Daughters Of Eden: The Eden Series Book 1 (49 page)

‘I have plenty of cigarettes,' he complained when at last he managed to lead her out of the hotel to his waiting car, already packed up with their luggage.

‘I only smoke Black and White.'

‘I thought Du Maurier was your brand.'

‘Only when I can't get Black and White.'

Nothing in Poppy's training was able to provide her with the necessary sequence of actions when an agent did not receive her drop. She must have fallen silent a little too often, because Henry suddenly sighed.

‘I hope to God you're going to prove to be a little bit more amusing over the next few days. It's like taking a journey with a Cistercian monk.'

‘I hope to God I don't have to prove to be any such thing,' Poppy replied, turning to look at him. ‘I understood the entertainment was going to be first class this weekend. The little Fat Man coming down to entertain us, and all sorts of other fascinations.'

‘Well, no, on that front, I don't think you're going to be disappointed. In fact I don't think any of us are.'

Henry smiled meaningfully at her. Poppy shrugged idly, half closed her eyes and settled
down for what she intended to look like a good snooze. Taking his cue from her, Henry did the same, pulling his travel rug well up to his waist and settling down under it. In a matter of minutes he was fast asleep.

Poppy eyed him, then used the valuable time she had to herself to work out what she might have to do if things turned against her and she was faced with the choice of flying – or dying.

Jack Ward was driven back to his office under police escort. Major Folkestone, with Marjorie accompanying him as his personal assistant, was waiting for him when he finally arrived back, having travelled post haste to London by car in response to a summons by Jack.

‘It's not just for me – Mr Ward needs a secretary to be present at all times during this crisis,' Major Folkestone had explained. ‘He needs someone whom he can trust.'

Marjorie couldn't tell Billy exactly where she was going or precisely why, but Billy was now wise enough in the ways of Eden Park to understand that when someone wouldn't tell him anything, then that person was off on a Top Mission. So when Marjorie said goodbye that morning, he gave her a quick but unusually strong bear-hug, even managing to pluck up the gum – as he and Marjorie always called an attack of the braves – to give her a peck on one cheek.

‘'Ere!' he called after her as she hurried to the staff car that was waiting to take them to London. ‘Good luck, Marge. Keep your 'ead down – and bring us back somethin'!'

‘Like a whole new batch of aitches for you – Billy
Hendry
?' Marjorie called back.

‘He didn't actually turn a hair when I told him,' Jack explained to Major Folkestone as Marjorie sat taking everything down in longhand in his office that evening. ‘Typical of the man, I suppose. He just lit another cigar, poured himself – and me – quite a large whisky, and immediately launched into his idea of how we should play it.'

‘Which was?' Folkestone wondered, accepting a cigarette from Jack.

‘His first idea was to brazen it out.'

‘Also typical of the man you could say, sir.'

‘It was difficult to dissuade him from driving down to his friends as arranged.' Jack held up his hands hopelessly and shook his head, cigarette in one corner of his mouth, a glass of whisky in the other. “‘I have a bullet-proof car,” he said. “I have my Tommy gun. More than that I have prior knowledge,” he said.' Jack leaned over Marjorie's notebook. He gave her a boyish smile. ‘One of my hobbies, reading longhand upside down. So. To continue. All we know is that explosive has been mentioned, but not whether they intend to use it.

‘The route is only known to the driver, and then only at the last minute, and he does sometimes change cars, so the likelihood of where they will try to strike is as near to the final location as possible. Either in the final stretch of road leading to the house, perhaps the drive, or maybe even the house itself.'

‘The Prime Minister is never more in danger than when he travels.'

‘Correct. However. This whole thing could be a red herring for all we know – to distract us from the real objective. We have to consider that too.'

‘So what's the plan, sir?' Folkestone asked. ‘It is now 2100 hours on Friday the eighth of November, rumour has it the strike is for tomorrow – so how far advanced are we?'

Jack looked at them both slowly over the top of his spectacles. Then he took his all but smoked cigarette from the corner of his mouth and drew on it one last time before crushing it to death slowly and methodically with two or three pushes from one strong solid hand.

‘The PM wants them all. As he said he takes it very badly when persons from his own class want to kill him, very badly indeed. Remember the suffragette who tried to push him under the train? He was never the same about women's rights after that.'

‘I don't suppose you would be,' Marjorie, who had always secretly admired the suffragettes, murmured.

‘Very well. We have all the facts now.'

‘And we seem to know where they all are, sir,' Folkestone said. ‘So, would it not be possible just to nab 'em?'

‘It would be nice, but not possible,' Jack said. ‘The point being, at the moment any attempt on the PM's life is still only hearsay. And secondly, they could well get wind of what we are up to and simply vanish into the night. I'm referring to the ringleaders here, the big boys – not the pansy boudoir Fascists who sit in the clubs boasting about
how they're all going to have positions of power in Hitler's Britain. Thirdly, we have two operatives working from inside. If their cover is still intact – which we all hope it is – they may get out intact. If on the other hand our enemies see the game is up, they will also see they have been betrayed – and they will begin to look closely for the traitor or traitors in their midst, which is grim stuff,' he added, lighting a fresh cigarette. ‘Believe you me, as far as our agents are concerned, the chances are they're already on to them. So I'm told.'

Marjorie's insides trembled at the thought of someone within the organisation working as a double agent. There were always rumours circulating at Eden, naturally enough. The first worry for anyone working in a place dedicated to Security and Intelligence, most particularly in a time of war, was betrayal, which was why there was such strict protocol in place. It wasn't only in public places that loose talk cost lives. Within the secure fortress that was Eden Park, Marjorie knew that to exchange information of a classified nature even with one's closest friends was to run a risk.

‘So we're to take it the PM's private trip to the countryside is now cancelled,' Major Folkestone surmised. ‘And if everything's in place, we're to move in and arrest these johnnies.'

‘Not a bit of it, Major,' Jack replied, referring to a file on the desk in front of him. ‘The PM insists we round 'em all up and put 'em all behind bars—'

‘With their chum Mosley,' Folkestone chipped in.

‘That's the idea. And the only way we're going to do that is to carry on as if we know nothing.'

Both Marjorie and Major Folkestone stared disbelievingly at Jack, who paid no attention, simply continuing to consult the file and make some notes.

‘The PM still intends to honour his invitation?' Folkestone asked carefully.

‘Put it this way, we will make sure his host and hostess – who by the way are one hundred per cent on the Gold Standard – we will make sure that they, and everyone else concerned, are convinced that he is coming to stay. The PM's armoured car will definitely drive up to the house.' Jack tapped the papers in his hands together before putting them away in the file that he then closed. ‘More than that I can't tell you.'

The house to which Poppy had been invited was a long drive from the centre of London. Since all the signs for towns and villages through which they were driven had either been painted over or removed she had no idea of its exact location, although she hoped to God that Jack Ward did. While Henry Lypton slept beside her, Poppy stared out at the landscape hoping to spot something that would help her identify where they were headed. By the time they had been travelling for over an hour she became convinced they were heading for Kent. Certainly the direction in which they had been driven out of town had told her they were going south. Henry had been vague about the details of where the house party was to be held and who exactly was hosting it, referring to the host and hostess by nickname only.

Poppy knew that she had to identify the place to
which they were headed. It was vital. Jack Ward had always impressed on her the need to think not just ahead, but well ahead, and, if necessary, around every corner. But as the car turned into a drive guarded not by one but by two gate lodges and swept up a long straight drive to a tall, square and perfectly magnificent William and Mary manor house, Poppy knew exactly where she was, because she had seen the house in pictures. She also knew who the owners were: Ralph, sixth Baron Kilmington and his French wife Veronique, an enormously wealthy couple who, before the war, had lived a famously extravagant lifestyle, and whose parties and weekends had always been attended by those with political influence.

Henry awoke as the car pulled up in front of the steps leading to the main doors. Poppy glanced at him briefly.

‘Such a heavenly colour, this stone, I always think, don't you?'

She turned and smiled brilliantly at Henry who looked for a second as if he had been blinded before following her up the steps to the house.

When she came down dressed for dinner that night, all the guests had arrived, so that by the time Poppy wandered in her now usual desultory way into the main salon it seemed that most of them were also assembled. Despite the war the women were all wearing evening dress, and few of the men were in uniform, so that far from finding the scene fascinating or glamorous Poppy found it nauseating. She thought of all the fine young men and women fighting not just for their country, but
for the freedom of the world, and it seemed to her to be almost horrifying. It was as if this spoilt international set had simply turned their backs on the events outside the huge windows – which had been most efficiently blacked out – deciding to enjoy themselves in as lavish a manner as they possibly could, without a thought to rationing, necessity, common sense or indeed the future. Champagne was being served and there was even a band playing down the far end of the gilt-decorated salon, while above the music rose the ever increasing noise of the guests' laughter.

She knew Henry would pick her up sooner or later, that she would be able to set her watch by him, and sure enough, just as she was about to be engaged in conversation by a young, handsome Scandinavian, she felt a long thin hand clasp one of her elbows to turn her round to him.

‘Good evening, madame,' he said unsmilingly, just tilting his long thin head to one side to stare at her quizzically. ‘Quite a gathering, isn't it?' Henry went on ignoring the other man so pointedly that he finally moved away.

‘People
will
shout at parties. I wish they wouldn't. So tiring.'

‘Perhaps they'll soon have something to shout about.' Henry smiled, taking a drink from the tray proffered by a waiter. ‘Why aren't you off fighting somewhere, boy?' Henry asked the lad, with a sideways look at Poppy to make sure she was listening. ‘Shouldn't you be off poking that head of yours over some barricade or other?'

‘I got a heart condition, sir,' the waiter replied, colouring. ‘Failed me Grade Three.'

‘Sure it wasn't jaundice that you had?' Henry stuck his tongue in one cheek this time as he raised his eyebrows at Poppy.

‘No, sir. It was definitely my heart, sir, the doctor said.'

‘Thing about jaundice is – it turns you yellow.'

Henry laughed at his own joke as he led an unsmiling Poppy all the way across the room.

‘By the way, should you too not be poking that head of yours over some barricade or other, Henry?'

‘Not my fight. Besides, I have this frightful ingrowing toenail. Now – time for you to meet our guests of honour.'

They had arrived at a small group that contained their host and hostess, another couple unknown to Poppy and two unusually tall men, one of slender and elegant build, the other taller and very broad-shouldered. Both were standing with their backs to Poppy and Henry.

‘Ralph,' Henry said, to excuse his interruption. ‘Veronique. If you'll excuse me, I should very much like to introduce Diona here to our special guests.'

‘But of course,' their host agreed, with a polite smile. ‘Please.'

‘Diona,' Henry said. ‘Allow me to introduce Mr Eugene Hackett to you.'

Eugene had already turned round to bestow his best and most charming smile on the beautiful young woman being presented to him.

‘And Diona,' Henry continued, ‘may I now introduce Signor Ponterino. Signor – Miss Diona de Donnet.'

As the second man turned to greet her, Poppy found herself looking into a pair of eyes that not so very long ago she had come to thankfully believe were closed for ever.

Chapter Eighteen

Basil bowed briefly in the diplomatic manner over Poppy's gloved hand, and having exchanged the briefest of niceties returned to the conversation he had been conducting in fluent Italian with his host, the pair moving apart from the rest of the group.

Poppy stared after them, hardly believing what she saw. Basil, for it was certainly he, had clearly not recognised ‘Diona de Donnet'.

‘You must excuse both my husband and Signor Ponterino,' Veronique Kilmington drawled, taking Poppy aside. ‘They are both concerned about the future of so many of the great Italian art works that are going to be jeopardised by this
wretched
war. The two of them are
scheming
for all their worth as to how best to remove as much as they can before the peasant Mussolini gets his hands on them.'