“Girls and boys of the ballet,” she began in a plummy voice. “Of course all of our prayers are with Estelle and her family at this time. Estelle died doing what she loved to do most—dance. Let us have a moment of silence.”
Her dark eyes scanned the lines of dancers. “Where is Sarah Sanderson?”
Sarah took a small step forward. “Yes, Madame?”
“As understudy, you will be performing the role of the Sylph until further notice.” Madame clapped her hands again. “That is all.” And she strode off the stage.
The dancers erupted into fits of whispers. The officials arrived with a stretcher for Estelle’s body, looking even tinier and more delicate in death than it had in motion on the stage. The dancers stood wide-eyed and mute now, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
Sarah put her hand on Maggie’s arm. “I need to get out of here.”
Together they climbed the back stairs to the corps dressing room. It was narrow and windowless, lined with lighted mirrors, the counters littered with pans of eye shadow and tubes of lipstick. There was a pincushion on the counter, a porcelain Hitler, bent over, with straight pins bristling in his fabric bottom. And in the corner, an enormous bouquet—white roses, yellow laburnum, and purple carnations. It was arranged in the Victorian tussy-mussy style, petals just beginning to fall, water turning brackish.
Maggie had learned the symbolism of flowers in literature from an English class at Wellesley. She had even written a paper on flower imagery in Oscar Wilde’s Picture of Dorian Gray. She’d never liked writing papers, but was enthralled by the idea of sending coded messages through flowers, called floriography. The New England college classroom seemed very long ago and far away—certainly a world away from Edinburgh at war.
“These are—were—Estelle’s,” Sarah said, walking to the flowers and bending down to sniff. “Ouch!” she cried.
“Are you all right?”
“Damn thorns,” Sarah mumbled, sucking at her finger.
“ ‘But he who dares not grasp the thorn, should never crave the rose,’ ” Maggie quoted. It was easier to quote from novels than think about Estelle.
“Honestly, I have no idea what you’re talking about half the time.” Sarah gave a crooked smile and sat down to wipe off her makeup. “I wish I’d gone to university, like you, kitten.”
“It’s a quote from Anne Brontë—and I wish I could go en pointe, like you. I’m so clumsy most of the time.” Maggie remembered seeing John in Berlin and almost falling before they could embrace. She wished that she could tell Sarah all about Berlin, and John, and even the Black Dog—but she couldn’t.
Lithe dancers began to filter in, uncharacteristically silent and somber, slipping into silk robes and taking off their thick makeup. Sarah was pulling off spidery false eyelashes when there was a sharp knock on the dressing room door. “Open up!”
The dancer closest, huddled into a robe, opened it. “Nobody leaves!” a tall policeman shouted in a thick Scottish burr. “This is a crime scene!
“You!” he said, jabbing a finger at the dancer who’d opened the door, one of the youngest of the corps.
“Yes?” she whispered, shrinking back. “Sir?”
“We’re looking for a Miss Mildred Petrie. And a Miss Sarah Sanderson. Are they here?”
Sarah stood. “I’m Sarah Sanderson.”
The witch rose, too. “And I’m Mildred Petrie.” She still had on her prosthetic warty nose and green makeup, looking like the Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz. Sarah’s eyes were large and frightened. Mildred looked to be in shock as well—although her small eyes were far less expressive.
“I’m afraid, ladies, that we’re taking you in for questioning.”
“May I at least put on some clothes?” Sarah asked.
“Yes, of course,” said the shorter officer, recoiling from Mildred and her nose. “Please do.”
Maggie went outside with the police officers. “What sort of questioning?” she demanded, stepping forward.
“Sorry, Miss. Police business.”
“Well then, which station are you taking them to?”
“St. Leonard’s.”
Sarah and Mildred both emerged a few minutes later, their faces pale without makeup, wearing street clothes. Maggie trotted alongside as they exited the theater by the stage door. The dancers were guided into the backseat of a shiny black police car. “Why do you need to question them?” Maggie insisted.
“I can’t say anything, Miss,” answered the shorter police officer. “I’m sorry.”
Sarah and Mildred settled into the seat. “Maggie …” Sarah put her fingers against the glass.
“I’ll get to the bottom of this, I swear,” Maggie promised.
She turned to the taller officer. “Are you charging them with a crime?” Maggie wasn’t an expert in the laws of Britain, but she was pretty sure people had to be informed. “You do have to tell them!”
The bobby looked Maggie straight in the eye. “We’re bringing them both in for questioning—regarding the murder of Miss Estelle Crawford.”
St. Leonard’s Police Station, on St. Leonard’s Lane, was a yellow-brick building dwarfed by the cliffs of Castle Rock and then the imposing fortress itself. Maggie entered and took a seat in the waiting room, watching the clock and worrying at an unraveling seam at the fingertips of her gloves. “Cuppa tea, Miss?” the woman at the reception desk asked.
“No,” Maggie managed. “No, thank you.”
Sarah was in another room, being questioned. The taller police officer, Herbert Craig, sat down in a battered metal chair across the small wooden table from Sarah. The legs scraped at the worn gray linoleum. “I want to reiterate, for the record, Miss Sanderson, that you’ve waived your right to a solicitor.”
“Yes,” Sarah said softly. “I have nothing to hide.”
“All right.” Craig uncapped his pen and scribbled on the margin of his notepad, to encourage the ink flowing. “You’re Miss Estelle Crawford’s understudy?” He was youngish, maybe in his late twenties, with a long, thin face that matched his long, thin body. An empty pinned-up left sleeve explained why he wasn’t serving in the military.
“Yes,” Sarah answered. She was pale from shock.
“So, if she didn’t go on, you would dance the leading role in her place.”
“Yes.”
Craig made a note on his pad. “And that would mean extra money?”
“Well … yes. But you can’t imagine …”
“Just answer the questions, please, Miss Sanderson.”
“Yes.”
“And I understand this was a special night? Opening night? And there would be critics in attendance?”
“Yes.” Sarah blinked back tears. “But I adored Estelle—we all did—you can’t imagine I’d ever—”
“Again, please just answer the questions, Miss,” he commanded, but he took out a cambric handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to her.
She dabbed at her eyes. “Yes, it was opening night, and yes, there were several critics in attendance.”
He made another note. “Do you know a Mr. Richard Atholl?”
“Of course. He’s our conductor.”
“How would you characterize your relationship with him?”
“Relationship?” Sarah looked puzzled and blew her nose. Another coughing jag, this one even more violent, from down deep in her lungs, shook her slender body.
The officer’s eyes softened. “Are you all right, Miss?”
“Fine,” Sarah said dismissively, raising her chin. “And my relationship with Mr. Atholl is professional.” She lowered the handkerchief and twisted it in her lap. “I am a dancer. Mr. Atholl is a conductor. The orchestra under his direction that accompanies us is excellent.”
“Did you and he ever have a relationship that was closer? More …” Officer Craig looked almost embarrassed to have to ask. The tips of his oversized ears glowed red. “… intimate?”
“No!” Sarah cr
ied. “He’s married, for heaven’s sake!” Then, realizing how naïve that sounded, she amended, “No, we were never intimate, we’re not even what you’d call friends. It’s a professional relationship. That’s all.”
“Were you aware of his having any extramarital relationships with any of the other dancers?”
Sarah folded the handkerchief in her lap and sat up straight, posture impeccable. She radiated dignity. “Officer Craig, I am a professional dancer in Britain’s finest ballet company. We work together, we travel together, we perform together, and, yes, sometimes people do sleep together.” She lifted her chin. “But I’m focused on my dancing. And pay no mind to gossip.”
Craig made another note, then set down his pen and stood. “Thank you, Miss Sanderson.”
Sarah breathed a sigh of relief. “May I go now?”
He shook his head and had the decency to look shamefaced. “We’re going to keep you in custody for a little while longer, I’m afraid.”
Sarah’s long, graceful hand went to her mouth, smothering another cough. “Are you—are you charging me with—” She couldn’t say the word murder, so she amended to “—a crime?”
“Since you’re under suspicion of murder, we can keep you, without arresting you, for three days.” Craig added, in gentler tones: “But no, for the time being, we’re not charging you with anything.”
“Three days?” Sarah whispered.
“If you’d like to confess something …”
“No,” she said, setting her jaw and standing, her spine ramrod-straight. “No. I have nothing further to say.”
A meeting had been called to discuss Bratton’s theory about a possible Japanese strike.
As Secretary of Defense General George C. Marshall was out of town, overseeing maneuvers in North Carolina, Bratton took his decrypts and his analysis for presentation to Secretary of War Henry L. Stimson.
The meeting was held at Stimson’s overheated smoke-filled office, with Secretary of State Hull in attendance. Stimson was unconvinced. “But do you have any actual facts, Colonel Bratton?” In the background, the radiator clanked and a French mantel clock ticked, then chimed seven.
Hull looked up from copies of Bratton’s memos and put down his pince-nez on the glossy wooden table. “Bratton’s analysis is on the nose,” he said.
Bratton’s usually sour expression lightened for a moment.
But Hull continued. “Henry, I’m washing my hands of the whole matter. From now on, it’s up to you and the Navy.”
Stimson crushed out his black cigarillo in a heavy aluminum Navy ashtray bearing the insignia of the USS Arizona and nodded. “I’ll call the President.”
Bratton was shocked, first that Hull was relinquishing all responsibility and also that Stimson wasn’t going to do more. “But what else can we do? Sir?” he added.
“The President will be informed, Colonel Bratton,” Stimson shot back. “But I know just what he’s going to say—he’s adamant that we maneuver the Japanese into firing the first shot. You’ll keep me appraised of any new developments?”
Bratton looked as if he were about to say something—then closed his mouth. “Yes, sir. I’ll keep you appraised.”
To pass the time, Maggie was knitting dark-blue soldiers’ socks she had stashed in her handbag, metal needles clicking in the silence. She nearly pounced on Craig when he appeared in the waiting room of the St. Leonard’s Police Station. “Is Sarah Sanderson under arrest?” she asked, slipping the half-finished sock in her handbag.
“I’m sorry, I can’t comment, Miss.”
“How long are you going to hold her?”
“I really can’t say, Miss.”
Maggie sensed he was a decent fellow, just doing his job. “Is she … all right?”
“As all right as anyone can be in a situation like this, Miss.” He looked at the black-and-white clock on the cement wall: According to the black Roman numerals, it was three in the morning. “Miss Sanderson’s being taken to a cell now, where she can get some sleep, while we question the other dancer. Why don’t you go and get some rest, too? Come back in the morning. Maybe there will be more information then.”
“I’ll stay,” Maggie said resolutely, not wanting to leave her friend.
In an even gentler voice, Officer Craig said, “I’m afraid you can’t, Miss. I must insist you leave. It’s policy—no overnight guests.”
Reluctantly, Maggie returned to the Caledonian Hotel, rows of chimneys black against the starry indigo sky. Up in her tiny room, she tugged off her coat and gloves, unpinned her hat, kicked off her shoes, then threw herself on the bed. In her mind’s eye, images spun—Estelle as the Sylph, Mildred as the witch, making her poisonous brew … Estelle’s collapse … Sarah’s face as the officer called her name … The little Jewish girl in the Berlin train station, asking for water … Gottlieb killing himself before the Gestapo could get to him … The young German train attendant, her bullet piercing his chest …
The Black Dog bared his fangs and circled.
“No!” Maggie called out aloud, knowing she sounded foolish, but well past the point of caring. “Sarah’s going to be fine. I will do everything I can to see to that, you hear me? Now, go! Off with you! That’s right, shoo!”
This time, the Black Dog backed down—and Maggie fell into a restless sleep.
Chapter Eight
It was morning, and still Clara seemed to be in a catatonic state. She’d been moved to a cage in Dr. Carroll’s office. Behind the bars, she lay on a metal bed with a thin mattress, her wrists and ankles bound with leather restraints. Her glassy eyes stared up at the ceiling.
“The emergence of the Agna Frei personality seems to have been spontaneous,” said Dr. Carroll to Peter Frain. “Frau Hess is able to slip into a spontaneous hypnotic trance that’s deep enough to allow age regression. But with hypnosis, we can also induce the emergence of Agna.”
“We’ll see,” Frain said skeptically.
Dr. Carroll sat on a chair positioned next to the bed. Frain remained in the door frame, neither in nor out of the room, hat in hand, coat over his arm. Behind him lurked the two omnipresent guards.
“I want you to close your eyes and relax,” Dr. Carroll said in a soothing voice. Clara’s eyes closed. “You are going into a deep sleep. I want you to relax the muscles in your forehead, in your cheeks, around your mouth. I want you to relax your eyes …”
On and on, Dr. Carroll spoke, until Clara’s breathing became deep and regular.
When he was finished, she woke.
She immediately began to cry. “My Oma is sick! They told me she was on holiday, but really she’s in hospital.”
“Agna?” Dr. Carroll wanted to make sure who it was.
“Yes?” The voice was thin and childish.
“How do you know your Oma is sick?”
“I heard Mutti talking to the doctor on the telephone when she thought I was outside, playing.”
“Is Mutti with you now?”
“No, I’m alone in the house.” Clara struggled against her restraints, then quieted. “I’m always alone.”
“Do you know where your mother is?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know where Mutti goes.” Then, “She doesn’t love me, you know.”
“Why do you think she doesn’t love you?”
“She says I make her nervous. She doesn’t like it when I’m around.” Clara’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I try to be good,” she insisted. “I try hard. So hard.”
“You try hard, yes,” the doctor said, making notes in Clara’s chart.
“My Oma loves me, though. I can tell. She doesn’t mind my being around. Even if I spill something, or break something.”
“What does your mother do if you spill or break something?”
Clara’s gaze blurred. “I’m a doll!” she said, giggling. It was as if someone had changed the wireless station.
“You’re a doll? What kind of doll?”
“A doll—like the one my Oma made me.
She’s beautiful, with a painted china face and real silk for her dress.”
“What’s her name?”
“Clara.”
The doctor looked to Frain, who gestured for him to continue. “Clara is your doll?”
“Clara is my friend. I don’t have any other friends. Real friends.”
“Doesn’t your mother want you to have friends?”
“No, just Clara. And my books. And I like to sing. I have that.” She smiled, an utterly guileless smile. She began to sing, not in an operatic soprano’s voice, but in the dulcet tones of a child, the traditional song “Eins, zwei, Polizei”:
One, two, police
three, four, officer
five, six, old witch
seven, eight, good night!
nine, ten, good-bye!
And with that, she fell back down to the pillow, breathing heavily, eyes closed—as if asleep.
After a restless night, Maggie woke. She slipped from the bed and pulled back the blackout curtains. Outside she could see, in the gray just before the breaking of the dawn, the dark outline of Edinburgh Castle, perched atop the sheer Castle Rock. Ha—I’d like to see any invading Nazis try and climb that! For this was where Edinburgh’s last stand would take place—if it came to that.
She had breakfast at the hotel’s dining room, and then started out for St. Leonard’s Police Station. As the sun rose in a pearly lavender sky, she had a chance to actually see Edinburgh, which had been blacked out the night before.
It was quieter and the streets were less crowded than London. Chimneys in a row belched thick black smoke, while a lone seagull flew high overhead, giving a faint cry. The architecture felt heavier, darker, more Victorian; most buildings were made from porous sandstone, which absorbed the soot and smog carried back down by the rain before it could drift away.
The gray sky began to snow, big lacy flakes that melted as soon as they hit the dark wet pavement. Maggie did her best to avoid the slushy puddles, bird droppings, and burned-out cigarette butts as the flakes flew thicker and faster. She saw a young boy and girl tucked into an alley to huddle together for warmth, sneaking a few kisses. How long will it be until he volunteers or is called up? Maggie wondered. In Princes Street Gardens, in the shadows of the castle, boys threw snowballs through the twisted trees. And how long before they’ll be throwing bombs?
The Prime Minister's Secret Agent Page 10
