At seven o’clock Cat woke up from a deep and dreamless sleep. In two hours, my task will be completed. She wanted nothing more than to deliver the documents she had stolen from Benton. If she was caught with them … She took a deep breath. Best not think of that. Her stomach growled. Under normal circumstances she would have heeded the call and ordered eggs and bacon, toast, tea, and some fresh fruit from room service. But these weren’t normal circumstances. She had drugged her husband and stolen classified documents. She bit back the panic that threatened to take over.
Cat thought about her actions this past week and admitted that the intrigue captivated her. She finally found something that she was good at, a purpose to life. Cat washed and dressed, ignoring the hunger in her belly.
Once dressed, she stepped over to the window and surveyed the street below her, with the sweeping view of Kensington Gardens. A series of wrought-iron benches lay near the pathway that led into the park, strategically arranged around the groomed hedges and wild patches of growth for privacy and shade.
From her vantage point Cat could see all the benches. Two old ladies with little dogs sat on one, dressed in similar outfits – bright coats and straw hats with an abundance of fruit attached to the sides. They talked and laughed, one of them gesticulating with her hands, while the other listened attentively. One of them pulled a small canister out of her purse. As if on cue, the dogs both sat up on their haunches. When the women threw them treats, the dogs jumped up in tandem and snatched them out of the air.
Cat almost missed the man who was sitting on one of the benches. He was tucked away in a corner, holding a paperback book on his lap. She watched him for a good five minutes, and he never turned a page. He looked familiar. Who was he? He set his book aside and scanned the walkway in front of him, giving Cat a clear look at his face. It was the historian, the man who’d helped her after she was attacked.
She went to her handbag and rummaged around until she found the card. Thomas Charles. Historian. She walked back over to the window and looked at Mr Charles. She reasoned he’d been following her since yesterday. How else would he know that she had come to the hotel? Maybe he lived in the area. Maybe his appearance at that particular bench was simply a coincidence. She dismissed that from her mind. Cat didn’t believe in coincidence.
***
Thomas had finally dozed off to sleep, only to be plagued by the usual nightmares, dreams of gristle and gore, the trenches, dead men and dead horses, the smell of death. And the mud. Good God, the mud. He woke at dawn, gasping for air. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light and focused on his surroundings: the leather-winged chair, the familiar stack of books, last night’s teacup. He wiped his damp cheeks, surprised to find tears there.
He washed and dressed, made himself a cup of strong coffee, and was parked at Mrs Carlisle’s hotel by eight a.m. He sat in the car for a while, but found he was restless, so he grabbed a paperback – one of the many in the back seat of his car – and found a bench across the street from the hotel. From his vantage point he had a clear view of the hotel lobby. If Mrs Carlisle left, he would see her.
At half past eight Catherine Carlisle stepped out onto the pavement. Once again, Thomas was struck by her beauty and amazed at his response to it. A blue taxi pulled up to the kerb. Mrs Carlisle’s eyes roved, as if making sure no one followed her. Thomas tried to duck out of sight. Too late. Mrs Carlisle looked right at him. Their eyes met. She recognised him. He could feel it.
Damn. Mrs Carlisle got into the car. It sped away, heading east on Kensington Road. Thomas hurried into his own car and followed. By the time the taxi merged onto Knightsbridge, Thomas had the cab in sight. He kept a few cars back, expertly driving between the traffic. He followed the taxi onto Park Lane, past Hyde Park and the Dorchester.
He was sitting at a traffic signal, his eyes riveted on the taxi, when Mrs Carlisle got out of the back seat and stepped into the line of stopped cars. She wove through traffic just as the light changed and she crossed the street. Traffic started moving just as she flagged another taxi going the other direction, leaving Thomas penned in with no chance of following.
‘Damn!’ He slammed his hands against the steering wheel.
The light turned green and traffic inched ahead. Thomas thought about driving back to the Carlisle house, parking his car, and walking to the drop site. He came to another stoplight and a gaggle of pedestrians crossed in front of him. The passenger door opened. Chloe St James got in the car. Her expensive perfume did little to disguise her anger. It emanated from her. Thomas found it amusing. Anger – or any emotion, for that matter – simply did not serve in this line of work. The traffic light changed.
‘Just drive.’ Her voice cut sharp as a rapier.
Thomas stared at her, ignoring the traffic that was backed up behind him. Someone tooted a horn.
‘I said drive,’ she snapped. She clutched a thick brown envelope to her chest.
Thomas put his vehicle in gear. He drove on, not caring where he went. The sooner he got rid of Chloe the better. He turned away from the high street and drove.
‘What are you playing at, Thomas? You’re not Mrs Carlisle’s contact. I am. She spotted you and she’s spooked. You do realise what’s at stake here? You do realise what a disaster it would be if the documents Mrs Carlisle is carrying fell into the wrong hands?’
Thomas turned down a side road and parked his car in front of a cobbler’s shop.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Miss St James, I am under no obligation to explain myself to you. I don’t think it was prudent to send Mrs Carlisle alone to a drop –’
‘What makes you think she was alone? The taxi driver happens to be one of ours. I’ve got operatives surrounding the bench where she is to make the drop.’ Chloe shook her head. ‘No. I’m under no obligation to explain myself to you. How dare you question me! This is my operation, Mr Charles. Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I’m incapable of handling Marlena X. You’ve just jeopardised my mission. I’m wondering if your attitude towards Mrs Carlisle is something other than professional. She is rather beautiful. What are you playing at? Do you see her as some damsel in distress? Do you envision yourself as the hero come to rescue her?’
Thomas felt the pulse behind his right eye, the portent of the migraine to come. He’d never liked Chloe St James. He’d heard that she could handle a gun and was not half bad in a fight, but he didn’t appreciate her manipulations. She was a career woman, a climber of the ladder. He had known women – and men for that matter – like her. They would step on anyone to get where they were going. Thomas didn’t trust her for a minute, but she was right. Catherine Carlisle was not his responsibility. Sir Reginald had seen fit to give that job to Chloe St James. He reminded himself that he and Chloe were on the same side of a conflict that could potentially grow to biblical proportions if it wasn’t handled properly.
Thomas turned to face Chloe. ‘Miss St James, I’ve been at this a long time. I’ve developed an instinct, if you will. Something’s not right here. We’re missing something. It has to do with the Carlisles. I can feel it in my bones.’
‘I don’t deal with instinct, Mr Charles. I deal with facts, with professionally gathered intelligence. I suggest you do the same. Stay away from Mrs Carlisle. Stay out of my way. I’m warning you. Don’t make me go to Reginald with this.’ She tossed the sealed envelope that she was carrying onto Thomas’s lap. ‘Here’s the Blackwell dossier. Reginald will expect you this evening to report your findings. I suggest you follow orders and turn your attention to Michael Blackwell.’ She hopped out of the car. Thomas watched in the mirror as she walked across the street and got into the back of a waiting saloon.
Thomas’s eyes lit on the plain brown packet. He took it and broke the seal. Inside was another envelope, this one marked ‘Confidential’ in red letters. He opened this second envelope. Inside was a folder, surprisingly thick, which held the deep background dossier he’d requested on Michael Blackwell. This wasn’t the quick check done by the secret service when Michael repatriated back to England with the Gestapo on his heels. This was Michael Blackwell’s life in its entirety, starting with his birth certificate, tracking his medical history, his education, where he shopped, and with whom he consorted. Everything that Michael Blackwell had ever done that resulted in writing of any sort was contained in this file.
Thomas scanned the street to make sure he wasn’t being watched. He locked the doors to his motorcar, just in case Chloe St James decided to join him again, and settled down to read.
***
Cat left the taxi and walked the few remaining blocks to her hotel. She ducked into a glove shop and took her time looking at the beautiful handmade gloves. She chose a pair for herself, in the sea-green shade she favoured, all the while watching the mirror behind the counter, which provided a perfect view of the pavement outside.
Thomas Charles may be a historian, as his card proclaimed, but Cat was sure he was involved in this scheme in some way. He’d been following her the day she was mugged, just as he was following her this morning. Maybe he used his job as a cover for clandestine activities, whatever they were. On a whim, she purchased another pair of gloves for Annie. These were a soft grey, with pearl buttons. Annie would be delighted with them. She paused before she stepped onto the pavement, scanning the street until she was sure no one followed her, and walked the rest of the way to the hotel.
She wondered what Mr Charles’s game was. Was his concern for her after Marlena X attacked her just an act? She remembered those kind grey eyes and the worry she’d seen in them and decided his concern was real. Never mind that. Stay focused. She walked among the crowds, weaving in and out between the people, her senses alert.
Harry Hinton had been the porter at the Milestone since 1922 when it changed from a private residence into an exclusive hotel. He loved his job and took pride in giving the same consideration to every soul that passed through its doors. From lords and ladies to businessmen to spinsters on holiday, Harry Hinton had a genuine smile for each and every person who crossed his path. And he never forgot a face. When Cat had arrived yesterday, he’d remembered her name and greeted her accordingly.
‘I remember you and your husband stayed here when your home was being renovated: 1927, if memory serves?’
Now Harry was standing at attention in front of the door, his white-gloved hands clasped in front of him.
‘Good day, Mrs Carlisle,’ Harry said. ‘Going to rain, I believe.’
Cat stood in the June sunshine, under a blue English sky with white puffy clouds floating by.
‘It’s my knee, Mrs Carlisle. It calls for rain, and it hasn’t been wrong yet.’ Harry leaned close. ‘Your friend is waiting for you in the lobby.’
‘Friend?’ Cat forced a smile.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Harry said. ‘Pretty lady, sleek hair. She said that you were expecting her.’
Cat’s heart pounded. Had Marlena X found her?
‘Thank you, Harry,’ Cat said. She headed into the hotel, like a mouse walking into a well-laid trap. Once inside, she paused behind one of the columns near the clerk’s desk, where she could peek into the lobby unseen. Comfortable chairs had been arranged in groups for conversation. Newspapers were fanned out on tables scattered around the room. The lobby was empty.
Cat approached the clerk and asked for her key. When he turned around to fetch it, Cat snatched a knife-like brass letter opener from his desk and tucked it in her handbag. Rather than take the lift, she scurried to the staircase at the back of the lobby and walked up the three flights of stairs to her room.
Cat approached her room holding the letter opener like a weapon. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled like a porcupine’s. The corridor that led to her room was empty at this time of day. Cat took advantage of the solitude and stood still for a moment. She forced herself to remain calm and pushed away the fear that tightened the muscles in her shoulders and neck. She listened, straining for any indication that someone watched her in the corridor. She took the envelope with the stolen documents out of her purse and tucked it under the waistband of her skirt. She took a deep breath, put the key in the lock, and let herself into her room.
The velvet curtains had been pulled to, leaving the room as dark as night. Cat stood still, her senses on high alert, as she listened through the silence. She heard it, the whisper of another breath, the beating of another heart. Cat wasn’t alone. She set her handbag down and sidled to the light switch. She flipped it on. The wall sconces bathed the room in a dim glow.
‘You can put that letter opener away, Mrs Carlisle,’ the woman from the park said. ‘I’m not going to attack you.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Cat stormed across the room and whipped open the curtains. ‘You’ve no business breaking into my room.’
She was sitting in the only chair, so Cat was forced to stand. She noticed the wardrobe door was open. She pushed it shut.
‘We can’t speak in public, Catherine. I needed to be sure you weren’t followed, so I came up here and watched your approach. You weren’t by the way.’
‘I know I wasn’t followed back here, but I was followed to the park. That’s why I didn’t go to the designated place.’ Cat reached in her bag and took out Thomas Charles’s card. She handed it to Chloe. ‘This man helped me after I was attacked. He’s been following me. I didn’t know if he was working with Marlena X or not.’
Chloe grimaced and tucked the card into her purse. ‘I’ll just take the documents, if you don’t mind, Mrs Carlisle.’
Cat turned her back on Chloe and pulled the envelope out from under her waistband, while Chloe watched, her eyebrows raised.
‘I didn’t know what I was walking into, and my handbag was the obvious place.’ Cat handed the envelope to the woman.
‘Well done, Mrs Carlisle,’ Chloe said.
‘I’m glad to get rid of those,’ Cat said. ‘What’s your name? If I am going to be working with you, I’d at least like to know your name.’
‘For me, Mrs Carlisle. Not with me. And it’s Chloe. You’d better sit down. You need to be debriefed, after which I’ll tell you exactly what’s going to happen next.’ She nodded at the bed. Cat sat down.
‘We’ve a bit of a situation,’ Chloe said. ‘Unfortunately, I can’t tell you what it is. Something’s happened, Mrs Carlisle, and things are going to be a bit difficult.’
‘What?’ Cat asked, her mouth suddenly dry.
Chloe ignored her. ‘Tell me exactly what happened last night. Leave nothing out.’
Cat started at the beginning and told her everything she had done, down to the most mundane detail. She told her about the tray of food and how she put the powder in Benton’s Bordeaux. ‘We decided to be civil to each other. We agreed to live apart; he just wouldn’t divorce me. He’s going to arrange an allowance, so I can get a small flat. I am certain he was pleased with our arrangement. It was the first civil conversation we’ve had in years.’
‘You didn’t fight?’
‘No,’ Cat said. ‘When he passed out I switched the documents – the envelope was in plain sight – and arranged his head on his arm, a position he had been in many times before, let me assure you. This wouldn’t have been the first time my husband passed out at his desk.’
‘If it should come up, you can discuss that. Tell the truth about the dinner tray and your conversation. Do you understand?’
‘Does Benton know the documents were switched?’ A surge of adrenaline washed over Cat. She stood up and started to pace. ‘Does he know I drugged him?’
‘Take a breath, Mrs Carlisle. Worrying is not helpful, especially in this business. I need you calm. I need you rational. Mostly, I need your reactions to certain events to be genuine. It’s best that you do as I say and carry on as though you haven’t a care in the world. You’ve done a good job so far. Can I count on you?’
Cat took a deep breath and sat back down on the bed.
‘That’s the spirit. Now this is what I need you to do. Stay here at the hotel until after noon or so. Have a meal; take your time with it. After half past one or so, take a taxi to your aunt’s house. On the way, stop for flowers for your aunt. When you are asked to explain where you’ve been, tell them about your separation from Mr Carlisle. Explain you needed some time alone, so you left home and came here.’
Cat nodded.
‘This is for the best, Mrs Carlisle. You’re going to have to trust me.’ Chloe stood. ‘I will contact you when I am able. I don’t need to remind you that the things you’ve done for us these past few days must be kept secret at all costs. You understand that?’
‘Of course,’ Cat said.
‘Very well. Goodbye, Mrs Carlisle, and good luck.’