Arsenic at Ascot, page 5
But why? Why did he always show up? Was he checking up on me? Spy spying on spy. Unfortunately, I knew why. Seeing me as an untrained lowly file clerk, Captain Hall had never trusted me.
Did the captain trust me now? Why the change of heart? As my grandfather used to say, “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” Of course, he was a farmer and knew better. And hopefully this assignment was no gift. I’d earned it. And about time, too.
I opened the note that had fallen out of the identification card.
They’re expecting you tomorrow, Wednesday, at 08.00, Admiral. Root out the mole. Be careful.
It was signed Captain Hall. In small print at the bottom, it said:
Captain Douglas will pick you up at 06.00.
I scowled.
Did I really need a chaperone? And why so blooming early? I reread the note. I’ll be… Captain Hall was actually ordering me to infiltrate a secret military base in disguise. Mr. “No Silly Get-ups” had changed his tune. My mind awhirl, I sat staring at the identification card and the note. After six assignments, Captain Hall finally took me seriously. Although not enough to let me go out solo.
No matter. A new assignment. Not related to Fredrick Fredricks. Exciting!
The kitchen seemed brighter, as if a screen had been lifted from my vision and for the first time the room before me appeared crystal clear. The windowsill and appliances may be covered in a thin layer of dust, but beyond the grime lay my purpose. A smile played on my lips. Forget about provisions and housework. I was a proper British Intelligence agent about to embark on a top-secret espionage mission for the War Office. My chest expanded to the point of bursting a button off my blouse. I closed my eyes and breathed in the sweet smell of triumph.
Tomorrow.
I exhaled.
Tomorrow, I become Rear Admiral Arbuthnot. Then on Friday, Lady Tabitha.
My first real assignment as a British agent.
6
PORTON DOWN
A knock interrupted my transformation. I glanced at my watch. Five in the blooming morning. I threw on my dressing gown and dashed out of my bedroom and to the door of my flat. On the way, I nearly tripped over the pile of dust sheets in the middle of my living room. I hadn’t even bothered to open the curtains since I’d been back. The dark and dreary place felt like a mausoleum.
I opened the door. Clifford looked sharp in his dress uniform.
“Good lord.” Clifford blushed. “You’re… you’re not dressed.” He stood staring at my shorn head, his mouth working but his brain obviously lagging behind.
“That’s what you get for being early.” I looked down at my dressing gown. What was the problem? It covered nearly my entire body. Surely he’d seen a lady in a dressing gown.
“You chastise me for being late.” He tapped his watch. “And now you complain when I’m early.” He shook his head. “Women are so damned changeable.”
“Better early than late.” I patted his arm. “You think women are changeable? Just you wait.”
He knitted his brows and gave me a curious look.
“Come along.” I escorted him to the living room. “It will be a few minutes until I’m ready.” I pulled a dust sheet off one of the upholstered chairs and gestured for him to sit.
“And why do women always take an eternity to get dressed?” He dropped into the chair, crossed his long legs, and pulled his pipe from his jacket pocket.
I wasn’t just dressing. I was metamorphosing. I ignored the question.
One finger at a time, he pulled off his gloves and then bunched them up and swatted his leg. “I say, are you moving flats?”
“No. Would you like a cup of tea?” I asked, hoping to placate him.
“I’d love a coffee.” He brushed imaginary lint from his knee. “If it’s no trouble.”
It was trouble. I was hoping he’d decline altogether. “I’m afraid it’s tea or water. That’s all I’ve got.”
“Tea it is!” He gave his knee another swat.
I hurried to the kitchen and put on the kettle. I still had to dress and apply my facial hair. Admiral Arbuthnot couldn’t be rushed.
While I waited for the kettle to boil, I scurried about gathering the tea, strainer, and cup. As soon as it started to steam, I poured the hot water over the tea. I didn’t have time to let it steep, so I delivered it weak and watery and possibly only lukewarm.
With a smile, Clifford took the cup and saucer from my hands.
“Let it steep,” I said as I skittered from the room.
I could barely keep seated. My nerves were live electric wires, sparking with excess energy. Fidgeting wasn’t enough. I wanted to leap up and pace about the room. I forced myself to sit at my dressing table. Taking several deep breaths, I arranged my paraphernalia: facial hair, spirit glue, eyebrows, wig. The small spirit glue brush in hand, I painted the back of my beard, pressed it onto my chin, and closed my eyes.
From the next room, Clifford nattered on about some army expedition or other. Usually, I found his stories dreadful and boring, but this morning they were just the ticket for calming my nerves. It wasn’t what he said, but the familiar rhythms and tones of his voice. With an audible exhalation, I continued my preparations.
A few minutes later, I stood before my full-length mirror as Rear Admiral Arbuthnot. White cap and uniform decorated with the gold cords and insignias of my rank, brown mustache and beard with matching bushy brows, and shiny black boots stuffed with newspaper in the toes to make them fit. I smoothed a lock of hair poking out from my cap and smiled at my reflection. I made a rather handsome chap.
When I emerged from my bedroom, Clifford was pacing the living room, glancing at his watch. Usually, he couldn’t be bothered by anything so inconvenient as being on time. Why was he in such a rush today? Probably in anticipation of our tour of top-secret Porton Down.
He turned to face me. “Good lord.” His face paled. With a sour look on his face, he took a few steps closer. “Fiona, old bean, is that really you?”
“Who is this old bean Fiona?” I said in my deepest voice and then twitched my mustache.
“I say.” He burst out laughing. “You make a jolly good bloke.”
“Same to you.” I gathered up my spy paraphernalia: magnifying glass, notebook and pencil, small torch. I picked up my spy lipstick, thought better of it, and tucked it back into my handbag, which I left on the side table. One by one, I stuffed the items into my various pockets. Another advantage to men’s clothing. Pockets.
Clifford was still laughing.
I narrowed my bushy brows. It wasn’t that funny. “Come on.” I tugged at his sleeve. “Or we’ll be late.”
Even in Clifford’s new motorcar, it took forever to get out of the city.
“Fiona, old thing.” Hands on the steering wheel, Clifford glanced over at me. He’d been talking nonstop since we left Northwick Terrace. “We make such a good team, don’t you think?”
I nodded. “Like Ham and Bud.” The comedy duo from the moving pictures.
“I was thinking more Romeo and Juliet, that sort of thing.” He blushed.
“Right.” I suppressed a laugh. “And look how well that turned out.”
The next few minutes we passed in silence. By the time we’d turned toward Wiltshire, Clifford was back at it. Telling stories about adventures in Africa and India and in France on the front lines. Finally, the compound was in view. About time. Clifford had talked my ear off, and my mustache was drooping.
The military research facility was surrounded by a tall barbed-wire fence. On either side of the entrance stood soldiers with long rifles. Clifford pulled up to the gate. One of the soldiers came to the window and asked to see our identification. A rush of adrenaline coursed through my veins as I pulled my identification card from my breast pocket. The moment of truth. I held my breath and stared straight ahead as the soldier examined my identification. What a relief when he waved us in. Giddy with excitement, I sat on my hands to keep still as we approached the compound. The wire fence extended in both directions as far as the eye could see.
Trees lined the drive, no doubt designed to serve as camouflage. Within a few minutes, a test field appeared and then a bunch of squat brick buildings with large windows. I craned my neck to get a better view. How peculiar. Most of the buildings had windows only on one side. Past the compound, in another field, men wearing hideous gas masks and covered head to toe in brown canvas suits ran up and down a ditch. They looked like something from a horror play. I didn’t want to know. Just thinking about the effects of mustard gas turned my stomach. I’d seen too many men succumb to the horrible pain and scarring. I hoped my countrymen were engaged in defensive maneuvers and not developing ghastly inhumane gaseous weapons.
“I’ve heard so many whispers about this place.” Clifford parked near the tallest building, which I took to be administration. “I can’t wait to learn Old Blighty’s best-kept secrets.” He rubbed his hands together.
What was Captain Hall thinking, assigning Clifford to drive? The biggest blabbermouth in the entire British Empire had been allowed to enter our top-secret research facility. If the public didn’t know what went on inside these gates, they would once Clifford opened his mouth.
“I don’t need to remind you to keep these secrets.” Of course, I did need to remind him.
He put his finger to his lips. “I’m the soul of discretion.”
“The soul of confession, more like.” I straightened my cap and patted my beard. “Shall we?”
He jumped out and ran around the car. But I’d already opened my door and stepped out. I couldn’t have my driver going around opening doors for me. I wasn’t a king. He held out his hand. I shook my head. It would be a miracle if he didn’t blow my cover before we finished the tour.
“Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut.” I led the way. I outranked him. He was a mere captain while I was an admiral.
As we approached the administration building, the door opened, and a young soldier greeted us. “Private Birdwhistle, at your service.” He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Poor lad. “I’ve been assigned to escort you, sirs.” He stood erect and saluted. “I’m to give you a tour of all the safe areas on this side of the base.”
“Are the unsafe areas on the other side?” I asked.
He put his hand to his mouth to cover a smile. “The base is nearly seven thousand acres.”
“Are you laughing at me, Private Birdwhistle?” I tugged at the finger of my glove and then thought better of removing it.
“No.” He cleared his throat. “No, sir.” The mirth in his eyes hadn’t completely subsided.
I glanced down at my person. Were my trousers on backwards? I touched my mustache.
“If you’ll follow me, sirs.” Private Birdwhistle gestured for us to step inside. “I’ll give you a tour of the center of operations.”
“How is your security?” I might as well get right to the point. My mission was to find a breach, a mole, an anti-vivisectionist plant, someone interfering with military experiments.
“Top-notch, sir.” He smiled. “I can show you, if you like.”
I grunted a manly “Yes.”
Private Birdwhistle explained that the Royal Engineers Experimental Station was “brand-spanking-new,” but already had quadrupled in size since they’d opened in 1916. “Our primary focus is chemical weapons such as chlorine, phosgene, and mustard gas.” He waved his hands as we passed a row of beakers and test-tubes.
I sucked in air.
“Are you alright, Fi, er, Admiral?” Clifford asked.
I nodded. No. I wasn’t alright. I was a widow due to mustard gas. My husband of only four years had died in my arms at Charing Cross Hospital. Of course, by then he had already divorced me and married his secretary. Aside from the gruesome end, I resented not getting the chance to kill the cheater myself.
Private Birdwhistle led us to the next room, where several men worked with microscopes and specimen jars. The organs floating inside were ghastly. And the smell of disinfectant mixed with misery was overwhelming. Along one wall were cages occupied by chimpanzees. Sad chimpanzees.
“I say.” Clifford took out his pipe and admired the creatures. “We hunted apes in Africa.”
“Apes?” I shook my head. “Really?” No doubt his partner was the great South African huntsman and all-round rotter, Fredrick Fredricks.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Private Birdwhistle said. “No smoking. Flammable chemicals and all.” He waved his arms at the high countertops laden with beakers and test-tubes.
“Oh, right.” Blushing, Clifford stuffed his pipe back into his breast pocket.
“Why all the monkeys?” I surveyed the room, but my gaze fell on one particularly agitated chimp whose lively dark eyes reminded me of Mr. Knox. I studied the monkey, trying to determine why. Was it the spark in his eyes or the fact that Mr. Knox behaved like an ape?
“Dr. Vorknoy is developing a treatment to make us stronger, men and beast alike.” Private Birdwhistle pointed toward the man hunched over a microscope. “Dr. Vorknoy, sorry to interrupt, but I have some VIPs from the War Office.”
What Dr. Vorknoy lacked in hair, he made up for in bushy eyebrows and mustache. In his forties, he was an intense little man wearing a high starched collar under his lab coat. “Sergei Vorknoy, pleased to meet you.” His accent was Russian with a touch of French. I surmised that he had spent time in France.
We introduced ourselves and shook hands. I gave him my manly best. The private moved from foot to foot as if he were about to bolt. “Perhaps you could tell the admiral a bit about your research?”
The doctor gave us a patronizing smile. “Of course. My xenotransplantation involves the implantation onto a human recipient of live cells and tissues from a nonhuman animal source.”
“I say.” Clifford chuckled. “Can you repeat that in plain English?”
“We transplant the testicles of chimpanzees onto men to give them more vitality. Horses too.” He pointed to the microscope he’d been bent over a minute ago. “Care to have a look?” So, this was the man who claimed he could provide the fountain of youth. For men, of course. And horses, also presumably male.
“Good lord.” Clifford’s face turned the scarlet color of a tomato. “Good gracious, no.”
“I will.” I bent over the eyepiece. Pinkish-purple circles filled with darker purple dots. “Slices of this rigamarole will make men, er, us stronger.”
“That rigamarole,” Dr. Vorknoy flashed a smug smile, “is highly select testis tissue that not only makes men stronger, but also more vital.”
I stood up and looked him in the eyes. “A stronger class of soldier?” I asked, forcing a smile. “Is that it?”
“My work is not limited to soldiers.” The doctor shook his head. “This treatment can make men of forty feel twenty again.”
“Indeed.” I wondered if the doctor had tried the treatment on himself. “Who is lining up for monkey glands?”
“Fi… er, Admiral… I say,” Clifford sputtered, giving me a disapproving look.
“Only the most respected gentlemen in England and France.” Dr. Vorknoy waved his hands as if conducting a symphony. “Lords, earls, dukes, and princes.”
“I see.” I surveyed the cages, wondering what the monkeys had to say about their sacrifices. “And the horses? Military animals?” I figured if the anti-vivisectionists were infiltrating Porton Down to stop this monkey business, they would be primarily concerned with the nonhuman donors and nonhuman recipients and not the silly men trying to regain their youth.
“Actually, no.” The doctor glanced over at Private Birdwhistle. “Mostly racehorses.”
I was beginning to sense a theme. A wealthy theme. The men who requested the good doctor’s services were from a certain class, namely those who could afford it. Judging by the diamond-studded ring on the doctor’s finger, I’d say he was making a killing.
“Monkey glands are good business, then?” I tugged at my glove and then thought better of it. My hands were large for a woman, still, best not take any chances.
The doctor jerked his head as if I’d hit him with a cricket bat. “Well, the procedure is very time consuming and requires expensive and nonrenewable resources.”
“You mean chimpanzees?” I glanced over at the pathetic beasts. Nonrenewable resources. I wasn’t anti-vivisection, but I wasn’t a monster either.
“Excuse me, doctor.” A woman in her twenties wearing a WAAC uniform held out a clipboard. “The suppliers need your signature on this invoice.” She blushed and didn’t meet his gaze.
“Thank you, Dorothy.” Dr. Vorknoy patted her arm and then took the clipboard and signed.
I watched the exchange with interest, given my own marriage was ruined by my former husband’s wandering hands where an attractive young secretary was concerned. The WAAC took the clipboard and nearly fled the room, the scent of jasmine perfume trailing her out. The doctor watched her leave. “The procedure is costly.” He turned back to me. “It’s labor intensive to capture the beasts.”
“And expensive to transport them.” A young man wearing wire-rimmed spectacles and a long white lab coat joined us in front of the cages. “From Africa.”
“This is Henry Hobbs.” The doctor gestured toward the young man. “He’s my research assistant.” Looking down his nose at us—a feat since Clifford was a foot taller—he waved a hand in our direction. “These men are from the War Office.”
“Captain Clifford Douglas.” Clifford held out his hand and the assistant gave it a hearty shake. “Reminds me, once my pal Fredricks and I were hunting along the Congo River when we came upon a shrewdness of apes.” His eyes lit up. “It was the darndest thing—”
A shrewdness of apes, my bushy beard. “I’m sure the good doctor and Mr. Hobbs don’t want to hear your hunting stories.” I gave him a sideways glance.
