‘I’m not surprised she doesn’t want to see him.’ Mike got up from his desk and collected the empty mugs from the top of a filing cabinet. ‘What wife would? From what you’ve told me, the man was behind every plot against her—even tried to convince her she was going mad.’
‘And worse. He led her to the lions’ den, led her towards her own death. And then, at the very end, tried to rescue her.’
‘She won’t forget what he did. She might forgive, but she won’t forget,’ Corrigan said sagely.
Grayson rapped a sharp tattoo on the desk, his fingernails catching at the wood. ‘I’m sure you’re right. But where there’s forgiveness, there’s also love.’
He remembered vividly how Daisy had sung the praises of her lieutenant on-board The Viceroy, until he’d thought that no man could ever live up to such adoration. And he’d been right. Not that Gerald Mortimer was any kind of man. He was a worm who’d come crawling home to avoid just punishment, and then callously involved his wife in his web of crime.
‘So what are you saying? That you’ve no hope of a future with her?’
Grayson did not answer his friend directly. ‘He’s asked her for help and she’s agreed.’
‘And how does that involve you?’ Mike had arrowed to the heart of the matter, as Grayson knew he would.
‘The man is a deserter—he never returned to his regiment after the “incident”. He could be charged with theft, too, and maybe even treason. He wants to save himself by going abroad and he’s desperate to get to America.’
‘I don’t blame him,’ Mike said humorously. ‘But he’s got a gnat’s chance of that.’
‘Ordinarily, yes. But that’s why she came to me. Daisy wants my help.’
Mike stopped in the doorway, mugs in hand. ‘How the hell are you to help? You can’t mean … you can’t mean to help him get there? That’s outrageous. It would involve you in all kinds of shenanigans.’
‘I’m well aware of what it involves. A new identity, new papers, a valid reason for him to travel to the States.’
‘You can’t do it.’
‘If I pull some strings … but I don’t want you knowing a thing about it.’
He had to make sure he protected his friend. Corrigan might be furious with Ireland’s neutrality and determined to see Britain win the war, but there were those at Baker Street who didn’t trust the Irishman in their midst.
‘You might be able to get papers for him,’ Mike admitted. ‘You could pull in some favours. But what reason could there be for him to sashay off to America in the middle of a war? And what the hell is Carmichael going to say when he discovers the intrigue you’ve landed yourself in?’
John Carmichael was their boss, an incisive, highly intelligent man, skilled at his job, but someone who didn’t suffer fools gladly. He was also someone who demanded absolute loyalty.
‘I can’t think about Carmichael right now. But I’ve an idea of how to get this despicable man across the ocean.’
The murky world of forged papers and forged identities was one with which Grayson was familiar, but he’d never thought he would be using his knowledge for the benefit of Gerald Mortimer.
‘And that would be?’
‘I’m saying nothing more. It’s too dangerous. Forget what I’ve said.’
‘Think about this, Gray.’
‘I have,’ he said flatly. ‘I’ve thought about it all night. And I know what I’m going to do. Case closed.’
Corrigan was about to raise another round of protests when Bertie Sandford’s cheerful voice spread itself boisterously along the corridor outside. Sandford shared their office. He was a jovial companion, but a man whose discretion could not be entirely relied on.
Grayson bent his head over the files on his desk, thankful that Bertie had arrived. It would save an argument with Mike. The telephone rang and Sandford went to answer it while Corrigan disappeared to make tea. A secretary knocked and delivered a sheaf of new typing to his desk. He tried to concentrate on the information she’d brought, but it was impossible. All he could think of was Daisy and his intended rescue. He knew he was a fool. He didn’t need to be told. He’d never succeeded in capturing her heart, though goodness knows he’d tried. Why couldn’t he just accept defeat? It was because he’d hoped for so much more, he thought, had truly believed that more was possible.
When they’d arrived back from India together, he’d had time before he was recalled to Jasirapur to give evidence against the gang that had attempted to kill her. The trial itself dragged on far longer than he’d expected. Prosecution papers were a mess and the defence constantly delayed proceedings on the grounds they’d not been given access to evidence. It was a good three months before he’d returned to England and when he did, he found Daisy changed. She was living in a gloomy bedsit and seemed to have retreated into her shell once more, eking out her small widow’s pension with odd jobs that were as tedious as they were aimless. He met her as often as he could, hoping to bring back the girl who’d begun to blossom on their sea voyage home. But he failed. She’d been friendly enough, interested in him and his work, but always a little distant. Then out of nowhere he’d been recalled to India again. The station manager at Jasirapur was dangerously ill in the British hospital in Delhi and a temporary administrator was needed. At a highly sensitive time, with Britain on the threshold of declaring war, Grayson was the right man to send to India. That had been another six months wasted.
He’d written to Daisy, of course, and occasionally received a letter in return, though they’d told him little. Once he was back in London, though, he’d been determined to pick up the threads of friendship and he’d been delighted to find her happier and more purposeful. It seemed she’d woken from the long daze she’d fallen into and taken up the reins of her life. She had been accepted for nurse training at St Barts. He’d thought it a new beginning for them both, but that hope was soon extinguished. The rigours of hospital training made meeting difficult and that seemed to suit her. As the months passed, he felt her drifting further and further away.
And things hadn’t changed. Last night she’d talked to him of his work, but shown little interest in his personal life. When he’d mentioned girlfriends, she hadn’t reacted. Instead, she’d talked matter-of-factly about his possible marriage. It all pointed one way. She was still in thrall to the man she’d married, and Gerald’s resurrection from the grave could only strengthen her feelings. He might fume, expend useless energy in raging at the unfairness of it all, but he could do nothing to change the situation. Anger was pointless, jealousy was pointless, and though he knew he could destroy the man with one telephone call, he wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t hurt her in that way. Instead, he would try to rescue Gerald Mortimer. He must be mad, he decided, mad or still in love with her. He knew the answer. Whatever he did, he would be doing it for Daisy.
‘I tell you, she’s a threat.’ Rohan Sweetman thumped the table, the Hindi words stiff with suppressed anger.
‘But to try and kill her …’
‘I didn’t try. I wanted to put her out of action for a while. It would have been an accident.’
Hari looked at his companion. Sweetman had become increasingly zealous in the weeks they had been in London and it made Hari uncomfortable. ‘But it could have killed her. If she’d hit the live rail, if a train had come out of the tunnel.’
‘I took that chance. It was necessary.’
‘But she’s a nurse.’
‘For God’s sake, Mishra, what’s that got to do with it? She’s a threat. Can’t you get that into your skull? That man upstairs, what’s his name—’
‘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.
CHAPTER 8
Daisy 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.
The Nurse's War Page 10