Arriving in London unnerved Nancy. The city was so different to the one she had known before the war, scarred by the bombing it had endured. You’d turn a corner and find a sudden blank where you knew there had once been a house, or an apartment building. It was a city of absences. And the people! Most of the men were in uniform and the women moved a lot faster than they used to, unless they were in hopeful queues, baskets over their arms and ration cards clutched in their hands. There were women driving the trams and punching tickets; posters urging the populace to save food and keep their nerve were pasted over old advertising. Mostly everyone gave the impression they had somewhere they needed to be, and needed to be there five minutes ago. Everyone except Nancy.
To be fair, it had taken a lot of time to sort out her paperwork, and before she could do anything useful she needed papers. When the Spanish police found them wandering down off the mountain, she’d told them she was American. That meant she got separated from the redhead, which was a blessing. Then she told the Americans she was a Brit, and then told an exasperated and skeptical Brit at the embassy that she was technically Australian, but had money in London and wanted to go and spend it. Also, she was Nancy Wake, aka the White Mouse, and the Gestapo were very keen to speak to her.
He phoned Henri’s lawyer in London, who confirmed after a long and expensive exchange of telegrams that yes, it probably was Madame Fiocca and yes, she had sufficient funds in the UK to sustain herself and pay back His Majesty’s Government for a ticket and a cash advance so she could buy something respectable to wear on the voyage home and food so she wouldn’t starve before she got there.
Henri’s lawyer, Mr. Campbell, met her on the dock and shepherded her through customs. Nancy had met him once before when she and Henri had made a visit to London together and taken tea in his paneled offices while they talked business. She had been a bit bored at the time, impatient to get to the theater, the cafés and nightclubs of the West End. It turned out now that the conversation was the saving of her. Henri had opened an account with a London bank and made a healthy deposit.
“He managed to get a message to me just before your marriage,” Campbell said, as he guided her out of the customs building and into a first-class carriage of the London train.
“How?” Nancy asked. She was in such a fog after the journey that she couldn’t really take it all in—the comfortable seats, the attentive waiter. Campbell ordered her a Scotch.
“A Spanish smuggler he knew in the city, I believe, who was on his way to Brazil at the time. The message was sent from there, anyway. We had to pay a lot of postage on it—seems the man didn’t use anywhere near enough stamps.” He looked away. “I’m sorry to say we haven’t had any news of Mr. Fiocca since.”
The waiter set down their drinks and Nancy knocked back the full measure. Campbell blinked, then swapped his untouched glass with her empty one and called back the waiter for another round.
“Anyway, Mrs. Fiocca, the letter was quite clear. Henri is punctilious about his business. It was properly witnessed and dated, and instructed us that if ever you were to find yourself in need, we were to make available to you all the funds in the account and offer our assistance.” He lifted his fresh whisky to her, having blandly ignored the waiter’s slightly suspicious stare. “Which, naturally, we are delighted to do.”
Definitely a nice old stick. Nancy leaned back in her seat with a sigh. No Gestapo breathing down her neck, no flying bullets. All she needed now was word of Henri, that he had reached Spain, and she would be in heaven.
It was typical of Henri to have thought ahead like this, putting some money in England even before war broke out. She’d only ever thought of one day at a time, of throwing herself in to the Resistance work, and if she was alive tomorrow or next week, so much the better. Henri, though, had made plans, including plans of how she could escape alone if she needed to.
She tried to sip her drink this time. Campbell was still talking. He looked like a caricature of an Edwardian lawyer: the high collar, white hair, the cream waistcoat with a gold watch chain across it. She looked again. His clothes were very slightly too big for him, and she thought she could spot signs at the seams that his waistcoat had been taken in at least once already. So even the rich were beginning to slim down in England. They didn’t mention that on the radio.
She tried to listen.
“… sufficient at least for you to live in comfort for three years or so, and of course we are all sure the war won’t continue longer than that! Since we received news of your arrival in Gibraltar, we’ve had a nose around and found some quite charming little houses in the smaller provincial towns where you’ll be safe from the bombings and may wait the war out in peace.”
What? No. Wait out the war in peace? Like hell.
“Mr. Campbell, I’m not just going to sit around drinking tea with a bunch of provincial ladies until Henri makes it over to join me.”
He frowned. “But your safety, Mrs. Fiocca. And you have already done so much. Surely your nerves must be in pieces. A few months’ rest!”
Oh, sod sipping. She downed the rest of the Scotch. “I don’t think I have any nerves, Mr. Campbell. And trust me. Three weeks in the provinces with nothing to do but take tea and I’ll blow my brains out in front of the vicar and ruin the doilies.”
He stared at her, then the corner of his mouth twitched. “Well, yes. That would be unfortunate. In that case, Mrs. Fiocca, I have a friend who is looking for a tenant for his flat in Piccadilly. Does that sound more the ticket?”
“Can I take it today?”