Goodnight from London

by Jennifer Robson

  With that one critical errand finished, she had left the store and walked north along Baker Street. It would be faster to take the Underground from Oxford Circus, but she didn’t feel like shutting herself away from the sun just yet.

  It was the first time she’d been in this part of London. There wasn’t anything particularly notable about Baker Street itself, which was a long and boring run of office buildings, blocks of flats, and shop fronts. Some of the buildings were so new and modern, in fact, that they reminded her a little of Manhattan.

  She couldn’t say, later, what had caught her attention about the man crossing the street ahead of her. He was dressed in uniform, like so many other men she’d passed already, but there was something familiar about the way he held himself. It couldn’t be—but it was, for when he turned his head fleetingly to check for traffic, she recognized his profile. Bennett.

  She was so surprised that she stopped short, hardly even noticing when a man walking behind bumped into her and, cursing under his breath, brushed past her roughly. Still she stood frozen, her heart racing. He was much too far away for her to catch his attention or even hear her if she called out his name, so she hurried after him, hastening her pace until she was all but running.

  Before she could catch up, though, he vanished inside a nondescript building. If she hadn’t seen him go in, she’d have walked right past, for there was nothing remarkable about it at all. Nothing, apart from the small plaque by its door. INTER-SERVICES RESEARCH BUREAU, it read. Just as he had once told her.

  She stood on the sidewalk for several minutes, trying and failing to think of a single decent excuse to follow him inside. It was an awfully vague name, even for a government department, and nothing she saw about the building, or the people who came and went as she stood there, looked the slightest bit suspicious or even interesting.

  Rather than continue to hover outside, which was not only pointless but also a bit pathetic, she continued north to the Underground station at the top of the street and headed off to work. All that day she kept herself busy as they rushed to get the issue out the door and off to the compositors, not letting herself dwell on the questions that clamored for her attention.

  Bennett didn’t call that afternoon, nor that evening—he didn’t even ring up Kaz, which she’d assumed he always did when he was in town. What was he doing in London, when she and all his friends had been led to believe he was somewhere else? And what sort of work was he doing at the Inter-Services Research Bureau? Was he a minor cog in an obscure, bureaucracy-driven ministry? Or was there something more to the bureau than the carefully dull facade of its offices might suggest?

  The next morning she finally took a moment to chase down her suspicions. Her first call was to a contact at the Ministry of Labor. “I was wondering if you might put me in touch with someone at the Inter-Services Research Bureau,” Ruby explained. “We’re thinking of doing a story on the ways that different ministries and departments are reducing waste by working together.”

  “Ah. Yes. May I take your details and ring you back presently?”

  A few hours later her telephone rang, but instead of the woman from the Ministry of Labor, it was the same information officer from the MOI who handled most of her stories. The man was as slippery as an eel, but he’d been reasonably helpful the few times she’d needed to deal with him directly.

  “Miss Sutton? Robert Tuttle here. You were asking about the ISRB?”

  “Yes. Can you connect me with anyone there?”

  “Unfortunately I can’t. The ISRB is actually part of a scientific ministry whose workings are classified. You know how it is.”

  “I guess so.”

  “What was the story you were working on? I may be able to help you.”

  “Oh. It was, ah . . . I was hoping to speak to someone about efforts to avoid duplication of efforts between government ministries. How you’re freeing up manpower and resources for the war effort by coordinating your efforts. That sort of thing.”

  “I see—it sounds like a very interesting story. Well, here’s what I can tell you off the top of my head . . .”

  TWO WEEKS LATER, Ruby was waiting for a press conference to start at Macmillan Hall in Senate House, which was the headquarters for the Ministry of Information’s press operations in London. She was early, for the press conference on Churchill’s visit to Washington and his meetings there with the president wasn’t due to begin for another twenty minutes. That left her with enough time to scribble down a few questions and read through the memos she’d picked up on her way in.

  She was vaguely aware when the chairs behind her were taken up by a pair of men, one American, one English, but as she recognized neither of their voices, she didn’t bother to turn around and greet them.

  “D’you think it was the crew from Baker Street who got Heydrich?” the American whispered.

  “No way of knowing,” came an equally furtive reply. “I’m certainly not about to ask.”

  “Can you imagine?” said the first man, who had a vague sort of transatlantic lilt to his accent. Either he’d lived in England for a while, or was affecting it to better fit in. “‘May I ask if anyone from the Inter-Services Research Bureau was involved in the planning and commission of Reinhard Heydrich’s assassination?’ Heads would roll for sure.”

  Ruby couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Surely they were mistaken.

  “I heard a new cover name the other day. Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries,” said the Englishman.

  “That one’s new to me, too. There’s the Inter-Services Research Bureau, the Inter-Services Signals Unit, the Joint Technical Board, the Ministry of Economic Warfare . . .”

  “Have you ever been inside?”

  “Their HQ on Baker Street? Not for all the tea in China,” said the American. “Have you seen some of the types who come and go from there? Give me the chills.”

  “I’m with you there. You know, I did hear from one fellow—he works at arm’s length from them, but knows just enough to get himself in real trouble, if you know what I mean. He told me they’re sent out with nothing more than a cyanide tablet to do themselves in, and a garrote to take care of anyone who gets in their way.”

  She couldn’t breathe. What they were saying . . . it all made sense now. Horrible, terrible sense.

  “Thank God we have them on our side.”

  “I suppose. Still, it—oh, right. Better leave off for now. You never know who might be listening.”

  Ruby didn’t take any notes during the press conference, nor did she ask any questions. For the rest of the day, and the night that followed, she could think of nothing else. Nothing but trying to assemble the puzzle pieces of what she’d heard. Assuming what the men behind her had said was true, and further assuming that Bennett was actually a part of it, what was she to do?

  Nothing. As dawn came, as a new day began, she had her answer. And she’d known it all along. If she were to keep asking questions, keep burrowing away in an effort to exhume the truth, she would endanger Bennett. She might even cause a terrible breach in security.

  It wasn’t a question of doing her job or exposing the truth or even getting her hands on a great story. None of that mattered, not set against Bennett’s safety and that of his colleagues. The truth would come out one day, but when it did, the story would be told by other writers. And that was a price she was more than willing to pay.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  October 1942

  It had been a week since Mrs. Roosevelt’s arrival in London, and Ruby, along with every other journalist following the first lady on her goodwill tour of Great Britain, was half dead with fatigue. The woman got up at the crack of dawn, no matter how busy she’d been the day before, and was a perpetual motion machine from the moment her eyes opened.

  Yesterday had been a blur, and today promised to be no better. Kaz had told Ruby not to worry if she couldn’t keep up; as long as she and Frank captured a representative sample of Mrs. Roosevelt’s activiti
es, that would be more than enough for a story. But that seemed like giving in, and she couldn’t stand the idea of pulling back and missing something truly newsworthy. The day before, for instance, the president’s wife had not only gone to visit U.S. Air Force personnel at Bovingdon airfield, but she’d also crawled into the cockpit of a B-17, no small endeavor for a tall and stoutly built lady in her fifties.

  It had been an effort, but Ruby had managed to drag herself out of bed on time and to work by just past eight o’clock. It was Saturday, which meant a half day of work and then home for a long, long nap. Unless, of course, Mrs. Roosevelt had other plans.

  Evelyn, who was never late and never anything less than immaculately dressed, greeted Ruby with an understanding smile. “This just arrived for you,” she said, and handed her a small envelope.

  “Thanks.” She looked it over, but there was no return address. “Wonder what it could be?”

  “Go on and open it.”

  30 October 1942

  Dear Miss Sutton,

  The pleasure of your company is requested by Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt at an informal luncheon for American journalists to be held tomorrow, October 31st, at 11:30 A.M. at the American embassy, 1 Grosvenor Square.

  Yours sincerely,

  Doreen Wolfort

  per Malvina Thompson

  “Goodness. It’s an invitation to a luncheon with Mrs. Roosevelt. Today.”

  Ruby looked down at the outfit she’d chosen, which was serviceable but by no means attractive. Her shoes needed a good polish, too, and she’d worn the oldest and plainest of her hats.

  “Will I do? Or should I go home and change?”

  Evelyn shook her head. “I wouldn’t bother. I don’t mean to insult Mrs. Roosevelt, but she isn’t what you’d call a snappy dresser. Do you think she’ll care? Or even notice, for that matter?”

  “I doubt it. And it’s sure to be a cast of thousands. If I’m lucky, I’ll get close enough to shake her hand, but no more than that.”

  It wasn’t quite a cast of thousands, in the end, but the reception room at the embassy was packed full of journalists, nearly all of them unfamiliar to Ruby. Of course she’d only been at The American for a matter of months before moving to London, and since then she hadn’t socialized with other journalists beyond her modest circle of colleagues. With the exception of her dinner with Dan Mazur, she hadn’t spent any time with other Americans—not unless you counted jostling shoulders in a press scrum.

  Today they were all on their best behavior, all doing their best to look responsible and sober. It didn’t change the fact that nearly every guest there would have happily pushed his or her own grandmother in front of an Underground train for the chance of a lively quote from Mrs. Roosevelt.

  A door opened at the far end of the room, the ensuing commotion offering ample proof of the first lady’s arrival. A flock of aides came forward, some in civilian dress, others in Red Cross uniforms, and marshaled the guests into a long receiving line that stretched nearly the length of the room. It was that, or risk having Mrs. Roosevelt trampled.

  Ruby was near the end of the line, not having been audacious or desperate enough to insert herself closer to its beginning, and as the minutes ticked by she began to worry that Mrs. Roosevelt, or one of her aides, would decide that enough was enough and it was past time she moved on to her next event.

  And then the great lady was before her, much taller than Ruby had expected, and she was wearing the same shabby coat she always had on, with an enormous fox-fur stole slung around her neck and a truly awful hat, a round of dark velour that sat on top of her head like a forlorn and very wrinkled pancake. And Mrs. Roosevelt was shaking her hand, the hand of a girl who had no right to be in her presence, let alone meeting the most famous woman in the United States, and she was introducing herself to the first lady.

  “Ruby Sutton, ma’am. I’m a staff writer with Picture Weekly here in London.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Sutton,” Mrs. Roosevelt said, her homely face transformed by her smile.

  People were always going on about her looks, and it was true that she was far from beautiful—until she smiled. Her smile was so warm, so entirely genuine, that it left Ruby feeling as if the first lady had actually enjoyed meeting her. As if that instant of connection between the two of them had been the high point of Mrs. Roosevelt’s day.

  The next person in line received the same, equally heartfelt smile, and the next, until the receiving line was finished and the boldest of the guests surged forward around the first lady, and soon all Ruby could see of her was the top of that terrible hat.

  With that kind of crowd, there was no chance of getting close enough to even hear what Mrs. Roosevelt had to say, let alone speak with her. And it did mean she and the remaining guests had first crack at the luncheon buffet. The food wasn’t much to speak of, little more than corned beef sandwiches and pickled vegetables, but it would get her through the day.

  She scanned the crowd, but didn’t see Dan Mazur. As far as she knew, he was still in London. Perhaps he felt a luncheon with the first lady, as opposed to the president himself, wasn’t worth his time. Perhaps he had gotten turned around on his way to Grosvenor Square. This last thought left her smiling, but only until she happened to glance down at her watch. It was a quarter past twelve, and at twelve thirty she was meant to be at a press conference for British magazine writers, again hosted by Mrs. Roosevelt.

  She wasn’t late, not yet, for the guest of honor was still standing on the far side of the reception room. She still had time, assuming of course the press conference wasn’t miles and miles away. Unlike the first lady, she would have to travel by Underground or bus to get to her next appointment.

  Ruby returned her plate to the buffet table, which had been all but denuded of its modest lunch, and ran into the hall. She dug through her bag, trying and failing to unearth the memo she’d received earlier that week with details for the press conference. It had been there yesterday, so what had happened to it since?

  It wasn’t there. She would have to ring up the office, and hope the memo was somewhere on her desk. Failing that, it might be in her room at home, except that Vanessa was probably out doing her volunteer work at the hospital, and Jessie was so hard of hearing that she would only hear the phone ringing if she was standing next to it.

  “Drat, drat, drat,” she muttered, only just resisting the temptation to hurl her handbag and its incomplete contents down the hall. “Of all the days . . .”

  “May I help you?” came a pleasant voice. Ruby turned to see a group of women approaching, two in Red Cross uniforms and one in civilian clothes.

  “Sorry about that,” Ruby said, smiling a little sheepishly. “I’m meant to be at the press conference for Mrs. Roosevelt that starts soon, but I lost the memo with the address. I could just kick myself right now.”

  “Isn’t that for British journalists?” one of the Red Cross women asked, not unpleasantly.

  “It is, but I work for Picture Weekly. I’ve a foot on both sides of the pond, I guess you could say.”

  The woman in civilian dress, her face vaguely familiar, looked up from the day diary she’d been examining. “You can come with me,” she offered, and extended her hand for Ruby to shake. “I’m Malvina Thompson.”

  “Oh, ah, thank you, Miss Thompson,” Ruby stammered, recognition dawning. “That’s really nice of you to offer.”

  Miss Thompson. Tommy Thompson. Mrs. Roosevelt’s personal secretary, press secretary, and chief aide, all rolled into one terrifyingly capable person. Miss Thompson, who had just offered to give Ruby a ride across town.

  “It’s no trouble at all, since we’re going there, too. The ladies here will show you out to the car—I’ll be right behind you.”

  Ruby dutifully followed the women in uniform outside, to a parking area at the side of the embassy where an enormous black car was waiting. Guarding it were two extremely serious-looking soldiers in U.S. Army uniforms.

  “Ca
n’t let you go any further, miss.”

  “It’s all right, Private Dunn,” said one of the Red Cross ladies. “Miss Thompson is giving her a lift.”

  “I see. We’ll need to see your identification, miss.”

  Ruby dug in her bag again, and fortunately was able to unearth her pocketbook right away. “Here’s my press card, and I’ve also got my identification card.” She prayed he wouldn’t ask to see anything else, for her passport and birth certificate had both been lost when the Manchester had been blitzed.

  “These look fine. In you go, Miss Sutton. Won’t be long.”

  She thanked Private Dunn and the Red Cross women, and got into the car. The interior was huge, far bigger than a black cab. It seemed a bit bold to take one of the forward-facing seats, so she pulled down one of the jump seats and perched on it, wondering how long Miss Thompson was going to be.

  The car door opened. Ruby was very glad she had taken the jump seat, for Miss Thompson was preceded into the car by Mrs. Roosevelt herself.

  “How are we for time, Tommy?”

  “Only a few minutes off the mark, Mrs. R. We’ll make it up at the press conference. Oh—this is Miss Sutton from Picture Weekly. We’re giving her a ride.”

  “Good, good. I’m sorry we didn’t have more time to talk, Miss Sutton.”

  “Oh, no. I mean, there’s no need to apologize, ma’am. You’re the busiest woman in England right now.”

  “Ha! Well, I don’t know about that, but I’m glad you understand.”

  If Ruby had been dazzled during their introduction back at the embassy, she was utterly star-struck now. Of course she noticed the aspects of Mrs. Roosevelt’s appearance that critics were always going on about: the protuberant teeth, the unfashionable clothing, even her high-pitched and somewhat singsong voice. She noticed, and then she instantly forgot, because those superficial details faded away to nothing when set against the things that did matter: the brightness of Mrs. Roosevelt’s gaze, the warmth of her regard, the acuity of her interest in the person before her.