Chapter 14 #3
Lady Moriah was silent for a long moment, clearly warring with herself.
Finally, she released a frustrated sigh of resignation.
“The main entrance is in the chapel floor. There’s an old iron gate hidden beneath an altar stone marked with some sort of symbol.
A crown, if I recall correctly. Your father had it locked, but …
” She paused. “But he kept the key. Sentimental fool. Couldn’t quite bring himself to throw it away entirely. ”
“Where is the key?” Grace asked, leaning forward.
“In the garden house.” Lady Moriah’s words came reluctantly. “In an old wooden box, mixed in with all the other refuse from decades past, I’d imagine. Your father put it there, said if anyone truly needed access, the key should exist.” Her eyes fixed on Frederick. “He never told you?”
“No,” Frederick said quietly. “But that’s no surprise. I was never one of his favorite people. Nor yours.”
Something shifted in Lady Moriah’s expression. “Perhaps the jewels will resurface.” She looked away, tapping her fingers atop her cane. “It would be good protection for future generations.” Her gaze flicked to Grace’s stomach and away again.
“It would certainly be a welcome find,” Frederick said, standing and bringing Grace up with him. “But with Grace’s ingenuity and my hard work, I hope that in time—with or without any jewels—we can secure Havensbrooke for future generations.”
“Time?” Lady Moriah nodded slowly, bringing herself to standing. “Yes. I suppose that’s all any of us have now.”
Grace stepped forward, gently touching the woman’s hand. “And hope, if you would allow it.”
The woman turned away, but not before Grace noticed the tiniest fracture in her demeanor—a crack in the walls she’d built so high.
Perhaps, given time and prayer, she could still be reached.
But for now? They needed to return to the house and stop a would-be thief.
And perhaps assist in bringing down some spies too.
Every chance to slip into Rivers’ room appeared thwarted.
On a regular day, as Evie Montgomery had come to learn, Rivers usually attended patients in the morning. But for some reason—whether devised or not—she’d been given leave that morning to address “personal matters.”
Which, unfortunately, put quite the bend in Evie’s plans.
Luckily, upon one of her rounds cleaning the servants’ quarters, she’d learned Rivers would be assisting with supper service to the patients—which provided a window for her and Blake to investigate her room.
Their plan was simple: Blake would keep watch while Evie investigated Rivers’ room for physical evidence.
A maid caught in a nurse’s room would raise fewer questions than a “wounded” soldier, certainly.
And physical evidence was vital. Not just for confirmation, but for justification if their next steps became less favorable than desired. If they could get their hands on intelligence before it left Havensbrooke, it would prove the traitor and might save hundreds—if not thousands—of lives.
In that, Evie would find some penance.
Some way to atone for failing to catch her brother’s subterfuge. For allowing good men and women to die because she’d been blind.
She carried a large stack of linens as cover, glancing over her shoulder to find Blake watching from the other end of the corridor. He’d disappear in a moment but remain near enough to keep watch.
A smile teased for release.
They’d had a connection since the first time they’d sparred in training. Something about him—the inner light he carried despite the darkest of assignments—never failed to touch her. Change her.
At first it confused; then it attracted, drawing her lonely heart toward his light.
And then she’d walked past his room one evening and heard him … praying for her.
Praying.
A man of such intelligence and skill humbling himself, beseeching his God, voicing a request for her protection and wisdom with such tenderness, such entreaty … Well, it was in that moment something in her heart turned over and gave way to the connection.
The care.
The love.
She wasn’t certain he’d recognized it then. They’d continued on as before. Yet his steady goodness had etched its way into her life. And his presence inspired a stealthy transformation of her own heart, changing her into someone who looked heavenward instead of inward.
Who humbled herself to prayer instead of resorting to mere judgment or emotional retaliation.
Somehow, his steady faith had awakened a quiet sort of reshaping in her soul—an embrace of a God, a Savior she’d only heard about in the early parts of her life from a mother she barely remembered.
And the realization bound her to him in a way more meaningful than anything she’d ever known.
But then the Lusitania had happened. For an instant, she’d thought all his integrity had been a sham, a cover. Then she’d realized Evan’s betrayal and feared Blake had gone down with the ship because of her.
The twin agonies nearly destroyed her, and she’d disappeared into exile, attempting to relearn how to survive with the weight of her own weaknesses drowning out her life.
When, through her surreptitious contacts, she learned Blake had survived, she’d determined to make amends—to him, to the soldiers, to her place in Intelligence.
In any way she could.
One last time.
Prove to herself and Blake that she was capable. Good.
That her own light, fragile and new though it was, had enough hope in it to make a difference.
And even now, Blake had proven himself better than she’d imagined.
This glimpse of his more intimate relationships, here in a home he’d known as a child, had only confirmed who she’d thought he was all along.
The way he cared for his cousin’s wife, the tender looks he sent Zahra, the cautious and alert way he watched over the soldiers and staff.
He was every bit the man she’d thought.
And more.
And every bit a man she did not deserve.
Yet he loved her. He’d said so in word and deed. Even after she’d fought him, betrayed him, shot him.
He loved her.
It made no sense, but she wasn’t one to argue with the nonsensical when it came wrapped in such a package.
Stephen Blake.
The hardened edges of her heart had entirely given way when he’d taken her in his arms.
And he wanted a future with her? Two spies attempting a normal life rarely boded well, but since her heart was no longer in the work—since she’d failed so abominably—she wasn’t truly an agent any longer.
This was her last self-appointed assignment. If she could, in some small way, make amends for Evan, perhaps she could leave Intelligence with some shred of dignity. Some hint of respect for all she’d accomplished before.
She glanced behind her once more, but Blake had vanished.
Of course he had. He’d gone into covert mode.
Steadying herself, she focused ahead. She’d memorized the layout of the nurses’ quarters a week ago: Wilson’s room at the end, Reynolds and Lawson sharing the middle room, and Rivers in the small single near the back stairs.
Convenient for late-night departures.
Pausing before Rivers’ door to scan the corridor once more, Evie tried the knob. Locked. As expected. She pulled a hairpin from her bun and sprung the lock in seconds.
The room was impeccably neat. Bed made tight as a drum. Books aligned on the small shelf. Washbasin gleaming.
Nothing amiss.
Also exactly as Evie had expected.
A hospital nurse would keep to order, and Rivers wouldn’t want any undue attention that might set her apart.
Evie made a quick circuit of the room. The desk—nothing of note. The closet—unhelpful. And then she saw it: there, beneath the bed, partially concealed by the dust ruffle—a traveling bag.
Was the young VAD planning an unexpected departure, perhaps?
Evie knelt and pulled the bag from its spot, careful to upset as little of the space as possible. Leather, well-worn, the kind a nurse might carry between postings.
With an ear trained to any movement outside, she opened the bag.
Clothes. Sensible traveling clothes, neatly folded. A small toiletry kit. A nurse’s reference book. Nothing at all suspicious.
But, oh! Underneath the toiletry kit, tucked neatly in a shawl—money. German marks. Far more than what had been planted in Wilson’s room. Enough to fund an extended escape.
Evie’s pulse quickened. This wasn’t a bag being gradually packed. This was ready to go. Soon.
She photographed the money with the small camera concealed in her pocket. Blake had given it to her—a marvel of German engineering that ironically British Intelligence had confiscated from another agent. The tiny device fit in her palm, silent when the shutter clicked.
The find proved beneficial, but it wasn’t enough. They needed proof of Rivers’ work. Perhaps even a list she could take to protect others—intel, even?
If I were hiding something in my bag …
Her fingers found the seam along the bag’s lining.
And there it was. A false bottom.
She worked carefully, feeling for the release mechanism. There—a small catch hidden in the stitching. She pressed, and the false bottom lifted slightly.
Inside lay a few pieces of folded paper. She drew them out carefully.
Neat rows of letters and numbers filled both pages.
The cipher was instantly recognizable—Playfair, a British military code she’d encountered dozens of times. Simple enough to encode quickly, complex enough to deter casual decryption. The letters were arranged in pairs, divided by slashes, and the front page looked as follows:
EL/IM/IN/AT/IO/NP/RI/OR/IT/YX HA/WL/EY/
TO/MA/SX CO/MP/RO/MI/SE/DX/EL/IM/IN/AT/
ED ST/IR/LI/NG/JO/HN PE/ND/IN/GC/ON/TA/
CT WI/LS/ON/CL/AR/AX FR/AM/ED/SU/CC/ES/
SF/UL/LY
More names followed—some she recognized as agents who’d died in the past six months, others she didn’t know. Each had a notation beside it: ELIMINATED. COMPROMISED. PENDING.
The kill list.
And at the top, in different ink—fresher—two entries:
WR/EN/MO/NT/GO/ME/RY/EV/IE ID/EN/TI/FI/
ED/EL/IM/IN/AT/EF/AL/CO/NF/OL/LO/WE/DT/
OH/AV/EN/SB/RO/OKE EL/IM/IN/AT/EI/FN/
EC/ES/SA/RY