Treacherous Is the Night Page 4

  I stared at her, not knowing what to say, or if I even wished to say anything at all.

  “Ah, well, that would be the fault of the filthy Bosche,” she fairly spat the word. “I do not think I looked much like myself when they were done.”

  A heavy blanket of dread settled over me, for I had a strong suspicion now who this was supposed to be. She shook her head, “tsking” me. “It’s Emilie, ma chère. Do not look so shocked. It was only a matter of time before I was caught, no? Even though I delivered their paramour’s bébés.”

  I could feel the others’ eyes boring into me, their curiosity rampant, but I had no attention to spare for them. Because Madame Zozza was correct. I was shocked. But not for the reason she wished.

  Emilie had been a member of La Dame Blanche, an intelligence-gathering network that had been active in German-occupied Belgium and France during the last years of the war. As a midwife, she’d had the ability to travel about without arousing suspicion under the tight restrictions of the Germans. As such, she’d acted as a courier for the network, as well as gathering information while about her duties. Upon occasion, in my role with the Secret Service, I’d been required to penetrate into Belgium and France, behind enemy lines. Several of those missions had put me into contact with Emilie.

  However, although I admitted to one disquieting second of doubt, I now faced the medium with certainty she was playing false. One could perhaps overlook the faultiness of her accent, being much more Parisian than Belgian. Maybe the pronunciation was lost in transmission, so to speak. But Emilie hadn’t known my real name, just as I hadn’t known hers. It was safer that way. And even had she discovered it, the quick-witted, pragmatic woman I had known would never have called me “ma chère.” “Petite imbécile” was more likely.

  Which begged the question, how had Madame Zozza known about her and my connection to her? Such information was highly classified, even now, after the treaty had been signed. For her to know any part of it meant someone from the Secret Service, or an ally we’d relied upon, had had a slip of the tongue.

  I glared at the medium, letting her know she’d made a grave miscalculation. I was not going to be duped, so she had best conclude this nonsense before I concluded it for her.

  Not by the batting of a lash did she seem intimidated by my expression. But I supposed this wasn’t the first time she’d faced a hostile client.

  “Let us forget that for now, oui?” she persisted. “I have more important things to tell you.” She inhaled as if bracing herself. “I need you to unearth my secrets, comprenez-vous? I need you to reveal them.” She shook her head sadly. “I know it will be difficult for you. But it is what I want. What I need.”

  My fury turned to bafflement, for I hadn’t the slightest idea what she was talking about.

  Madame Zozza nodded serenely, seeming content to pass this burden from her shoulders on to mine. “You will do what is right. And now I must go. Au revoir, ma petite.” Her expression wavered and then she spoke once more. “But beware the man hiding behind a mask. He does not mean me well.”

  Then the candle flickered as Emilie’s part in this mockery was over.

  I continued to glare at the medium, though she kept her eyes shut as she feigned concentration to summon yet another spirit. Why on earth would she pretend Emilie wanted me to unearth some secret? And exactly what secret was that supposed to be?

  In her work with La Dame Blanche, she must have kept many secrets, chief among them her involvement in the intelligence-gathering network. But by now that was known, for the leaders of La Dame Blanche had written a history of their network in order that they all might be recognized and compensated for their contributions and sacrifices to Belgium, France, and the Allied cause. My part had likely also been recorded in their annals, though the only people with access to that report or my real name were intelligence officials. The members of La Dame Blanche had only ever known me as Gabrielle Thys or Honoria Dupont, depending on which persona had been needed for a particular assignment.

  I had to believe there was more to her decision to feign channeling Emilie. After all, I had lost friends and loved ones who would be much easier to gather information on than a clandestine contact in the depths of Belgium during the war. Surely any of them would be a better choice than Emilie.

  Which meant someone had wanted Madame Zozza to “summon” Emilie for me. But who? And why?

  The medium proceeded to summon the spirit of Max’s cousin for his aunt, a soldier who had died at Ypres. The aunt kept peppering the medium with rapid-fire questions, many of them about a cemetery at Boeschèpe where I gathered the son was buried. The medium ignored most of them, to the aunt’s mounting frustration, and I swiftly lost interest in the back-and-forth of their struggle.

  My thoughts were preoccupied by the more pressing puzzle before me. I struggled to control my impatience, biding my time until this phony séance was brought to an end so I could confront the medium. Infuriatingly, she seemed to have anticipated this very thing.

  Her appearance had grown progressively more haggard throughout the session, so that by the time she contrived the departure of this third spirit, she slumped heavily in her chair. Her head lolled on her neck, and the people on either side of her seemed to strain to keep her upright.

  “Be at peace,” she whispered in a hoarse voice and then a gust of wind suddenly blew out the candle at the center of the table.

  It was quite an affecting piece of theatrics, but I was not taken in. The same could not be said for Daphne and many of the others at the table, who gasped and began to mutter in hushed voices.

  “Do you think she’s all right?” Daphne leaned toward me to say.

  “Somehow I suspect she’ll survive,” I muttered wryly as the assistant turned on the lights and hurried over to where Madame Zozza drooped over the table. Her eyes stared blankly before her.

  “There’s no cause for alarm,” she assured us as she pulled the medium’s arm over her shoulder to help her to her feet. “This happens sometimes when her psychic energy becomes too drained. Some food and some rest, and all will be well again.” She glanced around at us still holding hands, and it might have been my imagination, but her harried gaze seemed to linger longer on me. “You can sever the connection now,” she instructed before she staggered toward the door, supporting some of her employer’s weight.

  Max rounded the table to assist her, but she demurred.

  “Please, it’s best for a stranger not to touch her just now. But if you could get the door.”

  He hastened to comply.

  “You can show yourselves out,” she called over her shoulder as they left the room.

  The others rose slowly from their chairs and made their way toward the entry hall to gather their things from the racks hanging there. Some were silent and stiff while others conferred with each other in hushed voices. But no one dared raise their voice above a whisper.

  I followed suit, though I didn’t bother to hide the anger smoldering in my gaze, even when Max glanced at me in concern as he helped his aunt from her chair. Having witnessed her snide questioning of the medium, I’d recalled why she seemed familiar. I had never met Lady Swaffham, but I knew of her by reputation. More determined to win acclaim for herself than to do any real good, she had opened her own private hospital on Arlington Street when the war began, and resorted to what amounted to body snatching—seizing invalided officers whenever and wherever she could and transporting them to her hospital. She had also been one of the most notorious recruiters, competing with other gentlewomen to see who could compel the most young men to enlist, and publicly shaming those she saw as not properly doing their bit for the war effort.

  At one point, her viper’s tongue had briefly sharpened itself at the expense of my cryptographer friend George. That is, until Sir Alfred Ewing of the Royal Admiralty warned her that just because she was not aware of a gentleman’s particular contribution to the war effort, did not mean it did not exist, and that her unin
formed opinions were unwelcome. I’d even heard it rumored that privately he’d threatened to have her added to MI5’s Registry for unpatriotic activities. Both George and I had wished we could have witnessed her response to that.

  So her contemptuous treatment of the medium was not indicative of her disbelief, but rather of her own nature. That she was Max’s aunt was as unfortunate as it was difficult to believe. When she followed his gaze toward me and pursed her lips in distaste, I found it difficult not to vent my anger on her with some snide remark. However, for Max’s sake, I merely turned away. Not forcefully enough to be considered a snub, but sharp enough to make it clear I had no care for her opinion.

  Daphne and I were the last to leave the table, though for my part, I was tempted to remain, refusing to be budged until Madame Zozza, or whatever her real name was, answered my questions. But one look at Daphne’s face, the bewilderment and stark disappointment, convinced me it would be best if I confronted the charlatan on my own later. I located our wraps and hustled her out to the street and the cab we had paid to wait for us.

  As we drove away, I turned my head one last time to see Max descending the stairs with his aunt. Whether or not he could see my gaze through the reflection of the glass I didn’t know, but the light above the door clearly illuminated his face. I suspected if he had not needed to escort Lady Swaffham, he would have come after me, but perhaps it was all for the better that he could not. After all, his appearance at our flat at such an hour would require some awkward explaining to my husband.

  I waited until the cab had turned east toward Westminster and Mayfair before speaking to Daphne. “I know you’re disappointed,” I began as gently as I could. “But that woman was a fraud. If she had summoned your brother, you can be certain it would not have been real.”

  “How can you say that?” she protested. “What of the woman she channeled for you? You seemed genuinely shocked.”

  “I was shocked that she knew the code name of a member of one of our intelligence networks inside Belgium. That she had access to such classified information. But that was nothing like the real Emilie. She was faking it.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes.”

  She blinked at me in the darkness. Perhaps I’d snapped at her, but she needed to grasp the seriousness of what I was telling her.

  “How did the medium know I was going to be there?”

  Her lips parted as if she was surprised by this question.

  “Daphne, did you tell her I was coming?”

  “I . . .” She shook her head. “No. I actually never spoke with her or her assistant. Melanie made the appointment.”

  “Your sister made the appointment?”

  She nodded slowly. “Yes. She gifted it to me as an early birthday present.”

  I arched a single eyebrow skeptically. “Has she ever given you a birthday present before?”

  “Well, no.” She frowned. “I thought with Gil, and Humphrey, and so many of our friends gone, she might be making a better effort. . .”

  Hearing the disillusionment in her voice, I reached over to take her hand. I liked that Daphne always tried to see the good in people, even when they didn’t deserve it. But Melanie was as rotten and selfish as they came. I highly doubted anything would change that. And it infuriated me when she toyed with her kind-hearted sister’s affections.

  “Did she suggest taking me along?”

  “Well, yes, actually. She said you might like to contact your brother or a friend.”

  I sank back against the leather seat, ruminating on Melanie and just how involved she was in this scheme. A visit to her town house tomorrow morning seemed in order. But only after I spoke with the medium.

  Daphne squeezed my fingers. “You’re not cross with me, are you? I had no idea the medium would—”

  I cut off her distressed words. “Of course not, darling. I’m well aware none of this is your fault.”

  She exhaled audibly in relief. “Oh, good.” She sat beside me, tilting her head sideways to lay it on my shoulder. “I’ve already got George cross at me for even contemplating the idea that he might consider attending a séance with me. I should hate for you to be angry at me, too.”

  I nudged her. “You told me you hadn’t asked him.”

  “Yes, well, I hadn’t. Not as of this morning anyway. I went to see him after I left your flat. But he reacted just as I’d predicted he would.”

  I smiled down at Daphne’s golden curls. So she had tried to spare me. “Well, I shouldn’t fret too much. He’ll come around in a day or two. He always does. Remember when we made him crash that party at the Cheshire Cheese with us?”

  Daphne giggled. “I wonder why he puts up with us.”

  I knew, but I wasn’t about to say.

  * * *

  When I returned to the flat, I discovered Sidney was still out. This should have relieved me. After all, it was better than finding him sitting alone in the dark. But it did not. Not when it meant I had no distraction from my own troubled thoughts.

  The irony of the situation was not lost on me when Sidney returned home to find me perched on the deep ledge before the open window in our drawing room, drinking a gin rickey. The rain had begun to fall again, pattering softly against the grass and the pavement outside. A cool breeze rustled the leaves of the trees in the square and brushed against my cheeks. All in all, it was a pleasant, peaceful evening, save for the roar and whoosh of an occasional passing motorcar.

  And yet this glass was not my first. Perhaps because rain seemed to accompany all of my most unpleasant memories of the war. Even the telegram informing me of Sidney’s death had been delivered in the rain.

  The last time I’d seen Emilie it had also been raining, and it had not been a gentle shower either, but fat raindrops capable of soaking you to the bone in the matter of a few minutes. She had guided me across the heavily guarded frontier Belgium shared with France. Though she had undertaken just such a task many times before, this incidence had proved particularly hazardous, for the Germans had increased security all along the border. There had been rumors the Kaiser had taken up residence at the Château de Merode in Trélon, one of the German Army’s Headquarters, and the stepped-up patrols seemed to confirm this.

  However, the Kaiser had not been my objective. The timing of his visit was simply poor.

  Emilie and I had narrowly evaded two patrols, both of us conscious of what would happen if we were caught. The second time we had only escaped detection by the slimmest of margins, diving into the sodden undergrowth of the forest. She was the one who’d recognized the danger seconds before I would have blundered into the two sentries standing against the trees at the edge of the wood. It was not the first time her finely tuned senses and intuition had saved me.

  I’m not sure how long Sidney stood watching me, but I looked up to find him hovering in the doorway. I hadn’t bothered to switch on any other lamps than the one closest to the sideboard, so I sat mostly in shadow, providing me the advantage for once. His expression was vexedly impassive, as it so often was, so I couldn’t tell if he was startled, disgusted, or concerned. Either way, I couldn’t hide my behavior from him now.

  I took another drink and turned back toward the open window, lowering my glass so that it rested against my bent knee. I suddenly felt very conscious of my bare feet, having kicked off my pumps and removed my stockings the moment I found the flat empty. Sidney had yet to hire a new valet, and the maid-of-all-work I’d employed a little over a year earlier, returned home to her own lodgings at the end of the day. I’d preferred it that way. Particularly given the fact that my previous lady’s maid had been a disapproving stick who was spying on me for my mother. But I supposed that would have to change now that my husband was returned.

  I expected him to voice his disapproval of my indecorous behavior—seated on a window ledge with my dress nearly ruched up to my knees while nursing a glass of spirits alone in the dark—but he merely crossed to the sideboard and began to p
our himself a drink. Knowing Sidney’s penchant for straight whiskey or brandy, I was surprised to hear the clink of ice being added to a glass. If he wondered at my proficiency with cocktails, or at least this particular one, he chose not to ask. When he’d departed for the front three days after our wedding, he’d left behind an eighteen-year-old bride who’d imbibed little more than the occasional glass of wine at a dinner party. I cringed to think how he would react if he knew how much I’d put away on an average night at the end of the war.

  He leaned against the opposite side of the window frame, staring out into the night as he drank from his glass. I’d always found Sidney frightfully attractive in his dark evening kit. It suited him, even now, when the years of war had cast a harder edge over his features. Looking over at him, I had to steel myself lest I melt into a pliable puddle of goo.

  “Did you have a pleasant evening?” I remarked offhandedly.

  “Yes. Crispin and I went to the club. Played a few hands of brag with some of the other fellows.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Nothing very thrilling.”

  “I hear Crispin’s been stepping out with Phoebe Wrexham,” I said after a beat of silence. We might be incapable as of late at discussing anything of importance, but as well-educated upper-class Brits, we could always rely upon our proficiency at inane small talk. After all, we’d been drilled in it since the cradle.

  “Yes. Seems to fancy her.”

  “She’s a good sort.” I rubbed my thumb against the cool condensation on the outside of my glass, wondering if I would be risking too much if I mixed another one.

  But then Sidney’s eyes landed squarely on me for the first time since he’d crossed the room, glinting with sardonic humor. “So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” He nodded his head toward my glass. “Or do I just need to wait until a few more of those do the trick?”

  CHAPTER 4

  I frowned, tempted to freeze him out, as he’d been doing to me. But the truth was, I did wish to talk to someone.

  There had been a time when Sidney would have been my first choice. If we were ever to return to that, if we were really to make a go of repairing this marriage, we would have to start sharing things with each other. Otherwise, we were doomed to fail. In any case, this would be easier to discuss than some of the other matters looming between us.