The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(6)
“The problem is,” Maggie interjected, pouring a mug of tea for Miss Lynd, “if the War Office won’t take official responsibility for our female agents, they can’t be treated as prisoners of war under the Geneva Convention—we’re allowing them to be tortured, raped, and killed with impunity.”
She handed the steaming mug to the older woman. “Also, if they die while serving their country, what are we going to tell their husbands, their children, the parents of these women when they don’t return? They’ll never know what their wives and mothers and daughters did for Britain.”
“Plenty of us labor in obscurity, Miss Hope,” intoned Miss Lynd as she accepted her tea, pursing moist, red-painted lips.
Maggie was undeterred. “And what of the female agents’ pensions?”
Gaskell startled. “Pensions?”
“Yes, pensions,” Maggie insisted. “Female operatives are already making only one-third the salary of the men—which I’ve said again and again is hardly fair, as we’re doing the same jobs and in the same danger. But what if they return and need disability?” She looked to Brody, who had the grace to redden.
“And what if they’re killed? What happens to their dependents?” Maggie cupped her numb hands around her own mug, using it for both warmth and strength. “The families of the male agents are well cared for—but what do the families of the women get? As of now—nothing.”
“The female agents have fathers and husbands to take care of them, of course,” reassured Colonel Shaw.
“No, sir, not all of them do. Only this morning I filed paperwork for Miss Audrey Thomas.” Maggie looked to Colonel Gaskell. “You may recall she’s part of F-Section’s Prosper network, in Paris. She was captured by the Gestapo and sent to Ravensbrück. She’s divorced, with one child—who’s now in the care of an aunt, a retired schoolteacher, who’s also taking care of their mother.”
“Shouldn’t have gotten divorced then,” joked Colonel Higgs, lighting a cigarette.
“A little late for that bit of advice now, I think. What about her five-year-old daughter? What are we going to tell her? What sort of pension will she receive? The aunt is already taking care of the mother—how is she supposed to care for a child as well? If there were a pension in place, as the men have, it would be an invaluable help.”
Gaskell ran his hands through what was left of his hair. “Miss Lynd.”
“Yes, sir.”
“In addition to your other roles, I’m making you responsible for this”—he waved a hand—“female problem. Report back to me next week.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jolly good, Miss Lynd. Thank you. All right, we’re done here. Carry on!”
Once again, Maggie ground her teeth and left for her desk. It’s like bloody Sisyphus pushing the bloody boulder up the bloody mountain—only to have it slide right back, rolling over you on its way down just for good measure. No wonder Aunt Edith’s so bitter, she fumed. And has those deep frown lines between her eyebrows.
She caught Brody looking at her. “I’m fine.”
“It’s not you, it’s him,” he said, leaning on her desk. “You must realize he lost his mind during the Dunkirk evacuation. Shell shock, they call it—startles at loud noises and all that. I’ve seen your file, you know,” Brody continued softly. “You served bravely in Berlin. You’re a credit to England.”
“Thank you.” She rose and walked the length of the icy hall to Miss Lynd’s office. It was smaller than Colonel Gaskell’s, the window with slatted blinds looking out on a red-brick wall across an alley, a lone bare sapling’s branches whipped by the rising wind. It was tidy, though, with papers, pens, and reference books rigidly organized. At her elbow, Miss Lynd had a row of flip-flop card indexes, an inventory of names, addresses, and aliases of every F-Section agent, each with a small photograph attached. If she wanted to confirm a detail of an agent, she could run a fingernail along the top of the index, and little faces would appear, flipping over on the roller. The office’s only decoration was a silver-framed photograph of the King.
Miss Lynd settled herself at her desk, scrutinizing a document, underlining a word here and there with a black fountain pen. It was almost six, and most of the staff were leaving or had already left—only the occasional clatter of a typewriter could be heard, and the intermittent call of “Good night!”
Maggie didn’t like Miss Lynd. She found the older woman abrasive and tiresome, with a “what are you doing here, young upstart?” tone and a “don’t bother me” attitude. Unearned, in Maggie’s opinion, because Miss Lynd had never trained for the SOE or been on a mission. But as Miss Lynd was now in charge of so-called women’s issues, she was the only one for Maggie to talk to.
Miss Lynd looked up as Maggie entered. “You’re getting quite the reputation around here, you know.” Her jeweled rings flashed as she plucked a cigarette from an engraved silver box. “Do you know what they call you? ‘That talky redheaded bitch.’?”
A fine, fine line between “plucky” and “bitchy,” isn’t there? Maggie knew she wasn’t necessarily popular in the office, especially with Colonel Gaskell—but she wasn’t about to let it stop her.