A Gathering of Spies (21 page)

“Excellent,” Sir John Frederick Bailey said. “Well, then! I'll be in my study if you need me.”

“You'll spend the night in there, sir?”

“Yes, I think I can manage.”

Gladys summoned her courage. “I'd be glad to let you have
my
bed for the evening, sir, if you like.”

“No, I'll struggle through,” he said. “But thank you for the thought, Gladys.” He peered at her through his glasses with his hazel eyes. “Such a thoughtful girl,” he said. “Your mother would be proud.”

Gladys, whose mother had died when she was two years old, said nothing.

“Well,” Sir John said, “you know where the washbasin is, Gladys. I'll leave you to it.”

THE WAR OFFICE, WHITEHALL

Taylor put a cigarette in his mouth. He lit it and dropped the match into a glass ashtray on his desk. He sucked on the inside of his cheeks for a moment before exhaling, which, to Winterbotham, indicated that something had not gone well.

“Out with it,” Winterbotham snapped.

Taylor exhaled. “She's gone,” he said.

“Impossible.”

“So one would think. But we've checked every square foot within thirty miles of the lorry and found neither hide nor hair. She couldn't cover more distance than that, Harry, in the time she's had, even in the peak of health. If we're to believe that she walked away from that wreckage—”

“Of course she did,” Winterbotham said.

“Then she must have drowned somewhere. Otherwise, the dogs at least would have caught her scent. I'm canceling the search effort while I still have a favor or two left to call in. Tomorrow we'll start to drag the lakes and streams.”

“For God's sake, Andrew, we've almost got her.”

Taylor shook his head. “What we've got, Harry, is a hundred men working on a single case. Their agencies want them back, and I can't justify keeping them any longer. Don't forget, there's—”

“I haven't forgotten.”

“We can't keep extending the perimeter to forty miles, or fifty, or sixty, until we get her. It's simply not feasible. Besides, if she's still alive, we'll nab her at Whitley Bay—five days from now.”

Winterbotham leaned forward. “Do it now, Andrew. Extend the perimeter to a hundred miles and knock on every door.”

“Harry, I know you'd like to have your chance at Ruth—”

“That has nothing to do with it.”

“We'll get her at Whitley Bay, and that's that. If you were in my place, I've no doubt that you'd do the same.”

Winterbotham regarded him icily. He seemed on the verge of speaking. Then he leaned back in his chair and produced his pipe. He began to pack it.

“Agreed?” Taylor said.

Winterbotham didn't look up. “Agreed,” he said.

PETERBOROUGH, NORFOLK

The woman had been cleaned, dressed in fresh clothes—Gladys's clothes, of course—and bandaged in half a dozen places. But even with a bandage on her temple, a terrible burn on half of her face, and a bloody scratch across her nose, her beauty shone through.

Gladys, standing in the bedroom doorway and watching the woman sleep, felt her heart sink. What hope could
she
have with Sir John with a vision such as this around?

Gladys stared at the woman until she heard the kettle whistling from the kitchen. When she went to catch it, she bumped into Sir John, who was staggering out of his study looking somewhat crumpled in the previous day's clothes.

“Oh!” she said. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

“My fault,” he mumbled, “entirely my fault.” He stepped aside so that she could move into the kitchen ahead of him.

“I was just looking in on our guest,” Gladys said, moving to the kettle.

“How is she?”

“Still sleeping. But more easily than last night.”

“Good. What can you manage for breakfast, Gladys?”

“Porridge,” she said with a smile. “Perhaps a bit of sausage mash, if you like.”

“I would, very much. For some reason I've quite an appetite today.”

“Shall we wake her and have her join us?”

“No, let the poor thing sleep. But make some extra, Gladys. We'll give her a shake as soon as we've finished.”

Sir John snapped his fingers directly under the woman's nose. He did it twice, then gave her a quick, short pat on the cheek.

“Here she comes,” he said. “Here she is. Good morning, young lady. How do you feel?”

The woman's eyes went from Sir John Frederick Bailey's face to Gladys's. They sparked with something like panic.

“Never fear,” Bailey said soothingly. “You're among friends. You must have gotten a bit too close to a pickle barrel last night—but you're fine, just a bump on the noggin. Here, now, don't look so distressed. You're among friends, I tell you. Can you sit up?”

The woman sat up slowly, helped by his arm around her shoulder. “Where am I?” she said.

“You are in Peterborough, madame, in my house, and I am Sir John Frederick Bailey, a fellow of the Royal Institute of British Architects. And in reply to your next question: You arrived here under your own power, last night. We had nothing to do with it whatsoever.”

She blinked muzzily.

“As I said, you've a bit of a bump, and a bit of a burn. But nothing more serious than that, I assure you. The bandages are mostly for show. I expect you'll make a full recovery.”

The woman looked again from Bailey to Gladys—with less panic in her eyes, Gladys thought, and more genuine interest.

“You took me in?” she said.

“It seemed the only decent thing to do.”

“That's very Christian of you, sir.”

“It is my honest pleasure, young lady. Do you mind if I ask your name?”

“Agnes, sir. Agnes Bevin. From Cardiff.”

“Cardiff! What on earth brings you to Norfolk?”

“I was on my way to pay a visit to my sister. In Leicester.”

“By railroad?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder,” Sir John said. “Were any trains derailed last night? Do you recall, Miss Bevin, the circumstances of your accident?”

“The last thing I remember … now, let me think. We were on the train; we had just passed through Huntingdon; then the lights went down and we slowed; they told us that the planes were coming, we pulled the shades …”

“Huntingdon!” he said.

“Yes.”

“You've wandered all that way?”

She pressed a hand to her temple. “I can't quite … To be honest, I've a bit of a headache.”

“My apologies, Miss Bevin. I am remiss in my duties as host. We have a breakfast for you, if you feel up to it. The interrogation can continue after you've eaten.”

She gave him a wan smile. “I'll try, sir,” she said.

“There we go. Gladys,” he said, standing, “take our guest's other arm, if you don't mind, and we'll get her to the breakfast table, where we can talk like civilized people.”

Agnes Bevin ate like a horse.

Gladys Lockhart, finding excuse after excuse to remain puttering around the kitchen, took a bit of dark satisfaction from the woman's appetite. She wouldn't keep her figure long, not if she made a habit of eating like that. When she realized the direction her thoughts were going, however, Gladys cut them off guiltily. When had she become so vindictive? It wasn't right to take satisfaction from another person's hunger. Perhaps things were worse in Cardiff than they were in Norfolk. In any case, Sir John, as Gladys well knew, had it better than most. He received eggs every single week, and four ounces of meat, which was, in most places, the ration for an entire family. Not that he didn't deserve the special treatment. After all, he was a knight of the empire, a brilliant and accomplished—

“Architect,” he was telling the woman now. “I don't mean to boast, of course. But I was educated at Uppingham, and immediately upon graduation became a lecturer at the Liverpool School of Architecture—the youngest lecturer in the distinguished history of that institution.” He smiled, took off his glasses, and rubbed them on his sleeve. “In short enough order I became a fellow, specializing in civic design, and then a full professor. Now, you must be wondering how I received my title. I established a council, you see, for the preservation of rural England. My ideas were really quite roundly embraced …”

The woman, forking another bite of sausage mash into her mouth, hardly seemed to be paying attention.

“In any case,” Bailey said, clearing his throat, “let me apologize, Miss Bevin. I've become carried away. I must be boring you terribly.”

She glanced up. “Not at all,” she said, and then returned her attention to her plate.

Gladys couldn't find any other task in the kitchen that required her continued presence. She left, giving Sir John a slight bow, which he ignored. He was already moving on to his conference with Chamberlain, one of his very favorite stories.

“You could see that the man had just about had it, Agnes, from the way his hand trembled when he reached out for the handshake.…”

Gladys made several trips between the house and the backyard to fetch laundry, detergent, and a washboard. Then, kneeling in the grass near the Anderson shelter, she began to scrub. Flecks of soap danced around her in the wind.

As she worked, she looked up from time to time through the small kitchen window. The woman—Agnes—and Sir John Frederick Bailey were still at the table, both sipping cups of tea. Gladys frowned. How had that happened? She had never seen Sir John prepare his own cup of tea. She hadn't even believed that he possessed the necessary skills.

Perhaps Agnes had done it for him.

How wonderful of her
, Gladys thought.

A few minutes later she looked up again, expecting that Sir John would have proceeded to his study by now. Work, after all, was his highest priority. He was not likely to dawdle too long after breakfast over cups of tea, no matter how attractive his houseguest.

But Sir John, she saw, was still at the table, laughing at something Agnes had said. As Gladys watched, he reached out and placed his hand, for a moment, on Agnes's thigh. Agnes was wearing one of Gladys's skirts; the material bunched up between his fingers when he squeezed. After another moment, he took his hand back, still laughing. Agnes began to laugh with him, musically.

Gladys bit her lip.

She bent over the washboard again and scrubbed until the shirt in her hand tore with a loud burr.

12

THE FINCH PUB, WHITEHALL

The dart left Officer James Kendall's hand, described a wobbling arc, and then, to great general laughter, missed the board altogether and lodged itself in the wall.

“One pint too many!” somebody called jubilantly, and another said, “Fifty-one-by-Fives not your game, eh, lad? Perhaps cribbage!”

Kendall took a step back from the line, smiling. “I'm all in,” he announced.

“Thank God. Now, let's play some darts!”

Kendall pointed at the heckler, still smiling, and wagged his finger back and forth in mock warning. Then he found his pint, abandoned at the bar, and watched as a game of '01 got under way.

He became slowly aware of a presence standing just behind him—a large man smelling vaguely of citrus. After a few moments, the man said: “There's no need to throw so hard, lad. Leave your back foot on the floor. If she's sticking in the wood of the wall, she'll stick in the bristle without a problem.”

“I appreciate the advice,” Kendall said tightly, “but the fault isn't mine. It's the darts. They're brass.”

“Strange, then, that the others don't seem to have any problem with them.”

Kendall turned, opening his mouth. The words caught in his throat when he saw that it was Winterbotham standing behind him, a pint of bitter in one hand, an orange-scented pipe in the other. Kendall had last seen Winterbotham out in the countryside, surrounded by debris, organizing a search party with Taylor. He had not expected to see Winterbotham here, tonight, standing in the Finch.

He choked nonsense for a moment, then stammered: “Forgive me, sir—please—I didn't realize it was you.”

“No need to apologize, Kendall. You hadn't said anything yet.”

“Er—yes, sir.”

“Let's find a booth, lad, if you can spare a moment.”

They found a booth under a row of windows covered with gas shades. Kendall piled into one side, Winterbotham the other. They lifted their pints, clinked the rims together, and drank. Kendall produced a pack of papers and a small pouch of tobacco. In one corner of the pub, somebody started in on “Roll Out the Barrel,” drunkenly off-key.

“I'm a bit surprised to see you here, sir. Mingling with the commoners and all that.”

Winterbotham smiled. “I would take offense at that, son, if it wasn't true. As a matter of fact, I'm only here because of you.”

“Because of me?”

“Your wife informed me that you were working late. So of course I came directly to the Finch.”

Kendall flushed. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I
was
working late. I only just arrived here.”

“I believe you, Kendall. Settle down.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“You've got to stop apologizing, Kendall.”

“Yes, sir. I …”

He caught himself.

“Good,” Winterbotham said. He drew on his pipe; it had gone out. He lit it again, exhaled a smoke ring, and said: “What is it you're working on at the War Office that requires you to stay so late?”

Kendall finished rolling his cigarette, licked it, put it between his lips, and leaned forward to let Winterbotham light it for him.

“I'm not certain I'm at liberty to discuss that, sir—no offense intended.”

“None taken. Tell me if I'm in the vicinity, Kendall. You're preparing a trap for the woman, to be sprung on Sunday morning at Whitley Bay. I'm part of the effort myself, although Taylor and I are at odds, just a bit, on how exactly to proceed.”