The London Restoration

by Rachel McMillan

  Diana chewed her lip. She had promised Brent she would talk to Silas. And she would. She just didn’t say when.

  She had also promised she wouldn’t visit another church without him. But how dangerous could it be if it was the middle of the day? Diana left the college and continued on a familiar route. Near High Holborn and Printer’s Alley or Fleet Street, St. Bride’s was the church of journalists and wordsmiths. Its full peal of bells rang over streets, narrow alleys, and courts familiar to readers of Punch magazine and Charles Dickens while meeting the neighboring bells of Andrew Holborn over the viaduct a short stroll away. It had always been a favorite of hers before she left and it took up several chapters of her ongoing dissertation.

  Now, the gutted church was a mausoleum. Chairs shoved to the side from the services still held despite the missing roof and open access to the elements. Diana had read that alongside Roman coins and medieval stained glass, the bombs had erupted over 230 coffins from three different centuries. The bones of parishioners, the history of London enshrined in a moving tomb.

  She stilled, looking up in the direction of the still-intact steeple. Its urns and gargoyles, its carved flames and flourishes. Twelve bells now gone had once solemnly tolled death and jubilantly chimed marriages. The bells had melted and fallen the night before their wedding. But the steeple still pierced the sky: singed and bruised yet distinctively Wren. She always thought it looked like a wedding cake.

  She recalled her conversation with Gabriel Langer in Vienna and his warning that Simon used people without ever letting them completely in. That he gave a few pieces of a puzzle without ever fully pulling her in. But now she was curious of her own volition.

  Why would someone use churches to pass messages? It was a question she had posited a thousand times in her head but now whispered aloud.

  Steeples were an easy marker, she supposed, even the bombed ones. Activities continued: weddings and concerts even in open air before they were patched together. They were an immediate topic of conversation in rebuilding efforts—not only for their contribution to community morale but for historical preservation.

  Then there was the matter of relics.

  “Canterbury . . . City of pilgrims. And relics,” Fisher had said, not wholly connecting the two before she explained their intersection. Rick knew relics. Rick knew pretty much everything, down to the churches she particularly fancied. Rick had a Russian pamphlet under his arm and an infinity symbol in his office painting. Rick knew London churches and oleum medicina. Rick smoked Piccadilly cigarettes and struck Brymay matches.

  Having connected a few dots, Diana spun on her heel and started the familiar route back to Clerkenwell. She finally had something of use to tell Simon.

  * * *

  When his shoes had sunk in the mud and Ross was snoring beside him, Brent used to mentally map his usual route to King’s College as a way to keep from focusing on an itch in his sock or the penetrating cold. He would start with his favorite route from Clerkenwell on a bright fall day and paint the past so clearly he could hear himself reciting a lecture.

  Now, back in the halls he’d imagined, the safe familiarity he longed for gnawed at him. He wondered if he had lost the magic that warmed his voice to enthusiasm for his subjects. He once loved the inevitable debates that would arise when they broached Romans.

  But he still lost all inhibitions the moment he stepped behind the podium and any barrier between professor and student fell in their collective excitement. Many of his students had seen terror and war as he had. Many of his students were scarred. Many of his former students never returned, their papers languishing in a filing cabinet, unmarked and unread.

  Many students had deserted their studies to care for babies made in haste before the bugle called and they signed their life’s blood to King and Country. Many had made terrible vows and now slogged through the weight of their decisions. Those before him took the course as if it were a balm, a salve, and a salvation.

  Brent could layer the Scripture with historical context and embroider it with his personal conviction, but at the end of the hour, while chairs scuffed over linoleum and men tucked their pens into their satchels, he had to believe that the right message would resonate with the right person at the right time. He always had before. And when it came to the inevitable undergraduate questions about Paul—Paul with that elusive thorn in his side that scholars and interested parties proposed as being anything from a stutter to celibacy—Brent was clearly out of his realm.

  He left the lecture hall after his last late class and stuffed his notes in his satchel. Had he really been such a wonderful lecturer, or was he just finessing his power of memory and coloring the past as something he wished he could retreat to?

  Brent left the college to see the starlight play with London—whole or in devastation—without recalling the nights he would squint and toss a few sardonic comments at Ross while imagining he was with Diana. Roaming with her, talking of everything and nothing at once.

  “I fell in love with the idea of seeing everything through her eyes,” he had said.

  Ross, whose hoarse voice still broke through Brent’s thoughts far too often, waking or sleeping. Ross, who seemed to watch his steps and inspired Brent to capitalize on every last experience. He took a rambling route home, hating himself for admitting he was biding his time before another burnt dinner and another night pretending to read essays or the paper while really wanting to talk to Diana, really talk to Diana. Did she treasure the time she had before he walked through the door?

  November was fast on his heels as he took London in stride, the evening pitch dark far earlier than those endless late-summer nights before Diana had reappeared. At least then he could rail or pace or stare at the wall for hours without having her wonder if he was alright or hungry or wanted another cup of tea.

  His reflexes heightened by war and more recently by Stephen Walbrook and Clement Danes pricked a warning over the back of his neck as he finally wove his way through Clerkenwell. He tipped his hat at the grocer, then smiled at the lady from two doors down who kept a badger as a pet. But then he made out a figure, tall and erect, lingering on the pavement, polished shoes crunching the dead autumn leaves underfoot and catching the sheen of the streetlight.

  Something in the shadow’s bearing put Brent on edge. He slowed his steps, darting his gaze up to his flat on the second floor. Still dark. Diana might not be home yet. He buried his worry under the possible explanation that she had visited Silas and they had fallen into old times. The man was a friend of her father’s and almost a distant uncle to Diana. Time may have merely slipped away from her.

  “Are you lost?” Brent stepped closer, eyes widening at the outline of the gun hanging from the stranger’s hand. Brent took a step back when the stranger settled remarkably blue eyes on him.

  “Inevitable,” the stranger muttered after a moment.

  “Pardon me?”

  The man didn’t move the gun away but wasn’t fingering the trigger as tightly. “Inevitable.”

  “Can I help you?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you have in no uncertain terms ruined my career and perhaps my life.”

  Brent stalled a moment. The gun had dropped by the stranger’s side but was still an easy motion away.

  “Brent Somerville. Professor of theology. Carried stretchers in the war. Wounded and in hospital. Bloody bane of my existence.”

  “How so?”

  “Married to the world’s most inexhaustible authority on Christopher blasted Wren. And I thought if I do this one thing, I can do this other thing and . . .”

  “Sir, have you been drinking?” Brent flicked his gaze at the gun wavering in the man’s hand.

  “Not enough. I’ve been given a bit of a scolding. Then there’s . . . Well, no matter. Vienna. Beautiful city, have you been? Of course not. She always said you hadn’t been. See, I didn’t realize that Langer would be there too. Gabriel Langer. When I saw—Well, someone I went to see.
Not him. Not that I don’t like him. I do. I just never put the two of them together and . . . I’ve . . .” He looked straight at Brent and slurred, “Anyway, doesn’t matter. Someone once said, ‘When you’re in love, you see it in other people.’ Maybe I’m seeing it too much.”

  The line sounded awfully familiar. Brent swallowed, then asked quietly, “Who said that?”

  “Diana Foyle. Foyle like the bookshop in Charing Cross Road.”

  Brent felt a strange twist in his chest that sat at the intersection of anger and envy.

  “She was talking about you. You and Wren churches. One or the other. For years.”

  Focusing on the weapon in the man’s hand, Brent was glad he had arrived while the lights were still out, though he was equally puzzled and disturbed by the conversation and a man who knew his wife so well.

  “I’ve just been in Vienna,” the man continued. “There’s no bell anymore. The one Diana liked. Sure you knew that.”

  Brent studied the man. His blue eyes on closer inspection weren’t arresting or sharp, rather glazed. Brent was torn between wanting to ask how he knew Diana and wanting to send him and his gun as far away as possible.

  “Do you want a cigarette?” He used the hand not holding the gun to reach for his breast pocket. “Oh. I’ve been terribly rude.” Fumbling out a cigarette, the man lit it and took a long drag. “My name is Simon Barre and I work for the British Secret Intelligence Service. At least I did. Or perhaps I still do.” He lost his balance and almost fell.

  “Are you alright? I . . .”

  “I made the mistake of working unofficially with a civilian. Who you know, incidentally. Then there was the matter of the call from Vienna. Of course I went. Wouldn’t you? I mean, if it were Diana? I would go for Diana and she’s just a friend. Not to say that . . . I know she told me long ago . . . but never mind all of that. You don’t know who she is. I told my direct supervisor I needed to go there immediately. Immediately. And did he listen? So now my agent is heaven knows where. I might just go anyway. Wouldn’t that show them all?”

  The moon spotlit his face and Brent watched his blue eyes widen at him. Simon sighed. “Where is she?”

  Chapter 17

  The last scene Diana expected to encounter when she returned home was Brent serving Simon Barre tea. She blinked it away as if a mirage and looked from Brent to Simon and back to Brent again. The world she had created with Brent and the world she had shared with Simon at Bletchley chafed.

  “Simon!” she blurted.

  Brent stepped next to her, kettle in hand. “Your friend was a little worse for wear when I found him outside, pointing a gun at me.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The tea’s strong,” Brent said. “We’ll sober him up in no time.”

  Simon had returned numerous times from his assignments in Vienna, and in all cases he was composed. He would work a lager for hours at the pub at Bletchley in order to keep complete composure, and he was always in control of what he offered those around him. She chewed her lip, taking in Simon’s blurry eyes and the slight tremor in his hand as he lifted the mug to his lips.

  “What did he say he was doing here?” she asked Brent while studying Simon.

  “I didn’t know you knew anyone in the Secret Intelligence Service.”

  Diana felt the air leave her lungs. She gave Simon a stern look, then stepped back with a broad smile. “Oh, this is wonderful.”

  “How is this wonderful?” Brent asked.

  “I’ve never seen the man inebriated before,” Diana whispered. “It works in our favor.”

  Brent raked his fingers through his red hair and it stuck up a little at the back. It needed a trim, but she didn’t miss the army regulation length. “I don’t understand.”

  “Because he can’t keep me from telling you anymore.” She squeezed Brent’s hand, then joined Simon on the sofa. “Are you alright? This is not like you. What happened?”

  Simon shook his head and took another long sip of the strong tea. It had the desired effect as his blue eyes cleared. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Let’s get you home then. We can talk tomorrow.” Diana thought a moment. “Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese? Elevenish?” She extended his hat. “Then we can discuss how Brent is now involved.”

  Simon pierced Brent with his blue gaze. “Is he?”

  “He is now.” Diana pulled Simon up from the sofa. “Up, up you come.”

  So there it was. She had wished and hoped for a dam to break, and the unflappable Simon Barre seemed the least likely suspect to open the next chapter of her life. But he had. Moments later, through the blinds, she watched his tall figure bend into a taxi on their street, his black hair catching the last sheen of the streetlight.

  Brent occupied the seat Simon had vacated and motioned for Diana to sit beside him.

  “What happened?” Diana asked.

  “He said I ruined his life. Which I find highly unlikely considering I’d never met him before. But he also was upset about something he thought happened between a woman and Gabriel Langer, and then he started talking about you. How do you know him?”

  “I worked in an administrative capacity in the war,” Diana recited. “Translating for the Foreign Office. That’s where I met Simon.” She smoothed her skirt. “I know him probably as well as I’ve known anyone other than you and my friend Sophie Villiers. Something shook him tonight because his behavior was so uncharacteristic. Simon never lets down his guard. It takes a long time for him to trust people. He trusts me. But you . . . I think on some level he must have wanted you to know.”

  “Know what?” Brent pinched the bridge of his nose. “Di, my head is spinning. I have no idea what happened tonight. That intoxicated Secret Intelligence Service man knows my wife better than I do.”

  “No. He just knows one part of my life.”

  “He seems to know you quite well.”

  “We worked closely together.”

  “Closely?”

  “Yes. A part of me would not have survived the war without him. You of all people know that I don’t make friends easily. But Simon was a good friend to me.”

  “And he’s the friend you did a favor for? The one who kept you from coming home?”

  Diana nodded. “He is pursuing a Soviet agent called Eternity who he believes is linked to the churches here in the city and who has vital information.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “The kind that could help promote the Communist agenda here in Britain. The kind of information that people would kill for. Simon thought as a civilian I could easily explore the churches without attracting any attention. If need be, I can speak to my historical research. But I also know the churches’—bombed or not—geographical locations and their proximity to other churches that might form a pattern. If I can see something familiar or recognize anything that seems out of the ordinary . . .” She stopped. “Simon believes Eternity is using the churches to meet with other influential men. And not just in London. In other cities.”

  “But why churches?”

  “I don’t know. Communal spaces? Public?” She shook her head. “I wondered as you do.”

  “This sounds ludicrous, Diana. Doesn’t MI6 have their own highly trained men who can go on these dangerous missions?”

  “They’re not dangerous the way we’re visiting them. Seeing the dome at Walbrook, looking into an ancient artifact . . .”

  “But I don’t understand why you’re doing it. Patriotic fervor? You did your bit during the war, Di. Even if you can’t tell me everything about it. But why is this the next phase of your life?”

  She stared at him a long moment, aware of the weight of the questions and her own expectations. Aware that even though one door in her life was opening, it was still connected to the part of her blacked out from him. “Churches are part of our story. Yours and mine.”

  “And me?”

  “You’re smart. You’re here. And Simon’s actions tonight gave me the opp
ortunity to let you in. So help me determine if any of it’s related. Ancient vials. Matchboxes and cigarette packs. The words bird and steeple. A discarded telegram. Each item was left, I believe, for the next agent filtering into London. This is what I work with, and I keep hoping to find something that could determine the next church. Men have been killed for this.”

  “Then why would he involve you if he’s your friend? And why would you promise him this?”

  The silence settled between them as it had so often in the past weeks they’d occupied each other’s space. She studied Brent’s profile. When his eyes met hers, a spark jumped between them just like the spark that joined them that first afternoon in the churchyard, setting her heartbeat in motion and tingling her fingertips. The way his eyes drifted over her face told her he was exploring the same depth of connection.

  “Why did you promise him you would do this?”

  “He’s my friend. You did all sorts of things for your friends during the war. I am sure of it. You haven’t told me what, but I know you did. But we both know war throws people together.”

  “I did. Yes. We all made wartime promises.” He didn’t expand on them as she hoped he would. “This is beyond that loyalty.”

  “Maybe I don’t want there to be another war. Simon says this is another war.”

  “Men have been caught up in controversial ideologies for years,” Brent reasoned. “The loudest voice. The most progressive coming out of a time of violence.” He took a beat. “I should have sent away for the spy kit in the Boys’ Own Adventure Stories advert.”

  Diana employed the same careful study of the lines and columns of a church as she watched him. Lines creased his face and a hardness tightened the mouth that used to easily ply a smile. That easy smile was difficult to find in the man occupying her space now with scars and tired eyes.

  It was possible to fall in love with the same person twice—she was sure of it. Because she was more determined than ever to fall in love with the man before her again and again, through his questions and reticence.