Mr.Churchill's Secretary(85)

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“At first we thought it was just an affair with a priest. But of course, it was more complicated than that.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“And I want the lion to lie down with the lamb,” Frain said. “But neither of us is going to get what we want, are we? Especially Diana Snyder.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Claire.

“Ah, I see you remember. We have a witness placing a Michael Murphy at the scene of the crime, but you were there, too, weren’t you?”

Claire said nothing, but a muscle beneath her eye started to twitch.

“That’s your—what do you call it in the States? Fifth Amendment right, I suppose. We don’t have that here. And besides, you and I both know you might as well have murdered her, that poor young girl. You lured her in somehow, set it up for Murphy. You’re just as guilty as if you stabbed her yourself.”

Claire bit her lip, hard, to keep from crying out.

“You tried for the job with the P.M.—what a coup that would have been! But alas, you had too many red flags attached to your personnel file already.”

Frain looked at her. “But that didn’t stop you from suggesting an old college friend, a Miss Margaret Hope, for the job, did it? And you anticipated that as Miss Hope’s best friend and flatmate, you’d get important information from her.”

Claire still said nothing.

“Meanwhile, Miss Kelly, we were also monitoring the Saturday Club. When you got involved with them, we started to dig a bit deeper. At first we thought that perhaps Miss Hope was in on the plot as well. But then we realized that the parish priest you met at odd hours was actually Michael Murphy. We were able to connect you with both the IRA and Abwehr.”

Claire looked up. “I want a deal,” she spat.

“You’re going to hang unless you convince me otherwise.”

Frain pulled a cigarette from a monogrammed silver case, lit it, and inhaled deeply.

“What about the life of Michael Murphy?” he asked conversationally. “Is he also ‘collateral damage’? Like Diana and Sarah?”

“Michael?” Claire blinked. “You have Michael?”

“As I said, we’ve been tailing you and Mr. Murphy for some time now. Our men have already taken him into custody.”

“Michael won’t negotiate,” Claire said flatly.

“Probably not. Which is why, in order to save him, you’ll have to.”

When Claire blinked, Frain knew he’d read her correctly. She wouldn’t talk to save herself, but she could be convinced to protect her lover.

“What are you offering?”

“We are prepared to offer you this—your life and Mr. Murphy’s. In exchange for information.”

“I—I can’t.”

“You tried to assassinate the Prime Minister of England, and you failed, Miss Kelly. Failed. Now tell us what we want to know and we’ll let you and your Mick boyfriend live.”

Maggie and Edmund took in Leticia’s unmoving body on the floor next to Pierce’s. His gun was still on the floor next to him. Roger still had his pistol pointed at the two prisoners. The barrel moved unsteadily between Maggie and her father, as though he couldn’t figure out which one to shoot first.

Maggie grimaced and tried not to cry out in pain as her arm continued to throb.

Outside the kitchen, the dogs snarled and whined.

“Quiet!” Roger shouted. The dogs gave a few low whines, but then whimpered and padded off.

“Why don’t you undo these ties and we’ll have a nice chat,” Maggie gasped between waves of pain. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“And look how well that worked,” Roger said. He walked behind Maggie. She could smell his cologne—vetiver mixed with sweat and fear. He began working on the ropes around her hands. She bit her lip, refusing to show him how much it hurt her arm.

“You’re taking me?” she managed. He’d put the gun down next to him, on the floor.

“You’re smaller, female, easier to control,” Roger said as he worked. “And you probably had access to more high-level information than you’re letting on here. I’m sure the gestapo will have a number of techniques to get you to talk.”

“And what about you?” Just keep him talking, she thought, keep him distracted, and maybe we have a prayer. “Your wife is dead, your contact is out cold. You’re going to start over with a new life in Berlin?”

“Here I’m nothing—no one,” he said, working at the ropes around her wrists. Red and raw waves of pain shot down her arm like hot currents of electricity. “See this house? We used to have servants, horses, hunting parties. Now it’s gone, all gone. There’s nothing left for me here. In Berlin, I’ll be a hero.”