The Bookseller's Secret

by Michelle Gable

  “She has a writing deadline,” Katie says. “So, I’m on my own during the day.”

  “What’s the name of this mysterious writer friend?”

  “Jojo Hawkins-Whitshed. I doubt it’s your—”

  “Brilliant!” Simon says, and yet another smile blasts across his face. “I know Jojo Hawkins-Whitshed! Not personally, but she’s my ex-girlfriend’s favorite author. Brain candy, she called it. Cheap and chipper!”

  “That’s Jojo for you.”

  “Ah, Katie.” Simon goes to place a hand on her shoulder but pulls back. “Your offer is kind, but preposterous. You didn’t come to London to act as a teacher’s research assistant.”

  “No, I didn’t, but I came on a whim, which means for no reason at all.” Katie exhales and reminds herself to slow down. She has been speaking at a very brisk pace. “This seems like a good way to spend my time.”

  Simon tucks his hands into his pockets and studies Katie for some time. “I could probably benefit from your strangely proffered brand of help,” he says. “And it might be fun to have a research partner. Listen, do you need to be anywhere right now?”

  “Right now?” Katie repeats, and her heart flaps like a pack of birds. “I don’t think so?”

  “Excellent.” Simon wields another of his deadly smiles. “Whaddya say, then? Shall we get started?”

  June 1942

  Baker Street

  If there was one advantage to being summoned to Baker Street while in front of her friends, Nancy could finally prove to Evelyn that her prior spying wasn’t “nonsense.”

  Alas, whatever gratification Nancy felt was brief, and extinguished the moment she stepped into the familiar boxy gray building. What was she thinking, being incommunicado for so long? One did not shake a shadowy governmental entity as if it were a bad date.

  I was ill, Nancy repeated in her head as she waited in the cool, blank room.

  A year had passed since Gladwyn Jebb last called Nancy to this office, to discuss the problems with the Free French, de Gaulle’s government-in-exile which was now operating out of St. James’s Square. The Frogs were everywhere of late, drinking, and cavorting, and spilling large sums of cash. To keep an eye on the situation, Gladwyn and his colleagues—whoever they were—needed a beautiful, French-speaking spy to infiltrate their officers’ club.

  “Me?” Nancy had laughed. “Are you mad?”

  “You’ve proven yourself trustworthy,” Gladwyn reminded her.

  “I’m flattered,” she said. “But no, thank you. I don’t know the first thing about Frog society, and it would bore me to death to work in an officers’ club. It’d also interfere with my nightly bath.”

  Gladwyn intimated—nay, declared—that Nancy had no real choice, and thus she was compelled to agree. “Fine,” she’d said. “But I hope you’re not expecting me to engage in any Frog assignations.”

  In the end, charming the Free French was a delicious occupation. They were a tremendous breed, and Nancy did have her assignation, thanks to the beautiful, consumptive Captain André Roy. The affair ended when he’d gone to Africa, and Nancy to West Wycombe but, as sweet as it’d all been, Nancy wanted to leave it in the past.

  As she waited, and waited, Nancy reminded herself that she couldn’t possibly be in real trouble. Although Gladwyn Jebb was a high-powered governmental muck-a-muck, the Assistant Undersecretary of this or that, she’d first known him as one of the fusty old men from her father’s shooting parties.

  Oh, Gladwyn, you old so-and-so, how have you been? Run into Farve lately?

  At last, the doorknob turned.

  “Gladwyn!” Nancy cried, and leapt to her feet. “You sure love to keep a gal waiting!”

  “Pleased to see you’re still among the living,” Gladwyn said, and motioned for Nancy to sit. “Thank you for not bringing your dog.”

  “Yes. Well.” Nancy tossed her eyes. “Your secretary was very governessy about it the last time. Anyhow, you look well!” He didn’t, but this was hardly the point.

  “Likewise,” Gladwyn said. He consulted a small stack of papers. “I trust you’ve recovered from your recent hospitalization? It would’ve been prudent to notify the department of your intended absence.”

  “You knew about the hospital? I had no idea...” Nancy looked down. “I meant to send a telegram, but time got away from me. My sincerest apologies. I was rather weak, physically and emotionally.”

  “I understand, but you have been back for...” Gladwyn checked his papers again. “Three and a half months?”

  “Yes, well.” Nancy cleared her throat. “I needed a job, and you stopped paying me.”

  “Because you stopped working,” Gladwyn said, and pushed his glasses atop his head. “First, I’d like to express my condolences regarding your sister’s husband. The Crown appreciates his bravery and sacrifice.”

  Nancy eyeballed the man, trying to intuit which sister’s husband he meant. Diana’s was in prison, same as his wife, and no one at Baker Street would deem such a wanton Fascist brave. Nancy saw Pam and Debo last week, and they hadn’t mentioned any calamities associated with Derek, nor Debo’s new husband, Andrew. Only one remained. Decca’s husband had gone missing in November.

  “Esmond Romilly, you mean,” Nancy said. “Thank you for the kind words. It’s been dreadfully hard on Decca. Part of me thinks it might be worse when a loved one goes missing, as opposed to turning up dead. It’s the difference between wild supposition and knowing the truth.”

  “The lack of finality can be very stressful,” Gladwyn agreed, “but it’d serve your sister to come to terms with the facts.”

  “I know, I know.” Nancy flicked a hand. “Though, in fairness, his body was never found.”

  “His plane went down over the ocean.”

  “Yes, but our very own cousin advised Decca to keep the faith,” Nancy said. “According to him, downed men often show up six, nine months later in prisoner-of-war camps. Can you really blame Decca for clinging to hope?”

  “Your cousin really should not have said that.” Gladwyn rubbed his weary eyes, doubtless wishing protocol didn’t prevent him from taking a firmer stance. It was one thing to advise against listening to one’s cousin, quite another when the cousin was Winston Churchill.

  “Decca believes you’re keeping him somewhere,” Nancy said. “Because he’s a...Communist, but I assured her that, here in England, Reds don’t seem so bad. They hate Nazis, which is ever the winning trait. They’ll probably betray us eventually, but who cares as long as they kill a few million Germans first.”

  “Missus Rodd!”

  “What?” Nancy snapped. “Come on, you know it’s true.”

  Groaning softly, Gladwyn leaned back. Nancy quailed, wondering if the chair could hold his full weight. “The facts are quite explicit,” he said. “While returning from a bombing mission in Hamburg, Esmond Romilly’s plane went down over the Red Sea, and he was never heard from again. I’m happy to provide you with the British Air Commission report.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Nancy said.

  “Very well.” Gladwyn returned his glasses to his face. “Let’s get to it. The first item of business is André Roy. You’ve been tailing Captain Roy for over a year but haven’t filed a report about him, or any of the Free French, in close to nine months.”

  “I’ve been somewhat out of pocket,” Nancy said. “For reasons previously discussed, but no one in this or any country need worry about André Roy. He’s as guileless as they come. The man is a doll, and a tad tubercular.”

  “Being associated with the Free French is enough to warrant suspicion,” Gladwyn said. “And even sickly people can undermine democracy.”

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my spying career,” Nancy said, “it’s that your obsession with the Frogs is misplaced. It’s true they let Hitler goose-step up and down the Champ
s-Élysées, but the worst act of treason I’ve witnessed is all that complaining about the theater in the West End. They hate the same things we do—Germans, the Vichy, Pétain—and, on the whole, I’ve found them a winning bunch. All that cheerfulness and endless flattery! And they never try to take a person down a peg, unlike the English.”

  As she spoke, Gladwyn removed a pen from his pocket and scribbled something in his notebook. Nancy stretched but couldn’t snag a peek.

  “What can you tell me about Captain Roy’s visits to Weston Manor?” Gladwyn asked.

  Nancy blinked. “Weston Manor?”

  “Yes. Home to Lady Danette Worthington, in Buckinghamshire. I believe she’s a friend of yours?”

  “What possible concern could you have about Danette Worthington?” Nancy said. “I can’t imagine her bothering to get mixed up in espionage or collaboration. She absolutely despises inconvenience.”

  “Yes, but there is the matter of her husband,” Gladwyn said. “We have reason to believe Greville Worthington was working with the Nazis.”

  “Goodness,” Nancy said. “You don’t soften things around here, do you? Can’t say as though I’m surprised. His countenance practically screams Nazi. It’s that watery, blond appearance that’s so reminiscent of a budding Hitler Youth.”

  Nancy shuddered, and Gladwyn gaped. “You knew about this?” he asked.

  “Just a long-held suspicion,” Nancy said. “Danette, on the other hand, is incapable of malice. Was Greville arrested? I noticed your use of the past tense.”

  “No, we had him shot,” Gladwyn said.

  “Shot!” Nancy yelped.

  “Not on purpose. He was running off with his mistress and refused to stop when a sentry ordered him to halt.”

  “A mistress? Poor Danette,” Nancy said. “She worshipped that man.”

  “Let’s put aside the topic of Lady Worthington for now,” Gladwyn said. “Do you have an explanation as to why Captain Roy was spotted at Weston Manor on several occasions?” He paused to stare at Nancy. “Or why you were as well?”

  “Me?” Nancy said, trying to arrange her scattered thoughts. “I haven’t done anything wrong.” At least, not in the manner Gladwyn was insinuating. Nancy despised Nazis, and Fascists, and Greville Worthington, too, and the only reason André Roy had gone to Weston Manor was because of her.

  “There was nothing nefarious about my visits,” Nancy said, carefully. “I was actually helping the government. During the Battle of London, I hosted evacuees at my parents’ house, at Rutland Gate.”

  Gladwyn nodded and jotted something in his little book.

  “The evacuations, and eventual relocations, were disorganized,” Nancy said. “Dozens of people came and went. Some were directed to our home by billeting officers, others just showed up. I saw paperwork only about half the time.”

  Prod brought the first refugees when Nancy was still living at Blomfield Road and plotting a relocation to her parents’ house in Kensington as their own neighborhood was a prime bomb target due to its proximity to Paddington. On that morning, Nancy was in the garden, collecting the aluminum strips dropped to confuse radar, when through the back gate Prod walked, flanked by two siblings, ages three and five. The boy-girl pair belonged to one of his soldiers whose house in Brixton was “blown to bits.” Their mother was dying of miscarriage, and they had nowhere to go. Nancy agreed to bring them with her to Rutland Gate.

  Fifteen minutes after the children arrived, Danette Worthington rang for her usual post-raid gossip catch-up. How terrifying was it? Who’d been blown up, and where? Prod did what? Children, did you say? They can’t stay in London! Heavens, here’s an idea...

  “I took the pair to Weston Manor,” Nancy told Gladwyn. “The bombings worsened, and soon hordes of East End evacuees were boarding at my parents’ home in Kensington. My district billeting officer was overwhelmed, and Danette Worthington accepted whomever I brought, nary a question nor complaint. She was a godsend.”

  Nancy would never forget hauling that first group out of the city, through flames and broken water mains, in a car borrowed from a neighbor and helmed by her housekeeper. It was Sodom and Gomorrah the whole way as Gladys kept her teeth clenched and foot pressed to the gas. Nancy cursed a blue streak as Milly shivered in her lap, and the kids trembled in the back seat beneath a pile of fur coats.

  “I checked on the evacuees from time to time,” Nancy went on. “And my furs. Captain Roy often accompanied me on visits. We’re not in trouble for helping, are we? I may not have done things by the book, but there was scarcely a book to be found. Perhaps if the government had been better at organizing things...” She leveled her gaze. “André didn’t... He didn’t go to Weston Manor without me, did he?”

  When Gladwyn shook his head, Nancy nearly crumpled in relief. Though she’d been the one spying on Roy, it would’ve cracked Nancy’s heart to discover he’d betrayed her by having an affair with Danette, or engaging in another activity even more iniquitous.

  “I must confess,” Nancy continued. “That you’d question my patriotism feels like an insult, given our prior dealings. Though I never wanted to, I spied on the Frogs for you, and I gave you information about my own sister, which landed her in prison.”

  “The information about your sister was a formality,” Gladwyn said as he ticked through several sheets of paper. “We had more reports on the Mosleys than we have prisoners at Holloway. Would you swear you knew nothing of Greville’s activities, were you asked in court?”

  “Court!” Nancy said, perspiring at the thought. “Yes, of course!”

  “Very well. That’s all I need, for now.” Gladwyn slid a document across the desk. “In regard to your prior duties with the Special Operations Executive—we’re asking that you cease all contact with André Roy, and other French officers. Please sign this, which acknowledges our discussion.”

  “I’m happy to sign,” Nancy said, scribbling her name. “But you’re on the wrong path. Anyway, André is in East Africa, fighting for the Allies.” She pushed the paper back.

  “We also request that you stop all contact with Danette Worthington,” Gladwyn said.

  “Gladwyn! That’s absurd! Danette helped me through a very difficult time, and I’ve known her practically my entire life.”

  “I’m sorry, Missus Rodd,” he said. “I must insist.”

  “But—”

  “I know you Mitford girls don’t like to follow orders,” he said. “But you’ve signed the paper. Under Regulation 18B, we can arrest people we view as threatening, no charges or trial required. All that to say, Missus Rodd, I strongly suggest you don’t even consider stepping out of line.”

  Monday Evening

  The Kings Arms

  The Kings Arms is the quintessential London pub with a black-and-gold façade, enormous lanterns, and a dangling coat of arms. Even at this early hour, a crowd has gathered outside, and Katie and Simon must negotiate several clusters of suited men to reach the entrance. Inside, the bar is even more tightly packed.

  “Let’s check upstairs,” Simon says, and he leads Katie up battered steps and into a red-carpeted, red-walled dining room. They take a seat beside a window overlooking Shepherd Market Street.

  “How great is this place?” Katie says as she opens her menu.

  Around them, the same two Champions League matches play on a dozen screens.

  “Great?” Simon gives her a look. “It’s just your basic pub.”

  “Yes. Exactly.” Katie’s eyes skim the fried foods and the beer. “There’s something about them...the uncomplicated menu, the lack of pretension. The name!” She grins. “The Kings Arms. I mean, it’s perfect!”

  “You’re weird,” Simon says, and the left side of his mouth curls into a smile.

  Katie’s seat buzzes two, three, four times. Wincing, she sets down the menu and removes her phone from the back pocket o
f her jeans. “Sorry to be rude,” she says. “But I should probably let Jojo know where I am.”

  “Please, go ahead.”

  As she types in her passcode, it dawns on Katie that she’s drinking alcohol, alone, with a man she’s just met, and in a foreign country, no less. It’s a fantastically poor decision and could possibly make her the subject of a true crime podcast.

  “Gosh, I’m getting old,” Katie says, holding the phone away from her face, like she can’t make out the screen. “Should’ve remembered my readers!” Katie clicks the camera, and Simon squints into the light. “Whoops. Sorry!” she squeaks.

  “Next time you’re trying to take a surreptitious photo of someone,” Simon says, “best to turn off the flash.”

  “Sorry,” Katie says again and, face flaming, bows to read Jojo’s texts.

  Is 8pm for dinner OK?

  8pm Y or N?

  Hey, any idea when you’ll be back?

  Can you respond really quick?

  Hello?

  Are you there?

  Answer me!

  OMG you always answer your texts are you dead?

  Katie starts to write, “grabbing a pint,” but worries it’s too breezy and out of character, and Jojo might read it as a call for help.

  Sorry! Bad reception. Got caught up

  w/ something at HH. Meeting one

  of Felix’s clients now re: Nancy M.

  Don’t wait! I’ll figure out dinner.

  Huh?

  See above ↑

  So you’re alive but are you OK?

  I’m great!

  But, in case I go missing...

  Katie sends the picture, then reads Jojo’s reply, (fire emoji), before putting the phone away.

  “I didn’t mean to do that,” she mumbles, using the menu to cover her face. “My eyes are bad. I’ll delete it. What do I want to drink?”

  Ordinarily, Katie prefers wine, and though the Kings Arms’ list is decent for a pub, Katie chooses Fireside Ale, plus fish-and-chips, because this is London, and why the hell not. Simon orders an IPA.