Mr. Churchill's Secretary (24 page)

T
HE NEXT DAY
, after a breakfast of powdered eggs and brackish tea at the University Arms, Maggie and David set out for Trinity College. Even with the wartime indignities—stripped metal off staircases, ad hoc vegetable gardens, air-raid shelters, and boarded-up windows—Cambridge was a beautiful place. The sky overhead was a pale blue worthy of John Constable, with wispy, cirrus clouds. The warm wind smelled fresh and loamy. All of the oxygen went to Maggie’s brain, making her feel light-headed and invigorated.

“The Wren Library,” David said, pointing at a building with soaring proportions that looked to be carved from ivory.

“How do you know? I thought you were an Oxford man!”

“Brief fling with a Cambridge coxswain. Travesty, I know.”

“Ah,” she said, realizing what David was confirming. “Yes.”

“I thought maybe you’d guessed, but I wasn’t sure.”

“When did you first realize your”—
How does one phrase this?
—“your preference?”

They were strolling alone in a Trinity courtyard; the only company was a burbling marble fountain and two
tiny brown sparrows, who twittered and preened in the water.

“I believe the current term is ‘like that.’ ” He looked at her and smiled, letting her know it was all right to have asked. “For example, when did you know you were ‘like that’? And just for the record, I always knew.”

“My aunt Edith is”—she’d never said it out loud before—“ ‘like that,’ too. She’s had someone special in her life for years, another professor.”

“Ah.” David processed the information. “Was it strange at all?”

“No, not really. I mean, yes, it was strange, but only because I was raised by my aunt, who’s more or less a mad scientist, and not my parents. Not because of anything else. And just for the record, I knew about your … preference.”

“Really?” David cocked an eyebrow.

“Sarah mentioned she wanted to set you up with someone in the company—Dimitri, I think.”

“Ah, yes, Sarah,” he said. “Sarah’s always trying to find me dates—men from the Sadler’s Wells, usually.”

“And Paige knew,” Maggie said.

“Paige,” he said, shaking his head. “Paige certainly loved to flirt. And I was around and, well, safe, I suppose you’d say. Not that I minded, of course.”

“Yes, Paige certainly loved to be the center of attention.” They were silent, remembering. It was still raw.

“And John?”

“Yes, John knows. He’s my best friend, after all.”

“And there’s never been …” Maggie didn’t think so, but she just wanted to make sure.

“No, John likes girls, all right. Just doesn’t put too much time and effort into it. Too busy with work these days.”

Maggie decided not to mention the awkward evening at LSE and the night in the café’s basement—the night that had been overshadowed by Paige’s death.

Instead, she changed the subject. “So, how does it … I mean, is there someone in your life now?”

David made puppy eyes behind his glasses. “No, I’m all on my lonesome these days, I’m afraid. Although there was, at one time, a very nice chap from the Treasury department.”

Maggie’s eyebrows shot up. “Fred Gibson?”

“Freddie,” David said with a wry smile. “Freddie, Freddie … Didn’t work out, though.” David sighed with mock drama. “And now, poor me, I’m all alone.”

“But how do you … meet?”

“My dear Maggie, do you think I only ever see you lot? Please!” He grinned. “I’m quite the man about town, you know.”

She laughed and shook her head.
Of course
. “And you always knew?”

“Always. I always knew. And my parents, bless their hearts, have always had enough sense to look the other way. They don’t ask too many questions, the dears.” David’s face quickly became serious. “But, Maggie, it’s not as though the age of Oscar Wilde is really so long ago.” Even though they were alone in the courtyard, his voice dropped to a low whisper. “It’s still considered a crime, and people are still being sent to prison. Or mental institutions, where they’re dosed with hormone injections. And since I’m working in Whitehall, of all places, it’s not exactly something I’ll ever be able to shout from the rooftops.”

Maggie patted his back. “Not right now. But maybe someday.”

“Maybe,” he said, and pushed up his glasses. But he didn’t sound convinced.

*  *  *

They walked into the bracing wind along the empty cobblestone paths, through Trinity College’s quadrangles and bijoux buildings, over vast expanses of rough green lawn and victory gardens. They passed two lines of pale-faced slender young choristers in snowy white ruffs, their red gowns flapping in the breeze. Finally, they reached Neville’s Court—the dining hall.

As they passed through the doors into the cavernous wood-paneled space with the long tables, Maggie suddenly felt very small, gauche, and shabby. She looked up into the soaring rafters and let out a sigh. After all, this was where Sir Isaac Newton dined.

“Just a dining hall. With the same horrible English food as everywhere else. They build it big to be intimidating—don’t let it get to you,” David stage-whispered. Maggie thought she could smell that day’s luncheon: shepherd’s pie and sour-apple custard.

The hall was empty—most men were part of the war effort, after all—but at the end of the hall was a small dais, the High Table, where wizened dons in black robes were beginning to disperse after their meal. Maggie tried to walk lightly, to stop her heels from tapping so loudly on the floor.

“Sir, pardon me,” Maggie said, going to the don with the kindest eyes. “My name is Maggie Hope, and this is David Greene. I’m trying to locate someone.”

A few eyebrows raised, but the don stopped and looked down through his horn-rimmed glasses. “Most of the boys are off serving King and Country, my dear,” he said with a twinkle. He had thinning silver hair and rosacea across his cheeks and nose.

“No, it’s not that,” she spluttered, “it’s—”

“We’re looking for Professor Edmund Hope,” David cut in gracefully. “A colleague said he might have returned
to Trinity. Would you happen to have seen him recently?”

“Edmund Hope,” the don said slowly. “Edmund Hope. That’s a name I seem to be hearing quite a bit these days.”

He looked at David and Maggie as they exchanged glances. The eyes weren’t twinkling now; instead, they looked steely and hard. “Follow me,” he said. “We need to speak in private.”

Don Anthony Collier’s office was dignified and imposing. A stained-glass window picturing St. George and the dragon was crisscrossed by heavy black tape, and a reproduction of William Blake’s
The Good and Evil Angels
hung behind the large golden oak desk.

“Please have a seat, Miss Hope, Mr. Greene,” he said, gesturing toward two brown-leather chairs.

Maggie and David took their seats, and he did the same, behind the desk.

“Edmund Hope was a student here before the war. The other war. Brilliant, as I recall.”

“He was my father,” Maggie said.

Don Collier folded large liver-spotted hands. “I see.”

David cleared his throat. “Miss Hope has been under the assumption that her father passed away in 1916—in a car accident. But she has reason to believe that he might still be alive. One of his colleagues suggested he might have returned here, sir.”

The don knit his fingers together and regarded them from under bushy eyebrows. Maggie’s hands shook slightly, and she folded them firmly in her lap, to keep them still. After an interminable wait, he said, “And you both—who are you? What is it you do?”

“I—I work for the Prime Minister, sir. I’m one of the typists.”

“And I’m a private secretary to the P.M.”

Don Collier swiveled in his desk chair. “I’ll need a moment,” he said, waving them out. “Just wait outside. Shan’t be long.”

David and Maggie shared a look, then went out into the hall, leaning against wood-paneled walls. “What do you think it all means?” Maggie whispered.

“Don’t know,” David replied. “But surely he must know something—otherwise, he’d have sent us on our way at once.”

Maggie felt light-headed.

Finally, the door opened.

“Well, I called over to some friends in Whitehall, and it seems that a certain Miss Hope and Mr. Greene are indeed gainfully employed by the office of the Prime Minister. However, the powers that be would like you to give up this goose chase and return to your duties.”

That’s what you’re saying, but what’s really going on?
Maggie thought, a prickle of adrenaline running through her.
Obviously, we’re onto something. And not only are we onto something, but there are some higher-ups who don’t want us to get any further and find out anything more. But—why?
“Sir, does that mean that my father’s alive?”

“Your father is dead, Miss Hope,” Don Collier said. “I’m dreadfully sorry for your loss, my dear. It’s time for you to move on.”

Michael Murphy lit a cigarette and blew three smoke rings into the air, each smaller than the last. It was the first time he’d ever been allowed over. Claire would never have let him, except he had a shared bath at the boardinghouse, and with all they had to do, they couldn’t afford anyone seeing her make her transformation. So she sneaked Murphy in through the back
garden and then up what had once been the servants’ staircase. She knew the others were at work.

Claire was sitting in front of a white vanity with a blue-taffeta ruffle and a tarnished mirror with etched roses. An opened package of red hair dye lay on the shelf, along with a bag of cosmetics—a silver tube of eye shadow, a worn-down cake of black mascara, a stubby scarlet lipstick. For her hair there were Kirby grips and sugar-and-water setting lotion.

She felt a surge of excitement as she completed her toilette, almost as if she were an actress in a play, about to go on on opening night.
It’s time
, she thought.
It’s finally time. We’re really about to pull this off
.

Maggie and David walked slowly back to his car.

“Bastard!” Maggie said, fuming and fighting the urge to kick the tires in frustration. “He knows. He
knows
, and he’s just not saying.…”

“Maggie,” David said gently, “it’s not his fault. There’s a war on, you know. Everything’s a secret these days. Information doled out in little crumbs …”

“War,” Maggie said, stopping suddenly. “That’s it—war!” She hugged David and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “War! Oh, you brilliant,
brilliant
man!”

“Well, yes, of course,” David said, pleased. “But what are you getting at, Magster?”

“You just said it—there’s a war on.”

“Common knowledge.”

“And if my father is alive, and evidence certainly suggests it, he’ll most likely be doing his part for the war effort.”

David’s eyes widened. “You think he’s a soldier?”

“Not in the way you’re thinking. You know about Bletchley Park, of course.”

“Bletchley? Certainly. That’s where all of the mathematicians
and the like have been gathered.…” His eyes widened. “Suffering Shukra—you think he’s a cryptographer?”

“I think it’s probable,” Maggie said. “Given his expertise in mathematics. How far is Bletchley from here?”

“Bletchley.” David stared off. “Small town on the Varsity line, halfway between Cambridge and Oxford. Right on the A-Five to London. Used to pass it on my way to see Wesley.” He looked at Maggie. “Uh, you know. The rower.”

“How long do you think it will take?”

“Not much more than a few hours, probably.” He squinted at his watch. “We’ll have the afternoon and evening there, but then …”

“We have to get back by tomorrow morning, bright and early, I know,” she said, picturing the look of disapproval on Mrs. Tinsley’s face.

“But it’s an absolutely brilliant idea,” David said. “And if he’s there, we’ll find him!”

Maggie had her doubts. “You’re awfully optimistic,” she said. “There’s probably all kinds of security that even we can’t get past.”

“You’ll see,” he said. “Just wait.”

Claire contemplated her reflection in the mirror. The red hair really didn’t do much for her complexion, but it looked fine. More than fine. She could really pass for Maggie—especially in a hat with a veil.

Poor Maggie
, she thought.
She’s so earnest, so well intentioned. She thinks so damned hard about everything. Thank goodness she’s gone off to Oxford or Cambridge or wherever. The timing’s perfect
.

She looked around, feeling suddenly wistful. They’d had good times here, it was true. What had started out as an accidental meeting, and a friendship of convenience,
had turned into something more. Half the time, Claire had forgotten she’d been playing a role. She’d even felt a pang of guilt when she and Murphy had faked her death.
Maggie’s a sweet girl
, she realized, feeling more than a touch of shame over her deception.
A sincere girl. Loyal to a fault
. She sighed.
Still, she’ll get over it. Someday
. Who was she trying to fool?
Well, maybe not, but the deed will be done, regardless
.