Bodice Ripper

The man gave a look that bordered on apologetic, and shook his head.

"No sir, I gotta get my family."

"Well," James said, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a billfold, "here."

He handed over a little more than he owed and picked his things up. It was only a couple kilometers. If he hurried, he could be there in twenty minutes. Just in time for things to go wrong.

For a moment, he walked, carrying his bag and jacket. Then he thought better of it, pulled anything he could from his jacket pocket, and transferred it to his trousers.

Then he started to jog, and then his strides spread out into a full run. If he wagered it right, he could cut his time in half. As he ran, a noise pulled him out of his fog. He narrowly avoided a car running down the street. That would be Mary and her uncle, then.

She couldn't be safe with Oliver around, he knew, but they couldn't stop him without proof. As long as she got to shelter, everything would be fine. He redoubled his efforts.

By the time he arrived, people were streaming out the front door, nearly a dozen men and women, few of them carrying more than the clothes on their back. He stood back and watched.

They were the servants he'd let go, all right. Whether or not Davis had been involved in whatever Oliver was doing or not, he'd made sure to hire the same staff back on.

One face stood out, though, and he had to blink and rub his eyes to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. Was that...?

"Mary!"

She looked up. They all looked up, but most of them went back to what they'd been doing before. She had to push through the pack of people, all of them moving in towards town, as she tried to cross the road to him.

"What are you doing here?"

"Pearl is dead. Someone shot him."

James wanted nothing more than to draw her up into an embrace, and kiss her, to take her away and damn the consequences. But the people who shot a second-rate lawyer from two towns over on suspicion that he'd been working for someone who knew their secrets wouldn't let that happen. They'd be dead before they made it back to London if he didn't deal with it now.

"I don't understand," Mary was saying.

He kissed her and fished in his pocket, then pressed the key to his flat into her hand.

"Take this. When the raid is over, if you can, take the train to London. Stay in my flat, I should be paid for the rest of the month. I'll come back for you. I promise."

"I want to stay with you," Mary pleaded. He looked down at her, so afraid and vulnerable. He wished that she could stay with him, but it wasn't time yet.

"No. It's not safe. Go on, Mary, before they all leave you behind. With all those people around, you'll be able to blend into the crowd. Wait! Before you go, I have one question. Which room is your uncle's?"

Her directions were good. Up the stairs, take a left, down the hall. He could have drawn a map himself, though he'd only gone up the stairs a handful of times. When he got there, the door was closed and locked.

The lock, surprisingly, held up when he put his shoulder into the door. The frame around it, on the other hand, splintered in after a few hard kicks. A shame, really, James thought. They don't make them like they used to, any more.

The room was largely barren. A footlocker sat at the foot of the bed, and he tried the lock. Closed. He looked around for a minute. Was there anyplace easier to look?

A satchel beside the locker, simply zipped up. He opened the zipper and upended the bag onto the bed. A day's clothing, a shaving kit, and a bar of soap. The Colonel was a simple man, and he traveled light.

James sat back against the side of the bed and breathed. What now? The entire caper had been done in less than a day. Whoever had done it, there was a way to tie it back to Oliver Geis. James was sure of that much, but what?

With a sigh, he started the walk across the estate to his room. He pulled the zipper on his bag, and pulled a pistol from it, checked the chamber to ensure that it was loaded, and slipped it into his pocket.

The house was eerily silent, he noticed now. It seemed almost surreal; the sirens had been audible even from this distance, but now in the belly of the house, he could have heard a pin drop. He came back to the master bedroom, took aim with his pistol, plugged his ear as best he could, and shot.

The bang was deafening, and when he opened his eyes the entire lock mechanism had been blown off. He opened the footlocker. There were large scorch marks where his bullet had gone in, but inside were scores upon scores of letters, each of them addressed to Oliver Geis.

James didn't have time to read them, but some were clearly written in German—and then from behind, he heard a man clear his throat.

He turned slowly. There was no reason to rush, now, after all. James knew who it had to be.