Mr. Churchill's Secretary

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “You’ll still be in London, yes?” he asked.

  “I’ll be in London, yes.”

  “And when do you start?”

  “Well, I’m taking some time off—a month. I just need—you know—to think about everything that happened.”

  “That makes sense,” John said. “You’ve been through a lot.”

  She looked into his face; the bruises from the attack were still evident. “Ah, that British understatement.”

  “What about your father?”

  “He’s staying in London for a little while. We’re taking it slowly. Getting to know each other.”

  “Ah.”

  “It’s not easy. Still, I’m glad he’s alive, and I’m glad he’s here. But it’s …” She searched for the right word. “Complicated.”

  “It generally is. And how are you doing after, well, you know …”

  “The death of Claire?”

  “Yes.”

  Maggie sighed. “I’ve already mourned Paige, at the funeral with all of you. Claire? Well, I never really knew her.”

  “I see,” John said.

  There was a silence, a companionable one. “And as you know, the twins have left for their tour. And Sarah, Chuck, and I are moving in with David, right?”

  “What? David?” Obviously, John hadn’t heard. “David and all those women …”

  “Well, he has that huge flat in Kensington. We’ll be the three sisters he never knew he always wanted.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Much better than going, well, home. After everything that happened, I just couldn’t …”

  “Of course,” John said. “No one would expect you to.” Then, “What about your house?”

  “Ah,” Maggie said. “I’m renting it out.”

  “Good, good, that takes care of that, then.” John’s brows knit. “And even after everything that’s happened, with your new job, your new flat, you’ll still want to stay in touch? Because I’d really like that. After everything that’s happened.”

  “Especially after everything that’s happened. I can’t imagine not seeing you.”

  “Well. Good.” He traced the line of her cheek with one finger.

  “Yes. Good,” she said, smiling, as their lips met.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, Mrs. Tinsley and Miss Stewart were both delighted to see Maggie back at No. 10, if only to pack up her things.

  “Now, you will be careful, won’t you?” Miss Stewart asked. “Goodness, we’ve been so worried about you.”

  “And you left us with an extraordinary amount of work to do, let me say,” Mrs. Tinsley said. “Although,” she amended, “we’re gratified to see you’ve come back in one piece.”

  “It was only a weekend at Chartwell,” Maggie said as she packed up her few belongings from the desk.

  “Don’t be impertinent with me, young lady!” Mrs. Tinsley said.

  “We’re terribly proud of you, Maggie,” Miss Stewart said, her blue eyes threatening to overflow.

  “Oh, really,” Mrs. Tinsley snapped at Miss Stewart. “Must you praise her? It will only go to her head.”

  “I just meant—”

  “Enough is as good as a feast.” Then, to Maggie, “But you will come back once in a while, won’t you? Just to say hello.”

  “Of course I will,” she answered, meaning it. I’ll miss you, too, she realized.

  David stuck his nose into the office. “Almost ready to go, Magster?”

  “One more minute, please,” Maggie said, then hugged each woman in turn. Miss Stewart squeezed her back and sniffled. Mrs. Tinsley gave Maggie’s shoulder a few awkward pats. “Well, really …” Mrs. Tinsley said, taking out her handkerchief and giving a good sniff.

  There was one last task Maggie had to do.

  She gave the folder marked TOP SECRET with the carbon of her report, as well as the journal of everything that had really happened, to Mrs. Tinsley. “For the archives,” she said.

  Mrs. Tinsley nodded and accepted the folder.

  “And I’ll take this one to him myself.”

  Papers in hand, Maggie walked down the hall, for the last time, to Mr. Churchill’s office. She knocked at the heavy wooden door.

  “Come in!” he boomed.

  She walked in and placed the papers on his desk. “Here’s the after-action report, sir.”

  “Ah,” he said, chewing on the ever-present cigar and looking at her over the tops of his spectacles. “Right. You’re off to work for Frain, then, are you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, our loss is their gain, I suppose,” he said, rising to his feet to shake her hand. “Need some Hope in their offices, too, what?” He chuckled, then turned back to his papers. “It’s all right to take some time off, but don’t keep Frain waiting. He’s a brilliant man, but not what you’d call patient.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, standing before him. “Thank you, sir. For everything.” She turned and walked to the door.

  As she reached it, he spoke again. “Just remember, Miss Hope,” he said, stabbing the air with his cigar for emphasis, “kicking! Kicking, I say!”

  Her eyes suddenly filled with tears as she turned to respond one last time. “Yes, sir. Kicking, sir.”

  Maggie got into David’s car and closed the door with a resounding thud. They looked at each other and smiled, then he put the car into gear and pulled out into traffic to drive Maggie to his—and now hers and the girls’—new home in Kensington.

  “Would you mind driving by Saint Paul’s first?” Maggie asked.

  Above the city, the great dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral soared. The church, in its different incarnations, had been ransacked by Vikings, struck by lightning, defaced during the British Civil War, and nearly destroyed in the Great Fire of London. It had been rebuilt by Christopher Wren only to be bombed by Nazis from the air and nearly brought down by a bomb planted inside. And yet here it still stood.

  The warm autumn evening had drawn a crowd beneath the stern gaze of the statue of Queen Anne. She looked down from her pedestal, adorned with her golden crown, scepter, and orb, a fat gray pigeon perched on top of her head.

  Below her, the crowd milled, men and women in khaki, dark blue, and gray uniforms, and women in jewel-toned colored dresses, looking like exotic birds amid foliage. A group of laughing RAF pilots on leave posed arm in arm for a photograph, which a young woman in a red-flowered hat looked delighted to take. The lemony sunlight slanted across the square, and an older woman sitting on the steps, wrapped in a long fringed shawl, fed pigeons crumbs from a bag of bread.

  A man in an old mackintosh pulled the brim of his hat down as the car passed. Maggie knew that while Murphy was dead, there could be any number of secret agents mixed in among the crowd. She’d almost gotten used to the fact that she still saw Murphy everywhere, including in her nightmares. She gave a barely perceptible shudder.

  “Are you all right?” David asked.

  It was strange to imagine a world where men like Malcolm Pierce and Michael Murphy still plotted in the darkness. For that matter, a world where she had a father. One where someone like Paige could have led a double life. Where Sarah almost died. And where bombs still rained down from the sky on any given night …

  “You all right?” David repeated.

  Maggie rolled down the window and felt the warm air on her face.

  She wasn’t happy, exactly; she was still too raw for that. But she was satisfied. Satisfied and relieved, too, with maybe just a bit of joy thrown in for good measure. Yes, that was it. She’d made it through so much already. She knew now that she was strong. She’d survive. And she had friends and family to support her.

  “Fine, David.” She smiled at him. “Better than fine.”

  The sun was setting with a brilliant flare of scarlet, gold, and azure. Maggie lifted her face to catch the warmth of the last rays shining from behind the dome, glad to be alive, glad to be just where she was, with the wind on her face.
<
br />   HISTORICAL NOTE

  Mr. Churchill’s Secretary is not a history, nor is it meant to be. It’s a blend of fact and fiction, of characters and events, both real and imagined.

  This book was inspired by a visit to the Cabinet War Rooms in London and its meticulously researched and wonderfully presented exhibits. One of the audio accompaniments to the exhibit was an actress reading the recollections of one of Churchill’s young secretaries, taken from the memoirs of Elizabeth Layton Nel. As I listened to her words and walked the corridors of the War Rooms, I felt a shiver go up my spine—and knew I’d found an extraordinary setting for a story.

  Mrs. Elizabeth Layton Nel, one of Sir Winston’s young wartime secretaries, was kind enough to reply to my letter from her home in South Africa in 2004. I told her how much I admired the work she had done, and also how much I enjoyed her memoir. She was generous enough to give her blessing to my using her “mistakes” (“right” for “ripe,” et al.) but did caution me that in reality the secretaries never would have had any time for either Maggie’s intrigues or romance.

  We’d planned to meet in London at the Cabinet War Rooms for the opening of the Churchill Museum in February 2005, but alas, a difficult pregnancy prevented my traveling from New York to London. (The indefatigable Mrs. Nel not only made the journey but was honored at the museum’s opening, along with Queen Elizabeth.) A widow since 2000, Mrs. Nel passed in October 2007 and is survived by a son and two daughters.

  Her inspiring and important memoir, Mr. Churchill’s Secretary, was first published in 1958 and, after many years, went out of print. A new edition of her book, Winston Churchill by His Personal Secretary, was completed shortly before her death in 2007. And so her story, I’m delighted to report, is readily available to all once again.

  Another of Winston Churchill’s young wartime secretaries, Marian Holmes, didn’t write a memoir, but her quotations in Tim Clayton and Phil Craig’s book Finest Hour and the BBC TV series of the same name were incredibly helpful. When I write that Mr. Churchill calls Miss Hope “Holmes” by mistake, that’s an allusion to Marian Holmes.

  In fact, according to her diary, Winston Churchill once referred to Miss Holmes as Miss Hope: “He went straight into dictating and I took it down on the silent typewriter. ‘Here you are’—he still didn’t look at me. I took the papers, he reached for more work from his dispatch box and I made for the door. Loud voice: ‘Dammit, don’t go. I’ve only just started.’ He then looked up. ‘I am so sorry. I thought it was Miss Layton. What is your name?’ ‘Miss Holmes.’ ‘Miss Hope?’ ‘Miss Holmes.’ ‘Oh.’ ”

  When I read this exchange, I knew I’d found the last name of my heroine.

  I was never able to speak with Miss Holmes, who passed in 2001, but Mrs. Nel assured me that they’d had quite the adventure accompanying Mr. Churchill to Russia together.

  In addition, I Was Winston Churchill’s Private Secretary by Phyllis Moir was also useful in obtaining a glimpse into the lives of Churchill’s typists.

  The Fringes of Power: The Incredible Inside Story of Winston Churchill During World War II by head private secretary Jock (John) Colville provided an excellent insider’s look at the inner workings of No. 10. John Sterling is in no way supposed to “be” Jock Colville, but I did use the name specifically in honor of Mr. Colville.

  The excellent BBC TV series 1940s House, the accompanying book by Juliet Gardner, and the exhibit at the Imperial War Museum in London were instrumental to understanding the time period. Barbara Kaye’s memoir The Company We Kept was perfect for everyday details. 1939: The Last Season of Peace by Angela Lambert, Bombers & Mash: The Domestic Front 1939–45 by Raynes Minns, and The Battle of Britain: The Greatest Air Battle of World War II by Richard Hough and Denis Richards were also invaluable.

  Churchill’s own Memoirs of the Second World War and The Gathering Storm, as well as William Manchester’s The Last Lion, Roy Jenkins’s Churchill: A Biography, and Martin Gilbert’s In Search of Churchill were all important to understanding this extraordinary man and his time.

  Thanks to the Jerome Robbins Dance Collection at the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts at Lincoln Center, particularly for issues of Dance Observer from the thirties and forties. The Vic-Wells Ballet was established by Madame Ninette de Valois in London in 1931; Frederick Ashton was named the company’s choreographer in 1935. The company was renamed the Sadler’s Wells Ballet in 1940, and in 1956 became the Royal Ballet. Frederick Ashton and His Ballets by David Vaughan was a wonderful resource for information on the Vic-Wells Ballet.

  In regard to cryptographers and the work done at Bletchley Park, Bletchley Park People: Churchill’s Geese That Never Cackled by Marion Hill, Codebreakers: The Inside Story of Bletchley Park by Sir F. H. Hinsley and Alan Stripp, and Alan Turing: The Enigma by Andrew Hodges were first-rate.

  In 2006, it was discovered that Nazi agents in England had, in fact, embedded Morse code in drawings of models wearing the latest fashions in an attempt to outwit Allied censors. According to the recently released British security service files, Nazi agents relayed sensitive military information using the dots and dashes of Morse code incorporated in the drawings. They posted the letters to their handlers, hoping that counterespionage experts would be fooled by the seemingly innocent pictures.

  Readers may find the image online: http://​www.​secure.​vimigroup.​com/​news/​?p=162

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to the directors, trustees, and staff of the Cabinet War Rooms and the Imperial War Museum, especially Robert Crawford, the director general of the Imperial War Museum, and Phillip Reed, the curator of the Churchill Museum and the Cabinet War Rooms.

  I’m deeply grateful to Victoria Skurnick (a.k.a. “Agent V”), who never stopped believing (and didn’t stop sending out the manuscript). Thank you to Daniel Greenburg, at the Levine Greenberg Literary Agency, for passing my work her way.

  I’m forever indebted to Kate Miciak, editor extraordinaire, who took a chance. Thanks also to the fantastic team at Bantam Dell: Margaret Benton, Loyale Coles, and Randall Klein.

  This novel never would have seen the light of day if not for the ever insightful, ever patient, and always supportive Idria Barone Knecht—writer, editor, and friend.

  I was blessed to have had a wonderful mentor and friend in novelist Judith Merkle Riley.

  Many, many people offered support, constructive criticism, and advice as this novel went through its various stages. I’m humbled by the generosity of Lia Abbate, Amy Kass Amsterdam, Jonathan Amsterdam, Nassim Asfeti, Josh Axelrad, Jennifer Barnhart, Paula Bernstein, Scott Cameron, Jessica Cohen, Veronica Hart, Kimmerie Jones, Rick Knecht, Christine Lloyd, Edna MacNeal, Maria Massie, Matthew O’Brian, Ji Hyang Padma, Suzanne Phillips, Jana Riess, Elizabeth Riley, Lisa Rogers, Linda Roghaar, Rebecca Carey Rohan, Caitlin Sims, Christopher Steele, and Robin Walsh.

  And I’m awed by the collective intelligence of the M.I.T. alums who were patient with my endless questions: Bob Amini, Monica Byrne, Wes Carroll, Michael Friedhoff, Mary Linton Peters, Stephen Peters, Michael Pieck, Erik Schwartz, Doug Stetson, and Larry Taylor.

  Thanks to amazing babysitters Katey Parker, Andi Salamon, and Emily Ulmer for the time and peace of mind to write.

  Thank you also to Danielle Bruno, Fidelma Fitzpatrick, Aymee Garcia, Robert Gardner, Melissa Leeper, Jane Beuth Mayer, Christine McCann, Kathryn Plank, Audra Branum Rickman, Rebecca Carey Rohan, Christine Serchia, and Jennifer Serchia for being all-around wonderful people.

  Last, but certainly not least, thank you to Noel MacNeal, who always believed and who made writing possible, and to Mattie, who loves to hear Mommy’s stories.

  If you enjoyed Mr. Churchill’s Secretary,

  you won’t want to miss the next ingenious mystery

  in the Maggie Hope series.

  Read on for an exciting early look at

  PRINCESS ELIZABETH’S SPY

  by Susan Elia MacNeal

  Published by Bantam Trade Pa
perbacks

  PROLOGUE

  THE MIDDAY SUMMER sun in Lisbon was dazzling and harsh. But while nearly everyone else was inside taking a siesta, the Duke of Windsor, formerly King Edward VIII of England, kept up his British habits, even on the continent.

  He and his wife, Wallis Simpson, the woman for whom he’d abdicated the throne, sat outside at the Bar-Café Europa, which catered to tourists and British expats. The town square was nearly empty, except for a young American couple walking arm in arm and a few pigeons strutting and pecking for crumbs in the dust.

  Wallis, slender and elegant, wore a scarlet Schiaparelli suit, a bejeweled flamingo brooch, and dark glasses. She sipped a Campari and soda, the ice cubes clinking against one another in her tall glass. Next to her, the Duke, slight and fair-haired, toyed with a tumbler of blood-orange juice and read The Times of London. He was only forty-six, but the strain from the abdication, and subsequent banishment from royal life, made him look much older.

  A shadow passed over his page. The Duke looked up in annoyance, then smiled broadly when he saw who it was—Walther Shellenberg, Heinrich Himmler’s personal aide and a deputy leader of the Reich Main Security Office.

  “Shel! Good to see you—sit down,” the Duke said.

  “Thank you, Your Highness,” Shellenberg replied in accented English, sitting down on the delicate wire chair. The Duke and Duchess had befriended Shellenberg on their tours to Germany before the war, visiting with Prince Philip of Hesse and Adolf Hitler.

  “Hello, Walther,” Wallis said.

  Shellenberg removed his Nazi visor hat, with its skull and crossbones, to reveal thick brown hair parted in the center and glistening with a copious amount of Brylcreem. “Good afternoon, Your Highness. May I say you look particularly lovely today?” he said to Wallis, a smile softening his angular features.

  “Thank you, Shel,” she replied, warming to his use of Your Highness, which Hitler had also used when they’d visited him at the Berghof, his chalet in the Bavarian Alps. Technically, neither Hitler nor Shellenberg needed to address her that way, as she’d never been awarded HRH status by the current king, a snub indeed. His wife, Queen Elizabeth, referred to Wallis only as “that woman.”