Now Meggie did weep, a pair of tears making a wet track down her cheeks. Even as she controlled it, she wondered why the twin displays of physical emotion had arrived in unison, rather than one measured tear on one side.
Her mother dabbed them away and filled in the moment with: ‘Did my cake arrive in one piece? I had the feeling it was still a little bit damp in the middle. You know what my cooker’s like. It never gets anything right. One of these days I’ll get a new one installed.’
Meggie hid her grin. ‘Yes, it arrived in perfect shape, and it was delicious. I thought I told you that on the telephone. But you mustn’t do it again, d’you hear? You need those dried fruits for your own use.’
‘Be careful, my dear, won’t you? Where will you be posted?’
‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to tell you even if I knew. I had to sign the Official Secrets Act. I won’t be at the front with a rifle though, Mummy. Just stuck in some boring office somewhere typing blisters on to the ends of my fingers. And it’s only for the duration of the war. It might be over by next week.’
‘Yes . . . I suppose it might.’
Her glance went to Major Henry Sangster’s neglected grave, situated next to his son’s. Taking off her gloves she picked up her mother’s trowel and began to tease out the weeds. ‘Major Henry did something hush-hush in the last war, didn’t he? Perhaps I take after him.’ Her mother didn’t answer, and when she finished her task, Meggie offered, ‘He was sorry about what happened, you know. Can’t you forgive him just a little after all this time.’
1
‘Is it important to you, Meggie? I really don’t know if I can. There’s something very satisfying about anger.’
‘I don’t like to think of you feeling bitter and sad about something that can’t be changed. It will also make me feel better about myself. I know I disobeyed you about seeing him, but I liked him, and he made me feel special to him. I can’t say I’m sorry I did that. I’ve always hoped my visits made up in some small way for him losing his only child. I was the only family he had left.’
‘I don’t know if I’m entirely comfortable with the concept of sins being washed away by death, but I’ll try, since I’m not his only victim. You were one as well. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive him for having the last word and dying in front of you though. For months afterwards you were a nervous wreck, and I couldn’t get it out of you what was wrong, until Es figured it out.’
Meggie gave a little shiver. ‘I don’t suppose he died in front of me on purpose.’
‘It does seem a little stupid to waste one’s anger on a man who is dead and buried. I suppose I could unbend a little and weed him too . . . not that he’ll notice.’
‘Neither will Richard Sangster. Why don’t we let the grass grow over both of them?’
‘D’you know something, Meggie, I really think you might be right.’ Linking arms they strolled towards the gate.
‘What’s in the parcel?’ her mother said when they got home.
‘Nothing very exciting, I thought you might like to look after it for me.’ She handed it over and watched her mother unwrap the framed letter.
To Margaret Eloise Elliot
You are hereby appointed as
Third Officer
of the
Women’s Royal Naval Service
Smiling a little, her mother read the rest then gazed at her, surprise in her eyes. ‘You’ve left out the Sinclair Sangster names.’
‘Deliberately . . . I don’t seem to need them any more. Having so many names sounded pretentious and there’s never enough room to write them all on one line.’
‘I’m glad you kept Denton’s name.’
‘He gave it to me as a gift eighteen years ago and because he’s the only father I’ve ever known and loved, of course I kept it. It will be the only name I’ll ever use from now on.’
‘I’ll place this letter on the sideboard in the sitting room. We have our Women’s Institute meetings there and I’ll be able to show you off. Most of them have sons serving in the forces. Mine are too young, thank goodness, but I can be proud that my daughter is being of use to the country.’
‘And Mummy . . .?’ Meggie took the brooch Rennie had given her from her pocket and handed it to her. ‘Look after this. It was a birthday present and is precious to me.’
‘From Rennie Stone?’
She nodded.
Meggie was the recipient of a searching glance, but her mother’s only comment was, ‘I would have thought him to be a little too old for you. I don’t want you to be hurt. Is your heart involved? Is his?’
If Rennie had a heart he hid it well, Meggie thought with a wry grin, and knowing she was being unfair to him. But she hoped there was some truth in her mother’s words as she answered, ‘I don’t know, but you’ll be the first person I’ll tell if I discover that it is.’
1
.
See
Secrets and Lies
Nick Cowan was settled into his small department, with an assistant who was second-in-command, and reasonably intelligent.
If asked what it was he did, Nick would have been pushed for any answer other than, ‘Very little.’
What he did do was everything that seemed a bit shady, sometimes shoddy. He decoded messages and he found messages where there shouldn’t have been any, disguised in newspaper articles and magazines. He had a small team of men in the field, unknown to each other, who were loosely described as field operatives. He used them for surveillance. He kept the files – with TOP SECRET stamped importantly on them in red – locked away in a sturdy grey filing cabinet for when and if they were needed. He added to them now and again.
And he went abroad, despite the danger, using his own yacht to cross the Channel. He kept away from the main shipping channels in case he ran into a ship or a submarine. That would cause a bit of consternation in Bethuen’s department, he thought.
Nick already had many social contacts on the Continent, including some influential Germans, and he sailed along the coast. He smuggled goods, bringing back to England gold, jewellery and paintings that would otherwise have fallen into German hands . . . and he made money doing it. He also smuggled people back and forth from time to time, sometimes people who were not influential, but who needed a safe harbour because of race or religion.
Everything was cloak and daggerish, like living inside the pages of a work of fiction. The intrigue of being Nicholas Cowan appealed to him.
There was someone controlling him though, someone above Bethuen. He didn’t know who that someone was. He probably acted as a subordinate to Bethuen, one of his aides, perhaps. Nick would have liked to know who it was. Nevertheless, he found some satisfaction in what he was doing. Bethuen rarely interfered and Nick liked the thought that nobody really trusted anyone else while everyone pretended to know more than everyone else did. It added a twist of spice to the brew.
He had a dangerous feeling of euphoria, as though he was invisible. He walked abroad in the air raids without fear, feeling as though he was in Dante’s
Inferno
, and knowing the bombs wouldn’t touch him, or if they did he would be released from the mortal coils without knowing much about it.
When Bethuen requested a meeting it caused Nick a flicker of unease. He didn’t like explaining the unexplainable. He sat when invited, crossing one leg over the other at the ankles in a relaxed manner.
Bethuen smiled his greasy smile, the one that told Nick that he might be his superior where class was concerned, but Nick was a subordinate in the office. ‘How are you getting on, Nicholas?’
‘Fine thanks. The job’s not all that taxing. It’s like juggling balls.’
‘You’re doing well. You’ve already dug one or two flies out of the ointment. The PM was pleased. How’s that waterfront thing coming along? Your man’s still on it, I suppose.’
Waterfront thing? Man? Though taken by surprise Nick managed a credible shrug. ‘You know, sir . . . these things take time and usually solve themselves. I’ll let you know when I’ve got anything concrete to report.’
‘Quite. Keep them coming. I shouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t a gong in it for you, and a knighthood for me once the war is over. Your father hinted at it a while back. A favour for a favour, he said. Any complaints young man? Have you got everything you need?’
Nick’s eyes sharpened at the mention of his father. ‘As I said before, I could do with another assistant.’
Bethuen poured them both a whisky. ‘And you shall have one . . . Soda?’
‘Just a little, thanks.’ Nick sighed with pleasure when he took a sip. It was double malt and as smooth as honey. ‘A nice drop, sir.’
‘It came from a cellar in a chateau in France. If you need any, just let me know. By the way, I’ve got an order for you. Our ground forces are in a bit of a fix, and there’s a push on to repatriate them from the beaches at Dunkirk to Dover otherwise they’ll be massacred. The estimate is about ten days, and the exercise is not without risk. You do still have a boat, don’t you?’
‘A small yacht.’
‘Everyone rescued is a life saved. There’s a flotilla going over of everything that floats. I thought the hands-on approach of it would be just up your street, dear boy. At least it will get you out of the office, and I’m sure Goggles will manage without you for a while.’
‘Yes, I suppose he can. I’d be obliged if you didn’t tell my father when you see him. He worries, you see, since I’m his only heir. By the way, he controls the family cellars, so you should ask him about the whisky.’
‘Ah, yes. How is the earl?’
‘He’s well, as usual . . . robust in fact. He’s in the country for the duration. He’s wearing his farmer’s hat, and his contribution to the war effort is geared towards growing food. They’ve allocated him some women from the land army. I’m surprised you haven’t been down there. He entertains now and again at weekends.’ His mouth twitched as he tried to suppress his grin. Knowing he hadn’t been invited would crap Bethuen off no end. ‘As for myself, I manage in the London house with a couple of live-in servants.’
Bethuen sniggered, though his eyes were mean. ‘Young ones, I hope.’
‘Not at all.’ Nick took out his pitchfork and began to prod Bethuen. ‘One of them used to be my nanny. She still has a tendency to treat me like an infant. The other one is a housemaid, and both are a little past middle-aged, like yourself. Then there’s my valet, William. He doubles as my social secretary. I also have a cleaning woman who comes in during the week. Most of the rooms are in mothballs for the duration, but one must keep standards up.’
Bethuen was hardly able to hide his ire as he leaned forward and slid a couple of files across the desk. ‘I’ve been offered a couple of secretarial types from the new flock of Wren officers. Whitehall is usually offered the best, and these are the cream of the crop, apparently.’ He took a handful of files from the drawer and threw them on the desk. ‘Take your pick. I rather like the look of the chubby one. Judith Scott, her name is.’
Judith Scott could hardly be described as chubby, but her breasts were well developed and her face on the round side. She didn’t lack secretarial skills, because that had been her job before she’d signed on, and she was happy to remain a secretary who’d fetch and carry for her boss. Nick wanted more than that in an assistant. He wanted a woman who could think for herself.
Flicking open another file Nick’s eyes centred in on the photograph of the second girl. She was a stunner. ‘I’ll be damned,’ he breathed. She appeared to have emerged from her teenage gaucherie, and was quite lovely. Clear-skinned and bright-eyed she gazed into the camera, a wry quirk stitching the left-hand corner of her mouth.
He called on his memory. Queen’s Road, Finsbury Park. Margaret, Eloise, Sinclair, Sangster, Elliot. ‘Meggie for short,’ he whispered.
Bethuen’s eyes narrowed in on him. ‘You said something that sounded like a name. Do you know her?’
‘I said Margaret Elliot was a pretty sort.’ His eyes skimmed down her record. She’d gained top marks in the written exam and had done extremely well in the intelligence test. Her references and ambition were solid gold. Two barristers, both silks, and a solicitor had signed her letter of reference. She aspired to go to university and become a lawyer.
‘I’ll be happy to take this one on.’
‘Yes . . . I dare say you would. She’s an attractive little piece, isn’t she? And as clever as a monkey. Her paternal grandfather was an intelligence officer in the last war. He tried to shoot himself and failed. Her other one was a bit of a political hack.’
‘She seems to have a good brain, as well as looks.’
‘You do understand the department has a hands-off policy when it comes to hanky-panky between staff members, so if you’ve got any thoughts in that direction, forget them, or play away from home. I know of places where one’s urges can be catered for, whatever they are.’
Places Nick had avoided in the past, and would continue to do so. He was filled with distaste that this slimy excuse for a man would frequent them. ‘Margaret Elliot looks too young and innocent—’
‘Girls are never too young or too innocent . . . or boys come to that.’ Bethuen gave a schoolboyish snigger, then said hurriedly when there was no reaction from Nick as to his own preferences, ‘Oh, come on, surely you have some red blood in your veins. We both attended boarding school, and know what goes on when the lights go out. Where’s your sense of humour, man? It was a joke, not a proposition.’
But it
had
been a proposition. God knew, Nick had never been perfect but there were lines he wouldn’t cross. Bethuen had the sort of dirty mind that would make an average man puke, and Nick wondered how far he took his perversions. He shrugged, ignoring the remains of his whisky as he stood. He no longer felt like drinking with this man, but it might be worth the effort to keep an eye on him.
Yes, Nick had plenty of red blood in his veins – among the blue, and despite his own foibles he liked to think he had some decency left in him. He’d certainly never deliberately hurt anyone, unless he had to. And yes . . . he remembered boarding school, and overfed bullies like Bethuen. Anger radiated a sour sort of warmth in his stomach as he walked through the dusty corridors to the small stronghold that was his domain. He wanted more than this. He wanted Bethuen’s job, and his heart on a platter. And he intended to get both.