Summerland

10 SOUL-READING, 11TH NOVEMBER 1938—12TH NOVEMBER 1938

The Finance Section of the Winter Court was dreadfully cold, and Rachel White had a hangover.

The white noise of the typewriters rolled over her in painful waves. She had been unable to stomach the morning tea in the staff room and her mouth was dry. She hunched over her desk: it seemed to help with the nausea. Thankfully, there was barely any light from the converted prison canteen’s gridded windows. The electric heaters were on full blast and dried up the damp air, but even so, she had to wear a thick scarf and fingerless gloves.

Very slowly, she took a purchase order from her in tray, rubber-stamped it and punched the serial number into her ectoterminal, one digit at a time. Later, she decided, she would start her path towards treason by seeing if there was a cash stream that could be diverted from a particular, little-used Cresswell & Pike account to fund Max’s small but growing operation. But that would have to wait until her brain dealt with its chemical imbalance.

One more reason to be jealous of the dead like Bloom.

* * *

Joe had heard about what happened at the Harrises’, of course.

Rachel was not sure who had called him: quite possibly it was Philby. When she woke up to the harsh clanging of her alarm that morning, still in that numb, semi-drunken state that preceded the main event of her hangovers, he was already up.

She found him downstairs feeding the finches, already fully dressed but unshaven. The birds were cold and sat still on their perches, fluffed up into feathery balls.

‘We need to keep them warm,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Let’s move them closer to the fire.’

After the ectoplasm incident, they had somehow reached a mutual, unspoken agreement to pretend it never happened. However, he had started taking care of the finches with a dedication that had the tang of penance.

‘I am not sure the female is well,’ Rachel said. ‘I am going to take them to Max’s tomorrow, see what he thinks.’

‘That sounds like a good idea, love,’ Joe said. ‘I could do it, too, if you want to rest.’

‘No, it’s fine. It gives me something to think about besides work.’

‘How are you feeling this morning?’

Rachel wrapped her dressing gown around herself tighter and huddled close to the gas fire.

‘A little worse for wear,’ she said. Her head was starting to have that feeling of fractured glass. Memories of the previous night emerged from the cracks, and she did not like the look of them. Had she really said all those awful things? Master plan or not, it had better be worth it.

‘Your mother tried to call last night,’ Joe said.

Her mother’s calls had been more frequent lately. She was clearly bored, with Rachel’s father travelling.

‘Of course she did. Did she actually speak to you?’

‘No. Gertrude picked up. Maybe you should give her a call tonight.’

Rachel had not returned her mother’s calls for the past two weeks. She was not sure how she would even begin to explain what had been happening. Telling white lies to her mother had been difficult even before she passed over, but now that she could literally see into Rachel’s soul, it was practically impossible. And when she was bored, she had a habit of spending some of her vim pension on thought-travel to hover around Rachel whenever she was in public spaces after sundown. Rachel alternated between finding it comforting and annoying.

‘I will get around to it, dear,’ she said aloud.

‘How is everybody in the Group?’

‘Oh, they were a bunch of pussycats as always. Guy Liddell asked after you. And, you know, people made a few suggestions that I might look into later.’

‘That’s wonderful.’

Joe’s voice was flat. He pushed his hand into the birdcage to change the droppings-covered newspaper at the bottom. It sent the finches into a fluttering frenzy for a moment. The noise made the first ray of pain penetrate into Rachel’s head.

Suddenly, Joe’s manner infuriated her. It was always like a dogfight with him. He circled around a subject in figures of eight, and only when there was no escape would he fire his emotions at you in a single machine-gun burst. And even then, there were things he would simply not speak aloud.

‘Joe, if you have something to say, please say it. I need to go to work soon.’

It was the wrong way to go about it, she knew. She had tried to get him to open him up before and pushing him never worked; he just became quiet or disappeared to his club.

‘Look, Rachel, I just think…’

‘What?’

‘Maybe we should take some time off. You’ve been under so much pressure, and we haven’t been to the Atlantic Coast for a while. My doctor was saying that it could do me good.’

Gertrude came in with a full English breakfast on a tray. Rachel thanked her, but knew immediately there was no chance of getting it down.

‘I don’t know,’ Rachel said after the housekeeper was gone. ‘It feels too early to take leave, with the new job and everything.’

‘I’m sure Miss Scaplehorn will understand.’

‘Have you met the woman, Joe? She is not the understanding kind. I would love to go, but … it just isn’t a good time. I’m sorry.’

The bacon smelled delicious, so she hazarded a nibble. An acidic taste rose into her mouth immediately. She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes and waited for the heaving in her stomach to subside.

‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Rachel,’ Joe said slowly, ‘but is there something I should know? Something keeping you here?’

For the past few months, she had suspected Joe of seeing other women. It might not even have been a flesh and blood woman. There were places in the East End where spirits and mediums conjured alluring feminine phantasms out of ectoplasm for the discerning gentleman who worried about disease. Or it could simply have been a secretary in Blenheim.

Rachel was not sure which option was the worst, and so she kept the jealousy locked up in a cage, where it stayed still unless disturbed.

She opened her eyes and gave him a pained smile.

‘Just this terrible headache, dear. Would you be a darling and get me some aspirin so I can face Miss Scaplehorn?’

Joe nodded, touched Rachel’s hand briefly as if an afterthought, and went upstairs to fetch her medicine.

* * *

Rachel managed to get to the third invoice when somebody placed a hot cup of tea on her desk. Startled, she looked up and saw Roger Hollis.

‘How are you, Rachel?’

She picked up the teacup and smelled it. ‘You made it too strong. And without any lemon. But thank you.’

‘I suppose you would have preferred proper chai. But you’re welcome.’

Rachel massaged her forehead and sipped the hot tea.

‘I’m sorry about last time, Roger. I was tired, and didn’t want anyone explaining things to me. Especially things I did not want to hear. What are you doing here, anyway? No flowers for anyone this time?’

For a moment, Roger was consumed by a hacking, painful coughing fit and had to wipe his mouth with a handkerchief. The other Finance clerks turned to look. The cold weather had not been good for his health. In all likelihood, he did not care anymore and was just waiting for his transition to Summerland.

‘In fact, I am here to see you,’ Roger managed.

‘Then you can clearly observe that I am taking your good advice.’

‘I couldn’t help hearing about last night. I spoke out of turn earlier. I want to make it up to you.’

Of course. Philby would have already turned her escapade into the talk of Blenheim, with that gift of gab of his.

‘All right,’ she said. Miss Scaplehorn was looking at them pointedly over the thick rims of her glasses. ‘Let’s go somewhere else. It is only a few minutes until the lunch break anyway.’

* * *

They huddled on couches in a corner in the staff room—it was empty with everybody at the canteen for lunch. Rachel drank her tea and offered Roger some dry biscuits from a tin. She took three herself, and then a fourth: her stomach felt able to handle them.

Roger nibbled a brown disc delicately.

‘Rachel, before you say anything, I heard Philby’s version of what happened. He loves to embellish, so I am giving you the benefit of the doubt. I have been thinking, and I may be able to help you.’

‘Well, I have a few hundred purchase orders that need stamping if you are free after this.’

‘I am being serious, Rachel. I thought about what you said, and there is someone I know in the Summer Court who agreed to look into this imaginary mole. One of the Young Turks, in fact. It’s all rather … unofficial, but he thinks there might be something to it.’

‘Why doesn’t your Spook friend just request my report?’

‘Yes, well, you know how it is, not everything gets put into the reports. Besides, like I said, it is all a little unofficial. So I was wondering if there is anything else you remember about this FELIX, anything else that might help.’

Rachel stared at Roger’s familiar, boyish face, his friendly smile.

I could let it go, she thought. Someone would take care of it. I could go to Liddell, accept the transfer back to the Irish Section, tidy up here and no one would ever know.

Then the anger she had felt at the Harrises’ came back. Bloom is untouchable, Max had said. For all she knew, Roger was working for the forces who chose to shield Bloom from discovery. This was her operation, Kulagin’s gift to her, her chance to show the Service what she was made of and maybe get her job back.

‘No, I’m afraid there is nothing I can think of,’ she said. ‘Much as it pains me to admit it, Harker was probably right about it being misinformation. Even a broken clock shows the correct time twice a day.’

Besides, it would be exactly like Roger to do her a favour to win her affections before his time in mortal flesh ran out, their long platonic friendship be damned. Sometimes she felt that the carefree way he flaunted his affairs was meant to make her jealous. Maybe she was just flattering herself.

I could use a little flattery, Rachel thought.

‘Rachel, you do realise that this is not the worst position for you to be in. I really want to help you.’ He frowned. ‘At least with table manners, if nothing else. You have crumbs on your lips. Here.’

He handed her a clean handkerchief. For an instant, they both held on to it, their fingers almost touching. Then she pulled it to her and dabbed her lips with the silky cloth. Absurdly, she felt guilty at the touch. She put it down on the low table between them, next to her empty cup.

Even if what he offered was genuine, she could not accept it. It meant getting too close.

‘I appreciate it, Roger, I really do. I understand that you want to climb up a spirit spy’s trouser leg, and I wish you all the best. I just can’t help you get any higher. I’m sorry.’

Roger frowned and stood up abruptly. ‘I think you are making a mistake.’ He sounded hurt.

‘I have been making mistakes all my life, Roger.’ She sighed. ‘For what it’s worth, I will miss you after you are gone.’

‘All right, old girl,’ Roger said. He suppressed a cough with his sleeve. ‘I guess this is a goodbye, then.’

‘Goodbye, Roger.’

* * *

Max Chevalier leaned closer to the birdcage and peered at the finches. The female was morose and sat in a corner, all fluffed up, while the male jumped up and down and pecked at seeds as heartily as ever.

‘The females are a bit more fragile, I’m afraid. You have to watch out for tumours, the swollen belly may be a sign of that.’

‘Can we get to the matter at hand?’ Rachel asked. Although the bird did look unwell.

‘Tut,’ Max said. ‘Priorities, Mrs White. Living birds trump dead spies.’

‘Maybe this is all for nothing. Maybe Bloom was simply being polite.’ Her mood had not substantially improved in the past day. Joe had slept in the guest bedroom, blaming chilly sensations again.

Max had scheduled their meeting at Sloane Square that Saturday before a social outing. He wore Henry’s body and evening wear. His hair was waxed and he smelled of strong cologne. If not for the slackness of his face and dead eyes, he would have been one of the most handsome men Rachel had ever met, but on the whole, she preferred the Edison doll.

‘Poor wee beastie,’ Joan said. ‘I wonder if it has a soul.’

She was one of Max’s agents, a blonde, birdlike woman with a faint Scottish accent who was, based on the looks she gave Max, at least a little in love with the dead spymaster. The other agent present, Helen, a surprisingly senior lady with a cockney accent and a fearsome, feathered hat, sipped tea and fed sugar cubes to the foul-mouthed Amazon parrot on its perch. Max had sworn over everything he held holy that both of them, as well as Henry, could be absolutely trusted, but the two ladies still made Rachel a little uncomfortable.

She gave Joan a pointed look. ‘I am more concerned with espionage than eschatological ornithology right now,’ she said. ‘How long should we wait?’

‘Why the hurry, Mrs White?’ Max asked. ‘Softly, softly, catchee monkey.’

‘Roger Hollis, my former secretary, came to see me yesterday. He claimed to be investigating the mole as well, on behalf of a patron in the Summer Court. He wanted me to help him.’

‘Isn’t that interesting?’ Max said. ‘What did you tell him?’

‘I said I did not know anything. I believe he had … ulterior motives for offering his help and is not serious about the investigation.’

Helen let out a bright giggle. ‘Oo-er,’ she said. ‘Somebody after the old slithery?’

Rachel blushed. ‘Either that, or he is simply courting favour with Bloom’s protectors.’

She had been surprised to learn that Helen had infiltrated a Luddite group run by a Soviet agent and was a safe house and logistics expert. Joan had been the key witness in the famous Russian Tea Room Case a few years ago. A keen automobile enthusiast, she was to be their driver. At the Winter Court, Max had preferred such part-time agents over professionals, praising their dedication and lack of careerism.

It all seemed jolly and eccentric, but Rachel remembered the story about the fox that Max had shot. She had no doubt that, if necessary, he would treat his agents with the same combination of tenderness and ruthlessness.

‘Very well,’ Max said. ‘We shall watch out for Mr Hollis. As for Mr Bloom contacting you, no need to fret. I suspect he is going to follow the pattern of classic asset development—which is not dissimilar to seduction, incidentally. I could practically write you a script, if it wasn’t for the soul-reading.’

Rachel blinked.

‘Ah yes, Mrs White. Like all of us post-mortals, he can see into your head. That is what makes this interesting.’

‘All right,’ Rachel said testily. ‘So how am I going to stop him from seeing my deepest and darkest secrets?’

‘Well, soul-reading is not thought-reading. A spirit can see the aetheric shape of your soul, and that is a very transient thing, not verbal at all, more like a Cubist painting that moves. Even with just a little training, most emotions can be identified. That makes the Spooks very good at talent-spotting and asset development. However, there are counter-techniques related to Stanislavski’s acting method: using your memories to create powerful emotions to fool the observer. Let us try a little experiment.’

He touched a switch on the spirit crown. Henry stiffened, and then his face returned to normal.

‘Just wait a minute, my dear boy,’ Max’s voice echoed from the Edison doll. The medium sighed and leaned back. On the few occasions when Max was not inhabiting him, the young man said as little as possible.

‘Now, think of something happy, please.’

Rachel stared at the doll blankly. Happy. Childhood memories flashed in her mind. Listening to her ayah’s stories. Tending the garden with her mother. Joe’s proposal on the Atlantic Coast in France. The images felt cold and distant. Her eyes burned all of a sudden, and she had to squeeze them shut to keep from tearing up.

Rachel stood, embarrassed.

‘I don’t think I am naturally a happy person,’ she said in a choked voice.

‘I should say so.’ Max’s voice was soft. ‘Whatever that was, I wouldn’t use it.’

‘There, there,’ Helen said. ‘It’s all right, dearie-dove. Sit down. You’re amongst friends here.’

Looking at her beaming, ruddy face, Rachel was suddenly glad that Max had not recruited traditional Court hard men.

‘Obviously, we have our work cut out here,’ Max said. ‘I may have to cancel my dinner. Oh well. We might try anger instead. Or, better yet, guilt. Guilt is always reliable.’