The Silent Woman: The USA TODAY BESTSELLER - a gripping historical fiction

She headed out into the street and took one last glance at the gleaming white house, one of many in a row. Benton’s cousin, Michael Blackwell, Blackie for short, stood in the window of Benton’s study, bleary-eyed from a night of solitary drinking in his room. Blackie spent a lot of time in Benton’s study, especially when Benton wasn’t home. She knew why – that’s where the good brandy was kept.

Blackie had escaped Germany with his life, the clothes on his back, and nothing else. A long-lost cousin of Benton and Isobel, Blackie turned up on their doorstep, damaged from the narrow escape and desperate for a place to live. Of course they had taken him in. The Carlisles were big on family loyalty. Now Blackie worked at a camera shop during the day and spent his nights sequestered in his room with a bottle of brandy and his memories of Hitler.

Cat often wondered what happened in Germany to frighten Blackie so, but she didn’t have the heart to make him relive his suffering just to satisfy her curiosity. He saw Cat, smiled at her, and held up a snifter of Benton’s brandy, never mind that it was only half past nine in the morning. Everyone knew Blackie drank to excess. They didn’t care. He was family. Cat waved at him, anxious to get as far away from the Carlisle house as fast as she could.

***

Thomas Charles watched the watcher, sure now that the woman who had been lurking outside the Carlisle house for the past week was Marlena Helmschmidt, aka Marlena Barrington, most notably known as Marlena X. He thought back to the last time he and Marlena had been face to face. He thought of her husband, dead from a bullet. He thought of Gwen, his colleague at the time, huddled against a wall, a knife in her chest, clinging to life, and ultimately losing the battle.

Marlena X specialised in espionage. She was an extremely competent typist and secretary. She spoke French, German, English, and Swahili. It was rumoured that she could take shorthand just as fast as someone could speak. The last time he had dealt with Marlena, she had insinuated herself into a high-clearance position working for the navy. God knows what information she had accessed. Her bosses sang her praises.

When Thomas told them their darling was a spy, they shunned him, dismissed his accusations, and sent him on his way. Until documents went missing, and they came crawling back. Thomas never said I told you. That was most certainly not his style. Marlena was tough. She had the personal qualities of a well-educated sophisticate, but underneath the polished veneer, was a woman who knew her way around bombs and could street fight as well as any man. Her lithe and supple frame allowed her break into the most challenging locations. She also had a quick hand with locks.

Her appearance at the Carlisles’ was not a portent of good things. What the devil was she up to? He stepped close to the oak tree in the garden square, keeping himself hidden, as Marlena arrived to sit on the bench, just as she had done every day for the past week. His orders were clear – watch her; do not approach her. Find out where she is staying, who she talks to, anything about her day-to-day activities, and report back.

He’d been watching her for a week now. Her routine never varied: arrive at the Carlisle house and sit on the usual bench, the one that afforded the best view of the house, one of a neat row that had its own garden square.

Thomas had wanted to approach her, finish the business between them, but he knew better than to let his personal feelings interfere with his work. He sunk further out of sight and watched. Marlena reached into the large bag that sat next to her and took out a ball of yarn and knitting needles. She started to knit, her hands industrious as they wove the yarn over the needles.

Soon a girl in a maid’s uniform came out with a bucket of hot steaming water. She spent a good fifteen minutes scrubbing the front steps and polishing the brass plate on the front door. She made quick work of it and did a thorough job. Thomas watched as the girl went down the steps and stared up at the front door from the vantage point of the pavement, scrub brush in hand, surveying her work. She nodded, picked up her bucket and went back into the house. Still the woman sat on the bench.

At nine a.m. a long black saloon crept to the kerb. A burly chauffeur hurried around to the back of the car, surprisingly nimble for a man so large. Thomas noticed the driver’s meaty hands and the way his eyes roamed the area as he held the door for Mr Carlisle. Thomas had been briefed on Mr Carlisle’s firm and the work they were doing for the Air Ministry: something to do with detecting enemy aircraft, technology that would help England win the inevitable war. The chauffeur was more than just a driver.

After the car pulled away, the woman checked her watch, took out a tiny notebook, and wrote something in it. Yesterday she abandoned the bench after Mr Carlisle’s car pulled away. Not today. Another car came, a taxi this time, and an attractive blonde dressed in a navy blue suit alighted and went up to the front door. The woman on the bench didn’t even look up.

She’s planning something, Thomas thought. And it has to do with Mr Carlisle’s work for the Air Ministry.

Soon the redhead – Mr Carlisle’s wife, according to the dossier – came out of the house, just as she had done yesterday. Thomas watched as she pulled the door behind her and walked down the nine steps to the street. Even from a distance Thomas could tell that Mrs Carlisle was a beautiful woman: tall, slender, and with a mass of red hair. She moved like a dancer. Today she wore a green suit with a matching hat, a tiny thing with a sheer veil that covered her eyes. She stopped outside the front door and pretended to fiddle with the clasp of her handbag while she studied her surroundings, as if looking for someone.

Thomas stepped back behind the tree so he could watch Marlena X. If the German agent followed Mrs Carlisle, he would follow as well. The bench was empty. Marlena X was gone.

Damn.

Mrs Carlisle turned right and headed towards the high street, where Thomas knew she would enter the garden square, just as she did every day. Thomas followed, staying far behind so as not to draw attention to himself. He nearly missed Marlena X, who seemed to appear out of nowhere as she followed the redhead, keeping a safe distance between them, taking her time. Thomas tailed them both. Marlena kept the perfect distance from Mrs Carlisle so as not to arouse suspicion. Marlena knew her job.

Mrs Carlisle stopped at the gate to the entrance of the square. She pushed the veil up and tipped her face to the sun, as though she were making a wish or an offering of some sort. The angle of her face gave Thomas a clear view of her profile. He took in the well-shaped nose, the perfect cheekbones. He couldn’t help but notice the full lips and the woman’s long white throat. He wondered – once again – what she was up to, only to realise too late that he had been so focused on Mrs Carlisle he had once again lost sight of Marlena X. Never mind. She’s here. I can feel her.

***

The sun warmed Cat’s back as she walked, her tension easing with each step that led her away from the house. Benton would be furious if he knew what Cat was up to. He had wealth untold, but he was stingy with Cat’s pocket money. On more than one occasion over the years Cat had approached her husband about getting a job, but he forbade her. ‘A man in my position cannot have a wife who works.’

At one point, Cat volunteered at the hospital. She spent her day doing mindless things like arranging flowers, sorting books, and delivering magazines to the patients. The work hadn’t been challenging, but it gave her something to do and an excuse to get away from the house.

She came to a standstill as she stepped through the gates of the wooded garden square that had become her private sanctuary, a place to escape Isobel’s prying eyes and Alicia Montrose’s relentless pursuit to rekindle their friendship. She stood in the sunlight for a moment and tipped her head back, not caring that the sun would cause her skin to freckle. She said a silent prayer, I want to live my own life, be independent. How do I do this? Give me a sign.

She saw Reginald just as she stepped onto the sunny green in the middle of the garden square. The old man smiled and waved a hand at her. They had first met at this very spot on a spring day in 1932, when Reginald approached Cat out of the blue and said that he had known her father during the war. Over the next five years they bonded while cajoling the squirrels to take the food out of their hands. Reginald regaled Cat with stories of her father – a cryptographer, who worked for MI5 and served valiantly – and Cat’s mother.

Cat savoured those conversations about her parents, who died tragically in a motorcar accident in 1917 when her father was on leave. Now she considered Reginald a trusted friend, a small thread to a tapestry that didn’t involve her husband and sister-in-law.

For some reason, today Cat noticed the hand that grasped the walking stick had grown more gnarled, the hump between the shoulder blades more defined. Sir Reginald’s eyes hadn’t changed a bit, cornflower blue with a penetrating gaze that missed nothing. But his body had aged.

‘What’s wrong? You’re wound tight as a spring,’ Reginald said.

‘I’m a thirty-seven-year-old woman who cannot have children, lives in a loveless marriage, and sees no escape.’

‘Catherine –’

‘Sorry. I didn’t come here to discuss my problems. How are you? Lovely day.’

‘Can you not leave? Surely your aunt and uncle will help?’

‘I need to sort this out on my own.’ She didn’t give voice to her true feelings: I am terrified to leave him. What am I, if I’m not his wife? She put on a brave face and turned to face Reginald. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a woman on a blanket, her child in her lap. Near her, two blonde-haired girls chased each other, their dollies sitting on the blanket.

‘I’m grateful to you, Reginald. The work has been a great help, but I’d feel better if you told me what I was delivering and why everything is so secretive. Am I in danger?’

‘No danger that I know of,’ Reginald said. ‘I’m sorry. You’re going to have to trust me. Just know that you’re helping in ways that you will never understand. Keep your eyes open. If you need to reach me, just follow the instructions, call the numberand use the code word.’

‘St Edmund’s pippins,’ Cat said.

‘Just use it in a sentence. I’ll be there.’

‘All this cloak-and-dagger intrigue is affecting my judgement.’

Reginald rifled through the briefcase that rested on the bench between them. He pulled out an envelope and handed it to Cat. ‘This needs to be delivered today. Hamer, Codrington, and Blythe again – same address as last week. The secretary will let you in and excuse himself, claiming an important meeting. You’re to go to the same office and insert the envelope on the top shelf, just like last time. There’s nothing to pick up today.’

‘Will they let me in the door today?’ Desperate for income of her own, Cat had accepted Reginald’s offer of easy employment – delivering packages and on occasion accepting something to return to him – without question. The work was easy, the money a boon. The Carlisle name allowed Cat access to the finest dressmakers, spas, hairdressers – any luxury she could imagine – but other than a small allowance she received from her parents’ estate, Cat had no money of her own. She hated being dependent on Benton, especially since he was so stingy. Her work with Reginald remedied that. The money – which she saved in an envelope hidden in her room – provided the promise of freedom.

The courier work had been easy enough, and Cat hadn’t experienced any difficulties, until last week. Her instructions had been to deliver a similar innocuous-looking envelope to the firm of Hamer, Codrington, and Blythe. By prearrangement, Cat would be let in the building and left on her own. She was to walk down a hallway to an empty office and deposit the envelope on the top shelf of an out-of-the-way bookcase.

Instead of being given entrance to the building, a new secretary – a supercilious young man who needed to be slapped – had ushered her out into the street and had asked her question after question, interrogating Cat and growing more and more suspicious when she refused to answer his questions. He wouldn’t even let her into the office. Luckily, after fifteen harrowing minutes, Mr Codrington’s secretary had intervened on her behalf and brought her into the building. As planned, he excused himself, leaving Cat to carry out her assignment.

‘They’re expecting you. There won’t be any trouble this time.’ He pulled out another envelope, this one smaller and full of notes. ‘This is for you. You did well last time. Codrington’s secretary told us that you handled the situation like a professional. There’s extra in there for your efforts.’

‘Thank you,’ Cat said. She tucked the money in her handbag.

‘Your father would be proud of you, Catherine. Never forget that. You’re doing a patriotic service for your King and country. Caution is the operative word, my dear. I’ll have something else for you in a few days. Look for my ad.’ Reginald stood, his arthritic knees popping from the effort. ‘Not as young as I used to be. I’ll do anything I can to help you get sorted, Catherine. I mean that. Not all women are destined to do what society expects of them. I’m sorry that you and Benton weren’t blessed with children, but that’s not your fault, my dear. And there’s certainly no shame in it.’ He touched a gentle hand to her shoulder.

‘I know. Thank you for that.’

She sat on the bench in the warm summer sun and watched Reginald walk away. He was keeping something from her. Every fibre of her being sang with that truth. She wondered where he went when he wasn’t meeting with her. He told her over and over again – more so during the past six months or so – that another war was coming. Hitler was rearming, while France and England were sitting by, doing nothing.

Cat wondered why there was no mention of war in the newspapers. She’d never been interested in politics until she met Reginald. Now she scoured the newspapers, looking for any hint of the things Reginald told her about during their meetings in the park. Cat had been too young to do anything important in the last war, and it had resolved by the time she could make some contribution. But she had seen the soldiers coming home from the battlefield with their arms and legs blown off. She had seen the women who had lost husbands and sons and soon came to recognise that look of sorrow and emptiness.

Cat had arrived in London as a seventeen-year-old country girl, with a northern accent and all the wrong clothes. In the beginning, she tried to embrace her new life. Moving from a small village in Cumberland to London required a bit of adjustment. Lydia took her shopping for the latest fashions and dragged her along to art openings, plays, and writers’ salons. Cat tried to fit in. Aunt Lydia went out of her way to help Cat find a set of like-minded friends, but the death of her parents had ripped a hole in her heart. Cat preferred spending time alone with her grief.

And that was why – Cat realised from the Olympian vantage point of one who looks at the past with a critical eye – she married Benton at twenty-two, when she was young and naive and thought that the passion he stirred in her was the type of love that would withstand time, the type of love her parents shared. Cat knew now that her judgement about Benton – and about love in general – was gravely flawed.

She shook her head, chastising herself for her sentimentality. This was not the time for wistful dreams of days gone by. Full of purpose, Cat set off at a brisk pace, her heels clicking in time to the beat of the city. She blended in with the foot traffic, savouring the feeling that she was part of something bigger than herself, that she was doing something productive. Every now and again Reginald’s words would pop into her head. Not all women are destined to do what society expects of them. She certainly hadn’t disappointed on that score.