A year after Sergeant Webb died, Colin disappeared. He’d been gone for almost three weeks before he finally returned. When he did, he had little to say, offering no explanation to Victoria. Grateful he was home, she never pressed the issue. But it was during the days and weeks that followed when he began to reveal his political beliefs and his loyalty to the IRA.
Colin Webb had found his way back to Ireland, to his birthplace, looking for his two friends. He found only one. Callum Quinn. From that day forward, his path in life was set.
Labeaux got in, slamming the door. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. Glancing at Victoria over his shoulder, he asked Webb, “Have you noticed anyone paying attention to you since you’ve been waiting here or this morning when you let me and Farrell off at the harbor?”
Webb shook his head. “No. No one.” He looked across Narrowcliff and asked, “Where’s Farrell?”
“I left him with Quinn.”
“What about the rental boat? Will…?”
“That’s being taken care of.” Labeaux put the briefcase on the floorboard between his legs. “Now, drive to the country house.”
“What about her?” Webb asked, motioning with his head. “Do you want me to take her home?”
“Not yet. She can come with us.”
Victoria, her voice shaking, pleaded, “I want to go home. I’ve done everything you asked, given you what you wanted. I want to go home!”
Labeaux looked at Webb, and waved forward. Webb put the car in drive, then turned onto Narrowcliff.
They’d driven nearly five miles, passing through the civil parish and village of St. Newlyn East located southeast of Newquay. Hedgerows lined both sides of the road. There was finally a break in the wall on the south side, wide enough for vehicles. Webb slowed the Rover and made a right turn on a narrow, hard-packed dirt road.
Grazing sheep and horses dotted a landscape of rolling green hills and crisscrossed by more hedgerows. Visibility of the countryside soon diminished as trees and brush along both sides of the roadway got thicker and taller, causing an umbrella effect over the road. Finally, the road widened and in the distance was an old farm house, made of stone blocks with a slate roof.
The main part of the house was one level, comprised of kitchen and dining room, and at one time, was the servants’ quarters. The upper level housed the family’s bedrooms. The original windows were mullioned glass (small individual panes), some covered by vines of wild ivy. Above the blue door was a wooden sign naming the house: “Tafton Manor, 1639.”
“Drive around back,” Labeaux said, looking at the house, his eyes moving from window to window.
Small pebbles crunched beneath the tires as Webb drove toward the backyard. An old greenhouse jutted out from the stone house. Its windows were covered in dirt and grime making it impossible to see clearly inside.
About thirty yards from the house was an old stone barn. At one time Tafton Manor was a dairy farm, where Friesian cows were raised. Known for their sweet milk, Friesians were originally imported from the Netherlands.
Pulling up near the back door, Webb shut off the engine. Labeaux was the first one out of the Rover. He closed the door. He looked around the backyard. Nothing was out of place, no other sign of movement, no guns protruding from dark places. Webb’s car, a white four-seater Gilbern GT, was parked on the far side of the barn.
Victoria pushed the driver’s seat forward, then climbed out. She stood next to the open door, wrapping a white raincoat tighter around herself. As Labeaux started to pass her, she grabbed his arm. “Why did you bring me here? I should be… ”
Labeaux twisted his arm away. “Come inside.” He said no more, but just turned and went to the house. Victoria had no choice but to follow him, with Webb staying close behind her. By the time the two of them reached the entry hall, Labeaux was already out of sight.
A damp and musty smell pervaded the entry. Its walls and barrel-shaped ceiling were made of the same stone as the exterior of the house. A light shown from a room at the end of the hallway, accessed by a single door.
Webb grabbed Victoria’s arm and walked toward the door, then he stopped, preventing her from entering.
She leaned against the wall, placing a hand against her chest, feeling her heart pounding. She put her head back, and closed her eyes. She wondered how and why she let herself become so deeply involved. But the answer was there. She knew why. It was because of her husband.
How stupid she’d been to think she could protect him from harm by giving her brother the papers. The day she handed those papers to Webb she realized no one would be able to protect her… or Jack.
Webb opened the door and poked his head around the edge, confirming Labeaux was out of sight. Then he pulled her into the kitchen. “Here,” he said, as he pulled out a wooden chair. “Sit.”
Victoria sat at the rough-hewn wooden table that was at least fifteen feet long and very old. The room itself was rectangular with a fireplace nearly big enough to stand in. The hearth was blackened from years of use. An iron tripod was still standing. Once a cauldron hung by a chain near the hottest part of the fire.
She paid no attention to the room or its history. She focused on another doorway, seeing Labeaux sitting at a dining room table, thumbing through papers. He opened a map and laid it in front of him.
“Why am I here?” Victoria asked him with a raised, nervous voice.
Labeaux turned briefly to look at her, then returned to the map.
Webb walked from behind her, then posted himself at the opposite end of the table, blocking her view of Labeaux. She slowly moved her eyes to Webb, who stared at her with little expression.
Her eyes were wet with tears. She turned away. Keeping her hands in her lap, she twisted the belt of her raincoat.
As Webb watched her, he thought about the years they lived together as a family, even after her parents died. When he told her of his past, of having been born in Ireland, she still treated him as a brother.
It wasn’t until he revealed his loyalty to Ireland, and his involvement with the IRA that her attitude toward him changed. Although she never attempted to dissuade him, and never considered for one moment to report him to the authorities, she began to distance herself.
Then she married the American. Commander Jack Henley. Webb couldn’t believe his luck. He contacted his friend, Callum Quinn. It was then the IRA began to set a plan in motion, but they needed more details about the air base at St. Mawgan. They knew weapons were being stored by NATO countries, but secrecy surrounding the base left them without details. Colin Webb had become an invaluable asset.
Hearing Labeaux call to him, he snapped his head around, giving Victoria a brief look. Then he went into the dining room.
Labeaux continued looking at the map, as he said, “Put her in one of the bedrooms upstairs, and lock the door.” He glanced at his watch, and without looking at Webb, asked, “What time does her husband get home?”
“Between five and six. Why?”
“I want to be sure he’s at home when you take her back. Just leave her where you found her. She can make her own way home. Come back here after you’re done upstairs. I have something else for you to do.”
As she was led up the staircase, Victoria feared the worst. Whatever the outcome, she had done this to herself. She prayed nothing would happen to her husband.
Holding onto her hand, Webb opened the door, then led her into the bedroom.
She looked at him pleadingly. “Colin, please!”
He shook his head, then left, locking the door as he’d been instructed.
Labeaux listened to the footsteps going upstairs. He stood up, went into the kitchen, and walked across the brick floor to the old sink and spun the cold water knob. Pipes rattled briefly before discolored water sputtered from the faucet. He stood looking at the water until it ran clear, then he splashed two quick handfuls onto his face. He patted his face with a handkerchief and looked out the large multi-paned window.