by Tessa Lunney
‘I’m so sorry, I could hardly get away.’ She hugged me and panted. ‘Ray had a bad day at work, and the undermaid girl—’
‘Undermaid girl?’
‘She has a title, third parlourmaid or something, but I can never remember it. She was in tears over some boy – I mean, really, how do those posh people cope with all this hullabaloo?’
‘Gin.’
‘Ha! Exactly. I felt like telling everyone to down a drink and grow up, but you know, lady of the house and all that.’ She raised one eyebrow in a smirk. ‘Although Ray would’ve preferred it if I’d stayed the lady in the house tonight—’
‘Don’t tell me he’s the jealous type.’
‘Do you think I’d stand for that? No, he just wanted his wife to soothe his ruffled feathers. Some bother in Germany, apparently.’
‘Germany?’ I didn’t want to turn Maisie into work, but how could I resist any news?
‘Oh yes,’ she sighed and linked her arm in mine as we walked towards Harry’s. ‘Rumours and hearsay. It’s the brown hats—’
‘Brownshirts?’
‘Yes, that’s the one. He got into a big fight with his colleagues. It’s not even to do with his work! But some of his colleagues, his boss, support them and Ray is deadset against them. He couldn’t stop himself from arguing with them.’
‘When you say “support”, do you mean financially?’
‘Oh, I doubt it. A Frenchman would never give money to a German. Why?’ She stopped and looked at me. ‘Is this your spy stuff?’
‘Shhh, Maisie—’
‘Do you need me to find out exactly how they support the Brownshirts?’
‘I don’t want you to be involved with my work for Fox—’
‘I won’t be, don’t worry. I’m just being a good wife, that’s all. Just being a good friend.’ She squeezed my hand.
I squeezed it back and kissed it. ‘You’re too good to me, Maisie.’
‘Rubbish. What about all those times that Captain Severn called me Nurse Golliwog and you stood up for me? Or when the more stupid blokes would recoil because they didn’t want to be touched by a n—’
‘Insupportable.’
‘You gave them a sharp scolding. I thought their moustaches would fall off in shock. I don’t forget.’ I hadn’t seen her look so serious for a long time. ‘But I need a drink now, Katie. Are we almost there?’
‘We are, in fact, on Harry’s street. Are you ready?’
‘I was born ready, Katie King.’
Harry’s party was in full swing by the time we arrived at her purple palace. A string trio played in the corner while liveried waiters carried around trays of champagne and nibbles.
‘How modern!’ said Maisie as she grabbed a little pie.
‘Oh, isn’t it though?’ said Harry. ‘I wanted jazz as well, but it would’ve been too much. Wendy’s work is modern enough, and I’ve found that if you want people to open their chequebooks, shocks are best administered one at a time.’
Harry handed us both glasses of bubbly.
‘Now, Kiki, I want you to gossip with everyone and write the most scurrilous nonsense about tonight. Say that people spent twice as much as they did, that the waiters were caught with the duchesses and that the band played the latest dance craze after midnight.’
‘Yes, ma’am!’
Harry smiled, but looked wistful and placed her hand on my cheek. ‘You’re looking better. That bath did wonders for you.’
‘And Maisie,’ I said. ‘Another friend from the war. She’s my other Nightingale.’
‘Another Florence,’ said Maisie.
‘And another Kiki rescuer, I see. Welcome to the club, Maisie.’ Harry and Maisie were almost the same height, both with piles of hair and big, open expressions.
‘Thank you, Miss Harker.’
‘Harry, please. Any friend of Kiki’s is a friend of mine. Now, make sure you eat me out of house and home. This party needs to be voracious. I’m relying on you!’
She kissed us both and whirled away in a twirl of purple.
‘Phew, what a place!’ said Maisie.
Harry had outdone herself. Every light in the place burned and extra lamps, candles, mirrors and crystals made her apartment glitter and glow. On every wall was one of Wendy’s works: large, vibrant, fierce portraits of female ambulance drivers. Some were in classical poses, some were Cubist interpretations of a wartime ambulance with lots of red and grey. Beside each painting was a little plaque with a story: some about the ambulance drivers, some from soldiers who had survived the trip to the clearing station. Harry’s Corps friends were stationed between the paintings, in their wartime uniforms, looking modern and strong with their cropped hair and cigarettes. They chatted away with the older partygoers, explaining the plaques in more detail, directing them to Harry when it looked like a sale might be in the offing. Harry put a bright red notice on one plaque – Sold – and applauded the coy old lush who had bought the portrait. Others turned, enquired, the band played louder as the Corps girls did their best to sell more paintings. Champagne cocktails came out, mimosas and kir royales, and the waiters stayed with the patrons so they could guzzle from the trays. The room seemed to throb, but whether that was the chatter, the lights or the variety of purples that adorned the place in velvet and brocade, it was impossible to tell.
‘This is pure Harry,’ I said. ‘The only way to participate is to dive in.’
‘Lucky I can swim,’ said Maisie.
I cleared a path through the living room crowd to the parlour. There was a small, surreptitious gathering at the door.
A skinny older woman with a bob even sharper than mine turned to me and spoke into her champagne glass. ‘We heard there was a Cézanne here.’
‘Have you seen it?’ I asked.
‘It’s supposed to be in this next room. The housekeeper won’t let us through.’
I looked over her shoulder and saw the petite figure of Annette, in her black uniform, standing resolute at the door. I moved up to her, the skinny older woman pretending not to listen in.
‘Annette, doing your duty. Very commendable.’
‘Thank you, Mademoiselle Kiki,’ she murmured with a little bow.
I stood close and spoke as low as I could. ‘I need to get in. There is someone I need to find, who will only be lured by Wendy’s Cézanne. Is it in there?’
‘Oui, mademoiselle.’
‘Harry knows about this little lure, and approves, but only if you guard the painting itself. Can you do this?’
Annette looked into my face, her honest eyes searching mine for traces of deceit. I felt naked, even though I was telling the truth. She nodded, turned and opened the door to the inner room like a vigilant revealing a shrine.
This was Harry and Wendy’s private parlour, with soft carpets and heavy drapes. The wall opposite the door was as bare as Harry could allow herself, just the lavender brocade wallpaper and two lamps. Their light shone on a painting, small enough to hold in your arms, of a still life. Apples, lemons, flowers – the Cézanne. The soft lamplight made each visible brushstroke shimmer as though alive. The purple wall made the yellows of the painting jump into the shadows beneath. Annette stood next to it – really, underneath it, as she was so short – hands folded in front of her, a vigilant incarnate. The little crowd surged through the door and then stopped, moved slowly up to the painting and gazed.
The drapes were tied back to display the view over the city. I waited by the window as I watched partygoers move into the room. Each looked back over their shoulder, as though this inner sanctum held a robber’s haul, an opium den, a harem. None of them noticed either me or Maisie, cloaked as we were by the shadows. I sipped slowly, watching, for a certain Black Violet to make an appearance.
‘What’s going on?’ Maisie whispered as loudly as she dared, as softly as she could.
‘I have to find someone and speak to her. All I can do now is wait.’
Maisie stared at the Cézanne and the room, turned
to the window, then back to me and raised her eyebrows.
I nodded. ‘Go on.’ I gestured to the main room. ‘Drink and dance. I could be hours.’
She downed her drink and slipped out of the room in a swish of silk. The light from the other room hit the freckles that speckled her strong shoulders, highlighted the curve of muscle and bone, so that I almost missed the woman who walked in behind her. But even if I hadn’t been looking, I would have recognised that sarcastic, bitter expression, fashionably too-pale skin punctuated by eyes that, in this gloom, looked black. Her black dress clung to her bones, a long scarf trailing behind her. She walked right up to the painting and only when she reached out to touch it did she notice Annette. She started, visibly recoiling from contact, as Annette warned her off. She sniffed and went back to examining the painting, firing Annette a volley of questions without looking at her. I saw Annette suppress a sigh; this was my cue.
‘Keen to purchase?’ I asked.
Violet frowned at me. ‘You’re the gossip reporter.’
‘And here to report. But I’m also a good friend of Harriet Harker.’
‘Who?’
‘The hostess.’ I raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh. I came with a friend. I have no interest in any of those ambulance drivers. Morbid, I say.’
‘But you have interest in the Cézanne.’
‘What was your name again?’ She frowned at me but didn’t move from her close position to the painting.
‘Kiki Button.’ I held out my hand but she gave me hers as though I was going to kiss it. I tucked it under my arm and dragged her away from the painting.
‘So, Violet, who’s the friend who brought you here? Your piratical mate, Hugh Fernly-Whiting?’
She stared, then let out a little ‘Oh’ and withdrew her hand. We stood by the window and her cigarette end made a new lamp to match the ones in the street. I lit one of my own to join her.
‘That’s right, I remember everything now. You’re the blonde he couldn’t stop flirting with. Well, one of them anyway.’ She looked me up and down and I gave her my this-joke-is-just-between-us smile. She huffed and tried not to smile in return. The hurt lover always needs someone to help them mock their beloved.
‘Piratical – you mean the scar and the missing fingers?’ she asked.
‘And the swagger and roguish look.’
‘Oh yes, he has those in spades.’
‘He’s here tonight?’
‘No, he’s at some meeting or other.’ She shrugged. ‘He never tells me where or why, just ups and leaves me to . . . well.’
‘To?’
She nodded towards the Cézanne.
‘He wants you to buy it?’
She laughed, loud and sharp, and the other people in the Cézanne shrine turned to look. She ignored them. ‘Yes, sure, let’s say that. He wants to buy it.’
‘He wants you to find out how he can “acquire” it.’
She put on a fake-innocent face. ‘Oh, I don’t know what you mean,’ she said in a high, breathy voice. Her expression dropped to one of anger as she dragged heavily on her cigarette.
Now was my chance. ‘If you wanted to hurt him – really hurt him – what would you do?’
She glanced at me and then lit another cigarette with the end of her first, a nasty little smile playing over her lips. ‘That’s easy, I’d give him up.’
‘For another woman?’
‘No – to the police.’ She inhaled with satisfaction. ‘Or better yet, the government.’
‘Which government?’
‘British, French – it doesn’t matter. Of course, if I did that, I’d be locked up too . . . but sometimes I think it’d be worth it, just to thwart him.’
‘What if I told you that you could do that without getting into trouble?’
She gave me a sharp look. ‘How is that possible? He knows—’
‘Too much perhaps. But others know more.’
‘Others know something different but not more. I have yet to meet a man he couldn’t wind around his finger and then wring out.’
‘I have. I work for him. And Ferny used to work for him too.’ I prayed my bluff worked.
Her eyes were wide. ‘His boss. From the war.’
‘The very same.’ I was right. Bingo.
‘The only man he’s afraid of.’ She blinked rapidly, smoked rapidly and stared unseeing at the view. Now that her dreams of revenge were possible, she was scared.
I moved closer to her. ‘You’d be safe and well set up.’ I acted casual as she glanced at me. ‘My boss would see to it. Probably not here, mostly likely back in London—’
‘I’m sick of this city—’
‘He knows the value of loyalty. In fact, it’s the only thing he values. And those who are not loyal to him . . .’ I let her imagine. By the way she inhaled, I could see that she imagined the worst.
‘And if I . . . if I was loyal?’ she said in a small voice. I could see she hardly dared to look at me.
I could hardly bear to lie to her, but such is the life of a spy. ‘You’d be rewarded.’ It could be true. One never knew with Fox.
She stubbed her cigarette out in the little ashtray by her elbow, a marble bowl on its own plinth – Harry didn’t even smoke. She stared at it, at the view, at her hands, all unseeing. She turned to me and nodded. ‘Very well. Tell me what to do.’
AS I MADE MY WAY to the Rotonde I was happy, nervous, sad, excited – all the usual things I felt when spy work went well. I hated the lying and loved the subterfuge. I hated the manipulation and loved the thrill of getting what I wanted. I hated Fox, hated that he knew how to excite me – but there was no antidote to that.
There were few people I knew sitting at the tables outside. Not even North was there and she was almost always there. It was only a quarter to twelve, not too late. I saw Henri and signalled to him. He stopped halfway between a smile and a start – he didn’t know if I was ally or enemy. I gave him my best smile and he relaxed.
‘Where is everyone?’
‘It is spring, mademoiselle. One minute the patrons are here, the next . . .’ He gave me his best Gallic shrug. ‘An American tourist came by with a cheetah on a leash and your friends left for a jazz party in Montmartre. They will return tomorrow.’
‘It seems that I’m missing a party.’
‘If I may suggest, this is not a problem for you, mademoiselle.’ He bowed his head slightly, a knowing look on his face.
I sighed. ‘No indeed. I think you know why I’m here.’
‘This way, mademoiselle. Your whisky will be waiting for you when you return.’
‘You’re a godsend,’ I murmured as he ushered me into the office. The door clicked shut, a tiny lock on a vault.
It was dreadful, waiting for Fox’s call. I didn’t have his number, of course. I could have asked for his office number but I knew from experience that he wouldn’t be there. He’d be at his club, or in a hotel, or even, heaven forbid, in his London home. The quiet atmosphere of the office chilled me. I’d been excited, alive, my body humming with ideas and clues and people and parties – my veins were full of champagne and my heart beat with gossip – but as I waited, all this flattened and stilled.
The telephone rang. I wondered what would happen if I didn’t answer. If I let the telephone operator make my excuses for me, if I just walked out of the office and never returned. The telephone’s ring was strident. I didn’t need to wonder; I knew that Fox would find me.
‘Bright star—’
‘Glad you feel that way, Vixen.’
‘Would I were steadfast as thou art—’
‘Awake forever in a sweet unrest? With aching pleasure nigh?’
‘Pleasure turns to poison while the bee-mouth sips.’
‘Such a sad story! That’s because you don’t take your pleasure with me.’
‘Monsieur Renard, would I were steadfast as thou art, then in lone splendour, hung aloft in the night, I would watch with eternal lids apart for the mol
e.’
‘As you have been.’
‘But I am not steadfast. My hand is ever at my lips, bidding adieu—’
‘To your precious dreams of freedom?’
What a bastardly thing to say; I took a deep breath to contain my anger. ‘To you.’
‘Oh no, Vixen. Because then you’d taste the sadness of my might—’
‘How? You’d send me to prison as you’d send a certain farm boy to the firing squad?’
Silence. I heard him light a cigarette.
‘I didn’t think so, Fox.’
‘I had other ideas—’
‘Your games are all very pretty but this play is almost played out.’
‘Are we down to brass tacks, Vixen?’
‘I need a drop-off point and date and time.’
‘Indeed! You’ve done well. I’d be impressed if I didn’t expect it.’
‘I need payment.’
‘Money was wired to you.’
‘I need proper payment. What will you do for my farm boy?’
The clock ticked and all was hushed. I couldn’t pretend now, if I ever could have, that Tom wasn’t my weak point. His freedom was what I wanted and I couldn’t get it without revealing that to Fox.
‘You really do only work for love.’ Fox’s voice was soft. I didn’t trust it. And did I really love Tom? As a friend, certainly . . .
‘This shouldn’t surprise you,’ I said.
‘No . . . it shouldn’t.’ But it clearly did. This was not the Fox I knew. He sounded almost gentle. It made me almost concerned for him.
‘Fox?’
‘Your farm boy will visit you tomorrow.’
‘How do you – oh, never mind. Yes, but—’
‘If that’s what you want as payment, then payment has already been made.’
‘How? In what way?’
‘He’ll tell you. He’ll also tell you the drop-off point.’
‘Is this the word? Or does your plaintive anthem fade?’
‘I am forlorn.’
‘Fox—’
