She gave a kick, her angry splash disturbing some nearby ducks. But why should we have to? Maggie thought. Why shouldn’t men have a curfew instead? Then we women could walk the streets—and swim the lakes—in peace.
When her anger was spent, her limbs exhausted, and her lips blue, she climbed the dock’s ladder to go back to the women’s clubhouse to change.
—
Durgin was already in the lobby of Fitzroy Square Hospital when Maggie arrived, tapping one foot, running a hand through his unruly hair. They stood together, waiting for Mark, trying not to breathe too deeply of the air, reeking of alcohol. The pale blue walls were covered in propaganda posters. WOMEN OF BRITAIN—COME INTO THE FACTORIES! urged one poster, showing a woman in blue coveralls and a red head scarf, Spitfires flying high overhead. WOMEN ARE DOING THEIR BIT—LEARN TO MAKE MUNITIONS! boomed another, spotlighting a woman putting on a hairnet and smock. Yet another displayed a woman assembling a bomb: WOMEN IN THE WAR—WE CAN’T WIN WITHOUT THEM.
One in particular, however, made Maggie’s lips twitch—Winston Churchill’s head mounted on the body of an English bulldog against the Union Jack with the caption HOLDING THE LINE. The P.M. did not personally approve that one, she thought.
The waiting room was full of people slumped in hard wooden chairs, many pressing handkerchiefs against their mouths. There was such a cacophony of coughing and wailing babies it was hard to think. Maggie winced as she saw one woman pull away the cambric square she’d pressed to her lips. It was stained with bright-red blood.
As nurses in crisp white linen caps deferred to doctors with mustaches and large gold pocket watches, veterans in uniform—some in wheelchairs, some using crutches—tried to concentrate on their newspapers. Maggie could make out the Times’s headline, ALLIED POWERS REVEAL PLANS FOR SMASHING BLOWS AT HITLER AND GERMANY SOMETIME THIS YEAR.
She and Durgin both spied Mark at the same time. “Oh, goody—the gang’s all here,” Durgin muttered, making his way to the information desk. “We’ve come to see Dr. William McVite.” He flashed his badge to a bright-eyed young nurse with freshly applied lipstick.
She checked a chart. “Dr. McVite’s just arrived. You’re welcome to go up and find him. Intensive care is—”
Durgin was off before she finished, the tails of his mackintosh flying behind him. “I know where it is,” he rumbled, taking the stairs two at a time.
—
In the main second-floor corridor, Durgin spotted a short, gray-haired man in a long white coat, stethoscope looped around his neck.
“Dr. McVite,” the DCI said without preamble, “we spoke last night, about your patient—the one with thirty-nine stab wounds.”
“Ah, yes, Detective Durgin.” The doctor reached out to shake hands. “I wish we could meet under better circumstances. And I would like to tell you there’s been some sort of miraculous recovery—but I’m afraid Miss Chorley is still in critical condition.”
“May we see her?”
“Of course.” The doctor led the way to a small room, where a pale young woman with brown hair, a turned-up nose, and long, dark eyelashes lay with her eyes closed. “I know she looks as though she’s sleeping, but she’s in a coma. She’s suffered severe head trauma.”
“How long will she be in the coma?”
“There’s no way to know.”
“Her chances of recovery?”
“Impossible to say.” Dr. McVite raised and dropped his shoulders. “She could wake up today—or she could spend the rest of her life the way she is now.”
Maggie’s heart skipped a beat as she realized the face was familiar. Gladys Chorley, she thought, her throat constricting. Another of the SOE trainees—terrible shot, but the best at obstacle courses. She blinked back tears. “Has anyone been to visit her?”
“No,” the doctor said. “No family, no friends. No one’s claimed her. She had a brother in the RAF—died in the Battle of Britain. And we’ve telephoned Miss Chorley’s sister in Orkney, but she’s a young widow with three children—unable to make the trip at the moment.”
Maggie nodded, remembering Gladys’s singsong Orkneyan lilt.
“Tea,” Durgin muttered. “I need tea. They have excellent tea in the cafeteria,” he announced, spinning on his heel. “We’ll have tea and regroup.”
Maggie stopped at the main doors. “I’ll be right with you,” she called after him and Mark. She walked to the nurse on duty. “Hello,” she said, smiling. “I’m looking for information on Miss Gladys Chorley. Dr. McVite mentioned she hasn’t had any visitors?”
“Chorley?” The nurse, a woman with thinning hair under her white linen cap, looked up from her charts. Her hazel eyes softened. “No, the poor thing’s had visitors. A visitor, at least. Her boyfriend comes around regular—late at night, though. Second shift. A pilot, I think. Handsome devil.”
Aha! “Do you know his name?”
“Something foreign. He spoke with an accent, I remember. Let me check the after-hours sign-in sheet.” The nurse ruffled through some papers and came up with a clipboard. She ran a finger down a column of names and times. “Here he is—Captain Jakub ?ak.” She pursed her lips. “Sounds Polish, maybe?”
“You said he was handsome? What did he look like?”
“Dark hair and eyes. Straight part down the middle of his hair. A quiet, polite young man. Looked a bit like Tyrone Power in Blood and Sand. Never said much.”
“Thank you, thank you so very much.” Maggie would have hugged the nurse in gratitude if she could have. Nurses run the hospitals of the world, just as secretaries run the offices.
She raced to the cafeteria and sat down at Durgin and Mark’s table with a triumphant smile. “Miss Chorley’s boyfriend’s been visiting,” she announced.
Durgin blew on his tea. “Go on.”
“His name’s Captain Jakub ?ak. A Pole fighting in the RAF. The nurse says he comes to see her after hours.”
Durgin favored her with one of his mad grins. “Excellent work, Miss Tiger,” he said, bolting the rest of his tea, then standing and clapping his wool hat back on his head. “I’ll make a call and get an address. I need to testify in court today—so you two will pay a call on Captain Jakub ?ak.” He glared from beneath the hat brim. “Don’t muddle it up.”
—
“Don’t blow a gasket!” Sarah was asleep when she heard the knocking, which was rapidly escalating into banging. She shrugged quickly into her red satin dressing gown and slippers, and padded downstairs to open the door. The fire had burned out during the night, and the morning air was frigid. “All right! All right! I’m coming! Don’t get your knickers in a twist!”
She opened the cottage’s front door, and there stood Kim Philby, impeccably dressed, smelling of shaving soap and lemon cologne. Behind him, the sky glowed. “Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning,” he said.
“Please come in,” she said, trying to smooth down her long dark hair.
“I know it’s early,” Philby declared, walking past her, “but we have a lot of work to do and very little time to do it. We’re trying to get you out during this full moon, which is a little sooner than I’d like, but still manageable if we focus and work hard.”
Hugh lay on the cottage’s sofa, snoring. Philby shouted, “Thompson!” Then, with a poke to the younger man’s shoulder, “Thompson!”
Hugh turned over, but the narrow sofa caused his broad frame to fall to the floor with a thud. He opened his eyes and saw Philby standing over him and Sarah trying unsuccessfully to smother a laugh. He bolted upright, blinking in bewilderment.
“Get dressed now, both of you, and come with me.” Philby looked annoyed by their sloth.