COVID CAPERS II
 creating pandemic peril in a            whimsical world
 
 

          Editor Barbara J. Becker






LINGUISTIC FINGERPRINTS EDITION: 2021
www.barbarajbecker.com

Compilation copyright ©2021: Barbara J. Becker

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover Credit - Pat Stefanchuk wrote:

"The ruins are a part of my family history. The deMerle ruins were a fortress for the deMerle family in the Middle Ages. It is located in southern France. They were French Huguenots who were basically run out of France around 1500 & fled to England where they took up residence around Shakespeare’s residence, along the Avon River. Less than 50 years later a branch of the family emigrated to New York. Of course when they got to England they changed their name to Merrell so they wouldn’t be taken for French Catholics. After Robert Merrell got to the USA his extended family moved around. Some went to New Jersey, others to the New England area. That branch became United Empire Loyalists during the American Revolution & fled to Nova Scotia & finally to southern Ontario where they had fruit orchards. My dad’s grandfather brought his family of 20 to Manitoba (Wawanesa) in the late 1800s."  

Printed and bound in Canada by City Press Printing Ltd.
120 Isabel Street, Winnipeg, MB R3A 1G4
www.citypress.ca

ISBN 978-0-9867219-4-6



Oprah Winfrey 2002. O Magazine
 "Worry is a misuse of imagination.".

                                                        


CONTRIBUTORS


BARBARA J. BECKER editor and writer, challenged nine writers in three groups of three, to expand on the same prompting paragraph she gave to each group. They passed the story weekly, by email, to their group members, and turn-taking, created three charming adventures, with huge diversity. 

THE DEMERLE CASTLE ADVENTURE

PAT STEFANCHUK turned to writing fiction and poetry after retiring as principal at Margaret Park School. She was also the music (arts) consultant in the Seven Oaks School Division. Originally from Flin Flon, her stories often focus on her years growing up in this northern mining community.
LAURIE GYDÉ lives and writes in Winnipeg. She enjoys writing mystery fiction. She is a regular contributor to the St. Vital Lance. 
JULIANNE DANNER in addition to her marvelous singing voice, Julianne, originally from Portage La Prairie, also enjoys writing stories and poems. Some of her poetry is published in Absolutely Barbados, editor Julian Armfield.

THE DEMARCATION ZONE

BARBARA LINKLATER is a talented author and artist. Barbara works in elementary, as well as, high school, teaching Art, and her artistic works grace the walls of many homes. She lives in Winnipeg with her awesome feline friend, Fiona.
BARBARA E. WEBB is a creative writer who lives in Winnipeg. She is a master at giving her stories a unique twist. She is a valued member of the Seniors’ Writing Group.
RON VERT a retired clergy member, originally from the United States of America, has turned to writing fiction, and is currently working on a fantasy novel.

 THE MANSION MYSTERY

FRANCES H. BEATTY lives and writes in Winnipeg, and has published an anecdote in Reader’s Digest and her short story, Dog Days of Winter in Measured Words: second helpings, and Justice Denied in Measured Words: third course.
JACK FRANCIS grew up in St. James, Winnipeg, MB. His exploits are recounted in his memoir Time Warps. Jack is currently working on a second memoir.
ROBERT WOOD originally from rural Saskatchewan, lives and writes in Winnipeg. His story, Ice Jumpers, received Honourable Mention in the 2012 Winnipeg Free Press/Writers Collective non-fiction contest, and was published in the Free Press. His short story, Forbidden Fruit, was published in Measured Words: third course.



THE DEMERLE CASTLE ADVENTURE
Pat Stefanchuk, Laurie Gydé, Julianne Danner

The steps did not go straight up. There was a curve, ever so slight, to the right. You had to place your foot squarely in the center. The edges collected moss and did not offer a solid footing. The air was damp and heavy to breath. The light from a single torch ricocheted off the stone wall, swirling and dancing in the surrounding gloom.  A splayed hand tapped the stair wall for purchase keeping time to the roll of numbers off the tongue.  …twenty-seven…twenty-eight…twenty-nine…thirty…thirty-one…thirty-two… The landing was small and rectangular – flat grey slate, barely large enough for a small person. Rock walls formed two sides with a solid, heavy, wood door directly ahead. An ornate serpent handle controlled a slotted closure. With a heavy pull, the door swung open. A further five steps and it was done. The door slammed shut.
 
Gasping for air, she slumped down onto the damp stone floor and removed her Joseph Ribcoff mask, which had been hampering her breathing. Within seconds her breath and heart beat slowed dramatically. She could still hear the wind howling outside the medieval castle walls. How had she ended up in this situation?
   She had wanted to explore her roots in rural France and that is what brought her to this remote region in Provence. Everyone told her she was foolish to travel abroad during the pandemic, but she reasoned that she would be safe away from the crowded cities as long as she followed the rules. “Wash your hands frequently, stay by yourself, and wear a mask.”
   Renting a car was easy but navigating the rural countryside was quite another matter. Why hadn’t she realized that the GPS system would be in French? Her high school language class had not been strong on conversational French, but rather, focused on conjugating verbs instead. Nevertheless, she managed to find the deMerle castle amongst a forest of trees, high up on a hill. She guessed the castle was positioned that way to keep enemies at bay in the 1300’s. The sign at the front gate welcomed visitors but cautioned them about the dangers of exploring the ruins, especially alone. A person could lose her footing and fall a great distance. It might be days before anyone discovered you.
   She was determined to see the ruins and take pictures from every angle. Besides, she had sturdy hiking boots, and her knapsack was full of snacks. She spent the afternoon walking through rooms with no windows and marveling at the primitive furnishings, dirt floors and rough-hewn steps leading to other floors.
    A sound startled her. Turning quickly, she saw a figure lurking in the shadows. Suddenly, she was terrified for her life. That’s when she spied the tower just ahead of her.
 
There were three towers ahead . She wanted to experience the heart of one of them. But a man’s strained voice kept whispering behind her. As she listened, her palms and forehead  started to sweat out of sheer fear.
   Remembering some of the “ Spirit Talker” tv shows, she asked her ghost to reveal himself to her.
   “Guide me…family…,” was what she heard. She looked back with a vacant face, not seeing a soul.
   Knowing the history of religious communal family feuds centuries ago, she decided to move forward and head to the middle tower. Handrails were placed for visitors, and she needed them for support  as her playful character was being tested. Her legs wobbled worse than a café table on cobblestones.
   Upon reaching the tower, the door flung open on its own revealing a huge medieval clock in the foyer.
    She began to hear the bells. Twelve indicated it was noon.
    Like a showdown in a bad Western, pictures of witchcraft appeared engraved in the ancient walls. She immediately thought of Sage used in ceremonies to ward out the forbidden. It was evident lots of murders occurred here. A feudal fortress, the last place of refuge for many before her. Families ravaged apart in this region, that even Van Gogh once travelled.
   She continued on with this “presence” following her. At last, there was a back door, which she exited and found herself in a garden full of roses. Such a contrast. And the smell of lavender filled vineyards lined up in equal rows down the hill. She dug down deep into her knapsack and felt her camera. Before her was the picturesque Curious Provence. She prayed wine tasting tours were aligned along the ancient ruins. She would magically turn a rose into a rosé right about now.
   But that was not all that developed from her knapsack. All of the sudden she looked down and screamed.
 
She heard the hiss before she saw the snake start to slither out of the knapsack. She stumbled backwards, still holding the strap of the bag. She felt herself starting to fall so flung the knapsack over her head and down an embankment she didn’t realize she was so close to. Dazed, she watched as the snake freed itself from the bag and was tumbling head over tail down, down the steep hill, hopefully, to its death. Beside it was her summersaulting knapsack containing her water, her snacks, her hand sanitizer, her film, her passport … my passport … oh God!
   She quickly reached around her neck and found the strap to the money holder which she had decided to wear under her tee shirt that morning. There she sat, gulping for air, with tears streaming down her cheeks, as she clutched the money belt that held her money and her passport to her chest.
   “Thank you, Mom! Thank God, I listened to you this morning! Your voice came through loud and clear,” she cried. “Oh Mom, how I miss you! Thank you for watching over me.”
   Nicole’s mother had passed away from cancer the year before. As a single mom, she had been a beacon of strength for her family, especially Nicole. She had been working on the genealogy of her father’s family for years, and she and Nicole were to make this trip together. Determined to make her mother’s dream come true was why Nicole had come here in the first place.
   She stood up, dusted off her jeans, and realized how close she had come to falling over the embankment herself. She shuddered, remembering the warnings, then turned, and looked at the three towers. 
   That snake must have gotten into my bag in that dark, damp staircase. No wonder there was a serpent handle on that huge door! I’m not going back that way if I can help it.  She looked around and decided to go down the hill through the garden and the lavender fields. Maybe she could find a road, or a human being for that matter, to help her back to the entrance, and her car. Maybe they could even help her find her knapsack!
   The rose garden was beautiful and in full bloom. The smell was intoxicating, soothing her shattered nerves. She stopped to smell their scent, and take some macro shots of them with her camera. Knowing she only had only a few shots left, she picked up her pace, and headed for the lavender fields.
   The grass under her feet was thick, mossy, and uneven as she moved along what seemed to be a path. The sun had disappeared, the air cooled, and the wind had changed direction. She looked up at the sky, saw the dark clouds moving in, and knew it would soon rain.
   “Damn,” she mumbled. Then, as she picked up her pace she tripped. Suddenly, she found herself face down on the grass. What the …?  Not again! 
   She pushed herself up, caught her breath, and kneeling, she pulled the grass off the rock she tripped over. She gasped. This was not a rock; it was a tombstone! She looked around at the lumpy sod everywhere, and realized she was in an ancient cemetery.
   “Keep looking … family …,” said the voice.

Wow! This is too spooky. Plopping herself down on a grassy patch next to a raised tombstone, Nicole began to get her bearings after distinctly hearing, for a second time, a voice speak, “Keep looking … family ….” Someone was trying to convey something to her. She felt it in her bones.
   She reached over and brushed her hand over the ancient marker. Pieces of moss stuck to her hand, but she was able to clear the stone enough to read a faint inscription. It read Noah Ricard – infant  1348-1350. She felt a sudden sadness that children were buried in this remote place. Had he died of some horrible plague or been a casualty of warfare during the Hundred Years War between France and England? It would be interesting to explore the history of this region during the Middle Ages.
   I think I was meant to explore this medieval cemetery further, she reasoned.  Bending down to get a closer look at the stones she passed, she began to wonder if any of her ancestors had been buried here. And if she discovered a stone with the deMerle name how would she feel?
   All of a sudden, she heard sounds a few feet from where she was standing. Looking to her left, she spied a young man crouching over a stone. What was he doing? She watched as he sprayed water over the front of the gravestone. He took what looked like a large pink sponge and brushed it over the stone. Chunks of dirt, moss, and leaves came off on the sponge. Then he drew a large piece of what looked like rice paper from his knapsack and duct taped it to the front. Reaching further into the knapsack he pulled out a fat waxy crayon and started to colour over the entire paper. Low and behold, what was etched on the stone came through clearly onto the front of the paper. Nicole couldn’t resist. She had to know what he was up to. Being careful not to startle him she loudly cleared her throat from a socially distanced vantage point. The fellow turned to see who his visitor was and gave Nicole a huge smile.
   “What are you doing?” she asked, realizing he might not speak English.
   “I’m making gravestone rubbings,” was his reply. “I’m studying French History at the Université de Provence in Aix-en-Provence, and need visual proof of historical figures who are buried in Provence.”
Nicole was pleased that he spoke English so well.
   “Why don’t you just take photographs? Wouldn’t that be the same?”
   “The rubbings tend to look three dimensional. The photos are not as authentic. What brings you to this part of our beautiful country?”
   Nicole decided to tell him about her adventures so far this day. After all, he said he had a car nearby and would be able to take her back to the entrance to the deMerle castle ruins. But first he had to finish his etchings and invited her to tag along.
 
As Nicole watched this student etch, she asked his name.
   “Gerard,” he responded.
    “I, too, speak some French, she added, and asked if they could speak in his native language as it would give her more practice of the French language in her solo travels.
   Gerard agreed and soon they were enroute, driving carefully on isolated stretches of highway. They approached an almost communal-like village near Correze; 30 homes all very similar in structure, very Stonehenge in appearance.  It reminded her of the Mennonite and Hutterite colonies set in her hometown near St Pierre-Jolys.
   It was here that they learned they could take a ride to view the area on a boat tour. As they found a seat on the river cruise, it was announced the tour would take an hour and if anyone had to use the washroom, to do so, before departure.
   Nicole decided to freshen up, while Gerard waited, conversing with family as to what he was doing with this tourist he had met.
   The washrooms were archaic. The air freshener was lavender which reminded her how much that scent was associated with France. As she washed her hands, she looked in the mirror to coiffe her hair. The moisture in the air from yesterday’s weather made it look wild and curly. The reflection behind her looked familiar. As she dried off her hands with a cloth one of the bathroom attendants gave her, in return for a few francs, she turned around to see engraved in the wall a series of Blackbirds. The signature was DM. 
   “Oh, mon Dieu,” she blurted. “Ca c’est l’oiseau de ma famille!”
   Nicole ran out to find Gerard. When she finally caught her breath, she told him that her family name, DeMerle, which stood for blackbird, was on a washroom wall.
   Gerard asked more about her family as they found their seats on the tour. Still gasping, Nicole again felt the presence of her mom and looked up to heaven. “Mom, I think I am on the right track,” she exclaimed. With her head in her lap, sobbing, the boat captain asked what was wrong. When she revealed her family name was etched in the washroom, he pondered momentarily, then turned to the familiar features in her face.
   He stopped. Looked up and said, “Ca c’est la non de ma famille, aussi!”
   How could this be? Meeting someone in France, on a tourist boat, who could be a relative!
 
Nicole was shaken but determined to continue her search for her paternal ancestors. The captain asked her if she would like to join him on the bridge and they could talk while they cruised the Rhone Valley. 
   “That would be great!” said Nicole, excitedly. Oh, how she wished she had her journal and family history papers with her now! They were in her knapsack at the bottom of that stupid hill!
   She excused herself from Gerard, who seemed to be having a good time talking to others on the boat, and turned to follow the captain. The bridge was bright, roomy, and quiet. The first officer mumbled, “Bonjour,” to them as they entered, and then, after a banter of nautical talk between the two, the boat was underway. She marveled at the view, taking a few pictures as they cruised along. Then she asked the Captain if she could take his picture, and he easily obliged. He also handed her some paper and a pen, that she had asked for, so she could jot down any interesting tidbits for her deMerle history book.
   He started by telling her that the name, deMerle, was quite common in this part of France.  
   “Somewhat like Smith, or Jones, in America,” he chuckled.
   He told her he was born in Marseille; lived in Avignon, not far from here; had a ski chalet in the mountains, near Chamonix, and was a retired Cruise Ship Captain. He was married to his third wife, Florence, an American woman he met on a repositioning cruise to Miami, a few years ago. Nicole studied him as he talked, in perfect English, with that charming French accent. He was tall, had a moustache and a beard, weathered skin, beautiful dark brown eyes, and a great smile. It was hard to see any resemblance to her family under all that hair!
   When she asked about his family, he said his mother was Italian, and his father had met her during the war, and that he, Richard, was the youngest of four children. Again, she wanted to know more about his ancestry, his grandparents, etc. but the hour had flown by, too fast for her to get anything concrete, except that he knew the deMerle castle had many records in the Library in Avignon.  Now they were back at the dock where they had started. He gave her his business card and she gave him her e-mail and promised they would get together in Avignon, once she got her car back.
   Most everyone had disembarked from the boat when she came down from the bridge. She looked for Gerard, but he was not where she had left him. She asked a few people as they were getting off, “S’il vous plait? Le juene homme, Gerard…?” Damn, she didn’t even know his last name!  How could she have been so stupid just to go ‘along for the ride’, and not know that?
   He had promised her he would take her back to the Castle to pick up her car! It was starting to get dark, and her stomach was not only hungry, but it was starting to do flip flops as fear set in. She could not find him in the group of people on the shore and everyone was dispersing quickly.  She assumed he probably was waiting for her at the car, so she headed to the parking lot. To her horror, his car was gone.
 
Nicole became frantic as she quickly realized her dilemma. How was she going to get back to the castle ruins to retrieve her car? Wait. Captain deMerle, Richard, could help me, she thought. She turned and bolted for the riverboat, scrambling up the gangplank while the ship’s crew was busy securing the vessel before disembarking.
   “Whoa,” a ship’s officer shouted as she climbed the flight of stairs to the bridge. “All passengers must be off the ship!”
   “I must see Richard… Captain deMerle,” pleaded Nicole. 
   “Okay, I’ll just take a look and see if he is still aboard. Please stay by the gangplank,” the young officer replied.
   It took a few minutes but finally Captain deMerle emerged with a huge smile lighting up his face.
   “Nicole, what brings you back to the riverboat?”
   “Captain, I thought I had a ride back to my car with Gerard, but neither he nor his vehicle are anywhere to be found.”
   “Do not worry, ma chere amie,  I will drive you to your car. It is on my route.”
   It was a pleasant drive from the river, up into the high hills surrounding the region. They were soon approaching the gates of “Place des Dombes,” the ancestral ruins of the deMerle castle.
   Richard deMerle and Nicole had a pleasant conversation as they wound their way up to the castle. Mostly they discussed how strange it was that the two would meet by coincidence that day and discover their kinship. They exchanged email information so that they could continue to get to know one another, and Nicole snapped a couple of selfies of the two of them in front of the entrance to the ruins.
   Her car was right where she left it. She checked that her luggage was safely stowed in the trunk but was very discouraged that she would be leaving her backpack at the bottom of an embankment behind the middle tower.
   She made a last trip to the visitor centre to use the washroom facility. She hadn’t expected a person to be working in the small building, but there she was, a middle-aged woman in a drab brown uniform, her hair swept up in a messy bun held together by a bright fuchsia scrunchy. Quite a contrast from the uniform!
   Nicole immediately walked toward her desk, hoping that she spoke some English.
   “Did anyone return a knapsack to the Visitor Centre earlier today?” she inquired.
   “Oui, yes. What colour was it?”
   “It was navy with white piping along the sides.”
   The woman reached under the counter and retrieved a knapsack that was clearly Nicole’s.
   “A rather interesting gentleman dropped it off about two hours ago. He said you might be back to retrieve it.”
   Nicole thanked the woman for keeping it safe and immediately headed for the car. She wanted to see if all the contents were still in the bag, minus the snake, of course. And yes, her snacks, hand sanitizer and extra film cartridges were still there. But alas, the two films she had already taken were missing. I knew I should have just brought my digital camera. What was I thinking, bringing the old Nikon? Yes, I know. It takes much better quality photographs and besides, I like to develop my own. She pondered this development. Were the films taken out deliberately, or did they fall out and roll down the embankment with the snake? And what did the visitor centre clerk mean, “an interesting gentleman” dropped off my knapsack?
   While these questions bubbled around in her head, she quickly set her GPS to Avignon. She couldn’t wait to search through the archives to discover what skeletons were buried in the deMerle family history.
 
Nicole anticipated her drive to Avignon to be peaceful as she experienced twisty roads and the  pine scented glory along the way. But one thing was gnawing at her. Was she betrayed? Were the  two characters, Gerard, and Captain deMerle, who she befriended, not who they said they were? It seemed so complex now.
   As she approached Avignon, she felt someone following her. Her rear-view mirror clearly proved that.  It was Gerard.
    Upon arriving at the archives, Mont-de-Piété, originally a medieval pawnbroker institution, she hesitated to step out of her car. She paused for a moment and held the cross she was wearing. Gerard stood waiting as Nicole approached him and she questioned what her suspicion had been all along.
   “Take off your disguise” she exclaimed. “Who are you?” Tell me before I go to the Police.
   “Je suis la Police,” he responded.
   “A jostle for power,” Nicole continues. “I have been betrayed. Someone is my enemy!”
   Gerard further explained. “When I met you, I was just a man in a cemetery. When I found out you were a deMerle, I had to protect you from Captain deMerle from the boat tour.”
   Gerard went on to explain who stole her film and revealed that some of the selfies with the Captain would be useful down the road.
   “You seem like a modern-day Robin Hood, Gerard. Explain.” She listened in disbelief.
    Gerard began to chain smoke; tousled hair, old raincoat, looking somewhat 
Columbo-ish.
   “The Captain has had three wives, do you recall, Nicole?” 
   “Yes,” she nodded.
   His current wife was posing as the attendant in the Visitor Centre. I thought returning your knapsack would be useful in continuing your ancestral journey. I was hiding to make sure ‘she’ didn’t hurt you.”
   This explained the grungy uniform, and “oh, Mon Dieu,  was it you who stole my camera film? Was it?”
   “Yes, she wanted to keep any photos of you and the captain to protect his whereabouts that day, but I beat her to it. You see her husband is a suspect in a recent slaying. There is a series of similar events that go way back in history that we’ll discover when we step inside.”
   Nicole was embroiled. And confused. Would the archives provide answers to the family background? Or would she leave with disturbing family history she would want to bury in her mind forever?

Suddenly Nicole felt very tired, also lightheaded.  She looked at her watch and could not believe it was after 8pm. She put her hand to her forehead, and knew she had to get out of there, get back to the hostel, and think about all she had experienced, and heard today.
   She sighed, “Gerard, I’m tired, I’ve had enough for today. I’m going back to the hostel to get some rest; I need to eat…”
   “There’s a nice little café up the street,” stated Gerard, as he tried to take her arm. She jerked away.
   “No!” she said emphatically. “I need to go. I will meet you right here tomorrow morning at 9am, if you still want to help me with my De Merle history. Bon nuit.”
   With that she turned, took two steps, and stopped. Turning back to him, she put out her hand and said, “By the way, I want my films please.”
   Gerard, who had already lit another cigarette, stuttered. “Ah…, oh…, I,…. they are in my car.  I’ll bring them in the morning, ok?”
   “No! I want them now!” she said, emphatically, and started to walk towards his car. 
   “Wait!” said Gerard, fumbling in his big pockets. “Ah…, (damn), here they are! I forgot I put them in my pocket.” He looked sheepish but agitated. 
   Nicole grabbed them from his hand and quickly headed for her car.
   “Jusqu’à demain!” he hollered after her. “See you then.”  She waved her hand without looking back.
   Once in the car, Nicole started to shake. Oh my God, what have I gotten myself into? Who should I believe? Who do I trust?
   Tears sprang to her eyes, and she cried aloud, “Oh Mom, how I wish you were here!”
   Softly, but distinctly the voice came from behind her. Breathe, think, rest…you’ll know.
   She started the car, set her GPS, did a U-turn, and headed to the hostel. One good thing about COVID-19, only one person allowed per dorm. Once back in her room, she pulled out her snack bag from her backpack; bread, cheese, and some grapes, and she poured herself a tall glass of her Rosé wine that she bought the day before at the winery. Pen in hand, she began to write down all the questions she had about the events and discrepancies, she had of the day.
   Number one:  Why, if Gerard wanted to protect me from Captain DeMerle, did he take me on the boat cruise in the first place?
   Number two: For the same reason, why did he leave me stranded in the parking lot?  He could have taken me with him to find my knapsack. That did not add up.
   Number three:  Why did he hide when I arrived at the castle? How long had he been there and why did he take my film? Any pictures taken of the Captain were in the camera still hanging around my neck! Not to mention, the woman behind the desk, dressed so weird. Who was she, really? Now that I think about it, she was no American.
   And last, but not least, I should kick myself!  I still do not know his last name and I never did take a picture of him or us! She turned on her cell phone. It was dead. She plugged it in and headed for the shower. The hot water felt good. It soothed her aching body and calmed her nerves.
   Back in her room, she grabbed her phone again, and turned it on. It had just enough juice to set her alarm. She crawled into bed, and was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
   The next morning during breakfast she e-mailed the Captain and asked him if he would join her that morning at the “Mont-de-Piété” around 10:00am. Within minutes, he replied. 
   Oui, mon amie, and may I bring my daughter, Monique, avec moi?  I told her all about you and she’d love to meet you! We can be there at 10 o’clock. 
   Nicole wrote back, “très bien, of course” and headed for her car.
   When she arrived in Avignon, she set her GPS to the nearest Police Station. It was not far away.
   Inside, she told the clerk she wanted to speak to the Chief of Police.
   “Un moment, Mademoiselle”.  He pushed a button and said in French, “there is a young lady here to see you sir.” 
   The Chief of Police opened his door and asked Nicole to come in. 
   She explained why she was there, and described Gerard as best she could, but with little to go on the Chief doubted if he could help her, but he would make a few calls. 
   “Also, sir, do you know if a Captain Richard DeMerle, who is suspected in a recent slaying in the area?” 
   “Wait outside, please” he asked. She went back out and sat in the waiting room. She didn’t wait long. 
   “I’m sorry, young lady, but none of my officers could help me with this man you described.. He could be undercover, but I do not have enough to go on. As for Monsier DeMerle, we could not find him to be suspected of anything.
   “Thank you, Monsieur,” said Nicole, and she went back to her car.
   When she got to the archives building, Gerard was waiting, leaning against the building, cigarette in hand.  He looked like he hadn’t slept or shaved. At least he got rid of that ugly coat, she thought to herself.
   As she approached, he quipped, “Good morning. You’re late. Did you sleep well?”
   “I slept in,” she answered, and started up the steps.
   “Hey wait,” said Gerard. “I was thinking, why don’t we go back to the Castle where they have archives …?”
   Nicole cut him off. She looked him straight in the eye and said, “No Gerard, we are going in and you are going to show me all the crimes of the Captain, and the DeMerle family, remember? Are you coming?”
   Inside, they were taken to a desk with an ancient computer on it. The lady in charge noticed the look on Nicole’s face and said, “It’s slow but reliable. I’ll be at the front desk if you need me.”
   Gerard sat down, mumbling to himself, and started typing. Nicole looked at her watch. It was 9:40am. She said a silent prayer. “What have you found?” she asked innocently.
   “This computer is from the dark ages,” mumbled Gerard. “Madame!" He said in a loud voice. "This computer is crap! Give us another one!”
   “Monsieur, they are all the same! Patience! The signal is just slow at this time of day.”
   “Let me try,” said Nicole. 
   “Great, said Gerard, I’m going outside for a smoke.”
   As he got up, the front door opened and in walked Captain DeMerle and his daughter. They were early. Nicole looked at Gerard. He’d stopped in his tracks, turned white as a ghost and his eyes revealed his fear. The Captain and Monique also stopped short, gasped, and stared..
   “Gerard!” they said in unison. “Mon Dieu! What are you doing here?” said the Captain, stunned.
   Gerard looked at Nicole, back at them and then bolted for the door. He was gone like the wind.
   Nicole, watching this all unfold, stood there, numb struck, shocked, and confused, and shaking.
   “You, you know him?” she stammered. The Captain came to her and put his arm around her.
   “Oui, ma fille, but first, are you ok?” 
   “Yes, yes, I think so,” she breathed. 
   “Come, let’s go for a coffee, and I’ll tell you all about how we know him.”
   Once inside the Café, with hot cups of café au lait and croissants de chocolat in front of them,   Captain deMerle told his story.
   “Remember when we talked in the car on the way to the castle last night? I told you that my oldest brother, Rene, died a few years ago? Well, Gerard is his youngest son.”
   Nicole’s mouth dropped.
   “Yes, he is a DeMerle, the Captain continued. He has been trouble since he was young; drugs, petty theft, robbery, you name it. But my brother always bailed him out. Then, when he died, Gerard inherited quite a sum of Francs. Unfortunately, he squandered it away gambling, and he owed money everywhere. He came to me for help, and because I loved my brother, I stupidly got him a job on the Cruise ship I was Captain on.”
   “Not long after we set sail, passengers began to report things stolen from their rooms: jewelry, money, laptops, you name it.  So, my police crew went to work, and a day later, they showed up in my office with Gerard, and all the stolen goods.”                                                 
   “Of course, we put him in the ships jail cell for the rest of the cruise, and when we docked in Marseille three weeks later, I had to turn him over to the authorities. He served some months in jail but not long enough. He hates me for what I had to do, and has tried to smear my good name.  But to no avail.”
   “So, your wife, does she work at the Castle?” asked Nicole.
   “Pardon? Mais, non!" Richard threw his head back and laughed. Why do you ask me that?” 
   So, I told them the whole story of how I met Gerard.
   Finally, the Captain said, “I’m so sorry, I hate to leave, but I have to go to work.”
   Monique turned to Nicole, put her hand on hers, and said, “I have the day off. Would you allow me to help you with your DeMerle family history? Dad told me all about you, and I’d love to spend a day with my newfound Canadian cousin!”
   Nicole was delighted, and said, “I’d love nothing better.” 
   As they rose to leave, the Captain pulled a small box our of his pocket. He handed it to Nicole.
   “This is for you, ma Cherie. I want you to have it and wear it proudly. It will always remind you of your time in France, and that you are a DeMerle.”
   Nicole opened the box and let out a whispered cry. “Wow.” Inside was a brooch of a blackbird in flight, covered in black sequins and sparkling rhinestones. It was beautiful! She threw her arms around the Captain, and uttered a sincere, “thank you.”
   “De rien, no problem. I am so glad we met, and now I have a Canadian niece! May I say that, even though it may, or may not, be true?” 
   “I’d love that, Uncle Richard?” deMerle
   They all laughed.
   That night, after a day filled with chatter, discoveries, a gazillion pictures, and photocopied sheets full of family history, Nicole lay in her bunk at the hostel, filled with gratitude and pride.
   “We did it, Mom,” she said. “You were with me all the time.”
   She heard the voice whisper, well done Nicki, je t’aime.



THE DEMARCATION ZONE
Barbara Linklater, Barbara E. Webb, Ron Vert

The steps did not go straight up. There was a curve, ever so slight, to the right. You had to place your foot squarely in the center. The edges collected moss and did not offer a solid footing. The air was damp and heavy to breath. The light from a single torch ricocheted off the stone wall, swirling and dancing in the surrounding gloom.  A splayed hand tapped the stair wall for purchase keeping time to the roll of numbers off the tongue.  …twenty-seven…twenty-eight…twenty-nine…thirty…thirty-one…thirty-two… The landing was small and rectangular – flat grey slate, barely large enough for a small person. Rock walls formed two sides with a solid, heavy, wood door directly ahead. An ornate serpent handle controlled a slotted closure. With a heavy pull, the door swung open. A further five steps and it was done. The door slammed shut.
 
“Chester, are we okay now?” 
   Relieved to hear her speak, he gently lowered her from his back and turning said, “Hwa Young, I am going to put you on my shoulders. I want you to tell me what you see above the timber that crosses the top of the door. If there is rope, I want you to pull it over the timber.” 
   He gently lifted the child to his shoulders, carefully reaching up to hold her back with one arm and her legs with the other.   
   “I see the rope, Chester. I can pull it over the timber .” 
   Putting the child down, he moved her away from the thick Oak door and swinging his sword he sliced the rope. The huge timber fell into its iron cradle and the passage was blocked. Ancient and rusted serpentine claws held the timber in place. They were strong but he knew they could not withstand the blast that was surely coming. They were safe, for now, and he could rest.   
    It was a small space, and a dim light was coming from the tunnel before them. It must lead upwards. Good. The demarcation line must be above them, but what surprises that tunnel might hold was, well, scary. 
   He turned to the child, and she looked straight back at him with a trust that strengthened his resolve. He did not know if they would get out, but he would not give up. They were so close now. 
   He tucked his pack under and around her, trying to protect her from the cold and damp stone floor.  
   Sky blue eyes shone out above the ruined cheek as she reached out with her good arm splaying her tiny fingers against the wall, just as she had seen him do so many, many times.   
“The counting has not stopped, Chester. I can feel it. It is beating in the wall”.   
 “Hwa Young, you are a clever, beautiful, little flower”.  
   “No, Chester, do not call me that. I am not beautiful, little flower. Hwa Young? She is gone. She is gone with her family. I am Mos-saeng-gin jabcho, ...ugly weed. That is who I am now.” 
   Her unlikely outburst made him smile. Incredible blue eyes, the thick coal-black hair and pure sweetness made him think he was protecting Snow White, an Asian Snow White. This thought made him smile again. Her whole left side, damaged by the fires could never be repaired, he knew it. He also knew, it didn’t matter. She would always lean towards the full half of the glass.  
   “Well, Mos-saeng-gin jabcho, ugly weed, the Meadow Lark may be scorched by fire, but her song is still beautiful. Right? The fire could not steal her beauty. You little Beautiful Flower, Hwa Young, you  must never deny the name your parents gave you. Nothing will ever be able to steal your beauty.”   
   As he reached out to touch her wrinkled cheek, an explosion sounded somewhere behind him.
   Then the director shouted, “Cut! What in the hell was that?”  He whirled and glared at the crew.
   “Sorry, sorry,” one of the grips apologized. “A light blew. I can fix it in a couple of minutes.”
   “Well, hurry up. We’re already running late. Take 10 everyone.”
   The actors stepped off the set. Patrick Marshall, whose part of Chester came after other successful roles in period action movies, offered his hand to his 8 year old co-star who was on her first movie shoot.
   “Come, sit,” he encouraged her. “Rest while you can.”
   Lily sat, then pulled off the wig that concealed her natural blond hair.
   “This thing’s itchy,” she complained.
   “But it’s part of your everlasting beauty,” Patrick teased, “along with all that inner stuff. You need to put it back on.”
   “It’s hot too.” The girl scratched her hair, causing it to stand out in all directions. Meeting Patrick’s amused glance, she plunked it back on her head, wiggling it around, trying to make it more comfortable.
   The hairdresser miraculously appeared, smoothed Lily’s hair, fussed with the wig for a couple of minutes, then declared the tiny star was again ready for action. Lily wasn’t ready—she started rubbing her eyes and declared, “I hate these contacts. They make my eyes hurt.”
   “They can be nasty when you’re not used to them,” Patrick sympathized, “but sky blue eyes and coal black hair; that’s what makes you Snow White, beautiful little flower and not ugly weed.”
   “We’re ready,” the director announced. “Places.” Lily and Patrick moved back into the cramped space, huddling together. The director stepped in. “Now remember, you can see the way out, but you don’t know what’s between here and there. Chester, you’re determined to protect Hwa Young. And Young, you trust him to do that, so do whatever he tells you. Move your hand along the wall, feeling for the counting. It hasn’t stopped.”
   He turned away and shouted, Lights—ready, good. Let’s go. Quiet. And Action!”
  
Chester and Hwa Young continued huddling in the cramped space. They needed some rest before continuing deeper into the tunnel toward the exit leading into the Kingdom of Baekje, a vassal of Pyongyang, in the Goguryeo Kingdom. They had no idea if they could walk toward the exit freely or if traps lay before them.
   “Let’s rest for a moment, first, I am going to make a torch. Stay here,” commanded Chester.
   Hwa Young could hear him stumble about in the darkness. She heard him curse.
   “What’s wrong, Chester?”
   “Nothing just hit my knee on something. I’m coming back.”
   Chester returned and began making the torch. When completed he used his flint to get the torch burning. The light revealed the chaotic obstacles of fallen pillars and stones. Chester huddled next to the girl, not really asking her, but more to himself, said, “What is this place?”
  “I think I know, Chester. My father talked about this place many times as our ancestors were held captive here,” she explained. “The tunnel was a trading entrance dug in the stone mountains between the Kingdom of Baekje, and the City-State Gaya. If there was trouble the gates and barriers would be shut until the trouble abated. Most of the conflict originated with the warlords of Gaya. Whoever controlled the entrance controlled the tax revenue. The line of demarcation separated the tax collectors of the respective kingdoms.
   The tunnel was dug through solid stone of the stone hills under the Warlord Kon-won. He used his captured enemies, political opponents, and even family members, as slaves to construct the tunnel. He was a cruel and considered insane.
  Chester laid against the tunnel wall listening to Hwa Young’s story. The flickering torch light revealed the years of neglect to a once ornately decorated place of commerce between the kingdoms. The decorative pillars supporting the tunnel ceiling had fallen becoming the obstacles to overcome. The pillars hindered a quick retreat from their pursuers, but gave protection from them, as well. All was quiet outside. Hwa Young’s soft voice was the only sound except for dripping water echoing in the cave.
   The shouts of men at the Great Door startled Chester awake. He didn’t know how long he had been sleeping nor if it was morning or night. Hiding in a dark tunnel a person loses all sense of time. Chopping sounds could be heard among the orders being shouted by various commanders outside the Great Doors. Suddenly all was quiet until he heard, “Set the explosives and blow up those doors.”
   “Hwa Young, wake up we’ve got to move quickly.” Chester gently nudged her. He could only see the outline of her face as the torch was beginning to fade.
   “Did I hear men’s voices, Chester? What are they doing outside?”
   “King Guenchogo’s men are going to blow up the Great Doors. We have to move further into the tunnel. We must hurry. Whether we have crossed the demarcation line, or not, they are going to pursue us. Can you find the count?”
   “I feel it in the wall. The moss is not as thick here, so the beat is stronger. We will be safe as long as we stay next to the wall. Keep your hands splayed as you follow the beat and its count. If we deviate too far or stray with the wrong count, we shall be lost or destroyed.”
   Hwa Young splayed her tiny hand on the tunnel wall finding beat thirty-eight. There were other beats designed to confuse those not versed in the legend of the Tao. Chester lifted her on to his back. Walking for Hwa Young was not impossible, but in a dark tunnel there are too many obstacles through the years of decay. Walking would be too strenuous given her injury from a few years ago. This was not the time to be slow with an explosion imminent.
   The beat within the tunnel had been infused by a Taoist priest who had been enslaved by Kon-won. The legend says:
 
                                 “Walk in darkness to the light of freedom.
                        Count your blessing two-hundred and forty-nine times
                                  only those bereft of hope shall find hope.
                             Your way is numbered, let not walls be a barrier.
                 They shall help and guide you if you become one with the earth.”
 
   Hwa Young whispered those words into Chester’s ear as they made their way along the now damp and slimy walls of the tunnel. Darkness surrounded them. The wall was all they could follow. Chester bore the burden of the journey; Hwa Young knew the beat. She knew the hope. She was one with the earth.
   Suddenly the great doors exploded allowing a dust diffused sunlight to flood the entry way.
   King Guenchogo, himself, led the attack. He looked formidable wearing a helmet that covered his face, a large breastplate, and his thick battle robes. His stature made the men surrounding him seem small in comparison. He entered the tunnel allowing his eyes to adjust. He caught sight of some movement.
   The King called out, “Chester-seonsaeng, return my property and I will spare your life.”
   Chester didn’t answer. The King ordered his archers to fire.
   Chester had been climbing over a fallen column when an arrow struck him in the back of his thigh. The painful shock caused him to lose his grip falling to the pillar’s other side.  Hwa Young fell to the tunnel floor uninjured. Chester didn’t cry out, but Hwa Young heard him softly groan with pain. She knew he was bleeding as she could feel the sticky warmth on her hands.
      The King shouted his order, “Go after them. He is wounded.”
      The men began their pursuit. Chester begged Hwa Young, “Run, save yourself.”
      “No, Chester, believe the Tao legend; there is hope here in the darkness.”
      The King’s soldiers were advancing with swords drawn. One soldier called out, “Majesty, I think I hear them.”
     The King called out, “Don’t hurt my property, but Chester-seonsaeng’s life matters not to me.”
   “Flee, Hwa Young. The soldiers are almost here,” ordered Chester as he grimaced each word in pain.
   “No, Chester, believe the legend; it is our only hope.”
   It was the first time he ever heard defiance in Hwa Young’s voice.
   As the soldiers advanced towards the couple from the center path to where they lay; the tunnel floor opened up. The death cries of crushed or impaled men echoed in the tunnel.
   The King and remaining soldiers were confounded daring not to venture further. The King ordered a soldier to fire a flaming arrow so he could see what happened. The arrow abruptly diverted from the original target, finding a soldier who survived the floor’s collapse in the subterranean pit.
   The King became infuriated at the soldier.
   “Commander Jeong, kill this fool.”
   The pleas of innocence from the soldier were no more.
   “Chester-seonsaeng, you will not live to see the light at the end of the tunnel,” roared the King.
   The confusion gave time for Chester to remove the arrow and bandage his wound. Once the bandage was in place, Chester whispered to Hwa Young, “Come, get on my back. We must keep moving. What appears to be a short distance can be a long journey. Who knows what we face up ahead?”
   “The beat is stronger, Chester; believe in the Tao. It has saved us already,” reminded Hwa Young.
   A voice called out, “Cut—that’s all for today people.” 
   Sitting in the big soft chair, she wondered at all that was around her. Big things were bigger, and soft things were softer.  Everything was shiny and clean.  Even the floors were shiny and clean. She wondered if the even most-high police force in her country would be able to find even one tiny little piece of dirt on this floor. Looking around, she thought, perhaps, perhaps, in that corner, if you took a thin blade of a knife, if you passed it into the crevasse under that floor board, then, maybe, you might be able to find one piece of stupid dirt. Too stupid to not leave this place of clean.
   She looked at the immense desk, black mahogany, its clean smooth lines gleaming in shafts of light coming from a wall of windows.  The potted palms at either side bemused her.  Why?  Why put trees in an office?  ‘Office’ she thought of the word. Her home, and the home of her halmeoni, and the home of Ji Ho, would all fit into this office. This whole new world she found herself in was so confusing for her. She understood so little of it, and the hole in her chest where her family belonged ached. Tears welled up and she shrank further into the immense soft chair, wanting to be swallowed up, wanting to disappear.
   “Hwa Young, we did it! You did it! Look at this kiddo! You are going to be the   youngest EVER to win an Academy Award. This is magic, kid, just plain magic.”  
   Walking into the office he couldn’t immediately see her as he crossed cherry wood floors, approaching the great bruised-leather arm chair, facing the desk, facing away from him, and holding the bruised child.
   Sliding into Steven’s seat, and finally looking up, shock gripped him. “Hwa Young?”
   “I am sorry, Mr. Brad.  I need to go home.” 
   And he watched as the tears poured from those amazing blue eyes.
   He crouched down before her and reaching, took those tiny hands in his.
   “Hwa Young, how many times do I have to say it, ...Brad, just Brad?  Hwa Young, you know that your home is... is...well, its, ...its, not there anymore Hwa Young. You know that, right?” 
   He wanted to give her a hug but something in those eyes stopped him. A sense, a feeling, something like trespassing came over him.  A feeling of taking over where others belonged. All she had lost was about to overcome him when, reality focused his thoughts and, he took her into his arms. 
   “Hwa Young, come here. Your family, and Chester, they are not gone, they are right here.”  He patted her heart, “...and here,” he added as he patted his own heart. “They will always be with you.  What you do with your life will honour them. They will live in the choices you make.”
   But Mr., eh, Brad, I am full of shame. That story we told, it is not true. They would be full of shame for me.
   We were not in the demilitarization zone, you know that. We were in the tunnels below. Ch...”  Her voice choked on the name. “Chester saved my life in the tunnels below.  He said we were crossing the demarcation line, and we would be safe, and he saved my life. You know this, Brad. He saved my life.”
   Brad shook his head, stood, and wondered how he could explain ‘Hollywood’. 
   “Hwa Young. It’s Background. It’s only the background we changed. You have nothing to be ashamed of. This story we told is the true story of your family. It is true. We will bring your family’s story to the world. The thing is, the world wants adventure when they go to the movies. We needed to make the background more... well dramatic.” 
   “Crossing two and a half miles of territory, with wild tigers, and black bears, and armed stations posted on both perimeters, is a lot more exciting that crawling two and a half miles through a tunnel.”
   “We told the story with truth Hwa Young. We just changed the background…a bit...at the very...at the end of the story.” 
   The reproach in her eyes made him stutter as he realized what he was saying. She stopped him with the bald truth.
   “Background, Brad?  Chester is dead in the tunnel. He is dead and I am alive. Is that not enough?  Is that not enough for the watchers of this story of my family?”
   With that, Steven fairly danced through the door.  
   “It’s grand, it might be the absolute best thing we’ve ever put together.  WOW! ...,” and catching the scene before him, he froze in his absolute delight. “What’s going on?”
   Brad straightened up, and facing his friend said, “Steven, we have to talk; you gotta change the ending.”
“Wha...wha, Brad, what are you saying?” 
  Hwa Young answered for him. “It is the background, Mr. Steven. The background is lying.”
 
“I’m confused.” Steven tugged the ball cap from his head, and ran his fingers through his hair. “What do you mean the background is lying? The background is the background. It’s the story that’s important and the background has to support that.”
   “But it isn’t the truth,” the girl insisted.
   “I’m still confused,” Steven continued. “There is no truth here; truth can be what I want it to be in the interest of telling an exciting story.”
   A tear trickled down Lily’s cheek.
   Steven went on. “You’re an actor, a damn good one, for an 8 year old. But still an actor. It seems I’m not the only one who’s confused. Look ... here comes your mother. Maybe she can help sort things out.” He patted her cheek, then turned away. “I need you to be at the top of your game tomorrow. It’s the last day of shooting.”

Patrick Marshall arrived at the sound stage for an early morning make-up and wardrobe call. The makeup, alone, would require three hours before he could be in costume and on set. Walking through the doors a voice called out, “Hey Patrick, what are you doing here? Didn’t you get the notice from the Big Wigs?”
   “What notice? I wasn’t informed of anything. Where are you anyway?”
   Jason laughed. “Sorry, look up.”
   The grip was working on the lighting when Patrick arrived. He was trying to make sure another light didn’t blow as one had a couple of days ago. “Hold on Patrick, I’m coming down.”
   Jason is quite agile moving through the lighting tracks and going up and down the ladders. It was like watching Tarzan fly through the jungle. In an instant, Jason is standing before Patrick.
   “You know, Jason, you amaze me how you can move so quickly.”
   “It comes with practice. So, you didn’t get the message about the delay?”
   “No! What’s going on?”
   “I don’t know for sure, but the “Big Wigs” are meeting with Lily, and her mother, to discuss a possible script change.”
   “Sheesh, I hope not. We are down to the final scenes. Today is supposed to be our last day of shooting. Why now, after all these months.”
   “Who knows for sure, but it’s all about money and what a movie will make at the box office.”
   “Yeah, I know. One day you’re a star, adored, and the next day a nobody, if the movie bombs.”
   “True, but you and Lily are great actors – Oscar nominees. You’ll get other auditions.”
   “Do you think the movie will be scraped?”
   “I hope not, for all our sakes. We have an exciting movie that will intrigue movie goers.”
   “Who are the Big Wigs?”
   “All I know is our Producer and Director were called to a 10am meeting.”
   “That means four hours till they meet.”
   “Why don’t you go to the Commissary. Have some breakfast. If I hear anything, I will have you paged.”
   “I guess that’s all I can do. You get back to work. See ya later. 
   “Amico mio, Ciao.”
   Patrick, exiting the sound stage, noticed the movie lot was bustling as other productions were preparing to begin. He had to dodge and swerve stagehands moving racks of costumes and props to the various sound stages on the lot. The sight always amazed Patrick, as to the number of people it took to produce a movie, let alone one scene.
  The Commissary was busier than he thought it would be. A line for the buffet was about a 15-minute wait which was not a problem since he had nowhere else to go. He chose his breakfast items, found a table,, and began studying his lines while eating.
   Patrick realized by 11:30 am that production probably wouldn’t take place today. He wondered what inspired the Big Wigs to consider a possible script change. The sound stage would be his next stop.  If there is no activity, or the Director isn’t there, he is going home. Just as he was preparing to leave, he saw Lily and her mother. He hurried over to her.
   “Good Morning, Lily, and this is your mother, I presume?”
   “Yes, this is my Mom. Mommy this is Patrick Marshall, the star of our movie”
   Patrick blushed, “You are a star too, but nice to meet you, Lily’s mom. Do you know what’s going on with the production?”
   Lily’s mother said, “Yes, can we get some brunch and join you?”
   “Yes, by all means. I am over by the window. I’ll get an extra chair while you are going through the buffet line.”
   It wasn’t long before Lily and her mother joined Patrick. He smiled as he saw what Lily had on her plate. A sausage patty, cottage cheese with fruit cocktail on top, and a piece of toast.
   “Think you can eat all that, Lily?” teased Patrick.
   “Oh, yeah,” she smiled, “This is my favorite combination.”
   “Now, tell me, what’s going on?” asked Patrick.
   Lily’s mom answered, “The real Hwa Young was in the Producers office. She had been privileged to see the outtakes of the screenplay that was developed out of her real-life story. The woman was having a hard time understanding the concept of a story where history repeats itself in previous generations.”
   “I didn’t realize the movie’s direction until the tunnel scenes. So, I can understand her confusion.” said Patrick.
   “Hwa Young was fearful that her family, and her teacher rescuer, Chester, would be dishonored because it was all a lie in her eyes. I think they got through to her.” explained Lily’s mother.
   “So why were you involved in the meeting?” asked Patrick?
   “Oh, those guys! That Brad, and Steven person, had Hwa Young and my daughter’s identity all confused. They kept calling my daughter Hwa Young because they are so excited that she was nominated for an Oscar, and Hwa Young was receiving a Pulitzer. Since my daughter is a minor, I was there to negotiate a possible script change, and sign publicity release forms. I think I straightened them out. Have you ever met Hwa Young?”
   “No, I have not had the pleasure.” said Patrick.
   “I hope you do. You would almost think she was a child, if you were to see her.”
   Patrick and Lily’s mother’s lively conversation was interrupted, “Cast and crew for “The Demarcation Zone,” report to sound stage. I repeat ...”
 
Patrick hated moving. So many people hiding all his “stuff” from him. Putting his “stuff” everywhere he didn’t want it put, and changing all his good old “stuff” with new, nice, and shiny, “stuff.”  They think he doesn’t notice, but oh, he notices…AND...,dammit, where is his hammer?   
   He stormed across his new ‘sunken’ floored office, tripped over the Italian Marbled steps descending to the front of the fireplace, and took a dive onto a thickly carpeted floor.  “Dammit, Dammit...Dammit…Dammit!  Since when do floors sink?”  His shouting brought two packers and Molly hurrying into the room.   
   “Sir?”  Molly asked, trying to suppress her smile. He looked so comical, her elegant boss, standing there in his socks, with his shirt hanging out, his snowy hair (what was left of it) electrified in all directions. He brought Albert Einstein to her mind.   
   The packers froze at his dangerous glare. Molly scurried down the cool marbled steps encircling the old man, as he glared at the two packers. 
   “So, are you two getting paid to stare at old fallen movie stars, or to hide his belongings all over this monstrosity we will so lovingly come to call home”? 
   Molly’s bright smiles and quick reaction started to settle his ruffled feathers. Nodding at the two startled men, she told them to just continue with their work. Everything was fine.  
   “Where’s Mary?” 
   “Where’s my hammer, dammit?”  
   “This Poster is getting put up over that fireplace. That is an end to it. Dammit! It’s my office, my fireplace, and dammit, it’s my poster. Mary can do whatever she wants with the rest of the house, but this is going over my fireplace.  
   As she walked away, a grinning Molly added the “Dammit!” 
   “Mrs. Marshall is on her way. Her flight lands this afternoon at 4:00, and Simon will be leaving to pick her up shortly. Your new home is gorgeous, Mr. Marshall, and you will soon come to love Scotland. Now, I will get you your hammer and you can hang that poster anywhere your stubborn heart desires.”   
   She made him smile, that little Molly. So much like Lilly in so many ways. Sometimes, just a quick turn of her head would tug at his heart with memories of Lilly. He thanked God for the attachment that Mary had formed with her.  
   Staring down at the once beautifully mounted poster with the small black and white photo centered in the bottom matt, he relaxed into his favorite easy chair in front of the fire.                                         
                                         
THE   DEMARCATION ZONE
Barbara Linklater, Barbara E. Webb, Ron Vert

Mary, Lilly, and Hwa Young, arms around each other, looked up at him through the grainy glass. It was the morning he met Mary. It was literally the first day of the rest of his life. He rubbed his thumb along the splintered frame and let the memories  come  pouring back.  
   For the most part they were good memories. His successful career had spanned more than three decades but like most actors he had experienced ups and downs, successes, and failures. “The Demarcation” fell somewhere between the two extremes. Patrick remembered the challenging shoot and the eleventh hour script changes that left the actors scrambling to learn new lines.
   And he certainly remembered Lily. She’d been only eight when the movie was made; a charming child with an abundance of natural talent. Her star had blazed white hot until she aged out of the child parts that had become her trademark. Her fans demanded nothing else and after starring roles in a couple of teen rom coms that Rotten Tomatoes had panned, Lily screamed her way through some low budget slasher flicks and then faded from the public eye.
   Patrick stared at the poster, lost in thought. Could its damaged state somehow reflect what had happened to his young friend? He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been in touch with Lily and had no idea where she was or what her current life was like. He resolved to find out.
 
Two years have passed since Patrick resolved to find Lily. He contacted his solicitor in Glasgow to help him. The solicitor in turn hired the same detective who arrested Lily’s mother ten years ago. It was soon after this surprising event that Lily disappeared. Patrick assumed she was heart-broken surrounding the circumstances.
   Patrick was returning from his daily walk about in Johnstone. The post arrived delivering some packages. As Patrick drew near the Postman called to him, “Patrick, I have a certified letter for you. You have to sign for it.”
   Patrick was puzzled at first until he saw the return address, “Thank you, Rory, I haven’t heard from my solicitor in two years. I wonder what he has to say?”
   “You’ll never know until you open it. First you need to sign for it.”
   “Oh...right...thanks.”
   Patrick signed the registry and bid Rory a good day. He entered his office standing before the fireplace where the poster still hung. Precious moments always flooded his mind as he stared at the movie poster, “The Demarcation Zone.” His hands trembled as he broke the seal of the envelope. At first, he couldn’t quite comprehend the letter’s content. It was just a momentary shock. The solicitor has discovered Lily’s whereabouts. He would like to see Patrick in his Glasgow office within the next two weeks.
   Patrick immediately rang up his solicitor, set the date, and began making travel arrangements by train. The Glasgow trip would take an hour; he would stay overnight and leave to find Lily the following day.
   The Solicitor revealed that Lily was living in Hugh Town on St. Mary’s Island in the Isles of Scilly under the name of Lillian Brodie. She has a bungalow at 145 Church Road, approximately 5 kilometers from the ferry landing. The private investigator hadn’t revealed much other than to say she has a daily routine of leaving her home at 6:00 am and returning at approximately 7:00 pm. He attempted no contact with her. Patrick was pleased with this bit of news. The solicitor also revealed that he had inherited five-thousand pound, sterling, from an uncle of Mary’s. The documents had to be signed before the bank notes could be transferred.
   Patrick said to his solicitor, “This is my lucky day.”
  The trip on the Cross-Country Train, from Edinburgh, via Crewe, and Birmingham, to Penzance, was long and tiring but well worth the experience. The ferry, from Penzance to Hugh Town, literally had its ups and down given the wave action in the channel. By the time he landed he fully understood why the ferry is nicknamed, ‘The Nauseous Queen.’ Thank goodness he had booked a room at the Star Castle Hotel which gave him time to recover. During his taxi ride to the hotel, he asked the driver if he knew of a Lillian Brodie.
   “You a relative or somethin’, stranger?” queried the driver.
   “I’m the somethin’ you might say, answered Patrick, “I use to work with her but lost touch and learned she was living here.”
   “Yeah, I know her. Fine woman. She and her fiancé run a tea room and daffodil farm on Old Town Lane. She has been the proprietor for ten years. The tourists come to taste her coddled cream and scones. The best in all of Cornwall, or the U.K. Where are ya from?”
   “I am from a suburb of Glasgow, Johnstone. I retired there after moving from California. Couldn’t stand the rat race.”
   “Well, here we are – Star Castle Hotel. If you need a ride you contact me buddy, Richard, the concierge. Tell ‘im you want Buzzy. He’ll git me.”
   Patrick chuckled, “Forgive me, but did you say Buzzy?”
   “Yeah, I buzz around the Island like a bee. Clever – eh?”
    Patrick was glad that he had the afternoon to lay down. The seasickness was still affecting his balance and stomach. His room overlooked the southern tip of St. Mary’s, with St. Agnes and Gugh Islands in the distance. The faint sounds of waves reignited Patrick’s queasy stomach, so he closed the window to lay down for a couple of hours.
   The ringing phone woke him. He had slept longer than expected. He had been sleeping for six hours.  The front desk was calling to say he had a visitor waiting in the lobby.
   Lily must know I am here, Patrick thought to himself.
   He splashed some water on his face and hurried to the lobby. Surveying the area, he saw no one who resembled Lily. He asked the clerk, “You rang to tell me I had a visitor?”
   “Yes, sir, it is that gentleman standing over there.”
   It was a policeman. Patrick had nothing to fear so approaching he said to the man, “I am Patrick Marshall, you wanted to speak to me.”
   “You are the same Patrick Marshall from Johnstone, Scotland?”
   “Yes, I am. What is this all about, Constable?” asked Patrick.
   “We received word from your solicitor that you were here. Your wife has escaped from prison. Have you had any contact with her?”
   Patrick was shocked. “N…n…no...I haven’t had any contact with her in ten years.”
   “What brings you to Hugh Town?”
   “I am here to see if the woman who runs the Old Town Road tea-room is my adopted daughter.”
   The eyebrows on the constable raised. “You mean Lily Brodie is your adopted daughter?”
   “I don’t know, for sure; I am here to find out. She doesn’t know I am here as I arrived this afternoon.  
 The ferry over wasn’t too pleasant.”
   “Ahh, yes the Nauseous Queen as we affectionately call her,” said the Constable. “When are you seeing Lily?
   “I will try to see her tomorrow around 10 am.”
   “Expect a detective to pop in around 10:30 am to talk to the both of you.”
   “Couldn’t this wait until the afternoon. Lily may not want to see me.”
   “I can’t guarantee that your request will be honored, but I will pass it along in my report. Then I bid you good night,” said the constable.
   Patrick spent the night, pacing, worried about his ex-wife, and muttering, “Why did she escape? Is she trying to find me?” He had all kinds of questions running through his mind. He attempted to focus on his main reason for being in Hugh Town – Lily. He tried writing down what he would like to say to Lily, only to realize he had written nothing and was staring out the window. The sun was beginning its glow on the eastern horizon. The air coming into his room was warm, and fresh. It would be a perfect day for a walk. He would wait until 7:00 am, have breakfast, then leave for the tea-room.
    Obtaining a map of the town from the concierge he began his walk along the narrow streets. The houses were neat and trim with beautiful gardens. The walk wasn’t easy, with hills, twists and turns, to maneuver. Arriving at the tea-room he had a moment of doubt. He walked past the Old Town Inn several times before going in.
   The Inn had several patrons in for morning tea. No one seemed concerned or aware of his entrance. A man dressed in black pants, white shirt, and black tie, with a server’s apron asked, “How many will be joining you today, sir?”
   “A table for one, thank you,” said Patrick.
   Patrick was seated next to the window. He was looking out the window trying to hide his nervous apprehension that he would soon meet Lily. His concentration was broken by a woman’s voice.
   “May I pour you some tea, Luv, and a tasty strawberry scone with coddled cream?”
   Patrick turned his head to look straight into the shocked expression of Lily who dropped her tray creating a tremendous clatter. The noise drew the attention of other patrons.
   Lily exclaimed, “Patrick, what are you doing here?”
   The male server who came to help clean up asked, “What’s the problem Lil? Is this man bothering you? Shall I call the police?”
   “No...no police. He surprised me that’s all. This is my step-father, Patrick Marshall,” answered Lily.
The man said, “I didn’t know you had a stepdad, Lily. I’m Ian – Lil’s fiancé. We are going to be married in six months.”
  Lily and Ian closed the tea-room allowing patrons to finish. This situation needed some sorting out. In the course of the late morning, into the afternoon, Lily and Patrick talked out the dysfunctional nature that had arisen.
   Tearfully, Lily asked, “Will you forgive me? Will you be my father again?
Ian interjected, “and my father-in-law?”
   Patrick smiled. “Yes, I want us to be a family again.”
   Amid their tears and hugs, the restaurant door opened. Lily started to say, Sorry, we’re closed but the only word to come out was, “MOTHER!”
 
                                                    

THE MANSION MYSTERY
Frances H. Beatty, Jack Francis, Robert Wood
  
The steps did not go straight up. There was a curve, ever so slight, to the right. You had to place your foot squarely in the center. The edges collected moss and did not offer a solid footing. The air was damp and heavy to breath. The light from a single torch ricocheted off the stone wall, swirling and dancing in the surrounding gloom.  A splayed hand tapped the stair wall for purchase keeping time to the roll of numbers off the tongue.  …twenty-seven…twenty-eight…twenty-nine…thirty…thirty-one…thirty-two… The landing was small and rectangular – flat grey slate, barely large enough for a small person. Rock walls formed two sides with a solid, heavy, wood door directly ahead. An ornate serpent handle controlled a slotted closure. With a heavy pull, the door swung open. A further five steps and it was done. The door slammed shut.
 
Isabel wondered why she always counted the thirty-two steps that led up the hillside toward the basement of the immense old manor house. Something deep in my mind must cause it, she thought. An idle thought made her wonder how many hundreds of steps the huge old place possessed. For the moment she put that question aside as more important things required her attention.
   She shivered from the chilly underground air and the scariness of being all alone in almost total darkness. She was calm, though, had her wits about her. She didn’t think she’d been followed, but caution dictated she wait briefly to be sure. She knew her major asset was that no one knew she was familiar with the area.
   After five minutes, she moved, reaching back to silently twist a deadbolt into place. Now, no one else could get in. She was in a space a few feet wide, with rock walls on both sides, a thick timber door behind, and five steps to another thick door ahead. By the fading light of the electric torch, she located the slot in the wall. Bending over, she put her hand in and extracted a key. Fumbling in the dimness, she put the key into the inner door, turned it, and inched forward into a wine cellar, lit dimly by her torch. No noise penetrated there, and none was produced.
   Walking softly among the endless racks of bottles, Isabel searched for evidence of other recent visitors, but all the racks were full, as though none of the wine was ever consumed. The layer of dust on many bottles looked like the accumulation of decades. The cellar was in two parts, and the smaller part, which she now searched, looked more used, more likely to be frequented, and more likely to have recent vintages. She searched diligently, but the constantly fading light from the torch made it pointless. She would have to wait for daylight, still hours away, when feeble light from the soggy sky would percolate through the low set windows, recessed in the thick old walls.
   A few chairs were scattered around, so she sat down to nap. She was awakened at dawn by the sound of two men talking as they entered the wine cellar. They were at the far end from her, so she tiptoed across the sandy floor, back into the entry passage, closing and locking the door behind her. The door was heavy, but not soundproof, so she could hear them talking.
   “Now, Bill,” said one, “we can’t take old Fred too seriously. What did he see or, more likely, imagine he saw?”
   “Well, he says he seen a dim light going up the steps at the back, about 3:30 AM, then later, there was a bit of light visible here in the wine cellar. It was hard to see ‘cause these windows are so low set in the thick wall, and he was on higher ground.”
   “What was he doing up in the middle of the night, at his age?”
   “Well, Nigel, he’s on the sky patrol, watching to see if there’s any bombers on their way to London.”
   “Doesn’t the radar system take care of that?”
   “Mostly, but there can be strays or some lose their way.”
   “Bill, do you think he’s just imagining things?”
   “Could be. He didn’t think it was intruders at first. Actually, thought it might be a ghost. After all, this place is over six hundred years old, and this space, down here, used to have dungeons. People died down here in Cromwell’s day – you know, in the Civil War.”
   “Oh, bloody hell, Bill! A ghost!” Nigel was apoplectic. “I was got out of bed at an ungodly hour because of some senile lunatic’s imagination! Can you believe, in this day and age, in the year of our Lord, 1941, that people still believe in hauntings?”
   “Well, Nigel, I do,” Bill said firmly, “though I’m not saying this was a ghost that Fred saw. But if it’s not a ghost, what do you think he saw?”
   “Bill, there was a small thunderstorm in the night. Could’ve been light from that; or maybe a poacher. But I’ll tell you what’s likeliest. A soldier home on leave was walking with his sweetie and having hugs and kisses. And since it was so dark, they naturally had an electric torch.”
   “What about the light Fred saw inside here?’
   “Maybe they came in. There’s a door back there. I’ve seen it.”
   “Nigel, I don’t think that door has been opened in my lifetime, and I’m forty-seven. It’s probably all spiders and lizards behind that door. Bad enough in here.”
   “Imagination, lightning, hauntings, whatever; I don’t really care what Fred saw. I’m going home to have breakfast. Uh, is the squire in residence these days?”
    “The place is empty, at the moment. Everybody’s in the services, or gone to a war factory, or helping grow food. Her ladyship is in Cardiff, rolling bandages. So, there’s just me; I’m the groundskeeper, gamekeeper and Jack of all trades –  and I live down in the village.”
   They went out. Isabel breathed several sighs of relief. That had been a bit of a close call, but she knew now that she could work undisturbed throughout the day. Also, that the passageway she had come in by was considered unusable and unlikely to be checked.
   She had food with her, so she went into a workroom to have breakfast. There was water in the taps, which she let run slowly for several minutes, then had a drink. Ah, she said to herself, the place still has excellent water. What it lacked was a water closet, but the sand floor in an adjacent workroom sufficed.
   After her brief meal, she resumed her search in the main area of the wine cellar, noting that the dim, but consistent, light was easier to search by than the fading torch of a few hours ago. It took over an hour of careful inspection before she noticed one rack slightly out of line with the others. Eureka! This could be it. The rack moved surprisingly easily; the lack of gurgles indicated the bottles were empty. She edged it aside and, with growing excitement, noted the rectangle of churned up dirt and sand, about six feet long, and three feet wide. She was suddenly both sad, and ecstatic, saying to herself, well, now I know where they buried poor old Harold.
 
Poor Harold; he had learned too much. He had to be silenced.
   It was Harold, the long time butler of the manor house, who had got Isabel snooping there in the first place. At first he smuggled her in, and soon showed her how to get in on her own.
   He told her of overhearing short wave conversations – some of it in a foreign language, he thought. On a recent foray into the wine cellar it didn’t take her long to find the shortwave radio hidden in a large wooden wine barrel.
   Now she was looking for evidence, of what, she wondered? Maybe espionage.
   Well, what could be finer than a nice red wine with her lunch? So she selected a bottle from a rack and with the always handy Swiss army knife in her shoulder bag was able to remove the cork easily. A few tentative sips were appreciated. Then a few good swigs followed.
   And what to her wondering eyes should appear, but a rolled up red plastic sheet with rows of numbers on it. She quickly wiped it dry with facial tissues and stuffed it into her shoulder bag. And now to make her getaway. In her excitement at finding what she was sure was a coded message, she was eager to leave, but knew she had to wait for a time, that she had learned to be safe, to get out. Her plan was to get the wine bottle find as quickly as possible to her friend Jeffry  at the War Office.
   Once safely away from the manor, Isabel lost no time in getting to Jeffry. She was worried that the simplicity of the numbered sheet would make it unimportant or maybe in an unbreakable code. So she was surprised to see Jeffry quickly begin jotting down notes.
   “That was the easiest code break in my memory,” Jeffry told her.
   “Really? How so?”
“Each number simply stands for a letter. There are 26 letters in the alphabet, and it was quickly obvious to me that there are no numbers higher than 26 in this message,” Jeffry  explained. After that it was simply a matter of figuring out the letter combinations and patterns, shapes, and repeats. This is a schedule for wireless short wave radio contacts.”
   Isabel asked him to make a copy so she could get it back into a bottle of wine and back on the rack in the wine cellar of the manor. Done, he told her, and added a request for her to check out more bottles, carefully, and see what else she could find.
   “Will do,” she responded, and quickly, and carefully, stuffed the coded sheet into her shoulder bag, and headed for the door.
   Harold’s directions got her back into the mansion and into the wine cellar in record fast time in spite of the difficult terrain travelled.
   Isabel returned the plastic code sheet to the wine bottle and refilled it with red wine from another bottle which yielded another plastic sheet.
   “Oh, wow! Now I’ll have to get this to Jeffry for decoding, too,” she yelped.
 
The timetable that Jeffry had decoded made it easier for Isobel to organize her comings and goings into the wine cellar. It was unlikely she would encounter the culprit between scheduled radio communications. The enemy must surely be equally wary of running into someone during clandestine short-wave contacts in the cellar. The information gave her confidence that she would have more time to search further, undisturbed.
   She pondered who among the people in the nearby village would be a Natzi German spy and how they had chosen this particular manor to coordinate their operations.
   The manor was within easy proximity to Bletchey Park where the War Office housed its top-secret decoding facility. Isabel worried that the manor’s strategic location may have been the very reason it was chosen. Everyone working for the British had been scrupulously vetted and sworn to secrecy. Perhaps it was simply a coincidence, but it was a worrisome thought.
   She made her way back carrying the new document in her bag with the intention of broaching her concerns with Jeffry. In her hurry, she stumbled along the uneven terrain and then, slowed her pace. It had been a long day, and she was tired. It gave her time to think more clearly; she changed her mind. After all, Jeffry was a decoder, not an agent, and would be the wrong person with whom to raise a security breach. But she was not privy to the chain of command, and it was getting late.
   She planned to make some discrete enquiries the next time she had an opportunity to talk to the officer who had recruited her on Harold's recommendation. But she could not shake the feeling that to delay might be a devastating mistake. Isabel decided to make an effort to contact someone in charge, as soon as possible, even if it meant a breach of protocol.
   She bit her lip, sat down on a nearby log, and mulled over her plan. It was crucial to know the identity of the German agent, who had been making forays into the manor, to relay his information by radio to the enemy. She still had one incriminating document to return, but now knew, that it was unlikely anyone would miss it until the next scheduled contact which was two days away.
   As she mulled over her options and the best way to approach the matter, Isabel had an aha moment.  Jeffry had given her a rundown of the schedule; it would help with her plan for the next visit to the catacombs beneath the manor to be without the danger of encountering the Nazi informant. It had been easy to commit the schedule to memory because it followed a predictable pattern. She was now in a position to carry out a heroic plan.
   Knowing when to expect the village traitor, she decided that, instead of avoiding an encounter, she would orchestrate one. She would let herself in, in the early evening
before the next scheduled date and lie in wait in the hope of recognizing the individual who was doing the spying. She thought of hiding in the shadows near the rack of wine where she first discovered the coded messages. But on second thought, anyone with a torch or any source of light and her presence would be spotted.
   She thought of another better plan and decided, instead, on a bolder move. If she were to be detected in hiding, it would put her under immediate suspicion and probably in danger of losing her life. If they met in full view, she would be able to feign a legitimate reason for being there. An unabashed encounter would give her an excuse to ask questions and feign ignorance. Because she had no way of knowing the exact time her target would show up – she guessed it would be under the cover of darkness – she would need to work out a believable ruse for being there.
   Isabel continued her trek back to the War office with the newly retrieved, encrypted message for Jeffry, and a daring new mission in mind, for herself – to plot and...execute. Should she seek permission, or simply forge ahead on her own?
 
The new message was much longer than the first. On the train to London, Isabel considered whether Jeffry was the best person to take it to. She thought him a very nice chap, perhaps a  romantic consideration in other circumstances, but this was do, or die, wartime, and the coded messages were not a game; they were a battlefront. Crucial results might hinge on them; untold numbers of lives might be in the balance. After long pondering, she decided she would have to tell Jeffry what she was, and what she was up to. Together, they could pass it up the chain of command to where the important decisions got made, and important actions set in motion.
   It took Jeffry hours to decode it, then translate it into English. Isabel cruised the nearly empty shops, seeing nothing to tempt her to spend any of her meager cash. When she returned, Jeffry seemed oddly amused, despite the scary message he had deciphered. This message, he said, was a set of orders.
   “It’s for an agent here to create chaos at Portsmouth naval base by setting a batch of huge fires with various incendiaries already in his possession. There will be an air raid at the same time. The purpose of the raid and the arson is to cause the fleet to withdraw to sea, supposedly out of harm’s way. Then, while the ships are silhouetted against the flames of the city, a pack of waiting U-boats will sink everything in sight. There’s a lot of details, but that’s the gist of it.”
   Isabel was aghast. “We’ve got to alert the Admiralty, the police, the fire departments … why are you grinning? This isn’t funny.” She was shrieking in panic, while Jeffry continued to grin.
   “Well, Isabel, it’s a hoax. I’m not sure whose, but I know it’s a hoax.”
   “How do you know?” she demanded.
   “First, no important message would be sent in such a simple code. Second, anyone planning such an operation wouldn’t tell the agent everything, for fear of discovery, or leaks. Third, even if this was a surprise assault, it wouldn’t succeed. Because of the importance of the naval base, the area is very heavily defended. Few planes would get through to inflict damage. If the fleet did withdraw to sea, all craft would be armed to the teeth and on maximum alert. Subs would get chewed up and spit out. Erich and Fat Hermann know all that, so they wouldn’t even try.”
   “So, who are Erich and Herman?”
   “Erich Raeder heads up the Kriegsmarine – the Navy –  and Fat Hermann Goering runs the Luftwaffe –  the Air Force.”
   “Oh, yeah. I knew that. Just didn’t think of it. But whose hoax is it? And why, in the middle of the war, would they bother with the trouble and expense?”
   “Well, if it’s the Germans, it could be to see if we’re on our toes enough to catch this little jab at our defenses, or to see if we react by taking steps to give the naval base extra protection. Or they may just want us to run around on some fool’s errand, getting all hot and bothered, and wasting resources.”
   Isabel couldn’t imagine it being anyone except the Germans, but she asked anyway; “Well, if it’s not the Germans, then who and why?”
   “Our guys,” Jeffry told her. “Also checking to see if all of our security people are on their toes. Maybe also checking to see who understands German, and might be a possible sympathizer, even a traitor.”
   “Not that I think you’re a sympathizer,” Isabel told him. “But how did you learn German?”
   “In school, but also travelling around Europe with my dad. He’s an engineer with an international firm. All quite above board.”
   “Oh, of course, of course.” She didn’t apologize, as her question had seemed so legitimate. “Now, I can understand that sort of stuff about them trying to fool us or our guys checking on our security, but what does either of those have to do with Harold Watt being buried in the sand of the wine cellar at Arlington Manor?”
   Jeffry gaped, moved his mouth but emitted no sound for many seconds, then said, “What? Harold? Buried? Like dead and buried? “
    “Exactly! Harold, the butler forever at Arlington Manor. He told me he had suspicions about someone up to no good. When I went to check on things, I found his grave under a big wine rack, not far from the wine barrel where I discovered a two way short wave radio.”
    Jeffry was deeply shocked. He had known Harold, if not well, at least for a long time. Like Isabel, he had grown up in the area and had known Harold as a nice chap of his parents’ generation –  someone liked by everyone. He wondered who would kill Harold? And why? So he asked Isabel. She pondered his questions for a few minutes, then said, “Jeffry, it’s time to come clean with you. I’m not just a WREN on leave. That’s only a cover occupation. I’m actually part of the Security Service. We’re known semi-officially as MI5, to distinguish us from MI6, which is Military Intelligence. MI6 operates externally, gathers intelligence both military and civilian for use in the war effort. We in MI5 operate internally to discover and deal with spies, sympathizers and hostile foreign agents of various sorts.”
   “So how did you get to be working for Security?” asked Jeffry. “I don’t remember you as being all that adventurous.”
   “Well, I worked at the manor in my teens, and got to know it, and Harold, pretty well. He often told me he’d been in military intelligence in the 1914 to ’18 war, so it was no surprise when MI5 reactivated him to keep an eye on this area. They apparently had suspicions of enemy activity. He then recruited me, and I took the training. This isn’t the only locale I’ve worked in, but given my familiarity with the region and people, I was an obvious choice.” She said nothing about protecting the Bletchley Park decoding facility. Its location and function were absolute top secret, but she thought her assignment might relate to that. She was one of the few people outside the facility to know it existed. It would be treason to talk about it.
   Jeffry digested all this information for a few minutes, then said, a little haltingly, “Well, I...uh...guess, I’ve also got some coming clean to do, too.”
   “Oh?”
   “Yes. As you know, I’m a decoder for the War Office. Some of the overseas stuff I handle is pretty high level, so that I can’t ever talk about it. Battles, strategies, troop movements, plans, directives to generals, military requisitions, even civil service and ration regulations can have a lot of information wrung out of them. This is not to brag, but to point out that I’ve got clearances similar to yours and similar access to high ranking ears. I think we should join forces to kick this case up the chain of command to solve Harold’s murder, nab whoever is behind the radio transmissions, and keep the country safe.”
   Isabel agreed, but with the feeling that they weren’t quite equal partners; Jeffry was taking over her case, even if that wasn’t his intention.
   Oblivious to her concern, he now added complexity to the situation. “We should consider we may be dealing with two separate, mostly unrelated cases. Whosever’s hoax it is, would be unlikely to kill Harold and draw attention to themselves, so his death may be caused by someone else. Does that sound reasonable?”
   “Very reasonable,” she agreed, then asked, a bit sardonically, “Okay, Mr. Jeffry Grant, what is the first thing we should do in this endeavour?”
   “For the moment, I’m going to sit at my desk doing my usual job. You will take the train back to Little Morton village, get that sheet of plastic with the message on it back into the wine bottle. Then you will sleep soundly for many hours, till early morning. In the morning, you will take the train back here –  to London –  and we will begin the process of unraveling this case.”
 
Isabel awoke with a start.
   Something about the wine cellar had been nagging at her, was stuck in the back of her mind. Now, suddenly, it popped up. What was it all about, those two men she had overheard arguing in the next room during one of her wine cellar visits? Now it all came rushing back to her as she got out of bed.
   Bill, the groundskeeper and jack-of-all -things around the aging mansion, was telling Nigel about Fred seeing the odd lights in the night in the woods leading up to the back of the building and dim signs of light in the wine cellar window slit. Nigel was insisting old Fred, at his very old age, and well known for his failing eyes, was seeing things, but Bill continued to fret.
   Isabel was now also fretting for she had no doubt old Fred was right and she was afraid her visits to the wine cellar were the source of his sightings. But then she had second thoughts because of the short wave radio activity in the wine cellar which Jeffry had discovered in those coded messages she had found in wine bottles. She would have to pay a visit to Fred, in his hut in the nearby village, and find out who else he might have told about his light sightings. Fred is a neighbour of Bill’s, so she could check with him too, she thought, hoping to find them both home.
   After a quick breakfast of bangers and tea, Isabel phoned Fred and finding him home caught the bus that had stops in the nearby village. A knock on Fred’s door got no response. Then she recalled about his poor hearing, as well as poor eyesight, and hammered hard on his door.
   Fred opened the door and his big smile showed his pleasure at having a visitor. Isabel declined his offer of tea and crumpets, and quickly grilled him about Bill and Nigel, and anyone and everyone he had told about his claims of mysterious lights at the mansion.
   Fred was tempted to weave a tale of telling many in order to keep her visit there longer, but being a lifelong honest person, told her the only person he discussed it with was Bill, the mansion handyman.
   On the bus back home Isabel though it over. So that’s Bill and Nigel, Isabel said to herself as she pondered the clues. I can’t see Bill as being anything but what he is, the handyman, but Nigel, there’s a different cup of tea, altogether, she thought, and why was he so insistent that Fred was seeing things?
   Nigel, she knew, was a long time friend and traveling companion of the squire and his family. Before the war, Nigel was sure to accompany the squire whenever he was in the west Europe countries, especially Germany and France.
   It is time to check with Jeffry again. Maybe he has some information about Nigel that could be helpful, Isabel thought. She trusted Jeffry; she had to trust Jeffry, she now realized and accepted, because he was helpful so far, without reservations. 
 
Talking to  Fred was revealing. Isobel was convinced that he had seen the lights, and it worried her that he was freely, even eagerly, passing out the information. Perhaps, he was just an old man wanting to remain relevant and important in the community, especially to Nigel. Questioning Bill would not be a wise idea. He might become suspicious and wonder why she was interested in what he and Nigel had discussed in the cellar, and how she had known about their conversation that morning.
   She decided that Jeffry would be a better source for some answers. After a careful review, she realized that the lights Fred had seen did not coincide with times that she was there. There was only one answer; it must have been someone working with the Nazis. There might be others involved: those who had left messages in the wine bottles; perhaps, people involved with the radio communications.
   It worried her that Nigel seemed eager to discredit Fred and make him out to be nothing   more than an imaginative old fool. Was Bill covering up when he intimated that poor old Fred believed in ghosts.
   Jeffry was her main contact, but she needed to corroborate some of the information he had given her.  He told her to replace the decoy paper he had decoded and go home for a "good night's sleep." That seemed a little presumptuous – why would he want her to be out of the way that night? She pondered the idea and wondered if she was over-thinking things.  If she decided to overstep Jeffry's authority and approach one of the others working on the team at the War Office,  he might get wind of it and that would ruin everything; they needed to trust each other.
   This was becoming more complicated as time went on. It occurred to her that it was surprising that Jeffry had not known of Harold's death. That was another loose end that troubled her deeply. Was it being kept secret for a reason? Why had she not been warned to keep that bit of information to herself when Harold`s disappearance was discovered.  At this point, she felt there was no one she could really trust. With the exception of, perhaps, poor old Fred.
   She entertained the idea that Fred, might be playing the fool to keep everyone off his trail. Maybe he dropped tidbits of information to get a reaction from his confidants and catch them in an unguarded moment. Was he actually the best undercover agent, so far.
   She decided that she would need to avoid visits to the Manor during the scheduled dates that Jeffry had decoded. It would be dangerous to encounter individuals responsible for the clandestine activities at the Manor; they would not hesitate to kill. She wondered how Harold had been found out and eliminated; he was a highly respected member of the War Team. She itched to unmask a traitor from the village, if there was such a one among the people they trusted.  It was tempting because she was privy to the times Nazi operatives  would be expected at the Manor.
   If only she had someone more experienced to consult who would be capable of approaching others whose identities were unknown to her. A seasoned agent would know what to do and how to approach a suspect without detection. She would be willing to take a calculated risk to confront one of them, but, on her own, she felt at a loss. 
   Her next move could be the catalyst to a dangerous plot, or an opportunity lost if no one at the War Office was privy to her suspicions. Who could she trust to take her seriously and have the experience to act judiciously?
 
Enough hemming and hawing, Isabel told herself. I’m sure Jeffry is thoroughly patriotic and dependable. I can’t start here doubting everyone or I’ll wear myself out from paranoid worry. I’ll watch, though, for any signs of doubtful loyalty, in anyone.
   She felt better after that decision, departed for London immediately, met Jeffry for a meager wartime lunch, and got busy. A meeting was arranged for 1:30PM, with a high level personage- “someone up the ranks” in Jeffry’s phrasing. Meeting in the personages’ miniscule office, Isabel was introduced to “Mr. Somerville,” which she was told was a pseudonym. No rank was given, only the suggestion that it was quite high. “Mr.Somerville” was in civvies and unmilitary in bearing. Isabel recited the events, circumstances and concerns which had brought her to this office. Jeffry corroborated her information and supported her concerns. Mr. Somerville listened closely, with few interruptions. When her information was all given, he spoke at more length.
   “Your concerns are legitimate. We, meaning everyone involved in protecting the country, appreciate you bringing in this information. We have a few somewhat similar cases around the country. Mostly they’re harmless, as we’ve got the hostile element under heavy surveillance and could act on a moment’s notice if they try anything. Some are double agents, some are plants; people with some German connection to feed them lies about our defenses, economy, morale and so on. But what is transpiring at Arlington Manor is new to us and possibly very dangerous. It would be dangerous anywhere in the country, but its proximity to the Portsmouth naval base renders it especially so.”
   He paused, then asked, “Any comments or questions?”
   “Well, do you think some or all of what we’ve found is a hoax? Jeffry thinks there is a strong element of deception, because the code is so simple, and the actions proposed are so unrealistic. Or could it be a practical joke by some of our own people?” Isabel wanted all possibilities considered.
   Mr. Somerville thought briefly, then said, “The wine bottle messages may be a hoax. They’re unrealistic and maybe designed to divert attention. The serious side of the situation is indicated by the death and burial of poor Mr. Harold Watts. I’m genuinely saddened by this. We won’t even be able to exhume him for a funeral and proper burial till this case is dealt with. Now, more questions: you quoted this Bill chap as saying ‘there’s just me; I’m the groundskeeper, gamekeeper and Jack of all trades’. So if Bill was doing all the maintenance of the place, where was Harold living and working?”
   “Harold was now living in the village, just visiting the manor occasionally to keep an eye on things. He was retirement age, but doing sky watch and helping out various places. He had no schedule, so his absence wouldn’t be noted for a while. I went looking for him when I hadn’t heard from him for several days.”
   “So, he was just checking on conditions at the manor house, then? Like, making sure there was no vandalism, or other intruder problems?”
   Isabel agreed, saying, “He was worried about theft and squatters. There are over eighty rooms in the place, meaning it’s easy to hide in. I was concerned about someone being there, which is why I went in the back way. That entrance is pretty secret.”
   Mr. Somerville had more questions. “Okay, this Bill Parker chap said that back route was unusable, so how did you get in?”
   “Harold rebuilt it over a period of years, without changing the external appearance. He figured it probably hadn’t been used for over a century. When he recruited me for the security service, he showed it to me.  I don’t think even the squire is aware it’s usable.”
   Mr. Somerville was curious: “Why did Mr. Watt expend the time and effort to rebuild the secret passage? Do you think he had some negative purpose in mind?”
   “He never said as much but hinted that he sometimes poached some of the squires’ game. Also, I …uh…think maybe it was for romance. He’d been a widower for many years, and possibly used that passage for nocturnal visits to lady friends in the village, or beyond.”
   Mr. Somerville smiled tolerantly at that but made no comment. Instead he said, “Next on the list is Nigel Kingsborough. Tell me about him.”
   “Nigel is a former police officer. The local people seem to think he’s still one, so they call on him for everything. He and his wife run the village pub. He’s good friends with the squire and often travels with him for security.”
   Jeffry had listened to Somerville’s questioning of Isabel, interjecting only to clarify some points. Now he spoke up, ”I know these people almost as well as Isabel does, and I can vouch for her information.”
   Somerville sat pondering, with knitted brow, for a few minutes, then spoke slowly. “This is an interesting situation, with all sorts of possibilities, but not much real evidence to go on. We have a file pertaining to Mr. Watt, dating from reports of activity in the region. Because of these reports, we told him to investigate and also sent you, Isabel, to see what you could find out. Mr. Watt reported hearing a two way radio conversation in another language, though he didn’t know which one. Not French, he was sure. He also found the radio, which you rediscovered. This poking around probably cost him his life, but who did it is unknown.”
   He took a breath, then said, “For the moment, Isabel, I reluctantly have to ask you to return to Arlington Manor, to carefully watch for comings and goings, plus, if it’s safe, enter the manor house to see who’s been there and what they’ve been doing.”
   Isabel felt conflicted. Excitement lay ahead, which was good, but also danger, which could be bad-very bad. She accepted without comment, showing, she hoped, neither bravado nor timidity.
   “We can issue you a handgun, if you know how to use it.” said Somerville.
   “I’ve been trained, “she told him, “I can also use my knife for more than just cutting cheese.”
   “Good thing,” Somerville grinned. “With all the rationing, it won’t get much use on cheese.”
   With open ended assignment, armed, eager to serve and to find poor old Harold’s killers, she said good-bye to London. She was back in Little Morton by nightfall, in sight of Arlington Manor.
   She hadn’t previously stayed overnight in Little Morton, just “skulked around” as she put it, but this time she took space in a boarding house. The room was small and clean, quite adequate for her needs. It had been ten years since Isabel left Little Morton, and with changes in hair styles and clothing styles, the long widowed Mrs. Waterford didn’t recognize her. So she said her name was Kate Hurst, a military nurse on leave to deal with the emotional stress of constantly treating badly wounded soldiers. Mrs. Waterford was kind, sympathetic, lonely and chatty. Good place to catch up on local news and gossip; find out who’s hanging around town, Isabel thought. To that end, she told Mrs. Waterford that she took a lot of long walks, and that her edgy nerves made her an insomniac, so a lot of her walking was at night. Mrs. Waterford understood.
   “Now, dearie, would yez like a cuppa tea to warm yer bones? It’s a chill evening out there.” Mrs. Waterford was immediately going into ”mum mode”, which Isabel liked, as it indicated she would chatter long and hard.
   “I’d love some tea, thank you,” Isabel told her, discovering immediately that Mrs. Waterford could simultaneously make tea, put out biscuits, rearrange couch cushions, pat her hand comfortingly and talk nonstop. When she got a chance to speak, Isabel asked, “Do you have many roomers nowadays, with the war on and so many in the services?”
   “More than you might think, dearie. Soldiers on leave often want some fresh country air and with good rail service from here to London, this village is convenient. And being close to the Portsmouth naval base brings lots from there.” 
   Have to check that out, Isabel thought.
   Two hours of conversation ensued, until Mrs. Waterford’s jaw grew tired. She then wished  Isabel good night, promising to be unconcerned if she heard her wandering in the night.
   Isabel got up at 2:00AM, left the house quietly and walked a mile to the manor. She went slowly, via back lanes and bike paths, and through fog patches. She trod carefully, making sure she was unobserved. She approached the manor through a tangled grove of young elms. There were twenty feet between the elms and the steps leading to the wine cellar. She gingerly tip toed across. She kept her torch hidden, navigating only by starlight, and little of that. She counted the steps again.  … twenty-seven … twenty-eight … twenty-nine … thirty … thirty-one … thirty-two…, it was necessary to orient herself in the darkness. She opened the heavy wooden door into the passage. Cautious listening assured her no one was in the wine cellar. Again she found the hidden key, opened the door and edged forward into the cool dampness.
   She paused, waiting, straining for any sound. Silence reigned, so she moved forward carefully in the darkness. She waited again, for many minutes, then felt out a chair. She sat down and waited a full half hour. Her radium dial watch said it was now 3:15AM. With great trepidation, she now turned on her electric torch. She was careful to not shine it on the windows, lest old Fred or some other curious person was watching. She had a red filter in her pocket, which she now put over the lens of the torch. This way she could see where she was walking and, by squinting, examine things.
   A quick survey showed nothing different from her last visit, no sign of anyone being there. She went upstairs up to the kitchens. Inspection of this area also showed no sign of recent visits or use. The whole place was eerily quiet and empty. She was about to leave when she heard a noise one, maybe two, floors above. Someone had flushed a loo- a water closet. That someone was either stupid or indiscreet, or felt that eliminating evidence of their presence justified making that bit of noise. Isabel stood still for minutes, then with no further indication of anyone moving, carefully made her way back to the wine cellar.
   It was still dark when she came out at the top of the stairs. The now heavy fog insured her departure was invisible, if anyone was watching. She was back in bed about 5:15AM, “woke up” about 7:20 AM, breakfasted with Mrs. Waterford about 8:00AM. The lady noticed that “Kate” still looked tired, and she was told that, “I didn’t sleep well. I’ll probably need a nap this afternoon.”
   She endured a torrent of gossip, before getting the “conversation” turned to other visitors. Mrs. Waterford now bleated that some odd characters had passed through her house lately, with strange accents, other languages, fierce mustaches. “I think they were Polish. There’s lots of them now, flying with the RAF. They’re brave lads, very well thought of, but they like to get out into the countryside on leave.”
   Interesting, Isabel thought, but I don’t think so. None of the squadrons manned by Poles are near here. Who else could it be? She pondered, then remembered that many ethnic Germans lived in western Poland, Czechoslovakia, and other border territories. Surely, some would be bilingual. When they infiltrated into the United Kingdom, posing as Polish airmen would provide an excellent cover identity. And since acquiring housing would be a problem, given the bureaucratic complexities of wartime, what better place to hide than a big, old, and unoccupied manor house? It provided space for living, storage and lots of interior rooms where lights would not be visible from outside. Best of all, it was only a few miles from the huge and strategically important Portsmouth naval base, probably a prime target of saboteurs.
   Excited, Isabel went to her room, wrote a long letter to Jeffry, explaining her findings and suspicions. She posted it straightaway, confident that Jeffry would have it the next day.
   She had a longish nap, then strolled over to the local pub for a fish and chips lunch. Nigel Kingsborough remembered her well, asking what she was up to these days. “Well,” she told him, “I’m a journalist now for a small paper whose main function is helping keep up civilian morale as the war goes on. There are more defeatists than you might suspect.”
   Nigel agreed, saying he fully supported the work of people like herself, and asked what she was working on now. “Actually, I’m just visiting my home turf for a few days,” she said, “but back in London I’m writing up the exploits and heroism of the Polish airmen who’ve joined the RAF. Are you familiar with them?”
   “Oh, for sure,” Nigel said. “Some of them come over from Portsmouth on leave days. Nice chaps. Hard to understand, but they like British beer. Some even say it’s better than German, which I thought was kind of odd.”
   Isabel chatted with him for a while longer, hiding her exultation at what she was discovering. Tomorrow, she told herself, I’m going to follow that letter to London, to talk with Jeffry, and “Mr. Somerville”, in person. Maybe Jeff and I will celebrate.
 
Next day Isabel woke early, bothered by troubled thoughts. Thoughts that maybe she needed to double check the recent clues before seeing Jeffry and ‘Mr. Somerville’. She felt she needed to know more about who was apparently staying in, or at least sometimes stopping in, the old manor? And was anyone using the wine cellar?
   “Oh what tangled lives we lead, when not known which clues to heed,” she said aloud. “Now we even have the RAF and the Poles involved. Or do we?”
    Maybe it’s time to go back to square one, Isabel thought. She decided it was time for another visit to the wine cellar. After dark she made her way to the manor’s cellar door, 
now known so well that she got there by the light of the moon. As she made her way, in the dark inside, with only the bit of light provided by her mini purse torch to find her way, there were no signs of lights nor sounds of activity as she snuck in and checked out the cellar. So she decided to hide on a stack of canvas, in a storage shelving area, where she could keep an eye on things without being seen.
   Isabel was just about to doze off when she heard voices.
 
 Isabel, startled, focused her attention, and listened.  Male voices rumbled above, punctuated by laughter, they wafted down the staircase into the cellar. She held her breath and waited. She withdrew the gun from her pocket, gazed at it in her shaking hand, checked the ammunition chamber, and pocketed it again.
   A door above banged shut and boots clomped down the stairs. Her nerves settled a bit as she reasoned … they won't see me in this dark room, but I'll get a good look through the open doorway when lights come on down here.  Sure enough, bulbs blazed overhead as one, by one, switches were activated – who knew this place so well?
   More relaxed now, she concentrated on trying to hear the conversation.  At first, she was confused – they were not speaking English; then, a realization – these blokes were German! Nazis! Shocked, but excited, she stretched around peering into the cellar to get a better look.
   At that moment, Nigel walked by leading the way; two of them, and him. A quick intake of breath drew the attention of one man to her hideout. He peered inside as Isabel shrunk into the shadows behind the pile of canvas and prayed to stay undetected.
   Kingsborough waved his two companions into the back where the vintage wines were stored. She heard the clinking of bottles as they picked through their options. A few minutes later, the group emerged carrying dusty vessels cradled in the crook of each arm. 
   Without warning, she sneezed.
   "Swienhunt ," one of the men swore. They stormed the storage area as Nigel pulled the cord of a dangling light switch. She came out from behind the pile of canvas, dusting her skirts as she emerged. Nigel laughed, nervously, said something in German to the other two, and nodded toward her. After a gesturing exchange, Nigel volunteered, "Does her ladyship need something from down here?" Turning to the other two men, he said, "This is Isabel, her ladyship's private secretary; may I present Miss Isabel Wren. Miss Isabel,  these are two Polish Airmen billeted here by permission of his Lordship."
   Isabel held her composure and replied, "yes, they are short of canvas cots at the emergency center, and I was estimating the supply of old canvas fabric we have here to use at the shelter." She had slipped her torch out of her sack and shone it on the pile. "I couldn't locate the light chain," she explained, having been caught inexplicably in the dark.
   Just then a commotion erupted upstairs; running feet drummed upon the wooden floors, people shouted. Someone called out, "this way; it's this way." Bill flung open the cellar door with Fred close behind him, followed by three, armed, militia, their guns drawn.
   The Nazis dropped the bottles onto the sandy floor and raised their arms. Nigel stammered, "Thank, God," but placed his hands over his head. Jeffry arrived shortly after and ran to Isabel. "Are you okay, ducky," he asked. 
   "I am fine … fine," she replied, with a little quiver in her voice. His big arms encircled her shoulders which began to shake.
   Nigel and the two "Polish" Airman were escorted out at gunpoint. Fred sat down on the bottom stair and wiped perspiration from his brow. "Take 'er easy there, old chap," Bill offered. You did your job well and good for a retired bloke." 
   "It were close, too close," Fred muttered, "...and to think it were all my fault."
   "Now, now, Fred, it weren’t.  How were you t’know we were putting this little lass in harm's way. You’d no way of knowing she'd be here until we informed that there lad, Jeffry, when he came by. Right good, he’d a feeling she'd be coming here."
   Isabel extricated herself from Jeffry's arms, and ran over and hugged old Fred. "You were just doing your job, telling Bill about the lights to extract a reaction from Nigel. Good thing Sutherland looked into it.”
   Bill owned that he had dropped the information on Nigel in an effort to illicit some information. Then, he decided to risk a confrontation in the tower, and climbed up there to have a look. It was the only way to check if anyone was taking up lodging while the manor was vacant. Harold must have discovered the truth on his routine rounds, to have been eliminated. He had been a faithful butler, and a valued agent, but it had cost him his life.
   "What about Nigel?" Isabel asked. "Did he know what he was doing or was he duped by those men posing as “Polish” airmen while spying on us Brits? He seemed to be covering for me when they discovered me in the storage room. His excuse for my being there probably saved my life."
   “So far as I can tell,"  Bill said, "Nigel was on the take...he thought he could pick up a few quid by putting them fellas up at the manor. He was missing the fine lifestyle he enjoyed at the Squire's expense before the war. Not to worry your pretty head; the War Department’ll figure it all out."
 
                                                          
 

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