Page 9 of The Shadow Code (Heroes of War #3)

T he black taxi rattled over the cobbles as it pulled to a halt outside her parents’ townhouse on Belgrave Crescent, Mayfair.

Ellie stepped out, paid the driver and paused on the pavement, adjusting her gloves.

The blackout curtains were drawn tight, the street lamps snuffed out; even Mayfair had surrendered to the war’s demands.

Only the distant drone of RAF aircraft overhead broke the weighted silence.

She stepped up to the polished front door and barely had time to raise her hand before it swung open. The maid stood to one side, face politely blank, posture razor straight. Ellie stepped inside.

‘Good evening, Miss Eleanor.’

‘Thank you, Constance.’

The faint trace of her mother’s French perfume, Shalimar, drifted in the air. The soft glow of antique lamps, the faint scent of beeswax polish and old cigars, the oppressive quiet of a house too used to order – it all pressed down on her like a weight. Elegant, pristine and suffocatingly proper.

Ellie was still the family embarrassment. A lady serving in the police force. Mother had made it clear that a woman of her standing shouldn’t be chasing criminals through the streets of London. And her father … Well, he had stopped trying to argue months ago.

Ellie handed off her coat, her gaze already drifting towards the study doors.

Her father would be in there working, or perhaps speaking in the low, clipped tones she remembered from childhood; the tones he used when he thought she wasn’t listening.

She crossed the hallway, the plush Persian rug muffling her footsteps as she passed the study.

Her father’s voice rang out, hushed, urgent.

‘Burn it all. We won’t speak of this again.’ A pause. ‘No, I said everything. Especially the list.’

Ellie froze, her stomach tightening as she heard the soft click of the telephone receiver being replaced. Silence followed. She waited a beat, then stepped into the dining room as she wondered what on earth her father was up to.

The table was already set; silverware placed with military precision, gleaming crystal glasses and fine china. Candles glowed low in their holders, their light bouncing off cut crystal. Everything was precise, controlled, performed .

Evelyn Harcourt stood by the drinks tray, elegant in her navy silk dress, swirling a measure of sherry into a glass. She turned and faced Ellie with that crisp smile that never quite reached her blue eyes. ‘You look tired, Eleanor. Have you been eating properly?’

Ellie fought the urge to roll her eyes. ’I manage.’ She wasn’t sure what annoyed her more, her mother’s assumption that she was on the brink of collapse or the fact that she cared more about appearances than anything else.

Evelyn wrinkled her upturned nose. ‘I thought you might have at least changed out of that ghastly uniform.’

She raised her chin. ‘Sorry, no time. I came straight from work.’

The dining-room door swung open and Richard Harcourt strode into the room. He looked as he always did – impeccably groomed, unreadable – and carried the faint scent of expensive cologne and tobacco. A warm smile sprang to his face when he saw Ellie. ‘Good evening, darling. So glad you came.’

‘Hello, Pa.’ She smiled, gazing into his hazel eyes, noting for the first time the deeper lines etched at the corners, and the furrows in his brow. He looks a little tired , she thought. Probably working too hard .

He took his seat at the head of the table without further comment, unfolding his napkin with surgical precision.

The maid bustled into the room and began to serve the first course, vegetable soup, with movements so practised they seemed virtually ritualistic.

They ate in near silence for the first few minutes; the quiet clink of silver on porcelain, the soft hiss of the candles and the distant echo of a clock ticking in the hallway.

Richard reached for his wine, then glanced across the table. ‘How is life at Scotland Yard?’ he asked lightly, as if commenting on the weather. ‘It must be … demanding work.’

Ellie speared a potato with polite force. ‘It keeps me busy.’

Evelyn sighed theatrically. ‘You could have married Lionel Fortescue, you know.’

Ellie didn’t look up, aware of her mother’s burning gaze skimming over her like a jeweller inspecting a flawed diamond. Words formed on the tip of her tongue, but she clenched her jaw. Mama loved to remind her of that fact, and she was so tired of hearing it.

‘He’s in the Foreign Office,’ Evelyn continued, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with her napkin.

Ellie stabbed at another potato with her fork, the tines sinking in with a little more force than necessary. ‘ And incredibly dull,’ she murmured, lifting her wine glass.

‘He has prospects, Eleanor,’ her mother said, pressing on.

Ellie took a measured sip of wine. ‘So do I. Just not the kind you admire.’ Her fork scraped against the plate as she set it down.

She could feel the heat rising at the back of her neck, the slow burn of irritation curling beneath her ribs.

The aroma of rosemary and roasted meat, once appetising, now sat heavy in her stomach.

She could have snapped back, told her mother exactly what she thought about Lionel Fortescue and his ‘prospects’.

Instead, she reached for her wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid slowly, deliberately.

‘It’s a wonder I have the time, with all the men I’m chasing in the dark,’ she murmured before taking a sip.

Her mother’s mouth thinned into a taut peach thread. Ellie fought the smirk tugging at her own lips. Better to keep drinking than throw the glass at the wall. Her father said nothing, but the faint crease between his brows deepened.

‘You’re running through alleyways at all hours, chasing criminals?’

‘Investigating.’ Ellie corrected her. ‘We call it investigating .’

‘It’s unbecoming,’ Evelyn said sharply. ‘And dangerous. And no job for a young lady of your education.’

Richard stirred slightly. ‘Let’s not rehash the same argument.’

Evelyn turned to him, aghast. ‘You’re defending this nonsense?’

‘I’m not defending anything,’ he said calmly. ‘I’m acknowledging that our daughter is perfectly capable of choosing her own path.’

Ellie blinked. It wasn’t quite support. But it wasn’t a dismissal, either.

Evelyn sighed again, more sharply this time. ‘She could be doing important work with the Foreign Office rather than crawling through bombed-out buildings in borrowed boots.’

Ellie smiled, tightly. ‘Actually, the boots are mine.’

The conversation then drifted to safer topics – Churchill’s latest speech, Evelyn’s rationing frustrations, the apparent scandal of diluted gin at Fortnum’s. Ellie let it all wash over her, nodding at intervals, waiting.

Then, casually, between bites of lamb, she said it: ‘Sir Charles Templeton was murdered last night.’

Her father’s knife ceased mid-cut. Mama was too busy inspecting a slight chip on her wine glass to notice, but Ellie caught it.

He resumed cutting. ‘A tragedy,’ he said quietly, reaching for his wine. ‘I read about it in the morning papers.’

Too smooth. Too controlled.

Evelyn barely looked up. ‘Wasn’t he attached to the War Office? One of those hush-hush men with a chauffeur and a rather busy schedule?’

Ellie watched her father carefully as he set down his glass. His gaze flicked to Evelyn sharp and quiet. A signal: drop it . ‘He was found near Westminster,’ she added, tone light. ‘Grim scene. Nasty business.’

Evelyn winced. ‘Please, Eleanor. Not at the table.’

Her father nodded, but his expression had settled into an unreadable mask. Ellie studied his face. He wasn’t shocked by the news. If anything, he looked like he was working through a problem. She took another bite of potato, slow and deliberate. The air had shifted and unease prickled at the edges.

After dinner, Ellie made a polite excuse about needing a book she’d lent to her father and slipped from the drawing room.

She moved down the corridor, past the oil portraits and faint smell of pipe tobacco clinging to the wallpaper.

The door to her father’s study was ajar.

She hesitated for the barest moment, then pushed it open with slow, steady fingers.

Inside, the room was dimly lit by a brass lamp on the desk.

The smell of ink, leather and whisky lingered, undercut by a faint tension, like the sharpness in the air during a thunderstorm.

Books lined the far wall in dark rows, some with worn spines, covers faded.

His desk was as she remembered it; precise, impeccably ordered.

A neat blotter, a paper knife, an open ledger.

And beside the lamp, half-hidden beneath a slim folder, sat a book. Thoughts Before the Storm .

Her gaze lingered on it. Ellie smiled faintly; she hadn’t thought about it in years.

He has kept it here. He’d read it to her as a child, used it to teach her about codes and ciphers, pointing out how hidden messages had been smuggled through poems and letters during wars throughout the centuries.

The idea had fascinated her, how truth could be buried in plain sight if you knew where to look.

Pa’s words echoed in her mind. Even the quietest words can carry secrets.

She almost opened it but thought better of it. It was just a book, after all.

Her gaze drifted over a neat tower of papers perched precariously close to the edge of the desk; next to it, tucked beneath a leather-bound manual of some sort, was a file marked in red pencil: TRE – CONFIDENTIAL. Her pulse hammered against her throat. She glanced at the door, then opened the file.