Ian Tregillis - Bitter Seeds

The prisoner slammed to a halt as though he'd hit a glass wall. His body folded up, bones crackling like china.

But Kammler, in his simpleminded zeal, also crushed the pump house. The building disappeared in an implosion of splintered timbers and powdered brick. A plume of spring water erupted through the debris. Gretel unfurled her umbrella, looking amused. It rained on the Reichsbehorde.

Himmler and Greifelt left soon after that, soggy and shaken. And though Doctor von Westarp kept his medal, he punished them all.

Heike received the worst of his rage. Her screams emanated from the laboratory. They trailed off after a while, either because he'd made his point or because her vocal cords had given out.

The doctor locked Reinhardt in the ice house.

Klaus's part in the debacle won him a day in the crate. Mewling apologies did no good. Von Westarp stripped him of his harness before kicking him inside the coffin-sized box. Steel bolts clanged into place. Klaus pounded on the lid. Claustrophobia turned the trickle of breathable air rank. He grappled with the urge to hyperventilate, meting out his breaths against the rhythm of his heart. The knowledge that he'd disappointed the doctor created a nausea that threatened to overwhelm him.

Later that night, Pabst gave Gretel new bruises. “It is your duty!”—thud—”to warn us!”—slap—”of such problems!”

Her laughter echoed through darkness and coffins.

8 March 1939

Soho, London, England

Winter had receded in recent days, as though resting up for a big finale. But as a rule, the Hart and Hearth kept its fireplace stoked from October to April. Which was one reason Lord William Beauclerk found it a fine place for a proper tete-a-tete with old friends.

Firelight shimmered on the polished oak beams and cast fluid shadows across the ridges and swirls of horse hair plaster in the ceiling. With an occasional pop that launched a whiff of pine into the room, the sound and smell of the fire melded with the fog of conversation and tobacco.

Six o'clock, so the place was filling quickly with a solid cross section of the working class, just off work and stopping for a pint on the way home. Loudmouthed tradesmen, lorry drivers, a newspaper vendor with ink-stained fingers. Also a few artists and playwrights. And a lovely pair of shopgirls at the next table. The frumpier one had her back to Will; her companion wore an embroidered cloche over a bob of auburn hair and a dusting of freckles on milk-pale skin.

The Hart had a cozy little snug. He made a mental note to invite the bird for a private drink later. Working-class women, he'd found, could be less reserved with their affections than those from other stations in life. Another factor in Will's fondness for the Hart. Although his brother had become a bit of a prig lately, prone to worrying about bastards turning up on the doorstep.

Aubrey could go on at length about what was proper and improper and the responsibilities that came with Will's station in life. To hear him tell it, Will would destroy the country by having it off with a shopgirl. Will had little patience for Aubrey's obsession with noblesse oblige.

He preferred the company in places like this, though he sometimes felt conspicuous. Somewhere along the line he'd taken to wearing a bowler, almost as a form of camouflage. But his shirt cost more than some of these people earned in a week. Thus he'd learned over the years to twist his vowels, leaving behind burrs and clipped syllables in order to emulate the regional accent of the Midlands. Will had grown up listening to how the staff at Bestwood spoke.

The door opened. A cold draft followed Marsh into the pub, tousling close-cropped hair the color of wet sand. A forest-green cable-knit turtleneck and gray corduroys covered his solid build. Marsh wasn't exactly short, or blocky, either, though he sometimes came across as such. It was an illusion created by the way he carried himself, and a face more suited to a boxer than a scholar. But he reminded Will of nothing so much as a coiled spring. Not in the sense of being high-strung or nervous: quite the opposite. But Will had always sensed something inside the man, tightly controlled but powerful.

Marsh ordered at the bar, then leaned against the brass rail while waiting for his pint. When Marsh entered a room, he studied it as though it were a puzzle to be solved. He'd had that mannerism forever—the peculiar way his eyes moved, absorbing every detail. He did it now, examining the pub and the lounge with caramel-colored eyes.

But Will had taken a table in the corner of a dark, smoky pub. He lifted his head. “Pip.” Will had christened Marsh with that nickname during their first year at university together.

Marsh didn't hear him. Will stood, repeating, “Pip! Over here.” He lifted his hand to wave, but rapped his knuckles on a stag head in the process. “Oh, sodding.” Tea slopped out of its cup when he bumped the table. “Hell.”

Will sucked on his knuckles. The shopgirls tittered.

The commotion drew Marsh's attention. The corners of his eyes crinkled in a smile. He approached Will's table.

“Good to see you, Will.” They clasped hands. Marsh had a brawler's hands: thick fingers with round puckered knuckles and a solid grip. Will's hands were more slender. Their handshake creased the thin white scars that spiderwebbed Will's palm. Not painful, but unpleasant.

“And you'n all, mate.”

The other man cocked an eyebrow. Marsh rankled when people adopted a more common mode around him. At university, he'd worked to achieve a more refined diction of his own.

“Apologies,” said Will, slipping back into his normal enunciations. He had, perhaps, laid it on a bit. “I'd forgotten. Force of habit, you know.”

Marsh grinned. He nodded at the teapot and empty cup. “Buy you something stronger?”

Will shook his head. “I'd settle for just a slice of lemon, honestly. You'd think there's a war.” Will sighed theatrically. “Alas. I'll soldier on.”

“Still not drinking, eh? It's comforting to know you still cling to your affectations.”

“Your billfold can thank old granddad for my peculiarities.”

“Every one? The mind reels.”

Will laughed. “It does indeed.”

“And how's your brother?” asked Marsh, taking a seat.

“His Grace has made something of a holy terror of himself in the House of Lords. Fancies himself a crusader these days.”

“Socialist?” Marsh looked at him in mild alarm. “Hasn't gone pink, has he?”

“Oh, no. He's not a Bolshie.” Will dismissed the concern, waving his long fingers in a languid circle. “Merely decided he's the champion of the common man. Taken the plight of the Spaniards to heart, or some such.”

At the mention of Spain, Marsh looked rather serious for a moment. “Good for him. Someone ought.”

“A bit late, I fear. I'll relay your greetings, yes?” A formality, of course.

“Please do,” said Marsh. He sipped at his pint, eyes scanning the room behind Will.

“Well then,” said Will, “to the matter at hand.”

Marsh continued to stare past Will's shoulder.

“I said,” Will repeated, “to the matter at hand.”

“What?” Marsh looked like he'd just been poleaxed.

Will dangled one long arm over the back of his chair and chanced a look. Marsh's attention had landed on the freckled coquette. Aha. “Delightful girl.”

“Hmm?” Marsh tried to hide the flush in his cheeks by taking a long draw on his pint. “I suppose she is.”

With casual disinterest, Will asked, “Shall I wave her over?”

“No, no,” said Marsh, shaking his head. But then he fixed Will with a sly look. “You don't fool me. I'll wager you were planning to invite her to the snug for a private drink, weren't you?”