Introduction

Downton Abbey meets Agatha Christie in this highly engaging historical mystery.

What’s the best way to purge an unfaithful husband?

Become a spy for British Intelligence, of course.

Desperate to get out of London and determined to help the war effort, Fiona Figg volunteers to go undercover.

It keeps her from thinking about Andrew, her philandering husband.

At Ravenswick Abbey a charming South African war correspondent has tongues wagging.

His friends say he’s a crack huntsman. The War Office is convinced he’s a traitor. Fiona thinks he’s a pompous prig.

What sort of name is Fredrick Fredricks anyway? Too bad Fiona doesn’t own a Wolseley pith helmet. At Ravenswick a murderer is on the prowl, and it’s not just the big-game hunter who's ready to pounce.

Food and drink pairings Tea of course. Or, champagne for the beginning of the book, brandy for the middle, and scotch whiskey for the end. Since WWI tinned beef or toad-in-the-hole don’t make for very nice party foods, try tea biscuits (English cookies) or treacle pudding: https://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/treacle_pudding_80920

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Excerpt

Chapter One

The Beginning of the End

I should have poisoned him. If only I’d had the chance. By the time he confessed to loving another woman and asked for a divorce, it was too late. When he left me, he took my desires with him, even my desire for death. If it weren’t for an article in the Daily Times about a certain South African war correspondent living near Wickham Bishops, I might still be languishing in my bed, wishing I’d never been born.

I’d been such an idiot. Everyone knew Andrew was having an affair with his secretary—everyone except me. Clueless, I’d marveled at his tenderness when he brought me my headache powders last night—the night before I discovered the truth. That morning, he was off to work before I awoke.

The sun streaming through the window of our second-floor flat woke me, which was unusual because we rarely saw the sun in London, especially these days with the war dragging on. Bad news from the Front put a damper on even the brightest day. Today I was not going to think about the war. It was my day off, my headache was gone, and I was going to make the most of it.

I stretched out and enjoyed having the bed all to myself. “You’re burning daylight,” I heard my father’s voice in my head. As always, he was right. I threw off the blankets, got up, fetched my robe, and trundled into the kitchen to make my first cup of tea for the day.

Andrew and I moved into this flat when we first got married. I’d just turned twenty and was happy to be out of my parents’ house and setting up one of my own. Hard to believe it was 1916 and we’d been married for four years already.

I’d immediately fallen in love with the modest two bedroom with high ceilings and large windows facing Warwick Avenue, which was always bustling with life. The kitchen had the newest appliances—an enameled Smith & Philips gas stove, new paraffin lamps from Liberty’s, and of course a telephone mounted on the wall. The glow of the double burner lamp reflecting off the black and white mosaic floor tiles gave it a cheerful feel, and, even then, I knew I’d be happy here.

Then the war started. And everything changed.

This morning, the war seemed far away as I sat at our small kitchen table, hands wrapped around my cup, enjoying its warmth. As I sipped the strong black tea with just a splash of milk, I recalled Andrew’s cool hand on my throbbing forehead the night before. He’d been so sweet and caring, and I’d been such a wretch. I gulped down the rest of my tea and resolved to take the train into town and sweep him off to luncheon at the Criterion. It was my day off, so why not? I clasped my hands together. Wouldn’t he be surprised?

I set about picking my wardrobe. I wanted to look casually appealing, not trying too hard, mind you, just naturally elegant and charming. I settled on a silky brown, low-waisted frock with black panels down one side. When I put on the matching hat, I looked like a nun in a floppy wimple. That wouldn’t do.

I went back to the top shelf of my wardrobe where no less than a dozen hats reposed. I admit I have a weakness for hats. A hat added an air of mystery to even the plainest face. And mine was indeed one of the plainest faces in Northwick Terrace, if not all of London. Sometimes I wondered why Andrew married me when, with his fine features, silken hair, indigo eyes, and supple lips, he could have had any girl. Thank goodness for hats.

Given the constant threat of rain squalls, I reached for one of my all-purpose hats, a tan felt number that matched nearly any outfit. I went back to my dressing table, tried it on, and examined it in my hand mirror. I turned the brim up and then down. No, this was not the look I wanted. Too country house and not enough chic.

I went back to my wardrobe and replaced my country hat in its proper place. I picked up a round bandbox and removed my favorite hat, which was brown with gray feathers. It was a bit too fancy and formal for luncheon, but it brought out a certain feminine quality in my otherwise square-jawed countenance. I put it on. Yes, this was the one. It fit close to the head and was more durable than it looked. I reapplied my cherry lipstick, touched up my rouge, dabbed rose water on my wrists and neck, and smiled at my reflection. Andrew was in for a surprise…and, as it turned out, so was I.

By the time I reached Andrew’s office at Imperial and Foreign Corporation, I was perspiring. August in London is not for the faint of heart. I kept my arms glued to my sides for fear my dress had puddles forming under the arms. As I approached the heavy wooden door, I suddenly felt ridiculous. I considered bypassing the IFC and going next door to Liberty’s to buy a new hat. I should have listened to that little voice urging me to go shopping instead of continuing to Andrew’s office.

After two flights of stairs, I was panting and my hair was plastered to the sides of my face. I stood on the landing, rearranged my skirt, blew the hat’s feathers out of my face, then took a deep breath, forced a broad smile, and made a beeline for Andrew’s office at the end of the hall. As I turned the doorknob, I heard laughter—really more like giggling. I stopped to listen, which was my first mistake.

“Don’t worry, darling,” said the familiar voice. “I’ll take care of you.”

He had said the very same thing to me the night before.

I flung the door open. There was Andrew, his arms around the little tart of a secretary, who was nibbling on his ear. He pulled away, but Nancy clung to him like a wet undershirt.

“How could you?” I cried.

Andrew came toward me, the curvaceous shadow trailing behind him. “I can explain—”

He’d only been home from the Front six months and already he’d taken up with his secretary?

“Sack her!” I shouted. “She goes or I will.”

“Fio, don’t get hysterical.”

“Hysterical!” I stepped backward, my second mistake. I was backed into a corner. “Don’t call me hysterical, you cheater.”

Nancy giggled nervously and held onto the sleeve of his suit jacket. Her amber eyes flashed at me like a hungry cat’s.

If I were a man, I’d have socked her in her pretty little nose.

How could he? How could Andrew do this to me? With that simpering imbecile no less? I didn’t know which was worse, his infidelity or his insulting taste in women. “It’s her or me,” I shouted. “Take your pick.” The ultimatum was my third mistake. As they say in America, three strikes and you’re out.

“Fio, I’ve been meaning to tell you for weeks now.” He glanced back at the little tart, and she smiled sweetly. “Nancy and I are in love. We want to get married.”

My hand flew over my mouth. I pushed past him and ran out the door. How could he? How could I have been so clueless? What a nightmare!

Getting home was a blur. I remember I tripped running down the stairs and an army officer helped me to my feet. I don’t know how I got myself to the train station, on the right train, and back home to our flat. I couldn’t see through my tears.

Andrew must have stayed at his club...or with her. Every evening I waited for him to come home and apologize and beg me to take him back. But he never came. The next Tuesday when I got home from work, he’d cleared out. Two weeks later, I was served divorce papers. The barmy thing was, the papers said I had asked for the divorce for his infidelity with someone named Sarah Sample, not Nancy Nettles. At first I was confused. It took me a while to work out he didn’t want his darling Nancy’s name dragged through the mud. Never mind me or my reputation…as a first-class dupe. I was devastated.

For the next four months, I got out of bed only when I had to go to work. I barely ate or slept. I lay on my four-poster bed memorizing the outlines of every leaf on the pale pink ceiling paper, wondering what I’d done wrong. I’d been a good wife, hadn’t I? Was it because we couldn’t have a baby? But that might have been his fault, not mine. What did she have that I didn’t?

All right, she was fleshier and a whole lot prettier. But she was a moron, whereas I was the head filing clerk at the War Office’s top-secret Room 40, helping to decode military telegrams and win the bloody—I mean, blasted—war. Andrew claimed he’d always been attracted to smart women.

Maybe the war had affected his mind along with his body. Men were coming back from the Western Front unable to function, nearly catatonic, with what doctors called shell shock. Could shell shock make a man cheat on his wife of four years? Four blasted years! I rolled over and buried my head in the pillow. Andrew wasn’t the only one suffering from shell shock. The war was taking its toll on us all.

Thoughts of war roused me from my bed. It was time to get to work. I suspected Andrew resented my taking a job at the War Office. But with so many men at the Front, women needed to keep things running back home. He should have been glad I didn’t take a job at a factory or become a canary girl at a munitions plant. Anyway, his beloved Nancy was a working girl.

I glanced at the bedroom clock. I’d have to rush or I’d be late for work. I’d always prided myself on my punctuality. Since the divorce, I’d been slipping. I grabbed the matching gabardine skirt and blouse I’d worn the day before and slid them on. I removed my hairnet and tugged my felt hat over my mess of curls. I didn’t have time to properly redo my hair. I’d have to remember not to remove my hat. No time for face paint either. When I glanced in the mirror, for a moment I saw my Uncle Frank looking haggard and wearing a woman’s hat. Ridiculous. I blinked and he was gone.

When I was young, I wanted to be an actor just like Uncle Frank. I’d dress up in my father’s hats or my mother’s heels and act out the characters from my detective novels. By the age of eighteen I’d grown taller and ganglier, but not a jot prettier. In my final year at North London Collegiate School for girls, Mrs. Benson, the drama teacher, said to me, “Sorry to be blunt, dear, but with that face, you’ll never make it as an actress. You’d be better off putting on trousers and passing yourself off as a man.”

Taking her advice, I gave up my dreams of acting. Although I admit, in my marriage, I’d employed my acting skills on many occasions, especially when entertaining Andrew’s military colleagues and his school chums from Clifton College or the Royal Military Academy.

I gulped down a quick cup of tea, grabbed a biscuit, and headed to the train station. I’d be lucky to make it to the War Office on time.

The War Office occupied several rooms in the Old Admiralty, a grand U-shaped brick building that housed government and military offices along with the top navy brass in well-appointed flats on the top floor. I arrived at Room 40 late—only by five minutes, but still late. Room 40 was a cavernous warehouse of a room with rows of drafting tables and desks. Men and women manned the desks, which sat one after the other, and were set up with teletypes, typewriters, and desktop file cabinets. The room was so long and narrow that if you stood at one end, you could barely make out the other. Amidst the clicking of typewriter keys and shuffling of papers, people talked in whispered voices.

A group of men huddled over a drafting table near my desk. I whisked past them and busied myself at my filing cabinet. Absentmindedly, I filed a stack of papers. A photographic memory came in handy when filing while eavesdropping.

The excitement in the men’s voices piqued my curiosity. Using the ruse of offering them coffee, I went to investigate. I darted into the kitchenette to prepare the coffee. Luckily, it was on the same end of the long room as my desk. You never knew what you’d find in the kitchen area. I steeled myself for bits of week-old sandwich and crusty teacups. Ruth must have cleaned up, because to my surprise it smelled of fresh pine instead of old cheese. I made a fresh pot of coffee, filled three cups, and put them on a tray.

“No thank you, Mrs. Cunningham,” Mr. Montgomery said with a bow of his oblong head. “I just had a cup of tea.” William Montgomery was the head of cryptography. Before the war, he had been a Presbyterian minister and an expert translator of German theological texts. Now he was one of Britain’s premier code breakers. He still looked more like a preacher than a spy.

“Thank you, I’ll have a cup,” Mr. Grey said. The men called him “the door mouse” because of his small stature and quiet demeanor. He gave me a sympathetic look. “Are you quite well, Mrs. Cunningham?”

“By all means, Mr. Grey.” I forced a smile. “Don’t worry about me.”

The third man in the group was Dillwyn “Dilly” Knox, a former classics scholar and papyrologist at King’s College, Cambridge. He was the most gregarious of the bunch, and was said to have a notorious personal life that included both men and women lovers. He was the proverbial ladies’ man, man’s man, man about town. Not that I’m much for gossip, mind you. But with his full lips, sultry eyes, and thick hair, he didn’t look like any professor I’d ever seen.

Mr. Knox nodded at me and took the cup from my hand. “The issue now is how to tell the Americans without them thinking we’re spying on them, too,” he said to the other men.

“This could be the turning point that brings the Americans into the war,” Mr. Grey said, his small hand gripping the handle of his cup.

“And with the Americans on our side,” Mr. Montgomery said, “we’re sure to finally win this damn war. So many lives lost and for what?”

Ears pricked, I lingered around the table straightening some file folders. I had a reputation for sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. The men wouldn’t admit it, but I’d helped them crack code and plan espionage on several occasions.

“The devil is if the Americans find out we’re intercepting their diplomatic communications, they might turn against us,” Mr. Knox said. When he glanced my way, I busied myself shuffling some papers stacked on the end of the drafting table.

“It’s a sticky wicket,” Mr. Grey said. “On top of that, we have to prove to the Americans it’s authentic. And to do that we have to give them cipher 13040, which risks the Germans discovering we’ve broken their code.”

Picking up an empty coffee cup, I glanced down at the Western Union telegram they were decoding. It was issued from a Herr Zimmerman of the German Foreign Office to Ambassador Heinrich von Eckart, the German ambassador to Mexico. The entire telegraph was a laundry list of numbers. What did the Germans want with Mexico? Were they trying to bring Mexico into the bloody blasted war?

“We have to find a way to get word to the Americans without them knowing how we got it.” Mr. Montgomery held out his empty cup as I passed by.

A light went on in my brain. “What about telling them you stole it in Mexico?” I blurted out. “Everyone knows corruption and bribery are rampant down there.” Horsefeathers! What had I done? The impudence. I’d be sacked for sure. Not to mention, I really didn’t know what went on “down there.”

“Fiona, that’s not a bad idea!” Mr. Knox said. “Hohler could pull it off.”

My face grew hot. How did he know my first name? He was a forward chap.

“Yes, Mr. H could intercept the telegram in Mexico using whatever means necessary. And then we could tell the Americans we got it in Mexico.” Mr. Montgomery beamed at me. “I say, it just might work.”

“What about the Germans?” Mr. Grey asked. “Won’t we still have to decipher it for the Americans? Then they’ll know we’ve broken their code.”

“What if your Mr. H stole the telegram already deciphered?” I asked. Glancing around at the men’s rapt faces, I continued, “Surely someone has to decipher the code for the German ambassador to Mexico.”

“Why, Mrs. Cunningham, that’s genius.” Mr. Grey gave me a full-faced smile.

“You do have a knack for espionage.” Mr. Knox winked at me.

My cheeks burned. Still, I couldn’t help but smile. It was the first time I’d felt useful since Andrew left.

A week later, when I arrived at Room 40, the men were celebrating.

“Mrs. Cunningham, congratulations.” Mr. Grey exclaimed. He gestured me over to the planning table where they were gathered.

“What for?” I asked as I joined them.

“Your jolly clever scheme for the Zimmerman telegram worked.” Mr. Knox flashed a toothy smile, the kind that made nuns blush.

“It’s only a matter of time until the Americans join the allies and we finally end this bloody war.” Mr. Grey tucked his pencil behind his mousy ear. “And it’s all thanks to you, Mrs. Cunningham.”

“We should make you an honorary consultant,” Mr. Montgomery said, stroking his beard. “You’ve been cracking code and coming up with creative solutions with the best of them.”

“Oh no. I couldn’t—” I broke off. Why not? Why couldn’t I? Because I’m a woman? Nonsense. I could match wits with any man. Anyway, it was true. I had been helping out a great deal, and it was nice to finally get recognition for my schemes instead of the men passing them off as their own.

“That’s a jolly good idea,” Mr. Knox said. He extended his hand to me.

I took it firmly and shook. He held my hand a bit too long for my liking. I gave him a stern look of reproach. Served him right. Cheeky devil.

“Welcome to Britain’s premier intelligence-gathering agency.” Mr. Montgomery extended his hand and gave me a polite handshake. “You can officially consider yourself an honorary consultant to the world’s best code breakers.”

“Surely now the Americans know what the Germans are up to in their own back garden, they will have to join the war. And when they do, it will be curtains for the Huns,” Mr. Knox said, and then disappeared into the kitchenette. He returned with a bottle of wine. “This calls for a celebration. I was saving this for the end of the war. But today marks the beginning of the end.” With great fanfare, he popped the cork. “Fetch some glasses, will you, old girl,” he said to me.

I scooted off to the kitchenette, which to my dismay was already a disaster area. Ruth and I were the only ones who even tried to keep it tidy. Cleaning up after men at war was a full-time job. I wiped out an odd assortment of glasses, put them on a tray, and brought them back into the planning room.

Mr. Knox poured wine into the glasses and the men each took one. “Where’s yours?” he turned to me. “Silly girl, go get one for yourself.” He pointed toward the kitchenette. “And quit calling me Mr. Knox. It’s Dilly.”

“Yes, sir.”

I obeyed.

Mr. Grey raised his glass. “To the beginning of the end.”

“To the Americans joining the Triple Entente!” Mr. Montgomery clinked his glass against each of the others’.

“To Fiona!” Mr. Knox downed his entire glass in one gulp.

I tightened my lips. The nerve! Using my first name without permission.

“Yes, to Mrs. Cunningham,” Mr. Grey said and held out his glass to me.

I clinked and took a sip. The wine was sour, and I didn’t particularly like it. I hadn’t drunk wine since my last wedding anniversary. The memory stabbed me like a dagger through the heart.

“Are you sure you’re quite well, Mrs. Cunningham?” Mr. Grey asked again.

“Yes, yes.”

“You know, you might have just changed the course of the war.”

“Really?”

“Don’t underestimate yourself, Mrs. Cunningham,” Mr. Grey said. His soft eyes offered added encouragement. “You may have just helped us get the Americans into the war.”

Mr. Knox refilled his glass and then raised it again. “To the new and improved espionage team.”

“Mrs. Cunningham is an honorary consultant,” Mr. Montgomery said to Mr. Knox as if in warning. “Not officially part of the team.”

Honorary or not, I raised my glass. Goodbye, Mrs. Andrew Cunningham, I made my own mental toast. To the new and improved Miss Fiona Figg. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. If you were making a movie of this book, who would you cast?
2. Share a favorite quote from the book. Why did it stand out?
3. Which character in the book would you most like to meet?
4. Which place in the book would you most like to visit?
5. What did you already know about WWI before you read the book? What new things did you learn?
6. Did the book do a good job of evoking 1917 London?
7. What themes stood out in this book?
8. How does Fiona evolve or change throughout the story? What are some the triggering events for her?
9. Did Fiona remind you of yourself or anyone you know?
10. What do you think of women’s place in war?
11. Did you like the mystery within the mystery? At what point did you solve the mystery?
12. Who was your favorite character and why? Who was your least favorite character?
13. How has women’s place in society changed since 1917?
14. Did you enjoy the mixture of humor and melancholy in the book? Did it make you laugh and cry?
15. What was your favorite scene in the book?
16. Should Fiona choose Archie Somersby or Clifford Douglas?

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