Grace
New York, 1946
Grace awoke, and for a second it was just like any other day. Bright sunlight streamed through the lone window of the tiny, fourth-floor walk-up, casting shadows on the sloped ceiling. The rooming house was just on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen, a block too close to the Hudson River for a respectable woman, but not dangerous. Grace had gotten the place on the cheap because of the old man who had vacated the unit by dying in it the previous week. She’d scrubbed the flat before she moved in, trying without success to remove the lingering pipe smoke odor that clung to the walls and the sense that someone else quite nearly still lived here. And beyond that she hadn’t done anything to make it more like home, because that would mean acknowledging she might stay for good—and the hard truth that she didn’t want to go back.
Grace rolled over and saw the envelope containing the photos on the nightstand by the narrow bed, beside the lone photo of Tom in his dress uniform at graduation from basic training. The night before came crashing back: the news story about the woman (Eleanor Trigg; she now had a name) who had been killed in the car accident, and the realization that the suitcase Grace found had been hers. Grace wondered if the series of bizarre events might have been a dream. But the photographs sat neatly on her nightstand like an expectant child, reminding her that it was not.
After hearing the news on the television in the coffee shop the previous evening, Grace had been so surprised that she had left without waiting for her grilled cheese. She hailed a cab, too surprised to think about the cost. As the taxi had woven perilously through crosstown traffic, she had tried to make sense of it all. How could it be that the very woman whose bag she’d rummaged through was the same one who had died in the accident on the street?
It shouldn’t have been such a surprise, really, Grace thought now. The fact that Eleanor Trigg had died explained why no one had come back for the suitcase and it was standing there abandoned in the first place. But why had she left it in the middle of Grand Central? That the woman was English just seemed to add to the mystery.
More puzzling was the fact that the bag had then disappeared. It was possible, of course, that someone had simply stolen the bag, having seen that it was sitting unattended for a long time and decided to claim it for his own. But something told Grace that there was more to it than simple theft—and that whoever had come and taken the suitcase knew something about Eleanor Trigg and the girls in her photos.
Enough, Grace could almost hear her mother’s voice say. Grace had always had an overactive imagination, fueled by Nancy Drew and the other mysteries she liked to read as a girl. Her father, a science fiction buff, found Grace’s wild stories amusing. But he would have said here that the simplest explanation was the most likely: Eleanor Trigg might well have been traveling with a relative or other companion, who retrieved her bag after the accident.
Grace sat up. The photographs lay on the nightstand, seeming to call to her. She had taken the pictures from the suitcase, and now she needed to do something with them. She washed and dressed, then started down the stairs of the rooming house. In the foyer, there was a phone on the wall, which Harriet the landlady didn’t mind the tenants using every so often. On impulse, Grace picked up the phone and asked the operator for the police station closest to Grand Central. If Eleanor had been traveling with someone, perhaps the police could put Grace in touch so she could return the photos.
The line was silent for several seconds and a man’s voice crackled across the line. “Precinct,” he said, sounding as though he was chewing something.
“I wanted to speak with someone about the woman who was hit by a car near Grand Central yesterday.” Grace spoke softly, so that her landlady, who lived in the room just off the foyer, wouldn’t hear.
“MacDougal’s handling that,” the policeman replied. “MacDougal!” he bellowed into the phone so loudly Grace drew the phone away from her ear.
“Whaddya want?” A different voice, with a heavy Brooklyn accent, filled the line.
“The woman who was hit outside the station, Eleanor Trigg. Was she traveling with anyone?”
“Nah, we’re still looking for next of kin,” MacDougal replied. “Are you family?”
Grace ignored his question, pressing forward with her own. “Did anyone recover her belongings, like a suitcase?”
“She didn’t have any bags. Say, who is this? This is an open investigation and if you’re going to be asking questions, I’m really gonna need your name…” Grace set the receiver back into the cradle, hanging up. The police didn’t have Eleanor’s bag, or a relative to whom Grace could return the photos. The British consulate, which she’d considered the previous evening, was the better option. A stop at the consulate would take extra time on her way to work, though, and she’d have to hurry not to risk being late again.
An hour later, Grace neared the British consulate, a bustling office building on Third Avenue uncomfortably close to the hotel she’d found herself in with Mark two nights earlier. At the corner, a boy in worn trousers and a cap was selling newspapers. He reminded Grace of Sammy, who she hoped was managing all right at his cousin’s. She took a copy of The Post and paid the boy. The headline read, “Truman Warns of Soviet Menace in the East.” Not a year ago, everyone still feared Hitler. But now Stalin was spreading communism in countries still too weak from the war to resist and dividing Europe in a whole new way.
Grace flipped through the paper. On page nine, a picture of Eleanor Trigg, the same one that had been on the news the previous evening, was displayed on the bottom half. There was a second photo, a grainy, nondescript image of the street, not the grisly scene itself, thankfully. Grace scanned the article but it contained nothing more than she already knew.
It was not, Grace reminded herself, her problem. She smoothed her skirt and then marched into the consulate, eager to be rid of the photos and on her way to work.
The lobby of the British consulate was unremarkable, with just a few hard-backed chairs and a low table holding a plant that had died weeks ago. A lone man in a suit and derby hat sat in one of the chairs, looking as though he would rather be anywhere else. The receptionist, an older woman with her gray hair swept up in a knot and reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, clacked at a Remington.
“Yes?” the woman asked. She did not look up from the typewriter as Grace approached.
Grace saw how it must look—an unknown woman, arriving unannounced. She was nobody here.
But Grace had learned much from her months of working with Frankie to help the immigrants about wheedling her way through government bureaucracy, getting what she wanted from tired civil servants. Steeling herself, she held up the envelope. “I found these photos and I believe they belong to a British citizen.” Belonged, she corrected herself silently.
“And you want us to do what with them, exactly?” The woman, her English accent cold and clipped, did not wait for an answer or bother to mask her impatience. “Thousands of British citizens come to New York every day. Very few of them ever check in with the consulate.”
“Well, this one won’t be checking in with the consulate at all,” Grace replied, more snappishly than she intended. She held up the newspaper. “The photographs were owned by Eleanor Trigg, the woman who was hit by a car outside Grand Central yesterday. She was British. I was thinking if there was a family member or next of kin, they might want these photographs.”
“I can’t comment on the personal matters of British citizens,” the receptionist said officiously. “If you would like to leave them here, we can hold them and see if someone claims them.” The receptionist held out her hand impatiently.
Grace hesitated. This was her moment and she could just leave the photos and be done with them. But she felt a connection to the photos now, a sense of ownership. She couldn’t just abandon them to someone who so clearly couldn’t care less. She pulled back her hand. “I’d rather speak with someone. Perhaps the consul.”
“Sir Meacham isn’t here.” And wouldn’t see you even if he was, the receptionist’s tone seemed to say.
“Then can I make an appointment?” Even before Grace finished, she knew she would be turned away.
“The consul is a very busy man. He doesn’t get involved in these types of matters. If you would prefer not to leave the photos, you can leave your contact information in case anyone inquires about them.” Grace took the pencil the receptionist offered and jotted down the address and phone number of the boardinghouse. She could practically hear the paper falling into the wastebasket as she reached the exit.
Well, that hadn’t worked out, Grace thought as she started out the door of the consulate. She lifted the envelope of photographs to study it for further clues. Then she glanced up at the clock on the building across the street. Nine thirty. She was late for work again. Maybe if she told Frankie what had happened, he might have some idea what she should do next.
As she started down the steps of the consulate, an older man with a waxed moustache wearing a pinstripe suit passed her in the other direction, entering the building. “Excuse me?” Grace called out impulsively. “Are you Sir Meacham?”
Confusion crossed the man’s face, as though he were not quite sure himself. “I am,” he said. His expression changed to one of annoyance. “What is it that you want?”
“If you have a moment, I just need to ask you a few questions.”
“I’m sorry, but I really don’t have the time. I’m late for a meeting. If you make an appointment at the front desk, I’m sure the vice consul will…”
She did not wait for him to finish. “It’s about Eleanor Trigg.”
He cleared his throat, an almost cough. Clearly, he had heard. “I suppose you saw the news story. Very sad. Were you a friend of hers?”
“Not exactly. But I have something that belonged to her.”
The consul waved her hurriedly back inside the building. “I have two minutes,” he said, leading her across the lobby. Seeing Grace with the consul, the receptionist’s eyes widened with surprise.
The consul led her to a room off the main lobby that was well-appointed, with brown leather chairs scattered around dark oak tables and heavy red velvet curtains held back by gold rope. A bar or club of some sort, presently closed. “How can I help?” Sir Meacham asked, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice.
“Eleanor Trigg was a British citizen, wasn’t she?”
“Indeed. We received a call last night from the police. They knew from her passport that she was British. We’re trying to locate family to claim her body.”
Grace hated the cold, impersonal way that sounded. “Did you know her?”
“Not personally, no. I knew of her. I happened to be detailed to Whitehall during the war. She worked for our government, did something clerical for one of the sections of SOE, that is, Special Operations Executive.”
Grace had never even heard of Special Operations Executive and wanted to ask the consul about it. But he was looking at the grandfather clock in the corner impatiently. She was running out of time.
“I found some photos,” Grace said, being purposefully vague as to how. She took them out of the envelope and spread them before the consul like a hand of cards. “I brought them to the consulate this morning because I believe they belonged to Miss Trigg. Do you know who these women are?”
The consul pulled out his reading glasses to study the photographs. Then he shifted his gaze away. “I’ve never seen them before. Any of them. Perhaps they were friends of hers, or even relatives.”
“But some of them are in uniform,” she pointed out.
The consul waved his hands dismissively. “Probably just FANYs, members of the women’s nursing auxiliary.” Grace shook her head. Something about the girls’ grimly set jaws, their serious expressions, suggested more. The consul looked up. “What exactly is it that you want from me?”
Grace faltered. She had come here just to return the photos. But now she found she wanted answers. “I’m curious who these girls are—and what their connection was to Eleanor Trigg.”
“I have no idea,” Sir Meacham replied firmly.
“You could make some inquiries in London and try to find out,” Grace challenged.
“Actually, I couldn’t,” the consul replied coldly. “When SOE was shut down, its records were shipped to your War Department in Washington. Where,” he added, “I’m quite certain they’re sealed.” He stood up. “I’m afraid I really must be going.”
Grace rose. “What was she doing in New York?” she persisted.
“I have absolutely no idea,” Sir Meacham replied. “As I said, Miss Trigg was no longer affiliated with the British government. Her whereabouts were her own business. This is a private matter. I’m not sure that it is any of your concern.”
“What if they can’t find anyone?” Grace asked. “To claim Eleanor, I mean.”
“I suppose the city will put her in a pauper’s grave. The consulate has no funds for such things.” A woman who served your country—even as a secretary—deserved better, Grace wanted to say. She gathered up the photos and put them in the envelope. The consul held out his hands. “Now, if you would like to give me her photos, I’m sure we can reunite them with her personal effects,” the consul said.
Grace started to give them over, compliance almost a reflex. Then she pulled back. “How?”
Sir Meacham’s eyebrows raised, white above his glasses. “Pardon me?”
“If there is no next of kin, how can you reunite them?”
The consul huffed, unaccustomed to being challenged. “We’ll hold on to them, make inquiries.” Grace knew from his tone that nothing of the sort would happen. “They aren’t your concern.” He reached for the photos.