Chapter Thirteen #2
“One of the girls, Marion, saw him going into a green building on rue de la Fontaine a few weeks ago. Seventh arrondissement. She didn’t get the number because she was on the autobus, but she assumed he lived there. And it’s the only address anyone seems to have for him.”
“Maggie, you are an absolute marvel.”
“Try telling that to Miss Bembridge. I could do with a raise.” She handed the paper to Elizabeth. “And talking of Miss Bembridge, we’d better make a move in case someone sees us.”
Maggie cracked the door and peeked out, checking the corridor in both directions before signalling for Elizabeth to follow her.
She locked the door behind them; their strides long as they headed for the stairs.
They’d barely made it a hundred yards when a voice came from behind them, low and colourless.
“Miss Howard!”
“Oh no,” Maggie hissed under her breath before pivoting. “Mr Arbuthnot.”
Elizabeth turned to see Arbuthnot framed in a doorway halfway down the corridor, pince-nez in hand, his gaze flicking between Elizabeth and Maggie like a man taking inventory.
All files and figures, Clemmi had said. She could see it now.
“This corridor is restricted, as well you know, Miss Howard, not a thoroughfare for any Tom, Dick or Harry.”
“One of the new girls got turned around looking for the ladies’ room. I was just seeing her back downstairs. It won’t happen again.”
Arbuthnot raised the pince-nez to his eyes and looked at Elizabeth properly for the first time. “Have we met before? You seem familiar.”
“I don’t believe so, sir.” Elizabeth dropped her gaze to the floor, rounding her vowels flat. “I’ve only been here a fortnight.”
He studied her a moment longer, then lowered the pince-nez and drew the handkerchief from his breast pocket, working it over the lenses. “Curious. I rarely forget a face.”
The handkerchief. It only ever comes out near the end.
He held the lenses up to the light, settled them on his nose, and returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “See that it doesn’t happen again, Miss Howard.” He stepped back inside and pulled the door shut behind him.
Maggie set off down the corridor at a clip, Elizabeth a step behind her as they descended the stairs.
“That was close.” Maggie kept her voice low, meant only for Elizabeth’s ears.
“Is he always like that?”
“You caught him on a good day.”
“You mean he’s usually worse?”
“You should have seen him while Mr Ashby was here.” They reached the bottom and stepped out into the courtyard. “His nose was well and truly put out of joint the day Mr Ashby arrived. If anything, he’s been rather chipper since.”
Maggie paused at the west pavilion door, her hand already on the handle. “I’d better get back before someone notices I’m missing.”
Elizabeth crossed the courtyard to the lodge, and the commissionaire looked up and reached for the book.
“All sorted, Miss Winston?”
“Yes, you were right about Miss Howard.” Elizabeth signed herself out and slid the ledger back. “She’s taken care of everything.”
“Glad to hear it.” He nodded, squaring the ledger on his desk. “Good day to you, miss.”
“Good day.” Elizabeth tucked her bag under her arm, passed beneath the arch, and stepped out onto the Faubourg, sidestepping a woman struggling to balance a parcel in one arm while rifling through her bag.
For a man who’d worked in a restricted area, James Ashby had taken remarkably few precautions with his own office.
Yet there’d been nothing to suggest he’d been a man who handled anything of consequence either.
She turned off the Faubourg and into the side street, spotting Cybil still sitting exactly where she’d left her.
“That was quick.” Cybil glanced up as Elizabeth lowered herself into the chair opposite. “I wasn’t expecting you for another half hour at least.”
“There was nothing to keep me.” She leaned in, keeping her voice low. “Considering he’d worked there for two months, there was nothing in that room to account for a single day of it.”
“Do you think someone has already been there and removed anything sensitive?”
“If they did, then they’ve done an excellent job of erasing all trace of him.”
“This is the British government, Elizabeth. Half the staff in these foreign embassies aren’t there to process paperwork. Their job titles and their actual duties rarely tally. Take your friend’s husband. What exactly is it that he does here, do you know? Does Clemmi?”
Cybil was right. She had absolutely no idea what it was Oliver actually did here, beyond the vague umbrella of his diplomatic role. And as for Clemmi, either she genuinely didn’t know, or there were things she was bound not to discuss.
“The war may be over but the threats didn’t stop at the armistice. If anything, the people working to counter them have had to become every bit as opaque as the threats themselves.”
Opaque. A word that summed up Oliver Sterling perfectly … just like his friend Jonathan Ashcroft. A man who was about as transparent as black onyx.
At least that’s what she’d assumed they were … friends.
But what if they were more than that?
What if they were … colleagues?
It would certainly explain his presence at Mayfield Manor at the exact same time as Countess von Habsfeld, a German spy. And his relationship with Italian racketeer Enzo Bellini, and how he’d managed to dismantle his entire operation.
Were Oliver Sterling and Jonathan Ashcroft spies?