“Your father is dead, Miss Hope,” Don Collier said. “I’m dreadfully sorry for your loss, my dear. It’s time for you to move on.”
Michael Murphy lit a cigarette and blew three smoke rings into the air, each smaller than the last. It was the first time he’d ever been allowed over. Claire would never have let him, except he had a shared bath at the boardinghouse, and with all they had to do, they couldn’t afford anyone seeing her make her transformation. So she sneaked Murphy in through the back garden and then up what had once been the servants’ staircase. She knew the others were at work.
Claire was sitting in front of a white vanity with a blue-taffeta ruffle and a tarnished mirror with etched roses. An opened package of red hair dye lay on the shelf, along with a bag of cosmetics—a silver tube of eye shadow, a worn-down cake of black mascara, a stubby scarlet lipstick. For her hair there were Kirby grips and sugar-and-water setting lotion.
She felt a surge of excitement as she completed her toilette, almost as if she were an actress in a play, about to go on on opening night. It’s time, she thought. It’s finally time. We’re really about to pull this off.
Maggie and David walked slowly back to his car.
“Bastard!” Maggie said, fuming and fighting the urge to kick the tires in frustration. “He knows. He knows, and he’s just not saying.…”
“Maggie,” David said gently, “it’s not his fault. There’s a war on, you know. Everything’s a secret these days. Information doled out in little crumbs …”
“War,” Maggie said, stopping suddenly. “That’s it—war!” She hugged David and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “War! Oh, you brilliant, brilliant man!”
“Well, yes, of course,” David said, pleased. “But what are you getting at, Magster?”
“You just said it—there’s a war on.”
“Common knowledge.”
“And if my father is alive, and evidence certainly suggests it, he’ll most likely be doing his part for the war effort.”
David’s eyes widened. “You think he’s a soldier?”
“Not in the way you’re thinking. You know about Bletchley Park, of course.”
“Bletchley? Certainly. That’s where all of the mathematicians and the like have been gathered.…” His eyes widened. “Suffering Shukra—you think he’s a cryptographer?”
“I think it’s probable,” Maggie said. “Given his expertise in mathematics. How far is Bletchley from here?”
“Bletchley.” David stared off. “Small town on the Varsity line, halfway between Cambridge and Oxford. Right on the A-Five to London. Used to pass it on my way to see Wesley.” He looked at Maggie. “Uh, you know. The rower.”
“How long do you think it will take?”
“Not much more than a few hours, probably.” He squinted at his watch. “We’ll have the afternoon and evening there, but then …”
“We have to get back by tomorrow morning, bright and early, I know,” she said, picturing the look of disapproval on Mrs. Tinsley’s face.
“But it’s an absolutely brilliant idea,” David said. “And if he’s there, we’ll find him!”
Maggie had her doubts. “You’re awfully optimistic,” she said. “There’s probably all kinds of security that even we can’t get past.”
“You’ll see,” he said. “Just wait.”
Claire contemplated her reflection in the mirror. The red hair really didn’t do much for her complexion, but it looked fine. More than fine. She could really pass for Maggie—especially in a hat with a veil.
Poor Maggie, she thought. She’s so earnest, so well intentioned. She thinks so damned hard about everything. Thank goodness she’s gone off to Oxford or Cambridge or wherever. The timing’s perfect.
She looked around, feeling suddenly wistful. They’d had good times here, it was true. What had started out as an accidental meeting, and a friendship of convenience, had turned into something more. Half the time, Claire had forgotten she’d been playing a role. She’d even felt a pang of guilt when she and Murphy had faked her death. Maggie’s a sweet girl, she realized, feeling more than a touch of shame over her deception. A sincere girl. Loyal to a fault. She sighed. Still, she’ll get over it. Someday. Who was she trying to fool? Well, maybe not, but the deed will be done, regardless.
And there was a job to do. She put a final dab of powder on her nose, then rose to her feet and spun around. “Ta-da!” she sang, hands on hips.