For a change of scenery, he set himself up at Aunt Millie’s small desk in the bedroom he’d taken over. By the time he pulled out scrap paper, some of his good stationery, and Les Heures Claires, the entire surface was filled. With only a moment’s longing for his desk at Abuelo’s, he set to work.
He may not be able to give Margot answers on her mother. But maybe, just maybe, he could find the equation for her heart.
“Margot. What in the world are you doing?”
Margot glanced up only briefly from the newspaper she had spread over her desk. And only then because it was Barclay who spoke, and she hadn’t seen him in nearly a week. “Taking my lunch break.”
His silence spoke eloquently as he looked over her shoulder at the marks and circles obscuring some of the print on the page. “Margot.”
She knew how it looked. But she also knew she was not mad. “DID said one of the German agents in custody mentioned their suspicion that we communicated with our agents through coded messages hidden within newspapers. Why would they assume that unless it was a method they were using? If my mother was targeted, there could be information to be found here.”
She could only hope he wouldn’t remember that it was the method her father had used to train her. That would make it seem a bit . . . desperate.
Given the look he shot her, he did recall. “Margot. If you need help with something, you know well you can simply ask me.”
She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t considered doing just that, after Drake confessed last night that he’d been called off the investigation. Barclay certainly had connections she didn’t—the very ones that made him an invaluable asset to Admiral Hall. After years of scavenging and thieving through the city, he knew the ins and outs better than just about anyone.
But his connections to the intelligence world were all through Mr. V, the man who had recruited her to Room 40 to begin with. V answered directly to Admiral Hall. Using Barclay’s aid in this question would lead her right back where she started, and the admiral had been firm this morning. No more Room 40 resources could be dedicated to the question of her mother’s death.
“There’s nothing you can do, Barclay. Though I thank you for the offer.” She dug up a smile that probably bore only the slightest resemblance to a real one. “What are you doing here today, anyway?”
“What, I can’t come and visit my favorite cryptographer for no reason?” With a grin, Barclay leaned against her desk in that way he always did, as if he had all the time in the world and nothing better to spend it on than a conversation. He had a way of looking instantly relaxed that clashed with the Wavy Navy uniform he now wore. “V said Hall had a task for me. I appear to have arrived a bit early, so I thought I’d take a minute to bother you.” He made a show of looking around. “Where’s Dot? I thought you took lunches together.”
“Usually. But she’s having lunch with a . . . friend today. From outside the OB.” It wasn’t jealousy that had wriggled through her when Dot had shared, with pink cheeks, that she was meeting Redvers Holmes at noon. A bit of sorrow for herself, perhaps. Such a new friendship, and already they were being pulled separate directions. But Margot wouldn’t begrudge her any happiness.
“So instead you decide to pass your lunch with newspapers and sad questions?”
She opened her mouth, sure a clever retort would find its way to her tongue, but all words went silent when the admiral strode into the room. His all-knowing gaze took in the newspapers with a blink. His lips thinned. But then he focused on Barclay. “Sorry, Pearce. Did I keep you waiting long?”
“Just long enough that I could say hello to my little sister.”
Despite herself, a corner of her lips turned up. Barclay was the only person in the world who seemed to think that liking a person made them a sibling. Well, one of his adopted sisters had married Margot’s brother . . .
Hall chuckled and slid a hand to his inner pocket. It emerged again with a folded paper. “See to this, if you would.”
“Yes, sir.” Barclay didn’t even ask what it was. Just took the paper and straightened again. And then he leaned over to press a kiss to Margot’s forehead. “See you on Sunday, Margot.” In a whisper he added, “If you need me, you’ve only to ask.”
“Bye, Barclay.” She wanted to ask, even now. But she knew she shouldn’t. She may be willing to risk irritating Hall herself, but she certainly didn’t want to land Barclay in any hot water for pursuing what the admiral thought to be a waste of time.
He watched Barclay exit and then turned back to Margot. The sigh was, no doubt, over the newspapers spread across her desk. He too would know well what she was doing. But it was her own time. She could spend it however she pleased.
Perhaps he realized as much. Or perhaps he didn’t want to open the debate again. “When your break is over, my dear, I’ve a task for you: a new recruit who needs to be trained.”
Margot set her pen down and frowned at her superior. “Since when do I train new people?”
Hall grinned. “Since the new chap has a chip on his shoulder that has already put off half the fellows here—and the rest haven’t met him yet. I didn’t think you’d be prone to such reactions.”
He must be quite a chap if Hall was determined to bring him on board despite not fitting in well with the rest of the team. “Who is he?”
The admiral tapped a finger to another of the newspapers on her desk. “Black Heart.”
Her brows flew up before she could stop them. “We’ve brought an RFC pilot into our numbers?”
“He has talent with more than aircraft. And I enjoyed pulling one over on the people who wanted to make an example of him. Took a few tugs on odd strings to get him here, but worth it, I hope.”
She chuckled and nodded. “All right. Consider me your new trainer. Where can I find this Cœur Noir?”
“I have him sequestered in the little storage room at the end of the hall for now, until he stops snarling at everyone.” The admiral lost the battle to another grin. “Apparently being threatened with court-martial and a firing squad has put him in a bit of a foul temper. Nothing you can’t handle though.”
Margot smiled. “As long as snarling back is acceptable.”
“No arguments from me. Though Camden is an old friend of Lieutenant Elton, apparently—he’s actually the one who suggested I bring him into the fold. If you wish to be kind for his sake.”
Her brows lifted again. “And why would that affect anything?”
“Oh, no reason.” Lips twitching, Hall spun away. “Let me know how it goes. I’m off to meet with the press and convince them to stop lambasting my newest recruit.”
Margot shook her head and picked her pen up again. If the articles she’d read over the past few days were an indication of the journalists’ inclinations, they weren’t going to be happy about letting their prize story go. But DID had the press corps wrapped around his finger. He fed them enough juicy tidbits that they wouldn’t nip at his outstretched fingers now.
Heaven knew these papers spread before her didn’t seem to have any hidden messages in them, just their overt ones. She kept looking for the telltale signs—letters too bold, or not aligned properly—that would alert an operative to a message, but thus far each oddity she had circled hadn’t followed up on its promise.
When the voices of the others began filtering back through the hallways, Margot folded up the newspapers with a sigh. She would keep looking through the old editions she had in a box at home. But for now, training. She certainly hoped this Camden fellow was a quick study.
She gathered up a few newly arrived encoded telegrams, today’s code, paper, and pencils. Then she aimed herself for the room at the end of the hall that had been a storage room. Margot tapped on the door and opened it, nearly dropping her supplies when the occupant all but leapt at her like a caged lion.
“Have you come to let me out of this prison?” He was tall, dark, and seething. Margot noted the features that would have made the secretaries go afl
utter—the strong jaw, the chiseled lips, the clear blue eyes, et cetera. But they were secondary to what interested her more—the intelligence snapping in those eyes, and the bad attitude coming off him in waves.
This was sure to be fun.
She stepped into the room and set the papers and pencils on the scratched-up table that someone had shoved in here, up against the boxes of papers. There were no windows, just a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling and a lamp. She’d leave the door open. “I should think you of all people, sir, would recognize that this is far from a prison.”
He snarled. Then drew in a breath and made a quick bow. “Forgive me, miss. You’ve probably come to bring me tea, or to see if I’ve anything for you to type up.”
One of these days, people wouldn’t just assume she was a secretary. Or a tea girl.
No, that was wishful thinking. People would always assume it. But maybe one of these days it would stop making her itch in protest. She spread her now-empty hands. “Do I look like I’ve come with tea?”
He folded his arms over his chest, still clad in the olive-green RFC pilot’s uniform. How odd it was to see olive green here, instead of naval blue. “You could have left your cart in the corridor. Heaven knows it wouldn’t fit in this cell.”
She motioned to the equally empty space outside the door. “There are no tea girls on our floor. And I am not a secretary.” She pointed to the chair obviously brought in with the makeshift desk. “Now sit down. Unless you want to go to prison, you have a lot to learn.”
He scoffed. Scoffed. “And I suppose you’re going to teach me, darling?”
The admiral had said he wouldn’t mind if Margot snarled at him—she wondered how he’d feel about it if she employed a few of the moves Willa had taught her for self-defense. A knee to the groin might bring this chap down a much-needed peg.
She settled for a scathing look. For now. “I suppose that depends on how big an idiot you are. Sit.”
He sat, but with a smirk that said he was merely playing along for his own entertainment. “Right. Sitting. Now what? I suppose you’re going to bring in a typewriter and teach me how to type up a few papers while filing my nails?”
“Well, apparently, first I’m going to teach you how to avoid the firing squad.” She perched on the edge of the table and glared at him. “Admiral Hall has gone out on a limb, bringing you here when everyone in England is calling for a court-martial. I highly suggest you show your gratitude in some way other than by provoking every single member of his staff.”
The smirk died away into a glower. “I didn’t ask the admiral to fetch me from prison.”
“No. Drake Elton did. For some reason, he deems you a friend, whether you know the meaning of the word or not.”
“Elton?” He sat up straighter and looked genuinely struck. For a moment. Then the smirk reappeared, and he swept his eyes down the length of her. “Are you his sister? Dora, isn’t it?”
Men could be such imbeciles. “No. And no.” She picked up the tube she’d brought with her, opened it, and pulled out the intercepted telegrams within. “Are you ready to get to work, or do you need a few more minutes to prove yourself a reprobate?”
He waved a hand. “By all means, darling. Teach me something.”
He was about to learn how not darling she was. “That top sheet there has today’s code on it. Since you’re obviously so much smarter than a mere woman could possibly be, why don’t you just go right ahead and decode those telegrams?”
He sent her an arched look but picked up the day’s code and one of the slips of paper from the tube. “Might take some time, but infinitely doable.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Then you’ll be ready for your first night shift in a few days and will be able to do it in reverse—break the code with nothing to go on but the telegram written in it.” She pushed off the desk and gave him an empty smile. “Have at it, then. Cheerio.”
She pivoted to the door, fully intending to leave him to his own devices for an hour or two and see what came of it.
But the doorway was blocked by Dilly Knox, who stepped inside with raised brows. “Is DID angry with you, De Wilde? To assign you to him?”
Margot grinned. “No. He just knows I’m not going to butt heads with him like a ram, as the rest of you do.”
“Mm.” Dilly glared at Camden for a moment and then held up a paper in his hands, his eyes softening back to normal when he looked again to her. “I could use your help, if you have a moment. This just came in. I haven’t compared it to all our codebooks yet, but it doesn’t look to me as though it’s in the usual ones, and I was afraid it would be another of those that seem to be in that new code. You hold the lot of them in your head better than I do, so I thought perhaps you could . . . ?”
“Ah, fun.” It was something like holding up a random piece and trying to determine which of five puzzles it belonged to. One had to look past the portion of image that was so incomplete, the colors that could belong in any of the blank spots, and instead look at the shape of the thing.
Behind her, the chair scraped. “Wait just a blighted moment. Do you mean to tell me—”
“Do shut up, Camden. My feeble feminine intelligence requires a bit of quiet for such tasks.” Margot read through the page and then let her eyes slide shut. Let the organization of it turn into numbers in her mind, let the numbers shift and slide until their patterns matched up with others.
When she opened her eyes again, she found Dilly to be the one wearing a smirk, directed at the grounded pilot.
Margot handed the paper back. “I believe it’s a variation of 2310. You’ll need to determine the variance, of course, but that seems to be its pattern.”
“Ah. Good man, De Wilde. You’ve saved me a few hours of trial and error.” He stepped back into the corridor with a mock salute. “Best of luck with your delinquent.”
“Much appreciated.” She turned back to said delinquent with raised brows. “Any questions before I go?”
He held up a pencil, bemusement on his face. “You’re a codebreaker?”
Not quite as insightful as the ones Drake tended to ask. But then, they were old friends, not identical twins. “Obviously.”
“But you’re a woman.”
“Excellent powers of deduction. What was your first clue?”
He sighed, and a fair bit of his bravado seeped out with it. He looked . . . tired. And maybe a bit broken.
Margot decided to take pity on him. A little, anyway. “It’s like this, Camden. DID will hire whoever can do the job. A banker. A music critic. A girl. A supposed criminal. It doesn’t matter what you were outside these halls. In here, all that matters is that you can do the job. So do the job. All right?”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s been . . . a nasty week.”
“I imagine.” The papers hadn’t been very clear on exactly what he was being blamed for, but it involved the deaths of members of his squadron. That kind of horror gave a man an excuse for surliness. What she didn’t quite know was how to reach out to him through it.
Drake would know. He’d have a clever question to ask, one to poke through the resistance and get to the heart of the matter. The heart of his old friend.
All Margot could do was draw in a breath and say, “My mother died three weeks ago.”
He looked up, shoulders still stooped but combativeness gone. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She heaved out the breath she’d drawn in, wishing for just a bit of Drake’s ability to communicate. “I didn’t say it for sympathy. Just . . . the work helps. Helps me, I mean. Maybe it’ll help you too. Give you something positive to focus on. A way to let go of all that nastiness, at least for a few hours at a clip.”
He leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “Probably. But I don’t know that I’m ready to let go of it.”
Margot nudged a few boxes over and sat on them. “We haven’t the luxury of that indulgence just now. You’re an officer in His Majesty’s Royal Flying Corp.
It’s your duty to do your bit.” She tapped a finger to the papers on the table. “And right now, this is your bit.”
For a long moment, he just sat unmoving, staring at the papers. Probably seeing something far different, far removed from a storage room in the OB. Then he blinked, nodded, and pulled the papers forward. “All right, then. I’ll save the moping for my own time. Show me what I’m doing here, Mademoiselle Codebreaker.”
She smiled, happy enough to get down to business.
20
Drake knew well his sister—and his doctor—would have his head if they could see him now. But that sure knowledge hadn’t stopped him from slipping on his overcoat, planting a hat onto his head, and wishing this building had a lift as he slowly took one step after another until he was on the ground floor, out the back door, and on the blessed street.
Fresh air was a heady thing. For a second, he could do nothing but breathe it in, forgetting his purpose in hobbling down here. Forgetting the way Dot would fret. The way the physician would scold. None of that mattered. It smelled of cold and rain and the exhaust of the car that had just rattled past. Of the bread baking in the shop down the street. It smelled of London and of freedom.
He might never go back inside again.
Or at the very least, he might begin making a trek down here every day, when no one was at home to berate him for it. Assuming, of course, he could get back up the stairs after this outing. Which was probably going to be a bit more difficult than coming down had been, and that was challenging enough.
Blasted gunshot wound.
But he couldn’t sit there anymore, looking out at the same dark-haired man in the grey overcoat who had been there the past two days. He wasn’t quite sure what he intended to discover by investigating from the street, but surely more than he’d been able to glean from Dot’s flat.
Hall had paid him a visit yesterday to tell him that the phone call of the day before had been placed from a coin-operated telephone box a street over from where he now stood. He’d delivered the news with a tight mouth that proclaimed him unhappy with the discovery and with warning flashing in his eyes.
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