Ian Tregillis - Bitter Seeds

6 August 1939

Westminster, London, England

Oy! Keep yer bleedin' fingers off that goddamn film, Yer Highness!”

Will jumped away from the projector as if an adder, rather than acetate, were coiled about the reel. He lowered himself into a chair facing the far end of the room, where a Scot in gray overalls continued to curse while struggling to unfurl a screen.

“My apologies,” Will murmured. He'd been through a lot in the past hour; he didn't feel quite himself. His knees had gone wobbly and he hadn't quite regained his balance.

Pausing before he launched another volley of curses at the tripod, the Scot asked, “Why the hell is he here?”

“Because he's our local expert,” said Marsh.

The man with the projector screen snorted. “He is, eh? That's just bloody wonderful,” he muttered.

“Don't mind him.” Marsh joined Will at the table. “How are you feeling? You look ... pale.”

“Well, it's rather a lot to take in, isn't it?”

Marsh's message had been vague, saying only that he'd very much appreciate Will's opinion on a matter. Will had suspected it might have had something to do with their conversation in the Hart and Hearth back in February, the evening they'd both met Liv. But, having already agreed to provide his assistance, and being more than a little curious, he cheerfully attended this strange meeting in the Broadway Buildings. The concrete edifice stood a couple of streets south of St. James' Park, just down from the eponymous Tube station, and a ten-minute walk from Buckingham Palace. Will had dismissed it as an uninspired government building.

He hadn't known it housed SIS headquarters.

Or that his dear friend, for whom he'd stood as best man not a week earlier, was a spy.

As for Stephenson, Will had always regarded Marsh's putative father as a bristly but harmless codger. But the old man had seemed anything but harmless when he'd shoved a copy of the Official Secrets Act in Will's face. Technically—as Will now understood, thanks to Stephen-son's rather alarming speech—the Act was law within the United Kingdom, so he was bound by its provisions whether he knew it or not. This may have been Stephenson's attempt to comfort a bewildered newcomer. It didn't. But by making Will sign a sworn oath that he would abide by the terms of the OSA, he'd guaranteed that Will would pay attention and take the matter seriously.

The Scot finished with the screen. He returned to the front of the room, where he took up the eight-millimeter film reel and started threading it through the projector.

Will asked, “Pip, how long have you been an agent of the Crown?” He rubbed his palms on his knees, slowly warming to the subject.

Marsh gave him a guilty half smile. “Since leaving the Navy.”

“Ah. I see. And all the time I believed you worked for the Foreign Office ...”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Ah. Recruited you out of the Navy, did they?”

“No, it was before that.”

“Oxford?”

Marsh hesitated. He started to answer, but stopped when the door opened. Stephenson entered, carrying a file folder. The old man latched the door behind him.

Ah , thought Will. So that's it.

“It was a long time ago,” said Marsh.

“Does your blushing bride know about this?”

Stephenson and Marsh shared a quick, fraught glance at each other. Something unsaid passed between them. Will knew with certainty he'd just resurrected an uncomfortable topic. But the moment passed before he could find a way to gracefully rescind the question. Stephenson joined the gruff fellow at the projector, where they spoke quietly.

His eyes on Stephenson's back, Marsh said, “Look, Will. Were it the least bit possible, Liv would know all. But she's safer the less she knows. And I will do anything— anything —to protect her.” Again Will felt that sense of a powerful spring uncoiling inside Marsh, a warning tremor of intensity. Marsh pointed at the projector. “Which in fact is why we're here.”

“I think we're ready,” said Stephenson. “Time for you to get these gentlemen up to speed, Commander.” He walked along the wall, pulling every window shade until the room would have been dark if not for the light of a single lamp.

The announcement created opposing reactions inside Will. He shook off the tremor of unease, the sensation of a last chance slipping away. If I leave now , he thought, I've seen no secrets and there's no harm done . But as childish as it may have been, he also felt a tingle of excitement. William Edward Guthrie Beauclerk, special consultant to His Majesty's spies !

And as far as breaking ranks with the other warlocks went, he'd already done that at the Bodleian, years ago. It may have been a foolish thing to do, but the damage was already done. By helping Marsh now, Will could turn that foolish indiscretion into something good.

The Scot took a chair on the other side of Marsh. Marsh scooted his own chair back a bit so that he could address Will and the other man.

“First things first,” he said. “Will, meet James Lorimer. Lorimer, meet Lord William Beauclerk.”

Will offered his hand. “A plea sure.”

“Aye.”

As they shook hands, Will noticed mottled discolorations on Lorimer's fingers. The man was older than he or Marsh, too, closer to Stephenson's age. Perhaps his late forties. He enjoyed the occasional cigar, too. The smell wafted from him, and his thick black beard was dusted with ashes.

Will couldn't help but look down at himself: the Savile Row shirt of sea-island cotton, the double-breasted suit, the pocket watch. Perhaps the breast-pocket silk had been a step too far in this company. He could see Lorimer making the same evaluation as they looked each other over. Then again, Will hadn't known what to expect of this meeting.

Marsh continued. “Lorimer knows part of this story, and you know a different part of it, Will, though you may not realize it.” And then he launched into an incredible tale: sneaking into war time Spain to meet a Nazi defector; spontaneous human combustion; a half-charred filmstrip; a gypsy woman with wires in her hair.

Had it been somebody else telling the story, Will would have laughed it off as a fevered hallucination. Instead he had to accept the notion that in another century Marsh would have been the real-life hero of a Rudyard Kipling adventure.

What am I doing here?

“And that is how we recruited Lorimer into our little family,” said Marsh, gesturing at the Scot. “He was a sergeant back in the Great War, connected with the Army Film and Photographic Unit. Later he went to work for the General Post Office Film Unit. We needed somebody who could reconstruct the Tarragona film. Somebody good.”

Lorimer said, “Reconstruction's a bold claim. You haven't seen the end result, boy. Stitched it together as best I could, but there's a fair bit missing. Had to make wild guesses in some parts. Even so, that film ...” He trailed off, shaking his head. Then he pointed at Will. “Remind me again. What's His Highness doing here?”

Marsh said, “Stephenson and I feel, based on what little we've seen, that Jerry is on to something unnatural. Having seen the entire film, you may agree.” Lorimer canted his head, as if to say perhaps . “To best deal with this, we need an expert in the unnatural. Will is a, ah ...”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Pip. Let's get over heavy ground lightly, shall we?” Will turned to face Lorimer and Stephenson behind him. He took a deep breath. “My grandfather was a warlock. My father, too. While I didn't follow in the family hobby, I have had the training.”

Lorimer looked disgusted. “This is unbelievable. Five months. Five months I've worked on that sodding filmstrip, nightmares for free, and for what? So that you can hand it off to this chinless wonder.” He stood.