“I found out a few things,” he said after I poured the tea. “It took a little prying, but at last I found a lead, someone who knows how these chaps operate, and bingo! We have a few answers.” He looked jolly pleased with himself. “But, Mrs. Tilling, I must ask you to promise never to repeat what I am about to tell you to anyone. It really is top, top secret, and we will all be in trouble if anyone finds out this knowledge has been shared.”
“Of course,” I said quickly, knowing he should trust me after the dealings with Berkeley’s ring.
“Slater is a spy. One of the best we have. He came down to break a strong Nazi intelligence ring that was focused on Litchfield Park. He found one of the sources—someone’s butler, I believe—and escaped with him and another one to London, where he uncovered a complete network of Nazi spies. Bit of a hero, really.” He picked up his tea and sat back in the armchair while I absorbed this information.
So I’d been wrong about Slater all along. But at least I had been right about one thing: there most certainly was a lot more to him than meets the eye! All the things that the Colonel said to me last month came flooding back, about how much pain Venetia will go through when he puts his life at risk again and again, until he finally loses it. Of course, everything makes sense now.
“Did he leave the night of the bomb?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t to do with the bomb. It was because that was the night he abruptly left for London. They had reason to believe someone suspected them, a girl.”
That would be Kitty, I thought, remembering that night, her conversation with Colonel Mallard, his telephone call afterward, then the planes, the sirens, the bombs.
“Once in London they were put in touch with a senior organizer, and Slater nailed the whole ring. Some of them have been ‘turned double,’ so they’re back on the street but working for us.”
My head was spinning with questions. “If he was undercover, am I right in thinking he wouldn’t have been able to tell the woman in question anything about himself or what he did?”
“That’s right.”
“Which is why she was always so confused about it.”
“Indeed. Apparently he was involved with the black market to bolster his position. In effect, he was an intelligence agent pretending to be a Nazi spy, who was pretending to be a black marketeer, who was pretending to be an artist. Clever chap.”
“Why did he have to be a black marketeer?”
“He needed to get illegal papers for them so that he could provide food and ration books. He needed to give them a service, to prove he was one of them.”
“So what’s he going to do after he’s finished with this? Will he be able to tell her about it all?”
“They’re sending him away next. He won’t be allowed to tell her the details, but I’m sure he can explain a certain amount.”
The sound of the front door opening and voices came from the hall, so we quickly stopped talking, which was lucky as within a moment Venetia herself stepped into the front room, followed by the Colonel. She was looking a picture of beauty in a dress with lavender flowers. Her eyes still have that haunted look, and she’s altogether too slim, but strangely more striking now than she ever was before, when she was “empress.” She came in and perched on the arm of the sofa.
“Colonel Mallard gave me a lift in his motorcar, and I thought I’d drop in to say hello,” she said, smiling beautifully.
“This is Lt. Carrington. Perhaps you two know each other from Litchfield Park?”
Carrington, who had stood to attention when the Colonel came in, was looking at her, captivated. He was staring rather at her face, and then from head to toe. I thought it rather odd that he of all people might be in awe of her, but then I saw the look on his face. It was more one of complete and utter astonishment than admiration.
She stayed and chatted for a while, telling us about how they contrive to get some work done squashed into the long underground shelters.
“Everyone is washing themselves far more than usual as we’re in such close proximity and it’s easy to notice if someone hasn’t bathed.” She laughed and Carrington joined in politely, although I don’t think he was actually listening to a word she was saying.
After she left, I had to find out why he looked at her like that.
“Do you already know Venetia?” I asked.
He blushed and looked at his hands. “Did I stare rather? I’m so terribly sorry.” He smiled. “You see, my father recently procured a new painting for his office, and—” He hesitated over his words. “And it happens to be a woman who looks exactly like Venetia.”
“How marvelous,” I said. “I hope it does her justice.”
“Well, yes,” he said, covering a laugh. “You see, it’s a nude.”
I tried to stop myself from laughing, but couldn’t help it, and when the Colonel came down the stairs, he found the two of us, by the door, whooping with laughter.
“Slater must have painted her. How very funny. Where on earth did he get it?” I giggled, leading him out to the front path.
Carrington laughed. “He bought it from a rather thuggish-looking dealer called Gibbs.”
“Oh! I wonder how Ralph Gibbs got hold of it. I can’t imagine Slater gave it to him.”