“I don’t suppose the Radio Times would like a little story on Vita Sackville-West’s upcoming broadcast?” Maisie asked Bert when she dropped off listings.
“I don’t suppose we would, no,” Bert said, not bothering to stifle a yawn.
So she took her overflowing energy to the library, the place it had always found relief.
Neither the stack of books on Germany nor the backlog of newspapers distracted her from chewing on her pencil and staring at the ceiling. A passing librarian glanced at her.
“You’ve been in the exact same position over an hour,” she whispered. “Are you all right?”
“How might someone in England get a piece of German propaganda not meant even for the general public in Germany to see?” Maisie asked, though she hadn’t realized that was the question that had been plaguing her.
The librarian’s black eyes sparkled with pleasure.
“Ooh, that’s a tricky one! I would think he must be German himself, with close ties to whoever generated the work,” she began. “He might be serving in an advisory capacity. Or he got it via an underground network, if he is engaged in some form of espionage activity.”
“You mean a German spy? Here?” Maisie’s stomach turned over. The unthinkable thought, the fly that had buzzed in her brain and eluded smacking. Hilda, so dedicated to informing the British, the world, about everything—it couldn’t be a lie, could it?
“Not necessarily,” the librarian saved her. “I daresay German spies exist, silly idiots, and Russians, too, but your man might well be in MI5 or MI6.”
The intelligence agencies. Maisie had read about them. Spies, yes. But for Britain.
“How would someone know if a person was in one of those, though?”
“I should hope they wouldn’t!” The librarian laughed at the idea—a totally silent laugh, mostly in the eyes. “A secret agent is hardly secret if people know who he is.”
“Could she . . . he . . . He would have to have another job, wouldn’t he? So no one would guess?”
“A man employed by MI5 might, perhaps, as that’s the domestic agency. Must keep up appearances at home,” the librarian agreed. “We have some books if you’d like—”
“What sort of person works for MI5?” Maisie interrupted eagerly. “She, er, he couldn’t be too ordinary, could he?”
“I really couldn’t say. All sorts, most likely. But a good agent would have to be enormously clever, know a great deal about the world, probably speak a few languages—”
“And care about the truth,” Maisie murmured.
“As much of it as he’s allowed to disseminate,” the librarian warned. “Which I imagine is not a great deal.”
But Maisie wasn’t listening. She knew what she had meant. She knew, too, that if Hilda got that propaganda via MI5, it must have even greater implications than Maisie had thought.
And she’s trusting me to be a small part of this.
The ambition of writing for the Radio Times was, Maisie now decided, silly and embarrassing. She had wanted to prove to herself that there was something she could do without Hilda’s hand at her back, but why not quietly help answer the question of what giant companies like Siemens and Nestlé were up to? Why should they be invested in Germany’s “road to resurgence” as led by a fringe would-be political party?
Ridiculous thing, the Radio Times. Who cares if all the writing in it is virtually illiterate? Who cares if—
“Heigh-ho, no trampling of the broadcasters!” Beanie’s cry brought Maisie back to the corridor, and the mortifying discovery that she’d nearly trod on an actress. A sleek, beautiful actress with chocolate-brown eyes and skin. Wisteria Mitterand, from Lady Astor’s salon.
Hilda had brought the idea of a Talk by Miss Mitterand to Reith, who had duly—and very fluently—shot it straight down. But given the hint that Miss Mitterand would be a fine performer, Beanie had sought her out. And lo, here she was.
“Miss Mitterand!” Maisie grinned, shaking her hand. “How lovely to see you again.”
“Goodness, Miss Musgrave,” she said, smiling. “I hardly recognize you. In the best way. You’re absolutely blooming.”
“Do you know,” Beanie broke in, studying Maisie, “it’s true. You’re no Gainsborough, but you’re not as Picasso as you were. All those harsh lines,” she added helpfully. “Isn’t that extraordinary?”
“It is,” Maisie answered, which pleased Beanie. Maisie turned back to Miss Mitterand. “I wish I could come see you broadcast, but—”
“Maisie is quite the slave to the Talks Department,” Beanie blithely informed her, with no thought for what that word might mean beyond her own idiom. Miss Mitterand’s expression didn’t vary by so much as a twitch, and Maisie thought again how excellent it would be to have her give a Talk. “But we must dash. Come along, come along.”