There was a plethora of options in between, but little point in listing them out.
‘Well, if he’s as good as he says, even bandaged, he’d give the Germans a right drubbing.’
‘Indeed,’ he chuckled. ‘What do you want with our little scrapper?’
‘Have you sent him back to England yet?’
‘Not yet.’
He fiddled with the cane. It was a heavy thing, the silver head moulded into the shape of a leaping dog. Put him in a green velvet waistcoat and breeches, a greyhound rubbing against his white silk stockings, and he’d be perfectly at home in the eighteenth century.
‘Why not?’
‘You might have noticed he was not in the best of shapes. Thought I’d do the honourable thing and let him heal a bit first. Why the sudden interest? You looked like you couldn’t get out of there fast enough the other day.’
He stretched his legs out, feet flexed. Twisted ankle, indeed.
‘The room was over one hundred degrees. What did you expect?’
‘A better excuse. Would have understood, old girl, if you’d said you were upset at your friend’s death. Disreputable as it was.’
‘I thought we were speaking of Bertie.’
‘Yes, my dear, I understood that, but I’m not sure why. I’ll assume . . .’ He exhaled and flicked the ash from his cigarette at a nearby bush. ‘I’ll assume it isn’t for his body.’
I choked on my laugh. ‘Right you are.’
‘So?’
‘So?’
‘You’re getting tedious, old girl. Tell me what you want and then I’ll see what can be done about it.’
A young couple wandered our way, swinging their lunchboxes and leaning into one another. Only when they passed by did I notice that he wore a ring and she didn’t. Maybe they had fewer ideals than I gave them credit for.
I lowered my voice. ‘I’ve been pondering your little wolfram situation. And the situation about the sinking convoys. There are a few avenues I’d like to pursue, but as you’ve requested I operate outside official channels, I need help. Your little East Ender might just serve me well.’
He choked. ‘Would you care to rephrase that, old girl?’
‘Have your hearing checked, old man. I said “serve”, not “service”. My honour is not at stake at the moment.’
‘That’s a first.’
‘My honour has never been in question. And it’s your problem I’m trying to solve. Either you give me the resources to solve it, or you can wait for your usual lads to come up with a solution. Remind me – how effective has that been so far?’
‘What have you found?’
‘Nothing yet. I’m only one woman.’
‘But you have a plan. Tell me.’
As I explained my theory, my godfather leant back in his seat, a smirk settling upon his handsome face. With a handful of words, I was back in his good graces. And with an East End thug assigned to watch my back.
*
Hubert Jones was convalescing in a flat just west of the Baixa, close enough to hear the bells from the cathedral. It was relatively anonymous, with a clean-looking café down below. The sort of place the various secret services favoured, making me wonder whether Matthew really had planned to send Bertie back to England after all.
A breeze ruffled the blonde hair of my wig, but didn’t alleviate the heat of the afternoon. There weren’t many people on the street, but I could feel eyes following me, some appreciative, others deprecating. How many would be selling information about a blonde woman visiting the area, unescorted?
A man walked towards me, holding a parcel. Dark eyes took an inventory before he sniffed loudly, muttering something I didn’t quite catch. It was the second time I’d been sniffed at; while I was reasonably certain it had nothing to do with body odour, I had yet to find out what it meant.
I knocked on the door until a hatchet-faced woman opened it, glaring.
‘Sim?’
She looked even less Portuguese than I did, and spoke with an English accent. An apron was neatly tied around her waist, starched within an inch of its life.
‘I’m here to see Mr Aldridge.’
She pulled herself up to her full height, no doubt trying to intimidate me.
‘What d’ye want wi’ ’im, a toff like you?’
I climbed the last step, forcing her backwards. On an equal level, she was now obliged to look up to meet my eyes.
‘A toff like me.’
I moved around her into the little foyer. It was neat and clean, the smell of ammonia and fresh flowers not quite masking the lingering scent of fried fish. A glass door was propped open, allowing a breeze to pass through the rest of the flat. Lace curtains fluttered in the parlour, framing the man sitting on a love seat, a cup of tea in his mittened paws and a wide grin on his battered face. Mr Jones clearly was enjoying the interchange.
‘Afternoon, miss.’ Jones sketched a mocking bow. ‘Welcome to my humble abode.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Aldridge.’
Without waiting for the offer, I sat in the chair opposite him. The dressing around his head had been removed, baring the scars. They were red and angry-looking, but had stopped seeping. The cut over his brow added another scar to his collection.
‘You’re looking well. Or at least, better.’
‘Coulda been worse – at least I have me looks.’
‘Indeed.’ I reached into my handbag for my cigarette case and lighter. His eyes followed each movement with the hunger of a long-starved wolf. After several months of being banned from smoking in France, I understood that hunger. ‘Would you like one?’
‘Very kind of you.’
His eyes never left the cigarette in my hand, as if he thought it was some sort of ploy. I lit the cigarette and reached across to put it in his mouth.
‘Don’t ignite the bandages.’
He inhaled through clenched teeth and expelled the smoke from the side of his mouth.
‘What’s one more scar?’ His voice was harsh, but his face had lost a shade of wariness.
‘If you’re going to do that, at least stay by the open window,’ the woman snapped from the doorway. Her attention was directed at me and
