The mathematician in Maggie was drawn to the descriptions of how the device worked. Using the transmission of radio waves, it was possible to measure the length of the interval between the emission of a radio pulse and the return of its “echo,” as charted by an oscillograph. When aircraft were in the sky, the radio emissions would bounce off them, showing their positions. RAF planes had special identifying signals on them, allowing air force commanders to differentiate between friendly and enemy aircraft.
“You know about RDF?” John said.
“I type all of Mr. Churchill’s memos and letters—I’d have to be insensible not to. I also know queuing theory, differential equations, and cryptography,” she said with a smile.
She was gratified to see John’s eyes widen.
John sat looking at Maggie for some time, head cocked to one side. “Do Mrs. Tinsley and Miss Stewart know?”
“With all due respect, Mrs. Tinsley and Miss Stewart don’t have degrees in mathematics.”
John was silent. Then, “Really? My calculations are off?”
“Look, it’s simple, really,” Maggie said in her best Aunt Edith lecture tone, pulling out a piece of scrap paper to illustrate the point. “If you’re using the radar equation, all the variables must be in place before solving for the position of the German planes.”
“Yes, yes, I know that,” he said, getting up and beginning to pace. Maggie could tell he was reworking the problem in his head. “So then why are the numbers off?”
“There’s an additional step. You’ve assumed that F equals 1, which means that you’re calculating in a vacuum. You see, it’s not just an abstract problem, you’re also dealing with the real world, where things get a little more complicated.”
“Is that a fact?”
Maggie ignored him. “You need to figure in a few additional variables to calculate F: the bend of the earth’s surface and the density of the refraction due to air layers at different altitudes. You also need to know the plane’s ground speed—which is different from airspeed, or what appears on a pilot’s gauge—as well as the wind speed and direction, the relative humidity, and altitude at sea level.”
“Oh,” he said, stopping his pacing. He scratched his head. “Ah.”
“You can just compensate for the additional factors. For example, if you assumed that density decreased linearly with height, and used the arc of a circle from London to Berlin …” Maggie went back to the scratch paper, pulling out her beloved Faber-Castell slide rule from the desk drawer, and made a few calculations.
“You’ve got one of those?” John whistled between his teeth. “That’s a beauty.”
What did he think I used? My fingers? “Graduation present.” Of course, Maggie never thought when Aunt Edith gave it to her at commencement that she’d be using it to figure out enemy plane trajectories.
“That’s quite impressive.” He pulled up a wooden chair, the legs scraping over the linoleum floor, and sat down again. He leaned in to look at it, giving off the faint scent of shaving soap and wool.
“Thank you.” It took her a few minutes to look up various numbers and make calculations. “And voilà! A corrected answer.”
He put his finger to the side of his forehead and started to massage his temple. It was clear that he was out of his depth. “I’ve got to get this in by the end of the day. I’m hopelessly behind.” He looked at Maggie with trepidation. “I studied classics at university—don’t actually remember much maths. I—I don’t suppose you’d, ah—”
“I’d be delighted.” Maggie picked up his memo. “Look, everything else in the report is fine; I’ll just redo the calculations, and you’ll be set.”
“Thank you, Maggie.”
You’d better thank me, she thought, inordinately pleased, as he went out the door. But she was soon absorbed in the sheer joy of math again as she worked through the problems. How she’d missed it.
An hour or so later, Maggie was outside John’s office, about to drop off his corrected memo as well as a data table for him to use in the future, when she heard voices. “Says she knows about RDF?” It was Snodgrass.
“She does know about RDF, sir. And about queuing, cryptography, you name it.”
“She does, does she?”
Maggie strode into the office, chin high. “Mr. Sterling. I wanted to drop this off for you. The numbers we discussed,” Maggie said, looking directly at Snodgrass. He sat in the chair across from John’s desk, a cigarette in one hand and legs crossed at the knees.
John stood up and reached out for the papers she offered. “Thank you, Miss Hope.” He looked at the calculations. “Mr. Snodgrass, this is what I was talking about,” he said, handing the papers over.
“Good, good,” Snodgrass said without looking at them. “Better get some of your maths books out and refresh that memory of yours, old boy!”
John looked at Maggie, then back at Snodgrass. “I believe Miss Hope would be able to assist Mr. Greene in these calculations far better than I.”
“That may be,” he said, leaning back in his chair, gesturing toward Maggie with his cigarette. “Miss Hope may be clever.”
Maggie held her tongue, but she could feel her jaw clench and a pulse begin to beat behind one eye. Dimwitted fop, she thought.
“You’re a smart girl,” Snodgrass said to her, “and that’s good. You’ll have intelligent children. But isn’t it more important to worry about your appearance and not calculations? Let the boys like John here take care of it. Stick to the typing, please.”
John had the grace to look ashamed. “I really think, sir, that in this case—” he began.
“No!” Snodgrass roared. Both Maggie and John jumped a little. “No,” he amended, softer this time.
“But I can help,” Maggie said. “I can help—and you’re not letting me.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Hope, I really am,” Snodgrass said quietly. He took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled. For a fraction of a second, Maggie swore she could feel real regret emanating from the man. Then he extinguished the butt into the ashtray.
“Sorry?” Maggie said. “You’re sorry? Then why are you acting like this? Why are you refusing a perfectly valid offer of assistance? Why do you think we’re fighting this war, anyway?”
“I’m not sure—” Snodgrass began.
“For goodness’ sake, Mary Wollstonecraft was British!” Maggie exploded. “A Vindication of the Rights of Woman? Have you even read it?”
“Maggie—” John said.
“No, I’ve held my tongue for a long while, and now I’m going to have my say. Why are we fighting this war?”
She glared at the two men, hands shaking with anger. “I’ll tell you. It’s because if Hitler has his way, we’ll all be slaves—and, as an American, with our shameful history of slavery, let me tell you how monstrously horrible that would be. We’re fighting for the right to be free citizens. It’s a privilege that the Americans and British have—no matter if you’re rich or poor, you’re born free—and you can express your opinion and vote. And work. And this doesn’t just apply to men. Women are slowly but surely making strides—the vote, higher education, laws that protect our money and property. But this treatment of women—middle- and upper-class women—as though we’re children or goddesses or precious objets d’art—well, that’s a kind of slavery. So, you may want to keep me in the drawing room, or the kitchen, or the nursery—or the typing pool—but it’s simply another form of tyranny—one that we’re supposedly fighting against.”
Without waiting to hear more, Maggie turned and walked out into the hallway, heart beating quickly, blood pounding in her head. She made her way to the ladies’ loo, locking the door behind her.
Ignoring the sickening chemical smell, she leaned against the wall, taking in deep breaths, until she was sure she wasn’t going to hit anything—or anyone. She washed her face and hands, and returned to the typists’ office. A pretty gorilla. A bridge-playing dog. With everything women are doing for the war effort,
is that all we are in the opinion of men? She understood why Aunt Edith had been so bitter—and appreciated the lines on the side of her mouth from where she pursed her lips. I hate Dicky Snodgrass. Hate, hate, hate.
She went back to her desk in the typists’ office, slamming a few things around. She was alone, so Mrs. Tinsley wouldn’t snap and Miss Stewart wouldn’t wince. Then she attacked her stack of typing with a vengeance.
“Sorry about that.” It was John, in the doorway, running his hands through his dark hair.
“Don’t give it a second thought,” Maggie said tightly, fingers still moving over the keys.
“It’s just—well, there are more things in play than you know.”
“Of course,” Maggie said, stopping and looking up at him. “And there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy. Or something like that.”
John took a few steps into the typists’ office. “You know it’s not personal—it’s not you.”
“Really? Well, Snodgrass certainly had me fooled, then.”
John took a few more steps toward Maggie’s desk. “Politics …” he said. “Politics isn’t like equations. It’s a nasty and dangerous business.”
Maggie’s eyes opened wide. “Dangerous? I can’t believe that my helping with RDF calculations could possibly be dangerous. Oh—perhaps I might get a paper cut. Heavens!”
John came around the desk and knelt in front of her. He grasped her hand. “I—I can’t say, Maggie. I wish to God I could, but I can’t. But trust me. Would you, please?” Maggie looked at him, her irritation momentarily forgotten as she wondered at this abrupt display of emotion and uncharacteristic appeal.
Suddenly, they heard a door down the hall slam, and John pulled away. As he rose to his feet, Maggie looked at him in shock.
“Just trust me, all right?” he said, turning on his heel and leaving.
When Maggie looked down, she realized that her hands were shaking. I don’t have time for this. She jammed a fresh piece of paper into the typewriter and began to attack the keys with renewed vigor.
“Are you all right, dear?” It was Miss Stewart, powdered and curled, coming in for the evening shift. She took off her straw hat with pink silk roses and smoothed down her hair absently in the mirror. “What did Mr. Sterling want?”
“I really don’t know, Miss Stewart,” Maggie said in a voice sounding strange and distant even to her own ears. “I really don’t know.”
ELEVEN
CLAIRE LEFT MURPHY at the boardinghouse shortly before five a.m., a cold drizzle falling through the morning light. Pigeons cooed under the building’s eaves. Across the street, a statue of Lord Nelson wept tears of soot.
She paused at the building’s entrance and knotted a silk scarf under her chin, then opened her umbrella. It was a quiet morning, and traffic was thin and the shops were still closed.
Only the café across the street was open. A balding man in a blue seersucker suit sat at the window, reading a paper and drinking a cup of tea. He looked up for an instant, then looked down and turned the page.
Claire flipped up the collar of her gabardine coat. She’d been warned about MI-5, but she’d been careful and always felt anonymous. Suddenly, she sensed prying eyes everywhere.
Outside the café, a few people were queuing up for the bus. Claire looked at them and had the uncomfortable feeling she’d seen one of the faces before—maybe at the hotel, maybe on the Tube.
Maybe in the park.
She looked up at the flats across the street, the windows with taped diamonds and blackout curtains making blind eyes. If they’re watching you, they’ll do it from a fixed position, Murphy had told her. From an upper room or a restaurant or shop.
Claire scanned the windows and rooftops, looking for anyone’s gaze. There was no one watching. She detected no movement.
With another quick glance around, she pulled on her gloves and began to make her way through the streets in the rain.
Maggie couldn’t make Snodgrass give her more responsibility at work. And she wouldn’t even try to figure out what was going on with John. But there was, she realized, one thing she could do. Needed to do.
And that was, finally, to pay her respects to her parents.
She’d meant to do it for a long time but had put it off—after all, seeing the headstones would make it seem that much more real. And she didn’t want it to be real.
But Sarah’s asking, plus a growing fear that somehow Highgate Cemetery might be destroyed in any and all upcoming attacks, made her realize she needed to do it. Now.
“What would you like, miss?” the flower seller near Regent’s Park asked, his hands tough and leathery enough that he didn’t need to wear protective gloves.
“I’ll take that bunch of violets, thank you,” she replied. Simple and somber, the purple blooms seemed appropriate for her mission to the cemetery. As did her plain cotton dress, straw hat, and lightweight coat.
“Right you are, miss. Party?”
“Highgate.” Yes, I’m going to Highgate Cemetery, Maggie thought. I’ve put it off, in denial, but it was just prolonging the inevitable. I must go.
“Ah,” he said. “Newspaper all right, or do you want them wrapped special?” he asked as he plucked the violets from their bucket, water from the stems dripping down his hands like tears.
“Wrapped special. Please.”
Maggie took the Underground to the Archway station, then walked up winding and woody Swain’s Lane to Highgate Cemetery.
It was a rambling, tree-shrouded wilderness filled with Victorian Gothic gravestones, tombs, catacombs, and mounds. Maggie found its beauty surprisingly comforting on her solemn mission.
She walked through rows and rows of monuments and carved angels with unfurled wings—some as cherubs looking heavenward, some in the form of pretty young girls with eyes cast demurely down, and some as goddesses draped languorously across mausoleums. Some headstones were smooth white marble with fresh flowers in vases, others dark and crumbling, covered in green moss and olive lichen.
Here lies Mary Pyne, wife of Victor, after a long illness, rest in peace, read one limestone headstone with elaborately carved clasped hands, nearly obscured by glossy ivy. Henry David Atwood, 1870–1873, beloved baby boy was etched in pocked black marble above an engraved broken rosebud. On another, a serpent swallowed his tail in an endless circle while the moss-covered stone proclaimed, In memory of Robertson Worth, dearly loved husband and father. You are in our hearts always.
She was using a map she’d found at Highgate’s entrance. After a few false starts, missed turns, and tripping over some gnarled ancient tree roots, she found herself at the grave she sought.
She saw her mother’s name and dates with engraved wings on the gray marble headstone: Clara Louise Hope 1892–1916. She knelt down on the grass and touched the etched letters with her gloved fingers for a long moment. Hello, Mother, she thought. I’m here. Your daughter is here.
After wiping away her tears and giving her nose a good blow with her handkerchief, Maggie busied herself by emptying water from the vase and throwing some long-dead roses into the compost pile, then filling the vase with fresh water from a nearby fountain. She returned to the grave, arranged the dark purple violets in the vase, then knelt down once again on the grass.
It hurts to be here, Maggie thought. It hurts to see her name on the stone. Lord, how it hurts.
And then, Who’s been here and leaving flowers on her grave?
She rose to her feet, then looked around. And where was her father’s grave? Surely they were buried together? Or at least near each other?
She looked and looked but to no avail.
In the distance was a cemetery worker, a stooped man with ruddy sunburned cheeks and brown-splotched hands, pushing a red wheelbarrow.
“Lovely flowers, those, miss,” he said, releasing the wheelbarrow and touching his hand to his felt cap.
“Yes,” she replied. “Thank you.”
“
Nice to see someone tending to that one,” he went on. “It’s been a while.”
“Are you familiar with all the graves? There are so many.”
“Been ’ere since just after the war—back in ’eighteen. Lots of friends ’ere, died over in France. Work every day except Sunday, miss.”
“I’m wondering if you could help me, then. That grave over there, Clara Hope, is my mother’s. But I can’t find my father’s.”
“What’s ’is name?”
“Edmund Hope. Edmund Charles Hope.”
The man took off his cap. “No one ’ere by that name, miss. And I’d know.”
It can’t be. He has to be here, Maggie thought. And yet … Even though the day was warm, she felt a chill as the stillness of the cemetery permeated her skin.
It felt like a warning.
“There were dried flowers on my—on Clara Hope’s grave when I got here. Do you know who left them?”
“Gentleman used to come ’ere regular. Used to leave white roses.” The man rubbed his whiskered jaw with his large hand. “But I ain’t seen him ’ere in a long while.”
The old gardener again touched his hand to his hat, then picked up the handles of his wheelbarrow. “I’d best be getting on, miss.”
“Of course,” Maggie replied quickly, mind whirring. “Thank you.”
Maggie returned home, mind racing, heart pounding. First, a phone call.
“Margaret! What’s wrong?” Aunt Edith’s voice on the other side of the transatlantic call sounded tinny and faint.
“I have a question for you.”
There was a pause. “Of course.”
“Where is my father buried?”
A longer pause. “Oh, Margaret—I never thought …”
“You never thought what? That I’d ever go looking for their graves? Well, I did. And I found my mother’s. But not my father’s. So where is he?” Maggie clutched the receiver tightly.
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