Mr. Churchill's Secretary: A Novel

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  Then, to Maggie, “Who are you?”

  “Kneel!” Claire hissed.

  “No,” he said, not believing his eyes.

  “Shut up.”

  John did as she directed, dropping the clipping and his papers and falling to his knees, hands on his head. But he kept his eyes on her face. “Paige,” he said, finally accepting the figure in front of him.

  “I’m not Paige!” she cried, her hand shaking. “My name is Claire.”

  “Paige—Claire,” he said. “Don’t do this. Whatever’s going on, just put down the gun and we can talk about it.”

  She was silent, lips pressed tightly together, while one hand wrested the case off the P.M.’s bed pillow. She threw the pillowcase at him. “Put this over your head. Then turn around.”

  “If you’re going to murder me,” John said slowly, pillowcase in hand, “at least have the courage to look me in the eye.”

  She did not.

  “Paige. Put down the gun.” John stood up very slowly, lowered his arms, and took a step toward her.

  “Stay where you are!” Claire said shrilly. She caught a glimpse of the clipping that had fallen. “What—what’s that?” she cried. “Where did you get that?”

  “The advert?” John asked softly. “Why? Did you have something to do with that? Operation Naval Person?”

  Claire blanched, and John knew that Maggie had been right. He took another step forward. “It’s over, Paige.”

  “No,” she whispered. Her hand was shaking.

  “Yes,” he countered.

  “I’m afraid it is over, Miss Kelly,” echoed Snodgrass from the doorway.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “WHO ARE YOU?” the man repeated. Their eyes locked, and Maggie felt a shudder of recognition.

  She tried not to stare. “My name—” she began in a small voice. Then, stronger, “My name is Margaret Hope.”

  “Margaret Hope,” the man said, leaning back in his army-issued metal folding chair. “Margaret Hope, Margaret Hope, like the Pope, Pope, Pope, is a joke, is a joke, is a joke, joke, joke!”

  She stared in disbelief. The features were the same ones she knew from photographs—the man had the same high forehead, aquiline nose, and strong jaw. He was older now, of course, and laugh lines, forehead creases, and silver hair at his temples had changed his appearance. But not too much.

  There was no mistake. This was her father.

  And there was something terribly wrong with him.

  “Pope, joke, antelope,” he muttered, gazing off to an unseen point. “Lope, rope, billy goat!”

  “Father?” she said softly. “Daddy?”

  The door creaked open. “Ah, Miss Hope, Professor Hope,” a high-pitched nasal voice said. Maggie turned to find a tall, thin man with a receding hairline and small yellow teeth. He was dressed in a gabardine jacket and slacks. “My name is Kenneth Easton. Pleased to meet you, Miss Hope.”

  He walked in and turned on an overhead light. “I must apologize,” he said. “I meant to be here when you arrived, to make introductions.”

  Grasping Easton’s outstretched hand for support, her father rose to his feet. Although he was wearing a shirt and tie and jacket, when he shuffled from behind the desk, it became clear that he was also wearing blue-striped cotton pajama pants and scuffed leather slippers.

  “Edmund,” he said to the man, “this is your daughter, Margaret Hope. Miss Hope, this is your father.”

  The man who was her father continued to mutter and mumble, his eyes unfocused.

  “All right, Edmund,” Easton said, not unkindly, “let’s get you back, shall we?” He wrapped a coat around her father’s shoulders and placed a red-plaid tea cozy on his head. “Won’t wear a hat,” he said to Maggie, a note of apology in his voice.

  A white-clad nurse arrived at the door, the edges of her hat curled upward like wings. “Professor Hope,” she said in a stern voice, “time for your medicine.” Before he shuffled off with her, he looked back in Maggie’s direction. “Grand, band, shake her hand,” he said in a monotone.

  “Let’s be on our way, Professor Hope,” the nurse said.

  “Shake hand! Shake hand!” he insisted.

  Mr. Easton sighed. “Miss Hope, would you oblige?”

  She extended her hand, and her father clasped it with both of his. The grip was weak, and the flesh was cold.

  And then, like a wraith, he was gone.

  “Mr. Easton,” she managed finally, “how—how do you know my father?”

  Kenneth Easton gestured to another metal folding chair and took the one behind the desk that Maggie’s father had vacated. “Miss Hope, please sit down.”

  When she did, she realized how shaky her legs were.

  “May I offer you a cup of tea?”

  Goddamned stupid British and their goddamned constant need for tea! “No. Thank you. But I would like some answers.”

  “Of course you would,” he said, folding his hands. “I know that you’ve signed the Official Secrets Act, so you know that any and all information you learn you must protect—upon pain of death. Hanging, specifically …”

  “Yes, yes,” she said brusquely, waving a hand. “Please.”

  “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? When your parents were in the car accident, your mother died instantly,” he said, voice gentle now. “But your father was alive. Barely, but alive. He was in a coma for quite some time, and then had a long and arduous road to recovery.”

  Mr. Easton made a steeple with his fingers. “Apparently, you were taken to America by your father’s sister, a Miss Edith Hope. Because of the precarious state of his physical, and especially mental, health, she made the decision not to tell you he was still alive. She asked him to honor that decision, which he has.”

  A horrible, awful, and unforgivable decision.

  “But—”

  “It was a most difficult situation. You see, your father recovered to a certain extent, but he never fully regained his faculties. He was able to function—at an exceptionally high level—as a professor at LSE. But he was almost, how shall I put this? An idiot savant—gifted in his subject but unable to form any sort of connection with the people around him.”

  My God.

  “As time went on, even that was taken away from him. By the time the war began, he’d already left LSE and was living in Cambridge, cared for by some of the old guard at Trinity.”

  “If he’s so ill,” Maggie said slowly, “why is he here?”

  “Your father may be mentally ill, but he’s still a genius. And we are in desperate need of geniuses at Bletchley—or Station X, as we call it. Established in ’thirty-nine by the Government Code and Cypher School to intercept—”

  “Yes. Where you’re breaking German ciphers.”

  Easton looked shocked.

  “I work for the Prime Minister,” Maggie explained. “I know what’s going on at Bletchley.”

  Easton took Maggie’s measure. Finally, he said, “Well, then you must know that we’ve recruited some of the most brilliant minds Britain has to offer. Alan Turing is here, of course. Has been from the beginning. But there are other remarkable people working here as well—mathematicians, cryptologists, Egyptologists, chess champions, crossword experts, polyglots—”

  “And my father.”

  “Yes, your father.”

  “But he’s still …?”

  “Mad as a hatter. But harmless, absolutely harmless. And brilliant. Can’t go into the particulars, of course, but there are some codes we never would have even touched if not for him. He’s doing hero’s work, you know.”

  “I see.” She didn’t really, not yet. But what else was there to say?

  “I know this is extraordinary news. But given the circumstances, and the fact that you’re working for the P.M., Snodgrass thought you should know.”

  She blinked. “Snodgrass? He’s responsible for this?”

  “Well, yes, of course,” Mr. Easton said. “Thinks quite highly of you, you know. Pu
lled a lot of strings for this meeting to happen.”

  It was just too much to take in.

  “I think I’ll take that cup of tea now, Mr. Easton.”

  “Claire Paige Kelly,” Snodgrass said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  In a series of quick and fluid movements, Snodgrass crossed over to her, twisted one arm behind her back, and took the gun from her other hand.

  She whimpered while he held on to her.

  He nodded to John, who went for the telephone. “Yes, a situation. In the P.M.’s War Room office. Thank you.”

  John turned to Snodgrass, impressed and relieved. “Sir? You—you know her?”

  “Miss Kelly has been on the MI-Five watch list for some time, Mr. Sterling. She’s American, true, but has strong IRA connections. Let’s just say that we had more than enough reason to keep tabs on her.”

  John slumped over and grabbed onto the back of a wooden chair. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Two marines in full dress uniforms walked quickly into the room and assessed the situation. Snodgrass nodded to them. “Take her to the cell,” he said. He turned back to John. “And spoil all the fun?” The marines deftly snapped steel handcuffs around Claire’s wrists and began to lead her away.

  John looked back to the clipping. “Sir,” he said, bending down to retrieve it.

  “John,” Claire whispered, her eyes welling with tears.

  “No?” he said, rising up, clipping in hand. He turned to Snodgrass and handed it to him. “This advert contains code, sir. In the stitches. Decrypted, it says execute Operation Naval Person, Operation Paul, and Operation Hope. This … she …?” He gestured to Claire, who was now on her way out the door. “This attempted assassination was most likely Operation Naval Person.”

  “Let me see that,” Snodgrass said. He scanned the advert. “You’re sure?” he said.

  “Yes,” John replied. “Also, Maggie—Miss Hope—is at Bletchley. Asking questions. And starting to get answers.”

  “I know,” Snodgrass replied. “We have it under control. For now.”

  After the drive back and a desultory dinner, which neither one ate, Maggie and David went back to the hotel. In her room, David tried to fill the silence with chitchat as he lounged in a pistachio-green tufted chair. “Great Ganesh, did you see the way that desk clerk looked at us? Yes, we have two rooms, but you could just tell he thought there would be lots of”—he gave a significant pause—“sneaking back and forth during the night.”

  “Well, you are in my room now,” Maggie said, lying on the eiderdown quilt, looking at the corner where the toile wallpaper met the ceiling, trying to process everything Mr. Easton had told her. “And you will have to sneak back.”

  David slipped off his black-leather shoes and put his feet up on the bed. “Don’t suppose I could get a foot rub first?”

  “You have a hole in your sock.”

  David lifted up his foot and inspected it. His pink big toe poked through the black sock, with a few pieces of lint attached. “Nefarious Neptune.”

  “Try stockings,” she snorted. She looked down. Hers already had a small run at the heel.

  “Have, actually. None too comfortable.”

  There was a silence. “Look, do you—do you want to talk about it?” David ventured finally.

  “It’s just … Oh, I don’t know.” She was unsure how to put it into words. “I mean, my father’s alive. But he’s not really … there. I’m proud that he’s able to help the war effort, but—”

  “Does it feel like losing him all over again?”

  “In a way. I had all of these … expectations, and they’re all dashed now. And I had quite a few things to say to Aunt Edith, and now I only feel sorry for her. Maybe I wouldn’t have done the same thing in her shoes, but I’m beginning to understand why she did it.” She could see Aunt Edith, younger, with her whole future ahead of her, with a dead sister-in-law, an insane brother, and a small infant. “Maybe it’s best not to know everything.”

  David sighed. “Maybe so.”

  “And yet we just can’t help ourselves, can we?”

  David had fallen asleep in the chair, mouth slightly agape, snoring lightly. Maggie didn’t want to leave him alone at the hotel in the middle of the night. But she knew they were due back to No. 10 first thing in the morning—and this night might be the last chance she’d ever have to see her father again.

  She exchanged her suit for a heavy cardigan and brown corduroy trousers, and her linen pumps for thick-soled shoes. Then she found her coat and, pocketing her keys and ID, let herself out as silently as possible.

  As if anything short of an air-raid siren would rouse David from his snoring.

  “Rather late for a walk, don’t you think?” said the fat, balding, shiny-faced man at the front desk.

  “Insomnia,” she said. “Need a bit of fresh air.”

  “Don’t go too far,” the man cautioned. “Not a girl alone.” He gave her a lascivious look. “Unless you’re meeting someone.”

  Maggie gave him a conspiratorial look. “Actually, now that you mention it … Is there a back door I could use?”

  “Down that hall there and through the kitchen. Can’t miss it.” A broad wink. “Good luck, then, with your … meeting.”

  If he only knew.

  After Maggie left, the desk clerk picked up the telephone and dialed. “Yes, sir. She just left the hotel.”

  The blackout was in full effect, of course, but the moon was a crescent, silvery and high in the shadowy sky. The wind blew through the trees, and they rustled in the dark. The cool air smelled of earth and wood smoke. Overhead, the stars glimmered and gleamed—Ursa Minor and Polaris, Pegasus and Pisces, Cassiopeia and the diffused glow of the Milky Way.

  In her hand she had the piece of paper her father had slipped to her when they’d shaken hands as he left.

  It had taken quite the effort not to look surprised, and then to keep it hidden from Mr. Easton until she could hide it in her purse. It was even harder to wait until David and she had returned to the hotel and she’d been able to lock herself in the loo and read it:

  1301211303185251916152020575

  1017215514191916152118201815014

  23514554201520011211

  The numeric ramblings of a crazy man? At this point, Maggie doubted it. A code. Vigenère Cipher, most likely. But what’s the key? Usually both parties have a key of some sort.…

  Maggie thought. All right, what’s the one piece of information we both know, even after all these years, not knowing anything about each other? After a few false starts, Maggie hit on it: her birthday, March 1, 1916.

  And so, written numerically, the birthday became the key: 01/03/1916, which began the series of numbers:

  01/03/1916/4/5/6/7/8/9/10/11/12/13/14/15/16/17/18/19/20/21/22/23/24/25/26/

  And then, by substituting 01 = 1, 03 = 2 and 1916 = 3:

  1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10/11/12/13/14/15/16/17/18/19/20/21/22/23/24/25/26

  … which then became letters in sequence:

  a/b/c/d/e/f/g/h/i/j/k/l/m/n/o/p/q/r/s/t/u/v/w/x/y/z/

  And so,

  1301211303185251916152020575

  1017215514191916152118201815014

  23514554201520011211

  … became:

  13121133185253152020175

  101721551419315211820181514

  2351455420152011211

  … which then became:

  13/1/21/13/3/18/5/25 3/15/20/20/1/7/5

  10/17/21/5/5/14/19 3/15/21/18/20 18/15/1/4

  23/5/14/5/5/4/20/15 20/1/12/11

  And, finally,

  MAUMBREY COTTAGE

  10 QUEEN’S COURT ROAD

  WE NEED TO TALK

  TWENTY-THREE

  MAGGIE PICKED HER way carefully through the streets of the town, narrowly avoiding being hit by a bicyclist. “Watch it, lady!” he called through the darkness.

  “I’ll try,” she muttered. She passed closed-up shops, a restaurant, a pub—shutters dark, but the strains o
f “Roll Out the Barrel” still managed to penetrate. She gave a wry smile. Even in the midst of the blackout and war, people still found it in themselves to sing.

  As she passed out of town, still moving cautiously, the darkness began to feel thick. She could have been anywhere. But still, after a few wrong turns and a stumble that left her ankle sore, she found herself on Queen’s Court Road.

  Maumbrey Cottage was fashioned from round, gray stones and covered in ivy and hawthorn. By the light of the moon and stars, it looked like something out of a fairy tale. No seven little men or big bad wolf to meet me, Maggie thought. Just the Mad Hatter. She switched off her blackout torch, a slim pencil of fragile light piercing the darkness, and took a deep breath. She knocked at the door.

  After a few heart-wrenching seconds, she heard footsteps and then the squeak of the door as the man she recognized as her father answered. “Come in,” he said in a surprisingly reasonable voice. “May I take your coat?”

  Dumbly, she walked into the light, shrugged off her coat, and looked around. There was a small parlor with low beams and a kitchen beyond, and a steep staircase with dark Tudor woodwork. The room was cozy from a roaring fire.

  “Please sit down,” he said. “Tea? Or perhaps something stronger? I think I might have some brandy around still.”

  “Brandy. Please,” Maggie said, sitting down gingerly on the moth-eaten velvet sofa. Who is this man? He seemed perfectly fine now. His eyes had lost the glazed expression they’d had at Bletchley and now seemed warm and sane. He poured amber liquid into the two snifters and gestured to the couch.

  There was a silence. Then he began, “You broke the cipher. I thought you would. And now I suppose you’re wondering—”

  The hour, the lack of sleep, and the shocks of the last few days were starting to make Maggie feel frayed at the edges. “Why, yes,” she said. “I am.” She took a sip of the brandy. It felt hot going down her throat.