Authors: Merryn Allingham
‘Of course you can, though I’m not sure it will be quite right for the dance floor.’
‘Needs must. It’s better than anything I’ve got in my wardrobe and it’s modest enough for Colin. I think he’d like modest, don’t you?’ And her friend prattled on, imagining how she would dance with her doctor, what she would say to him, what it might lead to, and then horrors, what if she had to work?
‘I’ll do the shift for you if that happens,’ Daisy reassured her.
‘You’re a brick. I hope you won’t have to, but I’ve absolutely got to go to that dance.’
‘You’ve got to go now. It’s already past eleven and we’re up again in six hours.’
‘Oh God! You’re right.’ She swallowed the rest of the beer in one gulp and made for the door.
‘And take the bottle with you,’ Daisy called after her.
The door shut and Daisy wriggled back under the covers. She couldn’t help smiling. Connie was so pleased. Dr Lawson, or Colin as he must henceforth be known, had been in her friend’s eye for some time she knew, although Connie would never admit to it. But this evening she’d come clean and with good reason. Her campaign to bag him had advanced hugely, and Daisy guessed that she was already making plans to introduce the hapless doctor to her family. She was happy for her friend, but envious, too, of Connie’s undemanding life.
A
fter Grayson watched Daisy out of sight, he turned north towards his flat in Spence’s Road. Despite the thick darkness, he walked briskly, hardly hesitating as he negotiated lamp posts, pillar boxes, pavements that veered suddenly to the right or left. His mind would not be still, one thought chasing another, while his limbs moved mechanically as though they belonged to a second man walking alongside. When Miss Strachan had announced his unnamed visitor, he’d had an instant reaction. Somehow he’d known, even as he’d walked down the stone staircase, that it was Daisy waiting for him at the bottom. He’d known that instinctively. There was a cord that joined them, had always joined them, since the moment he’d picked her up from the ship’s deck after that catastrophic fall. From the outset he’d recognised her fragility, but in time he’d come to know the strength that lay within, her refusal to be broken. Something bad had happened on-board ship, he’d guessed that, though at the time he’d asked no questions. It was much later he discovered she had lost her baby, another loss to add
to those she’d already suffered. And there were more to come—her husband, for instance—though he could hardly be called a loss when she had never possessed him. Gerald Mortimer, Jack Minns, whatever he wanted to call himself, would never be possessed. He belonged to no one but himself, interested only in his own well-being and prepared to do anything to guarantee it. He was a worthless creature.
And he hadn’t changed. Daisy had looked well, had looked beautiful. Even in the dim light of the station, he could see the bloom on her cheeks and the glint of health in her dark curls. But beneath the surface, he’d known that something was wrong. There was a tension running through her like a thread of steel, pulling and pinching, shattering any peace she may have found. It had taken him some time to get to the nub of it. He’d allowed her to dally, talking about his work, her work, but all the time he’d been aware of her prevaricating. Eventually, she would get to what it was that had brought her in search of him. It had to be important. Their parting had been final and she wouldn’t otherwise have braved meeting him anew, nor flung herself into his arms when rescue seemed near. When he’d learned what ailed her, he’d said yes. He’d said yes immediately, even though he hadn’t a clue how he was to proceed. It was enough that she was in trouble and needed his help.
By the time he walked into his Baker Street office the next morning, he’d decided what he had to do. Mike Corrigan was already at his desk and looked up in welcome. The Irishman waited until his friend had slung his jacket over the battered coat stand and tipped the pile of papers he carried on to the desk, before he spoke.
‘Everything okay?’
His face must give him away, Grayson thought. His colleague had clearly sensed it wasn’t.
‘Things are difficult,’ he replied evasively.
He wasn’t sure just how much to confide. Corrigan was a close companion and he trusted him implicitly. The man could more than keep a secret. He’d worked for SOE for years, many of them in the field where he’d braved real danger. A badly scarred right hand and a pronounced limp were testimony to that. But this was an extraordinary situation and he didn’t want to involve Mike in something that could land his friend in trouble.
‘How difficult?’
‘I met Daisy last night,’ he said baldly.
Corrigan knew all about Daisy. He’d followed the ups and downs of their relationship and Grayson knew he’d been unhappy for him when Daisy walked away. Unhappier still when he’d begun meeting the flame-haired Diana, a secretary working in the Foreign Office.
She’s a nice enough girl
, Mike had said,
but she’s not the one.
Now he was looking quizzical. ‘And was meeting her a good thing?’
‘I’m not sure. In the long term, maybe. But for the moment, it’s not so great.’
‘You’re sounding like the Delphic oracle, my friend. What’s this about?’
He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to tell him Daisy’s startling news. Perhaps retelling would help him believe it himself. He was still finding it hard to accept that Gerald Mortimer was alive. And he wasn’t alone in that. Daisy was having the same difficulty, he knew. Last night he’d seen it in her clenched hands, her ramrod back, the constant twisting of her hair.
‘Her husband is back.’
Mike gawped. ‘But—’
‘I know. He’s risen from the dead apparently. He never drowned.’
Corrigan scratched his jaw in disbelief. ‘That must have been a shock for her, to put it mildly.’
It
was
putting it mildly, Grayson thought. Gerald had ‘died’ nearly two years ago and, by now, Daisy must be attuned to her widowhood. So how must it feel having the new life she’d so carefully constructed blown apart, having her feelings plundered once more and brought, raw and squealing, to the surface?
‘I can’t even guess how she must feel. Last night she appeared pretty definite that she never wanted to see the man again. Maybe a little too definite.’
When she’d spoken those words, he’d heard them with an upsurge of relief, delight even. Yet realistically, she was
bound to react with anger to the miracle of her husband’s reappearance.
‘I’m not surprised she doesn’t want to see him.’ Mike got up from his desk and collected the empty mugs from the top of a filing cabinet. ‘What wife would? From what you’ve told me, the man was behind every plot against her—even tried to convince her she was going mad.’
‘And worse. He led her to the lions’ den, led her towards her own death. And then, at the very end, tried to rescue her.’
‘She won’t forget what he did. She might forgive, but she won’t forget,’ Corrigan said sagely.
Grayson rapped a sharp tattoo on the desk, his fingernails catching at the wood. ‘I’m sure you’re right. But where there’s forgiveness, there’s also love.’
He remembered vividly how Daisy had sung the praises of her lieutenant on-board
The Viceroy
, until he’d thought that no man could ever live up to such adoration. And he’d been right. Not that Gerald Mortimer was any kind of man. He was a worm who’d come crawling home to avoid just punishment, and then callously involved his wife in his web of crime.
‘So what are you saying? That you’ve no hope of a future with her?’
Grayson did not answer his friend directly. ‘He’s asked her for help and she’s agreed.’
‘And how does that involve you?’ Mike had arrowed to the heart of the matter, as Grayson knew he would.
‘The man is a deserter—he never returned to his regiment after the “incident”. He could be charged with theft, too, and maybe even treason. He wants to save himself by going abroad and he’s desperate to get to America.’
‘I don’t blame him,’ Mike said humorously. ‘But he’s got a gnat’s chance of that.’
‘Ordinarily, yes. But that’s why she came to me. Daisy wants my help.’
Mike stopped in the doorway, mugs in hand. ‘How the hell are you to help? You can’t mean … you can’t mean to help him get there? That’s outrageous. It would involve you in all kinds of shenanigans.’
‘I’m well aware of what it involves. A new identity, new papers, a valid reason for him to travel to the States.’
‘You can’t do it.’
‘If I pull some strings … but I don’t want you knowing a thing about it.’
He had to make sure he protected his friend. Corrigan might be furious with Ireland’s neutrality and determined to see Britain win the war, but there were those at Baker Street who didn’t trust the Irishman in their midst.
‘You might be able to get papers for him,’ Mike admitted. ‘You could pull in some favours. But what reason could there be for him to sashay off to America in the middle of a war? And what the hell is Carmichael going to say when he discovers the intrigue you’ve landed yourself in?’
John Carmichael was their boss, an incisive, highly intelligent man, skilled at his job, but someone who didn’t
suffer fools gladly. He was also someone who demanded absolute loyalty.
‘I can’t think about Carmichael right now. But I’ve an idea of how to get this despicable man across the ocean.’
The murky world of forged papers and forged identities was one with which Grayson was familiar, but he’d never thought he would be using his knowledge for the benefit of Gerald Mortimer.
‘And that would be?’
‘I’m saying nothing more. It’s too dangerous. Forget what I’ve said.’
‘Think about this, Gray.’
‘I have,’ he said flatly. ‘I’ve thought about it all night. And I know what I’m going to do. Case closed.’
Corrigan was about to raise another round of protests when Bertie Sandford’s cheerful voice spread itself boisterously along the corridor outside. Sandford shared their office. He was a jovial companion, but a man whose discretion could not be entirely relied on.
Grayson bent his head over the files on his desk, thankful that Bertie had arrived. It would save an argument with Mike. The telephone rang and Sandford went to answer it while Corrigan disappeared to make tea. A secretary knocked and delivered a sheaf of new typing to his desk. He tried to concentrate on the information she’d brought, but it was impossible. All he could think of was Daisy and his intended rescue. He knew he was a fool. He didn’t need to be told. He’d never succeeded in capturing her
heart, though goodness knows he’d tried. Why couldn’t he just accept defeat? It was because he’d hoped for so much more, he thought, had truly believed that more was possible.
When they’d arrived back from India together, he’d had time before he was recalled to Jasirapur to give evidence against the gang that had attempted to kill her. The trial itself dragged on far longer than he’d expected. Prosecution papers were a mess and the defence constantly delayed proceedings on the grounds they’d not been given access to evidence. It was a good three months before he’d returned to England and when he did, he found Daisy changed. She was living in a gloomy bedsit and seemed to have retreated into her shell once more, eking out her small widow’s pension with odd jobs that were as tedious as they were aimless. He met her as often as he could, hoping to bring back the girl who’d begun to blossom on their sea voyage home. But he failed. She’d been friendly enough, interested in him and his work, but always a little distant. Then out of nowhere he’d been recalled to India again. The station manager at Jasirapur was dangerously ill in the British hospital in Delhi and a temporary administrator was needed. At a highly sensitive time, with Britain on the threshold of declaring war, Grayson was the right man to send to India. That had been another six months wasted.
He’d written to Daisy, of course, and occasionally received a letter in return, though they’d told him little. Once he was back in London, though, he’d been determined to
pick up the threads of friendship and he’d been delighted to find her happier and more purposeful. It seemed she’d woken from the long daze she’d fallen into and taken up the reins of her life. She had been accepted for nurse training at St Barts. He’d thought it a new beginning for them both, but that hope was soon extinguished. The rigours of hospital training made meeting difficult and that seemed to suit her. As the months passed, he felt her drifting further and further away.
And things hadn’t changed. Last night she’d talked to him of his work, but shown little interest in his personal life. When he’d mentioned girlfriends, she hadn’t reacted. Instead, she’d talked matter-of-factly about his possible marriage. It all pointed one way. She was still in thrall to the man she’d married, and Gerald’s resurrection from the grave could only strengthen her feelings. He might fume, expend useless energy in raging at the unfairness of it all, but he could do nothing to change the situation. Anger was pointless, jealousy was pointless, and though he knew he could destroy the man with one telephone call, he wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t hurt her in that way. Instead, he would try to rescue Gerald Mortimer. He must be mad, he decided, mad or still in love with her. He knew the answer. Whatever he did, he would be doing it for Daisy.
‘I tell you, she’s a threat.’ Rohan Sweetman thumped the table, the Hindi words stiff with suppressed anger.
‘But to try and kill her …’
‘I didn’t try. I wanted to put her out of action for a while. It would have been an accident.’
Hari looked at his companion. Sweetman had become increasingly zealous in the weeks they had been in London and it made Hari uncomfortable. ‘But it could have killed her. If she’d hit the live rail, if a train had come out of the tunnel.’
‘I took that chance. It was necessary.’
‘But she’s a nurse.’
‘For God’s sake, Mishra, what’s that got to do with it? She’s a threat. Can’t you get that into your skull? That man upstairs, what’s his name—’