‘I’m going to offer her some money for the box of books she donated, too. Many of them are in excellent condition. Fred is going to find out for me if she’s still living at the same address.’
The bookshelf on Philip’s wall caught her eye. It still only had one volume on it: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. ‘Did you notice the interesting address Mrs Bradshaw’s brother lives at?’ she said.
‘Baker Street.’
‘Just like your favourite detective.’ She nodded at the book on the shelf.
‘Yes indeed. Perhaps Mrs Bradshaw’s brother called on Holmes’s services? He would have had the case solved in an instant.’
‘I’m sure he would have.’ Augusta took in a breath. There was something else she wanted to discuss with Philip, but she had delayed it because she knew the topic would anger him. ‘There’s another letter I need to show you,’ she said.
‘Not another mystery to puzzle over?’
‘No.’ She passed him the letter to read for himself. It was short and more legible than the previous one.
She watched a frown deepen on his face as he read it.
‘This is from that worm, Ferguson!’ he said.
Walter Ferguson was a news reporter at the London Weekly Chronicle who Augusta had encountered on a previous case. He had objected to her questioning him about his murdered colleague and had published some articles about her in revenge. He seemed keen to reveal her past and had published information about her work for British intelligence during the war.
Augusta had hoped that once her work on the case had finished, she wouldn’t come across the reporter again. She wanted to forget about him. But it seemed Walter Ferguson did not want to forget about her.
Philip repeated the last line of the letter. ‘“I have uncovered something interesting. There never was a Mr Peel, was there? And Augusta is not your real name.” What does he mean by this Augusta?’
‘He means to make trouble for me.’
Augusta and Philip had taken different names when they had worked for British intelligence. Their colleagues had too. Augusta had given herself a married title. She had been in her thirties at the time and felt the title afforded her a bit more respect.
‘You never reverted back to your real name after the war, did you Augusta?’ said Philip. ‘Unlike me. I never thought George Whitaker suited me very well. I don’t know why I chose it.’
Augusta smiled. ‘I thought you looked like a George.’
‘Did you?’
‘But you’re more of a Philip.’
‘Good. Because that’s my real name. As for your real name, Augusta, I’ve never known it.’
She shrugged. ‘I liked Augusta Peel too much.’ Few people enquired about her fictional husband. Many seemed to assume he had died during the war.
‘So how has that rat Ferguson found out your real name?’ said Philip.
‘He must have spoken to someone at the War Office. My real name will be in my file.’
‘But that’s a secret file! It’s confidential. No one should be looking at our files there. And they certainly shouldn’t be passing information on to news reporters! Can you remember who recruited you, Augusta?’
‘Mr Wetherell.’
‘Thin chap with large spectacles?’
Augusta nodded.
‘He recruited me, too. He would have known your real name, but I can’t imagine a chap as decent as Wetherell handing information over to that dreadful reporter. I only met him the once though.’
‘Me too. In a cafe on Tottenham Court Road. I never saw him again after that.’
‘I met him in a pub on Cheapside and never saw him after that, either. I wonder what became of him? And Wetherell wouldn’t have been his real name. Anyway, I think Ferguson has persuaded someone to look at the files in the War Office. He could have paid them to do it.’
‘They’ll be in a lot of trouble if we can find out who it was.’
‘Yes, they will! It could be someone relatively new who wasn’t involved with our intelligence work at the time. Clearly they have no sense of loyalty. Or decency! I shall speak to the War Office about it.’ Philip looked at the letter again. ‘Ferguson says here that he has no plans to write more articles about you for the time being. For the time being. That suggests it could happen again in the future. If he publishes your real name, then it would be a serious breach of confidentiality!’
Augusta felt her stomach turn. The consequences of her true name being published were too much to bear.
‘He has to be stopped, Philip,’ she said. ‘He can’t be allowed to do this.’
Chapter 5
The following day, Fred told Augusta that the Post Office Directory showed Mr and Mrs Bradshaw still living at 35 Oxford Gardens in Notting Hill. That afternoon, Augusta travelled by tube to Notting Hill Station and walked the short distance to the address. It was at the east end of the road in a smart row of tall Victorian terraces. Although the houses here were smaller than the houses at the western end, they were still spacious and towered four storeys high.
A housekeeper answered the door and showed her into a plush sitting room where Louisa Bradshaw joined her a few minutes later. She was about thirty and round-faced with freckles across her nose and fair bobbed hair. Her eyes were bright and intelligent and she wore a simple yet fashionable sage green day dress.
Augusta Peel introduced herself as they sat. ‘I’d like to thank you for the books,’ she said.
‘Books?’ Mrs Bradshaw pulled a puzzled expression.
‘Yes. The box of books which you left outside my bookshop yesterday.’
