London Spies: Phyllis Bowden Book 1 Read online

“It’ll be over when it’s over, sis. I’m here for the duration; even hopping on a passenger ship now—if I could get a ticket—would still take four or five days to get there, depending on whether or not we go through any waters with active mines.”

  “How about military transport?”

  “That’s a no go right now too.”

  Mrs. Stewart stuck her head out the door. “You’ve been on long enough, Phyllis. Someone else, God forbid, may need to use the telephone.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Stewart.”

  Mary Ellen groaned. “What does that old bitty want now?”

  “I have to go. I’ll send more money next paycheck, so maybe you can hire someone to help you. That’s going to have to do for now.”

  “And I haven’t even gotten into why an attractive young woman like yourself isn’t married yet.”

  Phyllis chuckled. “We can save that for next time.”

  “Take care, little sister. We miss you.”

  “I love you. Pass it on to the rest of the family.”

  “I will. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  She carefully hung up the phone knowing that Mrs. Stewart was listening at the door. Phyllis hurried back upstairs and made it safely into her bedroom without encountering the tiny tyrant again. Whew…she closed the door quietly and walked over to stoke the dying embers in the fireplace. With little gas heat in the row house, she and her roommates were thrilled with individual fireplaces and tended them meticulously.

  Watching the fire, Phyllis’ thoughts strayed to Amy’s words. Wild words. How could she even think that Phyllis would be able to act upon her request? Sure, she felt extreme pity about Mr. Lawrence, but stepping into another kind of fire was not Phyllis’ definition of duty. But she did think of something else she could do that might shed some light on the turmoil and went to bed with a weary heart. The coming days were going to get rougher, she had no doubt, and not only because of the buzz bombs and this hideous war.

  EIGHT

  It hadn’t seemed possible that today could be worse than yesterday, but it sure was. Phyllis had had to travel up and down the stairs several times to give papers to someone in the steno pool and whenever she’d called, no one would pick up. After her fifth march to the steno pool, she was ready to bite someone’s head off.

  Dickie was no help. He was fighting his own battles. Stepping into Ronald Lawrence’s shoes was turning out to be a bigger job than he had thought. His irritation and insecurities spilled over onto Phyllis who had nowhere to go with her own. She’d had no time for lunch and couldn’t wait for the day to be over. With a rumbling stomach and imaginary knives sticking out of her back, Phyllis glanced at her watch. Seven o’clock. Long past time to leave. She buzzed Dickie, still cocooned in his office.

  “Major Simpson?”

  “Yes, Phyllis. What is it?”

  “If you don’t need anything further, I’m going home.”

  “I’ve got a few letters, but they can wait until tomorrow. Would you come in to get them, please?”

  “Certainly.”

  When she opened the door, a short man sat across the desk from Dickie. With a hat on his lap, he kept his gaze on Simpson so she couldn’t see his face. When Dickie handed her the letters, she glanced at the man’s profile—no one she knew and they weren’t introduced. She was used to that actually; it was none of her business who Dickie did business with, but generally she knew his visitors. She thought she had seen him around the Embassy, but couldn’t be sure. This man was short, dark in coloring with a gabardine trench coat. His hat was not a fedora, as most men she knew wore, but a homburg. Huh. That made him stand out in her mind as something unique.

  Be curious of anything out of place.

  As fast as Amy’s request came back to her, however, Phyllis tucked it aside. It was nothing, just business as usual in the American Embassy. Dickie knew what he was doing—she bade him goodnight, stacked the letters in her inbox for the next day and prepared to leave.

  She walked down the street to catch the London Underground, commonly called the tube, at Marble Arch Station. While humming quickly along with other travelers, Phyllis mused how the subway system had been used during the Blitz. Those times for extreme measures had passed, but would never be forgotten. She wondered how horrible it must have been to sleep in the smelly confines of the underground subway with hundreds of people stacked in like cordwood. There were constant fears of bombs hitting water mains or gas lines which would and occasionally did flood the tube and kill English citizens trying to escape the terror, only to find a new one. She shivered knowing people may have died in the very area where she was sitting.

  The ride was fast with her thoughts focused on events at the Embassy the past few days. Getting off at Holborn Station, Phyllis walked the short distance to Covent Gardens where she was meeting an old friend.

  Ann Fletcher was the retired secretary to William Bradley, the Military Attaché before Ronald Lawrence. Col. Bradley had been in the office since World War I and, rumor had it, wasn’t thrilled to have to go through another world war overseas. He was homesick and ready to leave, but it still took the President a year to find his replacement. Bradley’s secretary, Ann, had become a true Anglophile and remained at the Embassy a while longer after his retirement from the service. England was still at war so Ann chose to stay, even though she wasn’t ready to retire. She was living in a small flat above a bookstore in Covent Gardens and had a pot of tea brewing when she answered Phyllis’ knock.

  “Phyllis! Lovely to see you again. How are you?”

  She bussed both Phyllis’ cheeks and took her arm to draw her into the sitting room. The “best” room in the flat had a coal fire from a side stove, since gas was at a premium and often unavailable. Phyllis noticed a box of candles, a leftover from the constant air raids of a year or so back.

  “Good, Ann. Thanks for seeing me.”

  “I was surprised to hear you wanted to come over and so close to blackout time.”

  She took Phyllis’ coat and went into the kitchen. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

  Phyllis sat on a couch that had obviously lost a few springs when she sunk deeply into it. Glancing around the comfortable room, she noted the radio in one corner far away from windows with blackout curtains and crisscrossed bits of tape.

  “Do you still need tape on the windows, Ann?” she called out.

  Ann walked in with a silver tray, steaming teapot and cups of fine china.

  “Not so much anymore, but we still get the occasional buzz bomb so I’m not willing to take any chances. How about where you live?”

  “I’m closer to the Embassy, around West Kensington and we’ve seen our share of action since I’ve lived here, that’s true.”

  “I’ve heard about that historic row house by the bridge where you managed to get a room. What famous person lived there?”

  “Samuel Taylor Coleridge.”

  “Ah, yes. Seven Addison Bridge Place. How on earth did you get a room there?”

  “The usual way—someone I knew talked to someone they knew.” Phyllis smiled. “Pure luck, I’m sure.”

  Ann set the tray down on a small table by the couch. She poured hot water into a cup using a strainer to catch loose tealeaves. Handing it to Phyllis, she remarked, “I have sugar rations but alas, no milk. All we get is the powder variety which…”

  “Tastes terrible, I know. Thank you.” Phyllis added a sugar cube, stirred the cup and took a sip.

  “How is it?”

  “Very nice, Ann.” She tilted her head. “Lapsang Souchong?”

  Ann smiled, fixed her cup. “You know your teas and yes, I should have lemon with it but you know how impossible it is to get fresh fruit.”

  “I do indeed.”

  Both women took a sip of their tea and looked over at one another.

  “I’m also out of biscuits.”

  Phyllis reached into her pocket for a tiny silver packet. “I figured as much so I brought these to add to the tea.”

  Ann’s smile lit up the room. “Shortbread? Wherever…”

  “We at the Embassy have our ways but if you must know, they’re from New Zealand.”

  “Our shipping lanes must be open that way then.”

  “They say the war’s almost over.”

  Ann opened the packet and took out a small square biscuit. A delicate nibble made her face look almost childlike. “I’d forgotten how good these are. Thank you so much for brightening my day.”

  “You’re welcome, Ann.”

  “But I’m sure you didn’t come all this way just to make sure your old mentor had a few biscuits.”

  Phyllis studied Ann Fletcher as she sipped her tea. Short curly hair framed a face with little crinkles around her dark eyes. She set her cup down, placed folded hands in her lap to stare back at Phyllis. A decorative pin topped her plain cotton blouse with a Peter Pan collar. Her skirt was belted and she sported a watch on her left wrist. She could have been any number of English women working in a factory, but Phyllis knew that belied her native intelligence, her solid ability to tell fact from fiction, right from wrong. Ann had taken her under her wing when Phyllis had first arrived at the Embassy. When many gave her the cold shoulder, Ann gave her bits of advice to keep her on the right track. She trusted this woman’s opinion more than anyone else’s in all of Britain.

  Phyllis grinned. “You can still cut through to the meat pretty fast, can’t you?”

  Ann nodded. “As much as I’d like to think this is a social call, it isn’t. Correct?”

  “Afraid not.”

  She must have known Phyllis’ reluctance to talk of things she probably shouldn’t. Ann sought her comfort with the following declaration.

  “I was young when I began my
career in diplomacy. I had various jobs in Washington before being assigned overseas, but you know all that,” Ann said congenially. Pouring another cup of tea for them both, she continued. “I was thrilled to be assigned to the American Embassy here in London and to Col. Bradley in particular. He had been in London for several years already and had a stellar reputation. I remember when he told me, ‘A military attaché is a military expert who is attached to a diplomatic mission.’ When I asked him what his job was, he told me he would monitor various issues related to areas of intervention.”

  She stopped, sipped her tea. “It didn’t make much sense to me until I got into the nitty gritty of military intelligence and found I had a knack for it.” Nodding, she added, “You do too, my dear.”

  “I assume you’ve heard what’s happened at the Embassy.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you still have contacts in and about the Embassy.”

  “I do.”

  “I need your help.”

  “What do you need? And be precise.”

  But Phyllis couldn’t do that. Instead she crept up on what she really wanted. “I worked in the Pentagon in the Purchases Division for a while until I was transferred to the War Department where I worked as a secretary.”

  “But that wasn’t enough for you, was it?”

  “No. A transfer to the American Embassy in London came up eight months ago and I applied knowing what I would be doing is stenographer work.”

  “That’s important work.”

  “To be sure. I was in charge of files of over two hundred officers: leave, temporary leave and detached service. I had to contact officers to get necessary information and I wrote travel orders. That was before the office of assistant military attaché needed a secretary.”

  “And I recommended you because you were such a hard worker.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Which brings us up to date, Phyllis. The time has come for you to tell me what you’re doing here.”

  Phyllis took a sip of her cooling tea, set the cup down. When she opened her mouth, even she was surprised at the words that marched out.

  “When you worked for Col. Bradley, were you ever suspicious of anyone?”

  “Oh, everyone, my dear.” She smiled. “It’s safer to trust no one and keep your mouth shut. You learn a lot more that way.” She stared for a moment into the fire. “You know, some people think secretaries are not very bright, but that’s not true, is it?”

  Phyllis waited. When Ann added nothing further, she asked, “You’re not going to give me any advice, are you?”

  “No, dear, but I will give you a name.”

  “A name?”

  “Yes.”

  “What name?”

  Ann locked eyes with Phyllis. “Salamander.”

  Phyllis looked incredulously at Ann until she sneezed unexpectedly.

  “God bless you.”

  Ann stood and walked to a cabinet to pluck out a small box from a drawer.

  “Thank you, but ‘salamander’? What does that mean?”

  From the box, Ann took out a handkerchief, handing it over to Phyllis. After she’d blotted her nose, Phyllis handed it back.

  “No, you keep it. You may need it again.”

  Phyllis rose to leave. “I need to get going. It’s blackout and my landlady will blow a gasket if I’m not home soon.”

  “Take care, my dear, and trust your instincts. You’ll be fine.”

  But Phyllis didn’t feel fine walking toward the subway station after leaving Ann’s flat. She sneezed again, bringing the hanky back up to her nose. Before putting it back into her purse, she noticed something red in the corner and brought the hanky closer to see. Initials. SR? Whose initials were those and why had Ann given her someone else’s hanky? She nearly threw it in the closest waste bin, but somehow couldn’t do it.

  SR? Had Ann been trying to tell her something and if so, what the devil did it mean?

  NINE

  From Holborn Station, Phyllis rode the tube to West Kensington and walked the rest of the way to her home. It was a chilly night and she’d buttoned her coat snugly before turning on her small flashlight, so she wouldn’t trip on the uneven sidewalk. Her section of London, as were all sections of London, was as black as black could be. Every house had dark curtains covering their windows; some people had even painted or put cardboard up. Streetlights were switched off or dimmed and shielded to deflect the light downward. Even cars and traffic lights were fitted with slotted covers to deflect the beam down.

  But apparently the battery was getting low on her flashlight and she looked right into the fading light, smacking it with her hand to get the battery to work. A bobby walking across the street called out to her, “Mind your torch!” She guiltily aimed the small light towards the sidewalk and hurried to the row house where she lived. Going in the front door, she heard Mrs. Stewart on the telephone.

  “As sure as I’m living, there was another car accident right in front of my house today!”

  “Hello, Mrs. Stewart,” Phyllis said, walking by to go up the staircase.

  The tiny landlady put a hand over the receiver. “Phyllis, there’s a letter for you on the dining table.”

  As Phyllis went into the dining room, Mrs. Stewart continued, “That’s right, Edna. I can’t believe the number of accidents during blackout time. Sure, it’s necessary so the bombers can’t see us, but one of my girls was nearly hit this evening!”

  The letter was from Phyllis’ sister, Mary Ellen, and contained the usual pleas for more money and for her to come home. A picture included of her father tugged her heartstrings, but there was no way she could get home just yet. If the war was over in the coming months, maybe she could make it happen. Until then, she’d have to continue feeling guilty for not helping her family more, complicating her strong desire to help her country and England in the war effort. It was a real push-pull and not a problem to be remedied any time soon.

  Changing out of work clothes, she put on her new coveralls. They were all the rage thanks to the ‘Rosie the Riveter’ clothing made for women working in the factories, and made her way back downstairs to the kitchen.

  High jinks at Seven Addison Bridge Place were loud and boisterous. Surprisingly, all four of her roommates were home and clanking pots and pans in the kitchen, causing Mrs. Stewart to retreat to her flat.

  “What? No date tonight, Norma?”

  A perky redhead turned her way. “Hey, Phyllis! When did you get home?”

  “Just now.”

  “And I have no date because all the boys had to go back to base.”

  “But,” interrupted blonde Doris with a grin, “we’ve been invited to go up to Ipswich for a dance this weekend. Interested?”

  “Hmm,” Phyllis tapped her chin. “Let’s see—would I rather stay home to do my laundry or go to a rousing good time with the 474th Squadron? Tough choice.”

  The girls around her laughed. “We’re leaving tomorrow afternoon, Phyllis. See if you can get off a little early,” added Mildred.

  “Maybe the Red Cross gives you girls spare time,” she said to Mildred and Doris, “but Embassy doesn’t cut us much slack.”

  “I’ll agree with that,” said Lorraine, coolly appraising the ingredients on the table. “Looks like we have enough for vegetable soup. Who’s going to make it?”

  Everyone pointed at Phyllis. “Hey, I cooked last night.”

  “And the night before that and the night before that.” Norma lifted playful brows at Mildred. “You’re the best cook and we knew you’d complain…”

  “…so we got you something,” finished Mildred. Bringing a small package wrapped in butcher paper out from behind her back, she handed it over.

  “What is it?” When she opened the package, Phyllis’ lips parted in surprise. “Sausages! Where did you get these?”

  “Mrs. Stewart’s butcher got them in after weeks of waiting for supplies. Isn’t it great?”

  “Wonderful!” She turned to her roommates. “So naturally you want me to put them in the soup?”

  “Please,” they all said at once.

  Laughing, Phyllis went to work dicing the vegetables into bite size pieces. Lorraine got the soup pot going on the stove while the rest of the girls wandered into the dining room to set the table. “It’ll be a while before it’s ready, someone turn on the radio,” she called out.