The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(60)

Waiting in the entranceway, Maggie examined the crucifix hanging on the wall, made of rosewood and brass, Christ’s carved ivory palms pierced. Moments later, an elderly nun appeared. “I am Mother Superior here,” she said, nodding to Maggie. “Mère St. Antoine. Let me take you to the parlor. We can speak there in private.”

Maggie followed the Mother Superior into a sparsely furnished room, flooded with sunlight. Both women sat on a hard horsehair sofa below a reproduction of Bouguereau’s The Charity—virtue personified as a young mother caring for twin infants.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mère St. Antoine,” Maggie began. “My name is…well, my name isn’t important. I’m—I’m looking for…Elise Hess. This is her picture.”

The Mother Superior looked long and hard at the image of the girl in the silver-framed photograph. Finally, she looked up. “We have no one here who goes by the name Elise Hess,” she answered.

“She might be using a different name,” Maggie pressed. “And she might look quite different. She might have much shorter hair and be much thinner.”

The Mother Superior’s voice was gentle. “And how do you know this person, this young woman you’re looking for?”

“She’s my sister. Half sister—we have the same mother. I know she was a prisoner at Ravensbrück because of her Resistance work with Father Licht and the German clergy in Berlin. To the best of my knowledge, the last time she was seen was in Paris.”

“And why would you think she’s here?” the nun asked.

“I was able to find her family’s Paris apartment. At the nearby church, Our Lady of Sorrows, Father Janvier said he hadn’t seen her, but that there was an order of nuns associated with the church—your order, Mère St. Antoine. I know Elise always wanted to be a nun when she was a girl. And she was a nurse at Charité Hospital in Mitte, Berlin. A convent with an infirmary like yours would be a place she’d be drawn to.”

There was a long silence as the two women took each other’s measure. “You must be tired from your journey.” Mère St. Antoine rose. “Let us bring you some refreshment. Please wait.”

—

The Mother Superior went to the kitchen and asked one of the sisters to prepare food and drink, then sought Elise. She found her with the injured Englishman, both of them smelling of brandy. “May I have a word with you when you’re done, Mademoiselle Eleanor?”

Elise jumped to her feet and adjusted her wimple. “Of course.” She followed the Mother Superior into the hallway and closed the door. The two women stood, facing each other in the stone corridor.

“Someone claiming to be your sister is here.”

“Sister?”

“A young woman, around your age? About your height? Red hair? She’s here to see you. She knows you were at Ravensbrück. She tracked you to Paris.”

“How—”

“Through Father Janvier at Our Lady of Sorrows, she heard of our convent.” Her eyes considered Elise warily. “Is she your sister?”

“She is, Mère.” Elise folded her arms across her chest. “But I won’t see her.”

“She says she’s come a very long way.”

“She’s—she’s not like us.” Elise struggled to explain. “We have nothing in common.”

Mère St. Antoine shook her head. “At least see her, child. These are troubled times. She may have something important to say to you. And who knows, you may not see her again on earth. If you’re at odds, best to make your peace now.”

“Are you giving me an order, Mère?”

“Of course not, child.” She reached out to grip the younger woman’s shoulder. “It’s up to you. It’s your decision.”

Elise was silent.

“But if you do wish to see her, she’s having tea in my study.”





Chapter Thirteen




Colonel Henrik Martens, Prime Minister Churchill’s newly named Master of Deception, whistled “In the Hall of the Mountain King” as he pored over files of top-secret documents. The door to his tiny office in the underground Cabinet War Rooms was cracked open.

George Rance, a former Army sergeant and head of the War Rooms, popped his head in. He had receding hair and prominent cheekbones, and his polka-dotted tie was in a perfect Windsor knot. “You must not whistle, Colonel Martens! The P.M. loathes it—and has absolutely forbidden it!”

The colonel grinned. “If I’m to work as a troglodyte, I must have a proper song for it, Mr. Rance.”

“No whistling. If you please. Sir!” The older man closed the door firmly.

Martens’s office was cramped, the white walls smoke-stained, the low ceiling bristling with red-painted pipes, and a military-issue clock on one wall. The tall Welshman had folded himself behind his military-issue desk, lit by a green banker’s lamp. The metal briefcase with the attached handcuffs was at his feet. A fan recycled the stale air.

Martens had requested all the relevant files transferred to his new office, and the space was stuffed with boxes of them, piled high on shelves, a metal bookcase, even in stacks on the floor. He was starting by going over all the back traffic from the agents abroad.