Alone with Miss Carter in the schoolroom, Anna studied the governess carefully from behind her copy of The School by the Sea. The two heroines, Mops and Jean, were having a most thrilling adventure in the middle of the night, but somehow she couldn’t fix her attention on their exploits. Why was Miss Carter working so hard to make them like her? Why did she sometimes have that odd, wary look on her face, like a fox on the prowl?
Just then, there was a sharp tap on the school-room door and Miss Carter sat upright, suddenly alert. But it was only Karl, one of the footmen.
‘A telegram for you, Miss Carter,’ he announced, offering her a silver tray. Karl was one of the children’s great friends, and he paused to flash Anna a quick grin before performing a bow, and withdrawing politely again.
Miss Carter had already ripped open the envelope. As she glanced at the telegram, Anna saw a frown flit over her face, but then she said cheerfully: ‘Oh, how nice – a message from an old friend.’ She got to her feet, pushing the telegram into her pocket and out of sight before Anna could see it. ‘Excuse me for a moment – I’m going to go and telephone through a reply.’
‘Is everything all right?’ Anna asked at once.
‘Oh, yes, of course – quite all right,’ said Miss Carter blithely. But she went out of the room in a hurry, so distracted that she forgot the spectacles she always wore for reading and writing, leaving them lying beside Anna on the table. Without really thinking about what she was doing, Anna picked up the governess’s spectacles and tried them on. As soon as she did so, she realised something very surprising.
They were not real spectacles.
The lenses were quite plain, ordinary glass.
She dropped the spectacles back on to the table as though they had burned her fingers. Why would a person wear pretend spectacles – spectacles that clearly they did not really need? It was as though Miss Carter were wearing a disguise, or a costume. As though she were merely dressing up as a governess, and acting the part.
The thought electrified her, as though a flash of something had run through her. Now she was quite sure of it. There was something very strange about the new governess, and Anna was determined that she would find out exactly what it was.
CHAPTER TWO
Victoria Station, London, England
‘Read all about it! Preparations under way for the coronation of His Majesty George V! Read all about it! Arnovia faces new pressure from Germany! Grand Aerial Tour to launch in Paris! Read all about it! ’
It was going to be another scorcher, thought the newspaper-seller, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. It was not yet ten o’clock, but already the streets outside Victoria railway station were hot and dusty, and he was thinking longingly of a glass of cold beer. ‘Thank you kindly, guv’nor,’ he muttered, without really paying attention to the thin man in grey who took a copy of The Daily Picture and handed over a ha’penny before shuffling on in the direction of the station entrance.
The thin man’s jacket was grey, his hat was grey, and the hair that could be seen beneath it was grey too. Even his face – if the newspaper-seller had noticed it – had a greyish tinge. But neither the newspaper-seller nor anyone else gave the man a second glance as he crossed the busy station concourse, heading in the direction of the Left Luggage Office. It was the grey man’s special gift, his ability to move through crowds unseen.
As it happened though, there was one person at Victoria station who was looking out for the grey man. Not far away from the newspaper-seller, a girl with a blue parasol was making her way sedately into the station. The girl knew a great deal about the grey man. She knew that if anyone had asked him – that policeman over there, talking to a station porter, perhaps – he would have said his name was Dr Frederick Muller, which was the name on the identity papers he carried in the pocket of his grey jacket. She knew that those papers stated that he was a scholar from Hamburg University, who wrote learned articles about museums for a German magazine. She knew too that the papers were a clever forgery, and that the grey man had never been near Hamburg University in his life.
She watched him closely as he made his way between the people: porters sweating under the weight of heavy luggage; ladies in shady hats, up to London for a day’s shopping; a huddle of tourists, poring over a Bradshaw’s Railway Guide. Not one of them noticed the grey man, but the girl’s eyes followed him keenly.
As the grey man drew near the Left Luggage Office, she went briskly in the same direction. Seeing a young lady approach, he doffed his hat with a courteous but unremarkable bow, and held the door open for her, keeping his head down. Her frilly skirt swished forward as she tip-tapped ahead of him into the office.
The Left Luggage Office was busy and the grey man slid invisibly through the hustle and bustle to join the queue behind a smart gentleman in a bowler hat. Rummaging in her handbag as if she were looking for her ticket, the girl stepped quickly into the queue behind him. He was staring down at the newspaper in his hand, as if quite absorbed in an article of the kind that would have interested Dr Muller – a write up of a new exhibit at the British Museum.
When it was his turn to approach the counter, the ruddy-faced fellow on duty barely glanced at him as he handed over the ticket. ‘Right you are, sir! Just a moment!’ he said cheerfully, disappearing to the shelves where the parcels were stored.
The grey man waited. His shoulders had stiffened slightly and for the first time, the girl thought she could detect signs of unease. He leaned forward, turning his grey hat over in his hands. She tried to imagine what he was thinking. Was he wondering why the fellow was taking so long? Was he wondering if his contact could be trusted – whether he had delivered the parcel as promised, or whether he’d simply taken the money and run? Was he thinking of Ziegler, watching and waiting in faraway Berlin? But then – there it was! The fellow was returning, and in his hands was a small rectangular parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.
‘Here you are, sir.’
The girl’s breath quickened as the parcel was placed into the grey man’s hands. It looked heavy: there must be at least four of the books inside. She could not allow them to fall into Ziegler’s possession.
The grey man’s face did not reveal even a shadow of excitement. He remained bland and ordinary as he said a polite ‘thank you’, wished the fellow ‘good day’ and turned to go, the parcel tucked under his arm.
The girl stepped swiftly after him. She must not lose him now; she had to get her hands on that parcel. But even as she did so, the fellow on duty called out: ‘Excuse me, sir, stop there!’
The grey man froze.
‘Now then, sir. Don’t you rush off in such a hurry. You’ve forgotten your hat!’ said the fellow cheerfully, as he held the grey man’s hat out towards him.
The grey man beamed back at him. ‘So very kind,’ he flustered.
How foolish, how unexpectedly amateur of him to have forgotten his hat like that, the girl marvelled! Yet as he set down the parcel for a moment to reach into his pocket for two-pence to press into the fellow’s hand, it came to her that perhaps it was not so very stupid after all. He was playing the part of scholarly Dr Muller to perfection, she realised. Leaving his hat behind was exactly the sort of thing that a man like Dr Muller would do. He would be forgetful and absent-minded, distracted by the research he was doing in London’s museums. He was quite beyond suspicion – the kind of man who could not even remember his own hat.
All the same, he had played right into her hands. As the grey man bowed and smiled, she stepped forward, swept up the package from where he had set it down, and was gone in an instant, before he or anyone else had realised she was there.
The office door swung open before her. Behind, she heard a voice cry: ‘My … my parcel!’
‘Your parcel, sir?’
‘It’s gone!’
She did not stay to hear any more. The station concourse was large and she knew the grey man would soon be on her trail. She made her way through t
he crowds walking briskly, but not so fast as to draw attention to herself. She weaved between a porter with a pile of trunks and a man with a luncheon basket, making for the station exit. Behind her, she knew that the grey man was following. As she stepped outside, she dared to glance back over her shoulder: yes, there he was, speeding through the crowds. He was gaining on her, and she knew exactly what he would be thinking. She’d heard it plenty of times before. A young girl – all alone! He’d be certain that she’d be easy to overpower, or outwit.
‘Hey, mister, watch where you’re going!’ she heard the newspaper-seller call out indignantly as the grey man sprinted out of the railway station and down the steps behind her, shoving his way past the barrow of newspapers. He was no longer concerned about being quiet or anonymous, the shuffling Dr Muller quite forgotten now. Ziegler must want this parcel very badly indeed. She tried to hold her nerve, to keep walking, lengthening her stride, going a little faster now, but not too fast. She wanted him uncertain. She mustn’t give anything away.
She moved steadily onwards, towards the row of station cabs. Behind her, the grey man dodged a delivery boy on a bicycle with an angry yell. She had stopped beside a cab; she had nodded to the driver; the door was open; she was stepping up inside –
The grey man leaped forward and just as she was about to clamber into the cab, he grabbed her by the arm and wrenched her back. His fingers bit into her skin.
She stared up at him, widening her eyes. She knew exactly what he was seeing: a young lady, daintily dressed, with white gloves and a parasol and a straw hat decorated with forget-me-nots. She let out a little gasp of alarm. ‘Sir, I beg you, let go of me at once!’ she cried out in a faint voice.
The cab driver had seen what was happening. ‘Here, what d’you think you’re playing at?’ he demanded angrily. ‘D’you know this fellow, miss? Leave go of her at once or I’ll yell for the constable.’
But the grey man ignored him completely. ‘The package … give me the package,’ he hissed.
‘The … the package?’ she gaped back at him.
‘Give it to me now! Or it will be the worse for you!’
‘But … but I don’t have a package,’ she said with a confused gasp, making her eyes wide and fearful. ‘I only have this.’
She thrust forward the object she was holding and the grey man gawped at it for a moment. It was not a brown-paper parcel at all, but a large blue-and-gold hat-box, marked with the name of London’s most fashionable department store. Startled, he let go of her, and she took the opportunity to scramble up into the cab, taking the hat-box with her.
‘You want to watch yourself, mate,’ the cab driver was admonishing him. ‘You can’t go round accosting young ladies like that!’
But the grey man wasn’t listening. She could see that he was furious with himself for chasing after a perfectly ordinary girl – a young English miss, collecting something as innocent as a new hat – whilst somehow the enemy had tricked him, swiping his precious parcel from under his nose. His face darkened with anger. He had lost the parcel he had worked so hard to obtain. He had failed Ziegler. He cursed aloud.
‘That’s enough of that kind of language,’ the cab driver told him. He looked down at the girl: ‘Don’t you worry, miss. You’re safe now. Just you sit tight and I’ll see you home.’
He shook his head one last time as he drove away at a smart pace, leaving the grey man standing empty-handed, glaring furiously after them.
CHAPTER THREE
London
Inside the cab, the girl settled herself back comfortably against the seat.
‘So … where to?’ asked the driver, a young, good-looking fellow, with curly hair showing from beneath his cap.
‘The Inns of Court,’ she said, pulling the hat-box on to her knee and taking off the lid. ‘I expect the Bureau will want to see this straight away.’
‘All right, but let’s go the long way round,’ said the driver, reflectively. ‘You never know. That fellow might have some pals around who could still be watching us.’
‘Good scheme,’ agreed his passenger. Beneath some filmy tissue paper, she had unearthed from the hat-box a small, rectangular parcel, wrapped in brown paper. She weighed it in her hands.
‘What d’you reckon it is?’ asked the driver.
‘Probably Navy weapons manuals or signal books. Something highly confidential, at any rate.’
‘Something our old friend Ziegler would very much want to get his sticky hands on?’
‘Absolutely. That fellow was one of his agents. He’d paid someone in the Navy to steal these for him.’
‘And I s’pose he had to give him a tidy sum to get him to do that? No wonder he looked like he’d lost a shilling and found a sixpence.’ The driver grinned. ‘Unlucky for him – and old Ziegler too – that we just happened to be passing through the station, Soph.’
‘Oh, jolly unlucky,’ she agreed, smiling cheerfully back.
Sophie Taylor knew she had plenty to be cheerful about. Their assignment had gone like clockwork; the stolen package was safe; and it was very pleasant to be driving through town with Joe on a beautiful summer morning. The London Season was in full swing and, although it was still early, the day already had an air of gaiety about it. The long period of court mourning after the sad death of King Edward VII the previous year had come to an end, and now the city had cast off its sombre greys and mauves, and burst into summer colour, just like the new Queen Mary, who had been seen strolling in Richmond Park wearing a yellow hat with blue feathers. Clerks were strolling to work in their shirt-sleeves; flower-sellers were offering baskets of summer blooms on the street corners; and even London’s hansom cabs had been arrayed in brightly coloured tassels. As they drove through the park, she saw that people were reclining in the green-and-white sixpenny deckchairs, and that children had taken off their shoes and stockings to paddle in the lake.
Out on to the busy streets beyond, already thronged with buses and bicycles, the air was hot and shimmering, thick with the smell of horses and hay and motor-car fumes. Some people might have found it too hot, or too loud, or too crowded, but this was Sophie’s London, and she loved every buzzing, electric inch of it.
Now, she gazed out of the window as they rumbled along Piccadilly, past the Royal Academy, past the Ritz Hotel, and past the magnificent Sinclair’s department store, where doors were opening to the morning’s shoppers, and the uniformed doorman recognised them and tipped his hat.
Sophie knew that inside, on the first floor of the great building, the Taylor & Rose team – her team – would already be hard at work. Since their detective agency had first opened its doors two years ago, they had gained an excellent reputation, and were rarely short of clients. Now that they had expanded their offices and taken on more staff, Sophie could leave the others to deal with the day-to-day cases, whilst she concentrated her efforts on their most unusual client.
She had been working for this particular client for six months now, and she felt that she was getting rather good at intercepting telegrams, retrieving parcels and monitoring suspicious characters on their behalf. Working on assignments like this one, she felt a little thrill knowing that the people around her on London’s crowded streets couldn’t possibly have guessed that she was not an ordinary girl, but a government agent, doing vital work for the Secret Service Bureau.
Of course, most people didn’t know that the Secret Service Bureau existed. It had been set up by senior government officials to conduct highly confidential intelligence work. It was terribly mysterious: even Sophie herself wasn’t quite sure what all of the Bureau’s official work involved. What she did know was that a lot of it was concerned with what she had learned to call espionage – in other words, spies.
Although everyone seemed to be talking about the growing threat from Germany, and the Kaiser’s new warships, what the ordinary people around her on the streets of London didn’t know was that a network of enemy agents had already been established in Britain. T
he brilliant German spymaster, Ziegler, had been recruiting spies whose job it was to collect secret information to pass back to the German government. It was part of the Bureau’s job to stop them and, as one of their agents, that made it Sophie’s job too.
She grinned to herself. Three or four years ago, even the idea of working for a living would have been impossible to imagine, never mind doing a job like this. She’d certainly come a long way from her old life of piano lessons and pretty frocks. Now she was a detective, a businesswoman, and a government secret agent. She was a girl who knew how to crack a safe and pick a lock and throw a punch; a girl who had been taught to shoot a pistol by legendary New York detective Ada Pickering. She had found a missing diamond, had recovered two priceless paintings by the famous artist Benedetto Casselli, and had even helped to foil a plot to assassinate the King. She had outwitted the notorious villain who called himself ‘the Baron’ and, in doing so, had saved London from disaster. Not too shabby for someone who had only just turned seventeen.
It was strange now, to look back on the person she had been when Papa had died and she’d first been alone in London. Then the city had seemed like such a vast and lonely and frightening place. Now it felt familiar and friendly, full of places and people she knew. Most of all, of course, there were her friends – Joe and Billy, and all the other members of the Loyal Order of Lions, the organisation to which her parents had once belonged. The Order were sworn to work against the Baron’s sinister secret society, the Fraternitas Draconum, who had been responsible for the murder of both Sophie’s parents. Even though they were gone, keeping the society alive made her feel closer to them. Not that the society had needed to do very much lately – after all, they’d heard nothing of the Fraternitas since the Baron’s death, over a year ago. But just the same, Sophie was glad it was there. Being part of the Order felt almost like being part of a family. She was very grateful to have a circle of friends she knew she could count on, no matter what.
Peril in Paris (Taylor and Rose Secret Agents) Page 2