The Snowfly Page 16

  “The two of you are now trespassing,” Shelldrake said when we stepped outside. “If pinched, you’ll be on your own. Understood?”

  Charlie cocked an eyebrow. “Wish I had my Wellies.”

  We were both in street shoes on wet, muddy ground.

  Shelldrake began walking into a copse of trees, not looking back. It was dark and nearly impossible to see. Charlie fell in beside me, his camera bag thumping his side as we stumbled down an uneven, muddy trail through the trees.

  “Smashing adventure, eh?” Charlie whispered happily.

  “We’ll see,” I said.

  We eventually emerged from the forest onto what appeared to be rolling meadows with high fencing. To our west I saw the glow of lights in the low sky. London, I guessed. I had no idea where we were. The fencing alone suggested a military installation to me, but there were no electric lights. As we approached the wire in darkness, Shelldrake whispered, “Through here, boyos. Step lively now!” I immediately thought of mines as Shelldrake used a small flashlight with a red lens to show us where an opening had been cut in the fence.

  “What about tracks?” Charlie asked.

  “Everything is arranged,” Shelldrake said with a clipped voice.

  We eventually entered a building built low in the sod like an old Quonset. When Shelldrake opened the door, the smell inside overwhelmed both Charlie and me.

  “Testing room,” Shelldrake said. He turned on an overhead light, glanced at his wristwatch, and said, “We have precisely eight minutes.”

  Sheep carcasses hung from stainless-steel metal hooks fixed to the walls on either side of us. There was blackened blood in their wool coats and on the cement floor. The sweet, malodorous smell of death crawled onto us.

  “Positively graveolent, eh,” Charlie said, stifling a gag and sinking slowly to his knees. I grabbed one of his arms but couldn’t hold him up. He looked up at me with a miserable face and said, “Good place for a nuke, yes?”

  “Puke?” I said and Charlie grinned crookedly and exclaimed, “Explosive, I should think,” as he lost the battle with his gag reflex and vomited for more than a minute while Shelldrake stood over him looking askance.

  Shelldrake suddenly had a riding crop in his hand; he used it as a pointer.

  “See,” he said to me, stepping up to the first carcass. “Rib cage shattered, compound fractures, bones extending through flesh, this the result of a rubber bullet unloosed at ten feet. This creature did not expire swiftly. You see, a projectile either crushes tissue or stretches it. Either mechanism can result in death or serious injury. Many forensics people and the medical community at large are under the misimpression that low-velocity missiles are less problematic than high-velocity projectiles. They are wrong, Rhodes. A baton round is technically characterized as low velocity, and it is that if and when compared to today’s modern weapons—but the muzzle velocity closely approximates bullets used during the Great War. I would remind you that a great deal of killing took place with such antiquated weapons in that conflict.”

  He stopped to see if I was following him, saw that I was scratching notes, and talked on. “Even low-velocity projectiles can stop the heart, lacerate the liver, break bones, blind, shatter teeth; the list of potential injuries is endless. Consider this. The modern hunting arrow strikes with less force than a .22 short round, yet it is lethal. You see, power is not the only measure of killing strength or stopping power.”

  Charlie had recovered, had his camera out, and was already methodically shooting without benefit of a flash. I followed Shelldrake along, listening to him describe wounds and types of bullet materials and all the while Charlie’s camera clicked busily in the background. “The baton round is large, heavy, and unstable in flight,” Shelldrake said. “A bullet causes the most damage at the point where it strikes with the highest velocity; the greater the area of contact, the greater the force imparted and the greater the resulting damage. Are you following?”

  “Yes,” I said. I had counted thirty dead sheep. “When was this done? And why sheep?”

  Shelldrake gatherered a deep breath before answering. “Sheep are easy to acquire, not missed, and provide some body mass to simulate Homo sapiens. Other simulants are used from time to time: gelatins, soap, other animal cadavers, even human cadaver parts in dire circumstances, water-soaked telephone books, and so forth, but sheep are the cheapest to use for this sort of mass testing program.”

  “What happens to the meat?”

  “Buried,” Shelldrake said. “The creatures before us were dispatched this afternoon,” he continued. “This sort of thing has gone on every day for months. You see this disarray? They have moved past the careful experimental stage, that is, have abandoned whatever impartial scientific procedure might initially have been employed. They now look simply for stopping power and destruction. This is all vile and has no place in a civilized country.” He pointed to another carcass that was badly broken with bits of bone sticking through exposed muscle. “Case in point,” he said. “A baton is fired at forty feet or so. But it flies erratically, and instead of hitting head-on to temporarily stun the target in a nonlethal location, it may flitter and flutter about and come in all-aside, causing massive damage, such as seen here. You can see that teak is out of the question. All right for shooting Chinese, but perhaps not other races.”

  “As with anti-fascists before the war?”

  Shelldrake nodded. “Done some investigation? Good man. But teak is no longer the weapon of choice. They are now looking at rubber and plastic made from polyvinyl chloride. Thus far all substances show the same horrendous results.”

  Shelldrake stopped and pointed to a sheep head that had exploded like a watermelon. “Imagine this as a human being, a child, perhaps,” he said solemnly. “Destruction is the only goal of this bloody business. The experts speak of Relative Incapacitation Index, but we are not fooled by the use of language to disguise true intent.”

  In Vietnam I had known a major whose job it was to travel to the site of recent battles to autopsy dead Allied soldiers in order to determine if the North Vietnamese were employing any new weapons. I had seen reams of color slides of the major’s work, but most of the wounds I had seen paled next to the gruesome things Charlie and I witnessed.

  After precisely eight minutes, Shelldrake announced it was time to depart and we did. Riding back to the city in darkness and silence, we listened to large raindrops pock-pock against the lorry’s roof and sides. When we got out, Shelldrake said nothing and Charlie headed for his lab to develop his film. I knew I couldn’t write a story right away.

  •••

  A couple of weeks after I’d met Freegift Heartfield I called the Trust and was informed that it was closed. All inquiries would be handled by former trustee and managing director Sir St. John Wonbrow, who was now representing the trust as its solicitor out of his professional offices on Rose Street in the Covent Garden district. His offices were in a small glass-and-steel building, his entrance several doors down from a pub called the Lamb and Flag.

  A receptionist showed me into the office of Sir St. John Wonbrow. He was a much younger man than I had anticipated and presented a scrubbed, overly groomed appearance, too young for peerage, which I thought of as an old man’s reward.

  “Good morning,” Wonbrow said with a slight bow, extending his hand and giving me a crisp, viselike squeeze. His voice tended to rise as the words piled up. “Please call me Sinjin.”

  “Bowie Rhodes,” I said.

  “Working on a nostalgic tome, are you, or is it more instructional?”

  “History, not nostalgia.” I spun a description of trout and historic personages who had advanced the sport.

  “Fantastic. I assume you indulge in the piscatorial pursuit.”

  I nodded. “At every opportunity. And you?”

  “Never,” he said. “Lack the patience, bugger-all. Perhaps
when I’ve accumulated a suitable layer of years.”

  Fly fishing as an old man’s sport. I didn’t like Wonbrow, but I stayed on task and began by trying to knock him off balance.

  “I’ve been told that Sir Thomas assembled a fine collection. I saw some of his books in South Vietnam at the Trout House. I was there as a guest of the owners when the North Vietnamese Army destroyed the estate, including the library.”

  Wonbrow raised an eyebrow. “Dear me. The Trout House is gone? There were books there? Are you certain? This is bloody awful.” He seemed quite irritated.

  “Knew about the property,” he continued, recovering himself. “Always struck me as the whimsical name for an eccentric’s dream. Are you certain that some of Sir Thomas’s books were there?”

  Books the Trust obviously knew nothing about. This had horrified him. “There were several dozen volumes in Vietnam and, to be frank, I’m wondering if there are more books in the Oxley Trust.”

  “There are. What we have is considered to be the main body of the collection,” he said slowly, as if still recovering from surprise.

  “There may be certain works in the collection I would like very much to see.”

  “Do you allude to M. J. Key?” Wonbrow asked.

  “How did you know?” I felt weak.

  He gave me a sly smile. “You’re the second American to inquire this week.”

  I must’ve looked devastated. “Who else?” It was a clumsy question, but he had caught me off guard.

  “Sorry, Rhodes. I’m sure you can understand that I’m not at liberty to disclose that. I will only relate to you what I told her.”

  Her? Shit.

  “Sir Thomas’s collection has been sold,” Wonbrow said. “The sale was handled by Broker, Brogger and Grant.”

  “Yes,” I said, “Mister Brogger himself handled it.” I was trying to create the impression that I knew more than I did. “Did the Trust sell parts of the collection or the entire body?”

  “Sir Thomas’s collection was sold in one piece,” he said quickly.

  I had a bit of momentum back. “It’s my understanding that the sale was made because the Trust is having severe financial difficulties and desperately needs to raise cash for its creditors.”

  This time Wonbrow blanched. “I thought your interest was books?”

  I leaned forward into his space. “It is, but, as a reporter, I am also interested in understanding how an old and revered trust goes into the loo.”

  Wonbrow tightened his eyes. “That’s confidential business, sir.”

  “You’re certain that the entire collection was sold?” I wanted desperately to see an inventory and hoped against hope to locate a second copy of the Key manuscript. Given some other American’s inquiry, perhaps I was not the only one with such an interest.

  “You may be assured that certain stipulations were made to assure that Sir Thomas’s collection would not be scattered like so much dust before the wind.”

  “It’s all gone to one buyer?”

  “Yes.”

  I tucked this away and tried to decide about where to go next. “But you have no idea where the books are now.”

  “No, sir, I do not.”

  This was pure lawyer talk. “Meaning you know who purchased them and technically can’t say what the purchaser has done with them since then.”

  St. John Wonbrow glared at me.

  Another American had come looking for M. J. Key. Her. My stomach squirmed and I fought to calm myself. Obviously I was not the only person to have an interest in Key. His known work was seminal, far more important to the sport than Izaak Walton, whose Compleat Angler was no more than a travel writer’s gregarious ramblings; Walton had stumbled his way through pubs in English trout country. I had loved the book when I was young and still felt affection for Walton, but it was M. J. Key who had looked into the future and showed the way, shone his light on how it had to be if trout were to survive. Walton wrote as if fish were an endless resource, but M. J. Key knew better, that abundance was only an apparition. More important, I suspected that Key held the secret to the snowfly. At least he had had enough interest in the myth to write about it. I had no choice but to keep chasing. I had built too much sweat equity in finding the answer to give up now.

  I had not gotten all that I wanted from Wonbrow. So far I had learned that the entire collection had been sold. The existence of a second copy of the Key manuscript remained an open question built mostly on wishful thinking. It was time to push Wonbrow to a new level. As I moved to depart, I acted as if I had just thought of another question and turned back from the door as he edged me toward it.

  “One more thing?”

  “Of course,” Wonbrow said. Clearly he thought I was going to throw him an easy one.

  “Was the sale of the Oxley collection proper?”

  “I beg your pardon?” His eyes rolled like a broken slot machine. “Sir?” Trying to buy time, trying to figure out where I was taking him.

  “I assume that the sale conformed to statute.”

  “It was entirely legal, if that’s your destination.’”

  I was ready for him. “There are different degrees of legality. I’m particularly interested in the provisions of Britain’s Literary Antiquities Act. If one owned a Shakespeare folio or the Magna Carta, one could not sell them without state approval. Correct?”

  “Fish books ain’t Shakespeare, Rhodes.” He had dropped the mister before my name. A line had been drawn between us.

  “In terms of theoretical value, I’d agree. My point is that literary works of art require state authorization for sale. An affidavit, I believe.”

  My line of attack was part truth and part fiction. Some digging had revealed that there was a Literary Antiquities Act that dated to 1946 and concerned the acquisition and disposition of works “liberated” by Her Majesty’s troops roaming the world during the war. The Russians, Japanese, and Germans had stolen everything in the path of their war machines and the Crown, ever proper, wanted to make sure that British war dogs did not exercise their finders-keepers when it was their turn at the loot. How the law applied to anything else was anybody’s guess. I didn’t have enough time to go deeper with my research, which reduced my approach to no more than a bluff. But I was not done bluffing or pushing.

  “You insist that the books were sold as a collection, but I’ve been told that only an unpublished manuscript by M. J. Key was sold. The title is Legend of the Snowfly. If true, then you may have a lot of problems with the government. If the affidavit claims all of the materials were sold, but in fact only an unpublished manuscript left the country, then the sale would be illegal. This assumes of course that there is an affidavit.”

  I had my fingers crossed.

  Wonbrow studied me for a long time. His hands were pressed hard against a table by the door.

  “You’re making a lot of trouble,” he said.

  “All I want is information.”

  He frowned. “The books are gone, the manuscript included, and if you persist in this I will be forced to take action. What’s so important about these books? The world is filled with books.”

  “As I explained, I’m primarily interested in Key.”

  “The collection is gone. Accept it.”

  “I would if you could provide a name or an affidavit.”

  “Like I said, they’re gone. Out of reach.” The managing director gave me a malevolent smile. “Did you notice the adjacency of the Lamb and Flag on your way in?”

  “The pub?”

  “Yes. You’re familiar with its history, perhaps?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Wonbrow sighed. “It’s quite interesting, actually. You see, the writer John Dryden wrote some things about a woman who was the king’s mistress. Scandalous, actually. As Dryden left the Lamb and Flag one evening he was fall
en upon by unknown assailants and severely beaten. I should think this an object lesson on the importance of a writer’s maintaining good judgment.”

  Wonbrow sucked in a deep breath. “I’ve said what I have to say. This has been quite . . . entertaining, Rhodes. Now, you really must excuse me.”

  I smiled inwardly when I got outside. Wonbrow had pretty much confirmed that there was another copy of the manuscript and that it was with the collection. I left the meeting feeling optimistic.

  I had a lot to learn.

  •••

  The proofs and contacts of Charlie’s photographs of dead sheep were stunning, but the photos and Shelldrake’s allegations were insufficient for a wire service story. I needed more.

  Chinatown in Soho was only a block away and I knew there were any number of immigrants from Hong Kong there, but it was nearly impossible to find anyone who would talk to me about the Hong Kong riots of the previous couple of years. The proprietors of the establishments tended to live at fashionable city addresses and keep a tight rein on their employees. The owners did not want to be seen as criticizing the British government. Their employees, however, mainly immigrants, tended to live in the East End in a less-than-fashionable area called Limestone, just north of the Thames.

  London’s first Chinese settlers had been sailors who decided that staying in the city was preferable to returning to the Middle Kingdom. More recently, the enclave’s arrivals tended to be intellectuals and others fleeing Mao’s regime.

  I sought the help of Salvation Army major Ivory Chen-Jones, who served as the unofficial vicar of the informal Limestone church community, operating from a soot-caked church called God’s Fine Light Mission.

  The major preferred to be addressed as vicar and I was happy to oblige him.

  Chen-Jones spoke very fast, choppy English. “Victim?” he said when I explained my interest. “Who say victim here?”

  “It’s a surmise,” I said. “There are many people from Hong Kong in Limestone and I thought there might be someone who had witnessed the riots.”