The Last Night in London by Karen White (reading list .TXT) 📕

Yard taking definite measures against, and I quote, ‘the refugee racket.’ Apparently it wasn’t so much the new refugees they were worried about, but the ones who’d been planted in Britain for years, completely overlooked because they were so entrenched.” She cleared her throat. “‘This class of agent is very often not an alien at all, which naturally makes things much more difficult. He may be in the clubs, the pubs, the offices, the services, the trams, the tubes, and the taxis.’” Looking up, she said, “That sounds a bit terrifying, don’t you think? Aunt Precious, were you aware of any of that going on?”

Precious took a sip of coffee, her expression thoughtful. “There was an Italian girl, Rosalie, at Lushtak’s. She didn’t show up for work one day, and Madame Lushtak told us she’d been deported along with just about every Italian waiter in the city. She may have been a spy, though I doubt it. And we couldn’t really discuss matters. Most of us models were aware of what was going on in the world, of course. It was hard not to be, what with the blackouts and rationing and all the men we knew being called up or signing up.”

She tilted her head. “Even dear Sophia called it the ‘unspeakable summer.’ Quite literally, women of her class weren’t allowed to speak about politics at home. Most were very sheltered. There were posters everywhere, of course, warning us to watch what we said in public, but I don’t know if any of us took it seriously. Our conversations certainly weren’t about state secrets.”

She took another sip from her cup, then set it down delicately. “I wouldn’t mind something stronger in my cup, James. If you don’t mind. Just don’t tell my mama.” She grinned as James approached with the brandy, and I was once again reminded of an actress playing a part and wondered if Precious Dubose had missed her true calling.

An old-fashioned phone, one with a very long spiral cord plugged into the wall, rang out with two pulsed shrills. Penelope rose to answer it. The woman on the other end—definitely a woman from the high pitch of her voice—spoke at length while Penelope nodded and sent us apologetic looks.

“Hang on, Hyacinth. Let me write this down so I don’t get it wrong.” Pulling the cord toward the desk by the window, she took a notepad and a pen and then, cradling the phone between her shoulder and jaw, said, “All right. Go on.”

I used the time to finish my brandy and go over my notes, putting my pen down just as Penelope was following the cord back to the phone’s cradle and hanging up.

“I do apologize, but that was my friend Hyacinth Ponsonby from the National Archives. She’d hoped to drop by tomorrow, but her daughter is in labor with her first grandchild at this very moment! Hyacinth and her husband are racing to the city to be there in time. She isn’t sure when she’ll be returning, so she wanted to get me the information before she left. It’s about James’s uncle Graham. Hyacinth said she’ll be happy to scan the e-mail once she’s back if we’d like to see the written record, too.”

Arabella sent me a look of self-satisfaction. “I told you I hadn’t made up her name.”

“Who, Hyacinth?” James held the bottle of brandy over my coffee cup and waited for my nod before adding a hefty dollop. “She is most definitely real. Lovely lady and a rather formidable leader of the Women’s Institute, isn’t she, Penelope?”

“Indeed. We should probably clone her and put all the Hyacinths in charge. World order would commence immediately.” Penelope pulled up the pair of readers dangling from the chain around her neck and settled them on the bridge of her nose.

I glanced over at Precious. Her face remained calm, one hand placed over the other in her lap. A slight tremor went through her, bringing to mind a warrior preparing for battle.

Impulsively, I reached over and took her hand. Graham wasn’t just a name on a list, or in a photo caption, or a spot on a family tree. He’d been someone she’d known, a very real connection to a dear friend who’d disappeared from her life. I understood and was grateful when she accepted my hand and squeezed back.

“This could lead us to Eva,” I said.

Her eyes were blank for a moment, and then she smiled. “I really hope so.”

Grief is like a ghost. We waited for Penelope to speak, and we tightened our grip, as if to ward off the relentless spirits that never seemed very far away.

“‘Squadron Leader Graham Neville St. John was born March 12, 1907, and educated at Eton and Oxford. He worked for the Diplomatic Service in Rangoon, Burma, before returning to London to work for the Home Office. He resigned his government position in July nineteen thirty-nine and signed up for the Royal Air Force; following training, he joined Nineteen Squadron at Duxford in May nineteen forty, before being transferred to Hornchurch prior to the Dunkirk evacuation. He flew at Dunkirk, and received the Distinguished Flying Cross, with five kills to his name.’”

Precious’s hand tightened in mine. “Are you all right?” I asked.

Her expression was rigid, a sheet of ice in danger of cracking. “Does it say anything else?”

We both looked at Penelope.

“Nothing conclusive, I’m afraid.” She cleared her throat and read, “‘He was shot down over the Channel during the Dunkirk evacuation on thirtieth of May, 1940, and admitted to Queen Victoria Hospital in East Grinstead, West Sussex, with severe burns and broken bones.’”

Penelope took off her glasses and let them dangle from the chain. “There is no more information about him anywhere—whether he survived after being admitted to hospital or where he might be buried. It’s very curious, isn’t it?”

“I’m assuming Hyacinth is still looking into it?” James asked, his gaze on Precious. A part of her seemed to have shrunk, even while her body took up the