The Light Over London(84)

Her heels clicked hard and purposefully as she walked down the hall, back to the teaching wing of the building. But she didn’t glance at the clock to check the time and gauge what briefing she was meant to be in. Instead, she walked straight out of the iron doors and onto the street.



Louise had never jumped base before, because she knew the consequences. However, none of those crossed her mind as she walked to the bus. She had no money on her, but the ticket taker took one look at her uniform and waved her on.

She disembarked at Piccadilly Circus and took the tube to the South Kensington stop. Then it was a ten-minute walk to Cranley Gardens. Paul’s street.

He’d told her often enough about his pokey little bedsit in the back of a nondescript building in Chelsea. He’d even listened to her say the address, amused as she let the glamour of the London street roll off her tongue. But standing in Cranley Gardens, she didn’t see a run-down building at number 12. It was a mansion flat, and no buildings on the street had suffered a direct hit from a bomb. He’d told her lie after lie after lie, and she’d believed him, naive in her trust.

Mounting the steps, she leaned hard on the buzzer for the second-floor flat until she realized it was ridiculous to expect anyone to answer. Paul was dead.

A ground-floor window a few feet from the door squeaked open, and a woman with her hair tied up in a yellow cloth stuck her head out. “Ring it any longer and you’ll break it, love.”

“I—I’m sorry,” said Louise, dropping her hand to her side.

The woman looked her up and down. “Are you trying the Bolton residence?”

“Yes.”

“You knew the man of the house?”

Her wedding ring hung heavy on her hand. “Yes.”

“Then you’d better come inside for a cuppa.”

The woman disappeared back through the window before Louise could protest, and seconds later the door opened. The woman ushered her inside and through an open door on the ground floor.

“I’m Mrs. Fay. Now, you just sit there.” The woman pointed to a sagging brocade armchair. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

Louise sat, at a loss in this strange flat, as she listened to the sounds of tea being made in the other room. The whoosh of water filling the kettle. The clang of metal on the stove. The clink of best china being pulled down from the cupboard.

After a few minutes, Mrs. Fay pushed back through the door, smoothing her lace-trimmed apron as she went.

“Now, that’ll just be a moment to boil. How did you know Mr. Bolton?” Mrs. Fay asked.

Louise swallowed, readying herself to tell the lie she’d thought was the truth until just an hour ago. “He was my husband. I’m sorry if I’m the first person to tell you, but he’s dead.”

“Oh, I know he’s dead all right. Husband, you said?”

Louise lifted her chin. “Yes.”

“Well then, you just let me know if you need a drop of something stronger than tea. I have a bottle of sherry I’ve been saving. Seems to be useful these days.”

Louise stared at the woman, but before she could ask what the woman knew about Paul, the doorbell rang.

“Just one moment, love,” said Mrs. Fay, popping up rather merrily. She did not, Louise realized, poke her head out of the window to greet the visitor but went straight for the door.

An exchange of hushed voices preceded the shuffle of two pairs of feet on carpet, and Mrs. Fay reappeared accompanied by a tall, slender woman with razor-sharp cheekbones and elegant, molded curls that just swept her shoulders. Everything about her was elegance, from the cut of her navy wool dress—not a uniform, Louise noticed with envy—to the fine pearl clips that hung from her ears.

“Good afternoon,” said the newcomer. “I understand that you were married to my husband.”

Here she was, confronted with the living, breathing truth of Paul’s betrayal. This was the Lenora Bolton that Major General Garson had told her about. The barrister’s daughter from a well-heeled, well-respected London family. Looking at her, it was easy to see why Paul had married her. She was beautiful and sophisticated. She made sense with him.

Louise stopped herself. It wasn’t this woman’s fault that Paul was a liar and a cheat and who knew what other number of things any more than it was hers. They were the innocent parties in all of this. It was Paul who’d done them wrong.

Rising to her feet, she said, “I’m not entirely sure what to say except to introduce myself. I’m Louise Keene.”

The woman looked at her outstretched hand with something akin to resigned amusement. “Lenora Bolton, although I’m considering becoming Lenora Robinson again, given the circumstances. I notice you don’t use Paul’s last name.”

“I did, but given what I’ve learned today, I don’t see how I can continue,” Louise said.

Lenora nodded. “I can understand the sentiment. Perhaps, Miss Keene, you’d like to come with me.”

She followed Lenora out of Mrs. Fay’s flat and up the stairs. On the landing, Lenora pulled out a latchkey and unlocked the door.

The flat was nothing like what Paul had told her. It wasn’t a simple bedsit for a student with just a gas ring for making tea. It was beautifully decorated in rich browns, reds, and creams. Books sat lined up on their shelves, waiting for some curious reader to pick them up and sink onto one of the two sofas before the fireplace. Oil paintings of landscapes covered the walls, and the entire place carried the faint scent of furniture polish.