Of War and Women

Chapter 9

  Women at War

  London – February, 1945

  Trant sat on a park bench in Trafalgar Square munching on a hastily purchased lunch, taking advantage of one of those rare clear winter days that beckoned one to the out-of-doors. He was idly observing a male pigeon performing a ludicrous mating dance before a slender female, she in turn pretending to pay no attention whatsoever to his ploy. Completely engrossed in this timeless courtship, Trant could not help but lament his own loss. After several months of denial, only now was he beginning to completely understand the magnitude of that loss.

  As he sat contemplating pigeons, people, and the sheer incomprehensibility of life itself, a shadow passed before his eyes, provoking the flock of pigeons to flight. Irritated by this intrusion on his somber reverie, he raised his eyes to find to his great surprise that the shadow was cast by Lord Sutherland, who was standing before him, tears streaking his face. The shock of seeing his own father in such a state launched him to his feet, and without a moment’s hesitation he blurted, “Father, what is it? What has happened?”

  His father dropped to his knees before Trant and, emitting a wail of misery, he cried, “We’ve lost her, son. Lady Sutherland is gone!”

  “What!” Trant exclaimed incredulously. “She’s gone?”

  “Yes, my son. Her car blew up this morning on her way into London. She was on her way to surprise me with a visit. The authorities are saying it may have been a rogue V-2 rocket.”

  “Bloody hell! How is that possible, father! We who have survived a world war, and she is the one who is lost? This is not possible. This is what we fought for, to preserve our families, our very way of life. It simply cannot be!”

  “But I am afraid it is, my son. I have lost my reason for being. Please, you must help me. I fear I have not the will to go on.” The pair grasped one another fiercely, fused into a family embrace that was diminished forever by the loss of their mutual rock of stability.

  Two Weeks Later

  Trant met his father at his downtown club, all the while wondering why he had appeared so agitated on the phone. Strolling up to his father’s table, he inquired without so much as a hello, “Sir, what the dickens is going on? Why were you in such a dither to see me on short notice?”

  “Ah, Trant,” the elder exclaimed despondently, “Please, have a seat, son.”

  Perceiving from his father’s wretched demeanor that, although something was indeed awry it was not an emergency, he settled thankfully into his seat and offered, “I must say, you’re looking well under the circumstances, sir.”

  “Ah, well, we must all put up a good show, Trant. After all, there are so many who have suffered far greater loss than have you and I.”

  “Yes, I suppose there is that, father, but I for one have still not gotten over the shock of it all.”

  “I feel much the same, son,” his father responded forlornly.

  “Of all the people I might have expected to perish in this war, she would have been the very last. I felt so thoroughly enveloped, even protected by her through it all, indeed, through all my life, if you must know,” Trant murmured wistfully.

  “Yes, as did I, even before you were born, she was my rock….” Lord Sutherland responded, his voice trailing off. But then, a memory perhaps bringing back his resolve, he proffered, “But, of course, she would have wanted us to go on, son. Indeed, if I am any judge, I suspect she is somewhere above, watching over us at this very moment, paying careful attention to how we resolve the current crisis.”

  “Perhaps you are right, sir, but would you really call it a crisis as such?”

  “Absolutely, Trant, it is most certainly a crisis of the worst sort. Here we have the mysterious death of your mother, not to mention the disappearance of Felicité, and finally, the ongoing situation with Annabeth.”

  “Situation? What situation?” Trant inquired in confusion.

  “Son, I didn’t want to bring this up, but it appears that I am forced to. Your mother and I never trusted that young woman.”

  “Why ever for?” Trant asked.

  “Well, I suppose one would have to say more properly, we never trusted that family!”

  “Oh, on what grounds, pray tell?”

  “Well, if truth be told, it all goes back to the great war. It seems that, while I was a prisoner of war in Northern France, I was turned in to the commandant of the camp for attempting to incite a riot.”

  “And did you?” Trant responded, suddenly interested in his father’s war history.

  “Yes, of course I did. But it was our duty, wasn’t it!”

  “I say, good for you, father,” Trant put in proudly.

  Regaining his train of thought, his father now blurted, “I’ve always suspected Morton Fletcher did it, you see. He was in the same camp, you know.”

  “I see,” Trant put in, but, suddenly appalled, he followed with, “Why ever for?”

  “I really don’t know,” his father replied matter-of-factly, “I have only suspicions. You see, the fellow makes my skin crawl, such foppish arrogance, and all that, you know.”

  “But there’s no proof,” Trant suggested.

  “No, none whatsoever,” his father responded thoughtfully, “But your mother and I nevertheless decided to keep an eye on things when you became involved with that chit Annabeth. You see, Lady Sutherland was unaware of my foibles concerning the Fletcher family back in the summer of 1940. Had she known of my concerns, she most assuredly would never have invited Miss Fletcher to your birthday party that summer.”

  “I see,” Trant muttered yet again, although he really didn’t.

  “At any rate, when I told Lady Margaret of my suspicions, she took it upon herself to, let’s say, keep an eye on the situation. And, as it turns out, she did. In fact, she did such a particularly good job of it that it may well have led to her ultimate demise.”

  “What!” Trant exclaimed, lurching from his seat. But then, not wanting to cause a situation within the club, he quietly slid back to his seat, whispering, “What on earth are you talking about, father?”

  “Well, you see, part of the blame must be mine, son,” he responded sadly, “You see, I let the whole sordid affair slip from my mind. I was so wrapped up in my duties at the Home Office that I completely forgot our pact as time went on.”

  “Pact? What pact?”

  “You know, the one I just described, that we two, your mother and I, would keep an eye on the Fletcher family,” he stammered, but then regaining his thoughts, he added, “Well, at any rate, it seems that your mother did in fact carry on in her typically efficient manner. Before she was done, she had uncovered quite a few facts that I find rather disturbing, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, so she told you then?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. She was never one to divulge, as you well know. On the contrary, not wanting to burden her military men, who in her view were enmeshed in far greater challenges, she withheld everything.”

  “But, if that is the case, how did you find out what she uncovered?”

  “That’s the damndest thing of all, Trant, she wrote it all down in a letter.”

  “A letter! To whom, father?”

  “Well, actually, it is to the both of us, if you must know.”

  “You’re not serious!” Trant roared in complete denial.

  “I’m afraid I am, my son,” and so saying, he reached forth with an envelope and placed it before Trant.

  Completely undone by the entire discussion, Trant glared at the envelope as if it was the last thing on earth he could ever be persuaded to open. Then, glancing upwards, he caught his father’s glistening eyes and inquired miserably, “It is going to be bad, isn’t it, father?”

  Reaching to expel a telltale tear, Lord Sutherland responded, “I’m afraid so. But there’s no way of getting round it. This is the last you shall ever hear from your mother. So I’m afraid, there is no choice at all in the matter.”

&n
bsp; Suddenly taking it up, Trant stood and, bolting for the door, he called over his shoulder, “Alright, but I’m afraid I’m not up to it at this moment, father.”

  “As I suspected, as I suspected,” his father murmured forlornly to the retreating figure.

  A Week Later

  Trant sat within his easy chair, a double glass of scotch placed at his side should the need arise. He had avoided it for several days, but eventually, having given over to his father’s advice, he had finally decided that the time and place had come to hear his mother’s last words to him. Reaching for the envelope, he tugged the letter from within and commenced reading:

  To My Husband and My Son-

  First, let me say that you two have been the greatest joys of my life. Nothing else comes close. Unfortunately, the fact that you are now reading this means that my life has now come to an end. I am so sorry for having left you both, but let me say that I was in your mutual service to the very end. And know this - you have both been loved, more so than you can ever possibly know.

  And now, down to the business at hand. As you both must know, sometime back Robert and I developed misgivings about the Fletcher family. We therefore resolved to do whatever we might to ensure that aught unsavory might come to our only son as a result of a mutual alliance between the Fletcher and Sutherland families. Accordingly, I made it my responsibility to undertake certain clandestine activities, for the purpose of ensuring that there was nothing untoward in the way of skeletons in their collective closet.

  As you are aware, our first encounter with Miss Annabeth Fletcher occurred on that fateful night in the summer of 1940, the night of the birthday party. As you also know, myself having been somewhat traumatized by events during The Great War, I was in a desperate way to put former transgressions to right on that night.

  Perhaps I should have left well enough alone, but my activities regarding the Fletcher family subsequently began as a result of events that occurred on the very night of that party. Ever since that night I confess that I had remained somewhat confused about certain details surrounding the final event that night. I thought at the time that it went off rather well, with Felicité’s performance exceeding anything that I could have imagined. And, of course, the other young ladies seemed to have done their parts as well, at least in my mind.

  It was only much later, after Robert told me of his concerns regarding the Fletcher family that I began to wonder exactly what role Annabeth had played that night. So I began to think back, trying to recall events exactly as they had unfolded, and to my dismay, I discovered that I could only account for the whereabouts of three of the young ladies during the penultimate event of the evening. Two of them, Caroline and Barbara stood onstage, both adorned splendidly in undergarments that had been supplied to them by me. Unfortunately, Caroline perished shortly thereafter in the London bombings and Barbara later became a nurse, serving with distinction in North Africa, but also perishing in 1943. Maryann was of course the one playing the piano.

  That leaves three young ladies – Felicité, Druscilla, and Annabeth, whose whereabouts could not be ascertained from the events that I personally witnessed that night. Of course, it was presumed by one and all that it was Felicité who posed for the portrait, her feline mask apparent for all to see. However, once the ethical standards of the Fletcher family were later called into question by Robert, I found it necessary to question this long held assumption. Indeed, once I reviewed my memory of the events that night, I eventually came to the realization that when I sought out Felicité at the termination of the show, I found her not within the study, where one would have expected to find her replacing her clothing, but to my surprise, she was in the process of entering the manor from the garden.

  It has always stood out to me that there is no reasonable explanation for Felicité to have stepped outside the manor to replace her clothing. To make matters more suspicious, she did not appear to have her mask in hand as she reentered from the garden. Now, this may all sound rather insignificant, but over time, it seemed more and more at the heart of the matter to me. I therefore undertook to gather more information by the only means at hand – to question the remaining young ladies. Unfortunately, by the time I could track them all down, there were as I described above only four of them left alive, one of whom I suspected of having carried off something quite deceitful.

  Of course, Felicité was the first that I attempted to corner, she having by then been transferred to Birmingham for special forces training. Unfortunately, her treatment by you, dear Trant, had been so abominable after our Christmas together, that she had by that point in time retreated within her shell, fearing that you were lost to her forever. Nonetheless, she refused to confirm my implication that she was not the one within the portrait that night.

  Perhaps, seeing as how she is now lost to us, we shall never know why she denied it. Indeed, the only admission that I was able to obtain from her was that she had indeed been in the garden, but only for a short period of time after she had reclothed herself within the library. So that interrogation turned up essentially nothing at all.

  However, her behavior on that occasion did indeed serve to reinforce one of my suspicions - that you had by that time thrown her over for Miss Fletcher. Robert had of course suggested as much to me, but Felicité’s obvious misery on that occasion was all too apparent to be disregarded. So while you, dear Trant, attempted to keep your withdrawal from Felicité well hidden from her, you failed quite miserably on the very doorstep of her transfer to France. Had I had the opportunity, I must say I’d have had a mind to scold you quite forcefully over such unforgivable behavior on your part, despite the fact that you were most assuredly under orders to refrain from disheartening her in any way before her reassignment to France.

  I did somewhat surreptitiously discover what may have led you from Felicité’s affections to Annabeth’s, however. First of all, think back to your chance meeting with Annabeth at the King’s birthday party shortly before Christmas of 1942, and ask yourself if it was indeed by pure chance. After what I am about to tell you, I suspect that you shall reevaluate that supposition.

  It seems that a friend of mine at the Home Office afforded me the opportunity to meet with Flight Office Atkins, who interviewed me early last year for the purpose of determining if Felicité was in fact as qualified for her assignment as she had been given to believe. Miss Atkins informed me at that meeting that you had received an anonymous tip indicating that Felicité had once worked at The Windmill Theatre. I gleaned from my recent conversation with you that you had in all likelihood been manipulated, and by none other than Miss Annabeth Fletcher.

  In fact, if you check the postmark on the anonymous letter you received disclosing Felicité’s employment at the Windmill, I am confident that you shall be able to determine that it was sent from Bletchley Park, where Morton Fletcher is currently assigned to work for the Secret Intelligence Service. Oh, and by the way, as I am also an acquaintance of Laura Henderson, owner of The Windmill Theatre, I looked still further into that detail. I was able to determine that, while Felicité was in fact employed there for two weeks before Robert hired her at the Home Office in 1941, she never performed onstage, instead working as nothing more than a stage hand. Having at this point run that lead to ground, I thenceforth moved on.

  Next, I sought out Maryann, who unfortunately was even more so in the dark. But she had nevertheless been observant, so that she was able to supply me with a few morsels. First of all, it seems that Maryann, Felicité and Annabeth formed a sort of pact that night with the intent of suppressing any attempts that I might undertake to enlist the young ladies in something failing to satisfy their standards of morality. One can construe that Annabeth was already at work plying her wiles on her two naïve co-conspirators.

  For my part, I simply herded the young ladies into the library before the final event, outlined my plan, which you later observed enacted, and informed them that each participa
nt would receive a tidy sum of money. I then left them to their own devices, being certain that such an inducement would surely entice all of them into action, as of course subsequent events proved to be correct.

  According to Maryann, once I departed the room, the ladies fell into two groups – those who had formed the pact against me, and those inclined to follow my lead. Accordingly, the three in favor volunteered to play the parts of the two holders and the poseur, while the three in opposition reluctantly agreed to perform the prim and proper parts. Maryann being the only one accomplished at piano, she was immediately assigned to that role. That left two responsibilities, one to draw the curtain, and the remaining one to operate the lights. Felicité opted for the curtain and, promptly discarding her mask, she set off to practice at her assigned task. Likewise, Maryann set off to practice the piano. Annabeth was thus relegated the responsibility of switching the lights on and off. Unfortunately, Maryann was unable to supply further information, she having at that point left the room.

  Armed with this information, I went in search of the last remaining young lady – Druscilla. Once again, Maryann was useful toward this end. It seems that Maryann had herself later taken up with The Windmill Theatre in London, subsequently enticing both Felicité and Druscilla to join her at the theatre. As I described above, Felicité worked there for only a matter of weeks. Maryann moved on as well, obtaining within the year the position she now holds with The American Red Cross. But when I finally went looking for her last year, Druscilla was still working at The Windmill.

  When I tracked her down, she was quite unsurprised to see me. You see, I have been supporting the theatre secretly since 1938, my convictions regarding our soldier’s needs having gotten the better of me even before the war. So Druscilla was quite pleased to see me, thanking me effusively for having somehow led her to such a rewarding career as a showgirl at The Windmill. For my part, I was both flattered and mortified by such misplaced appreciation.

  So now we come to the truly revealing part. As you may by now have guessed, it seems that the person posing within the portrait was neither Felicité nor Druscilla. It was, in fact, Annabeth Fletcher. Druscilla informed me that the three young ladies who had agreed to play the lurid parts decided to draw straws, the short straw being assigned to the one destined to pose as the portrait. Unfortunately, Druscilla drew the short straw and, lingering in fear behind the others, she admitted her mortification to Annabeth.

  For her part, Annabeth did a seemingly noble thing, volunteering to play the part of the portrait, thereby allowing Druscilla to serve as the one who operated the lights. This exchange having been agreed upon, the show was carried out as you observed, the only persons aware that the silhouette was indeed Annabeth being Annabeth herself and Druscilla.

  This last information I was able to uncover only within the last few months and, being at first confused by Annabeth’s seemingly generous actions that night, I was nevertheless uncertain of her intent. It was only after a further conversation with you, Trant, that I perceived her true intentions. You will recall our recent conversation regarding your interactions with Annabeth at the party that night. I don’t mind telling you, you were sorely confused as to why I should bring up something so long forgotten. But I assure you, I had my purpose, and you provided the necessary information for me to reassure myself that Annabeth had the most despicable of motives for her display that night. You see, she had by evening’s end already set her cap for you and, fearing that the only person capable of competing with her for your affections was in fact Felicité Delacroix, she set herself up in a flash of brilliant deception to appear as Felicité behind the screen, knowing full well that no future Earl of Winston could ever bring himself to pursue someone who had so displayed herself in public. Thus, being the last to depart the library, Annabeth appropriated Felicité’s discarded mask, thereby sealing the deception.

  I suppose we shall never know why Felicité failed to own up to the fact that she was not the one behind the screen that night, but that misconception, together with the assumption that she had also performed onstage at The Windmill, were perhaps the two most important details that led to her clandestine assignment in France. Worse still, they seem to have led to your break with her, dear Trant. And worst of all, they may have ultimately led to her death, as in a sinuous sort of way they may also have led to mine. But here is the positive from it all – though she was unwilling to become a spy, Felicité accepted her fate, and in doing so, she eventually saved countless lives during the Normandy invasion.

  Unfortunately for me, I failed to realize in time just how dangerous Miss Fletcher is. To be sure, I suspected that I might be in harm’s way due to the fact that I was made aware by Robert that the Home Office had opened a belated inquest into the mysterious death of Caroline, who it seems had not died in the London bombings after all. Instead, she appears to have perished due to an explosion at her apartment caused by a gas leak, a fact later uncovered by Caroline’s family.

  So the thought occurred to me – what if Caroline belatedly deduced that Annabeth had posed behind the screen for nefarious reasons? Might she then also have attempted to blackmail Annabeth in some way for her own gain? By this point I was quite alarmed, being aware that there were only two people who could quite innocently put Annabeth onto me. One of them is of course Druscilla, and the other is you, dear Trant.

  Accordingly, I am at this writing preparing to depart for London for the purpose of divulging these revelations, being aware that if one of you has imparted anything whatsoever regarding my research into Annabeth’s past to her, my life may in fact be at considerable risk. I am about to secret this letter within my writing desk with the hope that it shall never meet your eyes. Unfortunately, the fact that you are reading this letter now would tend to verify all of my suspicions.

  And now, myself having exited this exceedingly messy situation, one of my own making, I might add, I can only hope that the information that I have provided within these pages will help to rectify at least in part the enormous damage that I seem to have initiated. My son, I now command you to proceed where I have left off, employing that which I taught you so well as a child.

  Your Wife and Mother-

  Lady Margaret Sutherland

  Tears now streaming down his face, Trant grasped the glass of scotch, downing it in one vicious gulp. Staggering to the phone, he dialed a number and, hearing a voice on the other end, he sobbed uncontrollably, “Father! You must come immediately. It seems, I’ve killed my own mother, and I may yet do the same unto myself!”

  Two Months Later

  The London Times- May 5, 1945

  London - Sources report that Miss Annabeth Fletcher of Oxfordshire, was found dead in her apartment in London. Miss Fletcher apparently died of natural causes. Rumors had it that she had been until recently secretly engaged to Mr. Trant Sutherland, heir to the Earldom of Winston. Funeral arrangements are pending. No other information is available at this time.