“Recently fired?” asked the inspector, and I glanced at him. Did he think one of these was used to shoot at me?
“Not this one,” James replied. It was strange, watching him with a rifle in his hands. He handled it capably, and I had to remember he had likely carried one of these every day while he was at war. I blinked; it was like looking at two men at the same time.
“Check the others,” the inspector said, but James was already moving, picking each gun up and inspecting it. His face was unbearably handsome in its concentration. He picked up the shotgun last, his brow frowning slightly. “This is a lot of firepower.”
“It looks like the Dubbses were rather dangerous,” Inspector Merriken agreed. “Or at least Mr. Dubbs was.”
“I wouldn’t discount Mrs. Dubbs, either,” James countered. “If they were government agents, she was as well trained as he was. In any case, I’m glad they left their cabinet stocked.” He picked up one of the rifles again and ran his fingers over the boxes of ammunition, looking for the right kind. “That bastard, whoever he is, will get a surprise if he goes for Ellie again.”
Inspector Merriken sighed. He had taken off his coat downstairs while on the telephone, and now he crossed his arms in their shirtsleeves over his buttoned-up waistcoat. “Those guns may be government property, you know.”
“You can arrest me later.” James loaded the gun and clicked it shut, the sound cracking up my spine. I clenched my hands into fists at my sides.
Inspector Merriken hesitated, then uncrossed his arms and held out a hand. “Fine. Give me one.”
“Rifle or handgun?”
“One of each.”
James deftly loaded the weapons and handed them over. Merriken put the handgun in his waistband and carried the rifle at ease at his side. He had likely served at war just as James had.
James was obviously thinking the same thing. “Did you use a Lee-Enfield in France?”
“Not exactly,” Merriken replied. “I was RAF.”
“Ah. A high flier.”
“Something like that. Still, I know which end is the business end. They taught us that much.” He turned to me. “As it happens, Miss Winter, Colin Sutter’s war records aren’t classified at all. He enlisted as an officer in 1915, was captured by the Germans in August 1916, and spent six months as a prisoner of war, after which he died. Cause of death was listed as pneumonia. The Germans issued an official death certificate, which the War Office has in the file.”
“His body never came home,” I said. “There may have been a death certificate, but his body never came home.”
Merriken blinked at me. “He was interred in the prison camp, yes. How did you know?”
“Gloria told me, of course.”
From his position by the gun cabinet, James said, “If there’s a German death certificate, that means he isn’t a British agent, doesn’t it?”
“Actually,” Inspector Merriken corrected, “it means that he’s dead.”
I turned to James. “If he defected to the Germans—if they somehow recruited him while he was a prisoner—then the German authorities could have issued the certificate.”
“If it originated high enough, I don’t see why not,” James answered me. “A man like that would be a valuable agent, because he’s native British. No one here would suspect him. It would be worth it to them to kill his old identity, complete with paperwork, and give him a new one, if he was willing. The question is, why was he willing to betray his country?”
“This is pure madness,” said Inspector Merriken.
“The newspapers,” I said to James, ignoring the interruption. “They say that no group has claimed responsibility for the bombings. Not fascists, or socialists, or Bolsheviks. Would the Germans simply recruit a man to sabotage random targets?”
James looked thoughtful. “It’s possible, perhaps. Germany has been in chaos since the Armistice and Versailles. But an agent like that wouldn’t serve the government’s purpose. It could be one of the smaller revolutionary factions, which are growing in Germany like weeds.” He shrugged. “It’s an effective way to seed terror, if you think about it. The speculation, the scramble to find a pattern, is almost as effective in creating fear as the bombings themselves.”
“I wish I knew more about him,” I said. “Gloria didn’t like to talk about her brothers—it was too painful. I know that Colin was difficult and rather distant. But she carried the telegram notification of his death, along with the others, everywhere she went. And she carried his photo, just as she carried those of Tommy and Harry.” I shook my head. “She loved him—perhaps not perfectly, but she loved him. And he killed her.”
James’s gaze settled on me, something about it sad and very cold. “War changes a man, Ellie. In ways you can’t imagine.”
I looked at him holding a rifle—likely the same kind that had almost killed me hours before—in his hands, at Inspector Merriken holding his own rifle, and I swallowed. “I’m going for a walk,” I said. “I need to see where Gloria died before the sun goes down.”
James closed the cabinet. “You’re not going alone.”
“Not that it matters,” Inspector Merriken said, “but I’ve got a handful of men on their way. It’ll take them some time to get here, so in the meantime I’m going to take a look around and see if I find a trace of our man.” He glared at me. “Whoever he is.”
“I’d advise that your walk take you past the nearest telephone line,” James said, “and that you find a way to keep an eye on it if you can.”
Merriken turned to him. “You think he’ll cut it?”
“I would,” James replied.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE