Chapter 4
The stark white transporter room melted away to be replaced by a dark road ten miles from the northern coastline of France. It was mid-November and bitter cold. The snow on the ground was old and crunched under their feet as they began their journey. Phileas gratefully didn't suffer the confusion the transporter had caused the first time. A good omen, that.
In preparation, Phileas and Jules had been given a very sketchy explanation of the times. Europe was at war. They were not to concern themselves that. Only James Fogg and his untimely death was their first objective. That event was two hours away at an inn to the north. They would arrive and attempt to stop that killing. If that could not be done, they would use the identification papers and money given to travel to England. The next deaths at Shillingworth Magna would happen near year's end.
Fogg and Verne had been furnished clothing to fit the time. The cut of Fogg's new suit was a bit different but not uncomfortably so. Phileas was grateful for that. The fashions of the seventeenth century he had had to use when sent two hundred years backward had been awkward with their large lace collars and heavy elbow length gauntlets.
They had also been warned this was before perfect record keeping. "We can't know how things could happen," Dr. Nance said. "There will be no way to forewarn you of what you will face."
"That is the way we are used to living," Phileas had said, mildly irritated. I can't imagine a time when so much is known about the private lives of private citizens. It's not decent.
Phileas neared the inn, forcing his mind back to the task at hand. Before strolling up the walk, he placed his hand over the pocket of his overcoat where a revolver lay hidden. It was a very fine design; better than any weapon he had ever had, but not too different from what he used.
Dr. Nance had handed it to him and let him practice with it. "It is a beauty, and I must admit, it was of a design that will be considered old-fashioned in 1940. Try to only shoot people who don't belong in 1940."
Phileas looked up, almost laughing in his face. "A feat of identification you will have to explain."
The scientist grimaced. "We really don't want you using it at all, but you are walking into a war zone; might be too chancy not to have one."
Phileas and Jules quietly entered the common room of the old French inn and took a table by the hearth to warm themselves. They ordered wine and waited for a Fogg to appear. Well into their second helping, a man entered the inn alone. He signed the registry just about the time the timekeepers had said. John Blue was the name Fogg's descendant was presently using. The agent, dressed in a large wool overcoat and hat, took a key from the landlord and headed straight upstairs.
Once he was on his way, Jules pulled out the small photograph they had been given to reference. "That was him."
"Indeed," Phileas whispered. He didn't need the photograph. Not that he could have seen it held in his hands without his reading glasses. They had been inconveniently left in the past. But no matter… I can still see distances perfectly and the family look was clearly in evidence. John Blue or James Fogg, Phileas's grandson, was said to be an agent in the British Secret Service, spying on the German Army in France. He was to die in a week while attempting to escape from a raid. That is, if he is not killed tonight. Either way, the man was fated to die a soldier's death in battle against his foes.
Phileas gave James Fogg five minutes to settle before heading for the stairs to warn him. He had already told Verne to stay in the common room and be prepared to meet him in the woods behind the inn if anything went wrong.
To his horror something went wrong right away. Phileas stood at the registry desk half an hour earlier than the future historians said the attacks would occur. The front and back doors of the inn burst open. Seven uniformed soldiers stormed into the common room with no warning. He was shoved to the floor along with everyone else in the place. Four soldiers stomped upstairs to search the upper rooms. The sound of gunfire rang out. Rapid gunfire. Phileas listened in wonder. How could a gun or a group of guns sound like that?
When the sound died away, the soldiers stomped back down the stairs. The officer in charge announced the death of an enemy spy to the frightened people in the common room. He tossed a malicious look at the innkeeper. "Have the scum buried," he said in German accented French. "We will assume you had no knowledge of the spy. If we find otherwise…" The officer slapped the innkeeper to the floor and turned away.
The room stayed silent for several minutes after the Germans left. Slowly, people got up off the floor and resumed their activities as if this sort of thing was a common occurrence. Phileas came off the floor to follow the innkeeper upstairs. Several doors were open. Inside one room, a man lay on the floor, riddled with bullet wounds leaking his life's blood. He had fallen face-up on top of a dressing blind. Standing over him, Phileas gained a better look at the man who had been his descendant. He had a head full of silver and a frame more like Fogg's father's build, tall and heavy set opposed to Phileas's tall and thin frame.
The innkeeper looked at Phileas. He voiced a one-word question. "English?" Phileas took a chance and answered yes. There was no point in denying the obvious. He had spoken with this man upon coming into the inn and had made no attempt to pretend anything else. The landlord nodded. "I am Jacques. You were going to him before the soldiers came in, yes? You were blessed, Englishman. Why were you to meet him?"
Phileas wasn't sure how to answer. He didn't have to. When the pause went too long, the Frenchman made a logical assumption. "You should have been told not to present yourself as English. Germans are arresting all foreigners. Agent Fogg claimed to be a native of Paris during his last two visits. If you speak French well, you should do so. Will you be taking over his work?"
"No," Phileas said. "I came to speak to him on another matter."
Jacques turned back to the dead man. "You help me with the body, yes? I will give you the hospitality I could not give to him. Do you know those who killed him?"
"German soldiers?" Phileas said, surprised the man would ask.
The Frenchman laughed. "They may have been German, but Nazis do not explain themselves. Their leader was not a soldier of the German Army."
Phileas just nodded, stunned at the information. He had been certain the League of Darkness would be involved, but none of the signs he was used to seeing had been evident. Perhaps they had come recently? They might know more about moving in this time than I do, but not enough to fully pass for authentic.
The speculation was thought provoking, but Fogg had no way to prove any of it. No way to follow. One of those noisy horseless vehicles brought them. If Englishmen are hunted down and shot like this, we are in deep trouble. Outnumbered and outgunned, there is no option but to go to England and prevent the next murders.
Phileas helped to clear the room of the body. Together, the two men lifted the dead agent off the dressing blind to drag out. As they neared the door, Phileas caught movement in the room. It was nearly imperceptible, but his senses were at battle-strength after the excitement. He signed caution to the innkeeper, bid him to keep moving down the hall.
Phileas, apparently alone in the room, watched the broken blind. It was moving. He set himself for anything that might come and gently slipped the crook end of his cane over the top end of the blind and pulled his pistol with the other hand. He pulled it away quickly to find… a half-dressed young woman trembling uncontrollably on the floor. She was curled up in a tight ball, splattered with blood and petrified with shock. She stared at him through arms encircling her head. Blonde and maybe thirty with large blue eyes.
Had James brought a woman up for the night?
Phileas called for Jacques. The landlord re-entered the room and helped him lift the woman off the floor to the bed. She was tiny weighed little. Fogg wanted to reassess her age downward, but the light shift she was wearing made it plain he was dealing with a fully matured woman. They checked her for injuries. It was hard to tell with all the fresh blood of another on her. He picked up a towel from the stack on the dresser blotting her while Jacques spoke to her softly. With the blood wiped away, Phileas found no bullet wounds, a miracle. The back wall was riddled with them. The only injury visible was an early sign of bruising on her lower right leg. Satisfied that she had no serious injuries, he covered the woman with a blanket from the foot of the bed for modesty and warmth.
"I know this woman," Jacques said. "She is the dead Englishman's partner. They never enter the inn together. She would have come up from the backstairs. I will get my wife to tend her." The man left the room on his errand.
The young woman's uncontrollable trembling had subsided a little. She began to stammer. Phileas shushed her. "There will be time enough for words later miss. Try to calm yourself." Phileas caught her hand to give it a comforting squeeze. The gesture startled the woman into full eye contact. Phileas froze in place. The honey blonde hair was out of place and the features weren't quite right, but the frightened blue eyes on this woman were unmistakable.
They were Rebecca's.
"Who are you?" Phileas said. It came out more sternly than the woman could handle. She started, violently trembling again. "Who are you?" He asked again, more gently.
"Re… Roberta F… Fogg. F… fa... father?" Phileas stopped her from saying more. He couldn't imagine the stupidity, not to mention the parental negligence of bringing a daughter into a war zone. Her one-word question left him uncomfortable and glad the body had been removed.
Jules Verne's pale face peeped into the room moments later, taking the woman's frightened eyes off him. Verne looked shaken by the recent events but was holding up.
"Verne, come in please." Phileas said. "Miss Fogg, this is my friend, Jules Verne. He will sit with you while we take care of your father's body."
"Verne, sit with the lady, please?" Fogg said. "Don't let her up from this bed and don't leave her alone for a minute."