Caitrin noticed Churchill pronounced Nazis as Nazeez because he had a lisp, of which he was self-conscious, and hid it by making an S into a Z. She liked it: his pronunciation made him human and the enemy sound sleazy.
“They may well dislike Hitler’s boorishness,” Churchill continued, “but do approve of the way he put Germany back on its feet. And although they would never admit this in public, they condone his attack on the Jews and would like to do the same thing here. We have a long history of throwing the Jews out of the country.”
“And Cromwell let them back in,” Caitrin said. “But only so he could borrow money. A most kingly trait.”
“Among other things, Die Brücke is an organization that links the English sympathizers with Nazi Germany.”
“They’re English, so surely they wouldn’t give him the Crown Jewels?” Caitrin said.
“The friction between monarch and aristocracy is an ancient one. They will give him whatever he wants, as long as he leaves them alone on their estates.”
“Will he leave them alone?”
“They think so, but I don’t. Holland, Denmark, and Norway thought they could remain neutral, each hoping that if it fed the crocodile, it would eat them last. But don’t forget, for centuries there has been a strong Germanic hereditary strain running throughout much of the aristocracy.”
“The Battenbergs come to mind,” Caitrin said.
“They’re the Mountbattens now,” Hector said.
“And of course, who could forget the venerable and very German Saxe-Coburg-Gothas?”
“Who became the House of Windsor,” Hector said, with the feeling he was being outmaneuvered.
“Timing is everything in life, isn’t it?”
“Stop it, you two,” Churchill growled. “Unfortunately, apart from a few glaring examples, we do not know who is or is not part of Die Brücke. That means you will need to be cautious where you stay and tell them nothing. This might remind you of the country’s plight.” He picked up a sheet of paper, cleared his throat, and read, “I was sitting bound to a chair in a darkened room, hardly able to see who or what was there with me. Although I could not see, I could plainly hear the groans and whimpers of anguished pain from the friends sprawled at my feet. They had been savagely struck down with blinding speed. And the shifting sound of something horrid slithering closer was a chilling warning that the same appalling violence was about to descend upon me.”
He put the paper down and puffed his cigar back into life. “The allusion to what is happening in Europe at this moment is quite clear. What say you to this, Miss Catty?”
“Honestly?” Caitrin sniffed. “It sounds as though it was written by some clergyman from a remote Norfolk benefice cradling the forlorn hope that his genius would find the right intellectual ear and alter the predictable trajectory of his sad, meager life.”
Silence made them all monuments. Until Hector broke it by saying, “I wrote it.”
“Sorry, vicar.” Caitrin’s hand flew to her mouth, to hide a smile more than to retract the words.
Churchill thumped the desk, stood, and pointed to the door, partly to prevent himself from laughing. “Go! Away with you both this instant, make up a history of a marriage you can both agree upon, and prepare for the journey. Three days hence.”
Caitrin and Hector left, Thompson closed the door, and Churchill collapsed into his chair. “My God, what hath we wrought?”
“Indeed, Sir.”
“And it never ceases,” he said, glancing at a sheet of paper on his desk. “Listen to this. A Mr. Cyril X. Goslington, I wonder about the X, is editor of the campanologists’ magazine Ringing World. I had no idea such a thing even existed. Regarding my banning of all bell-ringing, so we might use them only as warning of an airborne attack, he writes: ‘The ban is a stunning blow to ringing, from which, even when the war is over, it will take a long time to recover.’ What say you, Thompson?”
“To be honest, I don’t know the gentleman, Sir, but his magazine’s name rings a bell.”
Churchill paused, cigar halfway to his mouth, but Thompson’s expression was detective-blank as he continued, “Excuse me for asking, Sir, but do you really think they’re the right couple? They seem so different. Why not choose Lady Prudence or Lady Anne? Socially they would be a better match for Lord Hector.”
Churchill picked up the telephone and barked, “A bottle of Pol Roger, soonest. In my office, not here.” He replaced the receiver and said, “You are correct, Thompson, you usually are correct, and if it were a hunt ball or the London season I would agree, but our Welsh spitfire is what Lord Hecky needs to complete this task. They will squabble like a real married couple and so seem authentic. But once Operation Cat is finished, and if they both survive, I fear our Lord Hector, Hecky, will never be quite the same man again.”
5
Reginald Bardwell was an educated man and a good husband who dearly loved his wife, even though she came from a lower social stratum than did he. The son of a devout yet impecunious Dorsetshire parson, Reginald met and fell in love with Lilian Gormley, a lass from the slums of Limehouse in London’s Docklands. He was frugal and saved enough to buy her a place in Elephant and Castle on the other side of the river. It was not a giant step up, being a modest terraced house identical to its neighbors in endless ranks of terraced houses, and the slums were just a few streets away, but it was a palace for Lilian. It came complete with a large bedroom she didn’t have to share, except and delightfully with Reginald, and even had its own indoor flushing lavatory and bathroom. The greatest luxury of all was an Ascot hot water geyser in the kitchen. The whoomph as the gas ring lit when she turned it on was such a comforting sound, it was the sound of security, and Lilian vowed to cherish and never leave her little kingdom. They would grow splendidly old together there, with children, grandchildren, and annual holidays in Skegness.
Not only was Reginald frugal, he was also a proudly patriotic Englishman and gladly went to war when Kitchener called him to service. As a lieutenant in the West Kent Light Infantry, part of Army Corps III, he was the first to leap out of the trenches and go over the top to lead his men to glory. He did so at Amiens in 1918, just a month or so before the war ended, and like thousands of keen young lieutenants before him was cut down by machine-gun fire. Reginald did not reach glory; he hardly got more than fifteen feet away from where he started.
Lilian’s life abruptly changed, and she lived in terror of returning to the Limehouse slums. That would mean going back to a communal lavatory and a tin bath hanging on a nail outside that was brought in once a week while water boiled in cooking pots on the fire. And no more whoomph of the Ascot geyser. Reginald had refused to let her work, so she now had no way to support herself. After crying herself to sleep for weeks, Lilian, with regret, decided to rent out her lovely bedroom and move downstairs. She had had several lodgers of varying character over the years and had recently found a nice young lady, who, although she was Welsh, came with good references. As the bombing grew heavier, this young woman, Caitrin Colline, became her vital support. Almost daily, houses were being destroyed all around her, but Lilian Bardwell was determined not to move, and neither would she scurry away to the smelly bomb shelters with the slum dwellers and leave her palace to be looted. Reginald would not have wanted that, and while she lay in her bed downstairs and stared at the ceiling to remember the wonderful times they had enjoyed together in her lovely bedroom, at least she had Caitrin’s presence up there as comfort during the blitz.
After enduring an endless, exhausting night of bomb blasts, sirens, and clanging emergency bells, Caitrin slipped into bed, put a pillow over her head to muffle the snoring coming from Lilian downstairs, and finally fell asleep. Only to be rudely shaken awake by a man grasping her shoulders and hissing in her ear, “Caitrin, wake up!”
Half-asleep, she opened her eyes but saw nothing. Blackout curtains sealed off all light and hid any detail in the room.
“I said wake up!”
Training took command of reflexes, and her right fist drove deep into the man’s solar plexus as the palm of her left hand clapped hard against his right ear. He released his grip on her and with a whoosh of exhaled breath staggered away to crash against the wardrobe and tumble to the floor. “Oooossh.”
She sat up and switched on the light, ready to face her attacker, and saw who it was. “Hecky? What are you doing? How on earth did you get in my room?”
“Mrs. Bardwell let me in,” Hector managed to wheeze between tortured breaths.
“Now you’re in, why not tell me why you are here?”
“I can’t, I’m dying.” He groaned and clutched his stomach. “You broke my ribs.”
“No, I didn’t. You’re just winded, and you’ll be deaf in one ear for a bit.”
“How did you learn to do that?”
“I took lessons from the man who taught bartitsu to the Pankhurst suffragettes. I had to stop, though.”
