Mornings in London

by Janice Law

  “I believe that’s what he does.”

  “He knew Freddie Bosworth well! They were, what is the phrase?”

  “Hand in glove,” said Muriel. “As I told you before, when Bosworth was killed, we thought our troubles would be over. But he was just the public face.”

  “Grove has the cash,” Ben said. “He funds the Blackshirts and anti-immigrant sentiment.”

  “That means Jews, here,” Muriel said drily.

  “So many of our people are small businessmen or artisans in furniture, fur, and woodworking,” Ben added. “Grove gets support by claiming to protect British jobs.”

  “What he’s really protecting,” Muriel added, “is his own profit.”

  Her husband nodded. “He wants no competition. None at all.”

  “And Freddie? What exactly did he do?”

  “We think that he was the bagman,” said Muriel. “He went around doling out funds to the marchers and street fighters.”

  “And vandals,” added Ben. “You saw our windows?”

  I had.

  “Third time. But it takes more than that to frighten someone from Berlin.”

  Although I could believe that, I knew that he must be worried.

  “Grove is a rich man with contacts in government, with people like Tollman and Major Larkin,” I said. “Freddie probably met the Italian through him.”

  “Who is this Tollman?” Muriel asked.

  “Peter Tollman is something in finance, formerly a government functionary. All the Larkins’ weekend guests and the lady of the house are big Mosley fans and New Party supporters.”

  “A nice group you’ve gotten into, Francis!”

  “You can say that again, but blame a call for help from my cousin. Now she needs to lie low until I can get Freddie’s information to an official without fascist sympathies.”

  “There are some fascists in your government,” Ben said heavily.

  “Too right. The excuse is that Mussolini is making the trains run on time.”

  “And you want us to hide your cousin,” Muriel said. She didn’t sound enthusiastic.

  “I know it’s a risk.”

  “Ben is in danger of deportation, thanks to the Blackshirts and men like Grove and your country house pals. Hiding a murder suspect would be the last straw. You don’t know what you’re asking, Francis.”

  “I have some idea,” I said, “but she wouldn’t have to be in your home. We just need an unlikely place for an ex-deb with right-wing connections. Think about it: Grove and Rinaldi have influence, and Freddie did, too. You need someone with good government contacts on your side. If what Freddie was selling is valuable, and I believe it is, we have a bargaining chip. To counter men like Grove.”

  “An ingenious idea but too much of a risk!” Muriel expanded on this so vigorously that I began to wonder if she and Poppy together might be a combustible mixture.

  Ben waited until she paused for breath then said, “I disagree, my dear,” in a quiet voice that told me he had thought things over carefully. “Yes, it is a big risk, a big danger. But we are already on the knife edge. Refugees—you may not know this, Francis—must be self-supporting or supported by the Jewish community here. They are not to work, so as not to take English jobs, but they are not to be a burden to the state, either. You see, even running a furniture factory and helping my distressed countrymen is a risky business.”

  Muriel got up and collected the cups and rattled the saucers and cutlery in an angry way. When Ben said something to her in German, she turned and shook her head.

  “Nein, nein!” She took the tray into the back. When she returned, she said, “I have another idea. If your cousin is as game as you are.”

  “Oh, more so! Poppy is quite fearless.”

  “Well then, we’ll hide her in plain sight. I still have contacts at the music halls and clubs. From the news photos, your cousin’s a pretty girl.”

  “A stunner, according to those who know.”

  “Possibly athletic?”

  “Very. Though not tall. Not nearly as tall as you.”

  “She couldn’t get work as a dancer, not without training, except in a dance hall, and that’s riskier in a number of ways. If she’d pass as a hopeful just up to London, I can probably get her taken on by wardrobe. I know where there’s a temporary opening for a dresser. What do you think?”

  “I think my aunt would die of shock, but it’s brilliant. And it keeps Ben out of the picture. Lodgings, though? She must have a place to stay. And she can pay. She went off with some cash.”

  “Let me arrange that,” said Muriel. “I know just about every cheap lodging for stage gypsies and dancers in London.”

  Chapter 11

  Muriel was as good as her word. Within twenty-four hours, Poppy, still dressed like a shopgirl and mourning her fine wardrobe, arrived at the Royal Adelphi, where she was to help one of the headliners with her satins and spangles. My cousin would share a room in Soho with a dancer in the same cast, and she was supposedly a stagestruck country mouse. “You’re shy,” Muriel empathized, almost as soon as they met. “Say as little as possible, otherwise your speech gives you away.”

  Poppy nodded. I hoped that Lizzie was right about her theatrical talent.

  Muriel explained the duties of a dresser. “The wardrobe mistress will keep you straight. Just pay attention to her. Basically, it’s next costume always ready, mend everything that needs mending right away, store the costumes clean in the order they’ll be used. Mostly common sense. And remember, the artiste always looks wonderful, whatever the situation. When you are doing several turns of an evening, your morale needs a boost.”

  “Luv, you look a treat,” Poppy said.

  I had to admit it was a fair imitation.

  Muriel acknowledged this with a little grimace. “Don’t overdo.”

  “Just teach me the right things to say, and I’ll be fine.” Poppy is nothing if not confident.

  “Later,” Muriel said. “Right now we need to meet Violet.”

  “I’ve seen her perform, you know.” Poppy spoke with real enthusiasm. “She’s wonderful.”

  “She’s a trouper,” Muriel said. “Swears like one, too. You’ll get a taste. Don’t take it personally.”

  I thanked Muriel and hugged Poppy before they went around to the stage door and disappeared into the theater. I set my own course for Soho, hoping to turn up my uncle. The difficulty was where to begin. Though his ideal lady, wealthy but tolerant, had so far proved elusive, he was still avid in her pursuit. To impress some rich widow, he might venture dinner at Kettner’s or Chez Taglioni. With the boy of the moment—and there was almost always a boy of the moment—I could expect a far different venue. He’d select somewhere cheap and louche, saving money for little presents and excursions.

  Venue was only one problem. As I knew from experience, even recognizing Uncle Lastings was another, because he was a real chameleon in dress and even hair color. That night I was lucky. I was passing a club noisy with American jazz when I heard, “Nephew!”

  I turned around. There he was, splashed pink and green from the neon signs and togged out like someone in the City with a proper suit, a silk tie, and a bowler hat that covered his particolored hair, still growing out from the dye job he’d acquired as a Frenchman.

  “Uncle Lastings! The very man I’m looking for.”

  He put a flirtatious hand on my shoulder. “The night is young,” he said, but his look was ambiguous. Was he out for pleasure—or business?

  “The evening must be promising when you are looking so spiffy.”

  “Isola Bella suit you? Very quiet and private there.”

  Isola Bella was a fine restaurant, almost in rich-widow territory. Though I was strongly tempted, I feared the walls might have ears. “I don’t feel like Italian,” I said.

  “
Well!” my uncle exclaimed. He gave me a shrewd look but, without further comment, led the way to a pretty French restaurant with decent pictures on the walls and big prices on the menu. My uncle was clearly known to the staff, suggesting he’d enjoyed a run of prosperity, and we were seated, as requested, in a small private room upstairs. Doubtless a favorite place for illicit deals of every kind.

  “They do very nice fish here,” my uncle said, “though la belle cuisine brings back painful memories of our recent rupture.” He patted my hand. My uncle is never more dangerous than when he is pretending to be avuncular and sentimental. In France, even though he’d entangled me in a scheme that just missed disaster, he’d been displeased when I emerged with a profit. So I wasn’t going to pretend to be his affectionate nephew, even if, in the amber light of a luxurious restaurant, he was still attractive.

  He raised his eyebrows but said nothing more until our orders were taken. “So much to catch up on,” he said. “I have followed your own career lately in the press.”

  “One pays for family loyalty.”

  Another quizzical look.

  “You don’t think I’d venture to a country house party for fun! You cannot imagine what a bore Major Larkin was about his architecture. The rest had only three topics: gossip, politics, and horses, and little new to say on any one of them.”

  “I was forgetting your tastes are strictly urban. Was it my niece, Penelope, who involved you?”

  He had a serious interest if he was referring to Poppy as his niece. “I responded to a cry for help.”

  “Very gallant of you, I’m sure. But she’s still missing?” His voice was casual but his expression showed his interest.

  “Far as I know.” I changed the subject, feeling it was too soon to trust my uncle with anything more. “And you. You’re looking prosperous. Fit for the City and the bastions of finance? Or just a lady with more money than sense?”

  “Bitter, nephew. Very bitter. Quite undeserved, too. Clothes make the man, and these make a serious man, consulted by those in the know.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “Are they official and right-minded?”

  “I did not know you had politics of any kind, Francis.”

  “I’ve seen enough to know what I don’t want: men in ridiculous uniforms fighting in the streets.”

  “A description covering a multitude of sinners at the moment.”

  “I’m thinking Italian sinners, in particular. Any interest there?”

  “Alberto Rinaldi, for instance?”

  “The prime example. He invited me to lunch at Taverna Firenze.”

  “I’ve eaten at Taverna Firenze. The food is marvelous.”

  “But stay away from the grappa.” I described the aftermath of our meeting, including the theft of my keys and the break-in at my studio.

  Uncle Lastings shook his head when I finished. “Mussolini has agents all over London and sympathizers throughout the catering trades. Every other waiter is suspect, and even antifascist Italians can be pressured through relatives back home. In the circumstances, you were lucky to escape so lightly.”

  Lightly was a matter of opinion, but I agreed I was lucky. “They damaged my samples and destroyed half my designs, but the worst was they left Nan tied up and helpless. Who would have heard her if I hadn’t come back?”

  He shook his head in a show of sympathy. “Not to be thought of.” He took another drink of wine before he asked, “But you and Nan are innocent parties? Signor Rinaldi and his cohorts were mistaken? You wish a word passed to that effect?” My uncle narrowed his eyes and assumed a grave expression. He really did look like a man with influence, though in what quarters was the question. Could he convince the government types I was hoping to influence? That was the question.

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as Nan says. I took a breath. “On the contrary, I found what Freddie Bosworth was hoping to sell, and Nan hid it.”

  “Ah!” He raised his glass. “As I told your father years ago, you are a boy in a million.”

  “My father didn’t need to be told that. He knew it and hated it.”

  “He is not a man of broad sympathies,” Uncle Lastings agreed. “But I am impressed. And with Nan, too. Such a mind. A pity she is not younger and rich. I’d be tempted to set my cap for her.”

  It did not seem the moment to remark what a disastrous combination my rogue of an uncle and my dear nan would be.

  “But what is this mysterious item?”

  I described what I had seen in the negatives. My uncle was not terribly interested in Freddie’s sex photos, commenting that they were probably now of “low value,” nor did cavity magnetron produce a rise, but when I thought to add the mysterious name Chain Home, he sat straight up and his face grew not just serious but concentrated in a way I recognized. Although I find something comic about my uncle’s elaborate schemes and disguises, I must admit he can bear down on a problem. Once he focuses his energies, his solutions are often both daring and effective.

  “You are lucky to be sitting here,” my uncle said. “And what was that other thing you mentioned?”

  “Cavity magnetron? I looked it up at the BM. It produces electromagnetic waves, invisible rays that can find objects in the dark. Like ships in fog—or planes at night.”

  The penny dropped. “If that has anything to do with Chain Home, those negatives must be printed immediately. The project was just a name until now, but seeing at night!” He tapped his finger on the table. “The military implications are almost unimaginable! Time is of the essence, Francis. We’ll fetch them as soon as we finish eating.”

  I put down my fork and wiped my mouth. “You’re forgetting something. The negatives aren’t a donation.”

  My uncle turned all bluff and military as if he’d just stepped out of his old regimental quarters. “Those documents may be essential to the defense of the realm. In the wrong hands, they could compromise our security, especially RAF effectiveness.”

  “At the moment, they are in the right hands. No one supports the RAF, England, and the empire more staunchly than Nan.”

  My uncle was not amused. He went so far as to threaten me before I was able to make it clear that money was not my object. Then I felt he was a trifle disappointed. He had been angry when I charged him to store his dodgy pictures; now he seemed sorry that I was not genuinely mercenary. The males of my family are a difficult lot, but eventually I got him to listen. “I could have been killed in Berlin,” I concluded. “Sure, I had official help, but without Muriel, I couldn’t have contacted the embassy safely. Now, although she’s English born and bred, she could wind up stateless along with her husband, who’s not only a good man, but too wealthy to be a drain on the exchequer. He should be an asset to England.”

  “But a Jew, Francis. And a German one at that. I needn’t tell you they are not popular.”

  I shrugged. “Since when have you worried about popularity? You can be sure that document is safe with me, but without the other negatives, you may never know how Freddie got it. And the photos will be in the fire tonight without an agreement. Don’t doubt I’ll do it,” I said and set my face. I’ve learned a few things from knocking about in shady places with the rough trade I enjoy. Most important, how not to show fear. I am often frightened, not being superbrave, and, indeed, fear is as good as oysters in some ways. But showing fear is another matter; it brings out the worst and causes events to get out of hand. So I’ve learned to look calm and determined and indifferent.

  “It will take time.”

  I shook my head. “Won’t do. The powers that be need to make this quick. Tell them the offer is for a limited time only. Poppy has been hurt. Nan’s been endangered. I’ve already been offered a hundred pounds, and I suspect I could get a whole lot more. A couple good passports is surely not too much to ask.”

  We went back and forth on this until, exasperated, I said, “
Miss Fallowfield wouldn’t hesitate. Neither would Mac.” They had helped me out in Berlin, and I had done well for them.

  My uncle sputtered about this for a minute, as if he found it hard to leave military mode. But eventually, he called the waiter over and paid the bill. We took a cab to Waterloo Station. When we were deposited outside the terminus, however, my uncle walked away from the doors toward a nearby tower block with shops and a petrol station on the ground floor. There was a guard inside the main door, and the whole place had a strong feel of covert officialdom, as if this was metaphorically His Majesty’s little back closet or garden shed.

  My uncle had an identity document. I had none, but I was vouched for in glowing terms. Finally, we were allowed to take the elevator to the fifth floor, where my uncle had access to an office with a telegrapher. “We will send in code to Miss Fallowfield,” he said. “If she will vouch for you, the deal will go through.”

  He got a piece of paper and we constructed a message, basically exchanging potentially valuable material touching on Chain Home and security failures for bona fide UK passports and residence status for Muriel and Benjamin Mendelssohn, Hackney, London. My uncle handed this to the telegrapher.

  “When can we expect an answer?” I asked.

  “Before morning, I should think. Certainly tomorrow.”

  Uncle Lastings wanted me to fetch the documents immediately, but I was unwilling to do so without an answer. I commandeered a beat-up couch and settled down to wait. Berlin was an hour ahead, but it was still early for a night owl like Miss Fallowfield, who would be sitting up reading in bed if she was alone or at her kitchen table with cigarettes and whiskey if she was consulting with Mac. He’d be the one, I guessed, to bring her the message. They would talk things over and decide who they should contact, because an incident in London involving an Italian attaché was not really in her brief.

  I had a vivid image of her long, thin face, and of Mac, ruddy and stocky, sitting across from her in the low amber-tinged light and even imagined the sounds of their voices, voices of old colleagues with complicated memories. I was acquiring a few of those myself, and they were beginning to blend in an odd way when my uncle touched my shoulder. I sat up with a start. I’d been far away, asleep, in fact.