Diana gazed at the empty birdcage behind Mrs Wright’s head and hoped she wouldn’t actually nod off before the old lady started to unburden herself. She’d been out late the night before, dining with members of the Right Club, and the low-ceilinged cottage parlour was stuffy and cramped. Photographs of Mrs Wright’s dead husband and her only son, killed in the Great War, covered every surface.
Diana sipped her tea, and waited. She’d come down on the train to investigate a rumour that the church tower was being used to house an enemy transmitter. Having inspected the tower and ascertained from the vicar that this couldn’t possibly be the case, she’d come to assure the source of the complaint that she had nothing to fear. This sort of thing was, as Apse had foretold, becoming pretty routine: in her first week’s work she’d travelled to Barnet, Woking and Aylesbury to convince fearful (or, in one case, simply dotty) elderly ladies that their neighbours weren’t consulting maps with evil intent or signalling to the Germans with lighted cigarettes, and that their foreign servants (a bewildered Portuguese couple) were not hatching plots to overthrow the country.
‘It’s the old church tower,’ said Mrs Wright. ‘It isn’t used any more, and nobody goes there, you see.’
‘I’ve spoken to the vicar, Mrs Wright, and he assures me that no-one has been up there. It isn’t safe.’
‘But I saw someone. He had a ladder.’
‘It was the verger, Mrs Wright. He was making some repairs. The tower is empty. We do appreciate your concern, but there’s really nothing to worry about.’
Mrs Wright leant forward and grasped Diana’s hand. ‘But there is, my dear. It’s not surprising you didn’t find anything – they can
make these transmitters the size of a cigarette packet, and then they hide them between the bricks. I have proof.’
‘What sort of proof?’
‘Topsy.’
‘Topsy?’
Mrs Wright turned her head to look at the empty cage. ‘My canary. He died.’
‘I’m sorry. But I don’t see …’
The old lady patted her hand. ‘Of course you don’t, dear. I’ll show you.’ She rose from her chair, opened a drawer in the dresser, and produced a small bundle wrapped in a table napkin, which she placed in Diana’s lap. Realising what it must be, she tried not to flinch. ‘They killed him.’
‘Who killed him, Mrs Wright?’
‘With the transmitter.’ The old lady looked impatient. ‘The rays. They come over the cottage, from the machine in the tower. Canaries are sensitive to that sort of thing – that’s why they use them in coal mines, poor lambs.’
‘But they use them to detect gas. Carbon monoxide and methane and things like that.’
‘Exactly!’ Mrs Wright beamed as if she were a teacher and Diana a clever pupil. ‘That’s why Topsy died. Look!’
Diana, who’d been trying to avoid the sight of the package on her knees, gave a discreet sniff. It didn’t smell too bad … hoping that Topsy hadn’t been dead for very long, she took one corner of the material between a thumb and finger and tugged, gingerly. The material unrolled enough for her to see a stiff bundle of yellow feathers with pathetically extended claws. ‘You see?’ said Mrs Wright. ‘The rays killed him.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Diana, gently. ‘Was he very old?’
Mrs Wright shook her head. ‘He was in the best of health. And then last week, he stopped singing, and I could see he wasn’t well at all. He was listless, and his eyes were dull, and he wouldn’t eat … and then he died.’
‘Perhaps it was a disease?’ suggested Diana.
Mrs Wright shook her head again. ‘He was fine.’
‘This room is quite hot, isn’t it? Perhaps he didn’t like it.’
‘Canaries need warmth. They come from hot places, you know.’
‘Yes, but …’ Diana was starting to feel desperate. ‘Topsy was an English canary, wasn’t he? I mean, he was born here. Perhaps …’ she tailed off.
‘I’m afraid there is only one explanation,’ said Mrs Wright, firmly.
‘What about the birdseed?’ asked Diana. ‘If the shortages have made it hard for the seed merchants to get hold of the right things – for the mixture – that might have affected him.’
Mrs Wright stopped shaking her head and looked thoughtful. ‘I suppose that is possible,’ she admitted. ‘The man in the shop did tell me they’d had some difficulties.’
‘I expect that’s it, then,’ said Diana, trying not to sound as relieved as she felt. ‘I really do think it’s the most likely explanation. Have you told him about Topsy?’
‘No. Perhaps I ought to have a word with him.’
‘I think that’s an excellent idea,’ said Diana.
Having succeeded in persuading Mrs Wright that it wasn’t necessary for her to take the canary’s corpse back with her for a post-mortem, Diana walked back to the station. After only a scratch breakfast and no lunch, she felt quite feeble with hunger and fortified herself as best she could on grey tea and an awful pie in the station buffet while waiting for the London train.
She secured a seat in a second-class carriage full of young WREN couriers talking about their boyfriends. It made her think of Claude – dangerous territory, this, like walking across a mined beach – but she gave herself up to it all the same, and thoroughly enjoyed it. Despite her good intentions, she’d been frantic when he hadn’t contacted her for three whole days after the debacle in Trafalgar Square, and then pathetically relieved (although careful not to show it), when he’d telephoned her at Apse’s office – which obviously meant that he’d been keeping tabs on her movements – and asked her out to dinner. Afterwards, they’d gone to dance at the Kit-Kat Club in Regent Street. It had been Diana’s first visit, and she’d thought it rather louche, but great fun. Their goodnight kiss had made her tingle all over, and she’d gone home feeling light-headed with happiness, although the delirium was somewhat spoiled by a horrible sense of guilt about Guy. How is it possible, she asked herself, to feel elated and miserable at the same time?
No one could hope to make sense of such a confusing conflict of emotions.
The sound of the WRENs’ giggles brought Diana out of her reverie. Admiring their uniforms, so much more flattering than those of the ATS, she listened to their chat, reflecting that none of them were married, yet they seemed to know far more about men than she did. This struck her as unfair, but then again, she had it all to discover – if she chose to, of course. Otherwise, the thought of staying married – and faithful to – Guy, and sharing only his bed was depressing. It wasn’t his fault – after all, he wasn’t a bad man – but the monotony of it, the sheer boredom, year after year, of having to school herself to be numb, not to want, not to have feelings … Someone should have warned me, she thought. Stopped me from getting married. Told me I was too young. But who? Her aunt had thought it a good match, which, seen at a distance, it was, and lots of her friends had been married at nineteen. That was the purpose of the season: the launch into society, the suitable husband. And anyway, she’d been so sure of her love for Guy that even if someone had told her, she wouldn’t have listened … A sudden and very intense physical memory of Claude’s thumb rubbing her nipple through the fabric of her dress made her turn towards the window, fearful that one of the girls might catch her blushing. There’s no point dwelling on any of this, she thought. I have a job to do. I must, must, must – she closed her eyes tight and willed the imaginary Claude to remove his hand – concentrate on the important things.
She entered Dolphin Square from the Embankment and turned right for Apse’s flat in Frobisher House, opposite Forbes-James’s block. Like F-J, Apse worked partly from his home, but his flat was on the top floor, in the shape of an E minus its middle stroke. The front door opened onto a large office-cum-sitting room, and all the other rooms – the kitchen with its outside fire escape; the bedroom, the dressing room and so on – came off a dark, narrow L-shaped corridor. Privately, Diana thought that F-J’s flat, with its balcony onto the river, was much nicer and airier. Apse’s flat was a bit like the man himself, dark, with rooms concealed around corners. Not that F-J was open, exactly – that business about his wife, for instance – but Apse was … Diana frowned, searching for the right word.
‘Distant’, that was it. As if you were speaking to someone who was standing on the other side of a wall. Not because he wouldn’t meet your eye, and he certainly wasn’t furtive, but he didn’t seem to be wholly there. But he appeared decent enough, so perhaps she was exaggerating this impression of distance because she was supposed to be suspicious of him. If he were pro-fascist, then it made sense that he would be guarded in his speech – and Mrs Montague and her friends certainly seemed to think that he was, or might be, sympathetic to their cause. She’d brought up his name several times in their company, but received very little response, beyond vague murmurings about reliability and usefulness, which she didn’t feel she could query without drawing attention to herself. But he must be up to something, surely, or why would they have wanted her to work for him?
Lady Apse, who was at the flat when Diana arrived, proved something of a surprise. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it wasn’t the slender woman with the shy, almost girlish manner who greeted her. The slim figure, pale blue kitten eyes and soft, light brown hair belied her age, which must have been at least forty, and Diana’s overriding impression was of someone unworldly, whose idea of the best lark in the world would be a midnight feast in the dorm.
After about five minutes’ chit-chat, during which Apse smiled at his wife with the slightly superior air of one who finds a mild enjoyment in the sound, if not the substance, of feminine prattle, Lady Apse said that she really must go or she’d miss her train. ‘I’ll leave you to Miss Calthrop, darling,’ she added, and then gave a sort of terrified giggle as if she’d uttered something outrageously risque.
‘Of course,’ said Apse. ‘You mustn’t miss your train. I’ll ring for the driver.’ Turning to Diana, he said, ‘I’ve managed to get my hands on a FANY.’
‘Fanny, dear?’ Lady Apse looked puzzled.
Diana, who had a mouthful of sherry, just managed to avoid choking.
‘First Aid Nursing Yeomenary. They’re mostly drivers nowadays. We’ll be sharing her with F-J,’ Apse added, to Diana. ‘Had to pull a few strings, of course.’
‘Perhaps you should change your brand, Miss Calthrop,’ said Lady Apse solicitously, proffering her cigarette case. ‘Try one of these.’
‘Thank you,’ said Diana, just as the driver announced herself.
‘Victoria Station,’ Apse told the young woman, who looked as if she were about to burst with excitement. She saluted smartly, and withdrew. Apse kissed his wife, and said, ‘Give my love to Pammy and Pimmy, won’t you?’ Turning away to give them some privacy, Diana just caught a glimpse of Apse’s hand touching Lady Apse’s cheek. ‘It’s been lovely seeing you, darling. I hope the journey isn’t too awful.’
Diana was struck by the softness in his voice as he said his children’s names – unless Pammy and Pimmy were dogs, of course …
‘Good day?’ said Apse, when his wife had departed.
‘Rather odd. In fact, I narrowly avoided bringing you back a dead canary. The owner thought it had been killed by rays from an enemy transmitter.’
‘Dear God,’ said Apse faintly, sitting down behind his desk. ‘Pour some more sherry, will you?’
As Diana refilled their glasses, he said, ‘I’m afraid I’ve got another crank for you tomorrow – a man in Epsom who thinks the racecourse is going to be used as a landing ground for enemy aircraft. I’ve got the letter here somewhere.’ He sifted through a pile of documents and handed her a letter written on flimsy paper in small, spidery writing, with several words heavily underlined. ‘I’m sure you can sort it out. There’s another beauty here. Listen:
Dear Sir, I am writing because I have been very worried for some time about the effect of the water on my husband. Over the last year I have noticed a decline in his manly nature which I believe is caused by chemical contamination from enemy agents. The trouble started last year after the supply was interrupted and the pipes dug up and tampered with by foreign workmen. I am careful always to boil water drunk by myself and my husband but we have noticed a change in the taste and it is my considered opinion that the men in this area are looking seedy and not as they should. I would not write of such an intimate matter but it seems to me that the good of the country is at stake if this continues, because women will not have children and as a consequence will become selfish and spend money on cosmetics
and in frivolous pursuits, which will weaken the fabric of the nation so there will be no chance of holding firm against the enemy …
‘There’s a lot more in the same vein. She says they’ve been married for thirty years, so she must be fifty if she’s a day.’
Diana, controlling her laughter with an effort, asked, ‘Where does she live?’
Apse consulted the letter. ‘Fulham. You could go tomorrow, after Epsom. Transport willing, of course.’ He sniffed the paper and grimaced. ‘Devonshire violets. Perhaps she should change her perfume. Here, take it with you.’
Three hours later, Diana, seated with Jock and Lally at La Coquille, finished her sabayon and, taking advantage of a lull in the conversation, turned the stem of her glass in her hand as if considering something and said, ‘Do you know, I feel awfully futile.’
Jock put down his spoon. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, I know we have to follow things up, letters about spies and so on, and of course, it’s important to reassure the public, but what about the real subversives?’
‘Real?’ Lally raised an elegant eyebrow.
‘I mean the high up people,’ said Diana ‘Well, not Mosley and co, obviously, but those sympathisers who haven’t come out of the woodwork yet, who’d be in a position to help the Germans if there were an invasion.’
‘But that’s what we are doing,’ said Lally. ‘Or trying to.’
‘Most of them are behind bars,’ said Jock, easily. ‘And the others, well …’ he shrugged. ‘Everyone knows everyone, so it shouldn’t be too difficult, at least in theory.’
‘You mean because one was at school with them, or university?’
‘Of course. Or with their brothers or uncles or cousins.’
‘But that doesn’t mean you know them, does it?’
‘It means you know their background, and their … pedigree, if you like. It’s dangerous to get into the state of mind where one sees enemy agents around every corner. One knows that people are respectable – of course, that respectability may be a camouflage for absolutely anything, but most of it will be harmless.’
‘Hitler isn’t harmless,’ said Diana.
‘No, darling,’ said Lally. ‘But he isn’t respectable, either.’
‘But, just because somebody isn’t … well bred, it doesn’t mean they’re no good.’
‘Of course not,’ said Jock. ‘For heaven’s sake, Diana, there are procedures for that sort of thing, checking on people, and so forth.’
‘Yes,’ said Diana, ‘but a lot of it does seem to depend on the old school tie.’
‘That’s true,’ said Jock. ‘It does. And it doesn’t take account of the hidden self.’
‘Hidden?’
‘The secret self, the innermost being.’ He stared at her, thoughtfully. ‘The part we do not – in some cases, dare not – reveal.’
Diana thought of Ventriss and felt uncomfortable: this wasn’t the way she’d intended the conversation to go at all. Jock’s eyes were boring into her like a pair of gimlets. She forced a laugh. ‘That can’t be true. It would mean that everyone was harbouring some frightfully interesting secret or a scandal or something.’
‘I didn’t say it was interesting. Except to the people themselves, of course. But then, some people enjoy playing detective. Supposition, conjecture, hypothesis … or prying, to call it by another name. It’s in their nature. You’ll find it’s common amongst agents. Claude Ventriss, for example.’
Diana, aware that Jock and Lally were exchanging meaningful glances, lowered her eyes and toyed with her glass. After a moment’s uncomfortable silence, Jock continued, ‘It’s a certain cast of mind. Digging about, looking behind the mask, and so forth. Of course, the safest thing is to be exactly what one seems to be, and I daresay most people are exactly that, so really it isn’t a mask at all.’
‘But Claude Ventriss isn’t what he appears to be, is he?’ said Lally. ‘He’s a double agent. Or so rumour has it.’
‘Claude?’ Diana blurted, astonished. ‘Is that right?’ she asked Jock.
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ he said, blandly. ‘And it’s best not to speculate. The less one knows …’
‘You don’t allow for female curiosity,’ said Lally.
‘Curiosity,’ said Jock, solemnly, ‘can be a very bad thing.’
‘Even for an agent?’ asked Diana, desperate to hear more. ‘You’ve just told us it’s common to play detective.’
‘It may sound contradictory, but yes: especially for an agent. There are times when one must close one’s eyes. It’s a question of self-preservation. What you don’t know is just as important as what you do know. You might,’ he continued, ‘think that knowledge is power, but if you know something about somebody that they don’t want you to know, it can make you very vulnerable. And,’ he added, turning to look straight at Diana, ‘you should also remember that some people enjoy danger. They don’t feel alive without it. Claude lived in Germany before the war, and France. As far as I can gather, he was a playboy. He’s not doing it for the money, because he doesn’t need to – which, by the way, is fairly unusual – but because he enjoys walking on a tightrope.’
‘So he is a double agent,’ said Lally, triumphantly.
‘I didn’t say that,’ said Jock.
‘But,’ Diana said, trying not to sound too eager, ‘if he is, then—’
‘You should remember,’ Jock interrupted, wagging a finger at her, ‘what happened when Pandora opened the box. And I think,’ he added, ‘that it’s high time we changed the subject.’
As she walked home, Diana thought, miserably: I’m no good at this. She’d thought herself so clever, chatting to Mrs Montague and her cronies from the Right Club, but Apse was a different thing altogether, and as for Claude, if he was a double agent … I ought to resign, she told herself. I should go to F-J and tell him I can’t split my brain into two parts. After a few minutes imagining the scene, it occurred to her that she might not be allowed to resign – that the little she knew might be deemed too much for security – and that she might have to spend the rest of the war, even the rest of her life, in some dingy MI5 basement, filing papers. She imagined herself as an old woman, bent double over a filing cabinet …
Diana shook her head, baffled. Both my conspicuous self and my secret one are thoroughly confused, she thought, then smiled as she remembered the letter from the woman in Fulham about the water supply. A decline in his manly nature … What must her secret self be like? It didn’t bear thinking about. She grinned to herself, rolled her eyes, and increased her pace towards Tite Street.