Page 11 of The Stranger in Room Six
But I’ll admit, when I was briefed for this job, I was gobsmacked. Sometimes, the worst criminals really are the people you least expect.
I’m under strict instruction that my target never finds out I exist: no direct approaches, no open threats. So I’ll need to find other means, although that doesn’t worry me. I’ve always been … How should I put it? Resourceful. Persuasive, even.
My boss and his boss say they ‘chose’ me because I’m ‘good at this sort of thing’, but I know it’s never that simple. They’ve got things on me that could have me sent down for even longer than before. That’s if they don’t kill me first, and I’m not having that.
I’ll do anything to save my own skin. Wouldn’t you?
9
Mabel
Mabel can still smell her mother, though she hasn’t seen her for eighty-four years.
Whenever her father visited France for business, he always brought back a bottle of Chanel No. 5.
‘How lovely, darling,’ her mother had said to Papa. ‘Thank you.’
‘May I have some?’ Mabel had asked wonderingly.
‘When you’re older,’ her mother had replied, but her father had given a quick wink.
‘I think she can have just a tiny bit, don’t you?’
So her mother had dabbed some onto her little finger and placed it gently behind Mabel’s ear. She felt as if she might swoon with happiness.
‘Thank you,’ she’d said.
That was years ago: before the war. They’d lived in Chelsea back then. She’d always loved water and her favourite weekend pastime was to walk along the River Thames, holding Papa’s hand and discussing landmarks like the Tower. ‘I’m so glad that you share my interest in history, Mabel,’ he’d often say.
Sometimes Mama came too but recently she’d been staying at home because she was expecting a present. ‘Mummy says she’s going to give me something that I’m going to love,’ Mabel told Lizzie, her maid. ‘I hope it’s a pony.’
For some time now, Mabel had been begging for ridinglessons. ‘Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret have been riding for years! I’ve been reading about it inThe Lady.’
Mabel had always been an avid reader. She would fall on the magazine as soon as it was delivered.
‘That girl won’t take no for an answer,’ her mother would say to Papa.
‘She’s got character,’ he would reply. ‘Just like you, my darling.’
Then Papa would hold out his arms and pull them both into a warm embrace. Everything was safe and easy back then, until the night in 1939 when they’d sat in front of the radio to hear Mr Churchill speak.
‘Why are you crying?’ she’d asked her mother.
‘Just a cold, darling,’ Mama had replied, dabbing her nose with a white lace handkerchief Aunt Clarissa had given her. Her mother’s sister, who lived in Devon, gave everyone lace handkerchiefs for Christmas, which Mabel considered extremely dull.
Then, that evening, the doctor came. Mabel was told to stay in her room with Lizzie, but she could hear Mama crying and calling out. Her cold must have got worse.
‘It won’t be long now, miss.’
Then all of a sudden, Mabel heard a high-pitched wail. ‘It’s here!’ Lizzie cried.
‘What’s here?’
‘The miracle your parents have been waiting for, love. It’s taken long enough. You’re going to have a baby brother or sister! Isn’t that exciting?’
Yes! This was much better than a pony. How she’d longed to have a brother or sister like all the other girls she knew. But when Mabel was shepherded into Mama’s boudoir, she was met with a tiny red face that instantly burst into tears.
‘It’s all right,’ said her mother. ‘I know you’re thirteenyears older, but soon you and your sister Annabel will be great friends.’
