Mr.Churchill's Secretary(108)

Murphy, battered, bloody, and reeking of gasoline, looked up at Frain. “Fuck you.”

“I’m so glad you said that.” Frain pulled the revolver’s trigger. Murphy slumped over, mouth open, eyes glazing, blood running down the steering wheel.

“Michael Murphy,” Frain said with grim satisfaction. “Shot while resisting arrest.”

Arms pumping, David, Chuck, and Edmund caught up with Frain. “Where’s Maggie?” Edmund panted.

Frain holstered his gun. “You two,” he said to David and Chuck, “go inside and call the fire department and an ambulance. Edmund, let’s get started putting out that fire.”

Maggie was cradling John’s head in her lap in the flickering light of the blaze when she saw Frain and Edmund approach past the clothesline and the vegetable patch. “He’s still out there,” she said wildly. “He’s still there.”

Frain shook his head. “Murphy’s been taken care of.”

They heard sirens wailing in the distance, getting closer.

“It’s going to be all right, Maggie,” Edmund said, bending down and wrapping his arms around her.

“I know it is,” she replied. Then she started to laugh. She laughed and laughed and laughed, until tears ran down her face and her stomach hurt.

Out of the corner of her eye, Maggie could see Frain and Edmund look at each other with concern. David ran out of the house to join them, taking in the sight of Maggie—hair disheveled, dress torn and muddy, face covered in dirt, arm and hands bleeding. She reeked of gasoline. “Merciful Zeus, she’s lost it again, hasn’t she?” he said in awe. Beside him, Chuck could only stare in shocked silence.

Even John managed to open one eye. “I say …” he managed. “You all right, Maggie?”

She managed to choke back laughter and gave a few snorts and hiccups. “I’m fine, John,” she said, smoothing back his unruly hair. “Thanks to you.”

Then, to Edmund, “I was just thinking,” she said, wiping her eyes with the hem of her dress and then dabbing at her nose. “I was just thinking—how on earth are we going to explain all this to Aunt Edith?”





THIRTY-FOUR





BACK AT NO. 10 the next morning, there wasn’t much time to talk to the Prime Minister about changing jobs.

There were memos to type, papers to file, and notation to take. And when Mrs. Churchill, slim and elegant, with intelligent eyes and a strong jaw, came by his office in the mid-afternoon, the P.M. announced to her, “Clemmie, Chartwell this weekend.” While it was easier for Mr. Churchill to take his weekends at Chequers, he preferred the family home.

“Winston, you can’t,” she said, coming around the desk behind him. She put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the top of his shiny head. “It’s closed—and there will be no one to cook for you.”

“I shall cook for myself,” Mr. Churchill pronounced. “I can boil an egg. I’ve seen it done.”

She sighed. “All right, Chartwell it is, Mr. Pug. I’ll tell the staff.”

Maggie pretended to read over her typing as Mrs. Churchill kissed him again, this time on the lips with an audible smack, and left.

Later that evening, they heard it had been decided: The Churchills would spend the coming weekend at Chartwell, and as Mrs. Tinsley’s son was home on leave, Maggie would be the secretary to accompany them. She was elated by the news. She’d been longing to see Chartwell, the Churchills’ private estate in Kent.

And this was her last chance.

Maggie was expecting to take dictation as they drove to Kent in the black Bentley, followed in another car by Detective Thompson; Mr. Churchill’s faithful butler, Mr. Inces; and several Royal Marines. She had her pen and paper on her lap, at the ready. But Mr. Churchill was silent.

The city landscape segued into misty gray-green plains and orchards, branches heavy with rosy apples. As they covered more and more distance, the pinker and more cherubic Mr. Churchill’s face became and the more his blue eyes twinkled. They rode on in silence for a while, as he smoked yet another cigar.

Maggie was nervous—she wasn’t used to being alone with him for this long when they weren’t working. She tried not to drum her fingers or tap her toes.

Finally, he spoke.

“Miss Hope, I’d like you to know—while I appreciate your actions of recent days, a dead employee is of no use to me, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It would be highly inconvenient. I need everyone on my staff alive and kicking if we’re going to win this war. Do you hear me, Miss Hope? Kicking, I say.”