Treacherous Is the Night

by Anna Lee Huber

  Perhaps it was the finality, the realization that he would not be leaving again after just a few short days. Or maybe it was the anger I still felt at him for allowing me to believe him dead for fifteen agonizing months. Or the secrets we both protected, the fears that made us draw back into ourselves, lest the other one discover the truth. Whatever the case, there was a barrier between us that kept us apart, even when we were as intimately close as two humans could be. And the more desperately we tried to forge the connection, the more evident the chasm became.

  When we’d returned from the Savoy, I’d wanted nothing more than to retire. But the look in Sidney’s eyes had told me how urgently he’d needed me. Something had been stirred up inside him by seeing that invalided corporal, and I’d been helpless to say no.

  After all of his pleasurable efforts, I should have been exhausted, as should he. But here I was lying awake in the wee hours of the morning, while he was somewhere else.

  Unable to sleep without knowing what had become of him, I pulled my dressing gown over myself and padded softly through the flat. I expected to find him in the drawing room, pacing before the windows or seated on the sofa. And there he was, alone in the dark, his head sunk back against the cushions. He might have been asleep but for the extreme watchfulness of his demeanor, the tension in every line of his body. It was as if he was still on sentry duty, waiting for the enemy to show itself by sight, or sound, or creeping mist.

  I stood in the doorway, careful not to make a noise, wretchedly torn about what I should do. Should I go to him or walk away? Would he welcome my presence, or be furious I’d seen him this way? Would he even know it was me and not some German creeping up on him out of the shadows?

  My chest ached, wanting nothing more than to wrap my arms around him. But another part of me urged caution. That I was not welcome here.

  So in the end, I turned away, wondering what it meant for our marriage that I could not comfort him in the depths of the night. Wondering if I was a coward for not trying to do so despite the risks.

  * * *

  During the war, George, Daphne, and I had often haunted St. James’s Park, sometimes desperate to escape the confines of our mutual departments of Military Intelligence and the Secret Service, the weight of all we knew heavy upon us. Other times, the distraction of a stroll under the trees and around the lake, whatever the season, helped to clear our heads. Countless were the number of times I’d silently promenaded beside George as he worked out a code and I contemplated the ramifications of a troubling report, neither of us speaking except in greeting and parting. Nearly as many times as I’d listened abstractly to Daphne’s exuberant chatter, finding her inconsequential prattle soothing in the midst of all the critical matters I confronted day-to-day in Whitehall Court or while off on assignment.

  Of course, not all of her burbling on was insignificant. Sometimes the gossip she passed along proved to be useful intelligence, whether she was conscious of it or not.

  Which was one of several reasons I’d asked her to meet me and George that day. As well as the fact that her presence would make my stroll with George seem less conspicuous should someone from the service happen to be watching either of us after my visit to Whitehall the day before. I felt almost certain I wasn’t being tailed, and I knew George would also be conscientious of such a thing given the sensitive nature of the information I was seeking. But even the best agent can be foiled. The moment you believed yourself infallible was the moment you were at most risk of being caught.

  The sun was hot that day, blazing down on us from a crystalline blue sky. So we kept to the paths under the trees, seeking the cool shade. Daphne attempted to cajole George into attending some play with her and her friends that evening.

  “It’s hot as Hades. Why would I wish to go sit in some broiling theater?”

  She giggled. “Oh, it’ll cool off by this evening. And besides, I want you to meet my friend Daisy.”

  George gave a long-suffering sigh. “I knew this was about some deb of yours. Daphne, I’ve told you before. I’m content as I am.”

  “Oh, piffle! You may be content, but there are a whole slew of single gals who are not.” She scowled, clearly thinking of her own unwed state and the shortage of young, marriageable men created by the war. “It’s your duty to wed one. Don’t you think, Ver?”

  I kept my eyes forward. “I think George knows his own mind.”

  This was a common argument between them, and one in which I was not going to intervene. Though I did wish Daphne would stop being so thick. At this point, George was a confirmed bachelor, and likely to remain that way.

  She harrumphed, crossing her arms over her chest. There were few things less attractive than Daphne in the midst of a sulk, so I thought to stave it off.

  “Did you hear about Madame Zozza?” I asked as we paused to watch the ducklings. They seemed to be making a game of diving below the water and then resurfacing under each other. A bead of sweat trickled down my back, making me wish I could join them.

  “Oh, yes,” she gasped, turning to grip my arm. “That poor woman! And to think, we’d been with her just the evening before.”

  “I don’t believe they’ve spoken about it publicly yet, but Scotland Yard is fairly certain the fire was set on purpose.”

  Daphne’s eyes blinked wide in shock.

  “So your suspicions were correct?” George remarked.

  “It seems so.”

  Daphne’s eyes darted between us. “You think someone set fire to her house because she was a fraud?”

  It was too hot to stand here explaining the entire matter to her, so I let her believe what she wished. “That or there’s another reason someone wanted Mona Kertle dead,” I said, mentioning the woman’s real name and my main motivation in asking Daphne to join us.

  At first the name seemed to mean nothing to her, but then a tiny furrow formed between her brows. “Wait. Was that the medium’s given name?”

  “Yes. I learned it from her assistant.”

  I waited for her to say more, but she turned away, staring across the expanse of the lake. George’s eyes caught mine where he stood on the opposite side of her and I subtly shook my head. If Daphne knew what exactly I was investigating, she would be less likely to tell me what she knew. During her time with counterintelligence, she’d forever lived in fear of getting in trouble, and sharing information with someone outside MI5—even someone in the foreign intelligence division—was definitely forbidden without authorization.

  However, I knew her. I knew her tender heart. If she knew something that might lead to the medium’s killer, she wouldn’t keep it to herself.

  I’d shifted my feet to begin walking again when she whirled around to face me.

  “You have a friend in Scotland Yard?” Her eyes searched mine fretfully. “Someone who’s making inquiries about the fire?”

  “Yes.”

  She pressed her lips together a moment and then spoke quickly, before she changed her mind. “Then they should know that Mona Kertle was on the Registry.”

  A jolt of excitement shot through me. “The one at MI5?”

  She nodded. “I remember because . . .” She broke off as a couple strolled past, waiting until they’d moved out of hearing before leaning closer to speak in a hushed voice. “I remember because one of the other gals used to make up funny rhymes to help us pass the time. ‘Mona Kertle wears a girdle made of myrtle. ’ It was such a funny name.”

  I pressed a hand to her arm to reassure her and slow her frantic flow of words. “I understand. Sometimes when there’s naught but tedious work to be done, you have to break up the monotony with something or else go mad.”

  She squeezed my arm back. “Exactly.”

  “Do you remember why she was on the list? Was she a foreigner?”

  “Maybe.” She worried her lip between her teeth. “Or maybe a suspected German sympathizer.” She shook her head. “I can’t recall the specifics.”

  I nodded, puzzling over the
implications of what she’d told me. If Mona Kertle was on the Registry, then it was because of one of two main reasons. Either she was of foreign birth or the wife of a foreigner, which automatically flagged a person as being of interest because of their overseas connections and uncertain sympathies. Or, she had done something or met with someone that made her particularly suspicious. Whatever the truth, this meant she was definitely not a British Secret Service agent.

  “Maybe whatever got her put on the Registry also got her killed?” Daphne suggested hesitantly. “Will you tell your friend at Scotland Yard? But don’t tell him I told you,” she hastened to add.

  “Of course not. All of this information came from an anonymous source.”

  “Yes. Precisely.” She offered me a tight smile.

  “Thank you for telling me,” I said, and, indeed, I meant it. I knew it hadn’t been easy for her.

  She waved it aside, as we resumed our stroll around the lake. From the abstract look in George’s eye, I knew he was contemplating something, but I didn’t attempt to question him about it while Daphne was with us. Instead I prodded her with questions about how she’d found out about the fire, and whether anyone she’d encountered since had anything relevant to say about Madame Zozza.

  We had almost completed the entire circuit of the lake, and yet no opportunity had arisen for me and George to speak alone. I was wilting in the heat, even in the light summery gauze of my sap green crepe dress. My hairline was sweat-soaked under my wide-brimmed hat, which meant my softly curled tresses would have to be washed and restyled before the ball that evening. I could only imagine how uncomfortable George was in his sack suit and straw boater hat.

  As such, I opened my mouth to call an end to our promenade and ask George to escort me home. A meeting in plain sight was always less suspicious than one done in private, but given the fact that we didn’t know whether Major Davis or anyone else was actually scrutinizing us, I was willing to risk it in favor of heatstroke. But then Daphne caught sight of a friend she declared she simply must say hullo to. Another bead of sweat rolled down my torso just watching her prance across the lawn, her arm raised to hail her friend.

  “Well, Daphne answered my question about whether Madame Zozza could have been a British agent,” I declared, shielding my eyes to gaze over the water at the imposing edifice of Buckingham Palace.

  George seemed to rouse himself from wherever his thoughts had gone. “Hmm, yes. I told you she could tell you better than I.”

  “Then what have you been puzzling over so intently?”

  “Just contemplating the possibility that she could have been a German agent. Someone who’d been convinced to sell information to our enemies.”

  “I wondered the same thing,” I admitted.

  He turned to look at me, hearing the clear frustration in my voice. “It could explain how she knew about you and this Emilie woman from La Dame Blanche. Perhaps it was a ruse by the service to draw her out.”

  “And then they trapped her in her house and set fire to it?” I shook my head. “She would have been arrested, not executed.”

  “Yes, but what if the Germans realized she’d betrayed them and got to her first?”

  A pair of older ladies stood up from a bench nearby under the shade of a plane tree and I crossed to it to sit down, giving consideration to his words. Such a scenario was possible. If the Secret Service had been attempting to entrap her, that might explain why Major Davis’s reaction had been so strident. But capturing a foreign agent on British soil would have been a matter for MI5, and I’d never heard of the Secret Service using such methods before. Under the Defense of the Realm Act, such extreme measures weren’t necessary to arrest her.

  I also questioned the suggestion that the Germans would have gone to such trouble to silence her. Germany was in extreme disarray, struggling to right itself and find food and basic necessities for its people, after living for years under the choking British blockade. The likelihood that they had the time or inclination to worry over one stray operative was doubtful. Maybe the Russians would have used such methods, for the Bolsheviks had shown how ruthless they could be, but the information Madame Zozza had shared with me had no bearing on them.

  George sank down on the bench beside me, and I pushed the questions to the back of my mind to be considered later. We only had moments before Daphne returned, and I had more to ask him.

  “What of the report on La Dame Blanche? Were you able to find out if it was declassified?”

  The fingers of his right hand tapped restlessly against his leg. “None of the people I spoke to knew anything about it, or at least they professed not to. So, I suspect there’s our answer.”

  I nodded. We’d expected as much, but it was always good to have confirmation, of a sort. But sometimes that was the best you could hope for in the Secret Service.

  “I also had a colleague share with me an interesting incident that happened during the war.”

  Something in the tone of his voice indicated to me this might be important.

  “Apparently, there was a Spiritualist who purported to summon the sailor from a certain British ship that had been sunk by a German U-boat—before that news was ever made public. The government had decided to withhold the information about the sinking for morale purposes until a later date.”

  “So this has happened before?”

  He dipped his head to the side noncommittally. “Granted, there are similarities, but the medium in that situation was detained by MI5. After some strenuous questioning, she admitted that an informant had told her that the mother of that sailor had dreamt her son came to her in her sleep after his ship was sunk. That she’d been having the same nightmare since he deployed.”

  I scoffed in disgust. “So this ‘psychic’ didn’t, in fact, know the sailor was dead or that the ship had been sunk. She was purely exploiting her client’s fears to make money.”

  “Precisely.” The sour expression on George’s face said he was even less impressed than I was. “And as a result, those mystics who drew the most clientele, particularly those of foreign or unknown origin, were consequently monitored closely during the remainder of the war. Lest they, advertently or not, reveal any sensitive information that could reach the Germans and ruin the element of surprise.”

  “I suppose they were less worried about the women who traded their Cockney accent for an exotic lilt.” I frowned. “But I wasn’t aware of any of this.”

  “It was a matter for the War Office and MI5, not the foreign division. Yet another example of stellar interdepartmental cooperation,” he remarked wryly.

  I wasn’t about to comment on that. I’d heard more than my fair share of C’s remarks on the matter. “So in theory, this might not be the first time Madame Zozza had come in contact with military intelligence.”

  He nodded, lowering his voice as Daphne approached with a striking brunette in tow. “Not that I’m certain it has anything to do with your current situation, but I thought you should know.”

  We pasted smiles on our faces and pushed to our feet to greet them as Daphne introduced us to her friend. Though it was really to George that Daphne was presenting the girl. I had to give her credit. She was persistent. I turned my head to the side, hiding my amusement at her enthusiastic endorsement of George and his dazed response.

  And that’s when I saw him. The middle-aged man from the séance. The one who had been so eager to claim the chair next to Madame Zozza.

  He was seated a short distance from us on another bench. For a moment, I thought I might be mistaken, for there was nothing remarkable about the fellow except his sharply receding hairline of muddy brown hair, and that was currently hidden by his hat. However, when he snuck a glance at us over his newspaper, I recognized his face.

  Our eyes collided for a moment and I could have sworn his flared wide in alarm, but from such a distance it was difficult to tell. Whatever the case, he recovered quickly, tipping his head to me in polite acknowledgment. Then he leisurely
folded his paper and tucked it under his arm as he rose to saunter off in the other direction.

  I didn’t know what to make of him. Was it purely coincidence that he happened to be here in St. James’s Park, or was he following me?

  My mind flashed back to the day before when I’d felt I was being followed after leaving Charing Cross. Could this man be the same one I’d seen darting into a pub through the reflection in the shop window?

  It was possible, though I hadn’t much to go on. Not enough to say for certain either way. But I would certainly be paying attention now. If he showed up again, I would have my answer.

  CHAPTER 11

  “The duchess must be pleased,” Sidney remarked as we stood along the edge of the ballroom, watching the dancers as they castle walked across the floor.

  I sipped from the cool glass of champagne he’d handed me. “Yes. It’s an absolute crush.”

  As if to emphasize this point, someone jostled me from behind. Sidney’s arm snaked around my waist and pulled me closer to his side. Not that I minded being so close to my husband, who looked strikingly handsome in his dark evening kit, but with so many people crowded into the room, the air was stuffy and sickly sweet with the scent of too many perfumes.

  “She seemed happy to see you,” he leaned close to my ear to say in order to be heard over the orchestra and the dull roar of voices.

  I laughed. “I think she was happy to see both of us. After all, we are quite the celebrities at the moment.”

  We’d already been stopped by no fewer than a dozen people, some of whom were unknown to either of us, to ask about Sidney’s return from the dead and the traitors we’d unmasked. But our notoriety was being overshadowed by today’s events at Wimbledon. Everyone was abuzz with discussion over Suzanne Lenglen’s tennis dress. Apparently, the nineteen-year-old French athlete had won the women’s singles title while wearing a sleeveless dress with a skirt so short the hem barely reached her ankles.

  “Did you and the duchess volunteer together?” Sidney asked.

  “Mmm, a few times,” I replied imprecisely. The truth was I was more familiar with her husband. While serving with the Grenadier Guards, he’d provided intelligence reports of his firsthand accounts of the battles and the state of the trenches. I’d read those dossiers, and even liaised with the man himself at one point as he was preparing to go up the line before a major battle.