‘Do you want me to be upset?’
‘I’m just interested in finding out what your reaction will be.’
‘Haven’t you got better things to be doing, Mr Ferguson?’
‘I’ve got lots of things to be getting on with. But I can’t help being fascinated by your story, Mrs Peel. A middle-aged lady who runs a bookshop in Bloomsbury has a secret past as an intelligence officer. It’s very compelling indeed. It’s the sort of story you would find in a book or a play. I suppose I can’t help being captivated by it. And the fact you have lied about your identity...’
‘I haven’t lied. Most of the people who worked in intelligence during the war had to take on a new identity.’
‘But you kept yours, Mrs Peel. Mr Fisher didn’t, did he? He went back to the name he’d used before.’
She took a step towards him. ‘Where are you getting this information from, Mr Ferguson? Have you asked someone at the War Office to look at confidential files? Because if you have, I suspect both you and your informer are breaking the law.’
‘Are you trying to threaten me, Mrs Peel?’
‘No. But you’ll be in trouble if you’re doing something illegal.’
‘What have you got to hide, Mrs Peel?’
She felt her jaw clench. ‘My history is my business. If someone I trust were to ask me about my past, then I would answer them truthfully. But I don’t have to explain myself to you. I have done nothing malicious or deceitful. I should be allowed to go about my daily life without harassment from people like you.’
‘But what about the people you harass, Mrs Peel? Don’t you think they deserve to be left alone too?’
‘I’m not harassing anyone, Mr Ferguson, nor have I ever done. I ask people questions when I’m investigating a case, but I’m respectful about it. Particularly when someone is uncomfortable about discussing the topic. It’s not harassment. However, illegally obtaining information about someone’s past and publishing it in a newspaper is harassment. As is loitering on the street and waiting for them to turn up.’
‘How do you know I’ve been loitering here, Mrs Peel? I could have just been passing through.’
‘I doubt it. You know I live here. What do you actually want from me?’
‘I don’t want anything from you, Mrs Peel. But I think people deserve to know the truth about you.’
‘Which people?’
‘The people who trust you. They don’t know who you really are.’
‘I don’t understand why that’s of any interest to you.’
‘I’m a news reporter. A journalist. It’s my job to uncover the truth.’
‘If it’s in the public interest, perhaps. But if it’s just a vendetta against someone, then it’s not your job at all.’
‘A vendetta?’ He laughed. ‘I’m not the sort of person who pursues vendettas.’
‘I disagree, Mr Ferguson. I asked you some questions about your former colleague who was tragically murdered. And from that moment on, you embarked on this strange campaign to supposedly tell people the truth about me. I don’t know what you’re hoping to achieve.’
‘Justice, Mrs Peel.’
‘I think you have a warped idea of what justice is.’
He laughed again. ‘By the way, I must congratulate you on finding the letter which received such enthusiastic coverage in the Daily London News.’
‘The newspaper coverage was not something I planned.’
‘No, I don’t expect it was. You’re the modest type, aren’t you, Mrs Peel? At least that’s what you’d like people to think.’
Her heart pounded but she tried to remain calm. ‘Well, I can’t stand about here chatting with you all evening, Mr Ferguson. Much as I’d like to.’ She forced a wide smile and went on her way.
‘Keep an eye out for a new article about you, Mrs Peel,’ he called after her.
She ignored him and her heart pounded harder. Was he really going to publish her real name?
Chapter 23
Augusta tried to push Walter Ferguson out of her mind as she sat down at her dining table to read John Gibson’s letters. She arranged them on the table in date order and decided to read them chronologically. There were thirty-six letters in all. Most of them were long and the handwriting was difficult to decipher. It was obvious that reading them all would not be a quick, easy job.
Sparky fluttered about the room, and Augusta sipped her soup as she read about John Gibson and Alexander Miller’s cycling excursions to various places on the outskirts of London. John wrote well and his descriptions of some places were so compelling that Augusta felt persuaded to visit them herself. She enjoyed his descriptions of the deer in Richmond Park, the quaintness of Harrow on the Hill, and the grandeur of Hampton Court Palace and its grounds. John mentioned Alexander’s ability to cycle faster than him up hills. Alexander put it down to his daily intake of Jackson’s Blood Purifier and suggested John take it too.
The effort of deciphering the handwriting in dim, artificial light made Augusta’s eyes sore after a while. She had thought in recent months that she probably needed reading glasses.
She had a break from reading the letters and made herself some cocoa.
‘Well I haven’t learnt much more about Alexander Miller yet,’ she said to Sparky. He watched her from the top of the clock in the kitchen. ‘But I’ve only read four letters so far. Perhaps I can manage one more before bedtime.’
Augusta returned to her dining table with her mug of cocoa and picked up the next letter in the sequence. After deciphering the first few sentences, she realised this letter was a little more interesting than the previous ones.
I have behaved quite deplorably and I feel ashamed of it now. It was while Alexander and I were cycling to Teddington. He mentioned Jemima Kemp and, in doing so, quite upset me.
Jemima is a young lady who works as a secretary in our offices. She is quite pretty. You know I’m shy when it comes to the fairer sex, Louisa, so I’ve only spoken to her a few times. Although she is friendly, I can feel myself blushing when I speak to her. My bashfulness is irritating. I wish I could be more confident when speaking to Jemima.
