Mr.Churchill's Secretary(4)

Continuing through a turnstile, he jogged up another steeper set of stairs and then into the open air. He walked a few blocks and spotted a café across the street.

He went in and took a seat by the large plate-glass windows, the dark wood chair scraping over the black-and-red tile floor.

Then he looked up at the waitress and ordered a pot of tea.

Murphy was enjoying his first sip when the ground shook slightly and the battered wooden tables and chipped flowered china dishes trembled for just an instant.

There was an uneasy silence as the other patrons stiffened, wondering what had happened, waiting.

The crowd began murmuring, some rising to see what the outside commotion was about. A baby began to cry, and his mother held him tightly against her.

Then people, some battered and bloody, faces contorted with shock, began to walk past the café’s window. And they’re the lucky ones, he thought.

The man caught sight of the young woman in the gray hat, the one he’d favored with a wink. It was askew, and her lipstick had smeared. A gash on her face wept blood, dripping dark and red onto the light gray of her suit. She walked past the window of the café, unseeing.

From a distance, the wail of sirens could be heard, growing louder as they approached.

Murphy left a few coins on the table for his tea and then went out into the throng, savoring the confusion and chaos he had caused.





TWO





NO. 10 DOWNING STREET, the historic black-brick office and home of the British Prime Minister, appeared austere and unassuming, especially compared to Parliament, Big Ben, and all the other grand Gothic government buildings in Westminster. It was almost ascetic in its simplicity—as if to say that while the other buildings might be there for display, this was where government actually met, where work was really done.

Downing Street had been closed to the general public since the previous September. The building itself was sandbagged and surrounded by coils of thick barbed wire, braced for imminent attacks.

Maggie Hope walked up the steps, past the guards, and knocked. The door opened, and she was led by one of the tall, uniformed guards past the infamous glossy black door with its brass lion-head knocker, and through the main entrance hall. She passed through, barely noticing the Benson of Whitehaven grandfather clock, the chest from the Duke of Wellington, and the portrait of Sir George Downing. They continued up the grand cantilever staircase. From there, they took a few turns down a warren of corridors and narrow winding passageways to the typists’ office, ripe with the scent of floor polish and cigarette smoke. The guard left her there.

She took off her brown straw hat with the violet faille bow and removed her gloves. The silence was cut only by the loud ticking of a wall clock and the low murmur of conversation a few rooms away.

Then, a voice: “How do you do, Miss Hope.”

Standing in the doorway was a tall, slim woman in her early fifties. Her glossy black hair was threaded with silver and pulled back into a sleek chignon. The inherent beauty of her face was obscured by heavy black-rimmed glasses perched at the end of her nose. “I am Mrs. Catherine Tinsley,” she said, her mouth pursed.

“How do you do, ma’am? My name is Margaret Hope—but please call me Maggie.”

Mrs. Tinsley looked down her nose and took the girl’s measure. Pretty little thing, she sniffed, but too young, too thin, and far too pale. And that ghastly red hair pulled up into a bun. At least she had the common sense to dress in a plain suit and flat shoes. Not like that other young chit, Diana. Poor girl. Nasty bit of work, that.

“Well, Miss Hope,” she said, taking a seat behind the larger of the wooden desks, which had a brass lamp, “please call me Mrs. Tinsley. I am Mr. Churchill’s senior secretary. Even though Mr. Churchill has been Prime Minister for only a short while, you should know that I have been with the family for more than twenty years.”

She looked at Maggie over her glasses to make sure she was suitably impressed.

Maggie tried to arrange her face in such a way as to show that she was.

“I do hope you’ll work out better than the other girls we’ve had.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Especially the last one, Maggie thought grimly as she took the small, hard seat opposite Mrs. Tinsley’s desk. “I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

“That’s why you’re here. And don’t think Mr. Churchill will be too pleased about it. He doesn’t like new staff.”

This is going well, Maggie thought with a sinking heart. Is it too late to go melt scrap metal? Her office skills were good—but would they be good enough?

After all, she wasn’t really a secretary but a Wellesley graduate, summa cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa, fluent in German and French, about to start working toward a doctoral degree in mathematics from M.I.T. Or she had been. Not that Mrs. Tinsley—or anyone else at No. 10—cares.