With a quick glance at his wife and son, James took a deep breath and began to read the letter out loud.
Dear Mr. Eliot,
Thank you for your enquiry. We regret to inform you that Graham St. John has been confirmed dead. His remains were discovered in the burned ruins of a residence in York Terrace East. We have reason to believe he wasn’t killed there, but that his body was brought there to appear as if he had been a victim of an air raid attack. Despite the grave damage to the body, we were able to ascertain that the cause of death was a bullet to the back of the head from a German Luger.
Please understand that the sensitivity and far-reaching implications surrounding St. John’s last assignment require us to move forward as if he were still living and working in deep cover. His family will not be notified, nor will they be able to have an official burial. As of now, his remains are being interred in a city cemetery under a false name. They will be handled with honour and respect. You are not, under any circumstances, to share this information. To do so would be a treasonable offense, punishable by death. You are being made privy to the information solely because of your status with His Majesty’s government, and not because of your familial relationship to the deceased.
Please know that St. John died serving his king and country, and the debt owed to his family can never be fully repaid.
My gaze skipped over the name at the bottom, scrawled in officiously broad strokes. No one spoke as James returned the letter to Hyacinth and she replaced it in the folder on the table. “This is yours to keep,” she said.
Penelope nodded, then smiled. “Thank you so much, Hyacinth. You’ve answered a lot of questions.”
“I’m so glad. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do. If you like, I can begin searching the records for his burial location.”
“Yes, please.” James’s voice cracked, and he paused to clear his throat. “Thank you for all your help.”
Hyacinth gathered up her things and said her good-byes, passing a nurse entering the waiting room.
“Miss Dubose is awake, and she’s asking for Maddie again.” The nurse trained kind eyes on me as I stood. To Penelope and James, she said, “I’ll be sure to alert you if there are any changes.”
“Thank you.” Penelope’s phone dinged. “Arabella is on her way.”
She gave us a worried smile that I tried to return but failed to as I retrieved the ivory dolphin from my backpack, then followed the nurse out of the room.
Precious lay in a single bed in a tastefully appointed room decorated in pale blue and cream, a flat-screen TV across from the bed, a private bathroom attached. A large window spilled treacly yellow light across the white-and-gray linoleum floor, spotlighting a large arrangement of roses I imagined had come from Penelope’s garden.
The slight scents of bleach and disinfectant drifted past my nose, and when I spotted Precious’s pale face and dull hair against the pillowcase, I thought they might have accidentally bleached her, too, along with the sheets and floor.
She looked tiny under the sheets, her tall form diminished, as if the universe was already downsizing her, preparing her for her next move. An IV, held in place by tape, snaked into the top of her hand. Her thin arms and papery skin appeared as fragile as a kite, and for a moment, I was reminded of my mother and how she’d looked in the hospital bed my father had set up in the living room so she could be near the Christmas tree and her children. That was probably the reason why I hated Christmas but not hospitals. My hatred of hospitals had begun later.
I bent to kiss her cheek, smelling her familiar perfume. I then placed the ivory dolphin in her palm and closed her fist around it.
Precious didn’t need to look at it to know what it was. Her voice remained strong, although thready at the ends of sentences, and her mesmerizing eyes hadn’t changed at all. “Thank you, Maddie.” She frowned. “Where’s your notebook? I have so much more I need to tell you, and it’s all quite good.”
I almost smiled but the thickness in my throat blocked it. “I didn’t bring it, but I’ve got my phone to record you, if that’s all right.” I sat in a bedside chair and turned on my phone recorder, watching the lights of the equipment above her head dancing, as if measuring the amount of life remaining. If only such a machine existed.
“Good.” Precious plucked at her sheets as if waiting for me to speak.
“We found Graham. And I think we found Eva, too.” I looked at her for corroboration. “But you already knew where she was, didn’t you?”
She smiled softly. “Yes.”
I frowned, still trying to make the stray pieces fit. “So, what happened to the real Precious Dubose?”
Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths as if she were a medium summoning the dead. “She died when our flat was hit during an air raid. The same night Graham died.” She paused. “The same night their son was born.”
“James?”
Precious nodded. “David arranged for Precious to be buried anonymously in a London cemetery. He thought of using Eva’s name but wasn’t convinced I was ready to say good-bye forever. And Alex . . .” She paused. “David made sure that’s one body that will never be found.” A grim smile appeared, briefly illuminating her face.
I was missing Alex’s part in her story, and hoped we’d have time for her to share it with me. But I had more immediate questions that needed answers. “And then you gave James to Sophia and David to raise as their son.”
“Yes.” She
