Of course, they usually recruited men. Men up at Cambridge who were bound for the Foreign Office or the Diplomatic Service were ideal, but there were women, too. Most often they were society women, wives of diplomats and businessmen, but there were lone adventurers, too, and it had recently occurred to the “certain dons” that there were now, among the university’s students, a number of young women who might be of great use to them.
And so in her final year, Emily was recruited. She was trained in the use of codes and ciphers, and in such rudimentary espionage techniques as had been developed at that time (she later confided in me that the essence of this was “blend in and keep your eyes and ears open, dear girl”) and by the time she graduated (with a double first, naturally) she was ready for her first posting. Or she would have been had not something not happened which her new masters found even more useful: she married Roderick Hardcastle.
Two years her senior, Hardcastle had already made quite an impression at the Foreign Office by the time he and Emily wed, and they formed the perfect intelligence team. They were young, charming, elegant, and fun. They had access to all the right people and, more importantly, all the right people were keen to be in their company. They played the role of dizzy socialites, all the while gathering information from the foreign dignitaries, businessmen and industrialists who were so delighted to be part of their orbit.
Short postings abroad followed, to Europe, the United States and to India, earning Roderick promotion and a knighthood and Emily a reputation as one of the finest spies of the age.
I sat dumbfounded. I had managed to piece much of the story together for myself during our many conversations over the past months, but I had never in my wildest imaginings even dreamt of the full extent of the truth. And just when I was beginning to think I was able to come to terms with it all, Lady Hardcastle said something even more extraordinary.
‘The thing is, you see, my dearest Armstrong, that I am in the most desperate need of an assistant. There are places I find it difficult to go, places where I cannot blend in and keep my eyes and ears open. And a lot of these are places, my dear girl, where you could pass entirely unnoticed. I’ve mentioned you to my superiors and they are impressed by what I’ve said and what they’ve surreptitiously observed for themselves. How would you like to take a second job? As well as serving as the most excellent lady’s maid a woman could ever wish for, how would you like to be a spy?’
‘I swear, Flo, it’s as if you’re hardly with us today at all,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
As promised, Harry had treated us to a most magnificently indulgent tea at the Ritz. There had been sandwiches, pastries and the most extravagantly gooey, cream-filled cakes, and even before we had finished, a feeling of overfed contentment had washed over me. As Harry and Lady Hardcastle began to speculate in hushed tones about the Ehrlichmann affair, I had found it harder and harder to concentrate and had, indeed, drifted off into a world of my own. But now it seemed that my opinion was being sought.
‘I’m sorry, my lady,’ I yawned. ‘It must be this delicious tea that Mr Featherston-Huff has treated us to. Thank you, sir.’
‘Think nothing of it, Strong-Arm,’ he said. ‘It was entirely my pleasure. Although I am a few bob short, so I’ve volunteered your services in the scullery for a couple of hours. I hope that’s all right.’
I treated him to my most disdainful look and he laughed.
As did Lady Hardcastle. ‘What I was saying, dear, is that until Sir David’s wheels have ground a little finer, there’s very little we can do but wait. I was suggesting a day out tomorrow.’
‘That sounds very jolly, my lady,’ I said. ‘Did you have anything specific in mind?’
‘I thought perhaps the National Gallery in the morning, a light lunch somewhere, then drop in on an old friend of mine in the afternoon and perhaps a concert in the evening.’
‘Or a show, my lady?’ I said, eagerly.
She chuckled. ‘Something low and vulgar, with dancing girls, and a handsome fool in tennis whites falling in love with a girl from the tea rooms?’
‘If such a thing exists, my lady,’ I said, ‘then I absolutely insist that you buy us tickets at once.’
It was Harry’s turn to chuckle. ‘I think I know just the thing. Leave it to me. You see to the highbrow stuff, Sis; Strong-Arm and I will take care of the real entertainment.’
We had tried our best to be entertaining guests, but by nine o’clock Harry had given up the unequal struggle and declared that it must surely be time for countryfolk to be in their beds.
I slept the sleep of the just, or the just-too-exhausted-to stay-up-any-longer, at least, and awoke next morning refreshed and alert. I had quite forgotten how draining it was to be on the run, but with Harry to help, and with Sir David’s men out searching for Ehrlichmann, everything seemed a great deal more manageable.
I persuaded Harry to let me help with breakfast and also to take a walk to the baker’s. And this had meant that we had had fresh toast with the omelettes I made, instead of the stale crumpets and mouldy jam that Harry had previously been contemplating.
The morning was spent, as promised, at the National Gallery, where I was treated to one or two more depictions of classical and biblical scenes than I was comfortably able to feign interest in. Lunch was somewhere near Park Lane, then we set off to see Lady Hardcastle’s old friend.
I was quite prepared for an afternoon of discreet invisibility as she chattered to one of her socialite friends in a fashionable flat somewhere, and so I was both intrigued and delighted when we ended up in Marylebone, outside Madame Tussaud’s famous waxwork museum. We went to the ticket desk and after a brief conversation with Lady Hardcastle, the young man there called over one of his colleagues who then disappeared through a door behind the desk and into a back office.
Nearly ten minutes later, a woman of Lady Hardcastle’s own age appeared through the same door. She was wearing overalls and had a pencil tucked behind her ear.
‘Oh my goodness gracious. Emily, it is you,’ she gushed. ‘Jacob told me Emily Hardcastle was here to see me and I said, “She can’t be, dear, she’s hidden herself away in Yokelton in the West Country, or Bumpkinshire or somewhere. She couldn’t possibly be here in civilization.” But here you jolly well are. Darling! How are you? It’s been simply ages.’
Amid the cheek kissing, several more “Darling!”s and quite a few more than the necessary number of declarations of surprise and delight, Lady Hardcastle managed to explain that she was in town for a few days visiting her brother and thought that it would be an ideal opportunity to catch up with some old friends.
‘Joan, dear, you remember Florence Armstrong, my maid?’
‘I do indeed. How are you, my girl? She’s not working you too hard?’
I remembered Joan now, we had met several times shortly after our return from Calcutta. She was one of the sculptors here at the waxworks.
‘She treats me cruelly, madam, as you might remember,’ I replied.
‘I said you should come and work for me, my girl, but you wouldn’t listen. Could do with someone like you about the house.’
I curtseyed, Harry laughed and Lady Hardcastle rolled her eyes.