Mr.Churchill's Secretary(100)

“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?”