Mr.Churchill's Secretary(41)
Of course the infernal girl is asking questions. She’s a rational girl, a scientific girl, a logical girl—and with her staying in London, it was just a matter of time before she began piecing things together.
However, Edith thought, rubbing her stiff hands against the chill in the air before turning to her typewriter, there’s time. There’s still time.
Wellesley, Massachusetts
Margaret—
I must insist that you come home immediately.
Did I not do enough for you when you were a child? I know I wasn’t a real mother at all, let alone a good mother. But I did feel—and still do—that I have a responsibility to Edmund to keep you safe.
We never pretended, you and I, that I was your mother, not even your adopted one. I didn’t think it would be fair to poor Clara; it also simply wasn’t in my nature, I’m afraid. But I do know we have a special rapport, brought on by our mutual interests.
Please don’t allow your anger at me to keep you from what promises to be a stunning career and a happy, productive life. I’ve worked too hard for that. You’ve worked too hard for that.
Please come home. There’s still time.
Edith
What she really wanted to write but somehow couldn’t was: Everything I did, I did for you.
“Let’s go over this again.”
Pierce was meeting with Claire and Murphy in Queen Mary’s Gardens in Regent’s Park. The day was foggy and overcast, the grass beaded with the morning’s rain. The roses—scarlet, pink, gold, and ivory—were in full bloom, nearly glowing against the dark clouds. The air was fragrant with their spicy perfume, and plush bumblebees bobbled and buzzed, drunk on the golden pollen.
Besides the occasional pedestrian and plump pigeon, they had the wooden bench in the rose garden to themselves, knowing there was no way their conversation could be overheard. Claire sat between the two men.
“While the Tube bombings have been effective in causing a certain amount of panic and hysteria,” Claire said, “we’re agreed we need to damage the British capacity for waging war.”
Murphy added, “Working together, we can launch a three-pronged attack.”
“Right—Claire will take care of the assassination, you’re responsible for the bombing, and I’m in charge of the kidnapping. I’ll get word to Berlin about moving forward,” Pierce said. “The details will appear in tomorrow’s Times.”
“You can’t just radio them?” Murphy asked.
“No, I can receive incoming radio messages, but sending one out would be too dangerous.”
Claire pushed her hair behind her ears. “Don’t you worry about being caught, though? Working with the Saturday Club and all?”
“Ah, I subscribe to the theory of ‘hide in plain sight,’ my dear,” he said. “Rather Like Poe’s ‘Purloined Letter,’ you know.” It was obvious from his tone that he didn’t think she did.
“Un dessein si funeste, S’il n’est digne d’Atrée, est digne de Thyeste, Malcolm?” Claire said.
Murphy blinked. “What’s that, now?”
“Literally translated, it means, ‘If such a sinister design isn’t worthy of Atreus, it is worthy of Thyestes.’ ” Claire said. “It’s what Dupin tells the narrator at the end of the story.”
Pierce blinked at her, his lips curling into a smile. “Brava, my dear, bravissima,” Pierce said, looking at her with new eyes. “Quite right, quite right. I’m hiding in plain sight. Which is why we’ve been working in codes.” He handed over the advert. “And this one, my friends, is a beauty.”
“I love it!” Claire exclaimed, taking in the innocuous line drawing of three women swathed in chic clothing. A squirrel reared up on his hind legs in alarm, then scurried up a tree. “All over England, women will be looking at what they think is the latest in ladies’ fashion. Genius, really. Just genius.” She and Pierce looked at each other, and each held the other’s gaze.
“And you’re ready for your part?” Murphy asked, laying a hand protectively over Claire’s.
“Of course,” she replied. “I was born for this mission. And you?”
“I’ll be at Saint Paul’s, of course.”
* * *
They each went their separate ways in the park, with Claire walking down the long paths to make her way to the street.
A young man, pink-cheeked and barely old enough to shave, sat on a long park bench reading The Times and dropped a section. A stout woman in gray twill and sensible shoes disappeared behind a cluster of oak trees.
And as Claire walked out of the park and put her arm up for a taxi, one pulled right up in front of her. What was it Michael had said about the watchers of MI-5? That they would pass you in the street and you’d never even give them a second look.