Page 23 of Fire Must Burn

‘Faint praise, darling,’ replied Iris. Then she turned back to the telephone. ‘Hello? You have it? How much? And that’s in what condition? Well, I’m a little cracked myself, or so I’m told, so I won’t hold it against you. But the plates are pristine? Excellent. Could you hold that for me, and I will pick it up tomorrow after work? Miss Iris Sparks. Thank you.’

She hung up.

‘I’ve been wanting that one for ages,’ she said happily.

She was nervous the next day. She couldn’t decide whether it was because she was going into the field for the first time since the war, or because it was Tony.

Her friend. Who she was going to betray.

Well, not betray, exactly, she thought, trying to reassure herself. If he was innocent, she was helping him clear himself before his career took off, and that was a good thing.

And if he wasn’t innocent …

If he wasn’t loyal to the Crown, then he didn’t deserve her loyalty, either.

A convincing argument, surely. So why wasn’t she convinced?

Gwen was a comforting presence as they worked, choosing not to bring up the subject. Iris knew that her partner would gladly hear her out on any part of it, but she decided that she needed to do this on her own. Even with their joint forays into the criminal underground and other odd venues on their occasional investigations, intelligence work was something in which she had experience and Gwen did not.

She didn’t have much of an appetite for lunch, and Gwen didn’t press her. Far from it, in fact, as she merely rose from her chair at the appointed hour, gave Iris a knowing look, and disappeared, returning an hour later looking flushed but quietly ecstatic, a few telltale blonde tresses having escaped from her chignon.

At quarter past four, Iris glanced at her wristwatch, then rose from her desk.

‘Wish me luck,’ she said.

‘Ring me at home when you’re done,’ said Gwen. ‘Or better yet, stop by the house for dinner. I don’t want to wait until tomorrow to hear everything.’

‘I can’t promise dinner,’ said Iris. ‘Unexpected university reunions can become late and liquid in nature. Don’t worry if I don’t call.’

‘Call anyway,’ said Gwen. ‘Reassure me that you’re still alive.’

‘It won’t be anything that dramatic,’ said Iris, pinning on her hat. ‘See you.’

Gwen watched as she left, her expression changing from encouragement to concern. But there was no more that she could do.

She resumed her tasks of trying to match up their clientele, concentrating on their newest candidates, Miss Ford and Miss Barton. Then the telephone rang. A moment later, the intercom buzzed. She answered it.

‘It’s Mr Lonsdale,’ said Mrs Billington, a concerned note in her voice. ‘Are you free to speak to him?’

‘Of course,’ she said, her heart sinking. ‘Put him through.’

She picked up the handset.

‘The Right Sort, Mrs Bainbridge speaking,’ she said in what she hoped was an authoritative voice.

‘Mrs Bainbridge, Kenneth Lonsdale here,’ came his voice, sounding even reedier on the telephone than it did in person. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.’

‘You are not, Mr Lonsdale. How may we help you today?’

‘It’s about this last girl you set me up with.’

‘Miss Lowle? Why, was there something wrong?’

‘That’s just the thing, Mrs Bainbridge,’ he said. ‘There wasn’t. I thought the moment we met, Hullo, here is a possibility. And she turned out to be the first girl you’ve sent me who knew the difference between a wet fly and a dry one, or didn’t immediately run for the door when I offered to show her my Black Spider and my White-Winged Coachman.’

‘Which are what, exactly?’

‘Flies, Mrs Bainbridge, flies,’ he said impatiently. ‘Two of the finest in my collection.’