“Where to, miss?” asked the grizzled cabbie through the open window.
“Changed my mind,” she said, turning on her heel.
She went back into the park, following a footpath that led to an Italianate garden filled with blossoms of crimson, ginger, white, and gold. She stopped to admire one of the weathered stone statues, surreptitiously looking around.
There was no one else in sight.
She retraced her steps.
Nothing and no one.
When she reached the street, she walked quickly to the Great Portland Street Tube station instead of taking a cab. At the station she bought a ticket for Oxford Street. The train was just about to close its doors when she pushed her way in, ignoring the disapproving stares of the other passengers.
She quickly composed her features and found a seat.
Mark Standish and Hugh Thompson met Peter Frain at his club, housed in a three-story white-brick mansion with Romanesque columns. At the glossy black door, they showed their identification to an unsmiling British soldier holding a Sten gun.
The guard waved them into the marble-and-gilt entrance hall and pointed to two etched-glass doors. “Jesus,” Standish breathed.
“Nice to know how the other half lives, eh?” Thompson replied.
Through the doors was a gigantic, high-ceilinged room that housed a swimming pool. The walls were covered in blue, cream, beige, and dark-brown tiles in mosaics of ancient Babylonian archers. Inside, the air was hot and moist. Men, pasty and middle-aged, did the crawl or backstroke in the lanes.
Frain finished his lap, then swam over to the men, incongruous and awkward in their suits. “What happened?” he asked, climbing out of the pool and receiving a fresh towel from one of the attendants.
“She went into the Tube station, sir,” answered Standish, nervous and trying not to stare at his nearly naked boss, who had the wiry build of a rower. “We sent an agent after her, but she made it onto a train before he could reach her.”
“Damn it,” Frain muttered, trying to get water out of his ears. “How long were they in the park?”
“About fifteen minutes,” Thompson replied. His face was getting moist in the damp heat, and his temples were beading with drops of sweat.
“Plenty of time to exchange information.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sir, she’s an amateur. At some point she’s going to make a mistake. And we’ll be there to catch it,” Standish said. “I’ll get one of the girls to type all this up in a report for you. Then you can bring it to Mr. Churchill.”
Richard Snodgrass, a slight figure in a pinstriped suit, appeared in the doorway and made his way over the gleaming tiled floor to Frain and his two men. “We’re moving forward, then? We are moving forward?”
“A pleasant day to you, Mr. Snodgrass,” Frain said, wrapping the towel around his waist. “And most assuredly, we’re moving forward.”
“And, about—Miss Hope, still—?”
“No,” Frain said, heading toward the dressing room. “As far as we know, she still has no idea at all.”
TWELVE
AS MUCH AS Maggie wanted to tear the island apart to look for her father, ordinary life went on with work at No. 10 and all its other commitments and responsibilities. Including hosting a party for Chuck’s upcoming birthday.
As Paige was working as a driver at all hours and the twins couldn’t really be counted on for anything involving cleaning, one weekend Sarah and Maggie together uncovered the furniture in the parlor, dining room, and library, beat the dust from the rugs with large wooden paddles, polished the floors with lemon-scented wax, and washed the crystal. Finally, sweaty and aching, they surveyed their handiwork with pride.
The pipes might have been crumbling and the roof ready to cave in, but there was no denying that the house looked exquisite. The chandeliers sparkled, the brass gleamed, the wood glowed. “The furniture does look a little shabby,” Maggie admitted, poking at a moth hole in a velvet chair.
“Don’t even think about it,” Sarah rejoined. “No one will notice in the lamplight. It’s going to be fantastic. You wait and see.”
There was a noise from the kitchen. Maggie and Sarah looked at each other. Were any other of the girls home? As they walked through the kitchen door, they heard a whispered, “Yes, yes, I’ll be there,” and saw Chuck hurriedly replace the telephone receiver.
“Oh, I didn’t know you were still home,” Maggie said.
“Just … had to make a call,” Chuck said quickly. “Can I help with anything?”
“I think we’re all set,” Sarah said.
“Great!” Chuck said, backing out of the kitchen.