Mr. Churchill's Secretary (36 page)

In the dim light, Archer’s face looked unusually moist. “I—I think I need to sit down.”

“Me, too,” Maggie echoed, the enormity of what had almost happened pressing upon her for the first time. “Me, too.” Then she found herself adding, “I don’t suppose anyone has any tea?”

*  *  *

David and John were in the crowd outside, and they rushed over to Maggie when they saw her emerge from the cathedral and walk down the steps with Frain and Archer. “Maggie, are you all right?” John asked, his brows knit with concern.

“You look like the devil,” David offered.

John shot him a look.

“Well, she does,” he mumbled.

“I’m fine,” Maggie said. In a low voice, she added, “We found McCormack; he brought us to Devlin. There was no override key, so we had to choose which wire to cut.…”

Maggie looked up at the dome of St. Paul’s with its colonnaded drum, stone lantern, and golden ball and cross, soaring high above them. In the middle distance it shimmered against the brilliantly blue morning sky.

People walked past Maggie, John, and David, talking and joking and laughing. Oblivious to what had almost happened.

The dome, more than two hundred years old, stood silent and steady.

Spent from anxiety and worry, they leaned against the wooden barricades. A few men in dark double-breasted suits, long umbrellas tucked firmly under their arms, walked by quickly. Housewives in flowered dresses, lips red with lipstick, carrying woven willow baskets, came from the shops with short steps. An exhausted-looking mother reached inside a pram and gave her wailing baby back his pacifier, while a young girl, her glossy auburn hair in soft pin curls, took a soldier’s arm. A few gray pigeons flapped and pecked.

Traffic passed by, and a black taxi beeped in annoyance at a couple who’d stopped to kiss in the middle of the crosswalk. An older woman with perfect posture in a russet felt hat stood still and averted her eyes as her well-groomed corgi relieved himself against a car tire.

Maggie wanted to climb atop the barricade and shout, “Don’t you realize what almost happened today?”

And then she thought about Sarah and Paige and Claire and her father—and even Richard Snodgrass, who was a far better man than she’d ever given him credit for being.

This—this is the world we’re fighting for
.

John said, as though reading her mind, “And they’ll never know.”

“And that’s as it should be,” Maggie said. People had enough to worry about, what with the war and being bombed most nights and wondering and waiting to find out if their loved ones in the military would return or not. They didn’t need to know about every near miss.

“So what happened?” David asked.

“Obviously, nothing,” Frain replied.

“And you—you’re all right?” Maggie asked her father. It was a little early to be hugging.

Or so she thought.

He suddenly enveloped her in a tight embrace. “I’m fine, just fine. And you?”

“Ouch!”

He looked at Maggie with concern.

“Arm’s still a bit sore,” Maggie said. “But I’m just fine. More than fine,” she said lightly, surprised but pleased by the hug.

“Well, at least Saint Paul’s will be standing tomorrow,” John said. “And the evildoers are taken care of.”

“For now. We’ve got tabs on at least thirty other suspicious groups,” Frain said. “Not to spoil the moment.”

“But today, at least, we saved the world,” David said. “I say, let’s have a drink.”

Snodgrass grimaced. “A tad early, even for you—isn’t it, Mr. Greene?”

As they followed Frain and the others to the cars,
Snodgrass piped up: “Do I need to remind you that we all must return to the office? There’s—”

“—a war on, you know,” David, John, and Maggie chimed in without turning around.

Frain stopped abruptly and then turned, causing the group behind him to stop as well. He glared at them all. “While I’m certainly aware there’s a war on, and do commend your work ethic, I believe you are all in a state of shock. Therefore, I suggest at least taking the rest of today off to recuperate. Then you may return to work. Professor Hope, your absence from Bletchley can be covered. We’ll return you to your post after you’ve had a chance to rest.”

“Fine,” Snodgrass amended. “You may have today off. But don’t expect
me
to tell Mrs. Tinsley.”

He walked past Frain, muttering, “That woman scares me.”

Murphy had eluded the agents tracking him yet again, and was enjoying a congratulatory cup of tea in a café not far from St. Paul’s.
The better to get a good view
, he thought as he slipped into a table by the window, which afforded a vista of the dome rising over the main streets leading from St. Paul’s. The tea in the dimpled white cup was as thick and brown as shoe polish.

“Would you like anything else?” the waitress asked.

“I’m fine, love,” he replied. “Just the bill, when you have a minute.”

He looked at his watch.

The wireless was on—bloody cricket scores.

He drummed his fingers on the table. There should be something by now. Some news over the wireless of the Prime Minister’s demise. Civilians running in fear from the destruction of St. Paul’s.

But the dome still stood. Inspiring. Comforting. Infuriating.

As his watch ticked out the minutes, there was nothing. The minutes turned to ten and then an hour and then more.

The earth still spun on its axis. People went about their business. Mothers pushed babies in prams, an old grizzled gentleman walked an even more grizzled dog. A young boy holding a chocolate bar sprinted by at full speed, arms pumping, while a middle-aged shopkeeper with a round belly and short legs tried to catch him.

“God damn it,” Murphy muttered, and left some coins on the table. Did he dare make his way back to St. Paul’s?

He slipped out the door, examining faces as he did. No one familiar. He went up the street, then doubled back, trying to see if anyone was following.

Without warning, he ducked into a narrow and dark back alleyway. He ran a few paces, then let himself in one of the shop’s unlocked back doors.

Two agents in plainclothes burst into the alley, then looked around in confusion. “Bloody hell!” the taller one said. “Where’d he go now?”

The shorter one pulled out his gun as he looked behind some rubbish bins. “Damned if I know.”

Before she could join John and David in a car, Edmund pulled Maggie aside. “Margaret—”

“Maggie,” she said. “My friends call me Maggie.”

“Maggie. There’s something more you need to know.”

More?
“Yes?”
What fresh hell is this?

Frain stepped up to them. “Miss Hope, what your father is trying to say is that your home is now a crime scene.” He cleared his throat. “Miss Sanderson was in Miss Kelly’s bedroom. Apparently, she’d happened unexpectedly upon Miss Kelly and Mr. Murphy as they were adjusting her disguise.”

“So …” Maggie said slowly, realizing. “That’s why Sarah died.”

“Oh, right.” Frain looked just the slightest bit flustered. “Actually, she
didn’t
die.”

There was a collective gasp from the assembly. “What?” Maggie whispered.

Frain had the grace to let a shadow of guilt cross his face before hardening it into a professional mask again. “I let Claire think that—to humanize the death and destruction she was intent on causing. I believe that’s why she ultimately turned against Devlin.”

“So Sarah’s … alive?” Maggie’s cheeks turned crimson in anger, and her eyes filled with hot tears. “And you couldn’t have told
me
that? Here I was, after
everything
that’s happened, thinking Sarah was dead—”

“Claire Kelly had to believe she murdered her friend. And quite frankly, we didn’t know how good of an actress you were. I could take no chances with such a delicate situation.” Frain took a deep breath. “I must offer my profound apologies, Miss Hope.”

Maggie blinked.
Was the man a monster? Was he born without a heart?
Then she wiped at the tears leaking down her face. “I really don’t know what to say,” she finally replied. “How is Sarah? Where is she?”

“Miss Sanderson is recovering nicely, not to worry.”

“Thank God,” Maggie said.
Sarah
, she thought.
Sarah’s all right. Oh, thank you, God
.

Frain took a spotless cambric handkerchief from his jacket pocket and handed it to Maggie. “By the way, I took the liberty of having one of the officers pack up some of your things. Not only is the place, for the moment, a crime scene and off limits to anyone but the police, but I thought—”

“That I probably wouldn’t want to go back.” Maggie nodded. “Yes, you’re right.”
Bunking down in the Dock
, she thought.
Oh, well
.

“Margaret, Mr. Frain is putting us up at the Savoy.”

Frain cleared his throat again. “Mr. Churchill, actually, is footing the bill. In gratitude for everything you’ve done. Your father, until he returns to Bletchley, and you, until you can make other arrangements.”

They looked at her. “The Savoy.” A bath. With hot water. Clean sheets. Room service.

It took her a moment, but finally Maggie responded: “What are we waiting for?”

After Maggie had a long, hot, luxurious bath—deliberately ignoring the five-inch water mark until glistening iridescent soap suds nearly ran over the tub’s sides—she had an enormous meal that contained nothing but black-market delicacies. Then she took a long, deep sleep that lasted for hours.

She was awakened by a sharp rap at the door. Then another. Then pounding.

In a fog of sleep, she got out of bed, threw on a bathrobe, went to the door, and peered out the peephole.

It was Mr. Churchill, flanked by marines in uniform and shadowed by the ever-present Detective Sergeant Walter Thompson.

Good Lord
, she thought.
Mr. Churchill! And I’m in my dressing gown!
She slowly opened the door.

“Miss Hope!” he said, removing his hat to reveal his pink, bald head. “I’d like a word with you.”

Maggie startled. “Yes? Er, sir?”

He stood in front of her, expectant.

“Oh. Yes, sir,” she said, suddenly aware of her ratty tartan bathrobe, her uncombed hair, and the circles she knew were under her eyes. She winced inwardly, to be caught in such a state—and by the Prime Minister, no less. “Of course. Please come in, sir,” she said finally, opening the door wider and stepping aside.

He gave her a piercing look as he strode in. Then, without ado, he sat down on the burgundy brocade wing chair near the room’s window and took out a fat cigar and a monogrammed lighter. “Mr. Frain and Mr. Snodgrass have kept me informed of everything that’s been happening. Quite a busy few days for you, what?”

That was one way to put it. “Yes, sir.” What else could possibly be said in response?

“Sit! Sit down!” he thundered at her. Maggie did as she was told, sitting on the chair opposite.

He lit the cigar, drawing the air through, making the tip burn bright orange. “I’m sorry to hear what you’ve been through, Miss Hope.” He took a deep puff on the cigar and exhaled.

Maggie took a gulp of smoke-filled air and nearly choked. “Thank you, sir,” she managed.

“Taking it hard, are you?” he asked, not without sympathy.

Maggie cleared her throat and drew her robe tighter around her. “I’m—I’m fine, sir.”

“Fine. Yes, yes—of course you’re fine. We’re all fine, aren’t we?” He turned to the window and looked out at the view of the Strand below, chewing on the end of his cigar as the smoke rose around his head. “Sometimes … when I’m feeling the weight of these times … I paint,” he said. “I paint, Miss Hope! Did you know that?”

“Yes, sir.” How could she not? Some of Mr. Churchill’s paintings were hung in the Annexe. They were lovely—sunny Mediterranean landscapes and jewel-toned still lifes of ripe fruit and flowers, even a portrait of Mrs. Churchill in her younger days.

“Whenever I’m followed by the Black Dog, I paint. Do
you
paint, Miss Hope?”

Maggie was at a loss. Was Winston Churchill, the Prime Minister of England, really sitting in her hotel room, asking her about her artistic abilities?

“No, sir.” She was sure he didn’t want to hear about her problem sets and crossword puzzles.

“You should. ‘Happy are the painters, for they shall not be lonely,’ I always say.”

She was silent, listening. What was he getting at?

“Painting,” he continued, leaning back and pulling on his cigar, “is a friend in times of need. Do you understand me, Miss Hope?”

“I think so, sir.”

“It doesn’t have to be painting. It could be cooking, music. Photography. Doesn’t matter. The important thing is to KPO. Do you know what KPO means, Miss Hope?”

Of course. “Keep Plodding On, sir.”

“Absolutely right. KPO. That’s what we do, keep plodding on.”

Abruptly, he rose, gave a quick bow. Then he gestured with his cigar and walked out of the room. Maggie scrambled to her feet and followed.

“And, Miss Hope?” he said at the doorway.

“Yes?”

“Meet your new roommate.”

What now?
Maggie thought.
Who else gets to see me in all my bathrobed glory?
But as Mr. Churchill walked away, a tall, slender figure entered the room.

“Sarah!”
Maggie shrieked, reaching out to hug her. “Sarah!”

“Ooof,”
Sarah said, nearly knocked over by Maggie’s attack. “Careful, love.”

“Oh, sorry, sorry,” Maggie said, releasing the girl from her embrace. “Are you all right? How are you? Good Lord, Sarah.”

“Can’t complain.” She gingerly reached up to her head and patted it through a white gauze bandage. “Better than the alternative, you know.”

Maggie shook her head in disbelief as she closed the
door. “Come, sit down, now,” she said, leading Sarah over to the chair the P.M. had just vacated, and sitting down opposite. “You know, that bastard Frain let us think you were dead.”

“Well, it was touch-and-go for a while there,” Sarah said, removing her hat and setting it on the walnut side table. “But as you know, we dancers may look pretty, but we’re strong as steel on the inside. I wasn’t going to let a little bump on the head finish me off. Not when I might be dancing Odile again.”