“What’s the matter, girl? You look dazed.”
Evelyn nodded. She supposed she must—but then who wouldn’t after what she’d seen this morning? She looked around; Caroline Menzies had gone, her footsteps receding down the corridor, and when she turned back Chadwick had ground out his half-smoked cigarette and immediately lit up another.
“I beg your pardon,” she said slowly. “But I wonder if you might tell me what I’m doing here? The bus driver said this was a prison, but how can that be true? When I first met Miss Menzies, we spoke about positions at the War Office . . .” Evelyn made a sweep of her arm around the cell. “But unless I’m dreaming, I’m not back in Whitehall.”
From somewhere in the building came the loud clack of a typewriter and the rattle of keys in a lock. Chadwick watched her carefully, his eyes so dark the pupils had disappeared, then dropped into the chair behind his desk.
“No, you’re not in Whitehall, Miss Varley. This is Section 5. Intelligence. I’m head of the Transport division.”
“This is MI5?”
Chadwick blinked at her. “We had to move quickly,” he said. “That’s why we bused you all in today like farmyard fodder. If I’d had my way, recruitment would have been stitched up months ago, but the ministry wanted to wait until a declaration before staffing provisions were made for this office.” He paused, something guarded about him now. “I’m sure you can understand the need for discretion.”
With her back pressed hard against the chair, Evelyn realized she had also sat down. She wished she could smoke, but he hadn’t offered her a cigarette, and in the flurry of the morning she’d forgotten to buy more of her own. Chadwick continued to watch her and she wondered if he was enjoying her discomfort. It was difficult to tell; his face betrayed little emotion.
“And what do you do here?” she asked when it became apparent he wasn’t going to volunteer any further information.
“We look after the transportation of classified material. Shipping consignments, dispatch riders bearing top-secret communications, petrol coupons, arranging travel for those in government office. That sort of thing. It’s not especially glamorous work, but we liaise closely with the other divisions in Section 5, and they use our intelligence in their own investigations.”
Evelyn glanced around the cell again. It really was a wretched little room, with poor light and only a single tiny window made up of three panes of glass near the top cornice. Against the desk leaned a set of foam-backed blackout curtains. Evelyn shuddered; she couldn’t help it—there was such a chill. Still, behind all that, she felt a tingle of excitement. She had been invited to MI5, and for a moment she imagined Sally’s feathery voice in her ear: Sounds rather spicy to me!
“Well, it’s certainly a unique working environment,” she said.
Chadwick smiled grimly. “This location is only temporary. And really, it’s not so bad. Be thankful you’re here today and not last week, when we still had prisoners’ chamber pots lying about the place.” He reached across to search through his drawer. “Most of the brutes have been moved elsewhere, but there are still a few on A Block—for God’s sake, don’t ever talk to them if you can avoid it. They’ve gone quite fruity since clapping eyes on women again.”
He brought out a manila folder and slapped it down on the desk. “Your file.”
He seemed to be waiting for a reaction, but Evelyn kept her face still. It made sense that they had a file on her, and she was curious about what they knew. What they deemed important enough to record.
“Makes for some impressive reading,” he said.
“Does it?”
“Yes.” Chadwick cleared his throat. “Born 1917. Only child. Mother a housewife; father fought in Belgium, now a solicitor.” He scratched his chin. “Only he’s not a solicitor, is he?”
Evelyn clasped her hands together, squeezed. She could feel the blood rising to her cheeks.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I imagine that’s what you told the registrar at Somerville College and your Oxford chums. I understand. We live in a world where appearance is everything. But Dad’s not a solicitor, is he? He’s just a humble clerk.” He peeked at her from behind the file, his face implacable.
“I meant no harm by it,” Evelyn said.
“But you lied.”
“I exaggerated. I think you’d agree there’s a difference. What I said hurt no one but allowed me a little more . . . dignity.” She offered a conciliatory grimace. “Is there much wrong with that?”
They stared at one another until Chadwick returned a small smile.
“We trade in secrets here, Evelyn. There’s no shame in having a few of your own. Our only concern is for who might discover them.” He read some more. “Home in . . . Lewes. That’s Sussex, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Near Brighton.”
“And how did you like growing up there?”
Evelyn hesitated. It was not a question she had ever been asked.
“It was nice enough. Maybe a tad quiet for my liking.”
“And then on to Oxford,” Chadwick continued. “Did well there—very well. Firsts in German and Literature. Other interests are . . . Art, it says. What kind?”
“Painting, mainly.”
“Favorite painter?”
“Well, I’m not sure I have just one . . .”
Chadwick raised his eyes. “Indulge me.”
“Liss, maybe,” she said.
“Flemish?”
“German, actually.”
Chadwick had a chuckle. “I’m a philistine, Evelyn, don’t mind me. More at home at the London Palladium than the Tate.”
Evelyn studied him across the desk. Yes, she believed that. Despite her first impression, she could see he wasn’t a threatening sort of man; there was something crumpled about him, in fact, as if some event had bent him out of shape. She tried to guess his age, but it was impossible—he could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty, with gray hair standing on end, while the lines etched deep into his face seemed to contain their own complex stories.
“Good references from the principal and the debating master.”
They had done their homework. Evelyn wondered what old Roly-Poly Wilson had told them, with his bad breath and wandering hands. Not much of consequence, surely. That she was persuasive, probably. Sharp. Adaptable. That she could see both sides of an argument no matter how repugnant.
“And a glowing character reference from Hugh Wesley. Is that Wesley of Wesley Buttons?”
“Yes, sir. I’m a good friend of his daughter.”
“Says here you’re working at the present.” He squinted over the top of his glasses. “Cosmetics, is it?”
“Vivian de la Croix. Advertising department.”
“Hm.” It was an unimpressed sound. “You wouldn’t be sad to leave?”
Chadwick looked at her frankly. He had grown calmer, his voice now carrying a pleasant, gravelly timbre, and she had an image of him at home, fireside, with a book and a good single malt, and perhaps a dog—no, a cat—as his reading companion.
“The thing is, Evelyn, I need an assistant,” he said, once he’d closed the file. “It’s secretarial, mainly. Answering the telephone, making tea, typing up reports. But it’s all going to get pretty hairy soon, don’t mind what other people tell you, so I need a girl who is reliable.” They both looked to the lamp, which crackled for a moment. “There will be many opportunities in the Service for a clever thing like you.”
Outside, an elm tree scratched at the glass of the small window set high into the wall. Evelyn wondered how anyone could discern her reliability after such a brief meeting. Did Chadwick plan for her to sit a test? She’d already been caught out in a lie about her father, but he didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps it didn’t always follow that to be of good character meant being wholly honest too. Besides, maybe something else in her file pertained to her general trustworthiness, an epitaph from the revered Somerville principal—As loyal as a dachshund—and this endorsemen
t was sufficient, like the royal imprimatur. Or perhaps it was none of these things. Perhaps it was as simple as Chadwick having a sense of how they might work together—he must have long ago developed an instinct for whom he could trust.
“I think it’s fair to describe myself as reliable,” she said.
Evelyn watched him lean back and light up another cigarette, the gray smoke drifting toward the ceiling. It would be untrue to say she wasn’t intrigued by it all, or flattered that she had been singled out, and she thought of the gaggle of girls arriving on the bus, flinching away from the prisoner on the landing. Chadwick had seen something in Evelyn that set her apart; she could feel that in her bones. Something steely, she supposed, even ruthless.
“It’s a rigorous day here—no time for a chinwag with other staff.” He pointed to the empty doorway where Evelyn imagined few people ever lingered for a chat. “But the wage is three pounds a week. What do you think?”
Chadwick grinned then, deep creases etched in his cheeks. Three pounds. That was almost twice her wage at Vivian de la Croix.
“I think it sounds like just the ticket. Thank you, sir.”
With a nod, Chadwick reached for the drawer again. This time he pulled out a piece of paper and pushed it across the desk, along with a fountain pen.
“All that’s left is your autograph. It’s fairly straightforward: once you sign you are bound by law never to speak about your work here at the Scrubs or with any other division of the Service.”
Evelyn read the bold header: Official Secrets Act. If there had been more time, she might have hesitated before picking up the pen and thought about what her signature might bind her to. If there had been more time, she might even have reflected on what had brought her to the Scrubs in the first place. But there wasn’t. All she had was the certainty she could do well here, that she could make a real contribution to the war and to her own fledgling career, and with a scribble and a flick she handed the signed paper back to Chadwick.
“So what can I tell other people, sir, about where I work?” she asked as he folded up the document and returned it to the drawer.
Chadwick glanced across the desk. “I find it prudent to have a cover that’s uncomplicated. Something formal, respectable, but one that others won’t care to probe into much.” His smile was almost a sly one. “So I’d tell them you work at the War Office,” he said.
* * *
There was a team of eight in Transport, many of whom came in and out of the prison wing at various times that first morning—drivers, runners, and a couple of cipher experts. Chadwick set Evelyn to work on new petrol orders that were delivered in batches each hour to the head of division’s secretary on the other side of the prison. Her job was to assess each order, make sure the figures matched, record the sums in the ledger, type up the consignment, and give the stamp of authorization. But the truth was that figures had never been her strong suit and she had to check her calculations at least twice, while her typing wasn’t nearly as good as she’d told Caroline Menzies it was. This slowed her down, and by midmorning she was only partway through the overflowing tray.
At one o’clock Chadwick invited Evelyn to join him for lunch in the staff cafeteria. They headed over to the east wing together and sat at a table next to the window with a view of the empty exercise yard, a concrete strip stretching the length of three tennis courts. The prisoners were only allowed outside for half an hour early each morning.
“It’s a miserable system, prisons,” Chadwick said. “I was in the colonial force in India for nearly fifteen years, and for half that time I was on duty at the watch house. You learn a man’s true nature when you have him in isolation.” He nibbled at his fish-paste sandwich, then gave up. “I’ve never got used to British food again. In Bombay, we ate like kings—even at the police station. Idlis, batata vada, ragda pattice . . . Delicious it was. Some weeks I went without a bite of meat.”
Evelyn glanced down at her indeterminate stew with a film of yellow fat congealing on the surface. “You enjoyed India, then?”
“Oh yes,” Chadwick said, “very much. But I met my wife on leave here in London.” He folded his arms, the cuffs riding up to reveal surprisingly hairy wrists. “Daisy didn’t like India.”
“She must be pleased to be back.”
Chadwick nudged his plate away, his gaze returning to the window. Evelyn could feel the dull energy coming off him now, like the mildest swell of sea.
“She would have been,” he said quietly. “She died over there. Typhoid.”
“Oh.” Evelyn set down her fork. “I’m very sorry, sir.”
Chadwick nodded, his eyes fixed to the lazy flight of a gull outside. So there it was, Evelyn thought sadly. What had bent him out of shape. They sat for a moment, staring at that desolate exercise yard, until someone approached the table with the alert of a telephone call for Chadwick, and he excused himself to return to the block.
The cafeteria was emptying out and Evelyn felt a little lonely sitting there by the fogged-up window. Chadwick had been right: so far there hadn’t been a moment to chat with her other colleagues, but she had glimpsed a few harassed-looking assistants during her busy morning, and the smiles exchanged had been accompanied by a sense of camaraderie. She hadn’t seen any of the young women from the morning bus.
“So you’re Chaddy’s new girl, then?”
A dark-haired man with chafed lips and a pale blue cravat stood by her table. He stuck out his hand and introduced himself as Vincent Meyer, Chadwick’s decryption analyst. It turned out he worked from the cell next to Evelyn’s.
“And how are you finding your first day?” he asked.
“I must have broken a record somewhere for typing.” Evelyn massaged her aching hands. “Who knew we needed so many couriers? I counted around eighty of your reports alone.”
“Wait until we start on the enemy alien stuff.” Vincent sat down and pulled out a flask from his jacket pocket, pouring a splash of tart-smelling liquid into his enamel mug. He offered some to Evelyn, but she shook her head.
“Enemy aliens?”
“Abwehr agents. German spies. The ministry has a bee in its bonnet about infiltration. They’re interning any Jerry they can get their hands on.”
“Are there really German spies in London?”
“Bennett White seems certain of it.” He leaned forward. “Have you met the Master?”
“I don’t think so.”
“He’s head of counterintelligence. Very dapper. That’s where this war will be fought and won—in the drawing rooms of the English noblesse.” Vincent sat back, smiling to himself. “Chaddy says you speak German. It’ll be good to have another in the team. You spent much time over there?”
Evelyn shook her head. “More of an armchair expert, really. I read it at university.”
“Oxbridge? Quite a few of you around here.”
Vincent had his arms crossed, but it wasn’t belligerent; in fact, he was appraising her quite unashamedly, his gaze moving over her hair, face, apricot blouse, all in a dispassionate sort of way, as though she was a coat in a shop he was thinking about buying.
“What about you, Vincent?” Evelyn asked when his eyes finally flicked back to hers. “You must pass as a native to do all that decryption.”
“That’s because I am, darling. A native.”
“You’re German?”
“Was.” He took a mouthful of booze, wincing. “I’m a naturalized British citizen now. My parents got me and my brother out years ago. Sent us to live with my mother’s relatives in Cambridge.”
Evelyn stared at her tea. The wind howled at the window, a branch scrabbling at the glass. She looked at Vincent’s fingers wrapped around his mug. They were long and delicate; more suited to playing a piano, she thought, than using a typewriter.
“Is that usual here, at MI5?”
“What?” Vincent’s top lip curled. “To have a Hun on the team?”
“I didn’t mean . . .” Evelyn found herself floundering; his
skittish manner made her feel like she was rounding up a stray cat. “What I meant was you must bring very useful insight.”
“I’m not sure about that. I don’t understand what’s going on over there any more than the rest of the Section. Sometimes the best perspective comes from an outsider.” He stood up, his chair scraping against the tiled floor, and as he brought out an orange tin of small cigars he rested a light hand on her shoulder briefly. “But I am looking forward to us working together, darling.”
* * *
That afternoon, Evelyn typed up a stack of decoded reports due for dispatch with the evening couriers. She didn’t see Vincent again, but she thought she heard his voice from time to time echoing along the corridor. Chadwick popped his head in occasionally, but most of the afternoon he locked himself away in the phone booth near the gate on a private line to Whitehall. Once she’d finished the reports, Evelyn moved on to her own telephone calls to the depots and other fuel-supply companies.
At six o’clock a bell rang through the wing signaling the end of the working day. Evelyn looked up to the small, high-set window. It had grown cloudy outside without her realizing it, though she had been working by lamplight since teatime. Still detecting the faint sound of Chadwick in the phone booth, she hurried upstairs to the small kitchen in B Wing to make him some coffee. By now most of the floor had gone home and the prison was uncannily quiet, the only noise coming from the inmates on the other side of the building. But Chadwick wasn’t at his desk when she returned, so she left the steaming mug by the pile of papers and gathered up her coat and handbag. This time, as she made her way down the long corridor, it was with arms raised, fingers twitching, as a blind person might, the only light coming from the distant cell door, the dull bulb in the lamp burning like the last star of the night.
* * *
It was nearing dusk by the time Evelyn walked back toward Bramham Gardens from the bus stop near Old Brompton Road. She took off her hat and coat in the vestibule and hung them on the stand by the front door, collecting a letter addressed to her from the hall table. The house was dim and quiet, like a place of bereavement, though Evelyn could make out some sounds of frail life as she walked upstairs to her bedroom on the second floor: a dry cough, the tired springs of a mattress, jetting gas. The waft of boiled cabbage from the kitchen followed her to the landing. The floorboards creaked.
An Unlikely Spy Page 8
