Mr. Churchill's Secretary: A Novel Page 12

  “I have a question for you.”

  There was a pause. “Of course.”

  “Where is my father buried?”

  A longer pause. “Oh, Margaret—I never thought …”

  “You never thought what? That I’d ever go looking for their graves? Well, I did. And I found my mother’s. But not my father’s. So where is he?” Maggie clutched the receiver tightly.

  Silence.

  “Well?”

  “Margaret, do you have to—why can’t you just let the past alone?”

  “Why won’t you answer the question?”

  Edith sighed. “Some things, well, it’s just easier if you let them be.”

  Why isn’t she answering me? What’s going on?

  There was static crackling over the line.

  “Margaret, I think our call is breaking up—” There was silence and a click, then the broad whine of the dial tone.

  Professor Edith Hope sat in her large, comfortable office in ivy-covered Science Hall. It was mid-June, and she was catching up on some of the endless administrative paperwork she had to do. Outside, red-breasted robins were chirping and the lush grass sparkled in the sunshine. She looked, unseeing, out the lead-glass windows over Wellesley’s vast lawns at the neo-Gothic spires of Green Hall’s immense bell tower and contemplated her last phone call with Maggie.

  Of course the infernal girl is asking questions. She’s a rational girl, a scientific girl, a logical girl—and with her staying in London, it was just a matter of time before she began piecing things together.

  However, Edith thought, rubbing her stiff hands against the chill in the air before turning to her typewriter, there’s time. There’s still time.

  Wellesley, Massachusetts

  Margaret—

  I must insist that you come home immediately.

  Did I not do enough for you when you were a child? I know I wasn’t a real mother at all, let alone a good mother. But I did feel—and still do—that I have a responsibility to Edmund to keep you safe.

  We never pretended, you and I, that I was your mother, not even your adopted one. I didn’t think it would be fair to poor Clara; it also simply wasn’t in my nature, I’m afraid. But I do know we have a special rapport, brought on by our mutual interests.

  Please don’t allow your anger at me to keep you from what promises to be a stunning career and a happy, productive life. I’ve worked too hard for that. You’ve worked too hard for that.

  Please come home. There’s still time.

  Edith

  What she really wanted to write but somehow couldn’t was: Everything I did, I did for you.

  “Let’s go over this again.”

  Pierce was meeting with Claire and Murphy in Queen Mary’s Gardens in Regent’s Park. The day was foggy and overcast, the grass beaded with the morning’s rain. The roses—scarlet, pink, gold, and ivory—were in full bloom, nearly glowing against the dark clouds. The air was fragrant with their spicy perfume, and plush bumblebees bobbled and buzzed, drunk on the golden pollen.

  Besides the occasional pedestrian and plump pigeon, they had the wooden bench in the rose garden to themselves, knowing there was no way their conversation could be overheard. Claire sat between the two men.

  “While the Tube bombings have been effective in causing a certain amount of panic and hysteria,” Claire said, “we’re agreed we need to damage the British capacity for waging war.”

  Murphy added, “Working together, we can launch a three-pronged attack.”

  “Right—Claire will take care of the assassination, you’re responsible for the bombing, and I’m in charge of the kidnapping. I’ll get word to Berlin about moving forward,” Pierce said. “The details will appear in tomorrow’s Times.”

  “You can’t just radio them?” Murphy asked.

  “No, I can receive incoming radio messages, but sending one out would be too dangerous.”

  Claire pushed her hair behind her ears. “Don’t you worry about being caught, though? Working with the Saturday Club and all?”

  “Ah, I subscribe to the theory of ‘hide in plain sight,’ my dear,” he said. “Rather Like Poe’s ‘Purloined Letter,’ you know.” It was obvious from his tone that he didn’t think she did.

  “Un dessein si funeste, S’il n’est digne d’Atrée, est digne de Thyeste, Malcolm?” Claire said.

  Murphy blinked. “What’s that, now?”

  “Literally translated, it means, ‘If such a sinister design isn’t worthy of Atreus, it is worthy of Thyestes.’ ” Claire said. “It’s what Dupin tells the narrator at the end of the story.”

  Pierce blinked at her, his lips curling into a smile. “Brava, my dear, bravissima,” Pierce said, looking at her with new eyes. “Quite right, quite right. I’m hiding in plain sight. Which is why we’ve been working in codes.” He handed over the advert. “And this one, my friends, is a beauty.”

  “I love it!” Claire exclaimed, taking in the innocuous line drawing of three women swathed in chic clothing. A squirrel reared up on his hind legs in alarm, then scurried up a tree. “All over England, women will be looking at what they think is the latest in ladies’ fashion. Genius, really. Just genius.” She and Pierce looked at each other, and each held the other’s gaze.

  “And you’re ready for your part?” Murphy asked, laying a hand protectively over Claire’s.

  “Of course,” she replied. “I was born for this mission. And you?”

  “I’ll be at Saint Paul’s, of course.”

  * * *

  They each went their separate ways in the park, with Claire walking down the long paths to make her way to the street.

  A young man, pink-cheeked and barely old enough to shave, sat on a long park bench reading The Times and dropped a section. A stout woman in gray twill and sensible shoes disappeared behind a cluster of oak trees.

  And as Claire walked out of the park and put her arm up for a taxi, one pulled right up in front of her. What was it Michael had said about the watchers of MI-5? That they would pass you in the street and you’d never even give them a second look.

  “Where to, miss?” asked the grizzled cabbie through the open window.

  “Changed my mind,” she said, turning on her heel.

  She went back into the park, following a footpath that led to an Italianate garden filled with blossoms of crimson, ginger, white, and gold. She stopped to admire one of the weathered stone statues, surreptitiously looking around.

  There was no one else in sight.

  She retraced her steps.

  Nothing and no one.

  When she reached the street, she walked quickly to the Great Portland Street Tube station instead of taking a cab. At the station she bought a ticket for Oxford Street. The train was just about to close its doors when she pushed her way in, ignoring the disapproving stares of the other passengers.

  She quickly composed her features and found a seat.

  Mark Standish and Hugh Thompson met Peter Frain at his club, housed in a three-story white-brick mansion with Romanesque columns. At the glossy black door, they showed their identification to an unsmiling British soldier holding a Sten gun.

  The guard waved them into the marble-and-gilt entrance hall and pointed to two etched-glass doors. “Jesus,” Standish breathed.

  “Nice to know how the other half lives, eh?” Thompson replied.

  Through the doors was a gigantic, high-ceilinged room that housed a swimming pool. The walls were covered in blue, cream, beige, and dark-brown tiles in mosaics of ancient Babylonian archers. Inside, the air was hot and moist. Men, pasty and middle-aged, did the crawl or backstroke in the lanes.

  Frain finished his lap, then swam over to the men, incongruous and awkward in their suits. “What happened?” he asked, climbing out of the pool and receiving a fresh towel from one of the attendants.

  “She went into the Tube station, sir,” answered Standish, nervous and trying not to stare at his nearly naked boss, who had the wiry build of a rower
. “We sent an agent after her, but she made it onto a train before he could reach her.”

  “Damn it,” Frain muttered, trying to get water out of his ears. “How long were they in the park?”

  “About fifteen minutes,” Thompson replied. His face was getting moist in the damp heat, and his temples were beading with drops of sweat.

  “Plenty of time to exchange information.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sir, she’s an amateur. At some point she’s going to make a mistake. And we’ll be there to catch it,” Standish said. “I’ll get one of the girls to type all this up in a report for you. Then you can bring it to Mr. Churchill.”

  Richard Snodgrass, a slight figure in a pinstriped suit, appeared in the doorway and made his way over the gleaming tiled floor to Frain and his two men. “We’re moving forward, then? We are moving forward?”

  “A pleasant day to you, Mr. Snodgrass,” Frain said, wrapping the towel around his waist. “And most assuredly, we’re moving forward.”

  “And, about—Miss Hope, still—?”

  “No,” Frain said, heading toward the dressing room. “As far as we know, she still has no idea at all.”

  TWELVE

  AS MUCH AS Maggie wanted to tear the island apart to look for her father, ordinary life went on with work at No. 10 and all its other commitments and responsibilities. Including hosting a party for Chuck’s upcoming birthday.

  As Paige was working as a driver at all hours and the twins couldn’t really be counted on for anything involving cleaning, one weekend Sarah and Maggie together uncovered the furniture in the parlor, dining room, and library, beat the dust from the rugs with large wooden paddles, polished the floors with lemon-scented wax, and washed the crystal. Finally, sweaty and aching, they surveyed their handiwork with pride.

  The pipes might have been crumbling and the roof ready to cave in, but there was no denying that the house looked exquisite. The chandeliers sparkled, the brass gleamed, the wood glowed. “The furniture does look a little shabby,” Maggie admitted, poking at a moth hole in a velvet chair.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Sarah rejoined. “No one will notice in the lamplight. It’s going to be fantastic. You wait and see.”

  There was a noise from the kitchen. Maggie and Sarah looked at each other. Were any other of the girls home? As they walked through the kitchen door, they heard a whispered, “Yes, yes, I’ll be there,” and saw Chuck hurriedly replace the telephone receiver.

  “Oh, I didn’t know you were still home,” Maggie said.

  “Just … had to make a call,” Chuck said quickly. “Can I help with anything?”

  “I think we’re all set,” Sarah said.

  “Great!” Chuck said, backing out of the kitchen.

  “Well, that was strange,” Maggie said to Sarah.

  “Quite.”

  The guests began to arrive just after seven o’clock. Maggie, Paige, Chuck, and the twins were at the door to greet them, dressed in their best summer frocks.

  “Why, look at you, Chuck,” Paige said, taking in her silk dress, along with the pin-curled hair and hint of lipstick. “We’ll have to call you Charlotte tonight.”

  “Not if you want to live,” Chuck deadpanned. The twins giggled.

  They were to be eleven: the six girls; John and David, of course; plus Simon; and also Dimitri, Sarah’s frequent ballet partner. And Nigel was coming from the barracks on leave.

  The tall wax tapers were lit, the table was set, and dinner was in the oven. Thanks to Sarah, a surprisingly good cook, delicious aromas wafted through the house.

  “Jolly good show, ladies,” Nigel said as he arrived with the other boys. He looked smart in his dress uniform, and they splendid in their dinner jackets. “The place looks wonderful, as do all of you.” He grabbed Chuck around the waist, spun her in a circle, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You, especially, my dear.”

  “Why, thank you, kind sir,” Chuck replied, dropping into a mock curtsey. John looked away. He had circles underneath his eyes, and his cheekbones looked sharper than ever.

  “Oh, please,” Maggie said to John. “Don’t you ever have any fun?”

  “Occasionally. But this is England, after all. Fun’s considered to be in poor taste.”

  Maggie gave him a half-smile.

  “Don’t mind him,” David said, kissing Maggie’s cheek. “He’s still in a filthy mood over Hitler’s tour of Paris.” She caught a whiff of gin on his breath.

  “And you?” she asked, trying not to glare at Annabelle and Clarabelle’s fussing over John.

  “Oh, I’ve had too much to drink to be in a filthy mood about anything.”

  That left Simon Paul, John and David’s friend from Oxford, whom they’d met at the Blue Moon. Maggie offered her hand, which he took and kissed. “Welcome,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he replied. Then, to Paige, “Why, Scarlett O’Hara, you’re ravishing!”

  Dimitri arrived last; he was tall, dark, and slim, with a gallant air about him.

  Finally, with theatrical timing, Sarah entered at the top of the staircase, wearing a daringly low-cut gold lamé dress. “Everyone,” she said, raising her arms in a commanding gesture, “thank you so much for coming for Chuck’s birthday.” After she made her grand entrance down the staircase, she said, “This is Dimitri Zakharov, my favorite partner. Dimitri—meet everyone.”

  Dimitri looked at the assembled group and smiled. “Milo mi poznac. Pleased to meet you.” He clicked his heels together and bowed to Sarah, offering her his arm.

  Simon offered his to Paige. “Charmed, I’m sure,” Paige cooed, obviously won over. She took his arm and led everyone into the library for cocktails.

  Once everyone had taken their seats, Paige mixed a pitcher of martinis, using what was left of Grandmother Hope’s liquor cabinet. “You look just like Myrna Loy,” Simon said, as he watched her put ice in the silver shaker, slick with beads of condensation.

  Paige laughed and tossed her hair. “Well, it’s not the American Bar at the Savoy,” she said, handing him a glass, “but everything’s cold, and as you can see, the vermouth’s been kept to a minimum. Now, tell me all about your club at Oxford.”

  After a few drinks, the group sat down at the table, set with Grandmother Hope’s good china and crystal. Nearly everything was from their victory garden. There was a thyme-scented vegetable soup to start, then carrot soufflé, peas with mint, glazed turnips. David had somehow procured some red wine, which they used to toast Chuck’s birthday. Although Maggie had been nervous about pulling it off, the dinner was excellent. Dimitri was funny and charming and, as it turned out, Polish, not Russian.

  “Public likes Russian dancers,” he said over weak tea and birthday cake with white icing and tiny pink fondant roses; Chuck, Paige, and Maggie had all saved their sugar, butter, and egg rations for a month for it. “My real name? Stanislaw Wilecki.” They all laughed. “Dimitri” just seemed more dashing, somehow. “And Alicia Markova? Really Lilian Alicia Marks. English.”

  “No!” Annabelle exclaimed.

  “It’s true,” Sarah replied, licking buttercream frosting off her fork. “And the great Margot Fonteyn is really little Peggy Hookham from Surrey. I thought about changing my name myself, except then all my friends from Liverpool would never learn when I become rich and famous.”

  “What are you working on these days, Sarah?” John asked. “I don’t have as much time as I’d like to get to the ballet.” Really? Does being patronizing and moody keep you on a tight schedule? Maggie thought.

  “Swan Lake—music by Tchaikovsky, choreography by Petipa, staged for us by Nicholas Sergeyev, former regisseur for the Mariinsky Theatre. You should see Dimitri in it, David,” Sarah said, taking a sip of her tea. “He’s learning the role of Prince Siegfried.”

  “I’d like that,” David replied, reaching for yet another petit four.

  “David!” Paige said, giving his knuckles a rap.

  “What?” said David. �
��Carpe diem! Or carpe cake, I suppose.”

  “Of course,” Dimitri said, “Michael Somes is lead, but I am understudy. So maybe perhaps I go on someday as lead.”

  Simon smiled. “Fairy tales. Perfect for tutus.”

  Sarah smiled tightly. “It’s a tragedy, actually. The story of Swan Lake is about two girls, Odette and Odile, who resemble each other so closely they can easily be mistaken for the other. Odette is the innocent maiden turned into a white-swan queen by an evil sorcerer. The prince falls in love with her and tries to save her. But the sorcerer deceives him—and tricks the prince with a black swan, Odile, who impersonates Odette. The prince confuses the two, and poor Odette is doomed to remain a swan forever.”

  “Ah,” said Simon. “Freud’s old Madonna-whore dichotomy.”

  “What’s interesting,” Sarah continued, “is that the same dancer performs both roles. Odile goes undercover as Odette, as it were. Conniving bitch,” she said, laughing.

  “First of all,” said Chuck, “Freud’s a horse’s ass. Second, Sarah, that’s wonderful. I can certainly see you in both roles.”

  Annabelle interjected, “Is it hard to go back and forth?” She smiled. “I only have one role in Rebecca, and it’s hard enough—what’s it like to do two?”

  “It is a challenge,” Sarah replied. “There are the technical demands, of course—but then there’s the fact that one character’s very soft and vulnerable, while the other’s quite steely and very sexy—but imitating the first. So it’s a balancing act.”

  Dimitri turned to David. “When do you come to performance?” There was a silence that went on a bit too long.

  Maggie could feel David’s discomfort at Dimitri’s public attentions and rushed in, changing the subject. “Well, with our schedules, who can? Anyway, that reminds me of a joke—well, it’s really more of a logic problem—called ‘The Liar and the Truth Teller.’ ”

  “Oh no,” Nigel groaned. “Reminds me of Eton.”

  “It’s not hard, if you think it through,” Maggie said. “All right, so there are two soldiers at a crossroads. One always lies, and one always tells the truth, but you don’t know which is which. You need to find out whether the left or right path leads to safety but can only ask one of them a single question. What should you ask? And what should you do, depending on what they answer?”