“Miss Hope, please—not so dramatic. We’re waiting for her to reach out to us.”
“Well, what a bloody, bloody mess!” Maggie exploded.
“Miss Hope!”
Something had changed in Maggie. An agent’s life was on the line. “No, I will not apologize for using profanity. If ever there was a time for some good, honest swearing, it’s now, with an agent missing and perhaps dead! We’ve been trained to live on the land—if she’s alive, she might be doing just that, in the Rouen area. But it’s still winter—it’s a hard time to be out. If I were her, I’d try to get to Paris somehow. Connect with some of the other agents. Try to get a message out.”
Maggie thought back to Erica Calvert’s files. “She has extended family in Paris. If she’s on the run, I bet she’ll try to go there and make contact. You need to get word to the Paris team she may be arriving,” she said with authority.
“Y-yes,” Miss Lynd agreed, accepting Maggie’s direction.
Heading out of the kitchen, Maggie turned. “I need to use the telephone, in private. I trust I may use the one in your office?”
Miss Lynd blinked, still in shock at the abrupt turn of the tables. “Y-yes. Of course.”
“Thank you.”
Inside Miss Lynd’s office, with the door closed, Maggie dialed SOE’s main number at Beaulieu. “Hello, yes, I’m trying to reach a trainee named Sarah Sanderson. This is Margaret Hope with both SOE and MI-Five. It’s important.”
On the other end of the telephone line, there were crackles and splutters.
“Can you send someone to fetch her?” Maggie wrapped the black cord around her wrist. “Yes, I’m afraid it is urgent.”
—
Sarah and Hugh were rehearsing. The ancient gray-stone Domus was part of the original Beaulieu Abbey, built in the year 1204, with high, beamed, sloping ceilings. As Hugh played scales in one corner, Sarah rested her hand on the ancient stone of the windowsill and went through her barre exercises.
It was not going well.
First, she was out of shape—out of ballet shape, at least.
Second, she had to master new French-made pointe shoes. Philby had procured a few pair from one J. Crait, the shoemaker for the Paris Opéra Ballet. Sarah wasn’t used to the cut, shank, sole, or top of the box, and had to wet them down and crush them in a door before they were fit to use. And even then, she still felt odd without her usual Freeds. Furthermore, they were pale pink instead of peach satin, quelle horreur! “Well, if Yvette Chauviré can dance in them,” she murmured, invoking the name of one of the Opéra Ballet’s danseuses étoiles, “then so can I.”
Sarah had seen the Paris Opéra Ballet perform in London after Serge Lifar had taken over the company, and she was familiar with the French style. Each country had its own ballet style. The Vic-Wells, where Sarah performed, was known for its softer and subtle arms, romantic arabesque placement, and serenity. Russian dancers had great drama, jumps, and upper-body movement. The Americans were fast, with flexibility and musicality. But French dancers were known by their impeccable turnout, their relaxed arms, strong backs, and chic, sophisticated, even witty elegance.
And so as Sarah went through her barre exercises, she worked on the clarity of her épaulement and port de bras, and the precision of her pointe work, especially petite batterie. She focused on cleanliness and clarity, and struggled with a tight fifth position. She still had her long, tapering legs, flexible feet, and musicality—even if she was frustrated with extensions that weren’t as high as she was used to and falling out of pirouettes as she tried to remember how to place her weight.
Meanwhile, Hugh was also having problems, with his new cello. Philby had brought a Vuillaume, along with a Pajeot-tip bow. But even with a superb instrument, Hugh’s scales were shaky and slow, with quavering tones and more than a few flat notes.
“I wish we had music,” Sarah said, moving to the center for adagio.
Hugh looked pained. “I do know more than scales, you know. But I don’t have any sheet music with me.”
“Don’t you know anything by heart?”
“Ah.” Hugh thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said finally. He straightened and placed his fingers on the strings, the bow hovering. “Are you ready?”
When Sarah nodded, the Domus was filled with the arpeggiated chords of the prelude of Bach’s Suite No. 1 in D Major for unaccompanied cello. The instrument’s rich tones filled the room, reverberating off the rough stone walls.
Sarah was familiar with the flowing Baroque étude. She closed her eyes, tried her best to forget her new pointe shoes, and began to move.
Together, the two worked through the piece with both technical control and spiritual abandon. Sarah made Hugh part of her dance, pirouetting around him and the cello, coming down to kneel in front of him in a lunge before rising to dance again. As the last notes hung in the air, Hugh was perfectly still, as was Sarah.
Somehow, together, they had made magic.
Hugh began to play again, this time, Scott Joplin’s “Maple Leaf Rag.” Sarah smiled and began to dance, not ballet exactly, but her own mix of classical, the Charleston, and swing, and included handstands, somersaults, and back bends. As the music ended and she landed in a split, breathing hard and covered in sweat, they couldn’t contain their laughter.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” came a woman’s voice from the doorway. “I waited until you were done.”
The dancer looked up, shocked at the intrusion into their intimate world. She blinked, coming back to reality. “Of course,” Sarah said, going to her bag to get a towel and blotting her face.
“Miss Sanderson, you have a telephone call. From a Miss Margaret Hope. Miss Hope insists it’s extremely urgent.”
Sarah looked to Hugh, who was putting his cello back in its case, and felt a twinge of irritation at Maggie. She knew it was illogical, but she felt as if Maggie were deliberately following them, trailing after Hugh. She threw on a sweater and stepped into a skirt, then changed back into street shoes. “I’ll only be a moment, Hubert,” she called, hoisting her dance bag over her shoulder.
The dancer followed the woman past the budding magnolia trees to the main SOE office, where she picked up the Bakelite phone receiver. She took a deep breath to quell her impatience. “Hello? Maggie? Is everything all right?”
“Sarah? I’m so sorry to bother you at Finishing School—”
“Not a bother at all, kitten.”
“Sarah, when you first came to interview in London, did anyone here give you the names of any women’s hotels, boardinghouses, that sort of thing?”
Sarah considered. “Yes, the woman at the front desk gave me a card.”
Maggie’s breath caught. “By any chance, do you still have it?”
“One moment.” She opened her dance bag, rifling through soft leather slippers, more pointe shoes, a few extra pairs of tights, and several hair ribbons until she extricated her worn leather datebook. She flipped through the lined pages until she found the right date. “Alas, I don’t have the card anymore, but here’s a number I wrote down.”
Maggie copied it onto a piece of scrap paper. “Thank you.”
“Everything all right?”
Maggie gave a hiccup of a laugh. “Let’s just say it’s a good thing you stayed with us at the house the night before you left—and didn’t go to a hotel.”
“Maggie,” Sarah asked. “Things really are over between you and Hugh. Yes?”
There was a long pause. “Did he ask after me?”
Sarah hung up the hand piece.
Hoping she and Sarah simply had a bad connection, Maggie called the number her friend had given her and found the hotel’s name and address: The Castle Hotel for Women: Temporary Lodging for Ladies at 226 Ash Street, near the cross of Marylebone High Street and Paddington Street, and not too far from the SOE office on Baker Street.
—
When she and Mark arrived at the hotel, cold and breathless, no one was behind the receptio
n desk.
Maggie pressed the doorbell a few times with a gloved finger.
As they were about to leave, the door across the lobby opened, and one middle-aged man let another out. “Thank you, Doctor,” the first man said, clapping on his black bowler hat and tucking his umbrella under his arm.
“I’ll see you next week, Mr. Finn.”
The man opened the front door to leave, and Mark caught and held it, letting Maggie and himself in. The lobby was almost as cold as outside, the embers in the fireplace dying. They looked up at the man whom the other had called Doctor. A brass nameplate on the door read IAIN FRANK, M.D.
“You’re Dr. Frank?” Maggie asked. The name sounded somehow familiar.
The doctor smiled, his pleasant face creasing. “The one and only.” Dr. Frank was of average height and average build, in his early fifties, but his face seemed enormous, like a baby’s, with pale, fat cheeks beginning their descent into jowls. He wore a rumpled Donegal tweed suit, his dark hair slicked back with Brylcreem, and he smelled of copious amounts of spicy cologne.
Mark peered into the office. “You don’t have a receptionist?”
“I like to keep things simple—no receptionist, no bookkeeper. Usually my daughter keeps my appointments.”
“Where is she today?”
“Are you checking in?” Frank asked. “I can help you. My daughter—who also works as a part-time receptionist—has taken today off, I’m afraid,” he told them, extending a fleshy hand. There was a gold signet ring on his pinkie finger. “I have a medical office here and own the building, and a few others in the neighborhood.”
“No, we’re not checking in,” Maggie replied. “But we would like to speak with you. I’m Maggie Hope. And this is Special Agent Standish from MI-Five.”
“Please come in.”
His office was a mess, with papers and books everywhere, framed medical diplomas including a doctorate of psychiatry askew on the walls. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, and the fire had burned down to red embers. His enormous desk was overflowing with yellowing newspapers, dirty mugs, an ashtray full of butts. Papers spilled out of the trash bin.
When the doctor saw Maggie’s look, he grimaced. “So sorry. Again, usually my daughter keeps me on a tight leash, but—” He shrugged and picked stacks of books off the chairs. “Please, sit down.”
Mark took off his hat, but they kept their coats on. Upstairs, pounding and hammering began.
“Just some post-Blitz repairs.” Dr. Frank smiled. “Now, how can I help you two?”
“Do you remember a woman named Joanna Metcalf, who may have stayed here in late March? And another young woman named Doreen Leighton? She might have checked in around the same time, maybe a day or two later?”
Dr. Frank shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m not on a first-name basis with all my guests.”
“Miss Metcalf was found murdered on the twenty-seventh,” Maggie said flatly. “And Miss Leighton on the twenty-ninth.”
“Oh, dear, how terrible,” Dr. Frank murmured, rubbing soft hands together.
“We want to confirm if either of them was staying here—and if and when they checked out,” said Mark. “We’re also interested in another possible guest, a Miss Gladys Chorley.”
“And Brynn,” Maggie added. “That is, Miss Bronwyn Parry.”
“Oh, how I wish May were here,” Dr. Frank complained. “She’s the one who checks everyone in and out—plus she has a keen eye for detail.”
“May we see the hotel’s guestbook?”
“Of course!” Dr. Frank answered, rising. He went to the reception desk and took out a worn black leather volume. “Here we are,” he said as he walked back, handing it to Maggie.
She paged through the entries. “Look, here’s G. Chorley, signing in on March twentieth and then signing out again on the twenty-first. But the entries are in different handwriting.”
“My daughter might have signed one or the other.”
Maggie ran her gloved finger down the entries, not caring about ink stains. “Here’s Joanna Metcalf, who signed in but not out. Same with Doreen Leighton.” When she reached a particular line, she shivered with dread. “Brynn Parry also checked in on the twenty-eighth, but according to this, she never checked out.”
“I must say,” the doctor confided, leaning toward them, “I’m awfully glad you’re here and asking about these matters. I can’t tell you how many letters from parents I’ve received since this awful war started, asking if I know the whereabouts of their daughters. And every once in a while, a private investigator shows up.” His fingers plucked at his tie, as if it were suddenly too tight. “Of course I’m happy to help them as best I can.”
“Of course,” Maggie agreed, although still shaken. “What sorts of questions do they ask?”
“They want information—the names of friends, forwarding addresses, suggestions on where to look next, that sort of thing. Sometimes May can tell them a little something about the girls.”
“We’ll need to cross-reference your guestbook with our missing persons list and list of the dead.”
“Of course, of course, Miss Hope.” Dr. Frank dipped his head. “It’s grieves me, truly grieves me, to hear these young women have gone missing. I often think of the parents and say a little prayer they’ve found their girls safe and sound. Maybe they’ve simply eloped. Or joined the women’s services?”
Neither Maggie nor Mark responded; instead, Mark passed Frank his card. “If anything else should come to light, call us. We may need to bring you in for additional questioning.”
“If I hear anything, anything at all, of course I’ll let you know at once.”
Maggie rose and went to look at his desk. There was a silver-framed photo of a woman in a smart hat with a young man—slight, with mousey hair and eyes. “Oh, that’s my daughter, May, and her fiancé, Nicholas Reitter,” Dr. Frank told her proudly. “He recently graduated with degrees in engineering and architecture. He’s going to be surveying and making maps in the Middle East soon. We’re lucky to have him—Nick’s helped us out with a few repairs and some remodeling. He’s fantastic not just with architecture, but the real mechanics of running a building as well, including the water and gas lines.”
With the word gas, Maggie made the connection. “You’re the man who also owned the building in Pimlico—the one that blew up due to a problem with the gas line.”
Frank blanched. “It wasn’t my fault….”
Mark interjected, “The Met police are on it,” he said, shooting Maggie a significant look. “We need to focus on our case.”
Maggie nodded and looked down at the book. “It says here that Brynn Parry is staying in 745. May we see her room?”
“It’s been cleaned any number of times….”
“Why would it have been cleaned if Brynn Parry never checked out?” Maggie asked.
“We’re not the most organized around here, as you may have guessed….”
“We’d still like to see the room,” Maggie insisted.
“Of course,” Dr. Frank agreed, rising. “Please, follow me.”
—
The doctor procured an enormous brass ring bristling with different-shaped keys from his desk drawer and set off. Maggie and Mark followed him into the rickety elevator, then through the hotel’s winding passages.
Frank unlocked the door to room 745. The narrow bed was neatly made with a faded quilted coverlet.
Maggie and Mark examined the room and adjoining bath but found nothing. Maggie stopped at the windowsill. Down below, a horse-drawn cart proclaimed: MIKE’S GRINDING SERVICE—KNIVES, SCISSORS, GARDEN TOOLS—SHARPENED.
“What’s that?” she asked, pointing across the way to a matching shabby red-brick building set off the street.
“Ah,” Dr. Frank said, his round face creasing. “Our sister property. Brother property, really, as it’s an all-male residence hotel. I own it as well.”
Directly across was a window with the curtains open, a telescope pointed to
ward the room. A voyeur. A Peeping Tom. Maggie gestured to Mark. “Look,” she urged, pointing at the telescope.
“Do you know who that particular room belongs to?” Mark asked the doctor.
“Yes, it belongs to one of our long-term residents, Mr. Leonard Roth.” Frank lowered his voice. “He’s a Jew, you know,” he confided. “Not one of those Zionist ones, of course—a German Jew, one of the good ones. His family’s lived a few generations in England—you can be sure I checked.”
“We’d like to see his room,” Maggie declared. “Now.”
—
Across the street, in Leonard Roth’s room, they found not only a telescope, its gaze fixed on the women’s rooms across the way, but several charcoal drawings of women in various states of undress.
“Oh, dear,” Frank murmured in distress. “You don’t think—”
“We’ll need to speak with Mr. Roth.” Maggie handed the drawings to Mark to place in his briefcase. By the bed, they found a stack of writings by Jean Genet, Lawrence Durrell, and the Marquis de Sade.
“Look,” Maggie said, picking up a book on the dresser: The Fantasies of Mr. Seabrook, with photographs by Man Ray. The cover showed a naked young woman bound in black leather and ropes, her mouth gagged.
In the nightstand, Mark found French pornographic magazines featuring women in collars and restraints. Maggie opened one of the dresser drawers: hoods, gags, several paddles, and a cat-o’-nine-tails. “Well, it seems our Mr. Roth is quite the libertine.”
“I’m sorry you had to see this, Maggie.” Mark’s face was grave. “No lady should even know about this sort of thing.”
Oh, please. “I’ve read Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Fanny Hill, you know—I’m not a child.” Then, of Frank, she asked, “Where does Roth work?”
“The BBC,” the doctor answered, unable to tear his horrified gaze from their discoveries. “He’s a wireless announcer.”
“I’ll make a call,” Mark told Maggie. “Have him picked up.”
She nodded. “And please ring Durgin to say we’ll meet him at MI-Five.”
Chapter Ten
Two undercover MI-5 officers were dispatched to the Broadcasting House, the home of the BBC on Langham Place, and brought back Leonard Roth. He was tall and slim and somewhere in his forties. He was a handsome man, in a slick, unctuous way, with too much sandalwood cologne and hair crème.
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