The Nurse's War (13 page)

‘Minns. It’s Minns on the door.’

His colleague hardly paused for breath ‘—that man Minns has been watching us for days. He’s been listening, too, and he understands Hindi. Why else would a man who speaks the language rent the room above? He belongs to the British Secret Service, for sure. He even looks like one of their agents.’

‘He looks down and out,’ Hari Mishra said mildly.

‘But that’s a disguise, can’t you see? He’s got to look rough, he’s got to fit in. The area’s wretched and this place is a hovel.’ He kicked the nearest chair in disgust.

Hari couldn’t disagree. Looking too closely at the dirty, brown space depressed him, so he tried not to look. Instead he spent as much time as he could reading. Anything that came to hand: used newspapers Rohan picked up from
park benches, odd books he stole from second-hand bookshops, flyers that came through the door. It made the wait more bearable and his English had improved by leaps and bounds. When this was all over, he thought … He understood he had to remain within doors—his dark face made him conspicuous—and it would only be until they could put their plan into action, but his incarceration was beginning to grate. And Rohan Sweetman didn’t make things any easier. He was a wearing companion, always serious, always wound tight, lecturing him endlessly on Indian independence and the perfidy of the British. That was the strangest aspect of the whole business, if you thought about it. Shouldn’t he, Hari, be the one doing the lecturing? He was Indian after all while Rohan’s parentage was a mystery. The man passed for English, but his true background remained unknown and that was probably as well. Hari had no wish to delve too deeply. They had a job to do in London and the sooner they did it and left the country, the better.

‘He wouldn’t be living here unless he had a purpose, and we’re the purpose.’ Rohan was still harping on the man upstairs.

‘Maybe,’ Hari conceded, ‘but the woman might have nothing to do with it.’

‘She has. That’s evident. She’s his contact. You’ve got to be stupid not to see that. He’s a British agent and she’s his contact. A nurse is the perfect cover. Nobody suspects a nurse and in that uniform she can move around
without drawing attention to herself. It’s clear what’s been happening.’ Sweetman walked to the window, then back to his chair, then back again to the window. ‘This Minns, though I doubt that’s his real name, tells her what he’s overheard listening at the door or through the floorboards. Then she contacts someone in Baker Street to relay the information.’

Hari shook his head. ‘It seems a bit far-fetched. Why doesn’t he report straight to Baker Street?’

‘Far-fetched!’ his colleague almost screeched, then remembered his earlier words and lowered his voice. ‘It’s the way they work. She went to the Baker Street building, didn’t she, asked for a man who’s in the Indian section there? I heard her with my own ears so I know that for a fact.’

Hari Mishra looked downcast. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he conceded gloomily.

‘Of course, I’m right. Why else would she go there? It’s nowhere near where she works or lives. She can’t know the man personally, so what other reason could she have for going to meet him?’

‘Except she didn’t. You said she left the building without seeing him.’

Rohan looked temporarily discomfited. ‘I can’t work that out. Maybe she left a message for him to meet her outside, and then the air raid siren went and she had to shelter in the station. But he followed her, he definitely followed her. And they did meet. I saw them.’

‘And she talked to him?’

‘Yes,’ his companion growled. ‘I couldn’t prevent it.’ He began to pace up and down again, pulling all the while at the thin moustache that lay beached on his upper lip.

‘So all you did by pushing her, was to warn her that we know she’s an agent.’ Hari felt a glow of satisfaction at having for once wrong-footed his colleague.

‘She didn’t know it was me,’ Rohan retorted. ‘She’s never seen me. I’ve been careful to keep out of sight all the time I’ve been watching her. Anyway there were so many people bunched into that station, she wouldn’t have known who’d pushed her. In all probability, she thought it was an accident.’

‘I doubt it,’ his friend muttered. ‘If she works for the Secret Service, she’d be suspicious. I reckon our cover is broken.’

Sweetman gave a loud
tsk
of exasperation. ‘One minute you’re criticising me for trying to protect us, and now you’re wailing our cover’s destroyed. You need to get a grip and
we
need to get on with the job we were sent to do. She’ll have passed on her information by now and it could be damning. We need to act before the Service can respond.’

‘When do we go?’

Rohan pointed to the ceiling, lowering his voice even further so that it was barely a whisper. ‘The plan goes live the day after tomorrow. That’s when Patel has a first meeting at the Foreign Office, but only with a junior
minister. It’s the right time to strike. If my sources are right, he’ll be travelling to Whitehall in a cab. No official car.’

‘How will we manage it?’

‘Leave that to me. I’ve been working on it. Chandan Patel won’t be well guarded. It’s only an initial meeting and though the Service may fancy there’s something afoot, they won’t think the information serious enough to warrant much attention. They’ve other priorities at the moment.’

‘And what do we do with him?’ Hari whispered back.

‘We hold him—until it’s too late for him to make the meeting or any other meeting. When he doesn’t turn up, the British will say Congress aren’t serious about negotiations, and Congress will say the British are up to their old tricks and ask what the Government has done with their representative. A perfect storm, you’ll see!’

Their words were spoken softly enough that the man above them heard nothing. Gerald hadn’t been beyond his front door for two whole days. He’d locked himself in the minute he’d got back from seeing Daisy, and he intended to remain there for at least another twenty-four hours. By then there should be some news, and he would make his way as unobtrusively as possible to the corner shop in the hope of finding a letter. He was being very cautious. He hadn’t forgotten his return from the meeting in Hyde Park. He’d hovered for a moment outside the downstairs flat and listened intently. He hadn’t caught
much of what the men had been saying, but he’d sensed that the disagreements between them were coming to a head. When that happened, he must be miles away. He was still convinced they were the spies he’d told Daisy about but it was just possible they weren’t spying on him. He couldn’t be certain. The white feather they’d pushed beneath his door was clearly an omen of something bad to come, but of what he had no idea. It might be they couldn’t agree among themselves. Their situation was dubious. Would those in authority believe them if they came with some tale of a deserter living close by? Indians in the East End of London were unusual and at a time of national emergency, might be viewed with suspicion. It was more than likely they had something to hide, and that was what was staying their hands. He needed those hands to be well and truly stayed, at least for a few more days. Just long enough for Daisy to get those papers. Whatever the men were up to, they were welcome to continue. He wanted no part of it. He knew what he wanted. To sail as far away from his past as possible and reach safe harbour.

Everything depended on Daisy’s powers of persuasion and surely she could do it. Grayson Harte had always been a pushover where she was concerned. He’d known that from the moment she started talking about the district officer she’d met on-board ship coming out to India. But he’d managed to turn the tables, even when the sainted Grayson had saved her from that cobra. Somehow he’d
managed to twist the unpromising encounter to suit himself, suggesting Harte knew a little too much, had arrived on the scene a little too pat. Sowing the first seeds of doubt in her mind.

He’d always been good at manipulating. He’d had to be, growing up in such wretched surroundings. It was a survival skill he’d had to learn. From an early age, he’d manipulated his parents and they had been good people. That was it really. You could only manipulate good people, people like Daisy. Like Grayson Harte. In the past, he’d forced a young Harte to do his bidding and he would again. But the last time would be the best. Harte’s feelings for Daisy would blackmail him into organising those treasured papers. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, Gerald thought sourly, the man should be familiar with blackmail from his school days at Hanbury. Other senior boys had used physical pain to bully the younger ones to jump to their tune but he never had. He’d never needed to. He’d used guile instead. He’d discovered early that Harte was at Hanbury by virtue of his uncles. His father was dead and his mother had been left without a penny. It was the uncles who paid for his education, and that meant that Harte couldn’t afford to step out of line or he would be letting them down. Of course, he did step out of line. All boys did from time to time. But Jack Minns was there watching him, minute by minute, watching out for every slight infringement of the rules. And the rest was simple
—do this for me, do that for me, or I tell.
And the boy, conscious of the debt he owed his relatives, always did. He might be a man now, might be some crack officer in the intelligence service, but he could still make him do what he wanted. And he wanted those papers.

C
HAPTER
8

D
aisy felt tension returning as the time grew near to meet Grayson. It wasn’t too dramatic to say that her whole future depended on their meeting. If Gerald were able to leave the country, her nursing career could flourish, her life too. But if he were trapped, daily expecting a knock on the door, followed by arrest, trial and imprisonment, she could forget any chance of making good. She would be out of a job almost certainly, unless she took up service again. There was such a shortage of servants now that employers weren’t likely to be too particular about references, but even then she would have to forge her own. It would be a nightmare life, worse than anything she had known so far.

And that wasn’t her only worry. Meeting Grayson again made her ill at ease. She remembered rather too clearly their walk together, and knew she had to keep him at arm’s length. It was unfair on both of them to do anything else. A Lyons tea shop was the most unromantic setting for a tryst, but even so, she knew the encounter would be uncomfortable. If he’d been successful in his mission, she
would want to kiss him in gratitude, and if he hadn’t, he would want to kiss her in comfort. Either way, it was going to be a difficult half-hour. That was the time she’d allotted in her mind. A quick cup of tea, a brief conversation and then back to the hospital to finish the rest of her shift.

This morning she’d been on the ward long before seven, eager to get the day started. The sun had risen just as early and for once was flooding the long ward and streaking its high windows with a pink and golden glow. There were thirty beds in the room, fifteen on each side, and nurses were strictly allocated to one side or the other and not permitted to wander. Daisy gathered together several screens and walked to the furthest of her beds. She enjoyed this time of day. After the long night, patients were glad to see a fresh batch of nurses come on duty, glad to gossip, as they were made ready for breakfast.

‘How are you, my dear?’ The elderly woman’s face puckered into a wide smile and, despite her worries, Daisy smiled back.

‘Not too bad, Mrs Oliver. How was your night?’

‘Oh, you know. A few hours’ sleep and an awful lot of staring into the dark.’

A week ago, Mrs Oliver had been bombed out of her house and lost everything: her home, her possessions, and her husband. She was recovering from broken bones, but her broken heart was something else.

Daisy balanced an enamel bowl on the small bedside table. ‘Let’s see if a warm wash will perk you up.’

‘It always does,’ the old lady said, cheerfully, ‘leastways when you do it, love. Not too keen on some of the others.’ And she nodded meaningfully down the ward where Lydia was impatiently clanging screens together.

Daisy ignored the hint and began to wipe the lined face with a warm flannel. ‘I’m afraid this towel has seen better days,’ she apologised, gently patting the woman dry. The hospital’s linen had not been replaced and much of it was now thin and rough.

‘Like me then.’ Mrs Oliver gave a hoarse chuckle. ‘So will I be seeing you all day? You’ll be here?’

‘Apart from a few hours this afternoon.’

‘Ah, off to see your sweetheart, I’ll be bound.’ The old lady smiled. And when Daisy’s cheeks flushed pink, she said, ‘See, I’m right. And why not? You’re a real looker—that’s what they say these days, isn’t it? But even better, you’re a sweet, kind girl. The very best.’

‘I’ll be certain to come to you for a reference,’ Daisy responded gaily, moving the screens on to the next patient.

From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Willa half in and half out of the sluice room. This morning the girl had been given the task of boiling up the huge, oval fish kettles in order to sterilise the instruments and kidney dishes that had been used overnight. In mechanical fashion, she was lowering the items into the furiously boiling water. She was very pale, Daisy noticed, but seemed composed and she hoped the girl had taken her advice and was attempting to forget last night’s ugly incident. She would try to keep an
eye on her in the next few days but it was difficult with so much to do on the ward, and the need today to rush to the Strand the minute she was given her free time. She took no lunch, working without a break until two o’clock, in the hope that Sister Elton would feel duty bound to let her go and not find her a new set of chores.

She didn’t think it likely since she was rarely in trouble with the hospital hierarchy. She was the ideal nursing recruit. Mature and reliable. And even though she couldn’t match her fellow trainees in either education or background, she had the right manners. The manners of a superior domestic servant, she thought wryly. In general, Sister was strict but fair and only very occasionally difficult. Like many women of her generation, she had lost her fiancé in the Great War and, at forty, had little chance of marrying. Her job was everything to her, and it was easy to see how petty annoyances on the ward could escalate into a resentment of the younger women under her charge. The ward sisters at Barts were ‘ladies’ and, from her days in service, Daisy was sensitive to their position and understood how best to deal with them. The knowledge had afforded her a relatively easy passage through the daily tribulations of hospital life. At times, she’d had to bite her tongue, when she was asked to work again and again, long after she should have been back at the Home. But in wartime there were no rules. You did what needed to be done, and only then venture to put up your feet.