Nina tapped the tabletop with a black-painted fingernail. She wore no other makeup, nor any jewelry. A faint scar ran from her hairline to her left eyebrow.
“And are you a student?” She frowned over Evelyn’s plaid dress and satchel.
“No—well, not anymore.” Evelyn laughed. “I work at the War Office, actually.”
“Ah, yes.” Nina glanced at Mrs. Armstrong. “Gertrude has mentioned you. That must keep you busy.”
“Not especially. I’m in the filing department—it gets rather dull, to tell you the truth.”
There was a glimmer of interest in Nina’s dark eyes. “And how long have you been there?”
“Only a few months. In fact—”
The bell sounded at the door. The lunchtime rush was about to begin, and with a quick shrug of apology Nina went to greet new guests on the other side of the dining room.
“Come along, then.” Turning back to Mrs. Armstrong, Evelyn saw the old woman finish her tea and stand up.
“Is that it?” She wasn’t ready to leave. She’d had a taste of this infiltration and it was like an adrenaline hit. She watched Nina guide the group of men in smart suits toward a table near the fireplace.
“Yes, pet,” said Mrs. Armstrong. “There is nothing more for us to do today. But visit again soon. Nina will remember you, I’m sure of it.”
* * *
Evelyn returned the following week. She came alone and sat by the front window again with an outlook to the busy street. But after an hour of flicking through the newspaper and drinking so much tea she thought she would burst it became clear that she wouldn’t encounter Nina.
“On own today?” the admiral called from his seat by the fire. “Not with mother?” His accent, unlike Nina’s, was still thick.
“Yes,” said Evelyn as she approached the counter to pay. “Though Mrs. Armstrong isn’t my mother. She’s just a friend. An old friend of my mother’s, actually. But I do enjoy dropping by. You have a very fine restaurant.”
The admiral nodded. “We do our best. We have been in England now more than twenty years. I am proud of my family business.”
“I met your daughter the last time I was here.” Evelyn peered along the bar. “Is she not working today?”
The admiral pointed the clip of his pipe at the ceiling. “She up there. Dressmaker. Very good. Very talent.” He grinned behind his enormous beard. “One client is Duchess of Windsor!”
Evelyn raised her eyes. A small chandelier hung from the elegant latticework and she could see, very faintly, the crystals vibrating with movement upstairs. She imagined Nina moving about the room, that stern, serious expression fixed to her white face, a needle caught between her teeth, a measuring tape threaded around her wrists. It was an incongruous image, one that troubled Evelyn for the rest of the day—that someone with such virtuosity could also have so much hatred stored away behind her calm facade.
* * *
On her third visit, Evelyn brought along Sally Wesley. It was a Friday night, but the snow-laden streets were quiet, the blackout in this part of London keeping most people indoors. It was busy in the restaurant, however, and lively with music from the quartet playing Russian folk tunes by the bar. Evelyn and Sally ate savory dumplings called pelmeni filled with mince and topped with sour cream, and for mains they ordered dressed herring. Sally enjoyed the food and the wine, and spent most of the meal talking about Jonty’s deployment to engage German surface ships in the Heligoland Bight in the same happy tone as she might have used to describe a friendly rugger tour to the Continent.
Only toward the end of dinner did Nina appear at the kitchen door with a white apron tied around her waist. She began making her way through the crowded dining room, pouring each of her guests a glass of amber-colored liquid from a jug. As she came nearer to their table, Evelyn felt the familiar kick of her pulse and her blood rise, as if she was poised for a sprint, the starter’s gun raised to fire.
“Evelyn, how lovely to see you again.” Nina filled their glasses. The drink smelled earthy, like beetroot pulled fresh from the soil. “Kvas,” she explained. “A traditional Russian refreshment. Fermented from black rye bread. It’s not for everyone, but I do like our guests to try it.”
Evelyn glanced at Sally, and they both drank. It was sour and slightly salty, though there was a hint of mint in the aftertaste.
“Lovely,” she said.
“Really?”
“Well, no . . .” Evelyn laughed. She was a little tipsy—they both were—and it made her feel bold. “But the rest of the meal was splendid. If I’d known how well you cooked, I would have come weeks ago!”
“Well . . .” Nina shrugged and nodded toward the kitchen. “I do have some help.”
“You’re too modest,” said Sally, rising to her feet. “Excuse me, but may I use your telephone? I think I’ll call our driver before the snow really comes down again.”
Evelyn and Nina watched her walk off to the booth near the front door.
“She’s nice,” Nina said. “How do you know each other?”
“Sally’s an old school friend, actually.” Evelyn paused, dropping the crumb lightly. “Her family are the Wesleys, the button manufacturers.”
“Are they indeed?” Nina raised her eyebrows. “I must have used a thousand of them on my dresses.”
Evelyn watched her squint across the room in Sally’s direction again. The snow through the window outside fluttered about the low-lit streetlamp.
“I’m lucky to have Sally here in London,” Evelyn continued. “It’s not always easy to meet new people in big cities. Especially those with similar interests.”
Nina stared down at her, her dark eyes seeming to weigh Evelyn up in that long, drawn-out moment. She was almost pretty with some color in her cheeks. Then, with a glance over her shoulder, she set down the jug.
“Since you enjoy our Russian food, perhaps you’d like to drop by again on Sunday evening? I’m having a small gathering of friends in my flat—Mrs. Armstrong will be there. I’ll make my special omelettes.”
The noise of the restaurant seemed to roar and mute in quick succession, the strangers eating and drinking around them slowing almost to a halt. From the corner of her eye, Evelyn saw Sally hang up the telephone.
“It will be very relaxed,” Nina was saying. “Very welcoming.”
Sally stood in the restaurant doorway, a tall young man now at her side. She said something, and with a laugh he began to accompany her back toward the table. There wasn’t much time.
Evelyn looked up at Nina and smiled. “I’d be delighted. Thank you.”
“Eight o’clock?”
“Eight o’clock.”
Nina nodded, her eyes bright once more. She reached for the kvas and moved on, passing Sally and the young man. He paused midway between the tables and gestured politely to Evelyn.
“Don’t forget: try the admiral’s kizlyarka.” His voice was loud, American. “It’s a grape vodka—you’ll love it, trust me,” and Sally gave him a wave of thanks as she sat down again.
“Flirting, were you?” Evelyn asked. “You’re shameless.”
“Hardly. I’m practically a married woman.” Sally studied Evelyn. “You could do with some of it, you know.”
“What?”
“Flirting.” She gestured toward the young man. “Those Americans, they’re a good-looking bunch. You never know who you might meet.”
“Hm.” Evelyn had never shared Sally’s ideas about what constituted good-looking. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“But some excitement, some danger.” Sally picked up her bag and held it to her chest. “It might brighten things up. Better than spending all your time with Julia.”
Evelyn’s attention snapped back, and she frowned at Sally. “What do you mean?”
“Only that if you spent less time with her, and more time out and about, you might snag yourself a man too.” Sally folded her arms, something smug flickering across her face. “I know you’ve
been seeing one another, Ev, you needn’t be so clandestine. I don’t mind, of course; I’ve been so busy and she does need another friend.”
“Well, as long as I have your permission . . .”
Evelyn watched Nina pause at the next table to talk to more guests. She wondered if they were Russians, friends of the family. They didn’t look Russian, but then Evelyn wasn’t really sure how to tell if they were. Or maybe they were only men and women who thought the same way Nina did. Evelyn felt sick at this possibility, like the herring had worked its way up from her stomach. She had always imagined it would take a rupture, a calamity, for someone’s perceptions to be so wildly altered; to be so corrupted. But now she saw it could be as simple as a home-cooked meal. She studied Nina’s movement about the tables, her face reset to a severe, appraising expression, all that gaiety gone. She had been painted with such clear lines, Evelyn thought, but tonight as she stood there in the firelight her outline seemed to blur and shift, like the first shimmer of a mirage.
* * *
The preparation continued at Chemley Court. The files from the Home Office had finally arrived with dossiers on about a dozen women who White believed might be at the supper on Sunday, though it soon became clear that Evelyn should concentrate her efforts on Nina and Isadore Randall, the wife of the Lion Society founder, Captain Andrew Randall. It was her money, the files recorded, that largely funded the club and its operations, and she’d earned some notoriety earlier in the year after telling the Arbroath Business Club that an international group of Jews was behind every recent revolution across the world. Evelyn studied the photograph attached to the file, taken outside the couple’s home, Mrs. Randall about to climb into the back of a motor car, her hair a wiry pompadour. She had a cruel face, it had to be said, with a small, sneering mouth and the round, owlish eyes of a dowager.
“Ooh, are these your new chums?” Vincent peered over Evelyn’s shoulder. “Don’t they look like fun. I do hope I’ll get an invite to supper!”
“Mm.” She closed the file. “I feel grubby just thinking about them.”
Vincent strolled back to the dining room, a hand in his pocket.
“The funny thing is, they probably have quite a few Jewish friends,” he called. “Extraordinary, isn’t it, but they’re never hateful about the people they know, these anti-Semites. It’s always the other, nasty, hook-nosed lot scurrying about in the East End, not their solicitor or their colleague or that nice banker next door . . .”
He slumped into the chair at the head of the table. While Evelyn had been preparing for her infiltration, Vincent had been forced to set aside his usual decryption work to assess new reports flowing in from the public on suspected enemy activity, a ten-inch stack waiting for processing in his tray, another outside White’s study door. Every curtain-twitcher in London had spotted something, he told her that morning over tea and a few biscuits she’d managed to scrounge from the back of the kitchen cabinet. The latest memo related to a retired schoolmistress in Clapham who had reported unidentified marks on a telegraph pole outside the local bakery. There were concerns these marks might be a code designed to guide the German invasion.
“Most files we chuck out straight away, but White thinks this one is worth chasing.” Vincent took a bite from the biscuit and made a face. “Just be thankful you’re not on the pigeon case.”
“The what?”
“We’ve called it the Somerset Pigeon Case, after all the reports from the local plod about their good constituents capturing pigeons suspected of secret dealings with the Boche.”
“I’ve always found pigeons to be a most untrustworthy bird,” Evelyn muttered. “It’s the eyes. Too beady for me by half.”
Vincent grinned. “And they give nothing away in the interview room, the blighters.”
At the end of the week they took a late lunch at the pub on Lupus Street, a rowdy drinking stop, full of workingmen congregating at the front bar. Pushing his way through the boiler suits and flat caps, Vincent found them a booth by the back near the loos, where the wallpaper was peeling and the worn mauve carpet was a little less sticky underfoot. They ordered steak and chips, and pints of Guinness. Evelyn supposed the other patrons might think they were lovers, the way they bent their heads together, the knowing looks they exchanged, and when they spent time like this she did sense a thread between them grow taut, a little like what she supposed love might feel like.
“My brother’s one of them,” Vincent said, nodding toward the lads playing darts by the bar. “A proper member of the proletariat. Or thinks he is. Worships Marx like he was the real messiah. Works for a tenants’ union.”
“You don’t talk about your brother much. Is he in London?” Evelyn asked.
“No, New York. He emigrated to America a few years ago. We were never all that close, but we still write to one another now and then.”
“So you’re on your own at Stepney Green.” Evelyn chewed on a cold chip. “Does it get lonely?”
“Yes, it can.” Vincent paused. “Though sometimes I stay at the flat.”
“What, Chemley Court? But where?” Evelyn started to smile. “There’s only one bedroom.”
“Well, I stay with Bennett . . . In his room.”
Evelyn blinked. “Oh. I see.”
Vincent was staring at her, color spreading up his throat. “It’s only been a couple of times,” he mumbled.
“But is he . . . ?” Evelyn hesitated, uncertain how to ask. “His wife, does she . . . ? He’s not, well . . .”
Vincent looked miserable now. “Do you mind, Evelyn?”
Evelyn felt her own face flush hot, and she was filled with pity for Vincent—not for what he had told her but for the fear she had detected in his voice.
“Don’t be so silly. Why should I ever mind about a thing like that?” She sat back, hands around her pint glass. “I was going to say I’m surprised, but I don’t believe I am.” She laughed then, covering her mouth, and Vincent laughed too—in relief, perhaps. “Sorry, is that awful?”
“Not really.” He rubbed his nose. “You wouldn’t be much of a spy if you hadn’t spotted it.”
Evelyn finished the watery dregs of her Guinness. “Have you always liked men?”
“Yes, I think so.” Vincent smiled grimly. “I’m not sure I could live any other way, even if it would make my life easier.”
“Yes.” Evelyn understood that. But it was unpleasant to think of White knowing Vincent’s vulnerabilities, though she supposed they were his vulnerabilities too now. “I hope he’s nice to you,” she said. “Treats you, well, like a princess.”
Vincent gave a shrug. Then he reached across the table and took Evelyn’s hands in his. “But you mustn’t say anything, Evelyn. Please. Bennett’s not . . . Well, this knowledge of himself doesn’t sit quite comfortably.”
“Of course. You can trust me.”
We all have our secrets, Evelyn mused as they strolled back along Lupus Street, the wind whipping about their faces.
March 1948
Twelve
MRS. FOY WAS still upstairs when Evelyn arrived at the bookshop on Monday morning. She stood for a moment by the rosewood cabinet displaying the first editions, her eyes drawn to the front window where, just below the gilded sign that read Foy’s Books & Collectables, the sun had been flinting at the glass. There were boxes of books from the weekend deliveries blocking the doorway—one from Faber, another from Penguin, the rest from Mrs. Foy’s secondhand supplier in Hammersmith. Evelyn dragged them to a corner to clear a path toward the desk. Alix, Mrs. Foy’s Russian blue, slunk downstairs, eyeing Evelyn imperiously as she removed her coat and hung it on the stand.
Foy’s on Store Street was one of the few buildings in the block undamaged after the war. The shop was on the ground floor of the terrace, positioned between tearooms and a boarded-up gallery, and on the two floors above lived Mrs. Foy, who had run the business since her husband died. Evelyn had worked for Mrs. Foy for nearly two years. Though the shop was close to t
he British Museum, they weren’t bothered by many customers, and this meant Evelyn’s days passed with little cause for nuisance or surprise. And she liked the quiet, which she supposed wasn’t good for business, but Mrs. Foy never seemed concerned by it.
“Is that you, Evelyn?” Mrs. Foy called from upstairs. “I’m just finishing breakfast.”
“Hullo,” she called back, blowing on her hands. Winter had returned overnight, covering Bloomsbury in an icy mist. Evelyn’s breath came out in a fog—the shop was as cold as the street, and smelled musty. She bent over the paraffin heater and lit up last week’s oil, while from the first floor came the sound of Mrs. Foy’s hip knocking against the dining table, rattling the china. The pine floorboards above Evelyn’s head groaned.
“Shall I bring down some tea?”
This was their ritual. Every morning Mrs. Foy called down, arranged the tea, and they sat together at the small desk with the cash register, drank weak Tetley, and waited for the first customers to arrive. This could take hours. Sometimes Mrs. Foy had baked the night before and they might share a piece of fruitcake or a scone, and then she would bring out her knitting while Evelyn read. Mrs. Foy was always knitting—socks, scarves, pairs of booties. Evelyn didn’t know what she did with all these woolen creations, for she had no family to give them to. Her latest project, a red balaclava, hung lifelessly from the hook above the stairs.
Usually this was a pleasant way to start their morning, but today, when Mrs. Foy paused her chatter to refill their cups, Evelyn moved away from the desk and began stacking the shelves near the front with the new stock.
“Is everything all right, dear?”
Evelyn kept her eyes on the books. “Oh, yes,” she said, making her voice bright.
“Only you look a bit peaky.” Mrs. Foy set down her cup. “Busy weekend, was it?”
“No, nothing like that.”
Evelyn rubbed some dust off her nose with the flat of her palm. The stock from Hammersmith stank; it must have got wet in the truck and would have to be returned. Evelyn balled her hands into tight fists. She hated telephoning the account manager—he could talk for England.
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