“But why? You’re only talking, aren’t you? Or have they banned that now and all?” She edged forward. “And what do you do, Colin, in this group?”
“Mainly we get together and talk about things that have gone wrong for Britain.”
“And about ending poverty in our slums?”
He looked at her oddly but wouldn’t say, his eyes darting back to the casement window and the movement of people out on the street. He checked his watch, fidgeting.
“I’m sorry, Colin, I don’t mean to pry,” Evelyn said. “My mother used to say I should have been a spy, I was that curious.” She laughed.
He smiled briefly, studying her as she slipped out of the seat. She thought she’d blown it, but he stayed near as he guided her toward the front door. They stood on the pavement outside the pub, the traffic streaming by, until Colin spoke over the noise. “Listen, about this group . . .”
“Yes?”
“Well, it’s only six of us, old workers from Siemens-Schuckert mostly, but we’re always looking for more to join. I could put in a word?”
“Would you?” Evelyn squeezed his arm. “It sounds like just my sort of thing. Who knows—I might be exactly what you’re looking for!”
Colin smiled properly now and dimples appeared in his cheeks. “I’ll speak with the chairman. Well, I say chairman, though there’s nothing official about it. But he does run the show, so to speak. He’s a splendid chap. Very professional.”
Evelyn’s heart began to thud. If only White had listened to her . . . Colin leaned in, and for a horrible moment she thought he was going to kiss her. But he only wanted to whisper something in her ear, though there was no one around to overhear him.
“He’s ex-navy, you know. Hancock, his name is.”
His breath was hot against Evelyn’s cheek. She tried not to shudder.
“And won’t you look at this . . .”
He brought out a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. Folded inside was a badge with a black cross within a silver casing. There was a small swastika in the center.
“Is that an Iron Cross?”
It hardly seemed possible. She’d read about them during her research for the Lion Society investigation. They were military decorations awarded to German soldiers.
“Hancock said I could have a loan of it. He’s generous like that. They’re very rare, I believe.”
“Yes, I’m sure they are,” Evelyn said.
Colin folded the badge away. Then, with a nervous smile, he stalked off in the direction of the Battersea power station.
Evelyn watched until he’d disappeared, then she hailed a taxi, unease gnawing at her stomach. How on earth had this Hancock fellow got his hands on an Iron Cross?
Twenty-One
EVELYN LEFT CHEMLEY Court that same afternoon with her suitcase and dress bag and traveled straight to Euston station. Another blizzard had been forecast, and by the time she reached Birmingham the dozen or so other Wesley guests sharing the same service were told that the local train had been canceled, leaving them stranded. They congregated at the stationmaster’s booth while he made a telephone call. Connection was patchy across the county, but eventually he got through and an hour later an estate van pulled up out the front and took the disgruntled party directly to the manor.
By now it was well after midnight, and only Parker was awake to escort them to their rooms, his candle throwing wobbly shadows against the great paneled walls. For once Evelyn had been put up in the north wing, where a fire had been lit, and though exhausted after the long journey she slept badly, tossing and turning against the tight-fitting sheets. She was dreading seeing Julia. How on earth was she going to explain herself? After all this time, she still didn’t know what she could say that wouldn’t give away her work with Bennett White. Maybe Julia had already said something to the Wesleys; that would explain why she had been given a room on the other side of the house, and why it had been weeks since she’d last spoken to Sally . . . Evelyn rolled over, squeezing her eyes shut, desperate for sleep, but a pair of robins had perched on the ledge outside her window, their high-pitched melodies jolting her awake every time she managed to nod off.
By morning the fire had gone out in the hearth and the room was chilly. Evelyn woke to voices in the corridor, and when she drew back the velvet curtains she was almost blinded by the glare. Overnight the wind and sleet had died away and the grounds were now blanketed in fresh snow, so deep in places she could hardly make out the drive or the groundsmen near the walled garden frantically shoveling out a path. She brought out her House of Worth dress from the wardrobe, running her fingertips over the apricot sash, then she drew the voile behind the curtains together and began to get ready.
* * *
At two o’clock, the house guests made their way toward the sandstone chapel overlooking the lake. The day had warmed up and the slushy pathway made for a slow procession up the hill. Evelyn sat toward the back of the chapel next to a boy with a downy top lip. She watched Hugh Wesley at the entrance, avuncular as usual, and then Jonty at the altar in his morning coat, looking nervous. Evelyn recognized Julia’s father, Lord Jennings, sitting near the front with a young woman she assumed was his wife. She couldn’t see Julia anywhere.
Finally, there was some murmuring along the pews and the organist began “Dear Lord and Father of Mankind.” Evelyn turned. All this time she hadn’t considered what Sally might look like today, and there she was, her dear friend, exquisite in a silk dress and long scalloped veil, Hugh’s arm through hers, looking so calm and confident as she drifted down the aisle.
* * *
The wedding banquet began at four o’clock in the great hall. Evelyn was seated on a table near the bridal party with Miranda and Katherine McGregor, a pair of bucktoothed twins she’d known at Somerville College, and while they twittered about their villa at Lake Garda, Evelyn drank champagne, half the bottle gone before they had reached the denouement of their tale.
“Evelyn? There you are!” It was Hugh, his big chest puffed out as he made his way toward her. “And don’t you look smashing.”
“Not half as smashing as the bride. Congratulations, Hugh!”
He gave her a bruising hug. He smelled of wine and, judging from his stained lips, he’d already had quite a lot to drink.
“She scrubs up all right, doesn’t she, old Sallywag. My word, Evelyn, this is the best day of my life. But what about you? It’s been too long since we last saw you.” He waggled a finger in mock admonishment. “Things must be going well at the War Office if you’ve no time for us anymore. Keeping the Boche at bay?”
Evelyn felt her smile wane as she looked into his benign blue eyes. They were so like Sally’s, she’d never noticed it before. She held her breath, waiting for him to say something about Chesterfield and Caxton Hall, but when he didn’t she realized that he mustn’t know, that Julia must have kept her secret after all, and she almost cried out with relief.
“Elizabeth and I have always been grateful that Sally has you, Evelyn—and now Julia does too,” Hugh said. “She told me she’s seen a bit of you in London these past months. I’m so pleased. She’s needed good, sensible friends.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder and Evelyn studied the large, heart-shaped flower in his lapel—the Brassavola, Julia’s orchid.
“I’ve enjoyed spending time with her,” she said.
“I don’t need to tell you that I was quite worried for a while there. That husband . . . She went quite wild with him, quite wild indeed. Mixing with all sorts in Berlin, all a bit rich for me, and I’m a staunch Tory. Still, I’m glad to know how well she’s doing with her charity work and making new friends.” Hugh gave her shoulder a squeeze in parting. “So, thank you, Evelyn, for everything.”
Evelyn watched him dart between the tables, as nimble as a dancer, before she spotted Sally across the hall and gave her a wide, looping wave. Perhaps everything was going to be all right.
“There you are, Evelyn, come to save me!” Sally
cried as she made her way through the crowd. “If I have to talk to another ancient relative I think I’ll keel over and die.”
Evelyn hugged her, Sally’s flushed face warm against her cool cheek.
“You look just marvelous, Sal! You both do.” She nodded toward Jonty standing a few paces away, but he looked away, pretending not to hear. “Now, remind me—where are you headed on your honeymoon?”
“The van der Hoort estate on Loch Lomond. We’ll be there for a few days before Jonty goes back to the base and me to the manor. Then we’ll start looking for a place of our own. Daddy has offered us one of the cottages here, but I’d like to have a house in London.” Sally paused, fixing her bright gaze on Evelyn. “Perhaps I might stay with you, Ev, in the meantime? It’s been so long since we spent any real time together. You could help me search for flats.”
“Stay in Soho instead of Mayfair?” Evelyn laughed. “You do remember ‘cozy’ being the best thing you could say about my place?”
“I don’t mind. It might be fun.”
But it didn’t sound like much fun to Evelyn, the silence between them growing as Jonty shifted his weight from foot to foot.
“Of course you should stay, Sal,” she said at last. “Though I’ll warn you, we’ll have to bunk together. And I work such long hours . . .”
It sounded feeble, but Evelyn could not find a way to talk her out of it. Thankfully, another aged relative interrupted, diverting Sally’s attention, and Evelyn drifted away toward a spot by the paneling beneath one of the pastoral oils. For some reason Jonty followed, leaning against the wall beside her, his face broader and flatter than she remembered, that bump on his nose more pronounced than ever.
“Is something the matter?” she asked when he refused a cigarette.
“Why don’t you come out and say it?” he muttered as he toyed with the new wedding band on his finger.
“Say what?”
“That you don’t want her to stay with you. In London.”
Evelyn blew out some smoke. “Why do you think that?”
“She’s needed you. She’s needed a friend.” Jonty spat out the words. “But you just disappeared into thin air.”
Evelyn looked at him steadily. “I’m not a scullery maid, Jonty. I don’t appear on command.”
“No, you’re much shrewder than that.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Jonty tucked in his chin. “Where have you been, then? Enlighten me.”
Evelyn stared across the great expanse of the hall, all the smiling heads and blur of dancing, and felt for a moment as a bird must, hovering above human life, seeing everything and yet a part of none of it. She glanced back at Jonty, once again tracing the blunt contours of his tanned face.
“I work, Jonty. I know that must be a difficult concept for you to grasp, but I am busy.” She crossed her arms, wanting to create space between them, a buffer against his bulk. “Not that I need to explain myself to you. Sally is my dear friend—”
“Only when it suits you.”
“What does that mean?”
Jonty stepped toward her and Evelyn saw for the first time the fresh lines around his eyes. He had grown older; it had never occurred to her that he might carry any burden of this war.
“You use people, Evelyn,” he said quietly. “That’s what I mean. I’ve thought it for a while—there’s something too self-assured about you, too cool. Like you’ve been playing a great joke on the rest of us. Smug, that’s what you are.” He paused. “It’s not an attractive quality.”
Evelyn glanced away again, rage and fright swelling inside her. She had always thought Jonty didn’t care much for Sally’s feelings—once, long ago, she might have been pleased to know that he did.
“You’ve got it wrong,” she said.
“Then why do you never see her in London?”
“I’ve told you, it’s complicated. My work—”
“Oh yes.” He scoffed. “At the War Office, isn’t it? Tell me, is it so taxing to make tea and type letters for some third-rate bureaucrat that you can’t spend an evening with your closest friend?”
Evelyn smiled. It felt ghastly, her skin stretched tight, but she couldn’t help it. The ballroom crowd was getting boisterous, and when Evelyn felt herself being thrust forward with the sweaty surge of dancers almost into Jonty’s arms disgust welled up inside her. It was inconceivable that she had ignored his humiliating jibes for so long, believing she must to get on, that she must not be a nuisance, that she must keep Sally out of it. But she wouldn’t live like that anymore. She refused to be cowed by those who were so undeserving—here at the manor, and back at MI5. She looked across the hall at Sally, who was now captured in some serious exchange with a different old lady. Surely their friendship could survive this tectonic shift?
“You know something, Jonty?” Evelyn said, turning to look him square in the eye. “I’ve always thought Sally could do far better than you. She’s gentle and kind, and you’re nothing more than a bully and a thug. And yet for some mad reason she still loves you. But don’t think you can speak to me like one of your border collies. Because if you ever do it again, I’ll tell your wife and everyone else at this wedding that you tried to kiss me, and then they’ll all know you for what you really are.”
She thought she would savor the way the color drained from his face, but somehow Jonty standing there, his thick neck straining at his collar as he grasped at words of protest, made Evelyn feel broken. She shoved her glass at him and strode away, threading a path through the dancers, determined to forget him and have this night for herself. But she soon ran into Hugh again, and he insisted on a dance, and before she knew it she was flying around the great hall, Hugh’s incoherent chatter at her ear. After a while she began to let herself go, weightless in Hugh’s arms. Maybe John Chadwick had been telling the truth. Maybe it was as simple as locking away all the nasty pieces of life in a box and moving on; among this press of damp flesh it did seem possible.
She closed her eyes, Hugh’s grip slippery on her wrists as they made their final whirl. The quartet was thunderous, the strings bringing the tune toward a frenzied crescendo, and Evelyn, overwhelmed by vertigo, let out a whoop, her lungs expanding with a rush of hot air. Then, at the exact moment during the long fermata when the crowds lurched to one side of the hall, she recognized Julia through the line of dancers. Evelyn raised a hand to her eyes, rubbing at them, as if she were seeing a mirage. But there she was, smoking at the foot of the stairs. With her head still spinning from the foxtrot, Evelyn tried to pull Hugh away, to hide herself, but he mistook her gesture and relinquished her from their dance. By now Julia had spotted her and was making her way across the dance floor. Evelyn stood trapped in the crowd beneath the chandelier, but when Julia reached her she only took up Evelyn’s hands, her smile glittering.
“I’ve been looking for you all day,” she said.
“You have?”
“Come quick.” Julia urged her away from the dancers toward the staircase. “Before Hugh ropes you in for the rumba.”
They went to Hugh’s study on the first floor—“We can talk here,” Julia said as she flicked on a lamp, the shade casting a green hue across the room.
Evelyn sat on the windowsill. A blast of cold air rattled the glass.
“Drink?” Julia made her way toward the trolley in the corner. “Port?”
“All right.”
Evelyn stared over the west lawn. The moon had drifted out from behind the clouds to throw some light on the garden, and a few dirty patches here and there had sprung up in the snow.
Julia joined Evelyn. Her dark hair was tied up in a blue band. It made her look almost girlish.
“You’re a hard woman to catch up with,” she remarked, lighting up a cigarette. “Have you been away?”
Evelyn drank some of the sweet, syrupy port. “No, nothing like that,” she said. “It’s all been rather frantic at Whitehall. I haven’t had a spare second.”
Julia pressed her fing
ertip to the window, leaving a smudge on the glass. They perched there for a few moments, gazing out over the white spread of lawn. The music downstairs grew loud again as the quartet began a new cycle.
The hard line of Evelyn’s jaw began to ache—she had to say something—and eventually she set down her glass. “I thought after you saw me in the park . . . Well, perhaps you wouldn’t want to see me again?”
Julia swiped at some stray smoke. “Why shouldn’t I want that?”
Evelyn blinked. “The thing is, I can explain. What I was doing there. Why I said . . . what I said.”
“There’s no need, really. There’s not much I haven’t seen or heard, Evelyn. We’re still free to think our own thoughts the last time I checked.”
Julia smiled, her head angled in reflection, and though she knew she should have felt gratitude and a sense of reprieve, something about the other woman’s expression as she gazed back at her set Evelyn’s teeth on edge. No matter how much Julia valued free thinking, this was not the response she had expected.
“You know, London can be a lonely city,” Julia murmured. “I’d forgotten that. It can be hard to find your own people, to share in a sense of community. Now, my father, he’s a feckless sort of man, not much good with responsibility, or anything else for that matter, but he did teach me the value of finding someone to share your life with. To find yourself in that other person. I don’t think Hugh has ever quite understood that—how I wanted an equal in Hans, that I needed it. Not only in intellect but in values. In beliefs.” Julia’s eyes were fixed on Evelyn. “You do know what I mean, don’t you?”
Evelyn didn’t answer. She watched Julia stand and abruptly walk out of the room, leaving her to follow to the wing balcony, where they had a view down to the ballroom. More dancers had crowded the floor, moving in dual lines to another round of foxtrot, as one of the twins—she was too exhausted to tell one from the other—gave Evelyn a wave.
“There he is,” Julia whispered. “Can you see him?”
Away from the dancing loitered a few men and women alongside the tapestries. It didn’t take long for Evelyn to locate the tall gentleman with dark hair. From the balcony, he looked sharp in his tuxedo, a shoulder pressed against the paneling, keeping a distance, whether by accident or design, from the other wedding guests. After a moment, he raised his eyes and nodded toward Julia.
An Unlikely Spy Page 26