Spitfire

by M. L. Huie

  SPITFIRE

  A Livy Nash Mystery

  M. L. HUIE

  To Brook, for Paris and everything.

  Acknowledgments

  Although my name is listed on the cover, so many people have given their time and expertise in the creation of this book.

  First, I’m beyond lucky to have such a skilled and clever editor as Chelsey Emmelhainz. She has made every page better.

  Also to my fabulous agent Carrie Pestritto, who has kept the faith and been a tireless advocate. I need more space here to convey adequate thanks.

  Thanks also to Beatrix Conti, as well as to everyone at Laura Dail Literary and Crooked Lane Books.

  I could post a lengthy bibliography of the many books I relied on for research, but I would like to recommend two especially: A Life in Secrets: Vera Atkins and the Missing Agents of WWII by Sarah Helm is a great story as well as a perfect primer on SOE’s F Section. Also, Andrew Lycett’s biography of Ian Fleming illuminates a complicated man who had a golden imagination.

  My profoundest thanks go to my dear friends Dr. Sally Barbour and true French hero André Roche. Their patience with my questions about all things France helped bring 1946 Paris to life for me. I also seem much smarter thanks to the kindness of friends in the UK—Anthony Coppin and Russell Brown.

  Thanks to Rosalind Tedford, Philip Powell, and Carter Smith—generous souls who read early drafts and offered words of encouragement as well as editorial support. Also to Charlie Lovett, Janice Lovett, Reed Johnson, and Megan Bryant for their advice and unwavering kindness.

  This book would not exist without the help of my late friend James Dodding, who took me to Blackpool and showed a Yank true Lancashire hospitality. I so wish you could read this, dear friend, and that I could say thank you.

  Finally, to Ian and Lucy, who inspire me in so many ways. Ian—thanks for encouraging me to “do something with this one,” and Lucy—maybe you can read the rest of the book when you get to high school.

  Any inaccuracies in this work are solely the fault of the author and not the lovely people listed above.

  Though those that are betrayed do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor stands in worse case of woe.

  —Shakespeare, Cymbeline

  In fact as foreign manager of The Sunday Times and Kemsley newspapers I am engaged throughout the year in running a world-wide intelligence organisation …

  —Ian Fleming

  Chapter One

  London, June 1946

  Livy Nash couldn’t open her eyes. The lids felt like bricks. Her head pounded in rhythm to the throb of traffic outside. Where had she ended up last night? She had no idea. The inside of her mouth tasted like curry and vodka, the realization of which sent a pang of nausea through her body. God, she needed a loo. No choice but to open one eye. Ever so slightly.

  The light smarted. She recognized a watch with a cracked face on the bedside table next to an almost-empty bottle of Polish vodka. She was in her flat, at least. Then she heard the bells chiming from St. Michael’s down the street, and she remembered.

  How long would she need to look suitable for Buckingham Palace?

  Calculations raced through her brain as she dragged herself to the edge of the bed. Ten minutes to properly dress. Thirty by train to get to Charing Cross. Probably another fifteen to walk. She needed an hour—give or take. She had forty minutes.

  Plenty of time for one more drink.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, Livy hurried down the front steps of her Camden Town walk-up, headed for the tube. Her fingers fumbled with the last buttons on her black mackintosh as drizzle dotted her slouch hat. She looked up just in time to avoid hitting her landlord, Mr. Langham, who blocked her path to the street. His three-piece pinstripe concealed much of his corpulence, but despite the suit, Langham cut an imposing figure.

  “Miss Nash, just who I was hoping to see,” he said, his nasal voice entirely at odds with his girth. “I’m hoping you might have something for me.”

  “I do, yes,” she said. It was a lie. “I’m late, though. For the palace.”

  “The palace, of course. Hobnobbing with the royals, are we? Well, I won’t keep you long, Miss Nash. Consider this your third notice regarding your rent, which has been in arrears for the better part of two months.”

  “I know, and I will have it for you by the end of the week. But I—”

  “—can’t keep His Majesty waiting, to be sure,” Langham said, sneering. “I’ll see you on Friday then. Or in a week’s time, I’ll be round with prospective tenants.” He pivoted, allowing Livy access to the road. She offered apologies and scurried past.

  God, how late would she be now? These days she was behind in everything. Late for work. Late with the rent. She’d always been bad with money. But lately, with rationing and Black Market Billy raising his rates on the Polish vodka she craved, her purse was considerably lighter. But none of that mattered today. She had to be on time today.

  Breaking into a trot, Livy looked down and noticed a brown soup stain at the hem of the crepe dress. She figured she looked a complete wreck. Her hair always resembled a rat’s nest, but today the rest of her matched. Who gives a toss? No one would be looking at her today anyway. The day belonged to all the honorees, Peter among them. They’d eye his widow and their little boy. John would be five now, Livy reckoned. The rest of the invitees would be ogling the king.

  Revelers packed the train into central London, everyone smiling fit to pop. Why not? The London Victory Celebrations would be commemorated by a parade down the Strand led by His Majesty, George VI.

  The clatter of the train rattled tenfold inside Livy’s vodka-soaked brain. No one in her car noticed it, though. They’d fought for this day and looked as though they planned to enjoy it. All the men had pulled out their old uniforms. Some had put on enough weight in a year that they bulged out of belts and fitted tunics. A few still had that shell-shocked gaze, their eyes fixed blankly ahead as if they expected air-raid sirens to go off any moment. Some hugged their children, spouses, or girlfriends as if to make up for lost time. But most of them just looked relieved to be on the other side of it.

  She envied them and their ability to just enjoy the day. For her, the war hadn’t been something to be endured; it had given her purpose and meaning. Qualities her life now decidedly lacked.

  If Peter had been here, things might be different. He would have loved a victory parade. Just like all these other happy folks on the train, he’d bask in every moment with family and ex-comrades-in-arms. He lit up any room with that big smile on his V-shaped face. They could have enjoyed this day together.

  The first time Livy had met Peter Scobee, she’d just fallen out of a plane in a field in France. The beauty of that moonlit flight across the English Channel three years ago had calmed her jangling nerves. It had been a one-way flight behind enemy lines in a two-seat Lysander, painted black to make it less of a target for German anti-aircraft. Below her the torn and battered coastline of France somehow looked serene in the blue moon glow.

  The landing was not so peaceful.

  The pilot, who had to guide the Lysander with only a map and compass, put the plane down hard in a small clearing barely a hundred yards long on barren farmland just south of Paris. The front wheels bounced and jerked the nose of the aircraft up as the pilot struggled to get the small aircraft down. Four people, all dressed in black, ran alongside the plane as it skipped through the clearing, but the Lysander whipped past the reception committee, skidding to a stop just before a bank of trees at the end of the field.

  “Get out. Quick,” the pilot barked over his shoulder. “Too much noise on the landing. Might’ve alerted the Boche.”

  Livy stood, trying to reach her pack under the cramped seat. The torque of the p
lane caused her to lose her balance, sending her arse-over-elbow to the hard French terrain below. She managed to keep her head up, but the force of the fall knocked the wind from her as she landed hard on her back.

  By this time, the reception committee had caught up with the plane, and a tall man wrapped in a tattered farmer’s jacket offered her his hand.

  Livy, embarrassed by the indignity of her landing, sloughed him off and got up on her own despite the unwieldy weight of her pack. She righted herself and looked up at him, his smile crooked, hair looking as if a comb had never touched it, right hand extended.

  “Thank you very much, but I can do for myself just fine,” she said, getting her wind back.

  The tall man chortled. “Did you bring the hotpot, Lanky girl?”

  Livy hated it when southerners scoffed at her Lancashire accent, which became stronger under moments of duress, such as falling out of a plane behind enemy lines in France. The more her face reddened, the louder he’d laughed. She’d hated Peter Scobee that day.

  Now, turning away from the interior of the train car and the expressions of the happy and numb, Livy reminded herself that Peter deserved to be here among the lucky ones who’d made it home.

  The train began to slow. She glanced at her watch. The ceremony began in twenty-five minutes. What time, she wondered, would it be over?

  Livy hurried out of the Charing Cross station heading for Trafalgar Square and the Mall. There she fell in with a small crowd of the well dressed who had to be making their way to the palace as well. She wouldn’t be the only one keeping the king waiting.

  “Olivia. Is that you?”

  Livy turned to see a muted-pink hat flouncing its way through a pack of the gentry, headed toward her. A moment later, Livy could see the head wearing it.

  Patricia O’Toole’s long face broke into a grin of recognition as she came up alongside Livy. Being the wife of Geoffrey, the publisher of the newspaper with London’s second-lowest circulation, gave Patricia a certain status, at least in her own eyes. Despite the far-too-springlike-for-this-somber-occasion hat she wore, her frock would have been high-end at any of the finer ladies’ shops in the West End. Livy reckoned the woman must spend a fair share of her husband’s salary keeping up with their Kensington neighbors, even in the face of nationwide rationing.

  Patricia also wrote the column for women that Livy proofread for the paper. But the boss’s wife rarely made an appearance among the newsroom worker bees. The first time the two had met was at last year’s Christmas party, which in the spirit of austerity featured stale biscuits, tea, and not one ounce of booze. Though they’d chatted only a few minutes about the column, Patricia had sussed out the new girl. Livy knew she took stock of all the fillies in her husband’s stable, just to make sure they didn’t measure up when it came to breeding and stature.

  Livy turned and acknowledged Patricia with a forced smile. Her head thumped away, rattling with each step. Before another night of imbibing, she’d have to beg Black Market Billy for some aspirin.

  “Ah, Mrs. O’Toole. Out for the parade?”

  “Oh heavens no, dear. On my way to the palace, actually,” the woman said, as if it were a visit to the chemist’s.

  “So am I,” Livy said, “actually.” The word came out more like “ehhhhhk-chew–ulleee,” mimicking Patricia’s affected, hoity-toity vowels.

  If the slight registered, Patricia gave no sign. She was far too busy looking oh-so-shocked that one of the staff—Livy—would be trawling among the elite.

  “Is that so? For the George Cross presentations?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, wonderful, dear,” Patricia said, obviously containing her shock. “Geoffrey served with Colonel Dunbar. They still play tennis every Tuesday. But really I’d no idea at all. You mean you served?”

  “First Aid Nursing Yeomanry.”

  “A FANY, then?” Patricia’s lips turned down, as if suppressing a snicker.

  Livy had been called a “fanny” before, but never by a woman.

  A group of fair-haired Royal Air Force types brushed past them, going in the opposite direction. Patricia gave the RAF boys her warmest smile.

  “All our lovely boys. Still can’t help but feel for the families of the ones who never came back. Peter Scobee for one. Heard so much about him. Colonel Dunbar was singing his praises at dinner just the other night. I’m sure his wife must be so proud. Even though he was a spy.”

  “That what Geoffrey says?”

  Patricia cut her eyes at Livy’s impertinence, seemingly waiting for an apology. Livy kept walking.

  “So where is Mr. O’Toole?” she asked instead.

  “Probably already there, hobnobbing with Dunbar and the other fellows about how they miss the war. I told him if he wanted his wife to look presentable, he’d have to wait. It takes us girls a bit longer to look beautiful, doesn’t it, dear?”

  Us girls? Patricia might pass for forty-five on a good day, Livy thought.

  Ahead, the crowd thickened and Livy could make out the gold trim of the gates of Buckingham Palace about a quarter mile ahead. The enclosure surrounding the sturdy gray building gave the palace its only exterior touch of elegance. The Blitz had left much of London looking as though a giant fist had crushed it. The palace itself had been bombed multiple times over the course of the war, sustaining only slight damage. In doing all this, the Luftwaffe had managed to strengthen the wartime bond between the royal family and the people.

  As she drew closer, Livy noticed the Union Jack flying over the palace instead of the George Cross. Chosen on this day, no doubt, to show the united power of the empire.

  “One day, we really must sit down and have a long chat, you and I,” Patricia said, affecting a smile Livy felt sure she reserved for special occasions. “I simply must hear all about your experience with the FANYs. Perfect material for ‘The Ladies’ Front,’ don’t you think? The women behind the heroes. Oooooh, I like that. Oh, and dear”—she lowered her voice to sound conspiratorial—“you smell like a brewery.” Patricia fluttered away, disappearing into the throng of men in uniform.

  Ahead, the ornate gates stood open, and a group of about fifty people, all military accompanied by their spouses, walked in after passing a long-faced bloke who looked like every troll in every children’s book ever written. He discreetly held a guest list at his side, which he peeked at as each approached.

  It wasn’t only her Lancashire upbringing that made Livy feel like a complete outsider at a “do” such as this. For most people in the kingdom, an invite to Buckingham Palace would have been the perfect reason to splurge on a new frock, tell all their friends, and then boast about it for months, even years, after. She’d received the official palace invitation weeks ago. No reason at all to assume she would be anything but welcomed by the stuffy guardian at the gate. But still she felt like a fraud. As though someone in the crowd would suddenly stop, turn around, and point at her, shouting, “That woman is an impostor!”

  Just get through it, Livy told herself, as she edged closer to the gate.

  She made her final approach, hands in the pockets of her mackintosh, eyes front looking, not at Long Face but directly at the gray structure ahead, which symbolized the British monarchy.

  “Olivia Nash,” she said. Her tongue felt unwieldy in her mouth.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  Livy concentrated. “My name’s Olivia Nash.”

  “I do beg your pardon, miss, but you’ll have to step outside the gates. This is a private ceremony.”

  Her breath quickened. “I—I served with him—with Lieutenant Commander Scobee,” she said slowly.

  “Be that as it may, young lady, your name is not on my list. I shall have to ask you to step this way, if you don’t mind. Thank you, Admiral. My lady. Good morning to you.”

  Livy waited until two more oldsters had cleared the gate and then snatched the embossed guest list right out of Long Face’s gloved hands.

  “Miss, really�
��”

  Livy scanned the names. She turned the creamy vellum over, reread the list.

  She couldn’t find her name anywhere.

  “Livy.”

  She wanted to vomit. Right here, right now. Humiliated in front of the Patricia O’Tooles of the world. A gate crasher at a party she didn’t even want to attend. Long Face grabbed the list back, and Livy found herself leaning against the gates of the palace, her downcast eyes fixed on the silver buckle of a man’s left shoe.

  “Livy. Come with me.”

  Livy hardly registered the hand at her elbow as she was hurried past Long Face, away from the latecomers and across the street. Her eyes never left the ground. The anger that had caused her to rip the list out of that old bastard’s hand left her as quickly as it had come. Now, she felt nothing.

  Above her, Queen Victoria sat on the throne, all pale and stern in flowing robes, her scepter ready to brain any interlopers to the royal grounds. Towering over even the Queen, the bronze figure of Winged Victory looked out over London.

  Right, the Victoria Memorial.

  “Get hold of yourself. Lean on the memorial if you have to.”

  She knew the voice that sounded in her ear, although more than a year had passed since she’d last heard it.

  Colonel Henry Dunbar let go of her elbow. He’d put on weight in the past year. Must have been all that port the old boys at Six guzzled. His hair seemed thinner on top and had grayed at the temples. The wrinkles around his eyes ran deep and down his cheekbones to his unsmiling mouth. Only the stiff black mustache appeared as hearty as it had been when he was overseeing the Firm.

  “Now look, I tried to get hold of you yesterday. I even sent someone round to your flat, but you weren’t home. I can’t have you here at this ceremony today.”

  “Why am I not on that list?” she demanded, her voice rough.

  “I’m sorry, Livy, but today is too important. Clara is receiving the George Cross in Peter’s memory. We can’t have distractions.”

  Livy looked over Dunbar’s old uniform. She’d never seen him in full dress before. Which of those medals had he gotten for sending men and women to die in France, she wondered.