CHAPTER 6

S ensing how fragile I was, Sidney didn't speak as he led me out of the bank and down Grafton Street. He'd correctly deduced that what I needed was fresh air, not to be squashed inside an overcrowded tram. So we set off arm in arm down the busy thoroughfare. The morning was a fine one, and the shops and restaurants bustled with business. Bicycles and carts rattled past, but few motorcars, and no trams after the line veered east down Nassau Street around Trinity College.

Even without trying to, we attracted attention. Sidney in his Saville Row tailored three-piece suit and tall, dark good looks was arresting enough, but I also knew my Parisian fashions and bobbed hair turned heads. My red-violet and white ensemble boasted intricate embroidery along the collar and down the back of each sleeve and the rich shade of red-violet that colored the underside of my broad-brimmed hat accented the auburn hue of my hair rather than clashing with it. But the notice we garnered only made it all the more imperative that I retain control of my emotions.

So I forced my awareness to the people passing by, cataloging mundane features and searching for the familiar, including Alec. For no matter what he'd written, I wasn't yet ready to give him up for dead. I glanced distractedly down the street in the direction of the Wicklow Hotel, doubting I would make it on my round that day of the haunts where Alec had mentioned seeing Collins in his reports. I wondered how useful this information would even prove now. After all, if Alec had been found out, wouldn't Collins have changed his routine?

Far from straight, Grafton Street gently arched its way southward, lined with stolid four- to five-story buildings in shades of brown and cream, and occasionally the same red brick that adorned the Woolworths department store. Ultimately it led to the northwest corner of St. Stephen's Green near the Gaiety Theatre where we were to join the Wyndham-Quins for a play in a few days' time. The Green was the largest park in the city, at least on the southern side, and so filled with people out for a stroll on such a lovely day.

We passed beneath the massive Fusiliers' Arch into the Green, and looking overhead, I could see the names of deceased Royal Dublin Fusiliers inscribed along the underside of the arch. I also spied a few bullet holes in the limestone. Remnants of the rebellion that had broken out across Dublin on Easter Monday four years ago, I suspected. I remembered hearing that one of the positions the rebels had initially seized was St. Stephen's Green. The same rebels who continued to call the Fusiliers' Arch "Traitor's Gate" today.

Sidney turned our steps to stride along the lake that spanned the northern sector of the park, and I felt my shoulders relax as the tranquility of nature enclosed around me. Ducks and moorhens dotted the surface of the water and trees lush with greenery overarched the pathways bordered with beds of geraniums, petunias, and a few late-blooming tulips. Breathing in the sweet air, I allowed it to work its magic, soothing the grief and fear balled up inside me. But I also felt it stoke something unexpected: a deep well of anger,

Perhaps recognizing the shift in me, Sidney tilted his head toward mine. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"What I want is to ring MacAlister's neck."

Sidney turned to look at me, amusement rather than concern sparkling in his eyes. "Careful. Xavier might enjoy that too much."

This pronouncement was so unexpected, so ridiculous, that it startled a laugh out of me. "You're probably right." I exhaled in weary aggravation, turning to gaze across the small lake toward the far shore. "But seriously, what on earth was Alec thinking? To take on an assignment that he expected to fail? And if he took such elaborate precautions to write and arrange for me to receive such a note, then he expected to fail." I shook my head. "It's just not like him."

"Even men as devil-may-care as Xavier can catch a whiff of lethal intuition," Sidney reasoned.

"And not fight against it?"

"His note doesn't mean he didn't try to prevent it, Ver."

I fastened a sardonic glare on him. "Alec Xavier. The man who waltzed among the highest ranks of the Germany Army for nearly six years—four of them during the war. The man who set about to charm and cultivate your friendship the moment he met you, despite knowing he'd slept with your wife."

He frowned. "While you believed I was dead. A fact I led you to believe."

"Yes, a very important distinction," I agreed, for we'd both come a long way in forgiving one another for our wartime failures and rebuilding our marriage after four and a half years of separation and deception. "But not to the point I'm making. Alec doesn't take unnecessary precautions. He doesn't plan ahead."

"Seems to me like it didn't prove unnecessary."

I glowered at him.

"And what about this incident when you saw Collins." His gaze turned pointed. "I'm guessing that somehow involved Xavier."

"That was purely by coincidence," I retorted, having expected him to broach this subject at some point. "We were strolling down Horse Guards, comparing notes after the incident at Littlemote, when Collins suddenly appeared."

"In London?" Sidney seemed genuinely unsettled by this.

"Yes. And before you ask, I didn't purposely keep the contingencies for emergency communication from you." I faltered. "Or rather, I did. But . . ." I glanced about us to ensure no one was within hearing distance. "That's only because I believed you'd been issued your own instructions. That's always how it's worked in the past. Each operative is given distinct directives separate from their partner's, both for their own protection and that of the intelligence service, in case the other operative is captured or defects. I simply presumed this was the same." When Sidney didn't speak, but continued to stare straight ahead of us, his jaw tight, I clasped his upper arm between my own, trying to make him understand. "It's not that I didn't trust you. I do. But when you've blindly followed directives for years, when you've taken an oath to do so, it's difficult to stop."

Sidney reached across his body to press his hand to mine. "I get it, Verity," he assured me. "Truly, I do."

I exhaled in relief. Though relief quickly turned to consternation. "But they didn't issue you a similar set of instructions?"

He cleared his throat. "Actually, they did."

I drew back. "Then why . . . ?"

He adjusted the brim of his trilby hat. "The same reason you didn't tell me, I suppose."

I narrowed my eyes. "Yet, you seemed surprised and, dare I say, aggrieved when Mr. Finnegan suspected it of me."

He fidgeted with his hat again, obviously uncomfortable with the question. "Because I didn't know you'd been given your own instructions, and I suppose I expected you would have mentioned it if you had. Not the specifics," he hastened to clarify. "Just generalities."

I released him, crossing my arms over my chest. "And yet I didn't expect you to mention it. I trusted you to know what information was necessary I be told and what wasn't."

We strode side by side in brittle silence for several moments before he spoke in a low voice.

"You're right. I should have trusted you. But in my defense, this is the first time we've been deployed as if we were real operatives."

I turned to look into his earnest eyes.

"This investigation may be no more official than the others we've undertaken for C, but you can't deny that this one feels different."

He was right. I couldn't. A fact which caused me no small amount of uneasiness.

Sidney guardedly eyed the men seated on a bench along the path. "Maybe it's the fact that for all that this is still British soil, it feels like hostile territory. Or maybe it's the fraught nature of our quest and the very real possibility that the quarry we seek may be dead."

I swallowed against the urge to refute this, despite knowing what he said was true.

"Whatever the case, I apologize," he finished with a sad smile.

I threaded my arm through his again, telling him no more needed to be said. We were nearing the edge of the lake, and through a gap in the trees I spotted the imposing red brick edifice of the Shelbourne Hotel. We had stayed there for several nights before moving to the townhouse off Fitzwilliam Square.

"What do you want to do, Verity?"

I tipped my head back to peer up at him past the brim of my hat, noting the furrow of his brow as he continued.

"Because I'd like to do nothing more than to use the excuse Xavier has provided and bundle you back to safety in London. But I won't. Not unless that's what you want."

I spotted an open bench several steps in front of us. "Let's sit," I urged, wanting a few moments to gather my thoughts. The directness of his question had caught me off guard, but I was relieved to hear that he was open to my opinion.

He led us to the shaded spot beneath a plane tree, waiting for me to sit before settling beside me. His gaze swept up and down the path, cataloguing the other occupants of the park much as I was doing.

"Well, Ver," he prompted.

"I can't deny that I'm frustrated by the way matters are progressing, but you already know that." I sighed. "Nor can I deny that Alec's letter distressed and angered me." My hands tightened into fists, feeling these emotions rear up inside me again. " However , I can't just leave it at that. I can't just walk away without answers. I can't just . . . abandon Alec to his fate. I know this isn't Belgium." I held no blame for Alec's position being compromised here. Not like I'd believed in Belgium. "But that doesn't absolve me of my responsibility to him, as a friend and fellow agent." I pleaded with Sidney, hoping he would understand.

"And what if there are no answers?" he asked gravely. "What if there is no trail to uncover, no body to find?"

His words pinched in my chest, but I knew it was a possibility I had to face. "I can be reasonable. If the trail remains cold, if matters become too dangerous . . ." I forced the next words past my lips. "Then we'll return to London." I reached out to clasp his hand with mine, squeezing it. "But we have to try . We've barely begun."

He nodded, squinting into the sun as he lifted his head. "There's that promise you made to Lord French to see to, as well."

"And the phosgene," I added quietly.

He turned to look at me, examining my features. "I noticed you didn't say anything to Finnegan about it."

"Because I don't know if he's been debriefed."

"And because you're not sure you trust him."

My eyes widened. "Was it that obvious?"

"No, but I know the way you think." He sat back, propping his ankle over the other knee. "And given the facts before us, it would be illogical not to question his reliability."

"There's been no sign of the phosgene from our SIS sources, but we know it was transported to Dublin. Smith told us so two months ago in Belgium. And given the fact he was dying, betrayed by Ardmore, I don't think he was lying."

"Any word from George?"

I shook my head.

George Bentnick was one of my dearest friends, and one of Britain's foremost cryptologists. He'd worked in OB40, Naval Intelligence's codebreaking department during the war, though he now served as a mathematics professor at Oxford. I'd sent George the bloodstained journal Smith had handed me just before he breathed his last, trusting he could crack the code contained within far quicker than I could with my rudimentary skills. However, thus far it had eluded even him.

"The last time we spoke, he told me he's fairly certain the code is a book cipher. But without knowing the book the cipher derives from, it's nearly impossible to decrypt." I scowled, even as a fellow zoomed past on his bike, jauntily lifting his cap to me as he offered me a cheeky grin. "You would think that's something Smith might have mentioned."

"Ah, but then he was taunting you, wasn't he?" Sidney reminded me. "Implying you might not be sharp enough to decipher his journal."

I ignored this remark, and the fact that Smith thus far had been proven right. "We need to learn more about him. After all, we know very little about Lieutenant James Smith, in truth. Perhaps if we did, we'd have a better idea what book he might have chosen."

"Unless it was chosen for him."

I glared at him in irritation, for he was not helping to solve the problem. "Perhaps we should send a cable to Max in London. He did promise to assist us however he could from that end, and he does have connections at the War Office. He might be able to gain access to Smith's file."

Max also had a vested interest in seeing Ardmore thwarted and brought to justice. After all, Ardmore had killed his father after making him an unwitting conspirator to treason. If only we could locate the hidden stash of evidence the late Lord Ryde had left for his son. If only the clues he'd crafted for him to do so hadn't been so obscure.

Nonetheless, our chief concern for the moment in that regard was finding those phosgene cylinders and ensuring they weren't used to some terrifying purpose. And Smith's book was our most promising lead. If uncovering more information from his military records would allow us to finally decrypt it, I knew Max would jump at the chance to help.

"The cable will have to be worded carefully," Sidney cautioned.

On the chance it was intercepted—by Ardmore's informants or someone else.

"I left an entire shorthand sheet with him, and as it happens, Smith and War Office are both on it."

He smiled at the pleasure I was obviously taking in my own forethought and cleverness. "Then write out what you want me to send, and I'll either drop by the telegram office myself or send Nimble."

"What are your plans for the rest of the day?" I asked as we rose to our feet and set off toward the northeast corner of the square.

"I'm supposed to meet Glengarry for lunch at Jammet's. But what of you?"

"I may venture north of the Liffey for a time." I trusted he knew that this meant I would be donning my disguise and dropping by Vaughan's Hotel on Rutland Square to see if anyone interesting turned up. Given Alec's letter, and the fact Sidney was already anxious to whisk me back to London, I felt even more pressure to uncover something. And soon!

I considered also dropping by the library on Capel Street where my emergency contact was supposed to be located. Dressed in my disguise, there was less danger of exposing the place to any risk, and I wanted a chance to see it, should we decide that Finnegan and the Bank of Ireland were untrustworthy and elect to switch letterboxes.

As we crossed the street at the corner, headed toward Lower Baggot Street, I felt a prickle along the back of my neck. Having become strongly attuned to my instincts during the war, I wasn't about to begin ignoring them now. As unobtrusively as possible, I began to survey the pedestrians striding along the other side of the road, as well as those I could see behind us in the reflection of the windows we passed.

"You think we're being followed," Sidney murmured less in question and more in confirmation that he sensed something was off as well.

"Possibly," I replied, recalling the debriefing reports I'd read detailing how Collins's murder gang often worked. They would split into pairs or teams, often trailing a target down opposite sides of the street, waiting for just the right opportunity to close in for the kill.

"They wouldn't do anything in such a crowded street."

My nerves tightened. "Of course, they would," I hissed, unable to believe my husband's naivete. That was precisely their modus operandi. Hadn't he just heard Finnegan remark upon it?

"Not to two of society's darlings," Sidney retorted. "Collins understands what bad press that would make."

I breathed a little deeper, for he spoke the truth. If nothing, the rebels were keenly aware of the power of propaganda. As such, they carefully calculated how each killing might influence both the Irish public that supported them and the world's opinion at large. Killing the policemen and intelligence officers who were out to stop them might be one thing, but it would be hard to sell the idea that the deaths of a war hero and socialite recently arrived in Dublin were necessary to the cause.

So, if they were following us, then it must simply be to gain information.

Or perhaps it was someone from British Intelligence detailed to follow us. After all, they were equally ignorant of what Sidney and I were doing in Dublin. As such, doing anything to reveal that we were aware of their presence could prove detrimental to our efforts. It would be better to carry on blithely, no matter how much it strained the nerves.

Fortunately, Upper Fitzwilliam Street was not far, and we arrived without incident. Though that didn't stop me from climbing the steps a trifle more quickly than necessary and hurrying through the slate-blue door Sidney held open for me. We were greeted by the sight of Nimble and the Irish maid we'd hired, arguing over a basket laden down with linens.

Nimble had served as Sidney's batman during the war and now acted as his valet. He was a rather large, hulking fellow. One whose appearance was not helped by the scars blistering the left side of his face near his hairline and the loss of part of his left ear from a shell explosion. However, he was gentle and reserved, spare with his words, and as loyal as the sunrise. It seemed the maid, Ginny, hadn't yet realized this, considering the wariness that shone in her wide eyes, though it said much about her that she was brave enough to argue with a man more than twice her size. However, it was unlike Nimble to quarrel with others, especially the members of the female staff.

As I removed my gloves and dropped them on the petticoat table, I was able to deduce that what they were wrangling over was Nimble's offer to carry the basket of heavy linens down the stairs to the servants' quarters where the laundry would be collected. Ginny seemed to either take offense at the offer or believe it too unmanly a chore, but Nimble had never cared for such niceties. Not when all he saw was a woman struggling with a heavy load.

Both looked up with a start as Sidney closed the door, evidently not having heard us enter. They straightened to attention, Nimble's expression turning to chagrin while Ginny merely looked guarded and uncertain. But then she and Mrs. Boyle, the cook, had never eyed us differently. I kept hoping their regard would thaw, but it had yet to do so. Thus far, we'd declined to hire more staff, hoping our stay in Dublin would be brief, and conscious of the fact that the greater the number of people working under our roof, the more difficult it would be to conceal our covert movements. We might have considered bringing our housekeeper Sadie Yarrow, but she was an anxious sort, not at all suited to clandestine work. So we had left her in London to take care of our flat there.

Being well acquainted with his valet's disposition, Sidney took in the situation at a glance. "Best let him," he advised Ginny. "He's only trying to help."

Her cheeks reddened, but she didn't object further when Nimble hefted the heavy basket as if it weighed no more than a feather. It was evident he could have carried the small bucket, too, but he left that for her to grasp as she led him down the granite steps with rigid shoulders. I turned to Sidney as they disappeared from sight, the sound of Nimble's clumping footsteps still audible. A smile quirked the corner of my lips. For Nimble was not his real name, but it was what everyone called him, even though nimble was what he was not.

"You don't think he's becoming sweet on the maid, do you?" I teased softly to be certain they didn't overhear me.

Sidney's expression when he looked up from his examination of the letters laid out across the petticoat table clearly conveyed what he thought of this. It was true, Nimble treated Mrs. Yarrow much the same way, and yet their relationship was more like that of a mother and son, despite the fact Mrs. Yarrow was no more than a decade older. However, Ginny was a pretty girl with fair hair and features, and she was close to Nimble's age. It was entirely possible she might turn his head.

"Anything of interest?" I queried, stepping closer to allow my eyes to skim over the handwriting on the missives. Our correspondence of the greatest importance would be coming from Finnegan and the Bank of Ireland, not through the regular post where it might be intercepted.

"There's a letter from your sister," he replied, absently passing it to me.

I felt a twinge of guilt knowing Grace had been disappointed when we'd had to postpone her visit to stay with us in London. I still hoped we might return before her next school term started, but there were no guarantees.

"I'll read it later," I said, tucking it into my pocket.

He nodded, engrossed in his own correspondence. Though he looked up at the sound of Nimble's lumbering footsteps ascending the stairs to rejoin us. "I've a cable I need you to take to the telegraph office," he told him as he reached the entrance hall.

"O' course, Cap'n," Nimble replied affably.

Sidney had ceased to ask his valet to stop calling him by his former rank in the army. Whether because of pure stubbornness or genuine obliviousness, Nimble seemed incapable of remembering not to.

"Give us ten minutes," he told his former batman as he followed me toward the staircase.

As I began to climb toward the private sitting room where I kept my letter writing implements, my gaze dropped to the space between the banisters, colliding with Ginny's. She was staring up at me from the ground floor below, but flinched as I caught sight of her and then hurried away. I couldn't help but wonder whether she'd been intentionally eavesdropping, and whether she intended to put that information to any use.