Treacherous Is the Night

by Anna Lee Huber

  I nodded, too horrified to respond. I’d seen the advertisements in the newspapers for package trips to the “devastated areas.” The first time I’d read about these ghoulish holidays to Belgium and northern France, I’d thought they must be a terrible joke. But then I’d overheard women discussing their intentions to go, and I’d seen for myself the stacks of the Michelin Tyre Company’s illustrated guidebooks to the battlefields in bookshops.

  I didn’t need to tell Max or Sidney what a terrible idea this was. They knew far better than I what a foul and desperate place the trenches had been, and still were. Tens of thousands of laborers were at work on the monumental task of tidying up the battlefields, but it would take years to set things to right. To gather up the barbed wire, the twisted scraps of wood and metal, the spent shell casings. To remove the empty ammunition boxes and rifles, the heaps of overturned tanks, and the stumps of shattered trees. To extract the unexploded shells and corpses. To fill in the trenches and cratered landscape of shell holes.

  But sadly, many men had marched off to war hale and whole, simply never to return. Their families were told they were dead, but there was no body for them to weep over, no grave for them to visit, making it difficult to accept. People wanted to stand over the places where their loved ones had breathed their last, to see the soil where underneath they were buried. I didn’t know whether this truly brought them any comfort, especially given the incomprehensible devastation of the battlefields. But I comprehended their motivation, even if I didn’t endorse it.

  Max’s gaze fastened on the Aubusson rug at my feet. “I’ve begged her not to go, but she won’t be swayed. So I must go with her.”

  Not truly. He didn’t have to return to those places that likely populated his nightmares as much as Sidney’s. But I understood what he meant. He wouldn’t let her go alone.

  Sidney turned his head to the side so that I couldn’t see his expression, but I could see the tension in his profile.

  “When do you leave?” I asked as my husband stood to collect a cigarette from the silver box across the room. I nibbled at the cucumber sandwich I’d taken, but the macabre turn in our conversation had soured my appetite.

  Max smiled grimly. “The day after the Northumberland ball. Three days in Calais and then on to Lille, where the tour departs.”

  Sidney inhaled a deep drag of his fag and exhaled. “At least, it won’t be the dead of winter.” He stared down at the tip of his cigarette. “Though, in this heat, the smell . . .” He broke off, shaking his head.

  I watched my husband in concern as he downed the rest of his drink and went to refill it.

  “But back to this medium.” Max leaned forward. “I gathered you were infuriated by what she was implying. Was this Emilie woman your relation or some such thing?”

  In the course of our previous investigation together, he’d become aware of the part I’d played during the war, though to an even more limited extent than Sidney. As such, I was hesitant to say too much, but I also knew Max could be trusted. And in fact, might prove useful.

  “She was an intelligence operative inside the German-occupied territories. I had collaborated with her on occasion. Are you familiar with the name La Dame Blanche?”

  His brow furrowed. “The legend, yes. But I take it that’s not what you’re referring to.”

  I flicked a glance at Sidney as he returned to the sofa, trying to decipher his expression, but it was once again carefully controlled. “La Dame Blanche was an intelligence network at work behind enemy lines in occupied Belgium and France. Truth be told, the information they gathered was indispensable to the Allies during the last years of the war. Particularly the data they collected from their train-watching posts, which made note of all the German troop movements up and down the Western Front.”

  “And you were their . . . liaison?”

  I could tell he was trying to understand exactly what role I had played, but I wasn’t willing to share those details. “At times. You have connections at the War Office, do you not?”

  This question was merely a formality, for we all knew he did. As the Earl of Ryde and a former staff officer during the war, he received more dispensation than most. Add to that the connections groomed by his late father, who had been a powerful politician, and I suspected Max would be granted access to just about anything he wanted.

  “Yes.”

  “I need to know what reports have been filed on them. Requests for recompense for the services they rendered, that sort of thing. And does the Crown have any plans to confer honors on them or is the matter still being debated? Among all that paperwork, there should be an official list of La Dame Blanche’s members, and Emilie should be on it.”

  “I thought you said Emilie was her code name?” Sidney interjected.

  “It is, but I’m hoping the list will also make note of their duties and exact locations. If so, I might be able to figure out who she is.”

  Max swirled the dregs of his drink in his glass. “I take it you believe she’s alive and may be in some sort of trouble.”

  I pushed my bobbed curls back from my face in aggravation. “Truthfully, I don’t know what to think. But Madame Zozza learned about my connection to her somehow and sought to exploit it. I need to understand why.”

  “Why don’t you simply ask her?”

  Sidney and I shared a glance. I’d forgotten Max didn’t know yet.

  “I tried to. This morning. But she’s dead.”

  Max’s eyes widened. “You’re jesting.”

  “I wish I was. Her entire home went up in flames. She was trapped inside.”

  “Amazing how bodies seem to drop around her,” Sidney remarked offhandedly.

  I turned to glower at him, curious how many drinks he’d imbibed before I arrived, but his eyes were clear.

  “What about the secret she mentioned?” Max suggested. “The one Emilie supposedly wants you to unearth?”

  I sighed. “If I knew that, I might have the key to the entire matter.”

  “And the masked man you should beware of ?”

  I shook my head in ignorance. “Though that does beg the question, was she being literal or figurative?”

  After all, London wasn’t exactly short on men wearing masks these days. Those soldiers who had come home with horrific facial injuries often had to settle for concealing their disfigurements with galvanized copper masks painted with their former likeness, or that of another person. Repair was not always possible, and those surgeons capable of such advanced feats of medicine were few.

  It had been alarming at first to see men walking around London in such masks, the expression never changing. But now, it was almost commonplace.

  “I see your dilemma.” Max shifted forward in his seat. “Well, I’ll see what I can uncover. But for now, I’m afraid I must beg your apologies. I have an appointment I must keep.”

  I shot Sidney a teasing glance. “Of course. There seem to be a great deal of those today.”

  Max’s gaze turned quizzical and I shook my head as we rose to our feet to see him off.

  Once the door shut behind our guest, Sidney wrapped his arm around my waist, preventing me from escaping. “I’m glad to see I’m not the only one you fob off with vague answers,” he drawled, as he guided me back toward the drawing room.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied breezily, picking up another sandwich and settling back on the sofa. When facing an interrogation, it was always good to have something to distract the interrogator’s attention, in addition to offering a ready excuse for any failure to immediately respond to a question.

  Sidney leaned against the arm of the chair Max had vacated, sliding his hands into his pockets and watching me while he brooded. He sat that way for so long, his eyes flicking between my eyes and my mouth, that I felt the intense urge to fidget. Whether this was intentional on his part or he didn’t know how to say what he wished, I didn’t know, but I was almost provoked into speech.

  “You
conveniently forgot to mention Ryde’s presence at the séance last night,” he finally taunted.

  I frowned. “There was nothing convenient about it. It quite honestly slipped my mind.” I glared at him. “I had more troubling things to occupy my thoughts, you’ll recall.”

  “Wouldn’t Ryde be heartbroken to hear that.”

  “Don’t be nasty.”

  He slid off the arm of the chair into the seat as I reached for another sandwich. His fingers drummed against the chintz fabric. “What of this other séance you referred to? The one where they summoned someone who was not actually dead?”

  I stilled, wishing I’d minded my tongue more.

  “Was it me?”

  I pulled out a sliver of thinly sliced cucumber peeking from between the pieces of rye and popped it in my mouth. “Some of the ladies at the Umbersea house party decided it would be good fun to do a bit of table-turning, and one of them made the rather rude choice to pretend to conjure you.”

  His brow crinkled.

  “I wasn’t so silly as to fall for the trick, of course.” I forced a laugh. “Though, for a moment, when you appeared in my room later that same night, I admit I wondered if perhaps somehow we had summoned your spirit.”

  From the look in his eyes, I could tell he wasn’t fooled for a moment by my lighthearted manner. “Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice had softened, making me feel absurdly guilty both for not doing so and for unnecessarily worrying him.

  I stared down at the remnants of my sandwich. “Because . . . because at the time it was irrelevant.” I sat forward to drop the bread onto the tray. “You had just returned from the dead, for heaven’s sake, and there was a traitor to catch.”

  “But what about later? After we’d returned to London.”

  I turned to the side, crossing my arms over my chest and cradling my elbows in my palms. “I . . . I don’t know. I suppose it never came up.”

  Sidney’s face tightened with cynicism. “Then, by that standard, nothing ever comes up. I’ve been home for four weeks and yet you’ve shared almost nothing with me about your life while I was away.”

  I scoffed, shaking my head to deny the truth, even to myself. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

  “If I want to know anything, I practically have to drag it out of you.”

  “And what of you? You don’t share many details about the past four and a half years either.”

  “That’s because I was at war! I’m not going to tell you about the mud, and the trenches, and the death . . .” He broke off, cursing under his breath. His chest rose and fell rapidly. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

  “And what if I do?” I challenged.

  He looked up into my defiant glare.

  “What if the price for information about my war years is information about yours?”

  We sat staring at each other, the tea table seeming to form a barrier between us, a no-man’s-land where neither of us dared to tread. There were simply too many hazards, both seen and unseen, littering our years apart. My chest tightened with the knowledge that if we were ever to repair this rift between us, then one of us had to take that first step. And yet, I didn’t want it to be me.

  And so, it seemed, neither did Sidney.

  “Then we seem to be at a standoff,” he murmured.

  I blinked, surprised to feel the sting of tears at the back of my eyes, and nodded. I couldn’t speak. Not past the lump at the back of my throat.

  Sidney pushed to his feet and left the room. I stared forlornly at the space he’d vacated, forcing breath into my lungs. But the sound of the outer door closing with such finality nearly shattered my hard-fought composure.

  * * *

  By the time I’d regained my self-possession, the afternoon was too far advanced for me to visit Whitehall. So instead I set about making preparations for the dinner party we were to attend that night. I considered cancelling, but if I remained at home there would be nothing to distract me from the very thoughts I wished to avoid.

  I pulled my new Chinese blue chiffon gown from the closet and draped a pearl necklace around my throat. I’d just finished adding a dusting of rouge to my cheeks, fearing they looked too wan, when Sidney appeared in the bedroom doorway. Part of me had worried he wouldn’t return, while the other part of me knew that he would.

  “I’ll be ready in ten minutes,” he said, pulling at his tie.

  I nodded, forbidding myself to watch in the mirror as he disrobed. However, just the sound of his movements behind me were enough to set my traitorous heart fluttering. Passion had never been the problem between us. Even with our marriage so strained, I still wanted to be close to him. I simply didn’t want to talk.

  After pressing a dab of perfume to the side of my neck, I retreated to the drawing room to wait for him. My feet instinctively crossed to the sideboard, but then I hesitated. I could feel my stomach quavering, and I wanted badly to settle my nerves with a stiff cocktail. But there would be no time to hide such an action from Sidney. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to risk his censure.

  He found me still standing there in indecision a few moments later. I’m not sure what exactly was written on my face, but his steps slowed to a stop. His eyes searched mine and then dropped to the assortment of bottles before me.

  “Darling, if you’re worried I disapprove of your drinking, I don’t,” he assured me as he adjusted his cufflinks. He had always been remarkably perceptive when he chose to be. “It’s only natural you should have a cocktail or two.”

  I pushed away from the sideboard, licking my lips. “Yes, well, I’m afraid I’ve drunk far more than one or two cocktails of an evening in the past.” I was still second-guessing the wisdom of making such a remark even as I let it slip off my tongue.

  Sidney’s hands stilled and he raised his gaze to mine, though it took a moment for me to gather the courage to make my eyes meet his. I braced for the flash of disgust or disappointment, but I saw nothing reflected there but dawning comprehension.

  He lowered his hands to his sides. “I suspect many of us are guilty of the same thing.” His gaze shifted slightly to the right, as if seeing something beyond me. “It is rather easier to forget when one’s senses are dulled.”

  I inhaled a shaky breath, wondering what he most wanted to forget. “Yes.”

  His eyes locked with mine again and his mouth flattened into a humorless smile. “Come on, darling. Or else we’ll miss dinner altogether.” His arm slid around my waist and I allowed myself to be led from our flat, pushing darker reflections from my mind for the moment.

  CHAPTER 8

  It had been four months since I’d last walked through the doors at Two Whitehall Court. Four months since I’d been dismayed, and a little angry, to receive my demobilization papers and sent packing. There was no shock. All of us women knew the day would come, that they would replace us with returning soldiers in need of a job. But that didn’t stop us from feeling a bit miffed to be told, “Thank you for your service. Now go back to your homes and stay there.”

  The adjustment had been startling. One minute I was useful, necessary, bustling here and there, reading intelligence reports with classified information from across the globe, and consulted about my opinion. The next I was redundant, dispensable, horribly idle, and absolutely at loose ends. For idleness gave one time to think, to remember, and that was to be avoided at all cost.

  In that four months, little about Whitehall Court had changed. The French château-style palaces of flats that lined the road still stood grandly, their towers and gables forming a distinctive skyline visible from the Thames. The street had always been a rather quiet one, with few reasons for motorcars and omnibuses to traverse down it. The lobby still hummed with the sound of the electric lift. But once I passed through the glass-canopied doorway into the large flat occupied by the foreign intelligence section of the Secret Service, I noticed the transformation immediately.

  There was no flurry of activity as people rushed to and fro; no
sharp staccato chorus of typewriters; no odor of the lemon juice and ammonia used to unveil invisible ink lingering in the air, mingling with the stench of the onion Lieutenant Wallace’s wife packed him in his lunch every day. And rather than the smiling face of Mary seated at the desk nearest to the door, I was greeted by the disconcerted gaze of a young officer. He glanced about him, as if hoping someone else from the empty room would step forward to deal with me.

  “May I help you, miss?” he murmured somewhat timidly as he rose to his feet.

  I recognized at once the best manner in which to handle the lad. “It’s missus,” I informed him with a melting smile as I crossed the room toward the opposite door. “And, yes, I’m here to speak with C. I’ll just show myself to his office, shall I? Is Miss Silvernickel still his secretary?”

  “Miss! Er . . . missus!” He stumbled around his desk to follow me. “You can’t go back there.”

  Noting his pronounced limp, I felt rather bad for steamrolling past him, but I had no intention of being fobbed off. Men at various desks and stations glanced up in startlement as I strode down the corridor and through the various rooms on the way to my destination. I waved a hand, greeting one officer who had worked with me with a disarming smile, but some of the other men were unfamiliar. One of those strangers leapt up as if to intercept me, but another man I knew stopped him with a hand to his arm. I was grateful to my former colleague for running interference for me. But the good deed proved to be in vain.

  Kathleen Silvernickel lowered the paper she was reading, her eyes blinking wide as I charged into her office. “Verity? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to see C. Is he in?”

  “No.”

  This softly spoken response quite effectively took the wind out of my sails when none of the young officers’ shouts had. I stumbled to a stop. “Truly?”