Page 148 of The Last Library of Paris

I settled down in my chair, and opened the envelope, eager to hear how she was doing.

Dear Cassie,

I’d expected London to be quiet but it was not. It was so busy and noisy with the Londoners carrying on as though nothing had happened. They are tramping to work over bombsites and living in houses with walls missing. Everyone I met told me I will have to come back when the war is over (it will be over one day, won’t it?) and see London restored to its full glory. I can’t wait to see it.

I gave Marcus’s books to the lovely gentlemen at the War Office, and they said they will make copies and keep them safe. I heard even Churchill himself has asked to read the stories he collected.

Not a day goes by when I don’t think of poor Marcus and how brave he was. I’m so sorry he died and I will always be grateful we made it to Lisbon in time, and I got to see him to say goodbye. He was such a good man. One of the gents at the War Office hinted they are nominating him for all sorts of posthumous awards. I will be glad to see that.

And so, inspired by Marcus, I have arrived in Gloucestershire. Your parents are looking after me very well. I have been introduced to everyone who lives in a five-mile radius of their village, and I’m trying to keep track of everyone’s names, but it isn’t easy.

I’ve already started speaking to the refugees who are living nearby. Your parents’ housekeeper Olga has told me her experiences of being in Poland before the war, and walking to Lisbon. The gardener, Josef, came from Poland, too. But his story is different from Olga’s. Bleaker, if I’m honest. They are hard to hear. Today I will sit down with a woman named Caterina, who works at the school. Your mother told me Caterina hid in a basement for three weeks, before she escaped from Amsterdam as the Nazis arrived.

How brave these people are. How important it is to hear their stories. And how proud I am to be continuing the work Marcus started.

When I have spoken to everyone here, I will go to Oxford to meet the refugees you have sent there. And then back to London to chat with them there. And the numbers you are sending just keeps increasing so I will be kept busy.

Your parents are doing well, Cassie. They talk about Jamie and they laugh at the memories. I think helping others has helped them, which is a useful lesson for us all.

Your mother told me that the man who betrayed your secrets has been sentenced to ten years in prison. It is no more than he deserves. I hope you understand now that nothing that happened in Paris was your fault.

Please write soon and tell me how the new Lisbon branch of the Soldiers’ Book Service is coming along. Bea was so eager to get started, I feel it’s in very safe hands. And I read that the Peacock Books Forces Editions are so successful they are printing more stories for soldiers to read. I expect Sylvie will be demanding more Margery Allingham novels.

And most importantly, are the books doing what they are supposed to be doing?

I must stop now as Caterina is waiting to talk. Write soon with more news.

Your affectionate friend,

Fran

Holding the letter in my lap, I sipped my tea. It was lovely to hear that Frances was doing such a good job of recording people’s experiences. It was also reassuring to know my parents were, perhaps, not so gripped by excruciating grief and instead were putting their lives back together. Differently, of course, because Jamie was gone, but laughing was a good sign.

It was the part of the letter where Frances asked about the books that made me feel sad, though. Because nothing had happened. We were still sending books to soldiers and airmen. The team in London were stamping Peacock books with our cryptic addresses.

But no one was coming.

Archie was spending his time trying to find out if the escape lines were being used. He thought they were, but it was hard to know for sure. The Resistance were notoriously – and understandably – tight-lipped about the whole thing.

Meanwhile, we kept going, working out codes for new addresses, arranging book deliveries with Peacock, processing visas.

Archie was due back today, after another trip to Spain to see contacts. I was desperate to see him after time apart.

Henry was keen to show him how Section Q had designed pencils with rolled-up maps inside, and compasses in the bottom of shaving brushes. In fact, that’s where Henry was now – fetching samples of the gadgets so he had them ready for when Archie arrived.

The sound of the gravel crunching outside sent me hurrying to the window to see if it was him. But no, it wasn’t Archie. There was no car. Just a man I didn’t recognise.

I turned away from the window, disappointed, then turned back almost immediately. Because there was something strange about the man.

He was wearing clothes that were slightly odd. They were a little too big, perhaps, because they didn’t hang quite right on his thin frame. His hair was messy and he looked exhausted, barely managing to put one foot in front of the other.

As I watched from above, he got to the embassy’s large black iron gates and paused, standing there for a moment. The guard came out of his little box, and the pair spoke to one another, then the man reached into his inside pocket.

I froze, terrified he was going to pull out a gun. But what he actually pulled out was a copy of a book. It was hard to see from this far away, but the bright peacock-blue cover was instantly recognisable.

‘Oh my goodness,’ I breathed. ‘Oh my goodness. It’s one of ours.’

But the guard was shaking his head, and the man was slumping to the ground, his energy exhausted. Before I’d even made up my mind properly, I was off, running as fast as I could through the echoey corridors of the embassy, and thundering down the stairs to the main entrance. As I hurtled towards the door, I passed Henry who had been chatting to a chap from a different department. Now he was watching my progress and looking bewildered.