The american agent, p.7
The American Agent, page 7
“I’m here now, Dad—and feeling bad. I should be there—I should have taken another shift.”
“How long are you staying?”
“Well, as you know they’ve been changing the roster a lot lately. Priscilla reminded me on the train down that we’re on duty from Sunday night until Thursday. But we should have a nice lunch before I have to leave. Pris and I have already talked about it.” Maisie looked up at the ceiling as a droning sound reverberated overhead. “The papers say they’ve been dropping bombs on Kent as they make their way back to France—I’ve been so worried about you all.”
“That’s what I meant by laying their eggs—that’s how old Avis, the gardener, put it. ‘They’re laying their rotten eggs on the way home,’ he said the other day. And they’re doing some damage—the shop in the village caught it last night. It was a miracle though—the bomb bounced off the roof and left a blimmin’ great dent.”
“It’s like an egg cup!” interjected Anna. “We were sent home from school—the army men had to come to make it safe.”
Maisie looked from her father to Brenda, and as a deep groaning echoed from the sky into the cellar, all four souls cast their gaze to the ceiling again. A murder of dark crows, thought Maisie.
“Right, who’s for a cup of tea and a sandwich?” asked Brenda, reaching for the tin she’d placed on the table. “We’ve got cheese, ham, or egg. What’ll it be, Anna? And then we’ll do a jigsaw puzzle.”
Despite the air raid continuing throughout the night, and the sound of bombers flying to and from London passing overhead, Frankie and Brenda were able to sleep, which Maisie attributed to their age and the fact that her father, especially, had become a little hard of hearing. She often had to repeat a question or raise her voice so that he might hear her, and she realized the same thing was now happening to Brenda. Anna had dropped into a deep sleep half way through the story of Blossom, The Barrage Balloon, confident that the dear balloon would save them all from the wicked Luftwaffe aircraft. Maisie moved so she was close to the light, and pulled out the notes from her bag. War might be waged, the German Luftwaffe might be trying to destroy the city she loved, but she felt a duty to the young woman who had risked her life to tell London’s story. And she wondered, not for the first time, whether it was Catherine Saxon’s decision to paint a picture of Britain’s plight in the minds of people living thousands of miles away that had led to her death.
“We’ve been called back early, Maisie,” said Priscilla.
“What’s happened?” said Maisie.
“Mr. Keene, the supervisor on duty, has just telephoned—last night’s blitz was terrible and a couple of drivers are in hospital, so they need us back there immediately. I thought it was too good to be true, being able to stick to the plan of only working certain shifts—all very well when you’re practicing, but not when the bombs come raining down. Douglas is here, so Tim will not be alone—and apparently Tom will be back on a twenty-four-hour leave tomorrow. He’s been on ops around the clock, so has just been given rest time. I’ll be dashed to miss him, but duty calls.” Maisie heard her friend draw from her cigarette—she always knew when Priscilla smoked using a holder; the hiatus before she spoke again seemed to extend for ages. “Douglas has looked up the coach timetable, and he telephoned to check—it appears we’re in luck, because a coach is leaving Tonbridge at half past twelve. We’ll be back in town well before our shift at four. Just in time for the bloody Luftwaffe to start coming in.”
“All right—I’ll let Brenda and Dad know. Anna will be disappointed about lunch—but tell Douglas to bring the boys over in any case. Just because we’re not here doesn’t mean life shouldn’t go on.”
“Righty-ho. Excellent idea. Keep on going, that’s my motto—though let’s face it, Maisie, if I’m not there, the entertainment goes downhill.”
Maisie smiled, recognizing her friend’s need to make light in dark times. “Don’t flatter yourself, Pris,” she teased. “They’ll do very well without us.”
“But you can’t leave!” Anna screamed, clutching Maisie’s skirt, then rushing toward Priscilla, holding on to her arm. “Auntie Pris, you can’t go. You mustn’t go. You’ve got to stay here.”
Maisie knelt down, pulling Anna to her. “Now, now, Anna, everything’s going to be all right. We won’t be long—you’ll see both of us again soon. And Tim’s coming tomorrow for lunch!”
“In fact, I know he’ll come today, to watch you ride Lady.” Priscilla ran her hand through Anna’s long dark hair. She looked at Maisie, and nodded her head toward the door.
“Come on, Anna, it’s time for us to go down to groom Lady,” said Frankie. “And look at Emma—your tears are upsetting her. She’s sad because you’re sad. Come on, darlin’.”
Upon hearing her name, Emma, the large Alsatian dog—who had been standing next to the child she followed as if she were her shadow—pushed her nose against Anna’s arm.
“Go away, Emma—go away!” cried Anna.
“You’d best just leave now, Maisie,” said Brenda, stepping forward. “She’ll get over it. She’s just having a little paddy—she thought you’d be here for a few days.”
Maisie pressed her lips together, fighting her own tears.
“Come on, Maisie—let’s go,” said Priscilla.
“But, Auntie Pris—you can’t. You mustn’t go away.” The child reached for Priscilla’s sleeve, trying to pull her back again.
Maisie picked up Anna and walked toward the sitting room. “Come on, let’s go to your crying chair, and you have a good weep until you’re ready to help Uncle Frankie with the horses.”
She lowered the child into the plump armchair, feeling the heaving sobs wrack Anna’s small body as she began to relent, curling up on the chair, her head down on her knees. Maisie pulled a blanket and cocooned her charge, kissing her forehead before stepping toward the door. Emma took her place alongside the chair, and Frankie put an arm around his daughter.
“Don’t worry about the little one, love—we’ll look after her.”
“I’ve never seen her like this. She’s barely ever cried, and it was only a few tears over a scraped knee, or if she saw an animal hurt.”
“It’ll be better when the adoption’s over. She’s not a stupid child—she knows what’s going on, and how important it all is. It’s just the waiting now. Anyway, you get on your way—let us know when you’re off shift. You two are the ones we worry about.” He nodded toward Priscilla, who reached out to Maisie.
“George has been enlisted to take us to the coach station in Tonbridge, Maisie,” said Priscilla. “It appears Lord Julian still has use of his motor car and there’s petrol in the tank, so that saves us waiting in the village for the local bus.”
Sitting at the back of the London coach—a long-distance motor bus with only a few stops on the way into the capital—Priscilla lit a cigarette, snapping the silver lighter as she blew a smoke ring and turned to Maisie. “I’ve never seen Anna like that before—she was terrified. And what’s all that about a crying chair?”
“Oh, that was Brenda’s doing. Anna came from the garden after finding a dead bird, and was weeping about it. So Brenda told her it was best to get everything sad out and cry until she couldn’t cry any more, so she took Anna into the drawing room, put her in the chair, covered her with a blanket and said she could always come to that very chair for a good cry if she felt sad, because crying helped get all the bad feelings out. Anna has rarely used it for crying—and when she does, as I mentioned to Dad, it’s generally about animals. She cried when James’ big hunter had to be put down, and when one of the sheepdogs was caught on a wire and needed stitches, she went to the chair to cry about it. But this is a strikingly new behavior—and it wasn’t directed only at me.”
Priscilla lit another cigarette and snapped shut the flame on a lighter embossed with the initials PE—her maiden name was Evernden. “I would imagine she’s very upset with me because I’m the one who came to the house to take you away.” She drew on her cigarette. “But don’t worry, I’ve become quite used to getting it in the neck from children.”
“Tim giving you some lip again?”
“Well, it transpires I’m a dreadful mother because I’ve kept him back. You would have thought I’d tied him to a stake in the garden—mind you, that might not have been such a bad idea. I might do it yet—and light a fire underneath the boy.”
“Pris—come on, that’s not how you feel.”
Priscilla wiped away tears that had emerged as she spoke. “No, it’s not. And I’m not arguing with him—I’m just trying to absorb every swipe on the chin. And yes, I understand everything you’ve said about me being the one he’s putting all his angry venom into, but sometimes I don’t know if I can take it. Anyone would think I was cruel to my children.”
Maisie reached for her friend’s free hand. “There’s something my mother used to say when I was a girl—when she was so ill. She always said, ‘Don’t worry—it’ll all come out in the wash.’ Of course, she meant that everything will come right in the end, but as a child I imagined I’d see the sickness come out of her body to be swept down the drain when we did the laundry. But she was right in a way, because the washing always gets done, the laundry aired and folded—life goes on, though it might never be quite the same.”
The women looked out of the window at homes where walls had been torn off by explosions, revealing bedrooms with beds still made, sitting rooms with furniture still in place, yet curtains and clothing falling across torched bricks.
“It’s like looking into dolls’ houses with the sides taken off, isn’t it?” said Priscilla.
Maisie nodded. “But all the dolls are gone.” She drew her gaze down to the remains of another home, at the still-smoking rubble, and in her mind’s eye she could see Catherine Saxon again, clambering across to speak to a fireman, her notebook in hand. At least in leaving Chelstone early, she would be able to immerse herself in the work of finding the woman’s murderer.
Chapter 5
It didn’t require a bombing of Buckingham Palace to convince these people that they are all in this thing together. There is nothing exclusive about being bombed these days. When there are homes down in your street, when friends and relatives have been killed, when you’ve seen that red glow in the sky night after night, when you’re tired and sleepy—there just isn’t enough energy left to be outraged about the bombing of a palace.
Edward R. Murrow, broadcast to America, September 15, 1940
“Surprised to see you here on a Monday morning, miss,” said Billy, looking up from his desk.
“Morning? I’m so late, it might as well be afternoon,” replied Maisie, taking off her jacket and slipping it onto the hook at the back of the office door. She picked up the document case she had set on the floor upon entering the room. “I think I’d like strong coffee to get me going again today—and I’m sure you could do with one too. We were on duty Saturday night and last night—we don’t get home until past eight in the morning after a fourteen-hour shift—and it’ll go on all this week, I’m sure. But it’s the same for everyone, so we mustn’t grumble about it.”
“You all right to work on the case today?”
Maisie nodded. “Mr. Scott is away for a few days—well, I don’t know if he’s technically ‘away’ but he told me he’s otherwise occupied, which is probably just as well, because I can get on with talking to various people, especially the other women lodging in the house where Catherine Saxon lived.” She looked at Billy, pausing as if to take stock of progress on the case.
“What is it?”
“Billy, I have an odd assignment for you—and you’ll need to be very careful as you go about it.”
“All right, miss—you know me, careful as they come.”
“It’s not dangerous—at least I don’t believe it is—but you must take care not to be seen or apprehended.”
“I think I know what you’re about to say—it’s that American, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. Look, when I haven’t been roaring through the streets in an ambulance, I’ve managed to read through some of the files I was given on the case and reflect upon a few things. Apparently Scott lives on a street close to Manchester Square, but I don’t know his exact address, and I think it would be a good idea to have the information to hand. Could you find out? He might even be living on the square itself, but decided to tell me a half-truth. Remember he is a very clever man, an experienced agent for the American government’s Justice Department—he may know you’re looking for him before you even get a whiff of the scent. Be watchful and stay in the shadows, so to speak—but if it’s possible to follow him without being seen, then do just that.”
“You don’t trust him, do you?” said Billy.
Maisie was thoughtful. “I’d trust him to save my life, and that’s basically what he did in Munich. But something else is going on, and I want to know what it is—it may have nothing to do with me, this case or Catherine Saxon’s death. Or it may have everything to do with it, and he’s not been fully honest and open with me, or with Robbie MacFarlane. Mind you, I don’t think you can pull the wool over Robbie’s eyes—but on the other hand there might be an alliance between the two of them, one kept from me when I was asked to work with Scott. I want to know the ground I’m treading on, Billy—so find out what you can. And take care—that’s the most important thing, always.”
“Right you are, miss.”
“And as soon as I’ve had that cup of coffee, I’ll be off to see if I can talk to some of the other women at Catherine Saxon’s lodgings.”
With the coffee in front of her, Maisie placed a telephone call to Robert MacFarlane.
“Good day to you, your Ladyship. To what do I owe this intrusion to my very busy day?”
It seemed MacFarlane was in a jocular mood, which wasn’t such a bad thing, as far as Maisie was concerned.
“I’d like some information, if you can get it for me.”
“Go on,” said MacFarlane.
“I’m curious about one of Catherine Saxon’s fellow lodgers, and I wonder if you might know—or be able to find out more about her. She’s a civil servant employed in your neck of the woods. All I know about Isabel Chalmers so far is that she works at an office in Whitehall and she doesn’t talk about it, and never answers questions about her job.”
“And that’s exactly what anyone who works for the government is supposed to do—not blether about it.”
“That’s not very helpful, Robbie. I want to talk to her, and if you want this investigative alliance between us and our American friends to come to a satisfactory conclusion, I’m going to need a bit of assistance—because by the time she gets home to her rooms on Welbeck Street, there will be a blackout and she’ll be in a shelter, and I’m going to have trouble talking to her. In fact, she’ll probably be in one of your bomb-proof government shelters that I’m not supposed to know about. Can you lend a hand here?”
“I’ll look into it, lass, and I’ll do my best to make arrangements for you to talk to her. Will someone be in your office to take a telephone call from me?”
“Sandra’s coming in shortly and will be here until half past two—I want her home and safe before the blitz tonight.”
Polly Harcourt was in her rooms when Maisie called at the house in Welbeck Street. Mrs. Marsh answered the front door, then called up the stairs several times until the young woman leaned over the banister and called back.
“What is it now, Mrs. Marsh? It’s only just gone one o’clock, not time for the blackout.”
“Visitor for you, Miss Harcourt—so get yourself decent.”
Maisie raised an eyebrow, and made her way up the stairs to the third-floor accommodation rented to the actress. She introduced herself and gave Harcourt a calling card.
“Psychologist and investigator? This must be about Cath.” Polly Harcourt wore her dark hair shorter than was fashionable, though it drew attention to her pale skin and hazel eyes. She was already “decent,” wearing navy blue trousers with an embroidered cotton blouse tucked into the waistband and topped with a yellow cardigan, but had no shoes on her feet. “Come on in then—but excuse the mess. I was late last night, and as you can see, I haven’t even bothered to put a pair of slippers on.” She placed the calling card on the desk and began to pick up a few items of clothing from the back of an armchair as Maisie entered, hanging a jacket and dress in the wardrobe. Maisie used the moment to look around the room. It was similar in size to Catherine Saxon’s quarters, and—somewhat to Maisie’s surprise—another element of similarity was a desk with papers laid out upon it, and to the right a series of shelves filled with possibly more books than Saxon had acquired. “You seem surprised,” said Harcourt, looking up at Maisie as she closed the wardrobe door. “The way you’re looking at my room.”
“I thought Miss Saxon was the only writer in the house, but perhaps not.”
“Catherine always said I should try to write a play.” She sighed. “And a couple of days ago I thought I might as well, seeing as the theater has closed until this spate of bombing is over. A few have stayed open, but probably not for long—and naturally not the play I was in. Anyway, I was only the stand-in—but all the same, it means I’m back to leaning on my savings.” Another sigh. “And thank heavens I’ve got something put by for a rainy day. But I’m off to work in a few hours—one thing that hasn’t changed is the nightclub where I’m the barmaid when I haven’t anything else lined up. The club’s in an old cellar, over near Paddington, and believe me, there’s quite a few who’ve discovered it’s not a bad place to sit tight until the bombing stops, because we’ve got a fair amount of beer, gin and whiskey stashed out the back. And it’s work that pays the rent.” She paused, looking down at her stockinged feet. “I suppose I started writing the play because I miss her. I miss Cath. She was a real live wire, even though she said I should stay away from any idea of getting into those Hollywood pictures. She said the films only give a sunny impression of what it’s like over there.”
