by T E Kinsey
‘Your treat, dear boy?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘In that case, you’re on.’
He hailed another cab.
I’d seen enough atlases and read enough travel memoirs to know that China was a devil of a long way away, but it’s one thing seeing it on a map, quite another thing is to spend the best part of three weeks travelling there on a P&O ship. And I used to think it was a long way from our house to the top of the mountain.
Sir Rodney had been posted to the British Consulate in Shanghai and he and his wife were billeted in a pleasant little house in the British Settlement. The city had been carved up by the Western powers and it was possible to live one’s life there without ever really feeling one had left Europe. The climate was different, and obviously it was China if you chose to look, but there was so much Britishness in our part of town that we might as well have been living in Kensington.
Sir Roderick worked normal office hours which left Lady Hardcastle free to do much as she pleased during the day. There were calls to be made and received, of course, and luncheons to attend, but there was plenty of time to explore Chinese life. She had employed a local woman as a housemaid and we spent many hours learning each other’s languages (apart, that is, from my own first language – neither of them showed much inclination to learn Welsh). And once we had mastered a few basics, we prevailed upon her to show us around.
With our local guide we were introduced to the Chinese area of the city where we would often shop and eat. The ladies of the Consulate were horrified at this behaviour and cautioned Lady Hardcastle most sternly against “going native” but this spurred her on even more. She even bought some Chinese clothes for us both, complete with the little pillbox hats that some of them were wearing.
Life had suddenly begun to far exceed even my wildest imaginings and at just eighteen years old I was living an adventure I had never even dreamed of.
Life settled into a sort of routine for the first few months, but then Lady Hardcastle resumed her periodic absences, leaving me for days at a time in the company of the housemaid. Sir Roderick usually dined at his club during those times and I had little to do but practice my Mandarin.
During one such absence, I was awakened not long after dawn by the sound of the front door being stealthily closed. I thought at first that it was Sir Roderick returning from one of his rare all-night card games, but as I came to I remembered that he had arrived home shortly before I had retired for the night.
Curiosity was never much good for the long life and happiness of moggies, and it could well have proved my undoing, too, but I just couldn’t stop myself from going to find out what had made the noise. I crept towards the hall as silently as I could manage and was startled to see a plump Chinese man standing there with his back to me. I must have let out a gasp, for he turned round and there, large as life, was Lady Hardcastle.
‘Ah, Florence, there you are, dear. Help me out of these togs and prepare me a bath, would you? I’m quite done in.’
I had thought that the the most exciting thing that could ever possibly happen to a girl from the Valleys had been when, at thirteen and against everyone’s advice, I had left home to start my life in service in Cardiff. But life had topped that when I had left Cardiff for London at fifteen; surely nothing could be more exotic than that. Except that then I had left London for China and I absolutely knew that nothing could ever be more exciting. And then, on that morning in Shanghai, I had a conversation with Lady Hardcastle as I helped her get ready for bed.
Emily Charlotte Ariadne Featherstonhaugh was born on 7 November 1867, the younger of two children born to Sir Percival Featherstonhaugh, Permanent Secretary to the Treasury, and his wife Ariadne, known to her friends — of whom there were many — as Addie. She and her brother Henry Alfred Percival Featherstonhaugh – who had never been anything other than Harry – had a childhood as far removed from my own as it was possible to imagine. There were toys and outings and friends who came to tea. When their parents entertained, they would sneak to the top of the stairs where they would almost always be “accidentally” caught and indulgently introduced to the guests by their doting parents. For five years, Emily’s life had been idyllic, and then one day, it had come crashing down around her ears. Harry, now aged seven, was sent away to school.
Emily was devastated. Not only had her childhood companion and confederate been taken away from her, but he was off on an extra special adventure that she couldn’t share. He had gone to school. He was going to be learning things that she felt she would never be allowed to know. It just wasn’t fair.
She had made such a fuss that her parents, as indulgent as ever, had engaged a governess several years before they had planned and Emily, determined to prove herself every bit as clever as her brother, had taken to her lessons with a determination that surprised everyone. It wasn’t long before the first governess, whose specialism had been teaching simple reading and arithmetic skills to the very young, was forced to admit that the young girl had long since passed the level at which she felt comfortable teaching, and another had to be engaged. And then another. And another.
The years passed and Emily’s academic prowess showed no sign of peaking. It had been expected that she would follow her parents’ friends’ daughters who were attending an assortment of finishing schools around Europe before being presented at coming out balls and beginning the search for suitable husbands. But when Harry came home and for Christmas 1883 and told her that he was about to sit the Cambridge entrance examination, Sir Percival and Lady Featherstonhaugh’s plans were changed again. Harry intended to study at their father’s old college, Kings, which meant that Emily would be unable to follow him, but there was a women’s college now, and Emily set about persuading her beleaguered parents that they should support her newfound ambition.
And so it was that in October 1884, Emily Featherstonhaugh had gone up to Girton College, Cambridge.
It was at Cambridge that she met the charming and handsome Roderick Hardcastle and where, almost as significantly, she had come to the attention of certain dons who had long been on the lookout for people such as she; well-connected people with sharp minds and the ability to use them. People who could gather information useful to Her Britannic Majesty’s government about the activities and intentions of its allies and enemies. People who could spy.
Of course, they usually recruited men. Men up at Cambridge who were bound for the Foreign Office or the Diplomatic Service were ideal, but there were women, too. Most often they were society women, wives of diplomats and businessmen, but there were lone adventurers, too, and it had recently occurred to the “certain dons” that there were now, among the university’s students, a number of young women who might be of great use to them.
And so in her final year, Emily was recruited. She was trained in the use of codes and ciphers, and in such rudimentary espionage techniques as had been developed at that time (she later confided in me that the essence of this was “blend in and keep your eyes and ears open, dear girl”) and by the time she graduated (with a double first, naturally) she was ready for her first posting. Or she would have been had not something not happened which her new masters found even more useful: she married Roderick Hardcastle.
Two years her senior, Hardcastle had already made quite an impression at the Foreign Office by the time he and Emily wed, and they formed the perfect intelligence team. They were young, charming, elegant, and fun. They had access to all the right people and, more importantly, all the right people were keen to be in their company. They played the role of dizzy socialites, all the while gathering information from the foreign dignitaries, businessmen and industrialists who were so delighted to be part of their orbit.
Short postings abroad followed, to Europe, the United States and to India, earning Roderick promotion and a knighthood and Emily a reputation as one of the finest spies of the age.
I sat dumbfounded. I had managed to piece much of the story together for myself during our many conversations over the
past months, but I had never in my wildest imaginings even dreamt of the full extent of the truth. And just when I was beginning to think I was able to come to terms with it all, Lady Hardcastle said something even more extraordinary.
‘The thing is, you see, my dearest Armstrong, that I am in the most desperate need of an assistant. There are places I find it difficult to go, places where I cannot blend in and keep my eyes and ears open. And a lot of these are places, my dear girl, where you could pass entirely unnoticed. I’ve mentioned you to my superiors and they are impressed by what I’ve said and what they’ve surreptitiously observed for themselves. How would you like to take a second job? As well as serving as the most excellent lady’s maid a woman could ever wish for, how would you like to be a spy?’
‘I swear, Flo, it’s as if you’re hardly with us today at all,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
As promised, Harry had treated us to a most magnificently indulgent tea at the Ritz. There had been sandwiches, pastries and the most extravagantly gooey, cream-filled cakes, and even before we had finished, a feeling of overfed contentment had washed over me. As Harry and Lady Hardcastle began to speculate in hushed tones about the Ehrlichmann affair, I had found it harder and harder to concentrate and had, indeed, drifted off into a world of my own. But now it seemed that my opinion was being sought.
‘I’m sorry, my lady,’ I yawned. ‘It must be this delicious tea that Mr Featherston-Huff has treated us to. Thank you, sir.’
‘Think nothing of it, Strong-Arm,’ he said. ‘It was entirely my pleasure. Although I am a few bob short, so I’ve volunteered your services in the scullery for a couple of hours. I hope that’s all right.’
I treated him to my most disdainful look and he laughed.
As did Lady Hardcastle. ‘What I was saying, dear, is that until Sir David’s wheels have ground a little finer, there’s very little we can do but wait. I was suggesting a day out tomorrow.’
‘That sounds very jolly, my lady,’ I said. ‘Did you have anything specific in mind?’
‘I thought perhaps the National Gallery in the morning, a light lunch somewhere, then drop in on an old friend of mine in the afternoon and perhaps a concert in the evening.’
‘Or a show, my lady?’ I said, eagerly.
She chuckled. ‘Something low and vulgar, with dancing girls, and a handsome fool in tennis whites falling in love with a girl from the tea rooms?’
‘If such a thing exists, my lady,’ I said, ‘then I absolutely insist that you buy us tickets at once.’
It was Harry’s turn to chuckle. ‘I think I know just the thing. Leave it to me. You see to the highbrow stuff, Sis; Strong-Arm and I will take care of the real entertainment.’
We had tried our best to be entertaining guests, but by nine o’clock Harry had given up the unequal struggle and declared that it must surely be time for countryfolk to be in their beds.
I slept the sleep of the just, or the just-too-exhausted-to stay-up-any-longer, at least, and awoke next morning refreshed and alert. I had quite forgotten how draining it was to be on the run, but with Harry to help, and with Sir David’s men out searching for Ehrlichmann, everything seemed a great deal more manageable.
I persuaded Harry to let me help with breakfast and also to take a walk to the baker’s. And this had meant that we had had fresh toast with the omelettes I made, instead of the stale crumpets and mouldy jam that Harry had previously been contemplating.
The morning was spent, as promised, at the National Gallery, where I was treated to one or two more depictions of classical and biblical scenes than I was comfortably able to feign interest in. Lunch was somewhere near Park Lane, then we set off to see Lady Hardcastle’s old friend.
I was quite prepared for an afternoon of discreet invisibility as she chattered to one of her socialite friends in a fashionable flat somewhere, and so I was both intrigued and delighted when we ended up in Marylebone, outside Madame Tussaud’s famous waxwork museum. We went to the ticket desk and after a brief conversation with Lady Hardcastle, the young man there called over one of his colleagues who then disappeared through a door behind the desk and into a back office.
Nearly ten minutes later, a woman of Lady Hardcastle’s own age appeared through the same door. She was wearing overalls and had a pencil tucked behind her ear.
‘Oh my goodness gracious. Emily, it is you,’ she gushed. ‘Jacob told me Emily Hardcastle was here to see me and I said, “She can’t be, dear, she’s hidden herself away in Yokelton in the West Country, or Bumpkinshire or somewhere. She couldn’t possibly be here in civilization.” But here you jolly well are. Darling! How are you? It’s been simply ages.’
Amid the cheek kissing, several more “Darling!”s and quite a few more than the necessary number of declarations of surprise and delight, Lady Hardcastle managed to explain that she was in town for a few days visiting her brother and thought that it would be an ideal opportunity to catch up with some old friends.
‘Joan, dear, you remember Florence Armstrong, my maid?’
‘I do indeed. How are you, my girl? She’s not working you too hard?’
I remembered Joan now, we had met several times shortly after our return from Calcutta. She was one of the sculptors here at the waxworks.
‘She treats me cruelly, madam, as you might remember,’ I replied.
‘I said you should come and work for me, my girl, but you wouldn’t listen. Could do with someone like you about the house.’
I curtseyed, Harry laughed and Lady Hardcastle rolled her eyes.
‘Now then, Joan darling, don’t encourage her.’
‘She’d never leave you, darling, never in a million years. You’ve been through altogether too much, you two. But let’s not get maudlin, what can I do for you? Have you finally come to take me up on my offer of a “backstage” tour?’
‘As a matter of fact, my darling,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘that’s exactly why we’re here.’
‘And it’s about time, too. Come with me, and I’ll show you where we do the magic.’
After a morning of Old Masters, seeing the work of the sculptors close-up was a joyous treat. We saw heads being modelled in clay, wax heads being finished with hair and makeup, and complete figures being dressed. They were working on a new tableau and it was utterly fascinating to see the care and skill that went into putting it all together.
We moved on into the public areas, including a free tour of the Chamber of Horrors, and the afternoon was an absolute delight. Call me shallow if you will, but I’ll take waxwork models of the famous and infamous over “A Doctor Tending a Patient’s Foot in His Surgery” (no, really), any day.
To close the day, and true to his word, Harry had managed to secure tickets for the most enjoyably silly show in the West End. As promised, there were songs, dancing, and the most preposterous love story you could possibly imagine. We had a late supper at the Ritz and then home for brandy and bed.
We were with family so, of course, there was nothing untoward about my sitting there with them both, enjoying Harry’s cognac and joining in with the continuing speculation about what could possibly be going on with the man who appeared to be the late and unlamented Günther Ehrlichmann and how it might involve the spies of the Imperial German Government.
‘It seems to be a most intractable puzzle,’ said Lady Hardcastle, polishing off the last of her cognac. ‘But I have the most awful feeling that I’m going to be terribly disappointed by the solution. Let’s just hope that we manage a satisfactory resolution, no matter how prosaic the answer turns out to be.’
Breakfast the next morning was interrupted by a ring at the doorbell. Reflexively, I began to rise to answer it, but Harry put his hand on my arm and went himself. He returned a few moments later with a telegram.
‘It’s for you, Sis,’ he said, handing it over.
She tore it open and read. ‘Oh bother,’ she said presently. ‘It’s from Inspector Sunderland.’
‘Your tame policeman in Bristol?’
said Harry.
‘The very same. I asked our tame constable in Littleton Cotterell to keep an eye on the house and watch out for strangers. It seems Sunderland has news. He wants me to telephone him. I don’t suppose you could let me use the telephone at your office, dear?’
‘I can do better than that, Sis. I have one here.’
‘I say, you are quite the terribly modern man about town, aren’t you, dear. No sign of a valet, but you have a telephone.’
‘I’m frightfully important, Sis. I need to be reachable at all times.’
‘Of course you are, darling. May I call the inspector? Or do you need to keep the line clear in case your masters need you urgently? There might be envelopes to lick, or paper fasteners to count.’
‘Place your call, Emily,’ he said, ‘before I change my mind about helping you at all. It’s in the hall by the door.’
Lady Hardcastle motioned for me to follow her and we went into the small hallway where, sure enough, there was a telephone on an old aspidistra stand beside the door. She lifted the earpiece and waggled its cradle a few times. We put our heads together and she positioned the earpiece between us so that we could both hear.
‘Operator,’ said the disembodied voice. ‘Which number do you require?’
‘I should like to place a trunk call to Bristol,’ said Lady Hardcastle, with the exaggerated diction usually reserved for use by aristocratic ladies when speaking to foreign waiters. She gave the number and there was a prolonged series of clicks, pops and crackles before we were eventually connected.
‘Inspector Sunderland?’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘This is he,’ said the distant voice. ‘Is that you, Lady Hardcastle?’
‘The very same. I received your telegram.’
‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Thank you for telephoning. I trust it wasn’t too inconvenient but I thought it better to explain events in person, as it were.’