Mr. Churchill's Secretary

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  He walked past Frain, muttering, “That woman scares me.”

  Murphy had eluded the agents tracking him yet again, and was enjoying a congratulatory cup of tea in a café not far from St. Paul’s. The better to get a good view, he thought as he slipped into a table by the window, which afforded a vista of the dome rising over the main streets leading from St. Paul’s. The tea in the dimpled white cup was as thick and brown as shoe polish.

  “Would you like anything else?” the waitress asked.

  “I’m fine, love,” he replied. “Just the bill, when you have a minute.”

  He looked at his watch.

  The wireless was on—bloody cricket scores.

  He drummed his fingers on the table. There should be something by now. Some news over the wireless of the Prime Minister’s demise. Civilians running in fear from the destruction of St. Paul’s.

  But the dome still stood. Inspiring. Comforting. Infuriating.

  As his watch ticked out the minutes, there was nothing. The minutes turned to ten and then an hour and then more.

  The earth still spun on its axis. People went about their business. Mothers pushed babies in prams, an old grizzled gentleman walked an even more grizzled dog. A young boy holding a chocolate bar sprinted by at full speed, arms pumping, while a middle-aged shopkeeper with a round belly and short legs tried to catch him.

  “God damn it,” Murphy muttered, and left some coins on the table. Did he dare make his way back to St. Paul’s?

  He slipped out the door, examining faces as he did. No one familiar. He went up the street, then doubled back, trying to see if anyone was following.

  Without warning, he ducked into a narrow and dark back alleyway. He ran a few paces, then let himself in one of the shop’s unlocked back doors.

  Two agents in plainclothes burst into the alley, then looked around in confusion. “Bloody hell!” the taller one said. “Where’d he go now?”

  The shorter one pulled out his gun as he looked behind some rubbish bins. “Damned if I know.”

  Before she could join John and David in a car, Edmund pulled Maggie aside. “Margaret—”

  “Maggie,” she said. “My friends call me Maggie.”

  “Maggie. There’s something more you need to know.”

  More? “Yes?” What fresh hell is this?

  Frain stepped up to them. “Miss Hope, what your father is trying to say is that your home is now a crime scene.” He cleared his throat. “Miss Sanderson was in Miss Kelly’s bedroom. Apparently, she’d happened unexpectedly upon Miss Kelly and Mr. Murphy as they were adjusting her disguise.”

  “So …” Maggie said slowly, realizing. “That’s why Sarah died.”

  “Oh, right.” Frain looked just the slightest bit flustered. “Actually, she didn’t die.”

  There was a collective gasp from the assembly. “What?” Maggie whispered.

  Frain had the grace to let a shadow of guilt cross his face before hardening it into a professional mask again. “I let Claire think that—to humanize the death and destruction she was intent on causing. I believe that’s why she ultimately turned against Devlin.”

  “So Sarah’s … alive?” Maggie’s cheeks turned crimson in anger, and her eyes filled with hot tears. “And you couldn’t have told me that? Here I was, after everything that’s happened, thinking Sarah was dead—”

  “Claire Kelly had to believe she murdered her friend. And quite frankly, we didn’t know how good of an actress you were. I could take no chances with such a delicate situation.” Frain took a deep breath. “I must offer my profound apologies, Miss Hope.”

  Maggie blinked. Was the man a monster? Was he born without a heart? Then she wiped at the tears leaking down her face. “I really don’t know what to say,” she finally replied. “How is Sarah? Where is she?”

  “Miss Sanderson is recovering nicely, not to worry.”

  “Thank God,” Maggie said. Sarah, she thought. Sarah’s all right. Oh, thank you, God.

  Frain took a spotless cambric handkerchief from his jacket pocket and handed it to Maggie. “By the way, I took the liberty of having one of the officers pack up some of your things. Not only is the place, for the moment, a crime scene and off limits to anyone but the police, but I thought—”

  “That I probably wouldn’t want to go back.” Maggie nodded. “Yes, you’re right.” Bunking down in the Dock, she thought. Oh, well.

  “Margaret, Mr. Frain is putting us up at the Savoy.”

  Frain cleared his throat again. “Mr. Churchill, actually, is footing the bill. In gratitude for everything you’ve done. Your father, until he returns to Bletchley, and you, until you can make other arrangements.”

  They looked at her. “The Savoy.” A bath. With hot water. Clean sheets. Room service.

  It took her a moment, but finally Maggie responded: “What are we waiting for?”

  After Maggie had a long, hot, luxurious bath—deliberately ignoring the five-inch water mark until glistening iridescent soap suds nearly ran over the tub’s sides—she had an enormous meal that contained nothing but black-market delicacies. Then she took a long, deep sleep that lasted for hours.

  She was awakened by a sharp rap at the door. Then another. Then pounding.

  In a fog of sleep, she got out of bed, threw on a bathrobe, went to the door, and peered out the peephole.

  It was Mr. Churchill, flanked by marines in uniform and shadowed by the ever-present Detective Sergeant Walter Thompson.

  Good Lord, she thought. Mr. Churchill! And I’m in my dressing gown! She slowly opened the door.

  “Miss Hope!” he said, removing his hat to reveal his pink, bald head. “I’d like a word with you.”

  Maggie startled. “Yes? Er, sir?”

  He stood in front of her, expectant.

  “Oh. Yes, sir,” she said, suddenly aware of her ratty tartan bathrobe, her uncombed hair, and the circles she knew were under her eyes. She winced inwardly, to be caught in such a state—and by the Prime Minister, no less. “Of course. Please come in, sir,” she said finally, opening the door wider and stepping aside.

  He gave her a piercing look as he strode in. Then, without ado, he sat down on the burgundy brocade wing chair near the room’s window and took out a fat cigar and a monogrammed lighter. “Mr. Frain and Mr. Snodgrass have kept me informed of everything that’s been happening. Quite a busy few days for you, what?”

  That was one way to put it. “Yes, sir.” What else could possibly be said in response?

  “Sit! Sit down!” he thundered at her. Maggie did as she was told, sitting on the chair opposite.

  He lit the cigar, drawing the air through, making the tip burn bright orange. “I’m sorry to hear what you’ve been through, Miss Hope.” He took a deep puff on the cigar and exhaled.

  Maggie took a gulp of smoke-filled air and nearly choked. “Thank you, sir,” she managed.

  “Taking it hard, are you?” he asked, not without sympathy.

  Maggie cleared her throat and drew her robe tighter around her. “I’m—I’m fine, sir.”

  “Fine. Yes, yes—of course you’re fine. We’re all fine, aren’t we?” He turned to the window and looked out at the view of the Strand below, chewing on the end of his cigar as the smoke rose around his head. “Sometimes … when I’m feeling the weight of these times … I paint,” he said. “I paint, Miss Hope! Did you know that?”

  “Yes, sir.” How could she not? Some of Mr. Churchill’s paintings were hung in the Annexe. They were lovely—sunny Mediterranean landscapes and jewel-toned still lifes of ripe fruit and flowers, even a portrait of Mrs. Churchill in her younger days.

  “Whenever I’m followed by the Black Dog, I paint. Do you paint, Miss Hope?”

  Maggie was at a loss. Was Winston Churchill, the Prime Minister of England, really sitting in her hotel room, asking her about her artistic abilities?

  “No, sir.” She was sure he didn’t want to hear about her problem sets and crossword puzzles.

 
“You should. ‘Happy are the painters, for they shall not be lonely,’ I always say.”

  She was silent, listening. What was he getting at?

  “Painting,” he continued, leaning back and pulling on his cigar, “is a friend in times of need. Do you understand me, Miss Hope?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “It doesn’t have to be painting. It could be cooking, music. Photography. Doesn’t matter. The important thing is to KPO. Do you know what KPO means, Miss Hope?”

  Of course. “Keep Plodding On, sir.”

  “Absolutely right. KPO. That’s what we do, keep plodding on.”

  Abruptly, he rose, gave a quick bow. Then he gestured with his cigar and walked out of the room. Maggie scrambled to her feet and followed.

  “And, Miss Hope?” he said at the doorway.

  “Yes?”

  “Meet your new roommate.”

  What now? Maggie thought. Who else gets to see me in all my bathrobed glory? But as Mr. Churchill walked away, a tall, slender figure entered the room.

  “Sarah!” Maggie shrieked, reaching out to hug her. “Sarah!”

  “Ooof,” Sarah said, nearly knocked over by Maggie’s attack. “Careful, love.”

  “Oh, sorry, sorry,” Maggie said, releasing the girl from her embrace. “Are you all right? How are you? Good Lord, Sarah.”

  “Can’t complain.” She gingerly reached up to her head and patted it through a white gauze bandage. “Better than the alternative, you know.”

  Maggie shook her head in disbelief as she closed the door. “Come, sit down, now,” she said, leading Sarah over to the chair the P.M. had just vacated, and sitting down opposite. “You know, that bastard Frain let us think you were dead.”

  “Well, it was touch-and-go for a while there,” Sarah said, removing her hat and setting it on the walnut side table. “But as you know, we dancers may look pretty, but we’re strong as steel on the inside. I wasn’t going to let a little bump on the head finish me off. Not when I might be dancing Odile again.”

  Maggie took a deep breath. She had to ask. “Do you remember … I mean, did you see …”

  Sarah knew what she was asking. “No, I don’t remember anything,” she said. “And probably a good thing, too. Although Mr. Frain filled me in on the details.”

  “Mr. Frain?”

  “Came to see me at the hospital. Convinced me to play dead for Paige—Claire—that bitch—in the interrogation room. My best role to date. Juliet’s death scene will be nothing after this!” Sarah spoke in a strong voice, but Maggie could see her hands worrying at each other.

  “It was quite the—”

  “Yes,” Sarah said quietly.

  Maggie reached over and took her hand. “Yes. Yes, indeed.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  THE PHONE RANG. It was David. “Hullo, Maggie. How’re you holding up?”

  “Doing pretty well,” Maggie said, “considering. By the way, you’ll never guess who’s with me.”

  “We know—Sarah,” David said smugly. “Yes, Snodgrass and Frain have taken me into their confidence. Finally. I know all about Sarah’s part.…”

  Maggie rolled her eyes at Sarah, across the room. “David,” she mouthed and Sarah nodded.

  “So anyway,” David continued, “we’re all going to the Blue Moon Club tonight. Good band playing and all.”

  “The Blue Moon?” Maggie said, jolted. “At a time like this?” She still felt shaky and weak. Surely Sarah couldn’t be up for it, strong as she sounded.

  “Well, I say, Magster—we saved London. I do think we’re entitled to a few drinks and dancing.”

  “I don’t know.…”

  Walking over to Maggie and the telephone, Sarah said, “Here, give me that.” She took the receiver. “Right. What time? Yes, we’ll be there. With the proverbial bells on.”

  She hung up the phone, and Maggie looked at her.

  “I nearly died, love,” she said simply. “It’s time to live.”

  The agents, whoever they were, had taken all of their not-too-vast wardrobes. Sitting in their room at the Savoy in her bathrobe, Maggie let Sarah style her hair in red ringlets and apply lipstick and powder.

  Sarah burned a bobby pin over a candle to rub the black on Maggie’s lashes and smudged some iridescent aquamarine shadow from a carefully preserved tube over her eyelids. “So this is how you do things at the Sadler’s Wells?” Maggie asked.

  “Ha!” Sarah laughed. “If you were going onstage you’d need at least three more inches of pancake, scarlet cheeks, and false eyelashes. I’m going for something a little more natural for you.”

  She’d done her own face already, and her shining black hair fell in perfect finger waves to her shoulders. She wore a black-silk confection with red-satin roses on the shoulders, very Spanish and seductive.

  Then she took a look in the closet. “Hmmm, I think this should do nicely,” she said, pulling out a long dress of white silk and holding it against Maggie.

  The dress, while exquisite, was low in front and even lower in the back. Cut on the bias, it would skim the body so closely as to leave very little to the imagination.

  “Um, I don’t think so,” Maggie stammered, pulling her tattered flannel robe around her. There was having a glamorous evening, but there was also such a thing as modesty.

  “I know it’s very spring ’thirty-eight, but really, it’s not as though anyone else—”

  “No, no, no! It’s not outdated—it’s gorgeous—but, um, don’t you think it’ll be a little long? And tight?”

  “Oh, darling, this one was always a little too short on me. And there’s plenty of room through the hips. Now, shake a leg, we only have a few minutes.”

  Maggie hesitated. Hips? she thought, about to lodge a retort. Then she remembered that Sarah had almost died—and thought the better of it.

  “ ‘Beauty for duty,’ Maggie, remember?” Sarah said. “Are you going to shirk?” she demanded, holding out a pair of silver high-heeled evening slippers.

  They were going to be too small, Maggie could tell, but she jammed her feet in nonetheless. If she was going to do this, she was going to do it right. “No, indeed.”

  “Well, then, get dressed!”

  Later, looking at her reflection, Maggie wasn’t displeased. The dress was gorgeous—the gleaming fabric was heavy and cool to the touch. A sea-green wrap covered her bandaged arm nicely. There were circles under her eyes, to be sure, but she was young, and they weren’t that dark. She was perhaps a bit thinner than she’d been a few months ago, but it wasn’t that obvious. There were no sudden lines or wrinkles, no wiry white hairs.

  And yet she felt different. She was not the same person she was before.

  Suddenly she stuck her tongue out at her reflection in the mirror and picked up her beaded handbag, ready to go downstairs.

  Maggie and Sarah walked through the oak-paneled lobby with its urns of fresh roses and scent of floor polish to the American Bar, a clubby little hideaway in the Savoy in the same flat, geometric, elegant deco style as the lobby. Only the fire extinguishers and signs pointing to the nearest air-raid shelters indicated that there was a war on.

  Photographs of Hollywood stars—Bette Davis, Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich, Errol Flynn, and Clark Gable—looked down from the walls. The room was hazy with smoke; the tinkle of Gershwin on the piano competed with the low murmur of conversation, mostly from men with gray hair accompanied by young women. Who were not their daughters, Maggie noted.

  Frain was already there, at a side table a little removed, with a good view of the room. He immediately stood and pulled out a burgundy velvet-covered chair for Sarah and then for Maggie. “Are you feeling better now?” he asked. “Not that you have to feel better, of course. But sometimes a hot bath and some sleep can work wonders.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Maggie said. Everything still felt a bit surreal and as though it were moving too fast. She was glad Sarah was there beside her.

  A tall and slender waiter appeare
d at their table. “What may I get for you?” he asked, putting down a gleaming silver bowl of salted almonds.

  “I believe I owe you a martini, Miss Hope.” He turned to Maggie. “Would that suit?”

  Would it? “Of course.”

  “Miss Sanderson?”

  “Same, thanks,” she said.

  “Three martinis, dry, straight up,” Frain replied.

  Apparently, rationing doesn’t exist here, Maggie thought. When the waiter left, she said, “And call me Maggie, please.”

  “Then you must call me Peter, both of you. After all, we’ve been through quite the ordeal together.”

  The waiter returned silently with the drinks. Drops of water beaded on the glasses.

  “An understatement … Peter,” Sarah said as they clinked glasses. They sipped their drinks. The martinis were cold and medicinal.

  “Miss Sanderson,” Frain said, “if you don’t mind … I have something I’d like to speak to … Maggie about.”

  “Of course. Excuse me, won’t you?” Sarah asked, rising to her feet. “I need to powder my nose.”

  “Thank you,” Frain said, also rising to his feet. He and Maggie watched Sarah as she made her way gracefully through the bar.

  “I don’t know if this is the right time to bring it up,” Frain said, “but the truth is, there’s not always the time that we’d like.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When the agents were at your flat picking up your things, they happened to notice your diploma, summa cum laude in mathematics. Your Phi Beta Kappa key. Newton’s Principia Mathematica.” He raised one eyebrow. “Most impressive.”

  Goodness gracious, she thought. What else did they see? Did I make the bed? Were there stockings and pants and brassieres hanging in the bath? Although it seemed like several lifetimes ago when such things were important, she suddenly felt mortified. “Guilty as charged,” she said, taking another sip.

  “Mr. Snodgrass said you’re a mathematician. Handy with allocation, queuing, trajectories, that sort of thing. He also said that you’re the one who broke the code contained in the newspaper advert.”