Murder Most Fair Page 6

  I searched his earnest expression, finding no trace of strain or artifice. Regardless, I trusted he would have told me the truth if he had. Even if it had angered me.

  I dipped my head once, indicating I believed him. “I must admit, I’m relieved to hear that. But I’m also at a loss. For if not you, then who? Who else knew about my great-aunt?” I searched my own memory for any possible solutions. “The passeur from Sittard?” The smuggler who had led us over the border into Belgium.

  Landau considered it and then shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. He worked with us for many years. I don’t think he would have taken such a risk without direction from me.”

  “Could the direction have come from someone else?”

  After all, Landau hadn’t been the only one working out of Rotterdam, and he’d had to submit his reports to someone.

  “No,” he replied firmly. “I told no one about your German relation. Not even my assistant.” An abashed expression flashed briefly across his features. “Truthfully, I’d wondered if the connection might prove useful at a later date, and I feared that if too many people knew, it might spoil it.”

  I couldn’t fault him this. It was one of the things that had made him such a successful agent and superior officer—knowing when to hold information close to his vest and when to reveal it, and ever conscious of potential connections.

  “In terms of my reports,” Landau continued. “T was the only person in Holland to see them, and he would never have interfered in such a manner with one of my agents and operations.”

  I suspected he was right about that. “T” stood for Robert Bolton Tinsley, a shipping magnate who had been living in Rotterdam when war broke out. He had already been handling some Secret Service work for C, so it was natural that his company’s offices should become the headquarters for all the sections of British Intelligence stationed there during the war, and that Tinsley should be put in charge.

  Having worked with C in London before being sent out into the field, I was perhaps better acquainted with Tinsley than Landau had ever realized, for I’d handled his reports and correspondence. Tinsley had certainly recognized I was uniquely well-informed, though we had never discussed it. As such, I knew that he was right. Tinsley was not responsible for the second deserter appearing at my great-aunt’s door.

  “Maybe her German neighbors were responsible,” he posited. “Maybe they saw something of you and Becker and became suspicious.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s possible.” I frowned. “But then why didn’t they report her to the German authorities?”

  He shook his head, seemingly as confused as I was. “Is it possible your great-aunt might have misunderstood?”

  Though the very suggestion irked me, I forced myself to consider it. Tante Ilse’s mind had always been razor sharp, and merely the fact that she was approaching eighty was no reason to believe otherwise. But the war had been long and difficult, aging her beyond the turns of the pages of the calendar, and she was certainly malnourished. I wondered what she’d been subsisting on for the past few years, but I knew she would never tell me.

  Still, I doubted she would mistake a deserter for anything but that. In truth, it was rather reckless that the man had admitted to such a thing in the first place without me being there to vouch for them both. Why not simply request shelter for the night as an invalided German soldier? That would have been the easier and safer route.

  “No, I know my great-aunt didn’t misunderstand,” I told Landau. “But there still may be something in what you’re suggesting. Something off in this second deserter’s approaching her.”

  “It sounds to me more like a test devised by her neighbors.”

  One she had failed. But again, why hadn’t they reported her? Or had they, but the German authorities had decided it wasn’t worth the effort to investigate. Much as I’d feared and despised the German Secret Police at work in Belgium, I had to admit the authorities had to have been more lenient with their citizens within Germany itself. Especially in the rural villages where everyone knew everyone. And Tante Ilse was just an old woman living with nothing but a maid. How was she to defend herself against a soldier? What choice did she have but to comply with his request? The matter was easy to dismiss.

  If so, that might explain the threats still being made against her. Some of her neighbors might be angry she was never punished, and so determined to mete it out themselves in some sort of fashion.

  I nodded, deciding there was no need press the matter further. At least, not with Landau. I trusted he was telling me the truth about his not being involved. So instead I brushed the problem to the side and offered him a smile as I asked about his next appointment. “So, Berlin?”

  The remainder of our meal passed contentedly, and I found my thoughts crowded with memories of our meetings during the war, as well as the ghosts of old colleagues and friends who had been lost to the conflict in one shape or form. Altogether it was more sweet than bitter, but sobering all the same. As we rose from the table to part ways, Landau had at least one more piece of welcome news.

  “You’ll be happy to know that each of the members of La Dame Blanche is going to receive the Order of the British Empire. Military division.”

  La Dame Blanche had been the brilliantly conceived intelligence-gathering network I had liaised with most in the German-occupied areas. Their contributions to the war effort during the latter years of the war—made at no small risk to themselves—had been significant, and I was pleased to hear that Landau and C had won out against the objectors, and the members of La Dame Blanche would all receive their much-deserved medals from the military division, for they had taken on as many risks as any soldier. The dispute had arisen not only because the members of La Dame Blanche were largely Belgian citizens, but because half of their rosters were made up of women, and women did not receive military OBEs, but rather civil ones. However, when La Dame Blanche had agreed to ally themselves with British Intelligence, they had insisted that they would do so only if they were considered to be soldiers. I was glad Landau was able to keep his promise that they would be.

  “That’s wonderful news.” I thought of the brave women and men I had known among La Dame Blanche’s ranks. “They will be very pleased and proud.” They might have been trapped behind enemy lines for the duration of the war, but they’d still been able to serve their country and their allies.

  He smiled. “I’m stopping in Liège on my way to Berlin so I can tell Messieurs Dewé and Chauvin.” The two clever men who had been La Dame Blanche’s leaders.

  “Give them my best,” I urged before we said our own goodbyes. When I would see Landau again, if ever, I couldn’t say, and the parting was more fraught than I’d anticipated. I swallowed a lump in my throat and hurried away, lest I make a cake of myself by actually crying.

  Fortunately, I had errands to distract me, and Hatchards Bookshop and then Fortnum & Mason stood but a block away, where I slipped inside to make arrangements for the hampers of food we would take with us on our journey to Yorkshire.

  CHAPTER 6

  “I do believe Tante Ilse was angling for an invitation,” Sidney leaned down to say loudly into my ear to be heard over the trumpet wailing from the stage. We had paused just inside the inner doorway to Grafton Galleries nightclub, and I turned from my scrutiny of the glittering, writhing bodies jazzing across the dance floor to look up at him. “Do you think she would have been shocked?”

  My lips curled thinking of my great-aunt’s unsubtle hints that she would have liked to see the inside of one of these nightclubs that were currently all the rage in London. Even though we had taken her to the theater the evening before and to Westminster that afternoon, and she had clearly been tired. So Sidney and I had waited to venture out until she retired to our guest bedchamber, despite having made no secret of our intentions—though I hadn’t admitted that our visit that evening had more to do with work than play. One of my dearest friends, whom I also relied on to supply me with info
rmation, was the best jazz singer in London, and performed at this club. I didn’t want to leave London without seeing her.

  “Undoubtedly,” I replied. At least to some extent. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean she would disapprove.” If I envisioned her as she had been ten years ago, I could just imagine her twirling into the fray of dancers and laughing.

  The club was packed, and a haze of cigarette smoke and perfume hovered in the air above, slowly staining the white cornices and moldings that had been installed during the days when the building had served as an art gallery. From our position, I couldn’t see the tables on the other side of the mass of dancers, but the band began a new song, one I recognized. Etta Lorraine would be taking the stage soon after, so I tugged Sidney forward, turning into his arms as we reached the dance floor.

  He inferred my intentions, expertly fox-trotting me through the bodies. Our progress was slow, but I didn’t mind in the least. My husband had always been an excellent dancer, and after our marriage I’d discovered his mastery of rhythm and finesse extended to other pursuits. It was certainly no hardship to gaze up at his handsome features. He always looked strikingly attractive in his evening clothes, though his glittering blue eyes and the manner in which his dark hair rebelled against its ruthless taming seemed to hint at a wildness barely contained.

  When Etta took to the stage swathed in a gorgeous gown of gold lamé and green sequins, which glittered in the lights, we remained in each other’s arms while her bewitching voice weaved around us. Her set tonight was new, and whoever had written the songs must have had her in mind, for her voice seemed born to sing them. The rich tones ached and throbbed in the air, raising goose bumps across my arms that Sidney brushed his hands over to soothe. In such a setting, I could burrow as close to him as I wished while we swayed to the music, and given the thin emerald silk and tassels of my gown, that was close indeed.

  I was all but entranced by the magic of Etta’s voice and Sidney’s proximity, when the sight of a familiar figure caught my eye. Etta’s beau, Goldy, stood to the side of the stage in the wings rather than circulating as he normally did, and the look on his face could only be termed smitten. I warmed at the sight, hoping the pair had come to some sort of agreement, though I knew it could never be as simple as I wished.

  Goldy’s parents had been pressuring him to marry a woman of good family. A white woman. But his heart belonged to Etta. I didn’t know what their future held. Whether Goldy would defy convention and ask her to marry him. Whether Etta would allow herself to accept. Whether society would ever accept their racial differences. There were a growing number of people, like myself, who believed such prejudice based on the color of one’s skin was rubbish. But there was also an emerging movement promoting racial purity, and I found their rhetoric alarming. I could only hope those purists were a symptom of the strife and uncertainty in these postwar years, and not a lasting cultural shift.

  Sidney noted my interest, and began to maneuver us through the dancers toward the stage door to Goldy’s left. Once Etta finished a set, she usually emerged from there to mingle amidst the crowd for a time. If not, we could always rap on the door. The bouncers were well-acquainted with me by now, and I knew I would have no trouble gaining access.

  Fortunately, we didn’t even have to ask, for Goldy caught sight of us from the edge of the stage and hurried around to admit us in the door.

  “Etta hoped you’d drop by,” he told me, flashing me a wide smile. “Though she wouldn’t tell me why.” His gaze shifted to Sidney, as if drawing him into his jest. “The mysteries of women.”

  “Oh, come now. If you knew all of our secrets, you’d simply grow bored,” I teased back, rising up on tiptoe to buss his cheek. “Love her new set.”

  “It’s her best yet, isn’t it?” he replied with pride before offering Sidney his gloved right hand. He always wore a glove on that hand to hide the scarring from the burns he’d suffered on the right side of his torso during the aeroplane crash that had ended his war service. His family owned an aviation company that was now pursuing the burgeoning market of passenger air service, an effort Sidney had invested in.

  Sidney asked after that business now, and I listened quietly as I waited for Etta to join us. I heard the applause, and then the music shifted, communicating that her performance was finished for the moment. Even so, I smelled her Tabac Blond perfume before I saw her. A long pearl necklace was draped twice around her neck, and a pair of gold earrings fringed with feathers swung from her earlobes as she strode toward us with her sashaying walk.

  “Ma petite,” she exclaimed, peppering her sentences as always with the endearments she’d learned from her Martinique-born mother. She clasped my arms. “I heard you were back in town. We must talk.”

  Though her words were light, the seriousness reflected in her cinnamon-brown eyes made my heartbeat accelerate. She had learned something significant. I could tell. But was it about Ardmore or another matter?

  She flicked her hand toward the men, shooing them toward the door. “We’ll find you when we need you.”

  I bit back a laugh at this dismissive treatment, but both men seemed to take it in stride. Even Sidney, whose eyes twinkled with a mixture of repressed amusement and interest as his gaze met mine when he pivoted to leave. Evidently he’d sensed the gravity in Etta’s manner as well.

  She ushered us several steps farther down the corridor and then came to a stop below the glow of the passage’s sole wall sconce and next to a stack of old equipment that had been shoved into a corner. The once-white walls appeared coated in a film of dust, and grit and dirt crunched under our feet, making me wonder how long it had been since someone had swept this area. Somewhere there must have been a water leak, for the air smelled dank and musty.

  Etta crossed her arms over her chest. Her voice was husky with wry displeasure. “I’ve had an interesting visitor.”

  I grasped her elbow in alarm. “Not . . .”

  She shook her head before I could form the word. “Not Ardmore.” Her stance softened slightly. “He said he was a friend of yours.”

  I frowned.

  “Attractive bloke. Popular with the ladies, I imagine.” She tilted her head in consideration. “And the chaps. He had that way about him. A little bit roguish, a little bit irreverent, but not too much. Never too far.” She scoffed at herself in amusement. “Even I was taken in by his whisky-brown eyes and blinding smile.” Her gaze scrutinized my features. “Know who I’m talking about?”

  “I’m afraid so,” I muttered, for Captain Alec Xavier fit that description to perfection. He was also the most likely candidate for such an impertinent act. “But I didn’t send him to you. I didn’t even know he realized we were friends.”

  “I gathered as much, and so I played dumb. But he still insisted on giving me this.” She retrieved a folded piece of paper from the bodice of her gown. “I suppose in the end I gave myself away, for he somehow convinced me to take it.” Her mouth quirked drolly. “The bounder.”

  I could only be glad she was able to find the humor in the situation, for if I had been her, I would have been furious. As it was, I was stifling the desire to find Alec and box his ears. His reckless move might have exposed Etta to even greater scrutiny from Ardmore and others, and she could hardly afford that.

  “I apologize,” I told her. “He should never have come here.”

  “Bébé, you look ready to spit nails, but I’m afraid he’s long gone.”

  I reached for the message she held out to me, but then she pulled it back, her eyes narrowing.

  “Knew him during the war, did you?”

  Etta and I had never discussed precisely what my war work had been, or my unofficial role now, for that matter. I couldn’t tell her. Not without breaking my oath and risking prosecution for violating the Official Secrets Act. But she was an astute woman. I was certain she had guessed at least part of it.

  However, there was the appearance of plausible deniability to maintain, so I equivoc
ated. “You could say that.”

  She scrutinized me a moment longer, but there was no way I was going to tell her that Alec and I had worked together in German-occupied Brussels, where he had served as a German Army officer—having infiltrated their ranks several years before the war. Nor was I going to share the more personal complications of our relationship.

  Perhaps recognizing she’d pushed me as far as I was willing to go, she passed me the missive. “I’ve been carrying it on me for almost a week,” she admitted. “So it might not be as crisp as it once was.”

  The foolscap was still warm from her skin, and the paper’s integrity had been compromised slightly by the moisture, but during the war I had worked with documents in far worse shape, and smuggled things out of Belgium in far stranger and more unsavory places than merely a dress bodice. I recognized Alec’s bold, slanting script, and though the intelligence he relayed made my heart clutch and then sink with dread, I knew my expression betrayed none of that. Refolding and tucking the message inside my own bodice, I thanked her.

  She arched her brows in mild query, perhaps expecting me to explain, but when I didn’t, she merely sighed. “I trust you know what you’re doing, ma chérie.” She gestured for me to follow her around the corner, stopping before the first door on the right, on which she rested her hand. “In any case, that isn’t the only matter I need to speak to you about.” She pushed open the door, allowing me to see inside.

  It was a dressing room. Hers, I guessed, based on the dozens of vases spaced throughout, filled to bursting with flowers, and the powders and tubes of lip salve strewn across the vanity surface, as well as the scent of Tabac Blond, which wafted out. It certainly didn’t belong to the man slumped in the far corner. One leg was thrown over the left arm of his chair so that he was half-reclined, his neck cricked at an odd angle downward that made his dark blond hair fall over his face and obscure some of his features. Regardless, I knew him immediately.