"Le Deuxieme ordered if you want the truth of the pudding...I don't think any of us are too happy about it, but we've got our orders and we're not about to question decisions at a time like this."

"Yes, we've seen what happens when le Deuxieme is ignored." Caroline spoke dryly, but her mouth twitched in repressed laughter for it really had been a shambles on the occasions when le Deuxieme was over-ridden...almost on par with the shambles when James' orders were ignored.

"D'you ever hear 'bout when Ashie brought the Camels to the 'drome?"

"That '17 when he was listed as dead for a few months and missed the notification of his father's crookies?"

"That was the time." Pyro nodded briefly as he marshalled his thoughts, Caroline obviously hadn't heard the story or she'd have checked the date by something more relevent than a letter which went astray.

"No." Caroline settled back comfortably in her chair and prepared to be amused.

A/N: for those wanting to read about the above incident, see TSNP, May 28th 1917.

July 20th 1944 - Rome, Italy

The true aristocracy of this land are those who, when turned to in a time of trial, deliver the goods. - Anonymous...in the House of Lords

Annette moaned into her pillow as the thunderous knock roused her from the soundest sleep she'd had in months. Annette hated being left behind, infact she'd grumbled almost the entire way back to the house after the call had found them at Jeroen's temporary aerodrome. Unfortunately she had to admit that she liked sleeping without the fear of a shell landing on her, or even in the vague vicinity. The knock thundered again and Annette's groggy mind found enough thought to analyse it, a thunderous knock, but the thunder of mindless panic, not the thunder of heavy fists. A quick glance revealed that Eoan had wasted precisely half an ear on the noise and was not even faintly interested. The visitor was no immediate threat.

"Coming!" Annette fumbled around for her robe and slippers before she shuffled to the door, it had been the first time she'd got to sleep in a nightgown in months and now she was regretting her decision. "Problem?" Annette got the door open and flashed the torch out into the darkness. It was pouring. Absolute sheets of water were descending from the heavens. "Oh my goodness?" Annette glanced at the weather for a moment longer and then glanced at her watch, before abruptly remembering why she'd opened the door and turned the torch around in search of anyone. The torch found a tiny child who had more in common with drowned rats than humanity. "Felicie?"

"Yes." It was a banshee like shriek which was only just audible over the storm. "Mama needs Madame."

"Oh heavens." Annette grabbed the child and dragged her into the room. "Drip on the mat while I find you a towel and some clothes. Is it Maria?"

"Yes."

"The telephones are down?"

"Yes." Felicie accepted the towel Annette handed her.

"Where is Madame?"

"At home."

"Oh heavens." Annette knew the meaning of the words 'at home', they meant absolutely nothing about the location of a person. "You stay here with Diemos, I'll get Madame for your mother." Annette pulled on a pair of trousers before vanishing into the cupboard which was called a bedroom before pulling on a shirt and jumper. A battered waterproof, heavy boots and hat finished off her ensemble as she headed for the door with Eoan at her heels. Annette had long since forgotten to even attempt persuading Eoan to remain behind when she went out. Felicie had curled up under a rug with Diemos drooping around her neck like grandmother's moth-eaten fur stole. Annette gasped as the weather slammed into her, she was not totally certain that she was going to survive a ride of five miles in this weather...but the thought of Felicie being out in it...

Annette was quite certain that she'd long since drowned and it was just that the gods had forgotten about her in this weather that enabled her to continue moving. However, dead or not, she had a job to do and that was fetch Madame. Madame was the local equivalent of a midwife, a voluminous woman with no english, numerous children of her own and a phenomenally low opinion of anyone who did not have children of their own. Annette was aware that it was freely held that the woman had 'dealt' with every soldier who had passed through Rome. Madame freely voiced the opinion that children were of more value to the world than fidelity, and had calmly sneered at Annette for months from the superior position of a woman who'd born six children by her twentieth year. Annette would have had nothing to do with the woman if given a choice, but if Mama wanted Madame it meant that Maria was in a very bad way. It was an incontrovertible fact that Madame knew more about bringing babies into the world than any doctor...she was also infinitely cheaper and more reliable than any doctor.

"Who is it?" An upstairs window had crashed open in response to Annette's long-term and thunderous knocking. An ill-clad figure hung out the window to shriek the query like a banshee and Annette was unsurprised.

"I seek Madame!" Annette knew perfectly well that it was Madame herself who hung out the window, but Madame had her pride and even a baby would not thaw her if it was damaged.

"Why?"

"Maria has come to her time and in difficulty."

"Does Maria say it is difficult, or Mama?"

"Mama!"

"I'm coming." The head and body vanished in a swirl of material and a slammed window. Within a moment a couple of discomposed soldiers came stumbling out of the house, then came Madame in her skirts with a heavy bag on her arm. "Are we going into the wind?"

"No." Annette waited calmly for the moment that Madame considered, then calmly mounted her own bicycle again as Madame pulled her own bicycle out from under the front steps.

"You are not squeamish?"

"No."

"Good, my girl cannot come and if Mama says Maria is in difficulties..." The sentance was incomplete and it didn't need to be completed. Mama had brought thirteen of her own children into the world, twenty-five grandchildren to date. If Mama said there were difficulties, then it was actually a matter of life and death. "Why you come?"

"Felicie was sent to me."

"Why not send Felicie on?"

"In this weather?" Annette practically fell off her bicycle as she twisted to stare at Madame.

"You have the good sense of a mother even if the gods have not yet favoured you." Madame gave a wide smile. "I always fear when the girls get too educated that they forget their commonsense. I hope when the gods are happy that you will bear a good family."

"Why do you always go at me like this?" Annette had abruptly stopped her bicycle so she could safely glare at Madame. "Every time I see you you're nagging me about having children. Some people simply never have them, and maybe we're another family that simply can't grow."

"You aren't barren." Madame carefully stepped off her bicycle. "You're too scared to be barren...which means you've already lost one."

"Wha..." Annette choked and then gasped as Madame folded her in a tight embrace.

"Only those who have lost can even begin to comprehend the pain of it...and you will never lose that pain." Madame stepped back slightly and used a large, black-lace handkerchief to dry Annette's face. "You can however learn to realise that it is not your fault."

"Bu..." Annette suddenly gasped as something seemed to grab her internals and tie them in a burning knot. The tears came in a torrent, and had Madame not been so strong Annette would have fled to the sheltering shadows. Madame was having none of it and Annette found her face buried once more in the ample bosom of Madame as the tears and sobs seemed to tear her into a million tiny shreds. If it had been anyone else, Annette would have asked why, but this was Madame and there was no question of why. Madame knew from personal experience.

"You are going to dry your eyes now." Madame handed Annette her very soggy handkerchief as the tears ceased to fall at the rate of the sheeting rain which still came down.

"Maria." Annette remembered abruptly why she was out in this horrendous weather and she scrubbed her eyes frantically.

"Relax, Mama knows she will be fortunate if I arrived within three hours...particularly in this weather, and she has accounted for that." Madame took control of the handkerchief again. "You're becoming my apprentice."

"But..."

"As long as there are humans in the world there will be babies who need to be born...and most women do not like having a man looking between their legs." Madame made a snorting noise. "You're my apprentice and we're about to become late."

"But surely someone else..." Annette stared at the woman in bewilderment.

"Not like you." Madame looked back from her bicycle. "There are precious few with the healing in their hands, but you have it and I'm not letting you waste it."

"But..."

"Got an old cat haven't you? Not yours really but it won't leave and it won't die." Madame's face had wrinkled up into a weird smile. "That husband of yours, gets awful sick sometimes doesn't he, but he's always better after you've spent the night putting him back together...and you feel like a tank ran over you. Eoan down there, he's been awful sick in his time and should have died...weird that he didn't."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you're blessed, or cursed, with healing hands. Learning to use them or not, you'll always have 'em. You could do more if you know how...and do it without feeling like you got run over by a tank."

"But..." Annette hesitated.

"Official or not, you will be accompanying me frequently in the future so you'd best warn that husband of yours...and we'd best get moving or we'll be late even by my standards."

"Oh." Annette's head felt very bewildered, but now was not the time to sort it out and she had a nasty feeling that Madame was not going to let her go back to her quiet life now. Annette remounted her bicycle, after having fished it out of the ditch and hastened after Madame who was swaying about wildly as the wind blew her all over the road. Annette knew that she too was being blown all over the road, but her mind was a little too preoccupied with other thoughts to consider that. Mostly Annette was preoccupied with her own hands, which were clenching the handlebars with white knuckles...even through the mud. The healing hands had to be simple guff...but the knowledge could be useful and... Annette vigorously refocussed her mind on riding as she realised she had only just avoided going headfirst into a ditch. Regardless of what was happening and what might happen, it wasn't worth taking a header into a sodden, mud-filled ditch over...though in all honesty, Annette was beginning to feel decidedly curious about what Rory's response was going to be, he'd insisted that she no longer come forward to the lines with them, and there was a possibility that this would upset him enough to change him mind on that particular ruling. Annette suddenly smiled and quickly closed the gap with Madame, she had a feeling that boredom was one thing she would not be suffering from in the coming months.

Posted on 2010-12-05

August 1st 1944 - Weybridge, England

I take a simple view of life: Keep your eyes open and get on with it. - Sir Laurence Olivier

Hope had been staring at the telephone in perplexity for over five minutes...Mac had been timing it. It was an odd expression of her face and Mac was less than comforted by it. It was an expression she tended to wear when something had gone wildly wrong with an aeroplane. It was an expression which had been becoming more frequent ever since work had begun on the jets. No one knew what happened with high speed flight, the casualties were mounting and the problems becoming increasingly bizarre and senseless.

"Hope?" There was complete silence and Hope continued to stare at the telephone.

"Hope!" A little more volume drew no more response.

"HOPE!" Mac settled for a yell and was relieved to see Hope twitch, it would take a moment or two before her full attention returned from where ever it was though.

"Something up?" Hope looked around and blinked rather owlishly.

"You've been staring at the telephone as if it's a particularly nasty crash."

"Oh." Hope moved away from the telephone and found a chair. "It was Jones from Farnborough, seems to think he's got an interesting job on hand and wanted me to show up because of something to do with the recent crashes we've had here."

"Our crashes have been remarkably boring...except for the fact that we seem to be studying how many pieces you can separate an aeroplane into."

"That's what worries me." Hope twisted restlessly and frowned out the window. "Fred has seven others over there and all they do is spend their time dissecting smashed planes. Why me?"

"Did you tell him no?"

"He said it would be interesting." Hope was frowning at the counter top.

"Then go pack." Mac settled himself down carefully. "Me and the twins will endeavour not to destroy ourselves, or the house, before whatever interesting problem has passed and I trust the big sneeze doesn't mind letting you go."

"It'll probably come out of my leave."

"You haven't had leave in years."

"Take it up with him, not me." Hope was frowning at the bookcase, one book in hand and her intention clearly to obtain another one. "I really...no, no, no...possibly not...maybe...is it at all important?" Hope turned away from the bookshelf with a perplexed expression.

"What?"

"It coming out of my leave. Is it an important matter?"

"No one else given such an invitation or request would have it taken out of their leave."

"Oh." Hope turned back to the bookshelf and pulled a book out. "Fred's usually reliable...or at least if not reliable he's not boring...that Halifax..."

"Which Halifax?" Mac looked up from the book he had acquired.

"Oh, it was back at the beginning of the war." Hope returned the book she held and grabbed another. "Rocket assisted bombs or something like that. The Halifax blew up and no one knew why." Hope began to flick through the book. "It was really rather idiotic because they loaded the plane for multiple tests and one of the bombs fired but wasn't released...it was rather bad for the aeroplane."

"Really?" Mac carefully swallowed a smile as he noticed that Hope now had seven books and was searching for more.

"I wonder..." Hope had pulled yet another book from the shelf and was thoughtfully thumbing through the pages. Mac smiled quietly to himself and went back to his book, the house could blow up and Hope wouldn't hear it now.

Hope knelt among the litter of metals and knew a moment of awe. They'd been working for days now, simply sorting the different fragments into their individual metal types. There were days more work to do before they even began attempting to assemble this mess, and they intended to compress the assembly time and analysis time as well. It was the ultimate jigsaw puzzle. It was also a secret which Germany undoubtedly considered to be safe...to any sane person this was the outcome of obliteration. The people gathered at Farnborough were not sane though, mathematicians were already working on the trajectory information balanced by the mass of metal which had been collected. This mess was a gift from Sweden, a high altitude explosion and many fragmentary scraps of metal...well, hardly a gift, the Swedes got Spitfires in return. This and some mathematics were all they had to work with, but Hope knew no doubt, they would know success before Hitler ever used it against them. Hope fingered a sharp-edged piece of metal and pondered which of the millions available to choose from would actually have once joined it. The clues were sometimes subtle, sometimes glaringly obvious, but always there. Explosions sometimes actually made the job easier, for explosions marked the metals. This was going to be fun...long, hard, fun.

"I trust your absence for the past couple of weeks has been suitably interesting." Mac glanced up from some cheap paperback as Hope let herself in through the back door. Hope noted with faint curiousity that there was actually quite a significant stack of books next to Mac's chair.

"Yes." Hope sank into another chair with a sigh. "Marmelade and Marine?"

"Upstairs and asleep." Mac laid the book aside and rubbed his forehead. "Very hush-hush?"

"Hmm?" Hope blinked in momentary bewilderment. "Oh, yes." Hope gave her head a small shake. "Some rocket which came out of Germany and detonated. We think we got it sorted...but we may be wrong."

"That is always a possibility." Mac smiled faintly and then it slowly widened. "Payload?"

"Nasty...also a whole sudload of senseless electronic stuff. At a guess we assume they'll start arriving in London within the next couple of months...but we've got their flight trajectories, ranges...we know where to look for the launch sites even if we can do nothing about them."

"Nice." Mac picked his book up again.

"Mac?" Hope had finally managed to bring her mind back to the present and that pile of books was bothering her.

"Mm?" Mac looked up from his book.

"It's two o'clock in the morning and you have eight thrillers piled next to your chair."

"Oh." Mac glanced at the pile with a faint frown. "Obviously I only thought about aski..." Mac stopped what he was saying and turned back to his book.

"Mac?" Hope's brows had risen questioningly.

"Picked a fight with the back door and lost...resulted in some enforced rest I'm afraid...the kitchen is the most shocking mess."

"When?" Hope was feeling distinctly resigned.

"Ten..twelve days ago." Mac gave a slight shrug. "Just something else I'll have to get the hang of not doing."

"Why do you usually seem to save your best attempts at killing yourself until my back is turned?"

"Skill." Mac gave a tired smile. "Marmelade's managing the dogs so you needn't worry about that this time...though I might have to worry about finding a new job...he's good with them."

"Well...try not to get one in London." Hope gave a tiny smile.

"I'll keep that in mind." Mac returned the smile and then picked up his book. "I'm not sleeping much courtesy of pain, there's no need to wait up."

"Am I allowed to sit and chat with a husband for a bit after not seeing him for twenty days?"

"Certainly...said husband felt his company was pretty rotten though."

"Well, said husband is not made up of crumpled pieces of duralumin I'm trying to piece together and is therefore a very welcome change."

"Oh." Mac laid his book aside again. "That being the case said husband will stop imitating being a piece of stuffed furniture." Mac rubbed the back of his neck and then yawned. "You've been offered a week of leave."

"Good." Hope kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet up. "Such an odd fin formation on that thing...must have a chat to someone about the effects of such variations...might be a..." Hope trailed off her eyes fixed on something in the infinite distance outside the window. Mac smiled quietly to himself and picked up his book once more. Life was good.

A/N: September 8th 1944, the first V2 Rockets arrived in Kent with specifications exactly matching those predicted by RAE...the senseless electronics were absent though, they were a remote flight control system which had never received permission to use a rocket.

August 1944 - Rome, Italy

Let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier. - Mother Theresa

Rory was totally doped, three parts asleep in total exhaustion, but determined not to fall asleep even though he was lying on the bed. Annette was out working at a hospital, office, canteen or some place such as she could find work when Mallern and Rory were working on a known battlefront. It was a surprise, they'd got back sooner than expected and Rory had been anticipating how to surprise Annette for the entire, agonising trip back. He hadn't been asleep. He knew he'd drifted rather close to sleep a couple of times, but he knew he hadn't been asleep...and yet when he'd rolled over, there she was lying next to him with an amused grin.

"I wasn't asleep." Rory rubbed at his eyes and then yawned.

"You were snoring." Annette rolled over herself, curled up and pulled Rory's arm over her shoulder.

"Was not."

"You were."

"Was..." Rory stopped mid sentance and mid stretch. "What...?"

"I..." Annette twisted her head around to look around the room, something had unsettled her. Rory tried to scramble order and sense into his addled wits, but in the end settled for remaining confused.

"Problem?" Rory abruptly smashed his pillow against the headboard and pushed himself up into sitting position. Annette quickly moved to settle under his arm.

"I..." Annette hesitated again and then frowned before turning the frown onto Rory. "I think you've not been overly informative in some of your letters of late."

"Me?" Rory blinked as his confusion deepened.

"You."

"Is it the burnt chicken?" Rory tried on an appologetic expression.

"No, it was not the chicken to which I was referring." Annette sniffed the air slightly. "Infact I'd be delighted if there even was chicken to burn."

"So...what's up?"

"That!" Annette used an only slightly grubby finger to indicate the basket in the corner.

"Ah." Rory tried on about three separate expressions before he gave up in disgust and settled for a vaguely hopeful expression. "It arrived after I mailed off the last letter?"

"You sound uncertain." Annette's tone was dry.

"Only about whether you'll believe me." Rory glanced at the basket rather ruefully. "Of how I came by the contents I have no doubts at all."

"Do tell."

"I'd rather not...but I do promise it is not mine."

"Any particular reason why not?"

"It wasn't pleasant."

"Right." Annette rolled off the bed and knelt next to the basket. The little face looked up from the basket, a sober little face which was remarkably grubby. "How old?"

"No idea."

"I shall speak to madame and find out at least an approximate age." Annette swept the baby out of the basket and inspected it with rather clinical eyes. "A bath, food and a bed are I think the most essential items, there does not seem to be much else the matter with it."

"Right." Rory hesitated and then shrugged. "The mother called it Mylena."

"Then Mylena it will remain." Annette glanced back over her shoulder. "Mother's name?"

"Slavica."

"Balkan born." Annette studied the face for a moment and then asked it a question, the response was a sudden toothy grin and a single word.

"What the...?" Rory blinked in bewilderment.

"She's from Bosnia Herzogovina and she's three."

"How...?"

"Lucky guess." Annette rose to her feet and balanced the girl on her hip. "The names are from the balkan states and she looked like she might be able to talk so I asked...and struck it lucky with my first choice."

"So now what?"

"I'm going to do the afore mentioned and you can go to sleep again."

"But..." Rory shrugged and settled on the bed again. "Wake me up if you want something...and you'd probably better find me a book on learning the appropriate language."

"No, you can teach her english." Annette paused at the door. "Your english is bad enough that I'd hate to see what sort of mess you make of any other language."

"Perhaps I should teach her mime and protect her from my language issues."

"You'd probably still use bad grammar." Annette half stuck her tongue out before whipping through the door and closing it behind her.

"Opinionated, meddlesome, irritating, know-it-all with..." Rory was mumbling under his breath when Annette's head came back around the door.

"I heard that and it is gramatically incomplete."

"Only you, Annie, only you." Rory pulled the pillow over his face and then sneezed. "Forgot I couldn't do that with these pillows."

"You haven't been able to do that for three years or more, I don't think it counts as a mistake that you still do it."

"Shut up."

"No."

"Then go wash a grubby baby."

"Fine." Annette retreated and left Rory to ponder the ceiling and wonder whether he dare try actually sleeping.

"RORY!" The scream exploded in his ear and Rory suddenly realised that even though he could still feel the grit and churned mud against his skin, he was no longer lying in the ditch where he'd taken graceless cover when the command car tore past.

"I..." Rory's eyes tracked around as he sought confirmation that he was in reality, not simply ripped from one nightmare and dropped into another.

"Rory." A simple call this time and Rory's eyes tracked around and then focussed on Annette.

"I..."

"Bath time, Mylena is asleep and you stink." Annette pulled Rory off the bed and helped him into the bathroom.

"But..." Rory's comprehension of what his ears recorded came too late and he winced as his ears reported a sharp hiss from Annette. That noise, more than anything, woke Rory up to the fact that this was reality. "Had to take to a ditch after a command car nearly got me."

"How long ago?" Annette gingerly touched the torn flesh, bruises and ugly abrasions.

"About a week." Rory considered his options briefly before simply relaxing where he'd been put and letting Annette get busy. It was rather nice to simply sit and let someone else worry about his aching ribs and torn skin.

"Did it get you at all?" Annette was inspecting the worst of the damage, and it did not look like a roll in the ditch to her.

"Yes." Rory had hesitated for a long moment. "Glancing blow to the left hip, took me about four hours to get out of the ditch again."

"Oh." Annette nibbled on a lip before turning abruptly to gather their rather thin medical supplies.

"Mylena?" It was several minutes later when Rory broke the silence in the small room.

"Sleeping peacefully." Annette had taken a moment to look back into the bedroom before she answered. "Hopefully you will soon follow her lead." Annette bit her lip as she excavated carefully after embedded grit and gravel.

"That is a very nice idea." Rory flinched involuntarily. "Can...can you give me something to do?"

"Read." Annette had stepped back out into the bedroom for a moment to retrieve the tatty volume.

"The writer of this book...what book is this Annie?" Rory had tried to decipher the front cover and failed miserably.

"Neville Shute's 'Lonely Road'." Annette narrowed her eyes at Rory's side, just one more abrasion to clean and unfortunately it was the worst one.

"Ahh." Rory turned back and began again. "The writer of this book, Malcolm Logan Stevenson, was born in the year 1891. On the death of his father, in 1895, the boy came under the care of his uncle, Sir Lionel Cope, the greater part of his boyhood being spent at Courton Hall in West Sussex. He was educated..." Rory continued to read, ignoring the fact that at times it felt like Annette was trying to get hold of his gizzards. The Preface passed, followed by the very confusing first chapter. Rory knew the book well, even if he never could remember who wrote it, or even what it was called...that was what Annette was for, she never forgot those things.

"Well, that's that." Annette was washing her hands very carefully.

"That is indeed that." Rory eyed his bandaged torso somewhat skeptically, he didn't fancy being left behind, if for no other reason than it would probably cost him the job and there was rather a shortage of paid jobs that he could do these days without returning to England...and they were pretty scarce there as well.

"How long are you back for?"

"A couple of days." Rory returned his attention to the book in his hands.

"We'll air it and sun it tomorrow and you should be good for the road when it comes...if a little tender."

"Thanks, Annie." Rory looked up from the book for a brief moment.

"You can keep reading." Annette lead the way back into the bedroom. "Either that or you can sleep."

"Not particularly tired any more." Rory hesitated momentarily beside the bed, then settled cautiously onto it and re-opened the book. "Chapter Two. The next point of significance in my story is a conversation I had with Dixon in the nursing home after my accident, a few days before I was taken back to my own house. He came and sat beside my bed one morning..." Rory read steadily for a couple more chapters before fatigue gained the upper hand and his consciousness lapsed. Annette smiled quietly, removed the book from slack fingers and placed away on the bedside table before she carefully curled up beside him. Annette was tired herself, for last night had been long, this morning had been busy and Rory's injuries had occupied the afternoon. The promise of more work also hung in the wind, for there were few doctors available to the civilians and Madame firmly believed that no call for help should be ignored...whether you were qualified to help or not. Last night it had been appendicitis...the chance of survival for the boy was very low, but the mother was simply happy that someone had tried. Annette sank slightly deeper into the bed and her mind as she sought what Madame vaguely referred to as 'connections'. Annette had no more belief in Madame's talk of healing hands than she'd ever had, which was to say none, but she'd made a promise and she'd keep it...there was also the little thing that it couldn't possibly hurt either Rory or little Paolo if she tried.

August 25th 1944 - Paris, France

"...those are my principles...if you don't like them, I have others." - Groucho Marx

"...and what do they make me? A courier pilot." Jeroen was fuming softly to himself while his hands automatically followed the routine of a good part of his adult life. Ashie would have his hide for being so careless, but right now, Jeroen was too busy fuming to think of that. For a month he'd been flying back and forth between France and Italy. If it had wings he'd flown it in that month...and a couple of times the specification of wings was questionable. Twice the 'thing' hadn't lasted a mile beyond the aerodrome before crashing. Normally Jeroen didn't mind flying delivery, though it was rather a long way below his rank, but after a month of it his patience had worn more than a trifle thin. Not that he was complaining too loudly, he had no wish for the recording angels to decide that he needed to lose a limb or two...his freedom...or his life.

It was a hail of ammunition which reminded Jeroen that even if Paris had officially returned to allied hands, he was still flying in perilous airspace. Habit was habit though and Jeroen had taken evasive action before he even began looking for the threat. Angle of fire and proximity of noise to impact told him the company was close...and a very bad shot. Jeroen scowled as he flicked his radio on to find out who was annoying him.

"...damn that was quick. I mean honestly, Pickled Gill, jumpy?" It was the helpful voice of Lance, a man Jeroen didn't mind on the ground, but disliked intensely in the air.

"What do you want?" Jeroen had maneuvred a little further around and finally had line of sight on his 'attacker'.

"You seemed a trifle inattentive...I thought you needed to wake up."

"Anything else?" Jeroen thumbed the button for the wing-cannons rather meditatively and knew a twinge of sorrow.

"Y-you're not thinking of returning the favour are you?" Lance seemed to abruptly wake up to the fact that his actions had been perhaps a trifle unwise.

"How fast can you fly, Lance-boy?" Jeroen tapped the throttle a hair and nipped around to a better position.

"Err...it was just a joke." Lance began losing altitude. "Honestly...no harm done...really..." Lance seemed to realise his efforts were fruitless as he dove for the ground. Jeroen sat on Lance's tail the entire way back to the aerodrome...it was simple...depressingly simple. Was there any pilot left active who had that innate instinct for just how much a plane could take and pushed that limit every time they sat down? Jeroen thought almost fondly of the suicidal days up at Pemberley when he'd worked for James Darcy.

"Are you really that devoid of humour?" The Squadron-Leader was waiting for both of them on the tarmac, but his attention was on Jeroen, for he knew the limits and temperament of his own pilot. It really was an awkward situation, for he out-ranked both of them, but his current occupation was unquestionably subordinate within the structure. They'd apparently settled for a functional state of rank neutrality.

"Depends on your definition of humour." Jeroen gave a tight smile before checking out the empennage and right wing where he knew he'd been hit. "Rats." Jeroen had fished perhaps half a dozen lumps out of the wing-space. "The froggies don't half feed'm tough." Jeroen dropped the spent shells into Lance's hand. "Next time, miss completely."

"Why?" Lance had closed his hand on the shells rather convulsively.

"Terrorizing the military as well as the civillians, Fouchiard? Please grow-up." The new-comer wore the stripes of an Air-Commodore and the appropriate sort of expression.

"Oh, hullo." Jeroen snickered softly. "I only terrorize those that deserve it."

"What did he do?"

"Took a pot-shot at me." Jeroen gave a sniff. "I'm afraid there's some rat damage, but she's good otherwise."

"Oh joy, a simple delivery flight and you still find trouble!" The Air-Commodore sighed. "Can't you keep out of trouble for three little seconds?"

"Only in exams." Jeroen gave a soft snigger.

"You didn't even keep out of trouble in exams." The Air-Commodore had spluttered for a moment. "Worst of all you got me blamed for it."

"You shouldn't have had such a reputation for trouble." Jeroen gave a snort and then rolled his shoulders. "Can you do something about this Wing-Commander flying delivery, sir?"

"Only if you'll accept the promotion and do some desk time."

"Miserable, mis-begotten son of..." Jeroen died into an unintelligible mumble. "Just what sort of desk time are we talking about?"

"Canada...FTS...if you must match me in rank I'll be damned if you're anywhere close."

"You hate them or something?" Jeroen blinked in surprise.

"No, I want them to stay alive."

"Point." Jeroen scowled and tugged on his ear for a moment. "Fine...when?"

"Soonish."

"Why do you think he has a hate for the cadets?" Lance had been listening in in confusion, but spoke a moment too soon for the Air-Commodore to not hear.

"Squadron-Leader? Decorated?"

"Yes, sir." Lance had the evidence on his uniform, though not as much as the Air-Commodore.

"You know the Pickled Gill?"

"Yes, sir." Lance shot Jeroen a nervous glance, he had no idea where this was going.

"You think he was actually going to shoot you?"

"He was certainly considering returning the favour, sir."

"Take a closer look at the 'plane he was flying."

"Sir?" Lance was suddenly afraid.

"Fouchiard was pilot for just one reason...he's the only man I knew could get an unarmed Mark II Spit through intact." The Air-Commodore smirked briefly at the annoyed Jeroen before he moved off. Jeroen went back to muttering under his breath. Lance and the Squadron-Leader had gone to verify the Air-Commodore's information.

"Sir." Jeroen abruptly sprinted after the man.

"Gerkin?"

"Thanks, Tiger." Jeroen rubbed his head briefly. "Why did you come?"

"To give you a heads-up over Canada?"

"You'd only give me a heads-up if you wanted me to have a chance at wriggling out of it...and you've already made it clear that you actually want me to take it. Why come?"

"Fine...you're wanted up at HQ because of your...connections." There was a moment of pause. "I'd have been back for you in five minutes anyway."

"Wonderful." Jeroen cracked his neck. "Can I have time to change and eat before we go?"

"Fine with me, I'll be entertaining in the mess."

"Oh, merciful..." Jeroen sighed. "I'll have to move to the moon if I want any peace with you around."

"You shouldn't have crashed an Avro into the Air-Commodore's bunkroom at Cranwell...or..."

"Oh shut-up." Jeroen waved a tired hand as he swung around and headed for the accomodation block. He needed a shower, a fresh uniform and food in that order. It was handy knowing a lot of the top-brass personally, but they were a menace when they felt they had a score to pay off.

"Air-Commodore Fouchiard...you're one tough man to track down."

"Sir?" Jeroen settled for an expression of blank confusion, not just because of the rank he'd seemingly acquired without it even being officially offered, let alone accepted.

"We've been trying to find you for a month." There was a moment of silence. "You have a talent for having left for the next Front just five minutes before we got hold of you."

"I presume this is not a pointless plan." Jeroen blinked slowly.

"James Darcy gave us permission several years ago to access the MAGI network in Paris after we re-took the city."

"That explains the khakis." Jeroen nodded briefly towards the uniforms at the end of the table. "I'm not certain how much help I'll be."

"Unfortunately, Commander Darcy isn't allowed to leave England...and says we're on our own unless we lift the restrictions. To say the least he's deemed to be uncooperative in the matter. Wing-Commander Ashington-Frankston is deceased and the Earl of Clarrington has been missing for several years now. Who else do you suggest we approach?"

"I see your point." Jeroen scratched his head. "I can't tell you anything...give me a day of leave and I might be able to find something."

"Are you being troublesome?" One of the khaki's leant forward.

"No, sir."

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is security. I was never more than a pilot. I was told nothing operational beyond a few safe points to make for should I ever be downed in hostile territory. James probably knew everything. Le Deuxieme probably knows everything. For the rest of us we knew what was necessary but otherwise kept ignorant. There is also the fact that the MAGI were officially taken apart when Jim 'died'. I simply don't know if the right people are still at the Paris Safe house...and your face doesn't match the identity codes that I know."

"You've got two days to find something useful."

"Thankyou, sir." Jeroen saved his eye-roll until he was a safe distance from H.Q. There were times when he wondered if he'd ever get so bad if he remained in the Forces after the War. Once he'd dreamt of being an Air-Marshall...now he wasn't totally sold on the idea. All that apart though, he now had to find someone in Paris who would admit to being MAGI, even though official shut-down included a clause which denied that the MAGI ever existed. For someone to admit the truth to him, they would have to break their final order. This could be interesting.

Jeroen was tired by the time he knocked on the last door for the day. He'd chased one name back and forth across Paris. The Derichelet's had moved on average once every three months and never back over old ground.

"Oh, it's Mr Pilot." The child who opened the door in response to his knocking was a very familiar face. "How are you, Mr Pilot? Will you talk to me?"

"Hello, Mathilde." Jeroen knelt down so the girl could throw enthusiastic arms around his neck.

"We're free, Mr Pilot!"

"That must be pleasant." Jeroen stood, keeping a careful hold on Mathilde, of whom he had some very fond memories.

"Oh yes, Mr Louis is playing the music again downstairs and it is as beautiful as you said."

"I'm glad to hear that." Jeroen carefully stepped into the house and kicked the door shut behind himself. "Your parents are well?"

"Oh yes, but Daddy said you should speak to Uncle Henri."

"Oh?" Jeroen paused and waited patiently for Mathilde to expand on the point.

"Uncle Henri lives upstairs and has been deaf ever since the 'Nazzies' had a chat with him."

"Oh." Jeroen turned and headed for the stairs as his mind turned over why Phillipe wanted him to speak to a deaf man. "When did Uncle Henri have his chat?"

"1942, the day after my birthday."

"Nice to know he didn't miss out on the party." Jeroen carefully lowered Mathilde to the floor before he shook Henri's hand vigorously. The man was only a few years older than Jeroen, but he looked a hundred.

"Jeroen...it's been years."

"It has." Jeroen gave a slow nod and wondered how this was going to go.

"You look well though. Your sister?"

"Good."

"That is good." Henri settled himself comfortably back into an armchair which had a very good view of the street. "Mathilde will write for us."

"Thankyou, Mathilde." Jeroen was deeply relieved to have that particular matter resolved.

"I like writing for Uncle Henri." Mathilde grabbed a small slate and settled comfortably in her Uncle's lap.

"Phillipe felt you should talk to me before anyone else in the house...if possible." Henri shifted himself carefully and then smiled. "The wording of the shut-down was so beautiful."

"Oh?" Jeroen had not actually heard the shut-down.

"Phillipe said that it said something about all MAGI who hear this message are to never speak on the topic again." Henri gave a tiny smile. "I have never heard the message...and no one ever speaks to me on the topic."

"The Allied Forces have permission from Mr Darcy to access the Paris group." Jeroen chose his words carefully, few of the members among the MAGI had any belief in officialdom and the Nazis most certainly had not changed that outlook. Henri would take any, and every, avenue available to not help more than essential...even if it meant people died. Henri would not go counter to an order from James though.

"I'll help." Henri had been silent for a very long moment. "If Mr James wants them helped, than helped they will be...but I don't like it."

"Who does." Jeroen gave a small grimace. "The objective is to keep people alive...and the Nazis out."

"Got it loud and clear." Henri carefully put Mathilde onto the floor before rising to offer Jeroen his hand. "It's been good to see you again...but come back again after the Nazis is mashed, please."

"I should be able to manage that." Jeroen gave a brief smile as he shook the offered hand, then collected Mathilde and descended for a brief social visit with old friends before he returned to give his official report and find out what was going to happen next. Canada was going to be a while in coming and he didn't really fancy continuing to fly delivery...though it was preferable to a desk pushing paper. An Air-Commodore flying delivery...that would startle a few of them.

F.T.S. = Flight Training School

Continued In Next Section