by Glenn Dyer
“How well do you know this guy?” Thorn asked.
“Address him that way and the only thing we’ll get is relieved from this investigation. And I will say it again: this is not the best use of our time. In fact, this will only cause problems that we do not have time for.” Bright turned away from Thorn, who could clearly see that she was peeved by the flush on her cheeks.
“We’ll be brief and tread lightly.”
“I want to believe you, but—”
Henry Longworth, Minister of Works and Planning, one of several “constant attenders,” as Prime Minister Churchill called them, to the war cabinet, burst through the door to the outer office. Not noticing his visitors, he marched up to his assistant’s desk and picked up several messages.
“Mr. Longworth, you have two guests, and no, sir, they do not have an appointment,” the assistant said, leaning to her left to look around Longworth at the intruders sitting across the room.
Longworth turned and saw Bright and, with eyebrows raised, registered a moment of muted surprise. “And what do you want, Miss Bright?”
Bright struggled to pull herself from the chair that seemed to have a hold of her dress. Once erect, she had to smooth and pull her dress back into place. “Sir, excuse the unannounced visit. This is Conor Thorn, who works for William Donovan and General Eisenhower. We have a few brief questions to ask you—”
“About what?”
“Can we talk to you in private . . . sir?” asked Thorn.
Longworth appraised Thorn fully, his stare starting with his face and traveling down the length of his body to his shoes and back again. “You both will have to wait. I have some matters that I must attend to immediately. So take your seats.”
#
While Bright picked up a copy of The Daily Mirror and mumbled something about wasting time, Thorn watched Longworth’s secretary, her head bent over a ledger, tap a pencil on the rim of a teacup. The incessant clinking seemed to go unnoticed by Bright. Thorn was up to a count of fifty-five clinks when the door to Longworth’s office opened.
When Thorn and Bright entered the office, Longworth was standing behind his desk chair. “So, tell me—what is the purpose of your visit?”
“May we sit?” asked Thorn.
“No. I am sure this won’t take long. Besides, I have much to do. Now, what is it you want?”
“Sir, Mr. Thorn and I have been investigating a security breach at General Eisenhower’s headquarters,” Bright said.
“Yes, I am aware. The prime minister has informed the cabinet of the breach. But why are you talking to me?”
“Our investigation—”
“Do you know a Quinn Montgomery?” Thorn interrupted.
Bright shot a look at Thorn, her lips pursed.
“I do. What of it?”
“How do you know him?”
“He’s my nephew. The son of my only sister.”
“We’ve spoken to him about a break-in at the Army Air Forces film lab and—”
“Wait one minute here, Thorn. You think he has anything do with this break-in? You think he is a criminal? What a preposterous—”
“He was in and out of the lab at the time that a top-secret document was reported missing. We’re just—”
“You’re just carelessly and recklessly accusing my nephew of involvement in the theft of a top-secret document. You’re accusing him of treason! Do you realize that?” Longworth shouted. He pounded the top edge of his desk chair.
“We’re only following up on our meeting with your nephew, sir,” Bright offered. “Nothing more. It was merely surprising to see a picture of a war cabinet member in his quarters. And we—”
“Well, get over your surprise, Miss Bright. You of all people should know to respect the position and authority of a cabinet member. And to think you have in any way connected my nephew and, therefore, me to this traitorous break-in is audacious, impudent, and totally unacceptable. The prime minister will hear about it—mark my words.” Longworth pulled a pocket square from his breast pocket and mopped his glistening forehead.
“Sir, do you own a car?” Thorn asked, drawing an incredulous look from Bright.
“What?”
“Do you own a car, and if so, what type?”
Longworth marched to the door and opened it wide. “Get out of my office. Both of you.”
Bright rushed from the office, leaving Thorn alone, standing in front of Longworth, doing all he could to not ask another question.
#
When Thorn caught up to Bright, she stood by the staff car, her arms folded; Hollis sat comfortably in the backseat, flipping through a newspaper.
“Well, that went exactly the way I believed it would. Horribly,” Bright said, refusing to look directly at Thorn.
“I . . . I was polite,” he said.
“Not enough. You could have been more . . . more deferential.”
“He was a little too pompous for that. Anyway, what did Shakespeare say? ‘The man doth protest too much, methinks.’”
“First off, it was ‘the lady doth protest too much,’ and second . . .” She paused, took a deep breath, and quickly released it. “We need to head in another direction instead of harassing cabinet members. We need to get on with a more effective investigation. It is critical that we find this document as soon as possible. The sooner we do, the fewer people will have seen its contents. The clock—”
“Is ticking. No one knows that better than me. No one. Not you, not Eisenhower or Churchill,” Thorn said loudly.
Bright, wide-eyed, unfolded her arms and took a short step back.
He paused and took a deep breath. “Listen, humor me a little longer. I want to talk to a family friend. The one my dad was talking about at dinner last night—Sean Sullivan. Remember? He’s assigned to Westminster Cathedral. The same church that Longworth goes to—every day, according to his warmhearted secretary. Just a quick conversation to get his opinion of Longworth. OK?” Thorn could appreciate that his pigheaded persistence was not his most endearing quality.
Bright glared at Thorn, unblinking. “OK. Then we’re moving on.”
Thorn made a move toward the driver’s side door of the staff car. “Yes . . . unless, of course, we find something.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
1100 Hours, Friday, October 9, 1942
Westminster Cathedral Clergy House, No. 42 Francis Street, London
Thorn loved being behind the wheel. He was in complete control. With Bright sitting beside him, he deftly piloted the Buick Roadmaster as Hollis shouted directions to the cathedral’s clergy house from the backseat. They careened through the London streets, swerving in and out of traffic and around mounds of rubble that had been undisturbed since the end of the Blitz. The mounds of detritus had sprouted weeds and, in some cases, flowers that were now losing their seasonal life. Thorn slowed to a stop in front of a four-story, rectangular, brick building, its entrance at the top of a stairway on the short side of the building. Then, he and Bright made for the entrance as Hollis settled back and unfolded a copy of the London Times.
Thorn rapped on the door and waited alongside Bright, who had talked little on their drive from Longworth’s office. He had trouble reading her. Is she still fuming, or is she just ticked off? I’d settle for just a little ticked off.
The door creaked open, and the aroma of boiled potatoes and cabbage escaped into the October morning air. A short woman in her sixties stood in the doorway, drying her reddened hands on a dingy apron. Her thinning hair was pulled back behind her ears. “And what can I do for you two lovebirds? Wouldn’t be lookin’ to ask for a banns of marriage, would you? Too bad, but there’s—”
Bright laughed, just like she had that evening in the Broadway pub—a hearty, rambunctious laugh that seemed to underscore the ridiculousness of the possibility.
Thorn shot her a look. Shake it off, Conor. It’s not time yet anyway.
“No, no, ma’am. Actually I . . . We’re looking for a Father Sean Sul
livan. Would he be around?” Bright asked.
“Father Sean? Sure he is. Just got back from hospital. Doin’ his rounds. Come in. Come in.”
“If you’re the cook, you should be commended. It smells wonderful,” Bright said, taking in a full whiff of the scents emanating from a nearby kitchen.
“Oh, aren’t you the kind one? Head straight ahead down this hallway to the sitting room, and I’ll fetch Father Sean. If I know him, he won’t be far from the kitchen. Who should I say is calling?”
“Conor Thorn and Emily Bright.”
“Thorn and Bright. Very well. I’ll be back.”
In the sitting room, three walls were adorned with pictures of the cathedral at various seasons. Hanging on the remaining wall, prominently in the center, was a sizable but solitary and washed-out reproduction of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. The blood dripping from the flaming heart had faded to a light pink. A vase of fresh lilies, flanked by two flickering devotional candles, sat on a small stand immediately below the painting.
“Here they be, Father Sean. This is—”
“God bless us all, Conor Thorn, as I live and breathe,” a beaming Sean bellowed. Sean, topping six feet with a barrel chest, surprised Thorn with a bear hug that made his back crack.
Thorn wasn’t sure exactly what he’d expected to see when he met up with Sean. He only vaguely remembered his boyish face from eighteen years ago. But the looming mass of a man with a warm, welcoming demeanor wasn’t on the top of his list.
The black-haired, green-eyed priest extended his meaty hand to Bright. “And you must be Miss Bright. A pleasure. Please sit,” Sean said, guiding them to a couch located across from the painting of the Sacred Heart.
“Father, they aren’t here askin’ for a banns of marriage announcement. I already asked that.”
“Oh, that so, Edith?” said a smiling Sean. “Well then, I’ll have to have a talk with these two lovely people.” He broke into an even wider grin.
Bright shook her head at Sean’s playfulness.
“I’ll call you for supper when it’s ready,” Edith said as she took her leave.
“Ahh, yes, supper. Can’t wait.” Thorn could see that Sean didn’t miss many suppers. “So, Conor, it’s been, what? Nearly twenty years, right?” Sean said, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees and hands clasped together, genuinely interested in what his old friend had to say.
“At least. And tell me—your mother and father, are they well?” Thorn asked despite being unable to recall their faces.
“Ahh, they’ve passed. Several years ago, I’m afraid. And your father and mother? Are they in good health?”
“Dad is fine. In fact, we had dinner with him last night.” Thorn stopped and cleared his throat.
“And tell me, how is your dear, lovely mother?”
“She . . .” Thorn stopped and looked over at the painting. Bright shifted her gaze from Sullivan to Thorn. “She drowned, Sean. She jumped in the ocean to save me from a riptide and didn’t make it back to shore. I was ten years old.” The words formed quickly, surprising Thorn, who didn’t speak of the circumstances of his mother’s death.
“Oh my Lord. Bless her soul,” Sullivan said as he made the sign of the cross.
Bright’s jaw dropped. She didn’t take her eyes off of Thorn as she raised her hand to cover her mouth.
“I’m so sorry. It’s such a small gesture, but tomorrow’s Mass will be said in her name.”
“Thanks, Sean,” Thorn said, clearing his throat again.
“So, what brings you to the cathedral’s doorstep?”
“We wanted to ask about one of your parishioners. A man named Henry Longworth. Do you know him?”
A furrowed brow betraying Sullivan’s concern quickly replaced his initial wide-eyed look of surprise. “Why yes. Is he all right? I just saw the man this morning at seven o’clock Mass.”
“Yes, he’s fine, Father,” Bright said. “What can you tell us about him?”
“I see him about every day at Mass. And I often see him in the clergy house, dropping mail off. But what is this about?”
“We’re involved in an investigation. I work with General Eisenhower’s headquarters, and Bright works with the prime minister’s office. We can’t tell you much more than that right now. Longworth is—”
“A high-standing member of the prime minister’s war cabinet, as I am sure you know,” Bright interjected. “It seems that a family member of his may have put himself in an awkward position.”
“Well, that is unfortunate. But what does this have to do with Mr. Longworth?”
“It seems that Mr. Longworth has a strong relationship with this family member,” Bright responded.
Sean sat quietly, head bent toward the floor. He wrung his hands several times. “Is Mr. Longworth guilty of a crime?” he asked as he sat upright.
“You tell me. Are you his confessor?” Thorn asked.
Sean tossed his head back and chuckled. “Ah, what a sense of humor you have. What I can say is this—he has, on occasion, come to me and not by chance, because our names are on the doors of our confessionals. But, beyond that, I can say no more.”
“So what can you tell us?” Thorn asked as he took a small notebook from his pocket.
Sean shrugged and stared into space for a moment, then began to speak. “I have known him for some time now, since my days in Rome. I was assisting Cardinal Massy, who oversaw the Supreme Secret Congregation,” said Sean, both of his hands moving about as if he were conducting an orchestra. “Mr. Longworth was working in the office with Sir D’Arcy Osborne, the British minister to the Holy See.”
“Was there much contact between the two of you?” Thorn asked.
Sean turned his attention to Thorn. “No, not much. But the Vatican is much like a small Irish village. You didn’t have to see someone often to know their business.”
“And what business of Longworth’s did you know?”
“Well, there was a story that floated around the Vatican for years about Mr. Longworth and several priests being kidnapped and tortured at the hands of the communists while he was on a tour of Russia in the late twenties.”
Thorn and Bright exchanged glances. “Well, that is a story,” Bright said. “He’s alive, so it ended well, right?”
“I suppose as well as can be expected. The story goes that he escaped and made his way into Turkey.”
“Commendable,” Thorn said, looking down at his notes. “But, Sean, you said something about seeing him regularly here, in the clergy house. Tell me again what brought him here.”
“Well, from his years of service at the Vatican, he and Cardinal Massy became close. And they picked up their friendship when Cardinal Massy and I were assigned here, at the cathedral. They talk often. They’re close friends.”
“You said something about dropping mail off. Mail for whom?” Thorn pressed, looking down as he jotted more notes.
“Given their friendship, Mr. Longworth was permitted access to the cathedral’s diplomatic pouch by Cardinal Massy. The pouch is how the cathedral, the seat of the Catholic Church in Great Britain, communicates with the Vatican.”
Thorn shot a look at Bright. Does his access to that pouch mean that—
“Father, diplomatic pouches are for official state business,” Bright said. “It’s absolutely a violation of its diplomatic immunity to use it for personal communication. Isn’t Cardinal Massy aware of this?”
“I am sure he is, Miss Bright. Cardinal Massy, was, I am sure, taking into consideration his friend’s long years of service at the Vatican when he allowed him to use the pouch to communicate with his Vatican-based friends.”
Thorn sat back in his chair and mulled over the special nature of Longworth’s surprising privileges afforded him by the cardinal. “Who are his friends in the Vatican?”
“He has several, but most letters are addressed to a Bishop Augustus Heinz, who runs the German College.”
Thorn sprang forward. “The German College? What’s
that about?”
“It is a pontifical college where they educate future priests of German descent. There are several pontifical colleges.”
“That’s interesting. Bright, ever heard of that?” asked Thorn. Longworth has a friend in, of all places, the German College. I’ll be damned.
“No, I haven’t. But given the worldwide reach of the church, I certainly understand the need for such colleges. But, Father, I have to ask—does this college or Bishop Heinz have any contact with anyone inside Germany?”
“Certainly, the Catholic Church is allowed to operate inside Germany. Of course, the relationship between the church and the German government, from what I remember from my days in Rome, is somewhat tenuous,” Sean said, then paused for a moment. He began to speak but stopped and looked across the room, his forehead creased and his eyes narrowed. “And, as I said before about knowing the business of others, it’s known that Bishop Heinz had fallen out of the Holy Father’s favor.”
“Really? Politics inside the Vatican? I’m shocked,” Thorn said, his eyes open in mock wide-eyed surprise.
“You shouldn’t be,” said Sean, oblivious to the sarcasm.
“You said out of favor. Why?” Bright asked.
“It had become clear over the years that Bishop Heinz’s opinions were exceedingly favorable toward . . . the German regime. In fact, he was called the ‘Brown Bishop.’”
“The Brown Bishop as in the German Brownshirts?” Thorn asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you telling me he’s a Nazi?” Thorn asked.
“Or at least…favorable,” Sean repeated, “to the Nazis, yes.”
So Longworth is in direct contact with an acquaintance who is a friend of the Nazis. How the hell does a cabinet member explain that? Thorn turned to Bright. I hope you’re getting this, he thought.
Suddenly, Edith appeared at the doorway. “Father Sean, Cardinal Massy would like a word, if you please.”
Sean rose abruptly, the interruption triggering a look of relief. “Of course, Edith. Conor, Miss Bright, it was a pleasure. And I hope I was somewhat helpful.”
Thorn and Bright stood.