by Rhys Bowen
“You’ve every right,” Phoebe said.
But the woman shook her head. “I can’t go making a fuss, can I? I’m no different from all the other mothers who got bad news today. We’ve just got to learn to get on with it. Learn to get on without him.”
With that, she put a hand to her mouth and ran back into the house. Phoebe stood there, undecided about what to do next. Should she go in and try to comfort Mrs. Robbins or would the woman rather be left alone? Before she could make up her mind, Mr. Robbins came running up, red-faced and sweating, followed by Alfie.
“Where is she?” he asked.
Phoebe pointed blankly at the door. Mr. Robbins blundered in. Alfie hesitated, looking at Phoebe.
“I think I’d better go home,” she said. “I’d just be in the way at the moment.”
Alfie nodded.
“Tomorrow, then?” Phoebe asked.
Alfie nodded again.
Phoebe walked back to the house. She could hear the others still talking, but she crept up the stairs back to her room. Miss Gumble looked up as she came in.
“Whatever’s the matter, Phoebe?” she asked.
“It’s George Robbins, the gamekeeper’s son. He’s missing, presumed dead.” She turned away. “I hate this horrid war. I hate it. Hate it. People are getting killed, and I’ll never go to school now, and nothing nice will ever happen again.” She picked up the stuffed rabbit that lay on her bed and flung it at the wall. Then she flung herself down on the bed, sobbing.
Miss Gumble went over to the girl, sat beside her, and put a tentative hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right, darling. You have a good cry.”
“Pah says we have to be strong and set a good example.” Phoebe gulped, trying to control the tears.
“You’re allowed to cry as much as you like with me,” Miss Gumble said. “Our little secret. Here. Have a good blow.” She handed Phoebe a handkerchief. Phoebe managed a watery smile.
“Do you know what, Gumbie?” she said, “I sometimes wish that we would let the Germans win the stupid war and let them come into England and stop fighting. It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Pamela went to Germany before the war, and she went skiing and had fun there. And our king had German ancestors, didn’t he?”
Miss Gumble was staring at her, her face stony.
“Phoebe Sutton, don’t let me hear you say that ever again,” she said in a tone Phoebe had never heard her use before. “If the Germans came into England, it would be the end of life as we know it. Oh, your type of people would probably be all right, as long as your father learned to salute the Nazi flag and say ‘Heil, Hitler.’ But not the rest of us. Not me. My mother was Jewish. Her family fled from Germany before the last war because they didn’t like the anti-Jewish sentiment. And since then, it’s much worse. First it was smashing up Jewish businesses, then it was making all Jews wear a yellow star, forbidding them to go to school and university, beating up Jews in the streets. And my personal belief is that Hitler won’t stop until all Jews have been exterminated.”
When Phoebe had splashed cold water over her face so that nobody would know she had been crying, she went downstairs again and found the family in the drawing room. Lord Westerham looked up as she came in. “Had a good walk, then? Dogs behaved themselves?” he asked.
But Pamela noticed Phoebe’s face. “What’s the matter, darling?” she asked. “You look quite white.”
“It’s the Robbinses,” Phoebe said. “They’ve just had a telegram to say their son’s ship has been torpedoed, and he’s missing, presumed dead.”
“Oh, how awful for them,” Lady Westerham said. “Their one son and they were so proud of him.”
“We should do something, Mah,” Phoebe said. “We should have a service or a memorial or something. To let them know that we care.”
“He’s only reported as missing at the moment,” Lady Westerham said. “There may still be hope.”
“Mah, if his ship was torpedoed, and he’s missing in the middle of a great big ocean, there’s not much chance of finding him again, even if he survived,” Dido said, looking up from her magazine.
“Some chance, though. He might be in a life raft and have drifted away. Sailors have survived for remarkable periods of time before.”
“But we should do something, don’t you think?” Phoebe insisted.
“I’d hold off, old thing,” Lord Westerham said with surprising kindness. “Let them go on hoping for as long as possible.”
Pamela sat staring out of the window, fighting back the nagging worry that threatened to engulf her. Someone should have broken the U-boat code for that day. Someone should have been able to warn the convoy and send out planes to protect it. Until now, her work at Bletchley Park had seemed like an academic puzzle, unrelated to real events. But at this moment, the importance of what was being done in the huts there hit her with full force. She jumped to her feet.
“I should be getting back to work,” she said. “I can’t stay here drinking tea and enjoying myself when ships are being sunk and people we know are being killed.”
Lady Esme stood up and put her hand on Pamela’s shoulder. “You’re upset, my dear. We all are. George Robbins was a decent young man. But your little job in an office is hardly going to make a difference in saving lives, is it? It’s not as if you’re on the front lines. So I suggest you sit down and have another cup of tea.”
And, of course, Pamela could say nothing. She sat and allowed her mother to put a teacup in her hand.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Paris
May 1941
The occupants of the Rue des Beaux-Arts peered through their closed shutters at the big black Mercedes that had pulled up outside of number 34, early on that May morning. Strands of mist had curled in from the Seine. Those walking home with their morning baguettes crossed the street and continued on the other side, just in case. Those leaving to go to work or students on their way to an early class at the École des Beaux-Arts hurried past, eyes down. It didn’t pay to look. The motorcar was too obviously German, which was confirmed when the driver got out, wearing a military uniform. They all heaved a sigh of relief when no Germans headed toward their apartments. Instead, a slim young woman emerged from the car, followed by someone who looked remarkably like Madame Armande, the fashion designer.
Gaston de Varennes had bought this apartment for Margot when they first became lovers. He himself had been living in the family mansion on the Rue Boissière in the grander sixteenth district, between the Champs-Élysées and the Seine, but in those days, he was strangely conservative in many ways. It would not have been right to bring Margot to live with him, especially when his mother sometimes arrived from the château unannounced. Marriage had been out of the question at that time. Margot was a Protestant. His grandmother detested the English, and he would not go against his family’s wishes when it came to a spouse. So he had set Margot up in a small apartment on the Rue des Beaux-Arts, close to the Boulevard Saint-Germain in the sixth. If she leaned out of her window, she could glimpse the Seine and Notre Dame. It was pleasant enough and suited her well, although the lively throng of students had all but disappeared these days.
When Hitler invaded, the Germans had taken over the family mansion as well as the château in the French countryside. Gaston had joined the Resistance almost immediately and found the apartment in a quarter of bohemians and students. It suited them both. He could come and go with little risk of being noticed.
The concierge poked her head out of the cubbyhole by the front door when Margot came in.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” she said. “It promises to be a fine day, does it not?”
“One hopes so, madame,” Margot replied.
She pulled open the metal concertina door of the elevator, and Armande went to get in behind her. “Really, madame, there is no need for you to come up with me,” Margot said. “All I need to do is put a few clothes and toiletries into a bag. I will only be a few minutes.”
“I gave t
hat obnoxious German my word that I would not let you out of my sight,” Gigi Armande said. “And it does not do to break one’s word to a German officer. Besides,” she added, “I have to make sure you do not throw yourself from the window in a fit of despair.”
“I promise I shall not throw myself from any window.”
“Or attempt to escape across the rooftops.” Armande pushed Margot into the elevator and stepped in, too. The elevator was just big enough for the two of them to squeeze inside, and Margot was conscious of the other woman’s deliciously heady perfume. The cage ascended, painfully slow, creaking and groaning. Margot’s brain was racing and not coming up with answers. They arrived on the third floor. She went ahead of Armande and turned the key in the lock. The apartment felt chilly and unoccupied. It was a three-room affair—a good-size living room and bedroom but a tiny kitchen, with a bathroom and lavatory off the small square of front hallway. Margot hesitated in the hallway.
“Would you mind if I made some coffee before we leave?” she asked. “I’ve been up most of the night, and I’ve a splitting headache.”
“My dear, throw a few things into a bag, and we’ll have breakfast at the Ritz, where I can assure you the coffee is real and not this dreadful ersatz chicory stuff.” Armande went through into the living room and seated herself on the sofa, looking relaxed and beautiful.
Margot was conscious that the place wasn’t particularly tidy, and the clothes she had worn the day before now lay on the floor. She picked them up, feeling embarrassed.
“Don’t bother to tidy up,” Armande said impatiently. She looked up at Margot. “I don’t think you quite realise it yet, but you are in serious trouble, chérie. You are officially under arrest by the Germans. At any moment they could drag you back to that building and down to the basement where one hears about unspeakable things going on.”
Her expression softened. “You have to learn to play along with them, chérie. I have, and I still live at the Ritz. Pretend to do what they want. Pretend to sympathise. They are far from home, and the sympathetic ear of a beautiful woman is much appreciated. If they want you to do something for them in England, then seem to be interested, seem to be considering it.”
“But I couldn’t,” Margot said.
“Not to save your lover’s life?”
Margot hesitated. “I don’t see how I could put Gaston before my country. Besides, how could I have any reason to trust their word? I could carry out whatever despicable act they want me to do, and then they’d shoot Gaston anyway. They have not shown themselves to be particularly trustworthy.”
“I think I could get certain powerful officers to have Gaston taken to a neutral country.”
“Unless he’s already dead,” Margot said bitterly.
“Of course.” Armande waved a gloved hand. “But one has to do what one can. You do want to save his life, don’t you? He hasn’t become boring to you?”
“Of course I want to save his life,” Margot said hotly, “but I can’t put my lover ahead of my country.”
Armande sighed. “So noble, and so naïve. Learn to be a pragmatist, my dear, if you want to survive. It’s always worked for me.” She shifted impatiently, recrossing her legs clad in real silk stockings. “Now hurry up, do. There’s a good girl.”
“There are foodstuffs in the kitchen,” Margot said. “What should I do with them? Vegetables, cheese. They’ll spoil. One can’t waste food in the current situation.”
“Give them to that horrible old woman downstairs. She’ll love you forever.” Armande waved a hand again.
Margot went into the kitchen and was depressed by the small amount of food that was there. A quarter of a cabbage, two onions, a potato, and a square of hard cheese. Rations in Paris were now down to the bare minimum, and one snapped up whatever was going at the market. Still, the concierge would be glad of them, and she might get a chance to pass her a quick message. She put them into a string bag, then added half a bottle of cheap wine and the remains of yesterday’s bread. Since she couldn’t carry the rest of the milk in the jug, she picked it up and drank it, rinsing the jug out in the sink. If there was no food in the house, then Gaston or one of his friends would know she wasn’t here. She was trying hard to think of a way to tell him where she was going, where someone could find her. Not that she could think of anyone who might help her at this moment. If they had Gaston, then all was lost. She hadn’t allowed herself to think about it before, but now tears welled up. She blinked them back hurriedly.
She went through into the bedroom.
“My trunk is in the attic,” she called to Armande.
“You’re not going on a cruise, my darling,” Armande said. “You need a few items. You can probably come back here if necessary at some point.”
So Margot instead reached for the small suitcase on top of the wardrobe. It was the one her father had given her for her twenty-first. It still smelled of good English leather when she opened it, reminding her of saddles and the tack room at Farleigh. Into it she tossed some underwear, a cashmere cardigan, a pair of slacks, a change of stockings, another blouse, and a cotton dress. She was wearing her sensible shoes. There would be no need for heels. And she had to save enough room for toiletries.
As she approached her dressing table, she saw Armande’s card with the words “CALL HER” written in lipstick. It wasn’t where she had left it, and she realised that the apartment had already been searched. How lucky that the message had been so innocent. Of course, she would want friends to call her employer. She left it where it lay.
“Are you ready yet?” Armande asked.
“I need to put some toiletries together.”
“My dear. Do you not think I have every kind of soap and bath salt at my place for you to use? Throw in your makeup, your toothbrush, and a face flannel, and that will be that.”
“I need to spend a penny first,” Margot said. “I have not been allowed to use the bathroom since I was dragged from my bed in the middle of the night.”
“Very well,” Armande said, “but hurry up. That German driver will find it suspicious if we are too long. Everything you do will be reported back.”
Margot went into the bathroom and hurriedly stashed things into her toilet bag—her toothbrush and tooth powder, her headache powders, a clean face flannel, vanishing cream. The absurdity of this struck her—that she would want her face to look perfect if she were about to be tortured or killed. Then she relieved the call of nature. When she had finished, she turned the tap on and left it running while she tipped up the bidet and pulled back a tile beneath it. It was lucky that they had equipped her with the smaller of the two radios. This one only had a range of five hundred miles, but it was compact enough to fit into a briefcase, or under the bidet.
She stared at it, wondering what to do next. There was no better hiding place for it. If they really stripped the apartment, they would find it. And she had no way of using it with Armande in the next room. She would have to be patient. If she seemed to be compliant and willing, maybe they would let her come back here for something she had forgotten. She removed the headache powders from the toilet bag and left them on the shelf. Then she tipped the bidet back to its proper position and turned off the tap.
“Mon Dieu, you really did need to go,” Armande commented with a chuckle.
“I really did. I thought I’d burst when I was sitting on that chair for hours, waiting for them to come and interrogate me.” A thought came to her. “I don’t suppose I could have a quick shower?” It was quite a loud shower, but she wasn’t sure it was loud enough to drown out the noise of Morse code being sent over a radio.
“My dear, you can luxuriate in a bath at the Ritz as soon as we get there. Oodles of hot water. Divine.”
Margot tried to put on a pleased and excited face. She put the sponge bag into her suitcase and closed it.
“That should be enough to keep me going for a few days,” she said.
“A few days may be all you’ll need,” Armande said
.
Margot didn’t want to ask whether this meant she’d be released by that time, or she’d be in prison or dead. She picked up her suitcase and made for the half-open door.
“Ready when you are,” she said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dolphin Square, London
Joan Miller, Maxwell Knight’s secretary and right-hand woman, knocked and entered his inner sanctum with a grave and puzzled look on her face.
“We’ve just had a message, sir. From the Duke of Westminster.”
“Oh yes? What did he want?”
“He has just been contacted by Madame Armande.”
“The Parisian dress designer? Oh, of course, she was his mistress once, wasn’t she? Many moons ago now. And many lovers ago, one understands. So what the hell does she want? To design new uniforms for our army?”
“She wanted to inform us that the Germans have got one of ours.”
“Damn. Who is it?”
“Lady Margaret Sutton, daughter of the Duke of Westerham.”
“Damn and blast.” Even Max Knight looked uneasy at this. “The timing is interesting, to say the least. Or do you think it’s coincidental?”
“I don’t trust coincidences, sir.” Miss Miller’s face was impassive.
“Neither do I.”
“Do you think she knows? Armande, I mean?”
“She has offered to help,” Miss Miller said. “If we want to get her out, she’ll do what she can to assist.”
“Kind of her,” Max Knight said. “I wonder what’s in it for her?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN