Mr. Churchill's Secretary: A Novel Read online

“But it’s just so romantic!” Paige thumped the table with her dainty fist.

  “Well, of course, Scarlett; you’re American,” Simon said. “You don’t realize the monarchy has nothing to do with the princes and princesses of fairy tales.”

  “Oh, but what was it he said after he gave up the throne?” Paige closed her eyes to think. “That he couldn’t go on as King without—what?”

  “ ‘—the help and support of the woman I love,’ ” John finished. Who knew he had such a romantic side? Maggie thought, finishing her glass of champagne and letting David pour her another. Or at least a good memory. It must be remarkable champagne.

  As the singer started a slow rendition of “I Get Along Without You Very Well,” Annabelle turned to John. “I adore this song,” she cooed, jumping to her feet. “You simply must dance with me. Come on,” she entreated, grabbing his hand and pulling him to his feet before he had a chance to refuse.

  For such a skinny little thing, she’s certainly pushy, Maggie thought through the golden haze of champagne bubbles.

  As they got up to dance, Maggie’s eyes followed them.

  Simon pounced. “Dance with me, Scarlett?”

  Paige smiled. “Of course.”

  Maggie saw Simon and Paige dance together, then leave the dance floor to go—where? Sarah was suddenly at Maggie’s side. “We have to stop them,” she said, her face pale.

  “Stop them?” Maggie said, surprised. “You mean … But surely Paige deserves to have some … fun. It’s not any of our business, after all.” Maggie was taken aback. Sarah always seemed so bohemian—why this sudden puritanical streak?

  “I—I can’t say. But I need to talk to her.”

  Maggie looked at Sarah’s face. She was dead serious.

  “All right, then—let’s go.”

  “Would you like to see Wallie Simpson’s suite?” Simon said to Paige. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “The concierge is a good friend of mine,” he said, his fingers stroking her back. “Come on, what do you say?”

  “Why, yes, Simon,” she said, looking up at him through her eyelashes. “I’d love to see it. It’s a place of … historical interest, after all.” She strolled with Simon to the lobby, where they took an elevator with intricate inlaid wooden panels upstairs.

  “Here we are,” he said, walking in as though he owned the place. “The infamous Mrs. Simpson Suite.” The walls were an ivory-colored watered silk, the drapes a heavy blue-and-gold brocade, which nearly hid the blackout curtains. A powder-blue silk sofa was flanked by two end tables, topped by Chinese vases.

  “It’s not as though Edward and Mrs. Simpson were the only lovers at the hotel,” Simon continued, the scent of alcohol on his breath. “Oscar Wilde brought any number of young lads here. They say Antonín Dvořák stayed here regularly with his grown-up daughter—if you know what I mean.” He gave a chuckle. “But I tell you, we Brits are a lot less prim and proper than you Americans seem to think.”

  Paige smiled grimly; after years in London, she was under no illusions of English politesse.

  He swept open a door. “And here, my dear, is the bedroom,” he murmured, putting his arm around Paige and turning her toward him.

  Without warning, there was a loud knock on the suite’s door. “Oh, damn it all to hell,” he said. As he bent to try to kiss Paige again, there was another knock, followed by loud and steady pounding.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said, going to the door and opening it.

  “You?” he exclaimed when he saw Sarah and Maggie, his face reddening.

  Sarah quickly walked over to Paige. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I’m fine,” Paige said, looking confused.

  “Paige, there’s something you should know,” Sarah continued evenly.

  “Why don’t you two”—Simon spluttered—“meddling bitches mind your own goddamned bloody business!”

  And then the air-raid siren began its low moan of warning.

  The four looked at one another and froze.

  The forlorn tone of the siren rang out again, and they heard scrambling and doors slamming as people evacuated their rooms.

  “There’s a bomb shelter in the basement,” Sarah said. Without another word, they all filed out of the room and down the stairs.

  Down in the basement, it looked as if the party had simply moved. People had brought their bottles and glasses with them, and the hotel staff had set up groups of tables and folding chairs. The candlelight from long wax tapers lent the proceedings a falsely festive air. A large family, sleepy-eyed and in their pajamas, were applauded as they made their appearance.

  Maggie spied Chuck, Nigel, David, and the twins huddled at a table in the corner and led the way over to them. Maggie noticed John wasn’t with them.

  “There you are! We were wondering what happened to you,” Chuck said, pulling Maggie down next to her and Nigel.

  “No matter how many times we go through this, it’s still just horrible,” David said, sighing. “More champagne?”

  Maggie and Sarah looked to Simon, but he’d noticed a man in the throng. He went to meet him, and they shook hands with vigor, obviously old friends. Paige’s face was inscrutable.

  “John went to Saint Paul’s—he’s one of the Watch, you know,” David said as Maggie observed Paige’s face, looking after him. “Helps keep the damn cathedral from burning down.”

  With a tap on the shoulder, Sarah pulled Paige and Maggie aside. As they walked to a small empty table, she said, “Paige, love, I know Simon’s charming and handsome—but he’s just not good enough for you. He doesn’t think much of women. Sure, he’s fun to flirt with. But believe me, he’s like a child in a toy store, always wanting the newest and shiniest bauble. You can do better. Believe me, I know.” She gazed in Simon’s direction, her face etched with regret.

  “You—and Simon?” Paige asked.

  “Long time ago.” She laughed. The sound was bitter and hard. “Didn’t quite work out.” She laid a hand on Paige’s arm. “Look, he only wants what he can’t have. And once it’s done, he’s on to the next conquest.” She took a sharp intake of breath. “When I was with Simon, we—I—” She dropped her eyes. “He raped me, and I got pregnant. I was so ashamed, somehow got it in my head that it was all my fault. When he heard through the grapevine, he gave me some money and told me to take care of it.”

  Sarah? Simon? Maggie thought, finally putting the pieces together. Simon’s a rapist?

  “I knew I couldn’t support a baby on my own. I’d ruin my body and my career. If I came forward and accused him of rape, no one would believe me—it would be my word against his. And as an unwed mother, I’d be a leper. I don’t even know if my mum, my own mum, would have forgiven me if she knew. Going home to Liverpool was out of the question. So I took the money and did what I had to do.” Sarah raised her head, and her eyes challenged Paige and Maggie to pity her.

  Maggie didn’t. “That must have been an incredibly hard decision.”

  “What made it better was that I had friends who stood by me. David and John. They found a doctor—a good one, not one of these back-alley butchers. He had an office in Knightsbridge. They took time off work to go with me. Went with me to the appointment, helped me home afterward, got me hot soup and fresh flowers. Let me cry. They both wanted to kill Simon, but I managed to talk them out of it.”

  “Ah,” said Maggie. She looked at Sarah. Above the red rose in her décolletage, her shoulders were narrow, her collarbones sharp and fragile.

  “Oh, Sarah,” Paige said. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry—”

  “Pssh, I’m fine,” she said, brushing off any concern. “I don’t hate him; he’s not a monster. But I wouldn’t do that again. And I wouldn’t want to see any of my friends go down that road, either.” Sarah sighed. “They were close before, at university, but I don’t think John ever forgave him.”

  “Well, thank you, Sarah,” Paige said.

  Maggie put her arms around Paige and
Sarah, hearing the muffled sounds of bombing overhead. She realized that slowly but surely, she was getting used to the fact that people simply weren’t like numbers. Just when you thought you had an answer, they’d go and surprise you all over again.

  FIFTEEN

  THE NEXT DAY in the underground typists’ office, Maggie sorted through all the memos on her desk stamped Action This Day to give to the P.M. when he awoke from his midday nap.

  Nelson jumped onto her desk, surprising her. The papers slid through her hands and landed on the floor in a mess. “Oh, Nelson, for goodness’ sake …” she muttered, getting down on her hands and knees on the dusty brown linoleum to gather them. She noticed a fresh run in her stocking. Perfect. Just perfect.

  Nelson jumped down and gazed at Maggie intently with large, green eyes from under Mrs. Tinsley’s desk.

  “Careful, Nelson,” Maggie said to him, cleaning up the papers. “Not everyone likes cats as much as Miss Stewart and I do. Don’t let the Tinzer catch you here.” The Churchills’ pets roamed the offices with impunity. While everyone tolerated them, some, like Mrs. Tinsley, weren’t pleased.

  A few of the sections had flipped open. There was the crossword-puzzle page, with the ubiquitous clothing adverts. Demure day dresses with silk flowers at the neck, straw hats with ribbons, and strappy shoes. Good Lord, is that what we’re going to be wearing? If we have enough rations to spare, that is. “Make do and mend” is more like it, she thought, contemplating her own brown cotton dress with the white piping. It was old and not in the least fashionable, but it was relatively clean and freshly pressed.

  Maggie looked at the advert, then looked again, closer this time. She blinked. Those weren’t stitches—at least, they weren’t just stitches. Those tiny little thread marks on the hems of the skirts were dots and dashes. Or were they?

  Code?

  No, of course not. That would be insane.

  She closed the section and pushed it away.

  Murphy went back to his boardinghouse to change into his priest’s robes once again. Granted, they were the robes of a Catholic priest, not Anglican, but he doubted anyone would notice.

  He made his way to St. Paul’s Cathedral. “Good afternoon, Father,” two matronly women said as they passed him on the marble stairs leading up to the magnificent Baroque structure. Wren’s immense classical dome, with its golden cross, was held aloft by two tiers of double Corinthian columns, set between two Renaissance-inspired towers.

  He tipped his hat and gave a charming grin. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

  The very size of the cathedral was always a shock. He made his way down the soaring space of the nave, padding softly over the black-and-white diamond-shaped marble tiles. Most of the windows had been boarded up for safety during bombings, leaving the atmosphere dimmer, softer, and cooler.

  He walked past the elaborately carved choir benches, past the elevated murals of saints and prophets, beneath gold, bronze, and indigo Byzantine-style mosaics of angels of the dome, and beyond the enormous Gibbons organ, to the crypts’ entrance.

  Checking carefully that he wasn’t being watched, he went down a flight of steep and dark stairs, down and down, until he reached a large hallway. He took a series of turns until he found himself in a small room, dank and dimly lit. There, he pulled out a golden watch from a deep pocket.

  It was the last component of the bomb he had so assiduously built and smuggled into St. Paul’s piece by piece underneath his robes. Potassium chloride, sulfuric acid, wires, gelignite, detonator … It was all in place now.

  As he wired in the watch, which would serve as the bomb’s timer, he hummed to himself, an old Irish ditty his grandmother used to sing.

  “Never till the latest day shall the memory pass away,

  Of the gallant lives thus given for our land;

  But on the cause must go, amidst joy and weal and woe,

  Till we make our Isle a nation free and grand.

  ‘God save Ireland!’ said the heroes;

  ‘God save Ireland’ said they all.

  Whether on the scaffold high

  Or the battlefield we die,

  Oh, what matter when for Erin dear we fall!”

  Gran, you’d be so proud, he thought, surveying his work. And using Da’s watch, too—that’s the perfect touch.

  Before he could stop it, his thoughts returned to the night that the British had burned down his house, killing his mother. He’d hidden in the shed and finally crept out and saw the Black and Tans beating his father to the ground, then giving his lifeless form another savage kick before divesting him of his wedding ring and pocket watch.

  As he hid behind the corner of the house to observe them go, eyes blank with shock, he heard one of the men. “Look, there’s a little one!”

  The other men looked, ready for another fight. “Should we get him?” one asked, not eager to leave any witnesses behind.

  “Nah, he’s not worth it, after all,” the first man said. “Here, lad. Catch!” And he threw the pocket watch through the air.

  Without thinking, Murphy’s hand reached up into the air, and he caught it before hitting the dirt path, hard. The watch was solid and warm in his small hand.

  “Something to remember your dear dad by,” the man said, cackling.

  His companions laughed. “And us, too!” one shouted as they made their way off into the darkness.

  Looping the last green, white, and orange wires around the pocket watch, he thought, This is for you, Da, and then he gave the screw a final twist.

  The day went on—there were letters to write, dictation to take, filing to do. But still Maggie couldn’t shake the unsettled feeling that she had almost seen something. As though out of the corner of her eye.

  Could it be? she thought, reaching for the newspaper again.

  No.

  No, no, no.

  Her hands found the paper, flipping it open again to the page with the advert. She couldn’t take her eyes from the stitching, the dots and dashes.

  Nelson meowed, loud and long, and came over to her. He rubbed against her ankles, purring.

  She ran her hands through her hair. “Nelson, quiet! I’m trying to think.”

  Abwehr was the German intelligence agency—the counterpart to MI-5 and MI-6. It had three distinct types of spies operating in Britain. The first, known as the S-Chain, consisted of agents who entered the country with false British identities and engaged in spying. R-Chain agents were third-country nationals—neither British nor German—who entered Britain legally, collected intelligence, and reported their findings back to Hamburg or Berlin. Then there were the V-Chain agents—sleeper agents who melted seamlessly into English life, waiting to be contacted and activated.

  Malcolm Pierce had been waiting for years.

  In the bedroom of his apartment, he double-checked to make sure his blackout curtains were completely closed. Then he locked the bedroom door.

  To the casual observer, the bedroom looked unremarkable. There was striped green paper on the walls, a mahogany four-poster bed, and gold-framed paintings of foxes and hounds. There were no personal mementos or photographs. A large bay window provided an excellent lookout onto the street below. And in the closet, hidden underneath piles and piles of merino and cashmere sweaters wrapped in tissue, was a suitcase radio.

  Pierce had been living in London under an assumed name for almost a decade, but he still found himself longing for the strong black coffee and baumkuchen of his childhood. He shook off the thought and took down the suitcase, placing it next to the window for optimal reception. He opened the lid and switched it on.

  Every week, on Monday nights at ten, he switched on the radio and listened for fifteen minutes. If the higher-ups in Berlin had orders for him, that’s how they’d contact him.

  Every Monday night for ten years he’d opened his suitcase by the window and listened. Every Monday night he had pen, paper, and codebook ready, just in case. And nearly every Monday night, all he’d heard was this emp
ty hiss of the airwaves. The communiqués he did receive were always short and sporadic.

  Tonight, however, would be different. The message had been placed in the newspaper advert. Claire had clipped it and sent it to the contact in Norway, who’d posted it on to Berlin. And tonight he would receive his orders.

  After what seemed like an interminable wait, the radio sputtered to life.

  The operator in Hamburg typed out code, fast and staccato. Pierce wrote it down, then asked the operator to repeat the message, standard protocol. She did, and he acknowledged and signed off.

  It took Pierce several more minutes with the codebook to decode the message.

  When he did, he held it in shaking hands and stared at it in incredulity and wonder.

  Bedienhandlung die Zuversicht.

  Translated, it read: Execute Operation Hope.

  “John?”

  John looked up from the pool of light from his green-glass banker’s lamp, which illuminated the neat stack of papers on his wooden desk in the private secretaries’ underground office.

  There was a large black-and-white sign admonishing Quiet, please, propped up against a metal pipe. Next to it hung a gas mask. David’s desk, on the other side of the room, was a mess, covered with a paper proclaiming in large block-print letters, For the love of GOD and COUNTRY, do NOT TOUCH. A clock with a white face and black Roman numerals ticked off the seconds loudly, while a tiny metal fan recirculated the stale, warm air.

  “Yes?” he said, his angular face breaking into a smile.

  Maggie looked down at the scrap of newspaper in her hand, then back at John’s desk. He had a cubby with shelves marked The Prime Minister, Air Ministry, Secret, Most Secret, and The King.

  She looked back down at the clipping in her hand, ink coming off on her fingers. A women’s fashion advertisement, no less. It’s preposterous, she thought. She could just picture Snodgrass’s reaction.

  “Maggie?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Just …”

  “Yes?”

  She turned back around and sighed. She trusted John—she did. He’d stuck up for her in front of Snodgrass, after all. She walked a few steps forward and handed him the newspaper clipping.