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Harvest House (2014)

April, 1934
Ashton Park
“There you go! There you go!”
Lord Preston threw the ball as far as he could. The three Belgian shepherds raced after it, yipping with excitement, and vanished among the tall ash trees. The leaves were fully open after two days of rain followed by two days of sunshine.
“Top of the morning, m’lord.” Harrison lifted the fedora off his head. “Those three are hard at it.”
“Good day, Harrison. They need a strong run. I’ve been absent for weeks and I’m not sure old Todd Turpin ever gets the fire out of them. Too many parliamentary sessions tie me down in London. Well, if they catch scent of a hare I shall not see them again in a fortnight.” He put his hands behind his back. “I have renamed them, you know.”
Harrison shifted his staff from one hand to the other. “I’d heard that.”
“Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. From the American poem.”
“Very good. How are they responding?”
“Badly. If at all. But I shall keep it up. Something had to be done to address the baron’s treachery.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“The dogs and I needed a fresh start.”
“I expect you did.”
“I saw him, you know, Harrison. On a newsreel from Berlin. Hopping and stomping in a black SS uniform with Herr Hitler and his stooges. Ghastly. I thought I knew the man.”
“A chance at power changes many a good soul.”
“Is that what he considers power? I suppose it is power after a fashion. The way a freak windstorm knocks off chimney pots and tears brick walls to pieces and hurls trash bins down an alley—raw force, out of control, of no benefit to man or beast.”
“Have you heard from Lady Catherine or her husband, the theologian? Are they well?”
Lord Preston listened a moment to the distant barking of the dogs. “I believe they have caught the scent of something. No ball ever rolled that far.” He began to stride into the ash forest. “No, Harrison. Not a word. You might pray about that, please.”

Across the English Channel in Germany, Catherine was well aware she was behind in her letter writing. She had finally finished one to her sister Victoria, who was living in Africa with her husband Ben and their two sons. Now she felt guilty she hadn’t sent so much as a note to her mother and father in more than a month. She pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward her and lifted her fountain pen.
Dear Mama and Papa,
You will wonder at my long silence, and you have, I suppose, fretted a good deal over it. I apologize. Life has been a mad rush here in Tubingen. But let me set your minds at rest about your grandchildren—Sean is doing very well indeed at school, and baby Angelika has never been better.
A soft knocking sounded at the front door.
Catherine was seated at the dining room table on the ground floor. Albrecht was upstairs chatting with Sean and Angelika while he worked on his university lectures for the next day. She knew she should be the one answering the door, but she hesitated. It was past nine o’clock and dark, and she was not expecting anyone. Clutching her pen, she waited.
The knocking sounded a second time.
“Are you going to get that?” Her husband’s voice came down the staircase. “Please?”
“Ja, ja, Albrecht,” she replied. “I was just working on a letter to my parents.”
She got up and went to the door, continuing to hope the knocking would stop and whoever it was would walk away. Risking Albrecht’s annoyance, she stood facing the door but did not open it. The knocking came a third time—soft but rapid. Certain her husband would call from his office again, she took hold of the door handle.
“I have it, Albrecht. You needn’t worry.”
A smell of rain on pavement rushed in as she swung the door back, surprising her. She hadn’t noticed any drops against the windowpanes.
“Ja?” she asked the figure on the sidewalk.
The man slipped into the house and shut the door behind him.
“Was?” exclaimed Catherine. “What are you doing? Get out of here!”
The man took off his hat.
“Baron!” She didn’t know what to say next. “Of all people I did not expect to see you!”
“Where is Albrecht?”
“Upstairs.”
“The children?”
“They’re with him. He’s working at his morning lectures.”
“There will be no morning lectures. The Gestapo will arrive here at two in the morning. You must be well gone by then.”
Cold air seemed to fill the room, pouring off his trench coat.
“The Gestapo! Gone where? Where can we go?”
“My plan is to get you to France or Switzerland. But first we must get you into a hiding place outside of Tubingen. If they don’t find you here they will go to all of your friends’ homes. They will go to the university professors. Comb the city from one end to another. I have a car around back. You have half an hour, and then you must be in it and we must be gone.”
“We can’t be ready in half an hour. Angelika is only four. There is so much we must prepare.”
“Half an hour. We cannot take the risk they may come earlier.”
“This is mad. You can’t come raging in here and demand we load our children into a car with you. Why should we trust you? You betrayed us once.”
“I saved Albrecht’s life. He would have died in that house with the others.”
“You’re SS.”
“It’s just as well I am. Otherwise I would have no idea of the movements of the police. If you don’t trust me, you will die here just as Albrecht would have died in that house with the Brotherhood of the Oak. Last time I used a gun on Albrecht to work my will. If you force my hand I will do so again.” He patted the pocket of his trench coat. “Get your husband. Get your children. Get what you need and get in the car.”
Catherine started up the staircase, her face whitening. She turned her head. “You can say what you want about the Gestapo. It’s you I don’t trust.”
“I’m fine with that so long as we drive away from here at ten o’clock.”
“You could have been followed.”
“I wasn’t followed.”
“They could be watching you.”
“Then we’ll all die together. Will you trust me if that happens?”
Albrecht stood at the head of the staircase. “What are you doing here?”
“He says the Gestapo are going to arrest us,” said Catherine.
“Arrest us? Because of my lectures?”
The baron looked up at him. “Your lectures. Your protests against the firing of Jewish professors. Your refusal to join the Nazi Party. Most of all, your books. Oh, yes—they know you are the author of those anonymous books and pamphlets popping up all over Germany.”
“How do they know that?”
“The SS found the men who do your printing last night. Smashed the presses. Shot them in the street.”
Albrecht started to say something and stopped.
“Get what you need, Albrecht.” The baron’s voice was quiet and flat. “Leave what is superfluous. We have twenty-five minutes left.”
Two days later
Ashton Park
Tavy received a telegram at the door and took it to Lord and Lady Preston, who were having tea in the library.
“Where is it from, William?” Lady Preston asked her husband. “Africa?”
“No, it’s not from Africa. It’s from Germany.”
“What is it? Is it Catherine? Is everything all right?”
“The telegram is not from Catherine. It’s from the baron.”
“The baron! Why on earth would he write us? He knows how we feel about him!”
LORD PRESTON
YOUR DAUGHTER CATHERINE IS SAFE. SO ARE HER CHILDREN. SO IS HER HUSBAND ALBRECHT. YOU WILL NOT HEAR FROM THEM IN A VERY LONG TIME. BUT THEY ARE NOT PRISONERS AND THEY HAVE NOT BEEN HARMED.
THE BARON
As Lord Preston was reading the telegram to his wife in England, small pieces of chocolate were being handed to Sean and Angelika in a cold, dark cellar in Germany.
“Happy birthday, my son,” whispered Albrecht. “I had this in my briefcase. You are eleven today. Blessings.”
Sean took the chocolate but didn’t eat it. “Thank you, Father.”
Mimicking the mood and actions of her big brother, Angelika clutched her square of chocolate but didn’t smile or put it in her mouth.
“Go ahead,” urged Albrecht. “It’s Swiss.”
“You said we were going there.” Sean spoke without emotion. “How long will it take?”
“We will stay at this house today. Tonight we will move again. And the night after that. Never longer than a day in each house. But each house brings us closer to the Swiss border.”
“So we are going to the chalet in Pura?”
“Ja.”
“And both of you are staying with us?”
Albrecht put his arm around Catherine. “Your mother and I will be with you. Wherever we go, we go as a family.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am.”
“What if the police find us?”
“The baron has very good friends. They will not betray us.”
“It’s because of your writing, isn’t it, Papa?” Again, no tone of accusation, just a question that was a statement of fact.
“Sean, it is because the Nazis are what they are.”
Sean put the chocolate in a pocket in his shirt. “I will eat it once we’ve crossed the border.”
“Very well.”
“Me too.” Angelika placed hers in a small red leather purse she carried with her everywhere.
“Make sure it doesn’t melt,” said Catherine. “You wouldn’t want it to melt in a shirt pocket or purse, would you? Such a waste. And such a mess.”
Sean finally smiled a very small smile. “I’ll be careful.”
“We’ll all be careful.” Albrecht put a hand on Sean’s shoulder. “Now each of us must take a nap. We didn’t get a great deal of sleep last night, and tonight will be no different.”
“How many nights will it be, Father?” asked Sean. “Ten or twelve?”
“I don’t know. That sounds right, but we’re still a good ways from the border.”
“But Switzerland is not that far.”
Albrecht nodded. “No, not so far from Tubingen. But we must move slowly and carefully because the SS and Gestapo will be hunting us. They’re aware we have a home in Switzerland. The border crossings will be closely watched.”
“What if we can’t get into Switzerland?”
“We’re just as near to France as we are to Switzerland. If we cannot get to the chalet safely we will cross over into Alsace-Lorraine and make our way to the English Channel.”
Catherine smiled. “Then you will see all your cousins, Sean. And Grandmother and Grandfather Danforth too.”
“I would like that.” Sean’s eyes were large in the darkness of the cellar. “But I will miss Grandfather Hartmann. And Grandmother Hartmann as well.”
“Of course you will.” Catherine smoothed back her son’s hair from his forehead. “But the Nazis will not be in power forever. The German people will come to their senses and reject them. That will be the time to see Grandmother and Grandfather Hartmann again.”
“How soon?” asked Angelika.
“A year. Or two. No more.”
“I’ll be a big girl then.”
“Ja. But not so big Grandfather and Grandmother Hartmann can’t fuss over you and give you dolls and baskets of sweets.”
A smile, bright in the gloom, darted onto Angelika’s face.
“Now we need to nap.” Albrecht handed each of them a woolen blanket. “Night is not far off.”
“I’m hungry,” Angelika said.
“There will be food when you wake up,” promised Catherine, wrapping the blanket around the little girl’s shoulders. “Or you can eat your chocolate now.”
“I’m saving it for a special day.”
“All right, you save it for a special day. Meanwhile, after you have had your nap, there will be a bowl of noodle soup for you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very sure. The lady of the house told me so herself.”
June 5, 1934
The Parliament buildings, Westminster, London
“What’s bothering you? We must do our part to get things ready for the rally.”
“I’m well aware of that, Buchanan.” Edward glanced at the traffic moving up and down in front of the Parliament buildings. “I’ll be ready.”
“The rally at Olympia is in two days, Danforth. We intend to set London on its ear. Fill the Grand Hall. The British Union of Fascists is at its peak.”
“I said I’d be ready.”
Buchanan tapped the silver head of his cane against his leg. “It’s the matter of your sister, isn’t it? Lady Catherine? I thought the embassy was sorting that out.”
“The embassy has no idea where Catherine and her family are. They simply vanished without a trace.”
“Mightn’t they have fled? Sir Oswald asked you to write that Hartmann fellow and get him to stop penning those anti-Nazi books and pamphlets. They were infuriating fascists in Spain and Italy and England as well as Germany and Austria.”
“I wrote him. He never responded.” Edward looked up at the sky as drops of rain fell on the sidewalk. “They could have been abducted and shot.”
“Yes, well, there’s that.” Buchanan opened a black umbrella. “You’re not getting cold feet about the rally, are you? Sir Oswald counts on you creating quite a stir with your appearance. And your announcement.”
“I don’t have cold feet, Buchanan. But it will be a shock to my father and mother when their son stands on a platform with the leader of the British fascists. Not to mention I’ll be drummed out of the Conservative Party. I’d like to spare them all that with Catherine missing.”
“They’ll bear up. Especially once you’re a success. You have everything to gain by going public with your fascist beliefs. Yes, you’ll have to sit as an independent. But in the next election we’ll take a majority of the seats. The Daily Mirror and Daily Mail are on our side, and we have well over 50,000 supporters now. Remember how easily Herr Hitler got in and took over.”
“He was appointed chancellor. He never got in by popular vote. I wish we could appoint Sir Oswald like that, but that’s not the way a British democracy runs.”
“Well, we’ll change all that, won’t we? You always chafed at the slow and awkward movements of democracy, didn’t you? Look at Hitler. See what a strong man in power can get done and done swiftly? Why, Berlin has the Olympics in thirty-six, doesn’t it? All sorts of buildings are being erected at an absolutely feverish pace. You really must pop over to Berlin with the lot of us next time and see for yourself. That’s what we want for the British Empire.”
Edward nodded. “I believe a strong man at the top would be for the best.” He continued to look out over the traffic, avoiding eye contact with Buchanan. “But look here, what about the danger of a riot? What are we prepared to do about those hecklers who follow Sir Oswald about from speech to speech? All the Jews and Communists? It’s enough I have to drive penny nails into my mother and father’s coffins while they’re grieving over Catherine and the grandchildren. Can’t we put on a class affair? At least give my parents something to take comfort in?”
“You’re worrying far too much for your own good, Danforth. Get home to your wife and have a glass of port. Have two. This will be a major rally, comparable to the finest rally in Berlin. Music, flags, marching, chants—it will be a spectacle. A lot of Jews and Reds are not going to spoil that for us, believe me. We’ve recruited hundreds more Blackshirts. They’ll be stationed strategically throughout the Grand Hall and outside on the grounds as well. One look at them and our enemies will shrink away. Your parents will open up the morning paper and read about a well-run show. A nationalist show with a good deal of pride in Britain and Britain’s future.”
Buchanan lifted his umbrella sharply, and a black cab pulled over in front of them. “There you are, Danforth. Enough chitchat. We don’t want too many to take notice of us. Home to your beautiful wife and that glass of port. We’ll see you at Olympia on Thursday.”
“Right.” Edward entered the back of the cab after the driver came out and opened the door. “Thank you for dropping by Parliament to have a word with me, Buchanan. I hope everything will come off according to plan.”
“It will. Remain calm.”
“I stand to lose a great deal,” said Edward.
Buchanan didn’t respond until after the cab had sped away. “Indeed you do, Danforth.”

“Good evening, my dear.” Edward came up behind his wife as she was brushing her long black hair and kissed her on the cheek. “Where are Owen and Colm?”
She smiled and turned around, slipping her arms about his neck. “At Jeremy and Emma’s with their cousins. The rectory has quite the biggest yard this part of London.”
Edward kissed her again, this time on the mouth. “Better than the postage stamp of a yard we have here, in other words.”
“Don’t be upset. Kipp and Caroline’s townhouse has a smaller yard than ours, and your father’s new townhouse is certainly not Ashton Park, is it?”
Edward tossed his top hat on a sofa and lit a cigarette. “I’m not upset. Just sorry they don’t have the property to run around in I had when I was a child.”
“Summer is just around the corner. Then they can play at Dover Sky all they like.”
Edward sank down on the sofa next to his hat. “Dad’s planning on renovations this summer, Char. I don’t think the house can be occupied.”
She sat on the sofa with him, moving his hat onto a small table. “Well, Ashton Park is splendid enough, don’t you think? They’ll have even more room to run about.”
“So long as they stay away from the sea cliff.”
“Oh, heavens, Edward, what’s gotten into you today? You’re fretting like a mother hen. That’s my job, isn’t it?” She moved so that she was able to get in behind him and began to rub his shoulders and neck. “You’re tight as a drum.”
He blew out a lungful of smoke and said nothing.
“Is there a big speech coming up? Some piece of legislation you need to introduce? A bill to vote on? Is that what has you wound up like a grandfather clock?”
“I expect.”
“When is this coming to pass?”
“Thursday.”
“Well, then, Friday evening we should take the boys for a boat ride on the Thames. You know how Owen loves anything to do with ships. Gets it from you, I imagine, his naval officer father.”
“The war was a long time ago.”
“It doesn’t matter how long ago it was. You served king and country, and he’s very proud of you. So is Colm. We all are.”
“King and country, eh?” He drew in on his cigarette. “My patriotism hasn’t done much for me, has it?”
“What do you mean?” She stopped rubbing his neck a moment and rested her chin on his shoulder. “You’re an MP and you’re on the ladder of success in the Conservative Party.”
“Am I? If I were ignored any more than I am by the Party I’d be as much a pariah as Churchill.”
“Oh, my goodness, you’re quite a long ways off from anything like that.” She took his jaw in her fingers. “I thought you liked Winston. You got along famously when your father had him up to Ashton Park at Christmas.”
“I admire his fight. And his national pride. But I don’t wish to be banished to the wilderness anytime soon and join him in solitary confinement.”
“You’re Lord Preston’s son. No one’s going to do that.”
“Not yet.”
“What do you mean, not yet? Not ever.” She kissed him lightly on the lips. “You really have got yourself tied up in knots. I shall have to unravel them.”
He stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. “How will Charlotte Squire do that, I wonder?”
“Oh, I have a tried and true Lancashire method.”
“Which is?”
“Me. Just me.”
She kissed him with a strength and passion that pushed him back farther and farther into the sofa. Her blue eyes glittering, she paused and looked down at his face.
“How’s that?” she asked.
“It’ll do for a start.”
“Will it?”
She placed both hands on his shoulders and kissed him much longer and with even more vigor. A tear slipped from the corner of his eye, and she drew back.
“Whatever’s the matter? Have I hurt you somehow?”
“I want you to be proud of me. I want you and the boys to be proud of me.”
“My goodness, Edward, we are proud of you, I’ve told you that. You’re a fine husband and a brilliant father. No one could ask for more.”
“I dread the day you’re disappointed with me. I dread it like the grave.”
“Edward. Stop it. That’s never going to happen. I adore you. Owen and Colm adore you.” She put her arms tightly around his back and hugged him to herself. “What’s gone wrong, love? What’s put a knife in your heart? You could never do anything that would turn the boys or me against you. It’s impossible.”

Worthy Publishing 2014

Ben used to be a cardiothoracic surgeon before he suddenly abandoned his career and became a janitor at a retirement facility. Now, other than dealing with minor problems such as an unhealthy obsession with prime numbers, an inept boss, and a feud between two cantankerous retirees, he lives a relatively stress-free life. There is even hope for romance when an attractive podiatrist shows an interest in him. But it is not long before his past catches up with him and his carefully protected world begins to unravel. Filled with humor and quirky characters, Prime of Life delivers a satisfying and entertaining read.

Harvest House

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Bestselling author Kathleen Y’Barbo is a multiple Carol Award and RITA nominee of fifty novels with almost two million copies of her books in print in the US and abroad and nominations including a Career Achievement Award, Reader’s Choice Awards, Romantic Times Book of the Year, and several Romantic Times Top Picks. A proud military wife and tenth-generation Texan, she now cheers on her beloved Aggies from north of the Red River. Find out more at www.kathleenybarbo.com.

Sadie Callum is a master of disguise. Undercover agent William Jefferson Tucker is not looking for marriage—pretend or otherwise—but he needs the cover of a wife to clear his name and solve the art forgery case that has eluded him for years. But what will happen to his heart?

May 10, 1889

Louisiana State Penitentiary

Angola, Louisiana

Detective William Jefferson Tucker of the Criminal Investigations Division, London Metropolitan Police, stepped across the threshold of the sewer pit known as the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola with one purpose in mind. To see his brother, also named William.

William John Tucker.

His twin. His polar opposite.

With his first order of business being an explanation of exactly what John had done this time, he turned toward Major Samuel James’s office. When in doubt, go to the top, that was his motto. And Major James was the top dog around here.

“Hold on there,” someone called. Jefferson turned to see a uniformed guard coming toward him, one hand on his holster and the other pointing in his direction.

“Just paying a visit to the warden,” he said with all the charm his mother had taught him. “Nothing to get upset about.”

“We’ll just see about that,” the guard said as he nodded toward the other end of the dimly lit hall. “Just come on back here and sign in, and then we will see if the warden’s interested in visiting today.”

Shaking his head, Jefferson tried not to show amusement at the man’s pompous behavior. While he had seen the other side of a jail cell on many occasions, it had always been in the position of arresting officer and not prison guard. To spend day after day in this place would cause anyone to own an ill temper.

When the papers were produced, Jefferson signed them. “Anything else you need?” he asked as politely as he could manage.

“Any kind of proof you are who you say you are would be appreciated,” he said in a tone that just barely toed the line between polite and sarcastic.

“Gladly.”

“And I will be needing your weapon.”

Routine procedure in prisons, and yet Jefferson hated it. Reluctantly, he removed his revolver and handed it to the guard.

“That all you got?” He gave Jefferson a sweeping look. “Nothing else you can hurt anybody with?”

“Just a folding knife.”

“Hand that over too.”

Jefferson offered up his knife and then reached for his identification, carefully selecting the papers that would not give away his current undercover role in London. Placing what he had on the rough slab of wood that served as a desk between them, he stood back and waited while the guard examined the documents.

“And what brings you here?” The guard took in an exaggerated breath and then pretended to cough. “Sure can’t be the fresh air and sunshine.”

Jefferson played along, pretending to find the gag amusing. “I am here to see my brother.”

“Your brother?” The guard clutched the papers as he looked up at Jefferson. “And just who would your brother be?”

“John Tucker.”

“John Tucker,” the guard echoed as he opened an oversized leather book that sent a cloud of dust into the already rancid air.

The odd idea that this process was beginning to feel very much like checking into a hotel occurred. Jefferson decided he would keep that thought to himself.

“Don’t see any John…”

“William John,” he amended, irritated not for the first time that his father had insisted on giving both his sons the same first name and then calling them by their middle name.

The guard’s grimy finger paused below a line of scribbling. “Tucker. Well, here we go. William J. Tucker.” He looked up at Jefferson, his face now unreadable. “Wait here.”

Without another word of explanation, he hurried off down the hall, Jefferson’s credentials still clutched in his hand. A door shut somewhere off in the distance and then opened again.

“Initial for your property here,” he said when he returned.

Jefferson noted the date and the items he had just surrendered and then placed his initials on the line beside them to indicate agreement.

“All right. Come with me, Mr. Tucker,” the guard said, not quite making eye contact.

Detective Tucker, he almost said. Instead, Jefferson kept silent. Better not to make enemies of anyone in this place. “Yes, of course.” He followed the guard past the warden’s office and around the corner, stopping at an unmarked door.

“Right in there,” the guard said as he used a key from his vest pocket to open the door.

The room was dark, but a lamp in the passageway sent a weak shaft of light across what appeared to be a table and a bench. “I would be much obliged if you would turn on a light in here,” Jefferson said, the last of his patience with the ridiculous situation disappearing fast.

“Just go on in and a light will come on.”

He was about to protest when the guard shoved him inside and turned the lock.

“Open this door!” Jefferson demanded. “This is not funny. I demand to see either my brother or the warden immediately.”

“You just wait right there, Tucker. You will see the warden for sure.”

Jefferson felt along the edge of the wall, his fingers sliding across a combination of dirt and slime held together by something so foul smelling he refused to contemplate its source. A moment later he found the bench and managed to sit.

Outside the door footsteps approached and then halted. He heard voices arguing, their words indistinguishable through the thick walls.

Finally, the door opened and a man whose attire told Jefferson he might be the warden stepped inside. The guard shadowed Major James, as did another underling of some sort.

“Look,” Jefferson said, “all I wanted was to see my brother. Is this how you treat all your visitors, Major?”

“The major isn’t here today, but I am the man in charge. You can call me Butler. Won’t need any name other than that. And as to your question, no. This is the way we treat those who belong inside a cell.”

“Inside a cell? What are you talking about?”

Butler thumped Jefferson’s credentials with his free hand. “These here papers say you are Jefferson Tucker. Is that correct?”

He gave the man a curt nod. “It is.”

“So what you’re saying is that you are indeed the man whose name you have given to the guard?”

“Yes,” he said, this time with far less respect.

“And that you have a brother currently incarcerated in our fine facility.” When Jefferson nodded, he continued. “And what is that inmate’s name?”

“His name is John Tucker,” Jefferson snapped as he sensed a shakedown of some sort in the offing. It was time to tell them who he really was. “William John Tucker. Look, I know how these things work, and I am not someone you can play around with. I have credentials that prove I am a detective with the London Metropolitan Police.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I would believe that. You certainly don’t sound like no foreigner, so I suggest you change your tune and own up to the truth.”

“Here’s the truth for you. Either let me see my brother or the warden, or you can give me the reason why.”

Butler chuckled. “Oh, we will do better than that.” He nodded to the two men, who approached Jefferson. Though he tried to resist, they slapped handcuffs on him. “We are going to put you in his cell.”

“What are you doing?” he demanded as the two men jerked him out into the passageway.

“Taking you to where you belong, Jefferson Tucker,” said the guard who was still in possession of his revolver and the folding knife.

“I do not belong in a cell!” Jefferson protested even as he was being dragged through the doors into a cellblock that smelled worse than it looked. And that was saying something.

Instantly a deafening noise began as prisoners shouted and banged whatever they could grab against the iron cell bars. The guard took out his pistol and fired one shot.

Silence quickly reigned.

Up ahead a door swung open. “Looky here, Tucker,” the other guard sneered. “Your room is ready. Welcome home.”

“Wait,” the man in charge said. “Let’s let these boys say their howdys first.”

A prisoner stepped out of the cell. He was dressed in clothing so dirty that Jefferson could not discern a color or what kept it from shredding into rags. Legs shackled, the prisoner shuffled toward them. And then Jefferson knew him.

“John? Is that you?”

His brother heaved himself against Jefferson. Though the smell caused Jefferson’s eyes to water, he stood his ground as John held him tight.

“What have you done, John?” he said to the man who, under different circumstances, would be nearly a mirror image of him.

“Just what I had to,” was John’s quiet reply. “I hope someday you will forgive me, Jeff, but I wasn’t built for a place like this.”

“Neither of us were. And rest assured Mother has no idea her boy’s in trouble. It would kill her if she knew.”

“She always did see the good in me,” John said.

“She still does.”

“Even though she never could see to give me Father’s gold pocket watch when I asked for it first.” John looked down at Jefferson’s vest. “I see you’re wearing it now.”

He glanced over at the man calling the shots. It took Butler only a moment to reach down and rip the watch from Jefferson’s pocket.

“Neither of you’ll get it now.”

“The major will hear about this,” Jefferson said, earning him a punch in the gut that took his breath away.

The warden’s underling fixed John with a glare that shut him up quick. “All right, Will Tucker,” he said to Jefferson. “Are you verifying that this man is your brother, John Tucker? And that he is your twin?”

“I am,” Jefferson said through the pain in his gut as he took in the sight of his always well-groomed brother with streaks of dirt on his face, his hair coated with grease and, from the look of this place, thick with lice.

“Well, I believe that is proof enough for me.” Butler tapped John on the shoulder. “You were right in saying you were not Will Tucker, John. On behalf of the state of Louisiana, I hereby declare you to be a free man.”

John grinned like a fool and then nudged the bully. “Does that mean I get the watch that is rightfully mine?”

“Don’t press your luck, son. Just get yourself out of here while I am still in a mood to let you. Major James might insist on a trial to settle the facts, and you know how long those things take.”

“I know when I’ve been bested, so you can keep the watch.” John shuffled off behind the guards without so much as a backward glance.

A moment later, the cell door clanged shut behind Detective Jefferson Tucker of the London Metropolitan Police, leaving him once again in the middle of a mess his brother had created.