Page 51 of The Shadow Code (Heroes of War #3)

D awn pressed like gauze against the rooftops, the mist silvering the streets in quiet reverence. Another night survived. Jack had taken her home. The sirens had faded and the chase was over. But Ellie felt little triumph, only the ache of what she’d lost.

She sat at the kitchen table, a teacup cooling between her palms, Sinclair’s lighter beside her.

She gazed at the initials again. S.M. The wrong name, once whispered in the dark.

The name she’d cursed when he vanished. But now she knew the truth.

A false identity. A buried past. Sinclair Montford had never truly existed.

Sebastian Mackay, on the other hand, had reeled her in hook, line and sinker.

And for what? She was nothing to do with his operation.

Her mind circled the same questions obsessively.

It was madness, but she couldn’t help herself.

But then her mind turned to Pa. The enemy had wanted him.

Was that why Sinclair had pursued her? Because he had, until she gave in and finally accepted that first dinner invitation.

And afterwards, she fell under his spell.

And yet he’d returned to warn her and died making it right.

Ellie turned the lighter over in her hands, her thumb tracing the engraved initials.

All she had left of the man she’d loved and lost. The metal was warming under her touch, but it wouldn’t bring him back.

Built on lies. But the man who’d died for her – that was real.

His voice echoed in her head. Tangmere. Next full moon. At least he’d tried, at the end. Ellie let the grief wash over her in silence. ‘I hope you found peace,’ she whispered. The words were for him, but she craved that same release from the ache in her chest.

The knock at the door came shortly after eight. Ellie, still in her dressing gown, opened it to find Lilian standing there; trench coat dusty, gas mask slung over her shoulder and a brown paper bag in her hand. She waltzed inside without invitation, her gloves already half-off.

‘I’ve brought buns,’ she said, as though it was any other morning.

Ellie raised a brow. ‘You mean, you’ve come to check on me.’

Lilian gave a faint smile. ‘No flies on you.’

They moved into the kitchen. The curtains were half-drawn, daylight bleeding in weakly through soot-smeared panes. Ellie filled the kettle in silence, the sound of water echoing louder than it should.

As it boiled, Lilian crossed to the window.

She pulled a cigarette from the battered pack of Craven A in her pocket, lit it with a match, and exhaled towards the glass.

She offered it to Ellie – who hesitated, then took one.

They stood together, watching the skyline.

Black smoke still coiled above the rooftops to the east – the docks or Clerkenwell.

The faint clang of fire brigade bells echoed across the waking city.

The milkman’s cart rattled past, bottles chiming softly.

If the homes were still there, he’d make sure they got their milk.

‘They hit John Lewis on Oxford Street and half of Lambeth’s still burning,’ Lilian said.

Ellie took a drag, the smoke catching slightly in her throat.

She thought of the shelter. The low rumble.

The fear in her chest like a second heartbeat.

And Jack’s steady voice grounding her as the world came apart.

He kept me safe . The thought stayed with her, curling through her ribs like smoke.

Their reflections shimmered faintly in the glass. Two women; bruised but still standing.

She made the tea and they sat at the table, buns arranged on a plate between them.

Lilian studied her for a moment. ‘How are you sleeping?’

She shrugged. ‘Not well. Every time I close my eyes, I see Sinclair falling.’ She picked at the edge of her saucer. ‘I keep thinking I should have done more.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. Seen it coming. Moved faster.’

Lilian reached across and covered Ellie’s hand with hers. ‘Darling girl, he chose to save you. You couldn’t have stopped that any more than you could have stopped the sun from rising.’

‘But if I hadn’t been there, he’d still be alive.’

Lilian shook her head. ‘But then where would your father be?’ Her voice was firm but kind. ‘Sebastian made his choice. Don’t rob him of that by blaming yourself.’

Ellie stared into her eyes where a flicker of compassion sparked, and her vision blurred. ‘I know you’re right. It’s just …’

‘I know.’ She patted Ellie’s hand and inhaled deeply. ‘We women usually are right.’ She pursed her lips, then took a handkerchief from her pocket and passed it to her as Ellie’s composure finally cracked.

Tears spilled down her cheeks, and her shoulders shook. ‘I loved him, Lilian. Even knowing what I know now.’

And I think, in the end, he loved you. Truly. Because people don’t give their lives for nothing – they do it for something real. He died for you, Ellie. You were his truth.’

She wept freely then, and Lilian simply held her hand, allowing her to grieve. After a few minutes, when the tears had slowed, Ellie wiped her eyes. ‘I wanted justice for him. But I also wanted Granville to suffer.’

‘That’s only human,’ Lilian said quietly. ‘But justice isn’t about how we feel. It’s about who we choose to be afterwards.’

She picked up Sinclair’s lighter, drawing her hand to her chest. ‘I think he was trying to make it right at the end.’

Lilian nodded. ‘Then honour that. Not the man he was, but the man he tried to be.’

***

Later that day, Jack called round to see her. Ellie opened the door, then stepped aside wordlessly. He didn’t need an invitation. He looked like himself again: colour back in his cheeks, tie a little crooked. Familiar in all the ways that mattered.

‘Brought coffee,’ he said, holding up a flask. ‘Thought you might need some.’

They sat in silence for a moment, the flask between them on the kitchen table, steam rising from mismatched mugs.

Jack studied her face, and when he spoke his voice was quiet. ‘How are you holding up?’

Ellie didn’t answer right away. She stared at her coffee, watching the steam writhe in the air. ‘How much of it was real?’ The question had been gnawing at her since morning. ‘Sinclair, Sebastian or whatever his name was. The dinners, the walks, the—’ She stopped, unable to finish.

Jack was quiet for a moment. ‘I think what happened at the end was real.’

The words should have been a comfort, but instead a sharp ache rose in her throat and tears welled up again, hot and unwelcome. ‘It should have been me,’ she whispered, salt catching on her lips.

Jack drew in a breath and reached across the table, taking her hand. ‘Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that, Ellie.’

‘But it’s the truth. I feel … guilty.’

‘It’s not your fault. None of it is. You were caught in the middle of something bigger than both of you.’

She stared into his eyes, then dropped her gaze, covering her face with her hands, the tears flowing freely.

Jack moved to her side and wrapped his arms around her.

Thoughts scattered through her head; fragments, regrets, questions she couldn’t pin down.

Everything was broken, fragmented. When she calmed down a minute later, she looked up at him. ‘Did you know?’

He didn’t pretend not to understand. ‘I knew he was working under a false name. I didn’t know he’d disappeared on you.’

Ellie nodded and dried her eyes with a handkerchief. Jack leaned back on the chair beside her. ‘It’s never clean, is it? This work. You go in thinking there are lines. Then you realise they’re all drawn in chalk.’

She gave a half-smile that was both bitter and warm. ‘You’re getting philosophical on me now.’

‘Long week,’ he said. ‘You did well, Ellie.’

She looked at him then, properly. ‘Thanks … I think.’ They sat like that for a while longer; quiet, companionable. For the first time in months, she didn’t feel that she had to hold it all together. Not here. Not with him.

***

Later, after Jack had left, Ellie paced the sitting room, the riddle turning over and over in her mind.

The dove lands … But where? Frustrated, she wandered to the mantel and glanced at the pile of clutter on the writing desk nearby.

Catherine’s clutter: a scarf, a copy of The Tatler and an old handbag she hadn’t used in weeks.

Something protruded from the side pocket.

Curious, Ellie pulled it free and found herself staring at a folded matchbook.

The paper was cream, the corners slightly smudged, but the gold embossing gleamed in the lamplight: The Albemarle Club. Mayfair .

Her pulse ticked faster. Like the one we found at the warehouse the night Jack almost caught Chalmers.

How did Catherine have this? She turned it over in her hands.

A few matches were missing. Ellie knew that Catherine smoked, now and then when she was anxious.

Perhaps she’d been given it by someone she knew.

That man from weeks ago drifted back into her thoughts, the one who’d walked Catherine home late one night.

She’d seen him as he was leaving; tall, slim build, dark coat, his voice low and clipped. He had sounded … familiar.

For a second, recognition twisted in her gut.

She’d heard a voice like that before, controlled and crisp, in the corridors at MI5.

The day she’d glimpsed Granville. Could it have been him?

No. She shook her head free of the absurd thought.

Catherine had said it was a friend from work and laughed it off.

Ellie stared at the matchbook. Granville was dead. But Kingfisher wasn’t. There were still pieces missing. Secrets in plain sight. She slipped the matches back into the handbag. She’d ask Catherine later. For now, she had bigger puzzles to solve. But the unease had rooted itself deep in her bones.

***

When Lizzie and Catherine returned that evening, Ellie could no longer avoid their worried glances. She found them both in the sitting room. Lizzie was mending stockings by lamplight, Catherine reading with unusual intensity.

'Right,' Lizzie said without looking up from her needlework. 'We're staging an intervention.'

Ellie paused in the doorway. 'A what?'

'You've been moping about like a ghost,' Catherine added, snapping her book shut. 'We know something's happened.'

Ellie sank into the armchair, suddenly exhausted. 'I can't really talk about work—'

'This isn't about work,' Lizzie interrupted gently. 'This is about you looking like someone's died.'

The words hit harder than intended and Ellie's throat tightened.

Catherine leaned forward. 'Oh, Ellie. Someone did die, didn't they?'

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

'Someone close to you?' Lizzie asked softly.

'Yes.' The word came out as barely a whisper. 'Someone I cared about was killed in the line of duty.'

They sat in silence for a moment, then Lizzie set down her mending and moved to perch on the arm of Ellie's chair. 'I'm so sorry, love.'

Catherine's expression was unreadable in the lamplight. 'Was he …? Were you …?'

'I thought I knew him,' Ellie said carefully. 'Turns out I didn't know him at all. But he died trying to do the right thing, and I can't seem to …' She gestured helplessly.

'Grief doesn't follow rules,' Lizzie said firmly. 'Even when it's complicated.'

Catherine stood abruptly. 'You need to get out of this flat. We all do.' She turned to face them both. 'The Savoy. Tomorrow night. We're going to drink expensive cocktails and pretend the world isn't mad.'

Lizzie clapped her hands. 'Brilliant idea.'

Ellie started to protest. 'I don't think I'm ready for—'

Catherine cut her off gently. 'Ready or not, life keeps going. And sometimes you have to drag yourself back into it.'