Cat let herself in the front door just as the clock chimed seven. She stopped outside Benton’s study, listening for any sign of life. The only sound she heard was the clicking of the grandfather clock. She knew he was in there. She sensed his heartbeat. She tiptoed past the study and slipped upstairs, carrying the full shopping bag with her.
Once in her room, she locked the door behind her. After that, she listened, not daring to breathe, in case Benton followed her up. Silence. She unloaded the groceries, setting the food and vegetables on the counterpane. She put the envelope that she was to switch under the writing table and stuffed the packet of the powder she would use to drug Benton in her skirt pocket. She repacked the groceries and took the bag downstairs to the kitchen.
Someone – Annie probably – had left a generous portion of ham, potatoes in their jackets, carrots and green beans in a warming dish on the stove. There were two plates, which meant that one of them was for Benton. Without thinking, Cat prepared a plate for him. She hadn’t been married for all these years without knowing some of Benton’s habits. When he drank in quantity – which he made a habit of doing more often lately – he liked his food. She also opened a good bottle of Bordeaux, put three glasses on the tray, and carried the tray to his office.
‘Come,’ he said in response to her knock. She opened the door and let herself in.
‘What do you want?’ He sat at his desk with a book open in front of him, reading spectacles slipping down his nose, an empty snifter on the desk. The envelope she needed to switch was on the corner in plain sight. Cat took that as a courage-bolstering omen.
‘I thought you might want something to eat,’ she said. She tried to keep her voice light.
‘Why so solicitous?’ Benton narrowed his eyes and stared at Cat. ‘Are you in some sort of trouble?’
‘Ben.’ Cat hadn’t called her husband by his pet name in years. She set the tray down and took the chair opposite him. ‘I want to talk to you.’
He lit a cigarette, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his legs. ‘So talk.’
‘I wanted to say I am sorry for my part about the way things are between us. We’re both miserable. We don’t have to be.’
‘If you’re going to tell me you want a divorce, you know my answer. No Carlisle has ever divorced. I will not be the first.’
‘Wait,’ Cat said. ‘I’d like it if you would just listen to me, please. Don’t get angry and don’t react. Because, Ben, if we’re going to stay married, I’d like to try and fix things between us. Things would be a lot simpler and easier for everyone if we were civil to each other. I know I’m difficult to live with. I’m stubborn, and am one of those women who are better off unmarried. But here we are. I can live in a loveless marriage, but I don’t think I can live in a cruel one. I always thought we were better than that. I know you don’t love me any more, but maybe we could find our way back to each other as friends.’ She couched her words as a question, and let them hang in the air between them.
‘I know you won’t divorce me, and I don’t care. I’m going to go live with Lydia. I can’t bear this house any longer. You can have your freedom. You’ll be happier without me here – you know that. We used to love each other, Ben. I’m asking for your understanding on this one issue. I’ll be the dutiful wife when you need me by your side. But there’s no need to live in the same house. You’ve got Isobel to run things for you. You don’t need me any more.’
The fact Benton didn’t belt out an immediate and vociferous no encouraged Cat. He stared at her, as if scrutinising her request for any underlying deceit. Providence chose this minute to smile on Cat. A wave of nostalgia washed over her; she thought back to the time so long ago when they loved each other, when they looked forward to the future. She hoped that Benton would see that.
‘Have you taken a lover?’ he asked.
‘Of course not,’ Cat said. She didn’t mention Benton’s well-known affair with Trudy Ashworth. It seemed there were two very different sets of rules for men and women in British society. Men were allowed to take a mistress, and if a man had enough money and influence, he could even be seen in public with her. A woman could take a lover, but discretion was mandatory.
‘Will you stay with Lydia permanently?’ Benton asked.
‘For now at least. After a while I’ll rent a flat somewhere, away from your circle of friends.’
Benton didn’t say anything for a long time. He smoked his cigarette and stared at her. Cat got up, and with her back to him, she poured out two glasses of Bordeaux. With sleight of hand, she dumped the packet of powder into one of the glasses. It disappeared into the thick red wine. She turned and handed Benton the glass. He took it from her, held it up to the light, and studied it.
Cat’s heart pounded. My God, he’s going to notice that something is wrong with the colour of the wine.
‘My favourite Bordeaux,’ he said, lowering the glass again. ‘Our marriage wouldn’t have failed if you hadn’t been so stubborn. But I married you. And I will stay married to you.’
‘I know.’ Her words came out as a whisper. This wasn’t the time to communicate how she felt, to pick a fight. Cat reminded herself that her little speech was simply for the benefit of getting close enough to slip Benton the sleeping powder.
She thought of the years she’d spent waiting for Benton to come to her, waiting for him to realise that he still loved her, and that their shared grief could make them stronger. In her fantasy, he would apologise and say what a fool he had been to let their love slip away. She had continued to love him, despite the pain of his indifference towards her. Even though she boxed the emotion away and tucked the box deep in her psyche, she could have pulled it out. With a word from him, the love could have been rekindled. She would have forgiven Benton his trespasses and resumed their relationship as man and wife. The box lay open before her now, but it was empty. And much to Cat’s surprise, the love she felt for her husband was no more.
‘Go and stay with Lydia. I’ll have my banker arrange a sufficient allowance for you first thing tomorrow. You’re obviously miserable here. At least Isobel will be pleased.’
‘Thank you,’ Cat said.
‘Civility.’ Benton held up his glass.
‘Civility,’ Cat said. They’d struck a bargain and drank to it.
They were discussing the financial arrangements when Benton’s speech started to slur.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘Need to get some fresh air.’ Benton stood up on wobbly legs. When his knees buckled, Cat eased him back down into the chair behind his desk. When he slipped into unconsciousness, she gently arranged his head so it rested on his arm, a position she and Isobel had found him in on more than one occasion of late.
After she saw her unconscious husband situated, she poured wine into the third glass and set it and the open bottle of Bordeaux on the desk near Benton, leaving the tray of food near the door. She took the two other glasses into the kitchen, washed them, and put them away. Cat hurried up the stairs, grabbed the envelope, and carried it back to Benton’s office. She switched it, careful to leave Benton’s desk exactly how it was.
If Benton remembered their conversation tomorrow, it wouldn’t matter. Cat would be gone. She hoped he would conclude he had passed out while they were talking, and she’d just left him, as she had done so many times before. Tomorrow she would meet Reginald’s agent, collect her money, and make plans for a new life without Benton.
She stared at him before she left the room. She spoke her truth, even though she knew he wouldn’t hear. ‘I don’t love you any more, Ben. I stopped long ago. And I could care less whether or not we remain friends.’
Back up in her room, Cat tucked the switched documents in her large handbag. She took the suitcase out from under her bed and enough clothing to last for a few days. She didn’t know how long she would stay at her aunt’s, but she knew she wasn’t coming back to the Carlisle house – not to live. She’d arrange to get the rest of her things when she got herself sorted. She took a sheet of paper out of her writing desk and left Annie a note with Aunt Lydia’s address. She stuck some notes in an envelope, sealed it, and put it under Annie’s pillow.
Cat watched from her bedroom window as the blue taxi pulled to kerb.
Cat grabbed her suitcase and carried it down the stairs. She left Benton’s door open. He was still asleep at his desk, his head resting on his arm, dead to the world. Isobel would find him that way and think nothing of it. She pulled the study door shut.
‘Good evening, ma’am. Let me carry your case, if you please.’ The driver smelled of cigarettes and cheap pomade, but he had kind eyes and whistled a cheerful tune as he carried Cat’s suitcase to the waiting taxi.
‘Where to, miss?’ The man held the back door open for Cat.
She could have gone to Lydia’s, where she knew a room awaited her. But she felt vulnerable given the documents she was carrying. What if Marlena X was following her? What if Marlena X was watching her now? Cat would never expose her aunt to any danger. Never mind that Aunt Lydia would take one look at her and see that something wasn’t right. She would start questioning Cat the moment she set eyes on her. She felt like a ship cast out to sea, and she knew that she needed to navigate this ocean on her own. She reached in her handbag and found the police whistle on the heavy chain. She hung it around her neck, tucking it out of sight underneath the silk blouse she wore.
‘The Milestone,’ she said.
Benton and Cat had been married at the Milestone. The irony of staying there on the night she left her husband wasn’t lost on Cat. The cab driver acted as though he wanted to chat, so Cat leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes.
After she had signed the register, Cat allowed herself to be swept up to one of the suites. She explained that she wished to not be disturbed and turned down the offer of a maid who would tend to her clothes and shoes. Finally she lay on top of the bed, knowing that the competent, discreet staff would respect her wishes. She was safe here. At least for the moment. She tried to sleep, but couldn’t still her pounding heart.
If she was going to continue in this line of work, she would have to learn to disassociate herself from the potential for danger. She wouldn’t be any good to anyone if she were too exhausted to function. She ran herself a bath, adding the lavender salts provided to all the guests. She soaked until the water turned cold.
Sleepy now, she crawled naked between the fine linen sheets, savouring the weight of the thick eiderdown. She thought of Benton and their lost love and of the children they were denied. She remembered the pain, etched the feel of it into her brain, knowing that it was time to move away from that, time to embrace whatever was to happen next. A quiet tear dripped onto the pillow as Cat drifted off to sleep.
***
Thomas didn’t tell Sir Reginald that he intended on keeping Cat under surveillance until she delivered the documents safely into Chloe St James’s hands. Sir Reginald would have ordered him to stay away, and Thomas would have defied him. It wouldn’t be the first time that Thomas and Sir Reginald didn’t agree on procedural matters, but Thomas refused to put Catherine Carlisle in jeopardy simply because Chloe St James didn’t realise the gravity of Marlena X’s involvement.
Soon Thomas would be finished with Sir Reginald, Chloe, and the influential men who funded this operation. He found he was actually looking forward to going back to work for Maxwell Knight. He thought of Catherine Carlisle, by his side for future operations. M would like Mrs Carlisle. He had a soft spot for a pretty face and a sharp albeit irreverent mind.
Those thoughts ran through Thomas’s head as he walked from his flat to the Carlisle home and tucked himself behind the trunk of a large tree in the garden square across the street. He had stood there for three hours, watching the house and keeping an eye peeled for Marlena X. He watched as Catherine came home from her meeting with Chloe, carrying the shopping bag. He saw the light go on in the room that he knew to be Catherine’s, and guessed at what went on in the house, while he stood across the street, helpless to do anything.
When a taxi cruised to a stop in front of the house and Mrs Carlisle met it, suitcase in hand, Thomas had panicked. Luckily, an available taxi drove by just as Mrs Carlisle sped off into the night.
‘Follow that taxi,’ he instructed the driver. He knew Mrs Carlisle had an aunt in Bloomsbury and was surprised when they followed the cab to the Milestone. The hotel overlooked Kensington Gardens, and had a somewhat illustrious past. Thomas knew a fellow writer who was absolutely obsessed with the place and swore it was haunted from its use as an asylum in the nineteenth century. Thomas had the good grace not to scoff at his friend’s belief in the supernatural, but he had tuned out the subsequent ghost stories that grew more outlandish the more alcohol was consumed.
‘You call pull over here, please.’ Thomas watched as the hotel staff swarmed around Mrs Carlisle, one man taking her bag, another holding the front door open for her. The Milestone prided itself on discretion and security. Mrs Carlisle would be safer there than anywhere else in London. It would have been remiss – and potentially dangerous – for her to go to her aunt’s while the documents were in her possession. He gave her credit for her foresight.
He paid the driver and decided to walk back to his flat on Kensington high street. He would sleep for a few hours and be outside the Milestone, refreshed and ready to resume his vigil in the morning. Thomas passed candlelit restaurants with white linen tablecloths, where men in dinner suits and women decked out in jewels drank champagne and ate decadently before dancing the night away at one of the many clubs. A man carrying a saxophone on his shoulder got out of a taxi and nearly collided with Thomas. Jazz was in the air. On the surface, England flourished, impervious to the disaster that was percolating in Germany.
Thomas had taken a hiatus from MI5 and had spent the last seven years working for Sir Reginald, the leader of a coterie of men who foresaw the troubles with the Treaty of Versailles, men who had known all along that another war would come. After spending two years in Germany on a reconnaissance mission, Thomas knew first-hand what Hitler was capable of. He was amazed that English newspapers hadn’t been reporting on it in more detail. Adolf Hitler was a menace. The Englishmen who were openly in support of appeasement frightened Thomas. By agreement, this was Thomas’s last assignment for Reginald and his group. Max Knight had welcomed him back to MI5 with open arms. He services were needed now.
His mind strayed to Mrs Carlisle. He thought of her straight back, her long slender frame, and the gentle curve of her calves where they tapered into her well-shaped ankles. He decided that she was indeed lovely to look at. She had attracted Benton Carlisle, a renowned bachelor, who had sworn to never marry. According to the gossip columns, Benton Carlisle had taken one look at Catherine and had proposed marriage after only two months.
Benton Carlisle was a lucky man. Thomas stopped himself cold when he recognised the emotion that Catherine Carlisle invoked in him. Desire. He marvelled at it, an alien emotion that he hadn’t experienced in years. During the war, he’d met a woman in France, Nina, a nurse who also drove an ambulance. Her courage and grace under fire amazed him to this day. They had been lovers for five months. Thomas thought they might marry after the war, until he got word that Nina had been shot in the head while transporting injured soldiers from the battlefield. Now he felt the stir of desire again, knowing while he acknowledged it, that it would be unrequited. Mrs Carlisle was off limits. That was the rule.
As he approached his flat, a fresh-faced young couple stepped out of a café. The man put his arm around the woman and pulled her close to him.
‘We’re going to have a fine life, Hen. Let’s tell our parents tomorrow and get married soon,’ he said.
‘Oh, William,’ was all the girl said. They stopped, and William pulled the woman into his arms. They kissed with the passion reserved for the young.
Thomas smiled in spite of himself. The vision of the young man going off to war played in his mind, but he pushed those thoughts away. Thomas was an expert at pushing thoughts away. He unlocked the door and stepped into the lobby of his building. Sofas and chairs were arranged in the common area, with the latest newspapers fanned out on the tables. He had never encountered any of his neighbours in this area. He wondered if they were friendly to each other, if they shared a cup of tea and discussed world events during the day when he wasn’t around. He laughed. Maybe one day he would find out.
He headed up to his room, kicked off his shoes, and sat down on the top of the bed. A large knot formed at the base of his neck. He massaged it.
Tomorrow he would make sure Mrs Carlisle’s drop went as planned. Then – as instructed by Sir Reginald – he would turn his attention to Michael Blackwell. Reginald’s intelligence suggested someone in the Carlisle house was in contact with Marlena X. Thomas intended to find out who that person was. He took a deep breath and lay back on his pillow. He closed his eyes, a pantomime of the sleep that he craved but that he knew wouldn’t come.