The Last Dance

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Klipfels,’ Joseph appealed.

  ‘You, Altmann, are in a lot of trouble. Traitorous trouble.’ He gave a tutting sound. ‘You’re not very good at this espionage work, Joseph; you should have stuck to budgets and reporting. We were friends.’

  ‘I thought we were,’ Joseph nodded sadly. ‘Our children go to school together, our wives lunch, you and I take brandy of an evening. Indeed, friends.’

  ‘But no longer, Herr Altmann. Not now that you’ve betrayed that friendship,’ Klipfels replied.

  ‘I don’t see it that way. Our family’s friendship is in jeopardy through no fault of mine. Going by what our Chancellor’s new plans are for Germany, it seems he marked us as enemies in his lunatic mind so you and I have no say in it. We are mere puppets.’

  Klipfels bristled. ‘We may spare your family, if you cooperate, Joseph, and tell us how you acquired these pages.’

  ‘Spare my . . . where are Brigitte and the children?’

  ‘In safe care. She is a good woman, your wife; excellent family. We know she is not to blame.’

  ‘Please, Klipfels, don’t take this out on my darling family.’

  ‘Then help me to keep them all safe.’

  Stella tasted sourness in her throat at the undisguised threat. It wasn’t just fear, she really did feel sick and maybe retching over Klipfels’ cream leather shoes was the answer for breaking this awkward deadlock. Instead, in her panic, she bumbled into another diversion of her own inspiration.

  ‘Oh, Captain Ainsworth, there’s that charming couple you introduced me to a couple of days ago.’

  Everyone, including Klipfels, looked to where Stella was pointing at an elderly man and woman who had wandered arm in arm into the square. They were foreigners; the pale linens gave them away, along with their oversized hats and his walking cane and flouncy kerchief poking out from his outside breast pocket ‘Um, let me recall, Mr and Mrs Harpsend, isn’t it?’ she offered in panic. ‘They were fossicking when we found the skipper.’ She could barely believe the ridiculous notions she was fabricating.

  Klipfels looked understandably baffled.

  Rafe in contrast looked amused. He glanced back at her, vague astonishment ghosting before he grinned. ‘Oh, yes, poor old Dick and Daisy who were lost, you mean? Of course,’ he said, turning back to look at them.

  ‘They’re so interested in your work as a lepidopterist,’ she gushed. ‘Shall I call them?’ She didn’t wait for his reply but raised a hand and yelled to the couple – perfect strangers – who mercifully heard an English accent and predictably turned towards it. ‘Hello again, Dick,’ she repeated. They raised their hands, obviously confused, but no English couple would risk being rude, and that’s what she counted on.

  Instantly the atmosphere surrounding their table changed to urgent.

  ‘I wish you hadn’t,’ Klipfels warned.

  Stella frowned at him. ‘Hadn’t what? Been polite to people we know? Look, what do you want with us, Sir? I have work to do for Captain Ainsworth.’ She reached down, opened the notebook she’d studied and began reeling off details about the Linnean Society of London and the trail of the butterfly they were hunting.

  ‘. . . . drawing of a Moroccan small skipper, Thymelicus hamza, but we’re looking for Pyrgus onopordi, er . . . the rosy grizzled skipper, for the uninformed.’ She pressed on, desperately trying to be as dull as she could. ‘Any amount of Moroccan meadow browns – hundreds – and graylings, more than I could bear to count, but our task this trip —’

  ‘Do be quiet, Miss Myles,’ Klipfels ordered.

  ‘Karl.’ It was Joseph who sighed. ‘Release Miss Myles. She is here purely by coincidence. I suspect you’re making her nervous.’

  ‘Release!’ Stella’s voice was huffy but the Harpsends were frowning, discussing whether to come over. She knew Klipfels had an eye on them too. Precious seconds ticked by. ‘What does that mean? I’m no prisoner to be released!’ She looked between the two men. ‘What’s in those pages?’

  It was Rafe’s turn. ‘Something Herr Klipfels is embarrassed by. Run along, Miss Myles.’ The Harpsends seemed to have made a decision and were tottering in their direction. ‘Hurry up, Klipfels. Perhaps she can stop them.’

  ‘Take your things and leave, Miss Myles,’ Klipfels directed and she could feel Rafe’s relief like a sharp gust of wind shoving her away.

  ‘Miss Myles,’ Rafe continued, matter-of-factly, ‘I shall meet you back at the hotel. It looks like today’s excursion into the foothills is a lost cause until we sort this business out.’

  ‘What business?’ she said, looking between Rafe and Joseph. She didn’t want to leave either of them.

  ‘Certainly not yours,’ Klipfels urged. ‘Gentlemen? Shall we retire to somewhere where we can talk in private?’

  ‘Stella . . . please,’ Rafe appealed but without the usual tenderness in his voice. ‘It’s best you leave. Write up yesterday’s notes, especially regarding those fossils we found.’ He closed the album, closed her notebook, piled them up and gave them to her, covering her hand with his own, which she felt like a farewell. There was a warning in his gaze that only she could sense.

  ‘What about you, Sir? When shall I see you?’

  ‘This afternoon.’

  She knew he lied. They were all liars. All acting out the charade.

  ‘Run along now,’ Rafe added, his tone cuttingly off-hand.

  ‘As your employer says,’ Klipfels sneered.

  She ignored him, eyes only for Rafe. ‘And you will be all right . . . Sir?’

  ‘I shall be fine,’ he assured. He began to move, Joseph dejectedly doing the same.

  ‘No scenes now,’ Klipfels warned, ‘or we shall have to have you accompany us, Miss Myles. And I should warn I have other colleagues posted who are carrying pistols. Let’s all stay calm and no one gets hurt.’

  Rafe shot her a beseeching look of warning.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Myles,’ Joseph said, his face corpse-grey. She remembered that colour well from her parents. Was he a dead man? Was Rafe? She was torn. Should she shout for help and hope against hope they might all get away, or listen to Rafe now and hope he knew what he was doing? If he’d been in hot water previously he’d clearly got away. He was smart, clever, silver-tongued. He would keep them safe, wouldn’t he? Klipfels just wanted the pages. Joseph and Rafe were of no use to them beyond that, surely?

  Joseph was muttering another apology.

  ‘Sorry doesn’t cover it, Mr Altmann. We had plans,’ she said, burying the truth in hollow words, surprised she could still remain in character and not reach for Rafe, scream for help. He wouldn’t want that, though. He had likely anticipated that this might happen, hadn’t he? Dawning entered her mind in a blindingly sharp manner, as though she’d stepped out of a dark room into bright sunlight. No, he’d known it would happen as he’d known that Joseph was no spy; Joseph wouldn’t know if he were followed; wouldn’t have a clue of the skills of espionage. She had a better training in duplicity through her work on the sales floor than Joseph Altmann did in his senior administrative role, whatever it was. It explained Rafe’s odd mood, his getting drunk, it even explained the argument on the ship and his manoeuvrings to give both of them one full day and night of loving together, because he’d known in his heart there would be no more. And he’d anticipated she would be smart enough to get herself away; that he would manipulate the situation to enable it and that she would use her perceptiveness and alertness to live up to his estimation of her. But he’d wanted that precious time alone with her first. In her moment of clarity, she believed it was likely Rafe who had whispered to Grace about Georgina’s lineage, reminded her of that argument between himself and Beatrice and words spilled that shouldn’t have been uttered in Grace’s presence.

  All of that risk and hurt because Rafe wanted to hold Stella . . . alone, without prying eyes. His farewell.

  One last dance, Stella, his voice echoed in her mind like he was wishing her adieu.

&nbs
p; Stella wilted, pain and terror combining to double her up. He was already out of reach. ‘Rafe!’ she cried to him, but it came out as a whisper.

  He looked back, ignoring her suffering. ‘And if for any reason I’m held up, do get that stuff to old Fruity, would you? He’s waiting for it – you know what a stickler he is for deadlines.’

  And then he and Joseph were gone, hurried from her by their German escort as the elderly pair arrived.

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ said the woman as Stella crumpled against them. ‘Harold, darling, quick, she’s swooning.’

  When Stella regained her wits, she was in the shadows of the café being fanned by the elderly woman, with her husband and one of the waiters watching on, concerned. Her head snapped back with the eye-wateringly pungent smell of ammonia laced with an astringent top note of lavender.

  ‘There you are, that’s better,’ her companion said, fanning harder. ‘Take this, Harold,’ she said, handing off a tiny, clear glass bottle. Her husband stepped forward and obediently took the smelling salts. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m fine. Did I faint?’

  ‘I think you did, my dear,’ her new friend admitted. ‘Would you like to use my fan?’

  Stella shook her head, everything flooding back now. ‘Have they gone?’

  The woman blinked. ‘Er . . . ?’ She looked around at her companions and it was the waiter who answered in French.

  ‘The men have left, Madam,’ he confirmed.

  Stella moved slowly to stand. ‘Did you see the men I was with?’

  Harold nodded. ‘We did. They were leaving and you called us over.’

  Harold’s wife, exasperated with his explanation, took over. ‘Should we know you, my dear? I’m sorry, perhaps our ageing minds are letting us down but we don’t recognise you. You’re not the Hampton-Cooper girl, are you?’

  Stella felt nervous laughter warbling in her throat, knew her emotions were rising towards hysteria and clamped her mouth shut. She coughed it out instead, shook her head in response, forcing a sense of control about herself. When she felt she could, she answered properly. ‘I’m sorry, no. I’m Stella Myles.’

  They looked at her blankly, then at each other as if running the family name of Myles through their collective memories.

  ‘You don’t know me. Forgive me.’ It would make no difference to explain so she fibbed again. ‘I mistook you for another couple.’

  ‘Oh,’ the woman exclaimed with gentle understanding. ‘That’s quite all right. Happens all the time.’

  ‘Which direction did they go?’ she asked the waiter in French.

  ‘He does not wish you to follow,’ he replied, dark eyes fixing her with an implacable stare.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘He has paid me not to,’ he said.

  She was aware of the couple’s attention darting back and forth between them. ‘I shall double whatever he paid. Triple it!’

  He stood unmoved. ‘I am not for sale,’ he answered.

  Her mouth quivered in her sense of helplessness.

  ‘He also paid me to escort you back to the hotel.’

  ‘I don’t want you near me.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ the man said, ignoring her. He was older and something in his tone overwhelmed her natural desire to imagine herself hypothetically spitting at his feet, but her combined sorrow and rage was such that she could imagine such a heinous display of poor manners to make her dead parents fidget unhappily in their graves.

  ‘My dear?’ the woman asked.

  ‘I’m sorry. I came over so light-headed. I had no idea that I would faint.’ She gave the woman a peck. ‘You’ve been so kind, Mrs . . . ?’

  ‘Margaret and Harold Eversham. Card, Harold, dear,’ she said, turning to her husband who instantly dug in his waistcoat pocket. She took it and passed it to Stella.

  She read it, nodding, taking a slow deep breath to steady herself and her nerves. ‘Norfolk,’ she said, unsure of what else to say. ‘How nice.’

  ‘Beautiful. We live on the Broads. You’re most welcome to visit some time.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  ‘Well, you seem sad, my dear. Norfolk might cheer. Can we do anything for you?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, this man will guide me to where my friends are. Thank you for being so generous and understanding.’

  Harold tweaked his white moustache, mumbled something about it being no trouble at all. His wife squeezed her hand. ‘We’re staying at the Hotel Gallia . . . it’s a fine riad, my dear, must have been a rich old merchant’s home before it changed over to a guest house. Feel free to look us up there. We’re staying for another couple of days before we go to Tangier.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Stella set her shoulders and forced a smile. ‘I’d better go find my friends,’ she said, feigning brightness. ‘Thank you again.’ She nodded at the waiter.

  ‘I am Zarif,’ he said, bowing slightly, hand over heart.

  ‘Thank you, Zarif. Shall we?’ she said in English this time.

  25

  LONDON – JUNE 1933

  Stella sat on a bench in Kensington Gardens, not far from the Peter Pan statue, and wished she too could disappear into Neverland. She’d spent some time in the ornamental Italian Gardens that she’d read somewhere had been a grand gift from Prince Albert to his beloved Queen Victoria. It was all a little florid for Stella, with its marble fountain and massive stone urns and statues, and she’d drifted down, following the path of the Long Water that would lead into the Serpentine to find a spot where she could be still and unnoticed for a while. Sitting near Peter with a copse to her back, flowers around her and the waterway in front was ideal. It was only nearing nine-fifteen so the day was young and few people, save those taking the fresh air with infants or workers using the gardens to cut through from Bayswater to Knightsbridge, interrupted her vision with their movement.

  The morning was warm, the day promising to be hot, and the emergence of drifts of daisies reminded her that the warmest season spoke of happy moods and laughter – but she would forever associate the feeling of the sun on her skin with a sense of misery.

  She’d arrived early for her appointment and had time to contemplate and observe those few Londoners going about their day. She felt every ounce the outsider, amongst the nannies and mothers who emerged through the park gates with their new-fangled large-wheeled stroller prams. Her father had insisted that the cumbersome large perambulator that had been purchased when Stella was born would do just fine for her siblings who came so much later. Inevitably it was she who had struggled to control a baby inside the monstrous vehicle with an eager, often restless toddler at her side when her mother asked her to take the children out for some air. What wouldn’t she have done for one of these modern contraptions, where the infant faced out and could see the world rather than staring at the sky or up into their mother’s nostrils.

  She had sat here now for more than an hour considering the exquisite bronze sculpturing of tiny fairies and squirrels and other furry creatures playing around Peter. Her thoughts had ranged from how life’s odd journey had brought her to this place.

  It had been a week since she’d arrived home from North Africa. She could not bear to remember returning to that hotel room of love feeling so bereft. She’d paced for several minutes, glad to be rid of hotel staff and even the waiter who seemed to know a lot more about what had occurred than she did. He’d even given her instructions, apparently briefed by Rafe during their hurried discussion in Arabic. It’s why she recalled now how Zarif had glanced her way during that conversation. Rafe must have all but accepted that the meeting with Joseph would turn sour. Zarif had escorted her, reminded her to write down every single memory of the twenty minutes or so with Joseph before Klipfels arrived. To find Fruity, to give him everything.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ she had asked.

  The waiter had looked back uncomprehendingly. ‘You are supposed to understand, Madam,’ he had said as politely as
he could in French.

  But she hadn’t understood, not until the journey home on the aeroplane. She’d ripped open the envelope she found waiting for her on the hotel dressing table and knew in her gut, before the contents spilled, that there would be paperwork for only one person. Her instincts served her well. There were no return travel documents for Rafe Ainsworth.

  In that hotel room she had crumpled in on herself, coming to rest on the floor in deep, silent sobs of heartbreak, fully appreciating that he’d feared since before they left England that he would never return.

  And in the course of the next few hours she’d drifted in and out of her grief, finally emerging into the latter half of the afternoon to realise his note was still crushed in her hand. Of course he could write nothing down that was incriminating – he could tell Zarif nothing that could be repeated to their enemies either – and so she had needed to read between the lines of his affection and regret.

  My darling Stella,

  If you are reading this, the worst has occurred and we are separated. Poor old Joseph. I had to presume he would be watched because of his position so close to the power brokers. And I had to presume he would be followed on his sudden departure from Berlin even if they were not sure about what he may know. I mustn’t dwell and write of my love and admiration for you, for I know as you do read this that time is frighteningly short and you must use the travel documents enclosed and get yourself back to London.

  Please do not look for me, do not linger in Morocco for me, do not talk about me to anyone. Be safe and get on that flight back to England. I trust you and that clever, agile mind of yours to work out everything.

  Make it all count for something, my darling. Make me even prouder . . . I love you with all of myself; even my shadow that now whispers goodbye to you, Stella, because I will not feel your soft skin again or hear your bright laughter. But wherever I am I cannot miss you because you are here with me, remember? You covered my heart with your hand and promised me you will always be there. And so it is . . . we are bound in spirit and, perhaps, other ways, to keep you in happy company.