The Detective and the Spy

by Angela Misri

  “Killing a good man by mistake,” Michaels growled.

  “Yes, and spraining her ankle, but leaving her father somehow alive,” I said. “She was learning as she went. She tried again at Downing Street and at the college where you were taking language classes, Valerie. This must have been about when you suspected you were a target.”

  Annie sat down beside me to dig out the King’s College student list and handed it to Kell while I spoke. Lancaster peered over her shoulder, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “But what about Buckingham Palace?” Kell said. “Heddy … I mean … whomever this is, surely she wasn’t at the palace.”

  Cognizant of the promise I had made I said, “Some of those phone calls were pranks, I’m sure, and some were overly paranoid citizens. No, I don’t think Ilsa was targeting anyone but her parents.”

  “She was trying to kill us,” said Valerie, making all of us jump a bit in surprise at the sound of her voice. “I had no choice.”

  “I think you did have a choice,” I said, shaking my head. “But you’re a survivor. After the Downing Street incident, you took the chance of seeking out some help from Trident, the spy you had helped elevate. They owed you for that, and trusted you, so you had them set up a meeting at Paddington Station with Ilsa through her Irish Feminist group. And you killed her there with the gun you’d carried over the border from Germany. A gun that I am guessing is in the bag you’re clutching right now.”

  Valerie closed her eyes.

  “You killed your own daughter?” Annie said. “Surely there was another way to maintain your anonymity.”

  “She wouldn’t listen to reason. She wouldn’t take money,” Valerie answered, her eyes still closed, but crying now too. She handed the bag to me and I handed it to Michaels without opening it. “She wanted to see me destroyed. She said it was all that would make things right. It was her or me.”

  CHAPTER 40

  “YOU DIDN’T KNOW THAT Digby would show up, or that he would kill himself,” I said. “And I’m sure, as single-minded as you are about your own survival, that you didn’t want to drag Lancaster back into this.”

  “What about the bombs at The Trifle?” Lancaster asked, his voice jagged with emotion as Michaels reached into Val’s bag with a kerchief to pull out the Luger pistol.

  “I believe those were arranged by Ilsa and her feminist friends to get rid of Éamon O’Duffy,” I said. “When that failed, O’Duffy went looking for the culprits, found the bombs, and shipped them off to his brother in Sandwell for safe-keeping.”

  “But he didn’t get them all,” Lancaster pointed out. “What happened to the last of the bombs?”

  “I think the man who can answer that has appeared,” I said, pointing out Brian and Gavin as they walked towards us.

  “Portia, how marvelous to see you again,” Gavin said, taking me in his arms and kissing me on the forehead. “And Annie, you are a sight.”

  Annie just glared at him and I could tell Brian was doing his level best not to hurl himself at my ex, but Lancaster had no such compunction, grabbing Gavin by the collar. “You have some nerve walking in here, mate.”

  “Ah, Mr. Lancaster I presume,” Gavin said, not even struggling in the spy’s grip. “I hear you’ve been keeping our consulting detective quite busy. And I believe you’ve been working with my fiancée, Amélie.”

  Lancaster was still reeling from Valerie’s admissions, but allowed Michaels to pry his hands off Gavin’s collar.

  “Colonel Kell, Amélie sends the thanks of the French government tonight for your success in averting the murder of the Austrian delegation, myself included. I believe you can be held personally responsible for saving the British people from the terrorists who have plagued them.”

  Kell took his hand off his gun for the first time in an hour, preening under Gavin’s praise.

  “With Amélie’s help, the men of Scotland Yard were able to evacuate the hotel and recover the last of the bombs you’ve been searching for. Once Constable Dawes finished throwing up in the alleyway that is,” Gavin said, his smile wide. “No fingerprints on the bombs, unfortunately, but the ladies of the Irish Feminist League are being detained at Scotland Yard, isn’t that right, Constable?”

  “They are,” Brian admitted. “Along with Miss Amélie Blaise.”

  Gavin lost his grin for the first time in this interaction. “I’m sure I misunderstood. You mean Amélie is aiding you with the women she helped you arrest?”

  “Amélie Blaise has been working both sides,” I said, standing up to face Kell. “She was your agent in North Ireland, code-named Trident. And she was working for you and the French for some time. Then she made the mistake of falling in with Gavin Whitaker and, I must admit, myself.”

  Gavin stepped forward and Brian put his wounded hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

  “She helped Gavin capture us at the fabric store,” I said, unpinning the trident pin from the inside of my vest and handing it to Kell. “She’s the one who retrieved the bombs after Ilsa was killed and sold some of them to various factions of the Irish rebellion — the O’Duffy family, the Feminist League. She switched to the Irish cause at some point in her employ. Or maybe she’s a businesswoman, not a believer — you’ll have to ask her that yourself. But she did keep a few bombs for her purposes tonight, even invited a few of her friends from the Feminist League to help her disrupt negotiations. Or at least, put some pressure on the negotiations so that Gavin here could increase his value. I wonder if she meant to kill everyone but you. Were you to be wounded? Or act the hero and save the PM?”

  “That pin isn’t evidence,” Gavin hissed at me.

  “You’re saying her code name isn’t Trident?” Lancaster challenged him.

  “That’s not …,” Gavin started to say, and then corrected himself. “Her associations with the Secret Intelligence Service are her own. We don’t discuss them and we certainly don’t cross paths professionally. Colonel Kell, surely you can support me in this.”

  Kell was still holding out the pin in his palm like it might explode in his hand, but now he looked up — not at Gavin, but at me.

  Brian handed me the bomb Gavin had put into my satchel. “You, of course, wiped down this bomb before leaving it in my satchel to give Kell the evidence he needed to hold me,” I said. “But you were also smart enough to remove the firing pin so that I couldn’t use it to escape before Kell’s men found me — you’re always one step ahead.”

  Brian nodded at Michaels, who pulled out a piece of paper from Annie’s file. “Inside Amélie Blaise’s shoe heel we found one firing pin with her thumbprint on it. Fingerprints provided to us, most conveniently, by SIS”

  “She is, after all, the professional in your relationship,” I whispered in Gavin’s ear. “You’re the brains. You don’t get your hands dirty.”

  He nodded slowly at me. “We’ll have to call this a draw then,” he whispered back before turning to Kell with shock on his face. “I have been as bamboozled as you, Colonel. I am appalled by the actions of the woman I love. What can I do to help ensure her imprisonment?”

  CHAPTER 41

  THE REUNIONS AT MY Baker Street apartment were ongoing.

  My grandmother was waiting for me when we got home, hovering over the Coleson boys to make sure they were finishing their homework.

  Heather stopped by and I spent an excruciating fifteen minutes not disclosing that I already knew she was engaged to the inspector before she finally got around to asking me to be her maid of honour. The reveal of the ring distracted my grandmother for a moment and she approved of the style — if not the expense — of the diamond, advising my cousin to change the setting before the wedding and promising to help her to find the right dress (whether she wanted the help or not).

  The sons of Dr. Watson, my cousins and both doctors in their own right, came by to assess my recovery and chastise me f
or taking pills I didn’t recognize.

  My Baker Street Irregulars stood under my window until I stuck my head out, Ruby giving me a rare smile of approval when I proved I could hear her and speak to her again. I suggested they come back tomorrow morning for a catch-up over pancakes, my treat.

  Irene Adler acted like she was still angry at me for my escape, but she allowed me to apologize at least and was sweet and forgiving to Brian when he apologized for not helping her when she asked. Mr. Coleson had been working hard fixing up the old townhouse, even now taking direction from Mr. Dawes on the banister they were replacing. Adler was still wearing minimal makeup and, after securing my promise to spend the next weekend with her, she left — no doubt to rejoin my grandfather, happy to report back that I was home safe.

  “You did it,” Jenkins said as he closed the car door behind my grandmother. “I never doubted it.”

  “Even when you were delivering Lancaster to the police?” I asked.

  “Especially then,” he said with a cocky grin. “The right motivation is a powerful thing.”

  “Your training is a powerful thing,” I corrected him, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be back at your gym next week, I promise.”

  I watched them drive away, noticed the man standing across the street not really reading a newspaper, and walked over to him.

  “Sir, surely you are done watching Baker Street at this point,” I said, rubbing my hands together to keep warm. This spring was taking a long time to wrap things up and move on.

  The man lowered the paper and looked over his shoulder at the car parked in the alleyway. Two men sat smoking in the front of the car facing forward with a piece of glass between us, the gathering smoke and glass obscuring them from my view. I sighed at the cloak-and-dagger dramatics and opened the back door to find Colonel Kell nursing a thermos between his knees.

  “Trident was my best agent because no one would suspect a deaf black woman as being an agent,” he said as soon as I was seated across from him. “It’s what makes Lancaster good at his job as well.”

  “She was also brilliant and effective,” I said, turning down the cap of tea he offered, despite the fact that I was chilled, and it smelled good. “And I’m glad Lancaster’s skills have brought him back into the fold. He must be happy. Try not to waste his talents this time.”

  “You don’t trust me,” he said, taking back the cap and drinking from it. “I don’t blame you. Lancaster said you warm slowly.”

  “Well, that was fun. I’d better get back to Annie and Brian; they’re sure to be missing me,” I said sarcastically, putting my hand on the door handle. “Please give Lancaster my regards.”

  “Miss Coleson is at this very moment being handed a new assignment that will take her overseas,” Kell said, replacing the cap on his thermos. “One that I’d like you to join her on.”

  “You cannot be serious. I will not let you manipulate my best friend into serving you people,” I said, sitting forward, my hands curling into fists.

  “Miss Coleson will need somewhere else to be for a few months,” Kell answered, looking away from me. “Her situation is one that will grow quite public and could ruin a good woman like her.”

  I gaped at him. He couldn’t mean what he was implying. Especially if I hadn’t noticed the signs. I would have noticed the signs.

  “Besides, we have no intention of manipulating Miss Coleson,” Kell said. “She’s covering an important story for her paper, one that I assured her editor she would be kept safe while she covered it. I intend to keep that promise by asking you and Constable Dawes to go with her.”

  “I should have been clearer,” I said. “If Annie needs help, then we will provide it. I have no intention of letting you manipulate any of us, K. We don’t answer to you.”

  “No, but you do answer to king and country,” said a voice I recognized from the radio. John Simon, the foreign secretary, slid the glass sideways between the front seat and back to speak to me directly. “And we’re asking you to go. If not for your friend’s reputation, then as a matter of national security.”

  I met Brian at the front door to Baker Street, his hand bound in a new bandage with a strange-smelling salve.

  “Before you ask, a woman named Chen is here, said she was your friend, and bound my hand like this before I could do anymore than ask her nephew to translate what she was saying,” he said, opening the door wider so I could see them in the front hallway. Chen was loudly advising Mrs. Dawes on her husband’s vision issues, using poor Lin as their translator. Luckily, he was halfway through a plate of cookies so he didn’t need rescuing and I followed Brian up the stairs to my flat, Nerissa right behind us.

  Brian collapsed into my couch with a sigh, flexing his bound hand, my bloodhound at his feet. “Thank God all that’s over,” he said. “What’s in the box?”

  Instead of answering I sat down next to him, wiggling my toes so that they were under my warm dog and handing him the box I’d just been given by Kell.

  “A gun?” Brian said, looking from the opened box to me. “Portia, if this is about Whitaker, we will catch him. He’s addicted to power. This time he had a scapegoat, but next time we will nail him to the wall. We needn’t …”

  I interrupted him with a shake of my head. “That’s my father’s Colt, Brian. I’d recognize it anywhere from the melted mark on the butt. It was made by my mother’s curling iron. She put it down on her wardrobe and the gun was hidden under some letters. The letters caught fire, but the gun suffered this damage.”

  “Did you bring it with you from Toronto?”

  “No, I thought it lost to my stepfather’s gambling,” I said. “Sold to a local pawn broker for a few dollars.”

  “But … how?” Brian asked, holding the weapon aloft.

  “Somehow, my father’s gun is involved in the attempted assassination of a member of the Canadian parliament, a Mr. William King,” I replied, taking the gun from Brian gingerly, “and we must find out how.”

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This fourth Portia Adams book has been a long time coming for many reasons, not the least of which was the loss of my fabulous first publishers, Fierce Ink Press, which had to close its doors in 2017.

  It is only through the faith and support of people like Shelagh Rogers and Marc Côté that I was able to continue Portia’s journey on the page and I will be forever grateful for that.

  Thank you to all the fans and readers who pursued me at book events, chased me on social media and basically willed this book into reality. I will never be able to thank you enough for your love and support. I only hope I can continue to be a part of your bookshelves virtual and physical alike.

  The publishing team at Cormorant helped me grow Portia’s story from her YA origins to the adult force of nature she is now.

  Special thanks to my husband, Jason, and my daughter, Kenzie, for their love and support.

  There have been so many teachers and librarians who have supported my books since the first day of their publication, and I will never be able to repay them for that. This is especially true of Zelia Tavares and Kamla Rambaran who worked with me this year on a mystery-writing workshop that their grade six classes knocked out of the ballpark. That workshop could not have happened without the Royal Ontario Museum’s Kiron Muckherjee’s brilliant help.

  To the indie bookstores like Book City on St. Clair W, Queen Books on Queen west, Another Story in Roncy and the Mysterious Bookshop in NYC, who continue to carry my books and speak of my characters to your readership, thank you!

  The Bootmakers of Toronto, Sisters in Crime, FOLD, and the Crime Writers of Canada have become dear friends in addition to being ardent supporters and I am so pleased to have found them.

  The Internets continue to be very kind to me in this process, so I am very thankful for my writers’ groups (especially #write-o-rama on Facebook) and for all the folks
who follow and comment on my blog and who invited me onto their websites for the blog tour.

  Finally, thank you, dear reader, for buying The Detective and the Spy! If you get a chance, let me know what you think, on my blog, www.angelamisri.com and please do post a review on Amazon, Goodreads or Chapters-Indigo.

  We acknowledge the sacred land on which Cormorant Books operates. It has been a site of human activity for 15,000 years. This land is the territory of the Huron-Wendat and Petun First Nations, the Seneca, and most recently, the Mississaugas of the Credit River. The territory was the subject of the Dish With One Spoon Wampum Belt Covenant, an agreement between the Iroquois Confederacy and Confederacy of the Ojibway and allied nations to peaceably share and steward the resources around the Great Lakes. Today, the meeting place of Toronto is still home to many Indigenous people from across Turtle Island. We are grateful to have the opportunity to work in the community, on this territory.