‘Is it true Ruby hasn’t worked here for a couple of weeks?’ Cook asked.
‘She was rather rude,’ the manager replied. ‘Said only an idiot would stick with this job when there’s real money to be made. You can tell her I didn’t appreciate it then and I still don’t appreciate it.’
‘Did she clear out her things?’ Gracie asked. Cook noticed a row of coat-hooks and cubbyholes. It reminded him of being at school. Hang your coat up, put your bag in a cupboard with your name on it. A place for everything and all that.
Cook stepped closer to the row of coat-hooks. Each hook had a name card inside a brass holder. Easy to slot in a new card at the top, or take the old one out. Several were blank. He saw Ruby’s hook. No coat. No bag. Worth a try. He’d thought maybe she’d have left something if she’d stormed out in a hurry.
The woman in the red pinafore had said her daughter’s name was Irene. She had the hook next to Ruby’s. A coat hung on the hook.
‘Your daughter’s coat’s still here,’ Cook said. ‘Would she have left it here when she came home?’
‘No,’ the woman said. ‘She always carries it. Rain or shine.’
‘She’ll be nearby then,’ Cook said. ‘Having a drink with someone.’
‘She wouldn’t,’ the woman said.
Cook didn’t press the matter. A mother wouldn’t want to think of her daughter like that – a young woman out in the city, meeting people, going for drinks, the things young people had done since the dawn of time.
Besides, it was beside the point. Ruby clearly hadn’t been here.
‘We should get back,’ Gracie said, and Cook agreed. He thought of Frankie in the shelter. Was it too late to catch a train out of the city? Back to the relative safety of the country?
Coming to London had been a mistake.
17
Margaret had the dark on her side, and she was familiar with the space. The low rafters, the protruding nails that dotted the underside of the roof. Let him come.
The door creaked, and a shaft of light intruded.
She felt the secret place in the chimney breast. The pistol was wrapped in oilcloth. She’d taken it out into the woods, late at night. Firing it had been a risk, but she’d needed to know it worked, for when the time came.
‘Lady Miriam?’ It was unlike him to use her title. He was usually at pains to ignore it, keep her in her place.
He stepped into the attic, a pistol in his right hand. He held it out from his body, as if it were a torch. A tactical error, if he hoped to leave the room alive.
‘Or should I say Lady Margaret?’ he said.
Margaret waited in the dark. A few steps closer and she’d be able to lunge at him. Grab the gun. It would be fifty-fifty who’d win the resulting struggle.
‘I hope I didn’t interrupt your evening communication,’ he said. He didn’t step forward. He was waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. She’d underestimated him.
‘I’m not here to fight,’ he said. He sounded amused. ‘Although I have the sense you’d make a worthy opponent.’
He stepped back, into the doorway, his silhouette blocking most of the light.
‘I’ll be waiting downstairs,’ he said. ‘We have things to talk about.’
He left, then paused.
‘My men are outside Frau Wassenberg’s room,’ he said. ‘Waiting for my order. In case you’re thinking of disappearing.’
*
He was sitting in front of the fire, a glass of wine in his hand. Another glass sat on the polished oak table, waiting for her. A plate of bread and cheese, neatly sliced. A folded napkin.
Margaret walked behind him. She could have swept a blade across his neck, or put a gun against his head. But he didn’t turn. Margaret pictured the SS guards in the house, waiting for the order. She heard Bunny’s voice.
