Contents
Cover
Recent Titles by Sarah R. Shaber
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Author’s Note
Recent Titles by Sarah R. Shaber
The Professor Simon Shaw Series
SIMON SAID
SNIPE HUNT
THE FUGITIVE KING
THE BUG FUNERAL
SHELL GAME
The Louise Pearlie Series
LOUISE’S WAR *
LOUISE’S GAMBLE *
LOUISE’S DILEMMA *
LOUISE’S BLUNDER *
LOUISE’S CHANCE *
LOUISE’S LIES *
LOUISE’S CROSSING *
* available from Severn House
LOUISE’S CROSSING
Sarah R. Shaber
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.
This eBook edition first published in 2018 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
Copyright © 2018 by Sarah Shaber.
The right of Sarah Shaber to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8862-4 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-991-7 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0203-1 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
For my awesome mother, Frances Purvis Rock
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe special thanks to my friend Linna Barnes, who gave me a copy of her mother’s diary, written in February of 1943 and November of 1944. Mary Jane Barnes’ diary was a gold mine. It described Ms Barnes’ crossing of the Atlantic Ocean to take up a job at OSS London, and later her experience of living in the UK during World War II. I’ve used her first-hand account as a source for a number of scenes in Louise’s Crossing. You’ll find a biography of Mary Jane Mulford Barnes at the end of this book in the Author’s Note.
I must also thank Ben Steelman, David Munger, Tony Burton and James Benn for explaining the properties of torpedoes and grenades, and for answering other questions about World War II warships and such.
As always, the support of my family: my husband Steve, our son Sam, our daughter and son-in-law Katie and Matt Lindsay, have been critical to keeping me writing. Our grandsons Brandon and Nathan are a bonus!
I cannot imagine my life, writing or otherwise, without my writing buddies, Margaret Maron, Diane Chamberlain, Katy Munger, Alex Sokoloff, Kathy Trochek and Bren Witchger. Or without my friend and agent Vicky Bijur.
I am especially thankful that Severn House, now led by Kate Lyall Grant, offered to publish the first Louise Pearlie mystery during the Great Recession of 2008, when contracts were as scarce as hen’s teeth.
I am so fortunate that Quail Ridge Books in Raleigh is my home bookstore.
ONE
Washington, DC
February 6, 1944
On my way to work I stopped to watch the man and boy play. The day was as frigid as all the days in February had been, but the sun was out and the man had broken a big hole in the ice of the Reflecting Pool so he and the boy could play with a toy boat. The man had taken off his gloves to wind it up. It was a Liberty ship; I could tell by its silhouette. The boy, who was wearing a sailor’s cap and looked to be about four years old, was so excited he was jumping up and down in anticipation.
‘OK,’ the man said, handing the boat to the boy. ‘Put it gently in the water, then turn the switch on.’
The boy took the boat and set it carefully in the pool and flipped the ‘on’ switch. The boat took off valiantly across the pool, phony smoke rising from its stack, the tiny motor making a satisfying chugging noise. The little boy shrieked with excitement, and I felt like doing the same thing. I’d be crossing the ocean in a Liberty ship myself soon. Ever since I’d gotten my new assignment, I’d catch my heart beating erratically, or my breath coming shallowly and quickly, or a headache developing in my temples. I was thrilled, but I couldn’t tell anyone outside the office where I was headed. After all, I still worked for the Office of Strategic Services and I had to keep my mouth shut.
I watched the man and boy enjoying the toy boat’s voyage. Then it all went wrong.
The little boat hit a chunk of ice, spun about and hit another, then tipped over, sinking, leaving just a few bubbles on the surface of the pool. The child burst into tears.
‘Don’t worry,’ the father said to his son. ‘These things can happen on a sea voyage. Sailors have to be very brave.’ The boy nodded, wiping his eyes with his gloved hands.
I went up to them. ‘Can I help?’ I said. ‘I could find a long stick or something.’
The man grinned at me. ‘I came prepared,’ he said. Rolling up his pants legs, he revealed a tall pair of Wellington boots. He climbed over the edge of the pool and waded out to the last known location of USS Toy Boat, took off his gloves, rolled up his sleeves and felt around under the water, bringing up the dripping boat. Back on shore, his son wrapped his arms around his father’s legs. ‘Let’s go home, sailor,’ the man said. ‘You can help me take the boat apart and we’ll dry it out. It’ll be fine, I bet.’ I watched the two of them go off hand in hand, the little boy taking three steps to each one of his father’s.
The episode unnerved me. If my own ship had trouble on the ocean, no giant man in wellies would appear to lift it out of danger. Since the Nazi submarine wolf packs had retreated, the Atlantic wasn’t as dangerous as it once was, but there were still lone wolves prowling about, fierce winter storms, and as any ship drew closer to land, Axis airplanes determined to sink any Allied cargo ships they could.
When I got to work, I relaxed a bit since everyone there knew where I’d been reassigned, so it was no secret. That had its drawbacks, though, as I became the butt of every British joke in the OSS joke book. As I walked through the artists’ workroom, one of the guys looked up at me, smiling. I waited for the expected ribbing. ‘I hope you like boiled mutton,’ he sai
d. ‘That’s all those Limeys ever eat.’
‘And don’t forget the potato sandwiches,’ one of the others piped in. ‘Cold potato sandwiches. With Marmite gluing it all together.’
‘Don’t you worry about me,’ I answered. ‘I’m packing plenty of Spam and peanut butter.’
No sooner had I gotten into my drafty office and hung up my coat and hat than Merle came in with a cup of hot coffee and a strawberry-jam-filled biscuit for me. Merle heaved himself up on my desk, dangling his cowboy boot-shod feet. Merle was a Texan through and through. He’d been a newspaper artist before the war, but now he was one of our best forgers.
My office was clean and tidy, ready for its next occupant, except for the shoebox that held the few personal things I could take with me. It was already taped shut.
‘This your last day?’ he asked, noticing the box.
‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘But please, please don’t tell anyone else. I don’t want a lot of fuss. I’m leaving as soon as I get my last briefing from Miss Osborne. I should sail a few days from now; I don’t know when exactly yet.’
‘How far can you swim under a field of burning oil?’ he asked, winking at me as he slid off my desk.
‘Very funny,’ I said.
He reached out to shake my hand. ‘In case I don’t see you again before you leave.’ He didn’t let go of my hand, but leaned forward and kissed my forehead. ‘Be careful.’
‘I will, I promise.’
‘Write us occasionally.’
‘I will.’
After Merle left, I glanced around my office to see what else needed to be done, but even my inbox was empty. I felt as if my life in DC was already over.
Miss Osborne, whom I admired as much as any person I had met in Washington, went over a checklist with me.
‘You have your passport and your AGO card?’ The Adjutant General’s Office card identified me as a member of the United States military. As such, I couldn’t be tortured if I was captured. Supposedly.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I’ll call you with your orders a day before its time to leave. It shouldn’t be more than a few days from now. Your ship will be carrying a mixed cargo but also a number of “casual passengers” such as yourself, going to the United Kingdom for various reasons. You don’t have a specific cover; use your real name and associate with the passengers as you naturally would. You’re just a file clerk and a former supervisor of yours now stationed in London has requested you for his office typing pool, that’s all. But I don’t have to tell you how to handle yourself.’ Then she looked up from her list and smiled at me. ‘I wish I wasn’t losing you,’ she said. ‘But with invasion imminent, our Morale Operations station in London will become the front line of this branch.’
The London office of the Office of Strategic Services, the United States’ espionage agency, was located smack in the middle of London, at 70 Grosvenor Square, quite close to the US Embassy. Colonel David K.E. Bruce, scion of a wealthy Maryland family, was its Director. With an invasion of Europe imminent, every branch of OSS in DC was now represented in its London office. My office, the Morale Operations Unit, was responsible for what we called ‘black propaganda’ – that is, outright lies and misinformation distributed to the German people.
I struggled to express myself adequately. ‘Alice,’ I said, using her given name. ‘Thank you for everything. For recommending me. And for allowing me to go.’
‘You always seemed to me to be a woman in search of adventure. London is not the happiest place to be these days, but there will still be plenty for you to do, at work and at play. Oh, and here.’ She rummaged in the papers stacked on her desk and handed me one with several names and addresses on them. ‘Don’t be shy – contact these people. They are friends of mine; they’ll show you around and they know not to ask questions.’
She pulled a square tin out of her desk and handed it over to me. It was a box of airmail stationery, with square envelopes and onionskin paper. ‘Write occasionally, OK?’ she said.
‘Of course.’ It looked as if I was going to spend most of my free time writing letters home.
Even she couldn’t resist a final quip. ‘I hope you know how to row a lifeboat,’ she said, grinning at me.
I went straight back to my office, grabbed my shoebox and slinked out a side door during the afternoon coffee break without giving anyone a chance to make a fuss.
I contemplated my packing. I’d been working on it forever, it seemed. I was permitted to take a footlocker, a large suitcase and a musette bag, a small backpack that I could carry over my shoulder. The footlocker would be stored in the hold where I couldn’t reach it during the voyage, so I needed to make sure all my essentials were in the two other cases. I’d requisitioned the footlocker already, and Phoebe led me to the attic where she offered the largest suitcase I thought I could carry on my own from her worn set of navy-blue leather Lady Baltimore luggage. ‘Milt and I went to a lot of swell places before the Depression,’ Phoebe said. ‘Sometimes I took all seven pieces.’
So now the three pieces of luggage lay open in my bedroom.
I couldn’t tell anyone at my boarding house where I was headed, but from what I was packing it would be obvious I wasn’t going anywhere comfortable. Some of my footlocker space was reserved for non-perishable food. Mostly jars of peanut butter, cans of Spam and Vienna sausages. Without any guilt at all, I’d bought two pounds of sugar and some coffee on the black market. I’d been advised to pack several packages of sanitary napkins and rolls of toilet paper. Liquor was terribly expensive in London, but alcohol couldn’t be transported in the hold, so I unhappily settled on one bottle of Gordon’s gin, which I’d carry in my musette bag. I had no room for vermouth. After this bottle was empty, I supposed I’d have to learn to drink warm beer.
I’d requisitioned an arctic parka, lined boots, heavy gloves and thick socks, and to my surprise had received them in the correct sizes. I cushioned the contents of my footlocker with them. I wouldn’t need such heavy clothing on board the ship. I included a set of flannel sheets and a blanket in case my future digs were short of linens. My wool coat, one set of long underwear and a pair of flannel pajamas went into my suitcase.
I added a small photo of Joe in a silver frame to the personal items tucked into the musette bag.
A wave of emotion crashed over me and tears started down my face. I sat down on the bed to collect myself. Joe Prager was my lover. He was a Czech refugee with a British passport who had been a boarder here when I arrived. Ostensibly, he taught Slavic languages at Georgetown University, but I discovered that he was working undercover for the JDC, an organization struggling to get Jewish refugees out of Europe. We fell in love and spent time alone together whenever we could. We never discussed marriage. That was impossible. I mean, I didn’t know who he really was! He’d been reassigned overseas, and I had no idea where he was stationed or if he would ever return to the United States. I guessed he was in Lisbon, a neutral port, where a JDC operative had been murdered, leaving an opening that needed to be filled.
What if Joe returned to DC while I was overseas? I could hardly bear the thought. I had no reason to think he would, especially as the Allies geared up for an invasion that would displace even more refugees. I knew Joe well enough to be sure that wherever he was he would be focused on the job at hand, not on a future impossible to predict. I had decided to do the same thing. Instead of fretting over him, I would accept the job that was offered me, no matter where it took me. Besides, if Joe did return to DC, he would come straight here, to my boarding house, and Phoebe would be able to give him my APO address to write to me. So I would know if he was safe, and that was all I could hope for.
Phoebe’s soft knock sounded at my door. I so hoped she wasn’t going to cry again. I didn’t think I could bear it. I would miss my life here in my boarding house and my friends, but except for my worry over Joe, I was so excited that I hadn’t shed a single tear myself. When I opened my door, I was glad to see that P
hoebe was dry-eyed and collected.
She glanced over at my packing. ‘England,’ she said, guessing correctly. Just the word made my heart soar. Never in my wildest dreams had I ever thought I would live and work in Europe. It was Europe in the midst of a terrible war, but still. England! London! Westminster Abbey! Big Ben! None of which I had ever dreamed I would see.
‘You know I can’t say,’ I said, but I was sure my smile betrayed me.
‘You really want to go, don’t you?’ she said.
I admitted that I did.
Phoebe sat on the edge of my bed next to me. ‘I just don’t understand,’ she said. ‘It’s so dangerous.’
‘I’ll be fine.’ There were bunkers under all the American offices that ringed Grosvenor Square where OSS and the US Embassy could operate for days if they had to. ‘Someone has to go,’ I continued. ‘We have to win this war.’ Of course, I didn’t mention the invasion which was still secret.
‘That we do.’ Both of Phoebe’s sons had enlisted in the Navy. Milt was back home, missing an arm, but Tom was still stationed in the Pacific.
‘I want to give you a little something,’ Phoebe said, holding out a tiny package of tissue paper with a thin pink ribbon tied around it.
‘But you’ve given me so much,’ I said. ‘The necklace, this luggage, and, well’ – and here I drew in my breath, feeling sadness for the first time – ‘a second home.’
‘I don’t have a daughter,’ Phoebe said. ‘So I’d like you to have it.’
I took the tiny package from her and opened it. Like all Phoebe’s jewelry, the ring was art deco from the twenties, a tiny diamond surrounded by even smaller blue stones in a square filigree white-gold setting. ‘It’s not much,’ Phoebe said. ‘The diamond is real, but those are zircons, not sapphires. You know I had to sell all my good jewels during the Depression. But I hope it reminds you of us.’
The ring was darling. And it matched the lavaliere Phoebe had already given me. I slipped it on my right hand.
Louise's Crossing Page 1