Page 75 of The Undercover Bookshop

Out the front door, the car is already waiting with the door open.

She turns to me. “Join us again tomorrow evening? I think talking here will be more comfortable than in your room, and I promise I won’t let them keep you so late again.”

How civilized she makes it all sound. “How many times will I need to repeat it?”

She smiles, the half smile of the amused. “Unfortunately, my dear, as many times as it takes to satisfy their curiosity and confirm there’s nothing left to share.”

I smile back, a little weary and worn but charmed by her nonetheless.

“Good.” She gives me a quick hug and a kiss on both cheeks. “You work a normal day once more tomorrow, and Gilbert will again pick you up at half past five.”

She gestures to the car, and after I drop inside, she draws close to the window. “And, Miss Brown, please don’t mention any of this to anyone. Not even Chief Wilmot or PC Charles. This has gotten a bit beyond them now.”

“What about Peggy?” I practically jump out of the car imagining Peggy telling her family everything. “You’ve sent word to her, right? Not to talk until you go to see her too?”

“Yes, well, we did send agents, but they couldn’t reach her.”

At my clear astonishment Lady Marchmont minutely shakes her head as if to tell me not to ask too many questions. “We’ll chat more on Peggy tomorrow. I promise.”

With that she shuts the door and Gilbert pulls the car away.

The next day, I’m down the stairs five minutes early, but Gilbert is already standing ready with the car’s back door open. He grins as if he’s caught me out, and I find my lips curling up in reply. With everything going on, such a simple exchange—a simple game—feels refreshingly normal.

Ten minutes later, the car pulls up to the house, and five minutes beyond that, I’m sitting by the fire in the library once more. But this time, two other men are with Miss Bagot, a Mr. Wainright and Mr. Carlyle. There is no mention of Mr. Serpell or Mr. Skardon, and I don’t ask after them.

Once again, Lady Marchmont starts the conversation. “With Ursula flown the coop, as the saying goes, you are no longer a domestic affair. These gentlemen are from Military Intelligence Section 6, the foreign branch of the Secret Intelligence Service.”

Mr. Wainright groans. “Beatrice.”

“Goodness, Gerald.” She flaps a hand at him. “This is an asset not a parlormaid. She’s run circles around you lot already. Show her some respect.”

My eyes widen as do Mr. Wainright’s, but he smiles, and with his soft, almost ironic, “my lady,” I get the impression the two of them are old friends.

“Before we begin this evening, Miss Brown asked me about her friend Peggy Albright. Gerald, would like to handle that? I think it’s more your department than Millicent’s now.”

“Yes.” He glares at her again, and I get the impression he’d rather not tell me a fraction of what Lady Marchmont believes I can handle.

“Peggy Albright switched from Paddington to Charing Cross in London and took a mainline train to Dover. She then took the ferry to Calais and a train from there to the Spanish border at Hendaye. We have not tracked her, as of yet, past that town, but we believe she crossed into Spain.”

“Spain? That’s impossible.” I sit ramrod straight. “She was going home to St. Eths to reconcile with her mum, to see her family.”

“That was merely what she told you. Her name was on one of those papers you handed to us from the Kidlington house.”

“That can’t be. I would’ve noticed.” My voice should sound indignant, furious, yet it’s full of doubt and questions as my mind races back to all Peggy and I said and did together over the past couple of weeks, her change in conviction, the navy gloves, the indirect answers to direct questions, the fact that I didn’t actually go through every page I’d collected.

I turn to Lady Marchmont, hoping she’ll refute him, as I cannot. But she only offers me a small consoling look.

We sit in silence until Mr. Wainright finally breaks it with a shuffling of papers and some awkward throat clearing. “We must soldier on. There are matters to discuss.”

But there are no recitations of the events that led to 27 February and Ursula’s escape to Germany again, no further discussions about Peggy or about the who, what, when, where, or why of anything. Mr. Wainright changes directions completely.

“We need to move you, Miss Brown. You’ll get a new name, identification papers, and a whole new start. You will not return to Great Rollright again, nor may you keep in contact with anyone here.”

Charlie! I know there are others I will miss—their images and names pop into my brain—but Charlie eclipses them all. “No one?”

“No one,” Mr. Wainright confirms with a single nod. “Ursula liked you, that is obvious. But she’s not the one who attacked you. You said last evening that she said Felisov attacked you, but he may have told others about you. We don’t know how large their ring extends.”

I close my eyes. Arguing is futile. And I have no fight left in me, regardless. “When?”