Arsenic at Ascot, page 1
ARSENIC AT ASCOT
A FIONA FIGG & KITTY LANE MYSTERY
KELLY OLIVER
To all my animal friends…
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
More from Kelly Oliver
Kitty’s Prologue
Chapter One
A Note From The Author
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Kelly Oliver
Poison & Pens
About Boldwood Books
1
THE TELEGRAM
I knew it would happen sooner or later.
In one week, I’d gone from fearless lady spy to glorified gopher. Well, perhaps not that fearless… and not that glorified either.
I reshuffled the already neatly stacked file folders and arranged them to exactly parallel to the corner of my desk. I may be a mere file clerk, but mine was the tidiest desk in the Old Admiralty. This wasn’t saying much, given the manly state of disorder in most of the War Office—especially Room 40, with its rows of drafting tables all overflowing with papers, telegrams, and folders. According to my dearly departed father, outward turmoil concealed inner peace. If so, the men in Room 40 had the souls of monks.
Thankfully, the converse wasn’t true, or my mind would be a battlefield. I patted the top of the stack. No. A well-ordered desk was a sign of a well-ordered mind.
A wooden screen kept my little corner separated from the pandemonium on the other side where the codebreakers worked on deciphering German telegrams and secret messages. The room was long and narrow, like the barrel of a rifle. Standing at one end, you could barely see out the windows at the other. At the far end of the room, a few desks held teletype machines. Most of those were operated by women working alone. But the male codebreakers worked in packs like wolves. One such pack—three of the best codebreakers in the business—huddled around a drafting table just on the other side of my screen. They howled whenever they cracked a German code.
A lot of crucial deciphering of enemy telegrams and such happened in Room 40.
Just not by me.
My boss, Captain Reginald “Blinker” Hall, had assured me this wasn’t a demotion. I was just back where I belonged. And not because I’d failed on my last mission, or because of my penchant for “silly disguises” as he called them. To be fair, I hadn’t had the opportunity to wear a disguise on my last assignment, unfortunately.
As Captain Hall informed me, my singular mission—besides filing and fetching tea—was to follow the notorious German spy and South African huntsman, Fredrick Fredricks, expert in war propaganda and agent provocateur. Over the last seven months, I’d followed him across the globe from Paris to Cairo and back again as he disposed of double agents and undermined the British war efforts. Always one step ahead of me, he’d taunted, teased, and shamelessly flirted. Cheeky cad. Captain Hall insisted Fredricks was of more use to us alive. But I wasn’t so sure.
Heat spread up my neck as I remembered our one secret kiss in the mountains of Northern Italy. Not a real kiss, mind you. Merely an espionage ruse to avoid detection. We’d almost been caught following a couple of socialists and had to stage a kiss. When I closed my eyes, I could almost conjure his sandalwood scent. Get a grip, Fiona. He’s your enemy, for goodness’ sake.
Trouble was, no one knew where to find the bounder. He’d vanished without a trace. His trail had gone cold and as a result so had my spying activities.
I gathered the stack of folders and went to the filing cabinet. Balancing the stack on one forearm, I opened the top drawer. A familiar smell hit my nose. The earthy scent of aging paper laced with stale cigar smoke and a hint of lingering futility. At least I could console myself that I’d developed the world’s best filing system.
“Miss Figg, be a good girl and bring us some fresh tea.” The booming voice coming from the other side of the screen was unmistakably that of Mr. Dillwyn “Dilly” Knox, former papyrologist at King’s College, Cambridge, known as much for his dalliances as his codebreaking.
Moving my fingers along the tops of the folders in the drawer, one by one, I slid the new ones into their proper places, and pretended I hadn’t heard Mr. Knox.
“Did you hear me, Fiona?” He bellowed so loud, everyone in the building had heard him.
I stacked the remaining folders on top of the filing cabinet and poked my head around the screen. “You rang, sir.”
“A spot of fresh tea, if you please.” His thick lips parted into a lascivious smile. “Mine has gone cold.”
Cold tea. Cold trails. Cold careers. What hadn’t gone cold?
I stepped in front of the divider.
“Yes, sir.” I bobbed a quick curtsy. “Very well, sir.”
He laughed and waved me along.
I’d been right about one thing. Without Fredricks, I was nothing but ordinary, boring Fiona Figg, head file clerk and twenty-five-year-old war widow on her way to spinsterhood. Truth be told, my husband had divorced me before he was killed, which made me neither a widow nor a spinster but something far worse, a divorcee. I sauntered to the kitchenette, making a show of dragging my feet and taking my time. Making tea when I should be trailing spies. Sigh. How I missed the adventure already.
“Shake your tailfeathers, Miss Figg,” Mr. Knox called after me. “I’m dry as an ancient Egyptian papyrus.”
Tailfeathers, my flat feet.
“Oh, go stick your head in a bucket,” I said under my breath.
“What’s that, Miss Figg?”
I turned and flashed a fake smile.
He was peering over the top of his eyeglasses at me.
“Oh, with a bit of luck it—” I rounded the corner into the kitchenette “—will be ready in two shakes.”
“It had better be.” He sighed. “Monday mornings are cursed.”
The kitchenette was a narrow rectangle with yellowing wallpaper, chipped floor tiles, and a stained counter sporting a Bachelor’s Stove. As usual, the small sink was overflowing with dirty dishes. Really. Couldn’t these brilliant men clean up after themselves? How hard was it to wipe out a cup? I huffed as I stood staring at the mess. Too busy with national secrets to drop an empty biscuit box into the rubbish bin. Shaking my head, I put on the kettle and set to work washing the dishes while I waited for the water to boil. The kettle whistled and I rushed to remove it lest it disturb the codebreakers. They could be a cranky bunch.
I whirled hot water around in a stained porcelain teapot that had obviously seen better days, and then emptied it in the newly cleaned sink. I poured a goodly amount of black tea from a paper bag into the pot and followed with boiling water. After letting it steep into a nice strong brew, I loaded a tray with a little jug of milk and several cups. Anyone wanting a slice of lemon was out of luck. I hadn’t seen a lemon since the bloody war began almost four years ago. Thanks to the Defense of the Realm, Cake and Pastry Order, however, tea was declared a weapon of war and thus essential to our troops’ success. It certainly was essential to my success. As my grandmother always said, “With a good strong cuppa, you can get through anything.”
“I say.” A familiar voice came from the doorway. “Fiona, old thing, there you are.” Captain Clifford Douglas, good friend, compulsory chaperone, and blabbermouth. With his receding hairline and long face, he looked rather like a horse. A well-groomed horse.
The wet dog at his feet shook itself, spraying me with mist.
Almost anything.
The little beast, Poppy the Pekingese, belonged to my erstwhile espionage partner Kitty Lane. The girl had stayed behind on our last mission to tie up loose ends. Unlike me, she had not been recalled from the field.
“Perfect timing.” Grinning, Clifford eyed the tea tray. Why the War Office thought I needed a chaperone was beyond me. Still, I had to admit, I’d come to rely on good old Clifford. He was as loyal as a hound.
“Be a lamb and carry this out, will you?” I handed him the tray.
He stared at me like I’d asked him to walk naked across Whitehall. I pushed it at him and reluctantly he obliged. If I could deliver tea, so could he. After all, he had been grounded too. The only place he’d chaperoned me in the last week had been to the canteen for lunch. While he’d enjoyed toad-in-the-hole and suet pudding and nattered on about god-awful hunting adventures, I’d nibbled on buttered toast and sipped tea.
We delivered the tea to Mr. Knox’s workstation, where three codebreakers stood, heads together, examining a telegram.
“I say.” Clifford shoved a pile of papers out of the way and sat the tray on the table. “Have you broken a code?”
The men clammed up. Mr. Knox flipped over the telegram.
Curses. If Clifford wasn’t along, they might have given me a glimpse. I had helped solve the Zimmerman telegram that got the Americans to join the war.
I poured a splash of milk into each cup. The men could help themselves to the tea. I wasn’t a servant.
“Is it true you have a photographic memory, Miss Figg?” Mr. Nigel Grey slid a cup and saucer off the tray. The other men called him “dormouse,” presumably because he was petite with a pointed nose and sleepy eyes. The grandson of the fifth Lord Walsingham, he’d been a whizz at languages at Eton and was recruited by the head of cryptography.
“Let’s see a demonstration, shall we?” Mr. Knox chuckled. Glancing around the mess of papers strewn across the table, he plucked one out and thrust it at me. “Take a look and then we’ll test you.”
“I’m not a trained monkey at a circus.” I put my hands on my hips. I wasn’t about to humor him with a demonstration. Ridiculous man.
“I’ll bet you can’t do it,” Mr. Knox said, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
I scowled, determined not to be baited.
He waved the sheet of paper under my nose. “If you can reproduce this word for word, we’ll let you see the latest telegram we intercepted.” He nodded to his pals. “Right, lads?”
“Don’t pester Miss Figg.” Mr. Montgomery came to my defense. With his pinched face and spectacles, Mr. William Montgomery still looked more like a preacher than a codebreaker. A Presbyterian minister and an expert translator of German theological texts before the war, now he was the head of cryptography.
Too late. “You’re on.” I’d already snatched the paper from Mr. Knox’s meaty paw.
Good heavens. The document was in German. While my French was passable, my German was rudimentary at best. It was no use trying to read the bloody thing. I stared at it, forming a mental snapshot. That was the way my memory worked. I could commit any document to memory just by looking at it. It truly was as if my mind took a photograph and later, I could reproduce it in full even without comprehending one whit.
Mr. Knox grabbed the paper out of my hand. “You’ve studied it long enough.” He slapped a fresh piece of paper onto the table and then pulled out a chair. “Have a seat, Miss Figg. Let’s see what you can do.” Smiling, he winked at the other men.
“Fiona has a brilliant memory.” Clifford removed a pencil from his breast pocket and handed it to me. “The old bean can probably recreate every document in that bloody filing cabinet.” He pointed toward my workstation.
I nodded. At least someone believed in me. “Tea, if you please.” If I was putting on a show, I might as well get celebrity treatment.
Clifford fetched a cup from the tray and sat it on the table next to the blank sheet of paper.
“Quit stalling, old bean.” Mr. Knox chuckled, causing his ample belly to shake. “Worried you can’t do it?”
Even Poppy, the little beast, looked up at me expectantly.
Pencil in hand, I took a sip of tea, and then began transcribing from memory. Once I started, I couldn’t stop, lest the text unravel. I had to reproduce it all at once, as fast as I could, or the picture lingering before my mind might vanish. The document was in front of my mind’s eye just as it was before my physical eye only moments ago. But this version was ethereal and fragile, like the vapor floating up from my teacup. An automaton, without any idea of their meaning, I wrote out the German words.
“By God!” Mr. Knox said. “She’s doing it.”
“I told you.” The way Clifford beamed, I wondered if he’d put a wager on me.
“There.” I shoved the paper at Mr. Knox. “Done.”
“She showed you, Dilly,” Mr. Grey tittered, his tone high-pitched and tinny. “Good on you, Miss Figg.”
Poppy barked in agreement.
“What’s that dog doing in here?” Mr. Montgomery’s voice was stern.
“She’s not just any dog.” Clifford scooped up the creature, cuddling her in his arms. “She’s Poppy the Pekingese, Britain’s premier canine intelligence agent.”
“Enough horseplay. Get that dog out of here.” Mr. Montgomery scowled. “We’ve got a war to win.”
“The telegram.” I wiggled my fingers at Mr. Knox. “I reproduced it word for word.” I raised my eyebrows. “Now, you owe me a look at the latest intel.”
Mr. Montgomery’s lips tightened into a thin line, but he didn’t say anything. Of course, it wasn’t cricket to allow a lowly file clerk to see classified documents. But Mr. Montgomery had always been one of my most ardent supporters. In fact, he’d recommended me for my first espionage assignment when that poor bloke fell and broke his leg on the way to Ravenswick Abbey. His bad break was my lucky one.
Fortunately, the head of cryptology was too distracted by a dog in the office to worry about me.
“Fair is fair,” Clifford said, pinching tobacco out of a pouch and poking it into his pipe.
With a dramatic flair befitting a West End Shakespearean actor, Mr. Knox waved the telegram over his head and brought it down onto the table in front of me. “Have a go at it.”
I snatched up the telegram.
He poured himself a splash of milk and another cup of tea. “None of us can make head nor tail of the bugger.”
As I read the telegram, an uncomfortable heat crept up my neck like a venomous spider. The proximity of the men was stifling. “Give me some space, if you please.” I waved them away.
Of course, none of them moved, except Mr. Montgomery, who sighed and went back to his own desk. Clifford peered over my shoulder, puffing away on his foul-smelling pipe. Poppy sat panting at his feet. Mr. Grey’s beady dark eyes glowed with expectation—I could almost see his mousy nose twitching. Did he know I’d already decoded the wretched text? With an imperious look on his face, Mr. Dilly Knox put his hands in his pockets and leaned back into nothingness as if sitting on a throne. The smirk on his round face made me wonder whether they were having me on.
Was this some sort of joke? It was all too easy. I’d deciphered the telegram in a matter of minutes. Surely the men had too. My face burned and I put a hand to my cheek.
Oh, my word. A terrible thought took hold in my mind. I dropped the telegram and held my hand out in horror. My fingers trembled as I examined and then sniffed them. Could the notorious poisoner have laced the paper with some toxin? Some toxin absorbed through the skin. I glanced up at the men. If that were the case, at least one of them would be feeling the effects by now.
“I say.” Clifford removed his pipe from his mouth. “Is something wrong, old girl?”
Poppy tilted her head and squeaked.
“Burn your fingers, Fiona?” Mr. Knox was clearly enjoying my distress. “You dropped it like a hot potato.” I glanced up at him and he winked at me. Did he know?
Why had Fredricks resorted to sending coded messages to the War Office? I covered the telegram with one hand and placed the other across my racing heart. “I don’t feel at all well.” It was true. My stomach roiled and I could feel my pulse pounding in my temples. Either he was in grave danger, or the bounder was taunting me.
“Lady troubles?” Mr. Knox asked with a snide grin.
Why not? That would scare away the men. I nodded and pressed my palm against the rough paper. A strange bitterness rose in my throat.
This telegram wasn’t poisoned. Far worse.
It was meant for me. And me alone.
2
THE INVITATION
Later that evening, alone in my flat, I paced the floor, wringing my hands, and wondering what to do. Should I tell Mr. Knox that I’d decoded the telegram? It was so simple. Why hadn’t the men figured it out? Maybe they had. Did they know it was meant for me? Although I hardly ever took tea in the evening, I needed to think. And what better way to clear one’s head than a strong brew? My heels clacking on the wood floor, I headed for the kitchen. The echoes reminded me I was alone.
