“He sent you that letter with the Pinpoint copies, and at least one other note besides. Remember, I was a secretary, too. Political, not clerical, but nonetheless, we see everything.”
Maisie had a sudden flash on Miss Jenkins instructing them to be the eyes and ears of whatever business they were so fortunate as to gain employ with.
“Oh. Well, I . . . Well, they want to take over the BBC. Or at least influence, but it’s the same, because they want to stop all women working here, all women working anywhere, and they want to take over newspapers too, so they ‘tell the truth,’ as they call it. But mostly the BBC.”
“Ah! So they see what we’re worth, do they? That’s most gratifying. Almost compensates for the lack of original thinking.”
“Miss Matheson, they’re awfully serious, and most of the people there looked quite posh and important, the sort who can influence things. And if that man Hoppel is involved, and he’s so high up in Siemens, and Siemens is one of the companies you thought those Nazi people were trying to get support from, and—”
“Miss Musgrave—”
“If MI5 is concerned, then—”
“Be quiet!” For once, Hilda looked enraged and, possibly, a little alarmed. “Some things you just don’t say in some places.” She stroked her onyx necklace. “We’ve got to go in. I’m three minutes late. Mr. Fielden has likely already rung Scotland Yard.”
“But—”
Hilda held up a warning finger. “Later.” Then she smiled her biggest Bonfire Night smile. “I promise.”
It wasn’t that Maisie didn’t trust her, but “later” had a way of stretching into weeks in Savoy Hill. Despite Hilda’s organization and Reith’s dictatorship, things spiraled out of control almost hourly. Just that morning, the well-rehearsed Mrs. Lonsdale, discussing her champion border collies, meant to say, “I breed them,” and instead said, “I bleed them.” Hilda instructed Fielden to have the mailroom set up a temporary holding tent for the coming deluge of complaints. Billy forgot to give Mr. Wallis his cue to begin, leaving thirty-two seconds of dead air, and “Beaky” Brendon’s “easy-to-train” singing parrots got loose of their cage in the corridor. Which might have been less of a problem if the string quartet hadn’t opened the door to Studio One just as Rusty thundered down the corridor with a butterfly net procured from Sound Effects (people had long since given up asking why the effects men had certain objects). Eckersley could be heard baying for blood over the “destruction” of the studio (“Just a few feathers and droppings; you’d think it was a zeppelin air raid,” Maisie said). Beaky Brendon himself had hysterics when Samson the cat got involved in the roundup, but since only a few tail feathers were sacrificed, no one else was particularly ruffled. The parrots were wrangled, Hilda slung some brandy down Beaky Brendon’s throat, and he recovered after she offered to give the parrots some as well. Samson went back to scouring Savoy Hill for mice, and everyone else went back to being several days behind in their work, a complaint so often stated, no one, including the complainants, paid any attention.
Much later that afternoon, while Hilda was attending a broadcast, the correspondence brought Maisie another note from Simon. Dear Maisie, I do hope you’re feeling better today. Many thanks for such a gloriously stimulating evening, and I shall no doubt beg of you your next free Saturday night. Yours, Simon. Maisie pressed the note to her chest, then crammed it in her bag lest anyone spot it and returned to her immersion in cathode rays. The phone rang.
“Talks Department, Miss Musgrave,” Maisie answered crisply.
“It’s Lady Astor for Miss Matheson,” said an equally authoritative secretary.
“I’m so sorry, but Miss Matheson is not available. May I take a message?”
“When will she return, please?”
“She’s in the studio and can’t be disturbed. May I have her ring Lady Astor back?”
There was a surprised yip, a shuffle, and Lady Astor’s imperious voice came on the line.
“Miss Musgrave? Good. I couldn’t abide speaking to that hang-dried misery-boot. The news can’t wait, because I want to give Miss Matheson an exclusive, and as she trusts you, that means I can as well, doesn’t it?”
It wasn’t really a question. Maisie was glad Lady Astor couldn’t see her smile.
“I always strive to be very worthy of trust, Lady Astor.”
“Marvelous. Though in my experience, keepin’ certain people a bit unsure isn’t without use. Now, listen! They’re going to announce it tomorrow, but they’ve finally just passed equal suffrage, and that’s going to make for some very good Talks, I should think.”
Maisie, writing the information on the Talks Department harvest-moon-orange memo (a clever choice of Hilda’s—there was no missing a missive from Talks), knew she was meant to respond with enthusiasm. But Lady Astor knew they were still constrained as to the sort of news they could report, and when was there time for an exclusive?