by Kate Parker
“The assassin has attacked Churchill.” Alford’s face had reddened and his expression said he’d like to lock me up for being unhelpful.
“I know.”
“You know?” His voice rose alarmingly before he grabbed hold of his temper. “How do you know?” sounded deeper, icier, and much more ominous.
“From Sir Henry.”
“How the devil did…?”
“I have no idea. I work on the society pages. The women’s section. I don’t know where he gets political information.” I said it in the most innocent tone I could manage, with my eyes wide open.
“Since you know about it, you can help us. We not only need to find Elias’s killer, we need to find the person who attacked Churchill, too.” The general boomed his orders at me, though I was sitting only a few feet away. “They may be one and the same person. And there’s no time to lose.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“What do you know about this assassin?” I asked the general.
“Only what the French government and Elias told us. This person is French and experienced in explosives and poisons. He keeps at arm’s length, so no one has seen him.”
“So it’s a man?”
“N-n-not necessarily.” Suddenly, he seemed extremely uncomfortable.
“So it could be a woman.”
“Possibly. They say poison is a woman’s weapon.”
“They say a great number of silly things,” I replied. “What exactly did Elias say?”
“He learned of a confidential German government memo saying the French assassin was going to England and would be there for an indeterminate period of time. The targets were previously selected and would be passed on by a member of the aristocracy.”
“Targets. More than one.” I shuddered.
“But—kill Churchill? With an exploding cigar?” He didn’t sound as if he could believe it.
“Have you ruled out Lady Astor?” I smiled at the thought.
“Oh, she would never—”
“She threatened often enough,” I reminded him. “Although I think she planned to use something more direct than an exploding cigar.”
“But that was all in jest,” he insisted.
From what my father said, I wouldn’t be too sure. Nancy Astor and Winston Churchill began their feud before I was born. It sounded like the feud would only end in death. Or murder.
“Besides, the Astor woman is American, not French. This assassin has had several successes in France against anti-Nazi targets. Under circumstances where the killer must be French.” Alford glared at me.
It was all I could do not to squirm in my hard wooden chair.
“You are spending a great deal of time with the French at that dressmaker’s,” he added. “You have their confidence. If one of them is the assassin, you’ll spot it.”
“There are a great number of French citizens in London.”
“Don’t think you’re the only one with this assignment. So, are you going to take this on?”
“I’m going to try to find Elias’s killer. If it’s the same person, then we’ll have a real success. I have no idea what someone who builds exploding cigars looks like.” It still sounded ludicrous.
“Don’t you?” he asked. “The exploding cigars went out to Chartwell in the same shipment as a dress for Mrs. Churchill from Mimi Mareau.”
If their information was correct, this was news. “How much do you know about Mimi Mareau?” I asked.
“How much do you know?” he challenged.
“Obviously, not as much as you. I believe she’s having an affair with the Duke of Marshburn, who has pro-German sympathies. I know she has a daughter who was born just after the war and she’s never been married.”
“Know about that, do you?” The general sounded mildly impressed.
“But not much more. What have your people been able to find out?”
He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “She’s a conservative, in the way those who have money are against any changes, but back during the war and immediately afterward, she was a socialist. Back then she had a Jewish lover. Now she scorns them.”
“Have you been able to determine if she shares Marshburn’s Nazi sympathies?” The women who worked for her certainly thought she did.
“She says she does,” Alford replied.
I suspected Mimi’s politics were formed more by what would do her the most good at that moment. “Marshburn is a good friend of Churchill’s, isn’t he?”
“They were very close, shooting together and that sort of thing. In the last couple of years, however, since Churchill has started his rearmament speeches in Parliament and in his writings, there’s been a coolness between them.”
“Yet Mrs. Churchill just got an outfit from the salon headed by Marshburn’s mistress.” If the two men were truly feuding, I doubted Mrs. Churchill would buy anything from the House of Mareau.
“What difference does that make?” the general grumbled.
“Possibly none.” At least to a man. “Who made the delivery?” I saw a way to investigate the exploding cigars.
“Royal Mail out of Westerham.”
I turned to leave. “I suggest you get Sir Henry’s permission for me to take a few days off to investigate my idea. If it leads to nothing, we’re no worse off than we were.”
His grumbling grew louder. “We can’t discuss this with a newspaper publisher.”
“He already knows about Churchill’s brush with death,” I reminded him. “If you want my help, you need to get his approval.” I reined in my temper in an attempt to reason with the fossil. “To help you, I need to look into some things.”
“Such as?”
His tone didn’t sound like he wanted my help. I tried to explain without sounding like I was beginning to think he was an idiot. “How did his wife’s gown, and those cigars, end up at their door? I know someone who lives nearby, and I can have her introduce me to the people I need to speak to.”
And I wouldn’t mind a bit of a break from London, and war talk, with my late husband’s cousin, and my friend, Lady Abby Summersby.
The next morning when I arrived at my desk at the Daily Premier, Miss Westcott looked at me with raised brows and said in a low voice, “Sir Henry wants to see you.” In a whisper, she added, “Good luck.”
How much had Sir Henry told her? And what had he learned?
I rode to the top floor in the elevator and climbed out to walk toward Sir Henry’s office. His secretary waved me in with a jerk of her head as she continued talking on the telephone. I knocked and entered.
“You certainly have gotten mixed up with some unusual investigations.” Sir Henry studied me for a moment after I sat down. “I told General Alford that I would get an exclusive on anything you learn once this business is finished.”
I tried to fight a smile. “Now why doesn’t that surprise me.”
He sounded eager as he said, “Will you be able to continue your search for Elias’s killer at the same time?”
“Not unless Elias’s killer blew up Churchill’s cigars.” My conscience nudged me. “I’m sorry about not telling you that General Alford was using me for this other investigation. I wasn’t allowed to.”
“I understand.” Amazingly, he sounded as if he did understand. What had General Alford said?
“What I plan to do will only take a couple of days. Then I’ll be back and we can continue the search for Elias’s killer.” I hoped that was what would happen. Take care of this before Monday, report into the general, and then head back to work at the newspaper.
“Unless events overtake us. So far Germany has given us some breathing room, but…” He left the thought hang in the air.
My mind raced to finish his words. If Hitler changed his mind, then we would be at war and life would change completely. And it would be too late to find the French assassin or Elias’s killer.
Then I thought of Adam, and knew that discovering the identity of either the assassin or the killer woul
d be of no importance if we were at war.
“When should we expect you back?”
“I hope Monday, unless I’m on the trail of the assassin,” I told him.
“Then you better get going.”
I jumped up, surprised at how calmly he was taking General Alford’s orders, and headed for the door before he changed his mind.
As I reached for the door handle, he said, “Good luck. We may need a lot of it in the coming days.”
I sent a telegram to Abby telling her to expect me on the eleven o’clock train. Then I left a note in my flat for Adam telling him where I’d gone. That was the height of wishful thinking, but I would like to see him again, particularly if we went to war.
Even though the Sudeten crisis was over, everyone felt the weight of “the next time” looming over our heads.
I packed a bag and took a train into the rolling countryside, past farmers harvesting crops, trees turning amber and golden, and the occasional cyclist at a crossing. Abby was there with the car to meet me at the local station with a stack of questions.
“It’s not like you to take off in the middle of the week. Is something wrong with your job?” she started.
“No.”
“Adam?”
“Good grief, no.”
“Then what is going on? And you’d better get your story straight, because John is going to want to know why you’re here midweek, too.”
Colonel Sir John Summersby, farmer and survivor of the Great War as well as Abby’s husband, was a true gentleman and would probably believe any strange story I told him. Abby was the one who saw right through my prevarications.
“I have to tell you, Abby, because I’ll need your help, but we need to keep this quiet from everyone else. Even Sir John.”
“Is that fair?” She took her eyes off the road to glance over at me. “John is my husband and your host.”
“I’m doing this for General Alford.”
I was glad there wasn’t any traffic on the curving country road because Abby nearly put us into a ditch. When she recovered herself and her driving, only grinding the gears once, she said, “John will understand that. What are we doing?”
“After we take my suitcase to your house, we need to find a plausible excuse to talk to the Westerham Post Office.”
“Old Mr. Nicholson or young Mr. Nicholson?”
I stared at Abby in confusion.
She glanced at me again, a smile on her lips. “Old Mr. Nicholson owned the shop and ran the post office for many years. Young Mr. Nicholson, who is older than me, runs the business and the post office now. Then there’s young Dickie, young Mr. Nicholson’s son. All three are involved with deliveries and manning the counter.”
“Surely the founder is retired if his son is older than you.” I realized a moment too late how tactless that sounded.
Abby ignored the last of my words. “Old Mr. Nicholson must be eighty, but he still puts in a full day’s work. He’s a wonder from the old school.”
“What I want to do is trace a gown made at Mimi Mareau’s salon for Mrs. Churchill and sent from London to Chartwell by Royal Mail.” Well, sort of. It was the other parcel I was really interested in.
Abby scowled at the road. “You can’t just ask them. They’re very closed-mouthed about their deliveries. They’re very proud of what they call the trust the public has put in them.”
“How far do you live from Chartwell?”
“Ten miles? Twelve? And what is this about Clementine having a frock made by Mimi Mareau?” She said the name with the sort of reverence I had used until I began spending time with the French designer. Until I began to see her narrowmindedness and egotism.
“She did, and Royal Mail delivered it.” Then I had another thought. “Any idea where she would wear it?”
“Anything that special would probably be worn for something in London around the Opening of Parliament.”
That didn’t sound like a promising lead. “Do you see them often?”
“Her? Yes. In Sevenoaks on occasion or in Westerham, usually at Gwynne Waters’s home. Her mother is a distant cousin of Clementine’s. Him? Rarely. He’s busy with running the country, or trying to, and he comes to Chartwell to relax. Well,” she added, “that’s what I hear. County gossip. Sir John tells me not to pay any attention.”
The reporter in me, or maybe the investigator in me, asked, “Will you be seeing Clementine Churchill again soon?”
“Possibly. Gwynne’s having an ‘at-home’ on Friday afternoon. Lots of talk about gardens. Gwynne’s perennial borders are the best in the county.”
“Could you ask Mrs. Waters if you can bring me along?”
We pulled up in front of the house. “Of course, Livvy. Now, I’ve put you in your usual room.”
A comfortable room with fabulous views of the garden. “I’ll just take my suitcase up and then we can plot about what to say to the Nicholsons.”
“Nonsense,” Abby said as a maid came out to the car and took my suitcase. “I’d already asked Mary to see to it for you.”
I was always slightly amazed by any situation made easier for me by servants. I’d grown up with only a daily cleaner who found me a nuisance. My father told me I should have experienced life in the houses with plenty of servants before the war.
Which reminded me of how much life had changed because of the war. And of all the deaths in those four long years. No one wanted another one. Hitler promised to be much worse than the kaiser.
We settled into Abby’s morning room with cups of tea and began to plot, only to have Sir John knock and walk in. “There you are, old girl. Oh, hello, Livvy. I saw the car out front. Do you want me to put it away?”
“No, thank you. We’re going out directly after lunch, so just leave it where it is.” Sir John and Abby didn’t touch, but the looks of affection on their faces said far more than words.
He turned to me then. “How are you, Livvy?”
“Fine, Sir John. And you?”
“Oh, you know. Doing as well as the harvest.” His smile told me that the harvest was going smoothly. “When is luncheon?” he asked his wife.
“In twenty minutes.” Neither of us invited him to sit down.
“I’ll leave you to it until then.” With a hint of a bow, he left the room and shut the door after him.
“Now, what are we going to tell the Nicholsons?” Abby asked, eagerly leaning forward again.
“I want to know every step of the way from Mimi’s salon to Clementine’s hallway or wherever packages are delivered.”
“That would be the kitchen entrance.” When I looked surprised, she added, “I think every delivery has cigars and foodstuffs you can’t easily obtain in Westerham. At least that’s the impression I got from the gardening enthusiasts at Gwynne’s.”
“And before it reaches the kitchen entrance?”
“Royal Mail would carry the dress, but there would be a daily delivery by Lagrange’s van, they supply the spirits and cigars and such to the big houses around here, as well as the greengrocer and the butcher and the baker,” Abby said, nodding as if she understood where my questions were leading.
I’d seen the gowns hanging in their protective sacks or wrapped carefully in large boxes at Mimi’s fashion house. “I’m going to claim a frock I ordered from Mimi to be delivered here has failed to show up. Then we’ll see what we can learn about the route it would have taken.”
Abby shook her head as she rose. “Won’t work. If it were coming here, it would come from the Royal Mail office in Royal Tunbridge Wells. And now, I should call Gwynne and ask about bringing a guest on Friday.”
Abby walked out to the hall where the telephone was. In a few moments, she had Gwynne Waters on the phone and the invitation was apparently cheerfully extended.
Now to hope Mrs. Churchill showed up at the Waterses’ home that day. She might have some idea of how that exploding cigar ended up on her husband’s desk.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sir Jo
hn was already at the table when we walked into the dining room, but he immediately stood and waited for us to sit. As soon as we were in place, a maid brought out the soup. Before I picked up my spoon, Sir John said, “Is your father in good health?”
“Yes, thank you. How are the boys doing?” Reggie had been godfather to Abby and Sir John’s sons. Since his death, I tried to take over his role with the boys.
“Very well.”
Abby said, “There’s no point in asking why she’s here. She can’t tell you. It’s for General Alford.”
In his surprise, Sir John half rose from his chair, bumping into the maid. Fortunately, she’d already set down his soup or we would have been covered in the cream-based broth. Once he recovered, Sir John said, “General Alford? Livvy, what are you mixed up in?”
“She can’t tell you, John. That’s the whole point.” Abby took a spoonful of her soup to signal the subject was closed.
I took pity on him. “I’d tell you, Sir John, if I could use your help. But this is out of your usual realm of experience. Please know I appreciate you taking me in while I do a little digging around.”
“Ah, women’s things. Gossip and gardening and all that.” He appeared more relaxed now that he could pigeonhole my activities.
I glanced at Abby. “Exactly.”
“I’m sure Alford is out of his depth, too.” Sir John smiled. Then he blinked and said, “Be careful. Some of the things Alford has been involved in have been dangerous.”
“Not this time.” Then I added, “I don’t think he’d allow me within a hundred miles of anything treacherous.”
After lunch, Abby and I rode over to Westerham. “If claiming to have a frock from Mimi going missing isn’t going to work, what story can we tell them?”
“I don’t think telling them any story will work. They’ll see right through it.”
Abby was too practical. I thought for a moment and then said, “You drove me over to Westerham so I could check on the speed of delivery for Mimi and whether the package arrived in good shape. I don’t think they’ll check with Mimi to find out if I’m working for her or not.”
