A Spy to Call My Own: A Ravensdale World Book Read online

  “What are you hiding, Tom?” she whispered, studying a map he must have made during his latest visit to the Congo Free State with Owen.

  Her brother had excelled at everything—he could climb almost anything, was a fine athlete, and a perfect horseman. He had been in the prime of his life just last week during their brief visit. And now, with this map, with the man who had shot through her window, with the uneasiness she felt standing in his cottage…

  She couldn’t accept he died because of a tragic accident.

  Vera needed to travel to Africa. And she needed Owen’s help.

  Chapter 1

  Congo Free State - Africa

  September 1898

  The dirt sat in his palm, warm and barren.

  “Son of a bitch.” Owen tossed it aside on a growl. “I came down here on the promise that you couldn’t shite without stepping on a diamond, Verlinden.”

  Verlinden, a small Belgian with skin burned from the harsh Congo sun, squinted, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot. “My government…”

  “Your government is looking out for its own interests,” Owen spat out in French. “The Crown isn’t an idiot,” he said in English. Owen kicked at the ground for good measure, thoroughly pissed to be stuck out in the day’s heat. Britain and its greed.

  If only Owen weren’t so greedy himself, maybe Tom would be alive and they’d be on their way to India for a well-deserved break from work at the Home Office. Instead, his best mate didn’t make it out of England because of a tragic fall from a horse. Or so the story went in the small newspaper obituary that ran in The Times. Owen had the sneaking suspicion the fall involved a pair of strong hands and lack of oxygen.

  The timing was too coincidental.

  “The Butcher wants rubber,” Owen continued, scratching the back of his neck, wet with a fresh sheen of sweat. “And he’s getting it in spades thanks to the Red Rubber system.”

  “You can’t hold me accountable for those atrocities, sir.”

  “No, I’d hold the whole damn world accountable for allowing what’s happening here to continue.”

  Owen would do terrible things for a drink of gin just about now. Almost a year in the Congo Free State and he had nothing to show for his work at turning Verlinden, an overseer of for Force Publique. Hell, his career was full of terrible things. He’d bet there hadn’t been an engineer in England with as much blood on his hands. But of course that was only his identity to the outside world. To the Home Office, he was an efficient agent who traveled the world to spy on those countries trying to jeopardize the power of the British Empire. It was bloody damn convenient that the world was becoming much bigger with the approach of the new century. Infrastructure was in demand as Britain continued to grow its reach across the world.

  His work with Sir John Fowler, Sir Benjamin Baker, and Kaichi Watanabe on the Forth Bridge in Scotland had made headlines, and for that, Owen was relatively well-known in England. That notoriety provided him some protection while he traveled as a civil engineer and worked for the Home Office. He was still in the habit of never presuming he was safe, however. Owen had been involved in too many underhanded assignments over the years, from fighting rebels in North Borneo to a failed campaign of arming Armenians in the Zaitun Rebellion against the Ottoman Empire.

  And all the while, Tom had been by his side, seeing that Owen returned to England, relatively unharmed. Until a mission had gone wrong at the start of the Philippine Revolution. Then, Tom had brought Owen home, worse for the wear and ready to give in, until he met her. His world had tipped upside down that afternoon in that small cottage in the middle of England.

  “Verlinden, you must keep asking after the Inoubliable.”

  “With respect, Mr. MacKenna, I think that’s only a legend. I’ve found nothing to suggest it’s real.”

  “A legend.” Owen narrowed his eyes, focusing on the large group below the rocky outcropping preparing shipments of rubber for transit on the Matadi-Kinshasa. “Why do I feel as if you’re holding something back from me?”

  “Mr. MacKenna, we’ve lost a lot of men to sleeping sickness. I’ve asked those who I think are safe to approach….” The man spoke slowly, as if Owen were a small child who wouldn’t comprehend.

  Patience, a virtue his mother often preached to him, had always been lacking. Owen reached forward, gripping the small man by his shirtfront, and dragged him close. “I need that diamond, Verlinden, before Leopold gets his hands on it. You understand?”

  The man’s upper lip quivered as his eyes darted back and forth, studying Owen.

  “Keep asking, keep studying the rubber shipments. Someone is going to try to smuggle that diamond out of the country, and I won’t let that happen. We wouldn’t want the truth to come out about your stealing from Belgium, would we?”

  “You wouldn’t,” Verlinden whispered, his voice shaking.

  “Don’t try me,” Owen said, shoving the sniveling man aside. “It’s a fucking game down here and I came to win.”

  And he’d see himself in hell before he let the death of Tom Attwater go unpunished.

  Vera shivered, a strange chill wrapping around her as she stood on the deck of the river steamer making its way deeper into the Upper Congo. It had been over two weeks since they’d left Léopoldville. The trees grew thick over the river, choking out the sun above. The air was just as dense. Weeks into her journey, she doubted the feeling of being suffocated would ever let up. It seemed Africa was not only wild, but also unrelenting.

  Mr. Amesbury approached, a forced smile spread across his thin-lipped mouth. The Englishman had looked after her so far as though she would faint at any moment from the stress of being outside of a proper sitting room. Though in such a foreign land, his companionship was appreciated. The weight of finding answers for Tom was a constant gnawing pain at her heart, and something that never strayed far from her thoughts.

  “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

  Vera nodded, her eyes catching movement in the brush along the shore. A figure moved through the cover of deep green, powerfully stalking forward. Hippopotamuses dotted the lazy water of the river.

  “I feel as though…” he started.

  She turned, leaning her hip against the railing. Mr. Amesbury appeared to be a decade or so older, a few gray hairs danced at his temple amid his otherwise golden hair. He was a handsome man with a strong build, but appearances were often not the true mark of a man. Otto had been strong and healthy, so when he was swept away by influenza, it came as quite a shock. Though they had only kissed upon his proposal, she thought he was kind. Ida thought he was rather a bookish, and therefore a safe husband for Vera. Perhaps it was a small mercy that the marriage never happened. She never felt for Otto as she had that summer for Owen—what she still felt for her brother’s best friend after all these years.

  “Forgive me for saying so, Miss Attwater,” Mr. Amesbury continued, “but it is a brave thing for you to come to Africa.” He reached into his linen jacket and pulled out a cigar, bending his head to light it. “This is no place for a woman.”

  She bit back a laugh. Men in England would say the same if she had traveled to London by herself. To them, the world was a place not fit for women, the weaker sex.

  “I can’t forgive you, Mr. Amesbury, for it’s that very attitude that has me here in the first place. I needed answers, and it was best to do so myself. Sending a letter or a man in my place would lose time I can’t afford.”

  A brilliant smile spread across his face, wrinkles lining his forehead as he did so. “I say, I quite admire you New Women. You have spirit.”

  It was catching, his smile. Vera’s mouth mirrored the same before she broke into a quiet laugh. “We have a great many talents, sir, nonetheless are our incredible minds.”

  Others walked the deck of the steamer, strolling to pass the time. Near the hull, a group of French missionaries prayed. It was a small group of passengers, many of whom she joined for dinner, but that was as far as the
acquaintance went. She preferred keeping her own company. Besides, she spent each night studying Tom’s map, trying to make sense of the few words etched along the mountains and rivers. She was certain there was an answer on that page.

  “It is sad news,” he said in between a puff of his cigar, “why you’re traveling. But why the rush?”

  She was about to answer, but paused as Mr. Melany walked by. The stout Irishman had been overheard the night before screaming at the ship’s captain. If there was danger aboard, it was that temper of his, and his blatant disregard of being a decent human being to the Congolese onboard.

  “What I am doing a horrible job of trying to say is, please allow me to assist you. I’m traveling in your direction. I’d be happy to help your search.” When she didn’t reply, he continued. “Has something caught your attention?”

  She was about to reply when smoke touched her nostrils. “Well, yes...” She squinted, her eyes narrowing in on the pistol Mr. Melany grasped in his palm. “Mr. Amesbury,” she whispered harshly, alarmed.

  “Come, let’s find some tea—”

  The boat shook as an ear splitting roar ripped through the air. Mr. Melany shot through the air, quickly becoming consumed by a thick cloud of black smoke billowing from hole in the ship’s hull. Mr. Amesbury lurched forward as a piece of the ceiling collapsed on top of him, his arms outstretched, pushing Vera overboard as a second explosion rang around them, ripping through the humid day.

  There wasn’t time to think as she hit the water and sank below in her heavy half-mourning dress. Vera kicked her free foot, stretching her body upward to the surface above. It wasn’t enough to propel her anyway. Her boot was stuck and Mr. Amesbury’s hand was still clasped in hers, although his grip was weakening much too fast.

  She tried again, not daring to open her eyes in the murky water. One swallow was enough to put in her danger. The jungle made its own laws, as Kipling said. At least she knew that much hadn’t been a lie.

  Damn.

  Her lungs burned as a feeling of peace began to wash over her. She could open her mouth and inhale, then sink to the bottom of this godforsaken river and join her brother Tom in heaven. But she had made a promise to herself to see that his death was not in vain—that justice would be done. After everything, drowning was not how she wanted to leave this world.

  Vera felt the map tucked against the safety of her chest. It would all be for not if she perished in this river. She tightened her grip on Mr. Amesbury, twisting her body to drag her foot from her buttoned boot. It was painful, more so as she swiped the blade at her ankle, unable to see if she was about to filet herself like a fish or free the tassels of her walking boot snagged between two rocks.

  It was enough.

  She kicked again, both feet gaining her little advantage in the quickening current of the river. Mr. Amesbury had mere moments to reach the surface before he succumbed to the water pouring into his lungs.

  Vera tugged his body upward, swimming toward the faint glimmer of sun. The water was murky, the events that had happened only moments before even murkier as her ears rang. Everything hurt within her. Her lungs burned for want of air, and the searing pain at her side meant more than a bruise. She would survive this. She would make her brother proud.

  Finally, as if someone hauled her out of the water, she propelled through the surface, bobbing as the current swiftly began dragging her away from the wreckage.

  “Miss Attwater!” A disembodied voice shouted.

  Vera panicked, searching side to side for the hippopotamuses that had been in the river upstream. What would cause the ship to explode? The water strung her eyes as she tried to keep both herself and Mr. Amesbury above water. Fire licked the surface around the wreckage. Nothing much was left of the ship they had been sailing on these past thirteen days besides the details of the passenger’s lives.

  A doll floated past as Vera reached forward, trying to snag a cluster of roots snaking along the riverbank.

  “Miss Attwater!”

  The current smashed her against a rock, her head ringing from the impact. “Here,” she said. It was a mere croak. “Here,” she shouted again, this time loud enough to carry between the flames and screams of the others. “Help.”

  If she couldn’t drag herself and Mr. Amesbury out of the water, soon they’d be well down river from any chance of being saved. Only last night, her unlikely companion had told her about the beautiful Stanley Falls. The Congo’s rivers were full of waterfalls, that’s why building the Mataid-Kinshasa Railway had been so necessary.

  As the horrible scene drew farther and farther away, Vera’s strength returned. She wouldn’t allow this to stop her. She would discover the real reason behind her brother’s mysterious death; to fail wasn’t an option.

  “Hold on, Mr. Amesbury,” she said through gritted teeth, bearing another impact. Vera fought the current and threw her body forward, letting go of the lifeless body behind her.

  Her fingers wrapped around a low-hanging branch, tethering to the promise of land. She reached back out into the water, grabbing the collar of Mr. Amesbury’s jacket in time before he was swept away downstream.

  Shouts echoed from the wreckage site as more bodies—lifeless bodies—floated by. As Vera dragged Mr. Amesbury upward, she saw why they were shouting—the crocodiles had arrived. She scrambled backward, slipping in soft earth along the riverbank. Another scream rang out before a crocodile barreled around, splashing in the river. The noise quieted to a whimper, then to nothing at all.

  “Mr. Amesbury,” she said, trying to tug him out of the water. She fell again, her body too weak to pull them to safety. “You must wake up.”

  Upstream, a few passengers swam to shore, their voices high-pitched as the crocodiles continued to ravage the dead bodies in the river. It was vital to get to shore, beyond the riverbank.

  “Mr. Amesbury.” Panic filled her words, cutting her deep with desperation. “You must…”

  A figure emerged from the thick brush, a tall Congolese man. Then another, behind him, both studying her in a hard silence.

  “Please,” she said. “Help us. Aidez-moi s’il vous plaît!” Vera reached upward toward the silent man, sliding closer to the river. Her grip on Mr. Amesbury weakened. “Please.”

  He leaned down, crowding her vision.

  Vera threw her right hand up, pulling back when she was met with the gnarled stump of a wrist.

  “J’aide.” His left hand reached for hers, pulling her up the bank as the second man retrieved the unconscious Mr. Amesbury.

  As the man helped her up the steep incline, the world tilted. She wasn’t one for fainting fits, but the world spun and soon the sky filled her vision as her back collided with the wet jungle ground. She glanced up to the man who helped her and his severed hand before a sharp metallic taste filled her mouth and the world faded away.

  Chapter 2

  Vera and Mr. Amesbury, along with the few other survivors, had been delivered to a camp full of men working on the railway just as the sun had retreated and night claimed the jungle. In the fading light, it appeared as if the sea of workers were Congolese, some chained, others stood hunched as orders were shouted at them in French.

  She stood by a fire as a shiver racked down her spine, her mauve shirtwaist in tatters, studying the crackling flame as the men around her discussed the events of the day.

  Sabotage, they claimed loudly. “Melaney,” others whispered, as if to whisper something more sinister. As far as Vera knew, the frightening man hadn’t survived.

  For her, it didn’t matter that she was surrounded by a city of canvas tents and rowdy men, her thoughts only ran circles around the events of the last month. Bad luck seemed to follow wherever she went lately. It was a habit she looked forward to breaking.

  She blinked the thought away, bone tired, and left to find the doctor’s tent. Vera pushed through the flap of the canvas tent, her skin sticky from the night air. She was hit with a wall of pine—a strange smell for the jungles
of Africa. If only it included heather, she would feel back at home in England.

  No matter. She wouldn’t be going back for some time yet.

  She tripped over an object on the ground, cursing, before she walked into what she guessed was a desk. Funny that after what she went through, the rest of the men at camp couldn’t even afford to give her a bit of light. But then again, that was the way with men, wasn’t it?

  “Damn.” She rubbed the top of her thigh as she braced her other hand on the desk, steadying it as it rocked back and forth on the uneven ground.

  A bottle rattled near the edge. She reached out and grabbed it, uncorking it with her teeth before the harsh sting of gin hit her nostrils. Vera would have preferred sherry, but she’d take what she could find here in the wild. She threw her head back for a long swallow, before setting the bottle down and freeing herself from the blood-soaked shirt that clung to her body.

  Pain had settled into her bones, beating a harsh fire through her blood throughout the day after the wreck. She had somehow managed to hurt herself despite the corset that did little for her figure. She never understood why her aunt insisted on her wearing one when there was little to do with a lithe figure. Curves couldn’t be made out of straight lines and bones.

  At least the map had survived the river without the ink running.

  Her fingers trembled as she undid the hooks in front, trying to steady her breath as new pain seared fresh through her veins. “Christ almighty...”

  The low light of a gas lamp flared at the end of the desk, revealing a man half in the shadows.

  Vera rushed to cover herself, drawing up her spine to the shadow behind the desk.

  “I’ve seen my fair share, darling. No need to be modest.”

  A shiver danced across her skin around the same time an invisible vice tightened around her heart. She was told by the men of the camp she had another two days’ worth of travel before she reached him.