Mr. Churchill's Secretary: A Novel

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  And so we went to the United States, you and I. I needed to get away from my mother’s judgments. And I truly didn’t think Edmund would ever recover.

  The situation was complicated. I’m not making excuses, but it was just easier when you were younger to say that both your parents had passed. I always meant to tell you the truth, but as years went by, it just … never seemed to be the right time.

  I hope you can find it in your heart to at least try to understand my position, if not forgive me. I am, by the way, very proud of you for staying in London, even though I still hate it and worry myself sick about your safety every single day. Since Mother’s passing, I’ve also tried to understand her position, and although I still don’t, I have—at least most of the time—learned to forgive her.

  I do love you.

  Always,

  Edith

  NINETEEN

  THE NEXT DAY, after a breakfast of powdered eggs and brackish tea at the University Arms, Maggie and David set out for Trinity College. Even with the wartime indignities—stripped metal off staircases, ad hoc vegetable gardens, air-raid shelters, and boarded-up windows—Cambridge was a beautiful place. The sky overhead was a pale blue worthy of John Constable, with wispy, cirrus clouds. The warm wind smelled fresh and loamy. All of the oxygen went to Maggie’s brain, making her feel light-headed and invigorated.

  “The Wren Library,” David said, pointing at a building with soaring proportions that looked to be carved from ivory.

  “How do you know? I thought you were an Oxford man!”

  “Brief fling with a Cambridge coxswain. Travesty, I know.”

  “Ah,” she said, realizing what David was confirming. “Yes.”

  “I thought maybe you’d guessed, but I wasn’t sure.”

  “When did you first realize your”—How does one phrase this?—“your preference?”

  They were strolling alone in a Trinity courtyard; the only company was a burbling marble fountain and two tiny brown sparrows, who twittered and preened in the water.

  “I believe the current term is ‘like that.’ ” He looked at her and smiled, letting her know it was all right to have asked. “For example, when did you know you were ‘like that’? And just for the record, I always knew.”

  “My aunt Edith is”—she’d never said it out loud before—“ ‘like that,’ too. She’s had someone special in her life for years, another professor.”

  “Ah.” David processed the information. “Was it strange at all?”

  “No, not really. I mean, yes, it was strange, but only because I was raised by my aunt, who’s more or less a mad scientist, and not my parents. Not because of anything else. And just for the record, I knew about your … preference.”

  “Really?” David cocked an eyebrow.

  “Sarah mentioned she wanted to set you up with someone in the company—Dimitri, I think.”

  “Ah, yes, Sarah,” he said. “Sarah’s always trying to find me dates—men from the Sadler’s Wells, usually.”

  “And Paige knew,” Maggie said.

  “Paige,” he said, shaking his head. “Paige certainly loved to flirt. And I was around and, well, safe, I suppose you’d say. Not that I minded, of course.”

  “Yes, Paige certainly loved to be the center of attention.” They were silent, remembering. It was still raw.

  “And John?”

  “Yes, John knows. He’s my best friend, after all.”

  “And there’s never been …” Maggie didn’t think so, but she just wanted to make sure.

  “No, John likes girls, all right. Just doesn’t put too much time and effort into it. Too busy with work these days.”

  Maggie decided not to mention the awkward evening at LSE and the night in the café’s basement—the night that had been overshadowed by Paige’s death.

  Instead, she changed the subject. “So, how does it … I mean, is there someone in your life now?”

  David made puppy eyes behind his glasses. “No, I’m all on my lonesome these days, I’m afraid. Although there was, at one time, a very nice chap from the Treasury department.”

  Maggie’s eyebrows shot up. “Fred Gibson?”

  “Freddie,” David said with a wry smile. “Freddie, Freddie … Didn’t work out, though.” David sighed with mock drama. “And now, poor me, I’m all alone.”

  “But how do you … meet?”

  “My dear Maggie, do you think I only ever see you lot? Please!” He grinned. “I’m quite the man about town, you know.”

  She laughed and shook her head. Of course. “And you always knew?”

  “Always. I always knew. And my parents, bless their hearts, have always had enough sense to look the other way. They don’t ask too many questions, the dears.” David’s face quickly became serious. “But, Maggie, it’s not as though the age of Oscar Wilde is really so long ago.” Even though they were alone in the courtyard, his voice dropped to a low whisper. “It’s still considered a crime, and people are still being sent to prison. Or mental institutions, where they’re dosed with hormone injections. And since I’m working in Whitehall, of all places, it’s not exactly something I’ll ever be able to shout from the rooftops.”

  Maggie patted his back. “Not right now. But maybe someday.”

  “Maybe,” he said, and pushed up his glasses. But he didn’t sound convinced.

  * * *

  They walked into the bracing wind along the empty cobblestone paths, through Trinity College’s quadrangles and bijoux buildings, over vast expanses of rough green lawn and victory gardens. They passed two lines of pale-faced slender young choristers in snowy white ruffs, their red gowns flapping in the breeze. Finally, they reached Neville’s Court—the dining hall.

  As they passed through the doors into the cavernous wood-paneled space with the long tables, Maggie suddenly felt very small, gauche, and shabby. She looked up into the soaring rafters and let out a sigh. After all, this was where Sir Isaac Newton dined.

  “Just a dining hall. With the same horrible English food as everywhere else. They build it big to be intimidating—don’t let it get to you,” David stage-whispered. Maggie thought she could smell that day’s luncheon: shepherd’s pie and sour-apple custard.

  The hall was empty—most men were part of the war effort, after all—but at the end of the hall was a small dais, the High Table, where wizened dons in black robes were beginning to disperse after their meal. Maggie tried to walk lightly, to stop her heels from tapping so loudly on the floor.

  “Sir, pardon me,” Maggie said, going to the don with the kindest eyes. “My name is Maggie Hope, and this is David Greene. I’m trying to locate someone.”

  A few eyebrows raised, but the don stopped and looked down through his horn-rimmed glasses. “Most of the boys are off serving King and Country, my dear,” he said with a twinkle. He had thinning silver hair and rosacea across his cheeks and nose.

  “No, it’s not that,” she spluttered, “it’s—”

  “We’re looking for Professor Edmund Hope,” David cut in gracefully. “A colleague said he might have returned to Trinity. Would you happen to have seen him recently?”

  “Edmund Hope,” the don said slowly. “Edmund Hope. That’s a name I seem to be hearing quite a bit these days.”

  He looked at David and Maggie as they exchanged glances. The eyes weren’t twinkling now; instead, they looked steely and hard. “Follow me,” he said. “We need to speak in private.”

  Don Anthony Collier’s office was dignified and imposing. A stained-glass window picturing St. George and the dragon was crisscrossed by heavy black tape, and a reproduction of William Blake’s The Good and Evil Angels hung behind the large golden oak desk.

  “Please have a seat, Miss Hope, Mr. Greene,” he said, gesturing toward two brown-leather chairs.

  Maggie and David took their seats, and he did the same, behind the desk.

  “Edmund Hope was a student here before the war. The other war. Brilliant, as I recall.”

 
“He was my father,” Maggie said.

  Don Collier folded large liver-spotted hands. “I see.”

  David cleared his throat. “Miss Hope has been under the assumption that her father passed away in 1916—in a car accident. But she has reason to believe that he might still be alive. One of his colleagues suggested he might have returned here, sir.”

  The don knit his fingers together and regarded them from under bushy eyebrows. Maggie’s hands shook slightly, and she folded them firmly in her lap, to keep them still. After an interminable wait, he said, “And you both—who are you? What is it you do?”

  “I—I work for the Prime Minister, sir. I’m one of the typists.”

  “And I’m a private secretary to the P.M.”

  Don Collier swiveled in his desk chair. “I’ll need a moment,” he said, waving them out. “Just wait outside. Shan’t be long.”

  David and Maggie shared a look, then went out into the hall, leaning against wood-paneled walls. “What do you think it all means?” Maggie whispered.

  “Don’t know,” David replied. “But surely he must know something—otherwise, he’d have sent us on our way at once.”

  Maggie felt light-headed.

  Finally, the door opened.

  “Well, I called over to some friends in Whitehall, and it seems that a certain Miss Hope and Mr. Greene are indeed gainfully employed by the office of the Prime Minister. However, the powers that be would like you to give up this goose chase and return to your duties.”

  That’s what you’re saying, but what’s really going on? Maggie thought, a prickle of adrenaline running through her. Obviously, we’re onto something. And not only are we onto something, but there are some higher-ups who don’t want us to get any further and find out anything more. But—why? “Sir, does that mean that my father’s alive?”

  “Your father is dead, Miss Hope,” Don Collier said. “I’m dreadfully sorry for your loss, my dear. It’s time for you to move on.”

  Michael Murphy lit a cigarette and blew three smoke rings into the air, each smaller than the last. It was the first time he’d ever been allowed over. Claire would never have let him, except he had a shared bath at the boardinghouse, and with all they had to do, they couldn’t afford anyone seeing her make her transformation. So she sneaked Murphy in through the back garden and then up what had once been the servants’ staircase. She knew the others were at work.

  Claire was sitting in front of a white vanity with a blue-taffeta ruffle and a tarnished mirror with etched roses. An opened package of red hair dye lay on the shelf, along with a bag of cosmetics—a silver tube of eye shadow, a worn-down cake of black mascara, a stubby scarlet lipstick. For her hair there were Kirby grips and sugar-and-water setting lotion.

  She felt a surge of excitement as she completed her toilette, almost as if she were an actress in a play, about to go on on opening night. It’s time, she thought. It’s finally time. We’re really about to pull this off.

  Maggie and David walked slowly back to his car.

  “Bastard!” Maggie said, fuming and fighting the urge to kick the tires in frustration. “He knows. He knows, and he’s just not saying.…”

  “Maggie,” David said gently, “it’s not his fault. There’s a war on, you know. Everything’s a secret these days. Information doled out in little crumbs …”

  “War,” Maggie said, stopping suddenly. “That’s it—war!” She hugged David and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “War! Oh, you brilliant, brilliant man!”

  “Well, yes, of course,” David said, pleased. “But what are you getting at, Magster?”

  “You just said it—there’s a war on.”

  “Common knowledge.”

  “And if my father is alive, and evidence certainly suggests it, he’ll most likely be doing his part for the war effort.”

  David’s eyes widened. “You think he’s a soldier?”

  “Not in the way you’re thinking. You know about Bletchley Park, of course.”

  “Bletchley? Certainly. That’s where all of the mathematicians and the like have been gathered.…” His eyes widened. “Suffering Shukra—you think he’s a cryptographer?”

  “I think it’s probable,” Maggie said. “Given his expertise in mathematics. How far is Bletchley from here?”

  “Bletchley.” David stared off. “Small town on the Varsity line, halfway between Cambridge and Oxford. Right on the A-Five to London. Used to pass it on my way to see Wesley.” He looked at Maggie. “Uh, you know. The rower.”

  “How long do you think it will take?”

  “Not much more than a few hours, probably.” He squinted at his watch. “We’ll have the afternoon and evening there, but then …”

  “We have to get back by tomorrow morning, bright and early, I know,” she said, picturing the look of disapproval on Mrs. Tinsley’s face.

  “But it’s an absolutely brilliant idea,” David said. “And if he’s there, we’ll find him!”

  Maggie had her doubts. “You’re awfully optimistic,” she said. “There’s probably all kinds of security that even we can’t get past.”

  “You’ll see,” he said. “Just wait.”

  Claire contemplated her reflection in the mirror. The red hair really didn’t do much for her complexion, but it looked fine. More than fine. She could really pass for Maggie—especially in a hat with a veil.

  Poor Maggie, she thought. She’s so earnest, so well intentioned. She thinks so damned hard about everything. Thank goodness she’s gone off to Oxford or Cambridge or wherever. The timing’s perfect.

  She looked around, feeling suddenly wistful. They’d had good times here, it was true. What had started out as an accidental meeting, and a friendship of convenience, had turned into something more. Half the time, Claire had forgotten she’d been playing a role. She’d even felt a pang of guilt when she and Murphy had faked her death. Maggie’s a sweet girl, she realized, feeling more than a touch of shame over her deception. A sincere girl. Loyal to a fault. She sighed. Still, she’ll get over it. Someday. Who was she trying to fool? Well, maybe not, but the deed will be done, regardless.

  And there was a job to do. She put a final dab of powder on her nose, then rose to her feet and spun around. “Ta-da!” she sang, hands on hips.

  “It’s good,” Murphy said. “Very good. But of course I miss your hair.”

  “Don’t you like the red, darling?” Claire reached up to pat her waves of hair, held back with a carved tortoiseshell barrette. “There’s not much to do with it. She doesn’t care much about her hair, after all.” She looked down at her hands, stripped of polish and cut straight across. “Or her hands.”

  Murphy gestured to the brown straw hat on the bed. “Try it with that.”

  Claire put on the hat and stabbed it with a pearl-tipped pin. Slowly she lowered the net veil down over her eyes, then dropped them and gazed demurely at the floor.

  “What do you think?”

  “Dead ringer,” he said with a low whistle. “Congratulations, my dear. Are you ready?”

  Claire gave a sigh and then looked at her reflection in the mirror once again. “Ready as I’ll—”

  They both started at a noise from below, then froze. Claire put her finger to her lips.

  David and Maggie drove through an autumn countryside of copses and hedges beginning to turn yellow and brown, orchards with trees laden with tiny red apples, fields dotted white with grazing sheep. They motored past thatch-roofed pubs and over-wrought Victorian railway stations, the heavenward-pointed spires of Gothic churches, and the occasional Romanesque Norman tower with narrow arrow slits in its thick, heavy walls.

  It’s enough to make you want to sing “Rule Britannia!,” Maggie thought, rolling down the window and letting the fresh fall air blow over her. She was trying not to get overly excited about something that could turn out to be just a dead end. I only hope Robin Hood and his Merry Men don’t accost us before we get there.

  Bletchley was a small Victorian railway to
wn, with brick homes and shops with cheerfully colored awnings built up alongside the train tracks. The air was punctuated with the sound of locomotives chugging, clanking, and then letting off low, mournful steam whistles and belches of steam and soot.

  David navigated his way through town and, after a few wrong turns, pulled up in front of the Eight Cups.

  “Is this really time for a pint?” Maggie managed.

  “We can both do with a bit of lunch,” David replied with a grin. “And before we do anything else, I have to make a phone call.”

  “A phone call? To whom? Why?”

  “Just give me a few minutes.”

  Murphy and Claire heard the sounds—a bag dropped down, a coat hung up. Then the light tread of feet on the stairs.

  “Hello?” They heard a low and raspy voice call. “Anyone home?”

  The door suddenly swung open. “Hello? Maggie?”

  She’d taken a step into the room when Murphy came at her, swinging a milky-glass bedside table lamp at her head. There was a sickeningly loud thump on impact, the glass shattering and raining down. The young woman crumpled to the floor like a broken doll.

  Claire took one look at the figure on the floor, arms flung open and legs akimbo, blood gushing from the wound on the head and starting to puddle in her hair.

  “Oh my God, Michael!” she cried, falling to her knees, mindless of the shards of broken glass. She looked up at him. “What have you done?”

  It was one thing to assassinate the Prime Minister to further their cause. It was another to just, well, murder someone. Someone who hadn’t done anything, really. Her thoughts flashed to Diana Snyder, and she shook her head as though to force them out.

  “What I needed to. What we needed to. Now let’s get up and get moving.”

  Claire’s shoulders slumped, and she buried her face in her hands, the grim reality setting in. “Is she dead? Really dead?” Diana Snyder was different—Claire hadn’t known her. But this wasn’t the same. This was someone she knew. This was someone, she realized, she loved.

  Murphy felt at the prone girl’s neck for a pulse. “If not now, she will be soon.” Then, “For Christ’s sake, pull yourself together, Claire,” he said, taking the powder-blue silk quilt from the bed and throwing it over the girl’s slight, still form.