by Mara Timon
This time they passed close enough for me to recognise him. I exhaled, feeling weak.
Verboten. This man was forbidden. In every sense of the word.
His dog steamed ahead, then doubled back, dropping the branch and running through the man’s legs, tripping him.
‘Knut! Come here, you idiot!’ he laughed, making the German words seem less harsh.
The dog barked once and complied. Accepted the gentle ruffling of his fur and nudged his master until the man picked up the branch and flung it down the beach. This time the dog dropped the branch at my feet. He barked once, tail wagging, and sat down. Heart racing, I held out my hand, allowing him to take my scent.
‘Nice doggy.’
He was having none of it, batting my hand towards the branch.
‘Knut, the world is not your playground,’ the man panted as he came around a boulder. He stood up straight when he saw me. ‘Guten morgen. I’m sorry to intrude.’
‘Good morning.’ I choked, strangely tongue-tied.
Even standing on a rock, I had to look up to meet his eyes.
He studied me curiously. ‘I know you,’ he said in a pleasingly low tenor. ‘You’re the woman who defended Herr Neumann.’
‘Herr Neumann?’
‘My lieutenant.’ A faint emotion crossed his face as he clarified, ‘The one with the scars.’
My own anger burned that I would have to defend that poor soldier to this man.
‘We all have scars. Just not all of them show.’
I turned to leave, disappointed.
‘Thank you. For what you did that night,’ he said, surprising me. ‘It was very kind.’
‘Kind?’
I looked at him over my shoulder. He hadn’t moved, watching me with deep-set eyes. At his feet, the dog’s tail wagged less exuberantly. He whined, looking between the man and me. And then I noticed the man’s bare legs below his shorts, long and muscular, but scars were still visible above the tops of his socks. He’d also been burnt. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as I understood that his revulsion wasn’t for the lieutenant’s scars – it was for the people who couldn’t see past them.
Fascination curled around me and I hated myself for it. Not only did he belong to another woman – the Canary, no less – but he was German. And an officer. I could see past his scars, but how could I see past his nationality? His allegiance?
Solange Verin was a Nazi sympathiser; she would feel comfortable in his company. But what about Elisabeth de Mornay?
The man closed the distance between us and held out his hand.
‘My name is Graf. Eduard Graf.’ The dog rose to his feet, barked and danced about in a tight circle. He was a beautiful beast, with long lanky legs and a dark pelt. Graf’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he stroked the dog’s head. ‘And this show-off is Knut.’
I stammered my name, blinded as the sun broke through the clouds. The dog slobbered a wet kiss on my arm.
‘It would seem he likes you. Well then, Madame Verin, I wish you a good day.’
He was halfway to the beach when he stopped.
‘Solange? That means Sun Angel, doesn’t it?’ He put his hands on slim hips and grinned. ‘Somehow, that suits you.’
The butterflies in my belly lasted long after he disappeared from sight.
*
‘Sun Angel, indeed.’ I stood in an empty public lavatory and glared at my reflection in the looking glass. ‘How he thinks I look like a sun angel when my hair is dyed the colour of a dead mouse, is beyond me.’
I mashed the sun hat on top of the blonde wig, straightened the dark sunglasses and made my way to the gardens near Matthew’s safe house.
Matthew had always been a strong proponent of an after-lunch stroll to clear his head. I chose a bench with a good view of the entrance on the chance that he’d retained that habit. A copy of Blake’s poems lay open on my lap as I watched the crowd filing out of the doors, with their lunchboxes and paperback novels.
Two women frowned as they drew near. I recognised the bulldog immediately, although it took her a few moments of chewing her lower lip before she made the connection.
‘I remember you. You’re the new girl who was bringing the file to Sir Matthew.’
I remained seated, hoping my rudeness would send her on her way.
‘You have an excellent memory.’
‘That’s what I’m paid for.’ She shimmied past the other woman to sit beside me. ‘I’m Mrs Nicola Langston. And this is Betty Jury.’
The other woman was younger than Mrs Langston, her long face framed with mousey-brown hair and jowls. Her eyes were a pretty blue, albeit set too close together. Surprised, she perched beside her friend, twisting around Mrs Langston to maintain the semblance of a circle.
‘How do you do?’ I didn’t offer my own name.
‘Wonderful hat. I almost didn’t recognise you under it.’
‘The curse of fair skin, I’m afraid.’
Would the woman not take the hint and leave?
‘Have you been here long, Miss . . . ?’ Mrs Langston leant forward, blocking Betty’s view. And mine.
‘A few weeks.’
‘Ah, Veronica, old girl. Fancy seeing you here.’
A newspaper was folded under one of Matthew’s arms while his walking stick tapped the outside of his leg impatiently. He had a collection of them, but I’d never seen him actually use one.
‘Hadn’t expected to see you today, my dear. Not that it’s anything less than a pleasure, of course.’
‘And you, Sir Matthew. Have you hurt yourself?’
My barb found an unexpected target; Mrs Langston’s eyes widened and she jumped to her feet, waving Matthew into her seat.
‘Thank you, Nicks.’
He rested one hand on the silver knob and the other on the back of the seat as he stretched out his perfectly normal-looking right foot. He could have been a gout-ridden eighteenth-century lord. Minus the gout. He shook his ankle, wincing a little.
‘Twisted the damned thing. Little more than an inconvenience, and,’ he added, winking at Betty, ‘marvellous for eliciting a bit of sympathy from the pretty girls.’
She giggled and batted her eyelashes.
‘Seems more likely it’s hiding a sword, like a swashbuckler from the films.’
Across the park, I spotted Adam’s Apple leaning against a tree, watching us.
‘Now, Veronica,’ Matthew smiled beatifically. ‘Don’t give my game away. Too early in the day.’
Betty cleared her throat. ‘So that’s your name, then? You didn’t say.’
‘Jolly good, I’ll do the introductions,’
Matthew flashed a shark-like grin. If he said Pond, or some other variation of Lake as my surname, I’d thump him.
‘Do forgive me for not standing.’ He shook the ankle again, ever the showman. ‘Ladies, let me present Mrs Veronica . . . Ah, old girl, remind me what your married name is.’
It was almost anticlimactic.
‘I must remember to make a stronger impression next time,’ I stalled, casting about for a suitable surname. My hand brushed Alex’s sgian dubh, and smiled. ‘It’s Sinclair.’
Alex would laugh at the irony; I wouldn’t give him my real name, but was happy enough to use his.
‘Ah yes. Sinclair,’ he repeated. ‘Mrs Sinclair is a secretary at Marconi. I’m sure you’ll excuse us while I question her mercilessly as to her boss’s doings.’
‘So you don’t work for us?’ Mrs Langston asked. ‘I’d thought . . .’
Matthew cleared his throat, reminding the women he’d just dismissed them.
‘Ah yes. Sorry to intrude, Sir Matthew.’ She linked her arm with her friend’s, jerking hard on the younger woman’s arm to prevent Betty’s protest. ‘Lovely to meet you, Mrs Sinclair. I’m sure we’ll meet again,’ she called over her shoulder.
‘I’m sure we will.’
Mrs Langston trudged forward, while Betty made little effort to hide her inte
rest.
‘I’ll have a spare set of papers made up for Mrs Sinclair. Just in case.’ Matthew lit two cigarettes, handing me one. ‘Dare I ask what brings you here, Lisbet?’
With the Spider, I could have employed any number of clever build-ups. He would enjoy them, proportionate to how outrageous they were, but ultimately he would see through them and I didn’t have the time to indulge his humour. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, I opted for the direct approach.
‘There are two things I require. Let’s start with the easy question.’
Matthew looked mildly interested. He folded his arms and leant back, turning his face into the sun.
‘Proceed.’
‘What do you know of Christophe Deschamps?’
One eyebrow rose. ‘Your neighbour.’
‘Yes. He –’
‘Disappeared the other night. Yes, old girl. I am aware of this.’
‘And?’
‘And? Don’t look at me like that, Lisbet. First of all, it’s unattractive. Second, I had nothing to do with the captain’s situation.’
‘Situation?’
So there was something going on.
Matthew’s eyes remained closed as he soaked in the bright sunlight.
‘Please don’t hit me. Do remember, I’m already injured.’ One eye cracked open to assess my mood. I kept my face blank and waited for him to continue. ‘Your Frog has been playing both sides of the lily pad.’
‘Can you translate that into English?’
‘Certainly.’ He sat up and, resting his elbows on his knees, looked straight at me. ‘Christophe Deschamps was commissioned into the French army. When France fell, he jumped into Adolf’s arms.’
‘I know he’s close with the Germans. But both sides?’
His mouth twisted. ‘He passes on information to the highest bidder, presumably to fuel his gambling habit. And his expensive wife. We know he’s untrustworthy, old girl. And season whatever he dishes up with a rather large pinch of salt. Not sure the Krauts, or whoever else he’s working with, are as savvy or –’ he raised a single finger – ‘as forgiving.’
‘You’re saying they’ve got him?’
‘Nothing of the kind. Only that we haven’t. There are a lot of other players out there, not the least of which is the PVDE.’
As Martin Billiot’s death could confirm.
‘Is he still alive?’
‘No idea, old girl. No idea. Hope so. He’s likeable in his own way. Utterly rubbish at poker, but likeable. Your second question?’
‘Damn,’ I muttered, more to myself than to him. ‘What do I tell his wife?’
‘Why must you tell her anything? A very poor choice for your second question. Simply be there for her, my dear. Be a friend. Or as close to a friend as one in your position can be.’
‘My position. Is that all you can say?’
‘You’re likely to learn more from her about this than me.’ He sighed. ‘Very well. Usually missing persons are reported to the police. Not sure what they can do right now – but it’s as good a place as any to start. Now, my dear, your other question?’
He hadn’t confirmed Christophe’s death, but hadn’t given much hope for his survival. He was right: the only thing that could be done was to log his disappearance with the police and wait. And the waiting was the worst part.
Across the garden, Adam’s Apple watched us from behind dark sunglasses.
‘I don’t trust him.’
‘My dear?’
‘Your colleague.’ I made a vague gesture in his direction.
‘Nonsense. I’ve known Rupert since he was a lad. Worked with his father back when I worked with yours.’
It was a gentle reminder that we both hailed from diplomatic families, and that our loyalty to King and Country was implicit. Only it wasn’t. Bloodline didn’t destine a person for greatness. Or loyalty. It just made it easier for them to hide.
‘Shall I assume your second query deals with young Mr Allen-Smythe?’
Rupert’s surname was unfamiliar, but it had been five years since my choice of husband evicted me from my family. And before that, I’d been sent to whichever boarding school was the farthest from Lady Anne, so it was unsurprising that the name was unfamiliar.
‘I don’t care if he’s the old king’s love child. He’s your problem to deal with, not mine. Just keep him away from me and my cover stories.’
‘What’s your concern with young Rupert?’
How the devil was I supposed to answer that question? Share my suspicions about a man who shows up in all the wrong places with a man infamous for engineering deceptions? A man whom, by his own admission, he had a soft spot for because he used to work with Allen-Smythe’s father?
Across the park, Allen-Smythe’s attention didn’t waver, making me wonder if Christophe wasn’t alone in ‘playing both sides of the lily pad’.
‘I’m not concerned about him. I don’t trust him.’ I held up a hand for his silence while I explained. ‘The more people who know about me, and the work I do for you, the greater the danger I’m in. So while I’d be grateful for the Veronica Sinclair papers, I’d rather keep this, as much as possible, only between the two of us.’
‘Fair enough. And the second thing you wanted?’
‘Your friend, Bertie.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ He looked mildly scandalised.
‘What have you done with him?’
Matthew sat up straight. ‘Why must you always accuse me of all things nefarious?’
‘Because you’re usually either in the middle of such things, or directing them from the sidelines.’
‘What did you think I would do? Hand him over to your lot, or worse – Bendixen?’
There was a plethora of options in between, but little point in listing them out.
‘Well, if he’s as good as he says, even bandaged, he’d give the Germans a right drubbing.’
‘Indeed,’ he chuckled. ‘What do you want with our little scrapper?’
‘Have you sent him back to England yet?’
‘Not yet.’
He fiddled with the cane. It was a heavy thing, the silver head moulded into the shape of a leaping dog. Put him in a green velvet waistcoat and breeches, a greyhound rubbing against his white silk stockings, and he’d be perfectly at home in the eighteenth century.
‘Why not?’
‘You might have noticed he was not in the best of shapes. Thought I’d do the honourable thing and let him heal a bit first. Why the sudden interest? You looked like you couldn’t get out of there fast enough the other day.’
He stretched his legs out, feet flexed. Twisted ankle, indeed.
‘The room was over one hundred degrees. What did you expect?’
‘A better excuse. Would have understood, old girl, if you’d said you were upset at your friend’s death. Disreputable as it was.’
‘I thought we were speaking of Bertie.’
‘Yes, my dear, I understood that, but I’m not sure why. I’ll assume . . .’ He exhaled and flicked the ash from his cigarette at a nearby bush. ‘I’ll assume it isn’t for his body.’
I choked on my laugh. ‘Right you are.’
‘So?’
‘So?’
‘You’re getting tedious, old girl. Tell me what you want and then I’ll see what can be done about it.’
A young couple wandered our way, swinging their lunchboxes and leaning into one another. Only when they passed by did I notice that he wore a ring and she didn’t. Maybe they had fewer ideals than I gave them credit for.
I lowered my voice. ‘I’ve been pondering your little wolfram situation. And the situation about the sinking convoys. There are a few avenues I’d like to pursue, but as you’ve requested I operate outside official channels, I need help. Your little East Ender might just serve me well.’
He choked. ‘Would you care to rephrase that, old girl?’
‘Have your hearing checked, old man. I said “serve”, not “service”. My honour is
not at stake at the moment.’
‘That’s a first.’
‘My honour has never been in question. And it’s your problem I’m trying to solve. Either you give me the resources to solve it, or you can wait for your usual lads to come up with a solution. Remind me – how effective has that been so far?’
‘What have you found?’
‘Nothing yet. I’m only one woman.’
‘But you have a plan. Tell me.’
As I explained my theory, my godfather leant back in his seat, a smirk settling upon his handsome face. With a handful of words, I was back in his good graces. And with an East End thug assigned to watch my back.
*
Hubert Jones was convalescing in a flat just west of the Baixa, close enough to hear the bells from the cathedral. It was relatively anonymous, with a clean-looking café down below. The sort of place the various secret services favoured, making me wonder whether Matthew really had planned to send Bertie back to England after all.
A breeze ruffled the blonde hair of my wig, but didn’t alleviate the heat of the afternoon. There weren’t many people on the street, but I could feel eyes following me, some appreciative, others deprecating. How many would be selling information about a blonde woman visiting the area, unescorted?
A man walked towards me, holding a parcel. Dark eyes took an inventory before he sniffed loudly, muttering something I didn’t quite catch. It was the second time I’d been sniffed at; while I was reasonably certain it had nothing to do with body odour, I had yet to find out what it meant.
I knocked on the door until a hatchet-faced woman opened it, glaring.
‘Sim?’
She looked even less Portuguese than I did, and spoke with an English accent. An apron was neatly tied around her waist, starched within an inch of its life.
‘I’m here to see Mr Aldridge.’
She pulled herself up to her full height, no doubt trying to intimidate me.
‘What d’ye want wi’ ’im, a toff like you?’
I climbed the last step, forcing her backwards. On an equal level, she was now obliged to look up to meet my eyes.
‘A toff like me.’
I moved around her into the little foyer. It was neat and clean, the smell of ammonia and fresh flowers not quite masking the lingering scent of fried fish. A glass door was propped open, allowing a breeze to pass through the rest of the flat. Lace curtains fluttered in the parlour, framing the man sitting on a love seat, a cup of tea in his mittened paws and a wide grin on his battered face. Mr Jones clearly was enjoying the interchange.