“This glue is good stuff—where did you find it?”
“A friend used to do costumes at the Alhambra,” said Nina. “The RAF use it too, apparently!”
To a passerby, it might have looked like a schoolgirl prank. No less innocent than covering dorms in confetti, wrapping toilet paper around the dining hall, or locking Matron in the broom cupboard. But after what she had seen in Caxton Hall, what she had felt blistering around the audience and spilling into the streets, Evelyn understood the danger of it. Where did all this hatred go once it had been unleashed? She wondered what had happened to that poor boy in St. James’s Park, and her mind turned yet again to Julia—what must she think of her? Evelyn pushed that worry away, and once she had finished a second poster she found herself urging Nina on with the rest, until there was a dreadful line of them along the stone. Then Evelyn heard a noise: the sound of a car and a man’s cough.
“Do hurry, Nina!”
“What’s that?” Nina stood back to admire her handiwork, her head tilted in appreciation. “Now hasn’t that brightened the place up?”
More sounds followed. Footsteps. Nearer, louder.
“There’s someone coming!” Evelyn breathed.
“Who?”
“I don’t know who!”
A strange, terrified giggle erupted from Nina. Evelyn grabbed her arm; her flesh was wiry and taut beneath her coat.
“Come on!”
“Hey!”
There it was. A voice; she wasn’t imagining it. Nina’s eyes grew wide, the whites shining in the dark, fear in her pupils for the first time. They took off, running for a few hundred yards, ducking down Lancelot Place, before they had to stop, doubled over and wheezing, at the start of Trevor Square.
Evelyn checked the street. No one had followed.
“Come along,” Nina said. “It’s just over here.”
Somehow they ended up outside a terrace. The identical houses on either size of it were cast in blue shadow, though a faint light glowed in a window at number thirteen. Nina walked up to the front door, gesturing for Evelyn to join her.
“Isn’t it a little late for house calls?”
Evelyn watched Nina use the knocker to strike against the door before pressing an ear to the wood, listening for life as she might for the sea in a shell. Then, with a nod, she began fishing around in her coat pocket. She brought out a penny, which she used to crack open the lid on the greasepaint tin before passing it to Evelyn.
“The rot begins in Parliament, you know,” muttered Nina. “The festering filth of it all. If I had my way, I would destroy Westminster and rebuild it from the ground up, with a strong leader with strong English values. It’s bizarre, isn’t it, how we forget that humans are a tribal species—happiest with our own kind. When it all boils down to it, we can’t really accept difference. We won’t. The sooner everyone else accepts that, the sooner we can bring this sniveling war to an end.”
Evelyn looked away down the street, something heavy pressing against her spine. “Whose house is this?” Her voice sounded weak, barely a whisper.
But Nina didn’t answer, and when she heard a tread inside, first down the stairs and then along the hall, a pink light shining through the leaded glass, Evelyn felt her face harden, her shoulders curve.
The door opened. An elderly man stood there in checkered pajamas and a navy dressing-gown with a crest on the breast pocket. It was Leslie Baden-Marr, the member for North Islington; Evelyn recognized him from a photograph she’d seen in The Times. A Jewish MP. Behind him stood a short, chubby woman in a hairnet—his wife, presumably—who gripped his sleeve.
“Ladies, do you have any idea what time it is?” Baden-Marr peered into the gloom, though there was nothing reproachful in his tone, and Evelyn noticed that his feet, which were slim and very pale, were bare.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Nina said, all deference, “but we have a package for your wife, Rachel.”
Perhaps it was Nina’s smooth voice; perhaps it was the fact that the women on his doorstep were young and well dressed, but after a moment of deliberation Baden-Marr stepped aside for his wife, who, though clearly tired and a bit wary, nevertheless looked intrigued as she edged forward. “For me?”
Nina’s dark gaze flickered down to the tin. Somewhere, a clock struck the hour and a dog barked, and Evelyn imagined she could even hear Mrs. Baden-Marr’s congested breathing. She raised her eyes to the empty sky. Evelyn had always valued obedience, order, discipline, but now she found herself in a place where she would not be punished for her actions. It was dreadful how remorseless she felt, how free. She launched the paint, the black liquid tracing an arc in the air, like the billow of Nina’s cape caught in the wind.
* * *
When she arrived home at Broadwick Street, Evelyn let herself inside quietly and stood in the hallway, her forehead pressed against the cool panel of her bedroom door. Though it was late, Fay was still up; she must have caught the evening train back from Bletchley, where she had spent the past week. Jazz played softly on the wireless and the smell of simmering broth and fresh bread floated from the kitchen, reminding Evelyn so much of her mother’s cooking that she was afraid she’d break down right there in the dark.
“Hello, darling,” called Fay, as Evelyn finally made her way over to the sofa. “You’re not usually such a night owl.”
“It’s been a long day.” Yawning, Evelyn kicked off her shoes. “How was your secondment?”
Fay took a swig from a bottle of beer and made a face. “They’re a funny old bunch down there. Square, you know? No sense of humor. Mind you, I wouldn’t have one either if I had to stare at numbers all day.”
Evelyn studied Fay. She was dressed in her silk kimono, her hair wrapped in a turban, and Evelyn wondered how she was able to find such easy happiness in herself and in others. She found herself wishing she’d made more of a confidant of her; Fay could have been the real friend she needed through all this. Chadwick had been right, she thought spitefully. She should have been happier sharing with a fellow MI5 girl, and she considered telling Fay about the investigation. But what to say? That she felt guilty? That she felt scared? That she wished she had never agreed to the assignment because she was starting to forget what was real between people and what was false? It was all so hopeless—it made her want to weep again—so she stood up and moved toward the stove, drawn by the aroma of the soup. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a home-cooked meal.
“You don’t look so hot, Evie,” Fay said. “Have you been looking after yourself?”
“Oh yes.” Evelyn poured herself a glass of milk. “Pining for you, that’s all.”
“More like working too hard,” Fay muttered, but she was also wan beneath her rouge. “Have you managed to have any fun while I’ve been away?”
“You know me. Allergic to a good time.”
“There’s nothing else?” Fay leaned against the bench. “You can talk to me, you know.”
“It’s just . . .” Evelyn hardly knew where to start. “It does wear you down, rather, this pretending.” She rubbed at her eyes, seeing stars. “Maybe I’m just tired. I’m sure I’ll be myself again when the case is done.”
“Your problem is you’ve given over too much of yourself,” said Fay, folding her freckled arms across her chest. “You’ve got to keep that real part of you hidden away. This is only a job for me, it’s not a life. I’m heading back to Bolton after the war and leaving the Service for good. I’ve got plans, you see. I’m going to open my florist shop and I want to get married and have kids—three little ones. But that person who’ll leave London, she never comes out at the Scrubs. No one sees her; she’s precious. I have to protect her, like I would those kids.”
Evelyn smiled sadly. “You can see what your life will look like, then, when this is over?”
“It’s all that keeps me going.” Fay frowned. “Some people cling to the past, but I’ve always been looking forward, ever since I was young. I mean, take Dillwyn Kno
x’s girls down at Bletchley. Do you know what they call themselves? Dilly’s Fillies. And they’re clever, Evie, we’ll have them to thank when they crack the codes. But you can bet they won’t ever see much glory for it, and they’ll resent that for the rest of their days.”
Evelyn stared at the kitchen window. The curtains shuddered like a sneeze with each draft of cold air.
“Yes,” she murmured. “I can’t imagine the chaps letting them take the credit.”
Fay sighed. “Still, it wasn’t all bad down there. In the evening they put on dances in the mess hall and got in a local brass band. I met an intelligence officer from Dundee. We danced together every night. Bruce, his name was, and I could just about listen to him say it all week. Brrr-uuuss.” She giggled.
“What about Tony?”
Fay planted her hands on her hips. “Oh, well, he’s joined up, actually.”
“He has?”
“I had a letter from him before I went to Buckinghamshire. He’s probably on his way to the Belgian border right now.”
Evelyn considered this, recalling Tony’s thin mustache, his impatient eyes.
“He probably did it on a whim—that’s Tony all over,” Fay said. “Thought he’d look smashing in the uniform or something equally ridiculous.” She laughed, but it was brittle, and when she brought her hands to her mouth Evelyn saw that her red nails had been bitten down to the quick. “I mean, how bloody stupid. What use is he going to be over there? He’ll get himself killed, that’s what.”
“Oh, Fay.” Evelyn started toward her but stopped, not quite knowing what to do next. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
But they both knew she couldn’t be sure of that, and after swiping at her eyes with the back of her wrist Fay returned to the soup, stirring it with renewed vigor until a loud knock on the door startled them both.
Evelyn checked her watch. “Who could that be at this hour?”
But it was only the landlord, dressed in his pajamas, his shock of white hair untidy from his pillow. There was a call for Evelyn. “A gentleman,” the old man grumbled, though he was by now accustomed to these late-night disturbances.
Evelyn headed downstairs to the telephone in the hallway, aware of the landlord’s soft tread behind her, the rise and fall of his raspy breath. She picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“How did you get on tonight?”
It was White. The line was poor, crackly with background noise; he must have been in a restaurant booth somewhere. But his voice sounded strained, unlike himself. She wondered if he’d been drinking.
“It went very well, sir. You’re speaking to an official member of the Lion Society. I have the badge to prove it.”
“Bravo!”
“And I’ve been invited to the Randalls’ house on Friday. I’m to be introduced to Captain Randall himself.”
“Have you indeed? Well, this is quite the development.”
There came another muffled sound down the end of the line, as though White had covered the mouthpiece, and Evelyn heard laughter, then, You never told me that!
“His wife thinks I might have some useful insights,” she said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they wanted me to act as some sort of conduit at the War Office. They were pleased with the list I gave them of the names of the typists and—”
“Yes, that is likely,” White interrupted. “But remember, censorship has been enforced, which now blocks any correspondence through the usual channels. So it may soon be time to offer up my Belgian agent, Christine Bakker.”
“Yes.” Evelyn recalled the waxy part in Nina’s hair as she fixed the badge to Evelyn’s blouse, the weight of it tugging at the lace. “I thought so too.”
“We’re very close to that membership list, Evelyn,” White said through another crackle. “We’ll talk more tomorrow at the flat.”
“All right—but, sir—”
He had already rung off. Evelyn hung up the telephone and leaned against the wall, trailing a finger down the gap between the sheets of wallpaper, tugging at a small tear. Her eyes stung. She wanted him to call back, but how could she describe the dull weight of grief dragging at her heels?
Evelyn sighed. There was no room for compromise in what she was doing. She had done a good job—she had convinced Nina she believed in her cause, and the women of the Lion Society had welcomed her with open arms. That was all that mattered. So why did she feel quite so miserable?
* * *
Later, in her bedroom, Evelyn wrote a letter to her father. It was the first in weeks; despite her promise, she hadn’t been in touch with her parents since her visit to Lewes back in November. Her father had written to her three times; each letter had been put unopened in her bedside drawer. She had avoided the blunt intrusion of her parents, but tonight she knew she must confront these feelings if she were ever to understand what had drawn her to this job with White, what had compelled her to live like this. She pictured her mother and father in their sitting room, evening creeping over the sofa and the chaise longue, their backs turned from the last color at the window; though even that image was growing blurry at the edges, fading, almost as if they were disappearing from her too.
But when she read back over the letter, a chatty note about work, the flat, and how she’d been spending her time in London, Evelyn couldn’t detect the lies. It really was truth with just the lightest shade of dark, and Evelyn reflected bitterly that White would be proud to know just how far his protégé had come.
She put the letter in an envelope, sealed it, and placed it in her handbag to post in the morning. Then she went to the kitchen sink to wash her hands with the steel-wool scourer, but no matter how hard she scrubbed, the black greasepaint stains under her fingernails wouldn’t shift.
As she climbed into bed, Evelyn heard Fay humming from the sitting room. She was probably crocheting the blankets and booties she sent to her sister-in-law back in Bolton. But there was something mournful about the tune, and Evelyn found herself wrapping her flimsy pillow around her head. She thought about Tony, marching along some gray beach. He’d be telling a yarn, making the other soldiers laugh—that was how Evelyn always imagined the men: laughing in their toil, as if they were at a holiday camp. All these mind games had obliterated her capacity to picture the actual war, with all its blood and bones and tanks and guns. Michael Talbert appeared too, and Evelyn remembered him at the nightclub, his dry, forceful hands. She could almost feel the pressure of his mouth, almost smell his cologne and the hint of sweat about his collar, but she could not recall his face. She ran a finger over her lips, banishing the memory. For once sleep did come easily, thick and deep like the falling of a stage curtain.
Sixteen
EVELYN ARRIVED AT the Randalls’ house just as the bell of St. Augustine’s struck nine. Without a word, the maid led Evelyn upstairs, past the Impressionist paintings and the Chinese vases, to the drawing room at the end of a long, gloomy hallway.
Captain Randall himself greeted her at the door. He was dressed in a pinstripe double-breasted suit and brown soft-leather brogues. Evelyn had imagined someone taller, brawnier, but as he made a small bow she saw that he was slight and almost waifish, his bald head shining under the purple shade of the hall lamp.
“Welcome, Evelyn,” he said. “Come in, please.”
The drawing room was dark, like the rest of the house; the only light, in fact, came from the fire in the hearth. In the far corner Evelyn could make out Nina, who acknowledged her with a nod. She couldn’t see Mrs. Randall.
“Scotch is your poison, isn’t it?” Randall asked, returning from the drinks cabinet with a tumbler. There was another man sitting on the sofa in front of the fire. “I don’t suppose you’ve met Tom Weston? He’s our chap in the American embassy.”
Weston turned toward Evelyn and flashed a pearly smile. He wasn’t much older than her, and there was something familiar about him, too. Evelyn realized with a shock that he was the young man who had flirted with Sally at the Arbat Te
a House. But there had never been mention of an American, or any dossiers revealing links between the Lion Society and the embassy. How had they missed this?
“What do you do at Grosvenor Square, Mr. Weston?” she asked as she joined him on the sofa.
“Cipher clerking. I’m an assistant to Ambassador Kennedy. I work closely on the details from Washington.” His eyes had a glazed, unfocused look to them, and she saw he was drunk.
“And how do you like London?”
Weston gave a shrug. “It’s all right. I’m used to making new cities home. New York, Berlin. I was in Moscow for three years before my transfer here.”
Nina spoke up from the corner of the room: “You like Moscow best, don’t you, Tom?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Weston chuckled. “But I’ve been lucky. I found my place at the restaurant with Nina and her family. Wonderful people, aren’t they?”
Evelyn smiled politely and nodded. She watched Randall standing by the fire, one elbow propped against the mantelpiece, twisting the signet ring on his slim finger. Like the mood in the room, he was difficult to read. His file had described him as one of the most dangerous subversives in the United Kingdom, but seeing him here, in his home, calm and well mannered, she knew many would struggle to see any violence in him—he was all respectability. But she recognized the darkness lurking beneath the surface, and her eyes were soon drawn to a gold-framed painting hanging above the fireplace.
“Is that a Liss?” she asked.
Randall arched his neck. “Mm. My wife bought it.” He smiled tightly. “Do you know it?”
“Yes. It’s Judith in the Tent of Holofernes. One of his most celebrated works.”
The painting was shadowy, Judith’s pale, sculpted shoulders iridescent in the dim light. Beneath her extended arm lay a headless corpse, blood gushing from the stump of its neck like a fountain.
“It’s gruesome,” said Weston. “I’ll give it that.”
Evelyn continued to peer at the frame, afraid now to look elsewhere. “I’m rather surprised you own it, sir,” she said.
An Unlikely Spy Page 21
