Page 48
Part of me is relieved Charlie is asking questions; the other part is concerned that I’m being interrogated. His voice has taken on a rigid quality, a fact-finding quality that, while tremendously useful in a detective, feels a little off-putting in one’s boyfriend.
My boyfriend. It’s the first time I’ve thought that, and I find I like it very much. In fact, I—
“Gemma?”
“Oh. Sorry. Yes. Nine days ago.” I stall by taking a sip of tea. I want this to come out focused and precise, and I know I can do it. I needn’t feel or be scattered or sound silly.
“On February 3 I was with Ursula in the morning, baking the lemon cake for the book club meeting. She was to attend that meeting but didn’t, and as I was leaving the church, she rode her bicycle by me with a kind of fixed determination I’ve never seen. Something had angered her, scared her even, and I followed her to Bloxham.”
His eyebrows rise again, but he says nothing.
“There she put a note into a hole in a tree. Once she’d gone, I went and retrieved the note, copied it, and returned it, thinking someone would pick it up. It was a bunch of numbers. I’ve recited them so many times I’ve memorized them, but I can’t make anything out. It must need some key.”
“You think it’s a code?”
“Well, yes.” What feels obvious to me doesn’t sound obvious when he questions it, but I return to the day. “Anyway, I realized no one needed to come for the message for quite some time, so I rode my bicycle back, and Ursula—Mrs. Beurton—was at the store waiting for me with a silly excuse as to why she’d missed the meeting. But when her eyes caught the Oxford Times, it still affected her.”
“Still? When did you see the paper affect her the first time?”
“That morning as I was leaving her house after our lesson, but it wasn’t until the afternoon that I realized it was specifically an article about the German scientist Klaus Fuchs, the one who gave the atomic secrets to the Soviets.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this back then?”
“Because I’d sound like this.”
He puffs a long breath, nods, and focuses upon me once more—eyes drifting a bit more towards storm grey than a nice sky blue. “Can I see the note?”
“I don’t have my copy on me, but I can write them out.” He slides paper and a pencil towards me. I continue as I write down the long line of numbers. “We’ve been watching her, and she’s been acting strangely. Then today, I followed her to Kidlington, to a house with a massive antenna on top, much larger than the one on her shed.”
He stares at the numbers for a good length of time before looking at me again.
I bite my lip against a torrent of words that want to rush out. I simply say, “There’s more, of course, and it’s not as far-fetched as it sounds.”
He shakes his head slowly, his focus never leaving me. “I’m not saying it is. Tell me more about Kidlington.”
I shift in the hard wooden chair, unable to find a comfortable position. His calm really is unnerving. “This morning I was actually coming to say hi to you when I saw her in the telephone box on the green. She was upset again and took off on her bicycle, so I went after her.”
His mouth tightens, but I can’t read the emotion. Is he reacting to how far the ride is? How insane I sound? I decide to press on rather than ask. “She waited on a bench on Oxford Street for about twenty minutes. Then a man walked by, stopped, said a few words, and walked away. She immediately rode her bicycle a few blocks down to 134 Oxford Street, a row house, and unlocked the door and went inside. About a half hour later she came out again, alone, locked the house, and, I assume, rode her bicycle back home.”
“And you took the bus back?”
“Not right away.” I take a deep breath. “First I tried the front door. Then I went around to the back and tried that door.”
“You planned to break in?”
“No. Yes. I’m not sure. I suppose if it had been unlocked I might’ve gone in.” I hold out a hand between us. “But it was locked. I didn’t, technically, do anything wrong. But that’s where the antenna is mounted. It was the one on her shed here that first caught our attention. And this one’s even larger. Antennas like that aren’t needed to pick up shows on the BBC.”
“No, they aren’t.” His comment feels a bit noncommittal.
“So you believe me?”
Charlie blinks as if that’s what has surprised him, not everything that came before. “Gemma.” He chuffs a short laugh. Not unkind but not particularly warm either. “You constantly surprise me.”
I stiffen. “You don’t then.”
He reaches out a hand as if to ward off my disappointment. “I can’t dismiss this. It sounds crazy, yes, but you notice things, you make connections that are extraordinary. Do I think you’ve gotten carried away with a story? Perhaps. But there’s enough that floats around this village, enough questions and gossip, that can rightfully make one suspicious of the Beurtons. Call them spies? I’m not sure. But . . .” He lets the word drag out and his eyes narrow. “To make a charge like that, one needs to be very sure.”
“I’m not making a charge. I’m trying to gather the facts, like you do. I simply wanted to let you in.”
