Chapter 22

Roberta Fogg sat in a chair in the parlor at Shillingworth Magna with her father's pistol sitting on a table beside her. Her cousin's home had been attacked, but everything was well now.

Loren passed her another brandy, which he tipped up forcing her to drink it down. Roberta looked up at him over the rim of her glass wanting to frown but couldn't and keep dry at the same time. She couldn't have said anything against him anyway, not the way he looked. One of his eyes was blackened and the left side of his mouth was badly swollen.

Roberta coughed again as the burning liquid worked its way down her throat. She hated brandy, but it did seem to make the shaking stop and dull the horror of what they had experienced. My usual. Sharp in action, trembling like a leaf afterward.'

Roberta had done some extensive hunting through family papers and scrapbooks once she returned to England. She verified that her great-grandfather's name had been Phileas Fogg. She had also found a picture of Phileas Fogg that verified the man she had met in France was indeed her nineteenth century ancestor. So, if he really did come from the past and he really was a Fogg, then there really will be some great danger facing us.

Waiting for whatever dreadful thing would cause her ancestor to travel through time to help had been the hardest thing Roberta had ever done. To make it work, she kept to the house, insisting Loren keep her presence as secret as possible. Loren had openly worried about her self-imposed confinement, but Roberta pleaded the need to keep those who had killed her father ignorant of her whereabouts. She also claimed the need to mourn her father's death in private to pacify him.

Would that I was dealing with that. I can't tell Loren what I experienced in France. Telling him I met and spoke with our great-grandfather would get me hospitalized for battle fatigue.

Five hours ago, Roberta heard a commotion downstairs and had gone to investigate. She looked over the baluster, all cool professional, scanning the lower floor. All the noise was coming from the study, a door just under her off the foyer. She saw a large man come out of the study dragging Lacy toward the parlor. She broke free from him for a moment, tripping away toward the front door. Roberta had a clear shot standing at the top of the stairs and took it. The stranger had hit the floor hard and didn't move. She signed for Lacy to keep silent as she moved down the stairs. Lacy gathered herself. She wasn't trained for this, but she was a Fogg all the same. "Two," she silently signed and pointed into the study. Roberta nodded and ordered Lacy to the parlor for cover.

Inside the study, the sound of that shot had startled the thugs pounding on their victim. Giles Brown, now dead in the hall, had chosen them for their ferocity, just a pair of degenerates willing to do anything for a price. They had been looking forward to their work but had not counted on anyone being in the house. One turned from his partner who held Loren Fogg up for his beating and headed for the entry hall with his knife up. As soon as the man crossed the threshold, a second shot rang out. The thug flew back, landing on the study carpet with a hole in his chest.

The last thug looked down on his partner, realizing he was in serious trouble. Tossing the young man away from him, he tried to crash his way through the nearest window. He had seen this done in penny movies often enough. He leapt, putting his shoulder into it and bounced off the sturdy window frame. As he crumpled, stunned, to the floor, trying to regain his senses, a warm piece of metal found its way into his ear. He froze.

"Do you want to live?" A soft feminine voice said.

He nodded his head vigorously.

"Then tell me who sent you and where I can find him? Lie to me and there will be three bodies instead of two for the police to collect."

Not quite an hour later, Loren and Roberta were loaded down with her father's mission gear heading to a rented cottage to evict its tenants. They didn't know if they would be expected, so they brought everything, gas grenades, explosive grenades, and a pretty collection of the Secret Service's finest in small arms.

Roberta also gathered help in the form of six veterans of the last war on the estate staff and close living members of the home guard. She considered calling the local constables, too, but they decided against that. The local police were used to dealing with pub brawls, not gun fights.

"We will call them in afterward to clean things up." Loren said as their helpers entered study with their own weapons. What they came with took both cousins by surprise. Unbeknownst to Loren, their helpers had four Sten submachine guns that had been appropriated from a flight of French resistance supplies and two Lewis guns. When asked where the Lewis guns had come from, the old veteran carrying them simply said, "War trophies."

So fortified and under Roberta's direction, the men of Shillingworth Magna split up into three groups. One led by a senior groomsman and former Army sergeant headed for the small carriage house a short distance from the cottage. When he gave the clear signal, they joined Loren's section at the side door to the outbuilding.

Minutes later, the cottage and outbuilding were hit together in a manner that would have made active-duty commandos proud. Gas grenades were sent through windows. The front and back doors were stormed. Loren's group found six men in the outbuilding, with an ugly assorted store of weapons and explosives.

Roberta's group hit the cottage. They found all those upstairs subdued by the gas. Two on the lower floor were giving her people a hard fight. Roberta and one staff veteran helped with that.

One had been guarding a back room. When he was brought down, Roberta and her man approached the room. It was completely dark. The door was open only four inches. Remembering vividly what her father said about danger in dark places, Roberta took no chances. She took up one of the Sten guns and aimed it waist high into the room. She kicked the door and sprayed the room before entering. With small flashlights to light the way, she and her man entered. One man lay dead on the floor, apparently waiting to shoot whoever entered first. Behind him was…

Well… that wasn't as easy to identify. By small flashlights, it looked like part of an ancient suit of armor, now bullet-riddled, that had been propped up in a wheelchair. A helmet lay on the floor beside it. Tubes came out of it; blue liquid was splashed all over it. What in the world? Roberta shuddered at the smell and threw a blanket from the bed over it.

Loren came into the room just as they finished covering the two bodies. "All secure. What did you find in here?"

These two were guarding this room. We will have to search to see why. What did you find?"

"A mixed bag of what may be German operatives," Loren said. "Wouldn't it be interesting if these are part of the new Gestapo unit in France we were told about? They might have been after you?" He wriggled his nose. "What is that smell?"

"It is coming from that," Roberta said, indicating the blanket with blue stains seeping into it.

"Jason," Loren called to the groomsmen. "Get some help and bury that thing."