Eleanor’s Secret

The sparse office held the lingering bitterness of tobacco and the citrus of Aubrey Powell’s pomade. It was his first pipe of the day and he coughed uncontrollably for a few seconds before taking a sip of water and being able to carry on. The courier had delivered the package the night before and it was waiting for him on the desk when he arrived. He recognised Jack’s handwriting straight away and slid the silver letter opener along the flap carefully so as not to damage the contents.

These were the thumbnails that he expected but there were also several larger sketches, depictions of manoeuvres in the field, foreign territory, cryptic notes drawn down the sides. Jack was working out better than any of them had anticipated, given the speed with which he worked, the precision of his drawings and the information that could be gleaned from them. But he had also proven effective with counterespionage, drawing the false maps and intelligence that they had handed to the Italian resistance; misinformation that had been passed up the ranks and been acted upon.

Aubrey put the thumbnails back in the envelope and placed them to one side. After studying the larger drawings a moment longer, he put them in a pouch and called through to his secretary. She appeared in his doorway. ‘Miss Ross, please can you give these to the courier for Baker Street?’ he said.

Aubrey waited for her to leave before turning his attention to the letter addressed to Eleanor—hesitating, on the verge of opening it, but deciding that it would be immoral. Instead he tore it into small pieces and threw it into the fire-grate. He justified this as he watched the paper curl and burn; he really had no choice. The SOE had been quite clear that there was to be no outside contact—not with family or with his fiancée. It was due to a momentary weakness, and an attempt to make Eleanor happy, that he had let one letter through, but there couldn’t be any more—no risk of double agents or anyone unknowingly passing on information that could jeopardise their work. Besides, he was saving Eleanor heartache in the long run. And he would stand a better chance with her with Jack out of the way.

The professor put down his pipe and picked up his favourite Sheaffer fountain pen, mentally composing the letter before writing:

My dear Eleanor,

Thank you for your recent letter and I agree that it is unfortunate that we didn’t get to say goodbye in person before your departure. It is with mutual regret that you had to leave us and we will miss you greatly, but I am sure that the valuable assistance you are giving your parents at their factory will be of equal importance to the war effort as your work was to the committee. Upon your request, I have made some inquiries and have it on good authority that Jack is in good health and is carrying out his duty to his country with a singular vigour and determination. I am sure that he will be in contact with you in good time and when his duty allows. Be patient and be proud.

With all good wishes,

Aubrey Powell

At seven o’clock in the morning, a ferocious knocking woke Anne Valante. It continued for the five minutes before she got herself into the wheelchair and manoeuvred it to the front door.

‘Alright, I’m coming, I’m coming,’ she said as loudly as she could, struggling with the lock.

Two men in civilian clothes, dark suits and trilbies stood just inside the porch. One was unusually tall, his suit sleeves struggling to meet the ends of his arms, wide white cuffs sticking out, and she had to extend her neck uncomfortably to look up at him. His fair hair jutted out at angles from beneath his hat, and long sideburns gathered at the sides of a plump face. The shorter man had a thick, dark moustache above protruding lips and below a prominent nose, and he looked ill at ease.

She was terrified. ‘Who are you?’ They didn’t look like military men, so who in God’s name were they and what did they want?

They had squeezed past her and were inside the hallway before she had the chance to object. ‘What for? Where are you from?’ she asked, swivelling the chair.

The tall man motioned towards the stairs and the shorter man began to climb them.

‘Perhaps you and I could go in here,’ the tall man said, gesturing to the kitchen.

Anne had little choice but to wheel herself into the room as he followed close behind. She watched nervously when he started opening the cupboard doors.

‘Have you heard from Jack?’ he asked, pulling out a drawer and shuffling through its contents.

There was a loud thud from above, then the sound of furniture being moved and doors banging.

‘He needs to be careful, please go and tell him. Those are Jack’s things, my things…’

Even if she’d been able-bodied, what could she have done? Her fingers gripped the wheels even tighter as she spun the chair and followed the man into the living room.

‘Why don’t you just tell me what you’re looking for?’ she asked insistently.

‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss that. Just let us do our job. We won’t be here for long.’

The telephone was within easy reach, and it was early enough that Elizabeth would probably still be at home—but then the smaller man appeared at the top of the stairs, canvases tucked under each arm.

‘You can’t take those,’ Anne said, shaken. ‘They don’t belong to you.’

He glanced at his colleague before answering. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Valante. We have our orders.’

‘But those pictures are all that I have of him.’ Her eyes filled with tears.