Every Secret Thing

by Susanna Kearsley

  I understood.

  It didn’t matter, though, I thought, if there was nothing left to see. I hadn’t really thought there would be. And, besides, I had another purpose.

  The little banquet hall was filled with people come for the reception. Nothing fancy – tea and sandwiches, to warm those who’d been standing in the cold wind for the service at the monument.

  Not everyone had come here, from the look of it, but I was reassured to see at least a handful of the older men in uniform relaxing at the tightly clustered tables.

  One of the women serving coffee helped me locate the President of the Camp X Historical Society. He was young, with a friendly face. ‘Right, I remember,’ he said, when I told him who I was. ‘We spoke on the phone. You wanted to interview some of the veterans who trained at Camp X, didn’t you? Come on, I’ll introduce you to a few of our more interesting alumni.’

  They were all nice, every one of them, and eager to be helpful, though I had a sense that they’d been asked these questions many times before by young reporters, not unlike myself, in search of human interest pieces for Remembrance Day. I talked to them in turn, using my tape recorder and notebook to capture their reminiscences; their anecdotes. And at the end of every chat, I finished with a question that I felt sure they had not been asked before: ‘Do you, by any chance, remember an instructor by the name of Andrew Deacon?’

  Of course they all said no, as I’d expected that they would, but still, I’d thought it worth a try.

  Finally, the young President of the Camp X Historical Society looked round the room and said, ‘I think that’s all of them. There are fewer and fewer every year, you know? It’s sad.’ He brought his gaze around to me. ‘Which paper are you with, again?’

  I told him, and he promised to keep an eye out for my article, and shook my hand, and wished me well, and left me on my own.

  I was packing up my notebook and my tape recorder when an old man stopped beside my table.

  ‘I remember him,’ he said.

  I looked up. He was very tall, and loose-limbed, with a quick, engaging smile.

  I asked him, ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Andrew Deacon. I remember him. I knew him pretty well, in fact. May I join you?’

  ‘Please.’ He must, I thought, have been sitting somewhere close enough to have overheard my last interview, although I couldn’t recall seeing him at any of the nearby tables, or, for that matter, at the outdoor service earlier. He wasn’t in uniform; just in a plain shirt and trousers, with jacket and tie, and he hadn’t been pointed out to me as one of the Camp X alumni. Still, his face, for some strange reason, rang a chord within my memory, and I felt I should remember him from somewhere. I held my hand out. ‘I’m Kate Murray, Mr…?’

  ‘Iveson.’

  Iveson. That seemed familiar, too. I put my tape recorder back where it had been, in the middle of the table, and asked, ‘Do you mind being taped?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘So,’ I began, ‘was Andrew Deacon one of your instructors, then, when you were at Camp X?’

  ‘Oh, I was never up here, at the camp. No, I knew Andrew in New York,’ he said, and met my eyes, and smiled. ‘When he was living with your grandmother.’

  Surprised, I let the tape run on in silence for at least a half a minute. ‘Mr Iveson…’

  ‘It’s James,’ he introduced himself. ‘But you can call me Jim.’

  My second cup of coffee was noticeably stronger than the first, and I was glad of it. I hadn’t fully grasped the fact that I was sitting with the same man whom my grandmother had talked about – the Jim who had turned up on Deacon’s doorstep in New York, their first day there, with lunch in hand; who’d turned up every day thereafter, for his private talks with Deacon.

  ‘You were briefing him, I take it, for his assignment in Lisbon?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, I had certain inside information when it came to Ivan Reynolds and his company. I’d worked for him myself, see.’

  And at that, my memory cleared and all the pieces snapped in place with the precision of a Chinese puzzle. Iveson. James Iveson. That’s where I’d heard his name before: The young man from New York, who’d gone to work for Ivan Reynolds, and had taken Jenny out to nightclubs on the sly, until he had been set upon by Cayton-Wood, and neatly framed, and fired.

  He told me the story in summary, from his perspective, and it was essentially the same thing that I’d heard from Jenny Augustine in Washington, except he knew exactly why he had been made a target.

  He’d been working for the FBI, back then. Portugal had been, technically, outside the FBI’s area of operations, but the FBI’s director, J Edgar Hoover, had a personal relationship with Reynolds, and when questions were raised about Reynolds’s loyalty, Hoover had said he’d be damned if he’d stand back and let his rival, ‘Wild Bill’ Donovan of the OSS – Office of Strategic Services – have a free hand with the investigation.

  The OSS, to Hoover, was an upstart organisation, created during the war to carry out espionage and counter-espionage abroad. Like the members of its British counterpart, the SIS, or MI6, OSS agents worked outside the law, and could assassinate their enemies. The FBI had been reduced, for the most part, to a domestic police force, confined to American soil.

  Portugal should have been Donovan’s patch, then, but Hoover had gone straight to see the President. Ivan Reynolds, Hoover had argued, was an American, and that made the soil that his company sat on American soil, no matter what damned country it was in, which put it squarely in the FBI’s domain.

  No one knew if Roosevelt had been convinced by Hoover’s argument, or if he’d even authorised the FBI to send a man to Lisbon, but a man was sent to Lisbon, notwithstanding.

  Jim had sensed from the beginning there was something crooked going on with Cayton-Wood and Spivey. But he’d nosed around too openly, and Cayton-Wood had pegged him as an agent, and a threat. Jim hadn’t stood a chance.

  ‘I didn’t see it coming,’ he admitted to me now. ‘I was too young. Too inexperienced. But I could sure let the next man know what to expect, and who to keep an eye on.’

  I said, ‘And the next man was Deacon.’

  ‘That’s right. We’d had our crack at it; the British wanted their turn. He was perfect for it, really. I was just a lowly lawyer, but he had the knowledge of art, the experience, that gave him a good chance at getting much closer to Reynolds than I could have done. So I briefed him, and helped get him ready to go.’

  He’d gone to the apartment with an image in his mind. They’d only told him Andrew Deacon was an Englishman who dealt in art, so Jim had pictured someone very witty and flamboyant – not the quiet, down-to-earth man he had found. The wife, too, had been a surprise. She was not at all glamorous, and more attractive, in Jim’s eyes, because of it.

  He’d developed a great fondness for Amelia Deacon as the days had passed.

  If she hadn’t been a married woman, he might well have tried to make a play for her himself. She was so lively, and so young. She lit the room when she walked in. When they ate lunch, the three of them together in the small apartment kitchen, Jim always tried to make her laugh so he could hear the sound – her laughter was infectious. It even made her husband smile, and that was an accomplishment.

  It wasn’t that Andrew Deacon was humourless. Far from it. The man had a very dry wit, and a drier delivery. But he was the quietest man Jim had met. Sometimes, when Jim and Amelia were talking and laughing together, it seemed as though they were in one world while her husband sat back and looked on from another, as though he wasn’t sure himself just how to bridge the gap and join them.

  But Amelia Deacon bridged it for him. If he sat too long in silence, she would twist the conversation round to bring him in. ‘Tell Jim about the time…’ she’d start, and he’d be with them once again, not on the sidelines anymore, but in the game.

  Small wonder Andrew Deacon loved his wife. And she loved him. Jim saw it clearly, in the way they interacted; in the way th
ey smiled, and touched, and in the way they watched each other when they thought the other person wasn’t looking.

  Jim would have given a lot to have somebody love him like that.

  ‘Do you have a girl, Jim?’ she asked one day, as she handed him his tea.

  ‘No. Too much work,’ he said, and grinned. ‘You have to take them dancing, buy them flowers.’

  ‘I love flowers,’ she admitted. ‘Roses, most of all. Except, of course, the yellow ones.’

  Jim raised an eyebrow, curious. ‘What’s wrong with the yellow ones?’

  ‘They have an ugly meaning. Every flower has a meaning, don’t you know? My grandmother had this old book, a Victorian book, called The Language of Flowers, and it listed all of the meanings, so lovers could send secret messages in their bouquets. It all sounded very romantic.’

  Jim thought it sounded very complicated. ‘What do yellow roses mean?’

  The answer came from Andrew Deacon, sitting in his corner. ‘They mean jealousy.’ Then, to his wife’s surprised look, he explained with a half-smile, ‘We had the same book in our house, when I was a boy.’

  The talk, from there, turned to gardens, then to birds, and then, in that associative way all conversations had, to airplanes.

  Jim could feel the change. He felt the tension in the room, and though he knew that it was coming from Amelia, he could not imagine why. Usually, she poured herself a second cup of tea. Today, she didn’t finish drinking the first; she just glanced at the clock and said, ‘Is that the time already? I should go. I have to find a dress to wear tonight.’

  She gave them both a smile, and rose, and left the kitchen.

  Jim looked at Andrew Deacon. ‘Did I say anything to upset her?’

  ‘No. No, she doesn’t like airplanes, that’s all.’ She’d left a handkerchief behind her, lying on the table. Andrew Deacon picked it up and neatly folded it, and tucked it in his pocket. ‘Shall we start?’

  It seemed to Jim, that afternoon, that Andrew Deacon’s mind was somewhere else. The man was unusually restless. If he wasn’t pacing the living room, he was standing in front of the window, hands clasped at his back, looking over the snow-covered rooftops towards Central Park.

  There wasn’t much left to go over. Jim went through the few final points, and then finished with a summary. ‘The daughter, like I said, might be some help to you, so get to know her. She’s a nice kid. I felt sorry for her, actually. She’s not allowed to have much fun. But she’s no fool – you’ll learn a lot from talking to her.’

  Andrew Deacon promised to remember.

  ‘So that’s it, really,’ Jim said, with a shrug. ‘I guess you’re ready.’

  ‘I guess I am.’

  Jim didn’t know exactly how to talk to that impassive face. ‘It could be any day, now, so you’ll have to be prepared. It all depends on when the Clipper leaves. There may not be much warning – they’ll just send me to come get you.’

  ‘And what happens to Amelia?’ Andrew Deacon asked.

  Jim knew his answer mattered. ‘I’ll take care of her, don’t worry.’

  From the hall, they heard the front door close, and then Amelia’s cheerful voice called out, ‘Hello!’

  Jim’s eyes were fixed on Andrew Deacon’s face as he was turning from the window, and he saw a flash of deep emotion, almost like a private pain, that twisted Jim’s own gut because he felt so damned responsible. It was because he’d failed with Ivan Reynolds that another man was being sent to Lisbon, and a married man, at that – a man with more at stake than Jim had ever had, and so much more to lose.

  ‘Just see she gets home safely,’ Andrew Deacon asked him quietly. And then he turned again to greet his wife as she passed by the open doorway of the living room. He told her, ‘You’re back early.’

  ‘Yes, well…’ She held up the dress bag. ‘I found what I wanted.’ She looked at Jim. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’

  ‘Oh, no. I was just going,’ said Jim, with a smile. He didn’t say anything further. Truth was, he didn’t trust his voice.

  He spent the rest of the day in a black mood, feeling angry with himself, and with the war, and with the world in general. He knew that, in his business, he couldn’t afford to care what would become of the people he met. He had to keep his focus on the bigger picture if he was to be of any use to those he worked for. But in this case, he did care. He couldn’t help it.

  He was reading when the phone rang.

  For a moment, he just let it ring, and looked at it. He knew that it was probably the call that he’d been waiting for – the call to say the Pan Am Clipper was preparing to take off from New York harbour, and it was time for him to pick up Andrew Deacon and escort him to the plane.

  He considered what might happen if he simply didn’t answer it, but he knew it wouldn’t make a difference. Someone else would get the call, instead of him, and Andrew Deacon would still have to leave tonight and fly to Lisbon.

  With a sigh, he reached to pick up the receiver, said, ‘Hello?’ and then relaxed when he heard Andrew Deacon’s voice.

  ‘Hello, Jim. Look, there’s been a change of plans. We’ve left the party. If you need to find us, we’ll be at the Roosevelt Hotel. In the ballroom.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’ He wrote the information down, and hung up feeling happier. At least, he thought, they’d have a last night on the town together, to enjoy. And he might just have time to have that drink that he’d been putting off.

  He rose to get it. Took the bottle from the cupboard in the kitchen. But before he could unscrew the cap, the telephone began to ring again.

  They were dancing.

  He could see them at the far edge of the dance floor, Amelia Deacon’s red hair gleaming bright above the dress she’d bought that afternoon – a black dress, beautiful, with some kind of fringe on the shoulders reflecting the low ballroom lights like a shower of sparkling diamonds each time that she moved.

  Her cheek was resting on her husband’s cheek, and both their eyes were closed.

  Jim couldn’t bring himself to interrupt the dance. He motioned to the man who had come in with him to stand his ground, and listened for a moment to the orchestra, the song. It was from something he had seen a few years back, he thought, on Broadway.

  The mellow-voiced singer was crooning the chorus again for the last time, the swell of the music behind him a sign he was nearing the end:

  ‘Might as well make believe I love you,

  For to tell the truth,

  I do.’

  The music swelled again and stopped, and Jim saw the Deacons had stopped too. They stayed on the dance floor, still looking at each other, neither letting go the other’s hand, as though even that small separation would be too much to endure. Jim felt his black mood returning as he walked towards them, with the other man in tow.

  Amelia was the first to be aware of him. She turned her head a fraction, and Jim said apologetically, ‘I hate to spoil your evening, but it’s time.’

  Andrew Deacon dropped his hand reluctantly and let go his wife’s fingers.

  Jim went on, ‘We have to get you to the wharf in less than half an hour. There’s a car outside, and your suitcase is already in it. Frank, here, will go with you.’ He saw Amelia’s eyes begin to mist, and quickly reached across her to shake Andrew Deacon’s hand. ‘Good luck,’ Jim said.

  ‘Yes, I…thank you.’ Andrew Deacon took a moment to collect himself; then, looking at his wife, repeated, for some reason, ‘Thank you’.

  The reference was clearly a private one. Trying to smile, she replied, ‘It was nothing’.

  ‘No,’ said Andrew Deacon, and he raised a hand to touch her cheek, a gesture of farewell. And then his fingers slid beneath her hair to gently cup her neck, and he leant close to her and murmured something not for Jim to hear, and kissed her forehead.

  Amelia’s face was hidden; Jim couldn’t see her expression. But he saw Andrew Deacon’s. He saw the passion in that kiss, and saw how the Englishman closed his eyes tig
htly as if to contain his emotions. He didn’t quite manage it.

  Straightening, Andrew Deacon searched his wife’s face with a curious intensity, the way a man with failing eyes might try to make a memory of a thing he will not see again. And then he simply said, ‘Goodbye’.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Amelia answered him, still trying hard to smile, but as her husband walked away Jim saw her give up the attempt. She looked away, biting her lip as she fought back the tears that were starting to well up along her dark eyelashes. Stepping in closer, Jim pressed his own handkerchief into her hand, trying to shield her from the curious eyes of the dancers around them.

  Andrew Deacon had stopped at the door, to look back. Above Amelia’s head, Jim met his eyes and gave a quiet nod of promise, and then slowly, with an effort, Andrew Deacon turned around again, and left.

  ‘Come on,’ said Jim to Amelia, and he took hold of her shoulder in an understanding grasp. ‘I’ll take you home.’

  ‘Not home.’ Her voice was shaking, just a little, but she dried her eyes deliberately, and raised her lovely, stubborn face to say, ‘I want to see the Clipper leave.’

  ‘Amelia…’

  ‘Please,’ was all she said.

  He should have told her no. He should have said it was impossible; that he’d been given orders…but he couldn’t, somehow, looking in those eyes.

  He fetched her coat.

  The drive was short. She didn’t speak at all, just sat there with her hands clenched in her lap, her fingers working at the wedding band she wore, turning it round and round against her whitened knuckle. Her face looked almost normal…if you didn’t look too closely.

  Jim glanced at her. ‘I can’t let you get out of the car, you understand that. My boss would have my head if he found out I’d even brought you here.’

  ‘I understand.’

  He didn’t go right to the wharf where the seaplane was waiting – they would have been seen – but he did park as close as he could, so she’d have a good view.