To Love a Traitor (5 page)

“Your father’s name is John? Of course. Good choice. Something you’ll remember, but quite nondescript. And with the new job, there’ll be nothing remarkable about your recent arrival in town. You’ll need to make sure Connaught doesn’t meet any of your colleagues, of course. The difference in name would be hard to overlook.”

“And… You think it will be as simple as that? Sounding him out over the bacon and eggs?”

“It’ll certainly be a start. But I shouldn’t be in too much of a hurry. Best you take your time to get to know the man first. When you’re in his confidence, that’s the time to strike.” Sheila tore into her bread roll, then daubed the merest smear of butter on a tiny morsel.

She seemed to be speaking from experience. “Miss—Sheila, what exactly did you do during the war?”

“That, I’m afraid, is very much covered by the Act.” She softened it with a smile. “Now, what do you suppose George Johnson’s background to have been?”

“I… I have no idea. Perhaps…” He broke off. What on earth could he pretend to be, without betraying himself in a hundred different ways every time he opened his mouth? The idea of his acting the part of a man who’d been on active service in the war was simply ludicrous—yet if he mentioned his time in Intelligence, surely Connaught’s suspicions couldn’t fail to be aroused?

Roger began to feel this a hopeless task—then he noticed Sheila was still smiling.

“I,” she said, her tone rather arch, “happen to have a very good idea of George Johnson’s background. It’s really extraordinarily similar to Roger Cottingham’s—although I’d suggest they grew up at opposite ends of the county. We don’t know how well Connaught knew your brother, and it would be rather awkward if Connaught were to be reminded of the similarities. It’s fortunate you and Captain Cottingham weren’t terribly alike in looks. But the closer you stick to the truth, the better. You don’t want to have to remember an elaborate web of lies all the time you’re trying to investigate the man, and it’ll lessen the chances of you slipping up in the details.”

She paused to take a sip of her dry white wine, and Roger seized the chance to jump in with a question. “But what if he asks what I did during the war? Surely he’s bound to, and I can hardly say I was in Intelligence.”

“What do you say when people ask you now?”

The waiter delivered their plates with a flourish. George waited until the man had disappeared before he answered. “That I was doing some dreadfully dull Civil Service job.”

“Well then. So was our dear friend George.” She gazed at him for a moment, something like softness in her pale grey eyes. “Now, you’ll need to play this by ear—sound him out a bit first—but you may find it useful to mention you were a C.O. So long as he’s not the sort of military idiot who thinks all C.O.s should have been shot for cowardice, it could be an important step in getting him to trust you. Confidences inspire reciprocation.”

Having only just picked up his knife, Roger put it down again. “You really think so?”

She nodded. “I understand it’s not something you’re comfortable talking about. Frankly, that’s all to the good. Could inspire him to mention something
he’s
not comfortable about.”

“If he wasn’t comfortable with what he was doing, then why do it at all?” Roger had rather imagined the man to have been smugly satisfied with what he’d done, if he’d done it at all.

“Oh, there could be any amount of reasons. Coercion. Threats. Blackmail.”

“God, what an unpleasant business.”

“Thank you, at least, for not mentioning its unsuitability for a woman,” she said drily. “And that leads me on to my final point. You mustn’t forget that there may be some danger in this. If Connaught
was
a traitor in the war, he won’t want his misdeeds made public. All indications are that he’s left the life of a spy far behind him—if indeed he ever lived it—but you mustn’t underestimate what a desperate man may do to protect himself. Will you be armed?”

“Good God, no!” Roger felt sick at the very thought.

“Then you must tread carefully. A one-armed man can kill you just as dead as a whole man.” She gazed at him steadily. “Are you afraid?”

Roger grimaced. “Do you want an honest answer, or a courageous one?”

She stared at him coolly. “What makes you think they’re not one and the same? Only a fool isn’t afraid when going into danger.”

“All right, then. I won’t deny I’m a trifle nervous. But I’m not backing out. I owe this to Hugh, and to Mabel. And, well, to myself.”

“Good man. And I’m glad to hear you say so. I’d hate to think we were bullying you into it, Sir Arthur and I, trying to relive our wartime days.”

“No. Far from it. And I want to thank you. For helping me with this.”

She laughed. “Oh, don’t thank me. Thank the old man. You know, I believe he rather misses all this.” Her voice turned wistful.

“And what about you?” Roger dared to ask. “Should you prefer to be hunting down spies, rather than making appointments for Sir Arthur?”

“Right now, I should prefer to be giving this excellent sole the attention it deserves. No, thank you,” she added to the waiter as he made to refill her wineglass. “I never have more than one glass.”

Chapter Five

December, 1920

Sunday dawned bright and crisp, and George Johnson, né Roger Cottingham, felt almost queasy with excitement as he looked out of the hotel window for the last time. Was this how men in the trenches had felt in anticipation of going over the top? Of course, the danger, if any, that George faced was negligible by comparison. But God, to finally be able to do something!

He had little enough to pack and found he had time on his hands before he could start lugging his things over to Allen Street—Mrs. Mac’s exhortation to “come after church” not having been forgotten. By eleven o’clock, however, he was fed up with twiddling his thumbs, and made his way over there, hoping someone would be at home. His bags having appeared to mysteriously double in weight en route, he soon regretted his impulsive decision to take the Hampstead Line train rather than going to the expense of taking a cab. He decided firmly that if the house should turn out to be empty, he’d simply have to camp out on the doorstep until someone returned.

Fortunately, his knock was answered by a tousle-headed Matthew, who beamed at George as if his arrival had made the day complete. “Come in, come in! I was hoping you’d be here early. Need a hand with anything? Mrs. Mac and Miss Lewis are still at church, but they should be back within the hour.”

George found himself smiling back at the man without any great effort on his part. “I’m relieved to find you in, then. I did wonder if that’d turn out to be the one drawback of this place—being forced out of bed to go to church on pain of no Sunday dinner!” From the enticing aroma of roasting meat that suffused the house, it might even be a sacrifice worth making.

“Good Lord, no! Mrs. Mac does drop the occasional little hint or three, but in general she’s quite understanding of the godless habits of young men nowadays. No, I’m afraid that for me, my Sunday lie-in is sacrosanct. Easter and Christmas, I’ll do my duty, but I claim the rest of the year off for good behaviour. I’ll take it from your presence here that you’re of like mind?”

“Er, yes,” George agreed a little guiltily. It had been a long time since he’d felt comfortable in church.

“Excellent! I’ll take this bag, then—good Lord!” he exclaimed, hefting it. “What on earth have you got in here—bricks?”

George grinned. “Well, you did have to pick the heaviest one.” Yes, that was the right tone to take: light and teasing. “It’s books, actually. Unfortunately, becoming a solicitor involves a fair amount of studying.”

“It’s a good thing I never had any leanings in that direction, then,” Matthew said as he lugged the bag up the stairs, which creaked more than ever under the load. “I’m sure all my old schoolmasters viewed me as some awful punishment for their sins in a past life.”

“Now that I doubt,” George said, laughing almost giddily as he followed. Damn it, he needed to calm his nerves a bit or Matthew would think him very queer.

“Oh, but it’s true! Why on earth do you suppose I went into advertising? It’s one of the few professions that requires neither education nor accomplishments.” Matthew put down the bag in the middle of George’s room with an exaggerated sigh of relief.

“But you must have to have a certain talent for it,” George protested. “I’m sure I couldn’t write advertisements to save my life.” Was he laying on the flattery a trifle thick? Of course, advertisements were notorious for being sometimes less than truthful. Perhaps Connaught’s choice of profession was proof of innate dishonesty?

“You’d soon get into the swing of it if you tried. All you have to do is praise the product to high heaven, and hint that it was developed by scientists with only slightly lesser powers of creation than the Deity Himself.” Matthew sprawled on George’s desk chair, watching curiously as the books he’d just carried were evicted from the carpet bag and lined up along the back of the desk. “Do you really have to read all these?”

“Not every page of them, no—at least, that’s the impression I’ve got so far. Don’t forget, I’ve only been at Forrester & Lindley for a fortnight. No, most of these are just for reference—I picked a job lot of them up at a secondhand bookshop, ridiculously cheap, before I started. Thought I might as well find out what I was letting myself in for.”

“What made you go into this line of work, then, if you didn’t know anything about it?”

George flushed a little. “Well, it was all a bit fortuitous, to tell you the truth. I needed a situation, and a, ah, friend of the family offered an introduction to Mr. Forrester. He seemed to think I wouldn’t be a total dead loss so, well, here I am.” George was aware of his heart beating uncomfortably fast by the end of his speech, despite the fact that it was essentially all true. He hoped desperately it wouldn’t look like he was lying.

But Matthew just nodded. “It’s all who you know, not what you know, isn’t it? Nice when it works for you, but not so nice when it doesn’t, I suppose. Of course, I’m hardly one to talk—the head of my agency is an old friend of my father’s.”

“Is your father in advertising too?”

“Well, I suppose you could say so, in a way. Just the one client, though—but I must say, Father makes far more extraordinary claims about his product than I’ve ever dreamed of!” He laughed, while George frowned, puzzled. “Father’s a rector,” Matthew explained, grinning. “Sorry. I have this awful habit of making light of religion, but I’m not really as godless as all that. And while we’re on the subject, I do believe that’s the ladies of the house returning from church. Shall we go down and advise them of your arrival?”

They trotted downstairs to find that Mrs. Mac and Miss Lewis had returned from church accompanied by a thin, somewhat ferrety young man in an ill-fitting brown suit and a flat cap. Matthew greeted him with a grin and a hearty clap on the shoulder, rather to George’s irritation. “Tom! Good to see you. Tom, this is George Johnson, our latest addition to the family. George, Tom Watkins, deliverer of letters and the future proud possessor of Miss Lewis’s lovely hand.”

Miss Lewis blushed prettily at this. She seemed to have shed her competent, sensible air along with her nurse’s uniform, but perhaps it was the presence of her fiancé rather than the somewhat frivolous floral dress she was wearing that had brought out her more feminine side. George couldn’t help thinking how very different she and Mabel were, for two women of similar age and in the same profession. He nodded politely to Watkins, and was disconcerted to be met with a very speculative look in those narrow, dark eyes. “Play football, do you, Mr. Johnson?”

Taken entirely by surprise, George stammered out an answer. “Er, no—well, rugger at school, you know, but—no.”

Watkins’s lips tightened. “Might have known it. Pity. You still on for this afternoon, Matt?”

“Of course, Tom! Wouldn’t miss it.” Obviously seeing George’s blank look, Matthew carried on. “Tom’s roped me in to his local pub side. We play most Sunday afternoons—and haven’t been struck by lightning once,” he added in a louder, more mischievous tone, clearly intended to carry to the far side of the kitchen where Mrs. Mac was busying herself with the preparations for lunch.

“It’ll only take the once,” the landlady said darkly but without any real ill humour.

“If you’ve nothing better to do this afternoon, perhaps you’d like to come along and support us?” Matthew asked. “But I suppose you’ll be occupied with sorting your things out,” he answered himself with a genuine-seeming tone of regret.

George shrugged. “I really don’t have an awful lot of gear to sort out—I don’t see why I shouldn’t take an hour or two off to watch a game of football. It seems a shame to waste the good weather, in any case.” Or to waste a chance of getting to know his quarry a little better. Would underhanded tactics at the Front mean dirty play on the sports field?

“Good man!” Matthew beamed at him. “And you’re right about not wasting the weather. I’ve read in the papers it’s to turn cold soon.”

Watkins gave a rather vulgar snort. “Papers! Like they know anything about anything!”

“Scoff all you like, but I’ll be looking out my winter woollies, you can be sure,” Matthew said cheerfully.

At this point they were shooed out of the kitchen by the ladies, and took up residence in the sitting room until called back to dine. George was relieved to find the preparations for lunch didn’t take long—he soon grew weary of Watkins’ conversation. The man seemed to have an inordinately large chip on his shoulder, and George strongly suspected him of having Bolshevist leanings. Matthew, of course, took it all in his stride, seemingly unbothered by Watkins’ rantings. Perhaps it was simply that he’d heard it all before.

“Vicar was in good form, wasn’t he,” Miss Lewis remarked as they sat down to their Sunday lunch of roast mutton, boiled potatoes, parsnips and cabbage. “You missed a good sermon,” she added pointedly to George and Matthew, having apparently inherited her mother’s evangelistic tendencies.

“Oh? What was his message today?” Matthew enquired politely, cutting up potatoes with his fork. George noticed that the meat on his friend’s plate had arrived already cut into edibly sized pieces.

“All about how Advent is the coming of the Lord, and we should be making sure we’re ready for his arrival.” Miss Lewis ate daintily and forbore to comment on her fiancé shovelling his potatoes up, dripping with gravy, as though he were eating with a spoon.

“And how should we do that?” Matthew asked with a grin. “By sweeping the floors and getting out the good china?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “No, silly!” Watkins gave her a dark look, presumably for displaying such familiarity with another man. “We should be thinking on our sins, for it’s certain the Lord knows all about them.”

“Mr. Watkins, how long has your team been playing together?” George broke in, a little desperate to change the subject. Watkins’s eyebrows chased his receding hairline, but he nevertheless launched into a monologue on the exceedingly dull history of the Red Lion Sunday Football Club that carried them safely through until dessert.

After spotted dick and custard, they drank their tea in the sitting room. It was as cramped as George had predicted with the five of them in there. Matthew cheerfully grabbed one of the wooden chairs from the kitchen and took it with him to sit upon, deaf to George’s protests that surely he, as the latecomer, should take the least comfortable seat.

Despite his low opinion of the papers, Watkins seemed perfectly content to bury his nose in one, occasionally barking out a scornful laugh at some article or other, but otherwise contributing little to the conversation. Mrs. Mac and her daughter chatted about wedding dresses and the likelihood of obtaining roses in April. Matthew entertained George with tales from the advertising agency, including the awful repercussions when a client’s name had accidentally been substituted with that of a rival: “Poor Penworthy was already clearing his desk drawers and preparing to head off to the Employment Exchange when old Carpenter burst into the office to tell him his sins were forgiven. Apparently they’d landed the rival account—which happened to be worth three times as much as the one that had been lost—and the client was insisting that it be handled by the genius behind the erroneous advertisement!”

“So all’s well that ends well, then?” George said, smiling.

“Absolutely—although Penworthy’s now under strict instructions to have all copy signed off by Mr. Carpenter before it goes out!”

The football match, it transpired, was to take place on the playing fields of the local grammar school. As Allen Street, Matthew explained, was situated between the fields and the Red Lion pub, he would be changing into his kit at home rather than lugging his things up to the pub to change with the rest of the team. Accordingly, as Watkins departed, Matthew and George headed upstairs, Matthew to change and George to nervously shift a few things about in his room while he waited.

George cursed himself for not leaving well enough alone when he felt a sickening crunch underfoot. He hadn’t even noticed the pen falling to the floor. And it would be
this
pen.

Matthew’s cheery knock broke in on his self-recrimination. “Come in,” George called, his voice flat. An instant later, he cursed himself anew. Damn it. This wasn’t going to help him ingratiate himself with the man.

“I say, are you all right?” Matthew asked as he entered. “You look like you’ve lost ten shillings and found a sixpence.”

“Worse,” George replied with a grimace, holding up the crushed remains of what had once been a rather fine Waterman pen. “It’s not the pen, so much—it’s that it used to belong to my brother.”

“What rotten luck. I am sorry.” Matthew hesitated. “He fell in the war?”

George nodded. “In 1917. He was supposed to be coming home on leave the following month,” he added helplessly—then cursed himself for giving any information away that might forge a connection in Matthew’s mind. Had he completely forgotten what he was doing here?

Matthew clapped his remaining hand on George’s shoulder in hearty, honest sympathy. “Was he younger or older than you?” he asked gently.

“Older.” George swallowed. “I looked up to him all my life.”

“I’m sure wherever he is now, he’s damned glad you made it through all right,” Matthew said with a certainty that tore George’s heart.

George stared at the remains of the pen. He wasn’t sure why he’d felt compelled to such painful honesty. “Never mind,” he said, forcing a smile. “Let’s get you to that football match before kick-off.”

Miss Lewis electing to remain home with her mother, George walked to the playing field accompanied only by Matthew. There was little wheeled traffic on the streets, but half of Hampstead seemed to be out for an afternoon stroll. Men walked arm in arm with their wives, while bare-headed children ran and shrieked beside them. Every now and then Matthew would greet someone he knew with a nod and a smile, or perhaps a word or two. He seemed to have a wide acquaintance and to be well-liked by them.

George didn’t know what to make of it. Spies and traitors, he felt instinctively, should lurk in the shadows, noticed by no one—certainly, they shouldn’t be
popular
.