They became used to seeing the endless processions of people dressed in black, coming to or from the constant funerals and memorial services.
They learned to read the morning papers without weeping.
But there were some things they couldn’t get used to. Didn’t want to. When yet another bomb dropped on their block, Maggie, Paige, and Sarah saw bodies—bodies of their friends and neighbors—pulled out from the rubble. Those weren’t the kinds of things they could forget.
But they could go on. They had to. They all went to work, ate their meals, spoke to one another in the shops, went on as though they were people in one of those classic British plays—always polite, terribly formal, occasionally stiff. It was almost comical sometimes.
There was really nothing else to do.
* * *
The ad ran in The Times as planned, an innocuous line drawing advertising the latest in women’s fashion: day dresses with skirts ending just below the knee, wrist-covering gloves, straw boater hats, and spectator pumps.
But crosshatched into the drawing where the stitching was were hundreds upon hundreds of minuscule dots and dashes. Put together, they spelled out a message for anyone who knew where to look.
Pierce was pleased to see its placement—some pages in, bottom left-hand corner, beneath the cricket scores, next to the crossword puzzle—easily glanced over and dismissed.
Except for those who were waiting for it.
At his desk, he clipped it carefully from the paper with small, sharp scissors and put it away for Claire to include in her next letter to Norway. “Bloody idiots,” he muttered to himself as he stirred his tea with satisfaction. “They’ll never see it coming.”
There was a knock at the door. He rose to his feet and opened it. There was Claire.
He smiled, and their eyes locked. “I was hoping you’d come,” he said.
She pressed herself against him and circled his neck with her hands. “I know,” she said. “I thought we should celebrate.”
His body began to respond. “What about Michael?” he managed finally, his voice thick with desire.
Her hand started at his shirtfront and found its way to his belt. “Let’s not talk about him right now.”
Despite the bombing, which barraged London night after night, Maggie decided to return her attention to finding out more information about her father.
An odd mission indeed, she thought distractedly as she got ready to leave, pinning on her brown straw derby hat with lilac ribbons and adjusting it in the mirror before leaving the house.
One fact she knew about her father was that he’d been a professor working with the Operational Research Group in the Department of Discrete and Applied Mathematics at the London School of Economics. It seemed like a good place to start.
Samuel Barstow, the department chair, allowed her into his office, crammed full of books, papers, and files in no discernible order. On the wall was a reproduction of Escher’s woodcut Day and Night. The air was thick with dust and cigarette smoke, while a spiky aspidistra kept vigil on the window ledge.
Barstow was in his mid-sixties, sported a striped bow tie, and had a pale, papery look to him, as if he rarely if ever saw the light of day. “I don’t have much time, Miss—”
“Hope. Maggie Hope,” she said, offering her hand.
He rose and clasped it, leaving ink smudges on her beige gloves. “Pleasure. What may I do for you, Miss Hope?”
“I was wondering if you might answer a few questions for me.”
“About the final?” he said, pushing back woolly gray hair. “We covered all of that in class. Just find someone and get the notes—”
“No, Professor Barstow. Actually, I was wondering if you could tell me anything about my father—Edmund Hope. He was a professor here from 1906 to 1916, working in this department.”
Samuel Barstow sat down suddenly, as though deflated. He gestured to the dark-green leather chair opposite his desk. “Oh, my dear, my dear.”
Maggie moved a stack of blue books to the floor and perched on the edge of the seat.
“Edmund Hope. I haven’t heard that name in, well—forgive me, it’s been a while.” He took out a heavy silver lighter and lit his cigarette, drawing in the smoke and then exhaling a blue cloud with a sigh.
“I realize that,” she said, leaning forward.
He stared at the tip, which smoldered red in the office’s gloomy light, then closed his eyes. As he did, she noticed the deep lines around them, the bruiselike purple shadows beneath, and the creases on his forehead. He’s about the same age my father would have been, she thought. Would be. My father would have the same wrinkles by now.
Professor Barstow took a long drag on his cigarette, then exhaled. “Miss Hope …”