Page 6 of The Shadow Code (Heroes of War #3)

E llie fumbled with the key, her gloved fingers stiff from the cold, before finally coaxing the lock to turn. The door creaked open, letting her into the dimly lit flat on Tavistock Place, where the smell of scorched toast and cheap lavender soap greeted her like old friends.

‘That you, Ellie?’ a voice called from the parlour. ‘Hope you brought pudding. Lizzie’s been baking again.’

‘I heard that!’ Lizzie stuck her head around the kitchen door, flour smudged across one cheek, her auburn curls escaping from a hastily pinned victory roll as she brandished a wooden spoon with mock menace. ‘You didn’t complain when you had seconds last time, did you?’

Catherine emerged from the parlour more slowly, book in hand, wire-rimmed glasses slipping down her nose. Her chestnut hair was neatly pinned back, not a strand out of place. ‘That’s because we were starving, not because it was edible.’

Ellie smiled, slipping off her coat. ‘It smells … brave.’

‘That’s the spirit. Ration cake.’ Lizzie grinned, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘No eggs or butter, but plenty of hope and a prayer.’

‘Rather too much hope, I’d say,’ Catherine murmured, settling back onto the sofa, tugging her grey skirt down over her knees.

Ellie caught a glimpse of the book’s title, before Catherine tucked it behind a cushion. The Thirty-Nine Steps . ‘Light reading?’.

Catherine adjusted her glasses with a half-smile. ‘One needs a bit of escapism these days. Takes the edge off.’

Ellie nodded, half-amused by how quickly she’d hidden the book from sight. Spy novels were hardly rare these days and Lord knew everyone needed a distraction right now. Though this was the first time she’d seen Catherine engrossed in fiction. She usually stuck to poetry and the newspapers.

'Right enough,' Lizzie said, bustling into the parlour with a tray of tea. 'Though I'd rather read about spies than worry about real ones, if you catch my drift.' She handed Ellie a chipped teacup. 'Speaking of which, you look proper done in. Rough day at the Yard?'

Ellie hesitated. 'You could say that.'

From the parlour, Ellie glimpsed the kitchen through the open serving hatch – beyond it, the clothes rack above the stove creaked faintly with the weight of steaming blouses, nylons and undergarments swaying gently in the rising heat.

A faint trail of condensation fogged the lower half of the kitchen window and the smell of boiled cabbage hung in the air with a kind of stubborn pride.

She turned to the wireless in the corner which crackled softly, mid-tune, until the song faded into static.

A tin of powdered milk and a ration book sat on the sideboard, already dog-eared from months of use.

Everything about the place was worn, familiar and safe, and Ellie finally allowed herself to breathe; she was safe in this sanctuary, the stresses of the past two days easing away.

‘Tight-lipped as usual,’ Catherine said. ‘The mysterious Miss Harcourt. We’ll start thinking you’re some kind of spy, soon.’

‘Give over!’ Lizzie laughed, settling onto the sofa. ‘If our girl was a spy, she’d have been caught ages ago. She can’t sneak about for toffee, can you love? Clatters around like a herd of elephants every morning.’

‘I do not,’ Ellie protested mildly.

‘You do,’ said Lizzie and Catherine in perfect unison.

Ellie rolled her eyes. ‘Well, it’s not easy, is it? Not when you both leave shoes scattered about like bear traps. I almost went flying this morning.’

‘Fair enough,’ Lizzie grinned. ‘Speaking of work, spent my day elbow-deep in mail bags again, rifling through love letters and shopping lists. The Post Office reckons we’re safeguarding the country, but honestly, it’s just me and Ethel from Croydon squinting at smudged ink and wondering if darling is code for sinister goings-on . ’

Ellie chuckled. ‘Find anything interesting?’

Lizzie let out a sigh and reached for her tea. ‘Closest I’ve come to anything suspicious was a mangled love poem that looked like someone had given up halfway through. If there’s espionage going on, it’s hiding behind some terrible metaphors.’

Catherine snorted. ‘That’s still more romantic than my last gentleman caller who recited the shipping forecast over pudding.’

‘What a dreamboat,’ Lizzie said.

‘Didn’t he have that terrible moustache?’ Ellie asked, perching on the arm of the sofa.

‘Like a walrus in the midst of a nervous breakdown,’ Catherine confirmed.

Their laughter filled the room, bouncing warmly off the walls and Ellie settled into the rhythm of their banter, even as the memory of the anonymous phone call hovered just out of reach.

Then Lizzie’s expression grew serious. ‘That fellow who was killed, Templeton. I saw it in the papers this morning.’ She set down her teacup. ‘Bit close to home, innit? Government man and all. Not your usual West End murder.’

Ellie froze for a fraction of a second.

‘They said Scotland Yard are investigating,’ Lizzie continued. ‘Are you involved at all? Everyone’s talking about it down the Post Office.’

'I do clerical work,' Ellie said smoothly. 'Hardly chasing murderers in my lunch hour.'

‘Pity,’ Catherine said. ‘I quite like the idea of Ellie in a trench coat, solving crimes between tea breaks.’

‘With scarlet lipstick and a loaded pistol,’ Lizzie added.

‘Not my colour.’ Ellie flashed a brief smile before sipping her tea. ‘Anyway, I don’t know anything more than the papers. Scotland Yard doesn’t exactly send out bulletins to the typing pool.’

The less she said the better, she realised, otherwise the girls would persist with their usual volley of questions. She didn’t wish to lie, but neither could she tell the truth. Not yet. Not until she understood it herself.

Catherine set down her teacup with a thoughtful clink. ‘Templeton was a government man. Probably classified, no doubt.’

Ellie gave a non-committal shrug.

Catherine hesitated, her gaze narrowing slightly. ‘Didn’t you mention once that your father’s a scientist?’

Ellie nodded slowly.

Catherine’s eyes widened. 'Physics, wasn't it? He must be doing vital work for the war effort.'

The shift in her tone made Ellie glance up. 'Yes, he consults for various departments.'

'How fascinating.' Catherine leaned back, her expression mild. 'I imagine the government keeps men like him rather busy. All this new technology; radar and whatnot.'

The remark was light, too light, and gave Ellie pause. ‘Pa doesn’t discuss his work,’ she said.

‘Quite right too,’ Lizzie interjected. ‘Careless talk costs lives and all that. Though if you do hear anything juicy, you will tell us, won’t you?’

‘Only if you promise not to publish it in your next censored love letter,’ Ellie said lightly.

‘Right you are then.’ Lizzie’s attention drifted to the wireless in the corner, where a familiar voice had begun to speak, crackling through the static.

‘Shush,’ she snapped, nudging Catherine and reaching over to turn up the volume. ‘That’s the PM.’ The room fell silent as Churchill’s voice filled the flat, rich and unwavering.

Therefore, we must regard the next week or so as a very important period in our history.

It ranks with the days when the Spanish Armada was approaching the Channel …

but what is happening now is on a far greater scale and of far more consequence to the life and future of the world and its civilisation than these brave old days of the past.

Every man and woman will therefore prepare himself to do his duty, whatever it may be, with special pride and care. Our shores are well fortified and strongly manned, and behind them, ready to attack the invaders, we have a far larger and better-equipped mobile army than we have ever had before.

Ellie leaned forward, cupping her tea in both hands as the speech unfolded. His words were solemn but stirring – a litany of courage, duty and resolve. Lizzie’s brow had furrowed while Catherine sat straight-backed, her usual wryness gone.

He has lighted a fire which will burn with a steady and consuming flame until the last vestiges of Nazi tyranny have been burned out of Europe, and until the Old World – and the New – can join hands to rebuild the temples of man’s freedom and man’s honour …

They know that they have behind them a people who will not flinch or weary of the struggle – hard and protracted though it will be; but that we shall rather draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival, and of a victory won not only for ourselves but for all.

When it ended, silence lingered for a moment. Outside, the city carried on, motor cars rumbled by and a dog barked somewhere down the street.

‘He always knows what to say,’ Lizzie murmured.

‘Mr Churchill mentioned the Battle of the Beams the other day,’ Catherine said.

‘Hmm. Makes you wonder what we’re not being told about our own defences.’ Lizzie sat up straight.

‘Do you think we’ll win?’ Catherine asked, glancing at her flatmates as if the answer might be written on their faces.

Ellie met her gaze. ‘We have to,’ she said quietly.

‘Of course we will.’ Lizzie stood up, her cheerfulness returning. ‘Suppose I’ll keep checking for Morse code in love letters, then. It’s the least I can do.’

Ellie and Catherine sniggered, and Lizzie’s face eased into an amused grin. ‘Right then, who’s brave enough for a slice of my ration cake?’

They exchanged glances and burst into giggles. The sight of Lizzie’s scowl only made them chortle more.

‘Charming,’ she huffed, marching into the kitchen, tutting.

‘Churchill never mentioned ration cake in his speech,’ Ellie whispered, and they collapsed into a fit of laughter.

***