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“Heavy work, even for a big, strong boy,” I said. “How did you keep your eyes open in class?”
“I didn’t, often enough. And I was caned for it. Justice in this matter was not served, from my point of view. You cane your students, miss?”
If I had, I wouldn’t have admitted it to a giant with a long memory. “No,” I said honestly, “but my classroom was notoriously undisciplined. Cost me more than one reprimand from the principal.”
“Good job you didn’t,” Thompson said. “Caning eats at a boy.” He dug out another thermos and two small glasses. “Have some lemonade to drink, miss. This heat.”
I hesitated initially to drink all that he urged on me that afternoon, but the bone-dry air pulled moisture from me so quickly that I never felt the need to relieve myself. My skin, on the other hand, gradually took on the color of sunset, despite my best efforts to stay in Thompson’s considerable shadow. “So how did you get into police work?” I asked, to pass the time and because I really was interested.
“Suffragettes,” he said.
By 1913, British suffragettes had moved on from merely disrupting political meetings with acts of public disorder to staging full-scale riots and burning down churches. The shift in tactics horrified women like Clementine Churchill, who was a suffragist. I imagine everyone’s forgotten the difference between suffragists and suffragettes after all these years, but believe me, it was significant. Anyone who favored votes for women was a suffragist, whether male or female. Suffragettes were women only, radicals determined to wrest their rights from the patriarchy by any means necessary, including the occasional plot to push a government official or two under the odd locomotive.
In response to their campaign of violence, Scotland Yard was ordered to expand the Special Branch. Thompson was working in a factory that made shirts and collars at the time. “Wasn’t enough money to marry Kate on, though. Neighbor of hers said, ‘Big strong lad like you! You could join the police force.’ Took the written exam. Week later, I’m a detective, loitering in Kingsway, tailing suffragettes to their meetings. Arrested Emmeline Pankhurst once. Never knew a woman to speak so!”
“French?” I guessed.
He chuckled grimly. “But they weren’t all like her,” he said. “One lass—pretty little thing—she knew I was tailing her. When it started to rain, she waited for me, and we shared her umbrella the rest of the way.”
For the next hour, Thompson told story after story of the undercover work he’d done. Wartime London was a hotbed of anarchists, Irish rebels, and German spies, all of whom “had a go” at Mr. Churchill, who seemed to invite both hatred and attack.
“I never thought I’d be working for him,” Thompson said. He poured each of us another glass of lemonade, and when I had accepted mine, he asked out of the blue, “How long have you known Karl Weilbacher, miss?”
“We just met,” I said, surprised. “He had a dachshund just like Rosie when he was young. When I checked into the Continental, he—”
“Weilbacher’s not interested in you,” Thompson said bluntly. I must have looked stu
To cover my surprise, I poured some more milk for Rosie, hoping it hadn’t gone bad in the heat. I knew it all along, I could hear Mumma say. That German’s just using you to get near important people.
That’s not fair! Mildred cried. Colonel Lawrence is a celebrity. Everyone’s interested in him.
“Everyone’s interested in Colonel Lawrence,” I said, straightening. “He’s a celebrity!”
“Did Weilbacher tell you about Carchemish, miss?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, he did,” I said. “Karl is German,” I admitted freely. “I understand that he was your enemy. Well, the war is over.” And America never should have been involved with it anyway, I thought. Karl isn’t my enemy!
“Fu
“Well! I’m sure I wouldn’t know anything about that!”
Thompson waited.
“Being suspicious is your job,” I pointed out. And it’s none of his business, Mildred whispered. “And in any case,” I said huffily, “my friendships are none of your business, Sergeant.”
“Just be careful,” Thompson said with such mildness that I was disarmed. “My job, miss. I don’t like to see people hurt.”
“Well, put your mind at rest. Herr Weilbacher has been a perfect gentleman.”
“I’m sure, miss.”
“Is that why I was invited to come along today? So you could quiz me about my social life?”
Thompson’s eyes were on his boss, who was shouting again. “No, miss,” said the sergeant with a sigh. “You were invited because that man ca
Off he went, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my discomfort. Without Thompson’s conversation, there was nothing to distract me from the accumulating facts: the sun felt like an open flame against my face; my feet ached; the biting insects of the Nile Valley were many and various. Rosie began to scratch as well. Worried about fleas, and scorpions, I toppled decisively into a foul mood.
“Rosie,” I said, “what on earth are we doing out here?”
Glaring across the scrubby sand, I rehearsed what I would say: Mr. Churchill, I am neither a paid member of your staff nor an adoring wife hanging on your every word. I am not a colonial subject, and I am not a British airman on duty, and I am not charmed by you, your slutty mother, or your theories on painting. I prefer watercolors, which require subtle skill, and I have had just about enough of standing out here in the broiling sun while you talk yourself blue, thanks all the same!
“Mr. Churchill!” I called loudly. “I—I’m afraid I may miss a di
There was no response and I grew angrier by the moment at him, at the bugs, and at my own cravenly courteous white lie. Just as I was imagining the satisfaction of gaining his attention by dumping half a thermos of heat-curdled milk on his head, His Majesty’s secretary for the colonies and air stood to a
The airmen moved off, laughing and keyed up by their brush with fame. Paint boxes, easel, umbrella, canvas chair, and picnic hamper were folded, furled, packed, lugged, and stowed. Davis paused in his duties long enough to ask, “You right, then, miss? You look a bit off, like.”
“I’m not used to the sun,” I told him. “It was the dead of winter when I left Cleveland.”
One by one, we climbed into the furnace heat of the long black car. Quiet for a change, Mr. Churchill pulled a carved wooden secretary box to his lap, opened it, uncapped a fountain pen, and began to make notes, careful not to perspire into his ink. Thompson slammed his door shut. Davis put the car in gear and we lurched out onto the highway.
Dizzy and slightly nauseated, I rolled down the nearest window and held Rosie up so that her ears could fly in whatever breeze our progress might generate. Sergeant Thompson looked over his shoulder and thought to tell me to raise the glass. He reconsidered when he saw my face and the threat that was easily read on it: If my dog dies of heatstroke, you will not be defending your boss from Arab assassins, buster!
Mr. Churchill observed this silent exchange and chuckled, but he was wise enough to refrain from comment. For twenty minutes there was no sound but the whine of the tires, the noise of the evening traffic, and the scratching of a pen nib on rag paper.