Introduction

Paris. 1917. Never underestimate the power of a good hat… or a sharp hatpin. Sent by the War Office to follow the notorious Black Panther, file clerk turned secret agent Fiona Figg is under strict orders not to get too close and not to wear any of her usual “get-ups.” But what self-respecting British spy can resist a good disguise? Within hours of her arrival in Paris, Fiona is up to her fake eyebrows in missing maids, jewel thieves, double agents, and high treason. When Fiona is found dressed as a bellboy holding a bloody paperknife over the body of a dead countess, it’s not just her career that’s on the block. Her next date might be with Madame Guillotine.

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Excerpt

Chapter Two: The Javanese Princess

As I exited the Old Admiralty Building and strode toward Westminster station, a motorized lorry sped past, spraying my ankles with mud. I’d only made it two blocks when the sky opened up and dumped buckets. By the time I reached the station I was soaked through and must have looked a sight.

Was I the only person in London who’d forgotten her brolly?

A crush of commuters in damp overcoats exacerbated the oppressive smells of the train car. A squat man standing next to me allowed his umbrella to drip onto my shoes as he swayed to-and-fro munching on a biscuit. Why do men always think they have a right to drip on women’s accessories? I held my arms out on either side of my body like two rigid planks in hopes he’d be forced to back off. It didn’t work.

I got another dose of foul London weather walking the five blocks from the station to my flat. Summer rain squalls were the worst.

I wonder what the weather is like in Paris. My only other trip to Paris had been in April 1915, two years after Andrew and I got married. He’d been sent on a business trip for Imperial and Foreign Corporation and took me along as a sort of second honeymoon. While he’d worked days, I’d visited every fashion house on Rue de la Paix—window shopping, mind, since Andrew didn’t approve of my addiction to hats. Okay, I admit, I couldn’t resist buying a delicious plum corduroy cloche with a golden silk sash and an ivory-tipped dagger of a hatpin.

Daydreaming about those divine Parisian nights spent dining, dancing… and doing other things… I walked right past the entrance to my flat and had to turn around. My marriage to Andrew had been the best—and the worst—part of my quarter century of life.

I dripped my way upstairs to my—previously our—second-floor flat. Anxious to finish packing and prepare for the trip, I wasn’t paying attention and nearly slipped down the stairs. Luckily, I caught myself before I tumbled spout over teakettle. The last thing I needed was a broken leg… or worse.

Once inside the flat, I ran a hot bath and stripped off my wet clothes. First things first. Ahhhh, lovely. As I shut my eyes and melted into the warm water, for some inexplicable reason, I remembered Archie Somersby, a young soldier I’d met at the hospital the night Andrew died. I wasn’t thinking of the letter we wrote together to his mother, not of the telegram he sent from South Africa telling me about Fredrick Fredrick’s family, not even of that lock of wavy chestnut hair that so temptingly fell across his forehead. No, what I remembered was the warmth of his embrace as I cried myself to sleep. I’d never slept next to a man—other than Andrew, of course.

I stepped out of the bath and shook the memory from my mind. After all, it was inappropriate to crawl into hospital beds with shirtless soldiers, especially if your husband—ex-husband—just expired from mustard gas… even if the shirtless soldier was deuced handsome. Toweling off, I concentrated on my wardrobe instead of daydreaming about a soldier I’d never see again anyway.

All of my clothes were at least three years old, except for the dress I bought to wear to Andrew’s funeral. Andrew once told me that soldiers risked their lives running into no-man’s-land to retrieve silk parachutes for their sweethearts to make a new blouse or a fancy pair of knickers. I didn’t have any Tommies pining after me and risking their lives for a piece of silk. And I hadn’t purchased any new clothes since the war started… unless you counted the disguises from Angels Fancy Dress shop. But those were for business, not pleasure.

Captain Hall had forbidden me from wearing any “silly disguises.” I packed them anyway. I mean, you never knew when a pair of men’s trousers or a mustache would come in handy. It may not be the dark ages, but there were still plenty of places a respectable woman couldn’t—or shouldn’t—go on her own.

I stared into my wardrobe. None of my outfits were chic enough for Paris. What are the latest fashions? Fiona, get a grip. You’re not going to Paris on blooming holiday. No, I was going to Paris to tail Fredricks to prove he was working for the Germans. I knew it, of course. But for some unfathomable reason, the War Office needed even more proof he was a traitor. So which of my outfits was most appropriate for trailing a German spy? Practicality won out over vanity, and I chose two skirt sets with matching blouses. There was a war on, after all.

Not knowing what I’d encounter on the night train to Paris, I decided on a plain ankle-length skirt with handy pockets and a striped sailor blouse with a red silk tie. I rolled up my stockings, polished my scuffed Balmoral boots the best I could, and laced them tightly. I packed my sturdy oxfords as backups. I may need to be quick on my feet, and my favorite Mary Janes just wouldn’t do. Too bad I didn’t buy those ridiculous new rubber lace-ups called “sneakers.” In my new line of work, I might need to do some sneaking. Next trip to Liberty, I’d have to look for a pair.

I checked the insole of my oxford for Archie Somersby’s telegram. Barmy, I know, but that’s where I keep it. That telegram was my only memento of the handsome lieutenant. Just because I may never see him again didn’t mean I had to forget him.

I rested against my wardrobe door, wishing I could bring some nice dresses and of course more hats. But my suitcase was full. Ah well. I leaned into my overflowing case and pushed the air out of the neat stack of clothes. This will have to do. With the sacrifices so many others were making, the least I could do was sacrifice my vanity. On impulse I snatched the corduroy plum cloche from the top shelf and tucked it under my arm. Who knows, maybe its six-inch hatpin would come in handy. I’d pricked myself on it enough times to know it was as sharp as a dagger.

With all the costumes taking up so much room in my luggage, I had to sit on my case to get it latched. So much for Captain Hall’s insistence on no disguises. I smiled to myself. If he discovered I was gadding about Paris dressed as a dance-hall girl or parlor maid, that would really get his blinkers going.

Yet after my performance as Doctor Vogel at Ravenswick Abbey last month, I’d come to realize that I felt more comfortable as someone else. In any case, my hair still wasn’t quite long enough for a finger wave, so a wig was an absolute necessity, even for the persona of Miss Fiona Figg. Luckily, since my last assignment, my assortment of wigs had become almost as extensive as my collection of hats.

Now which wig should I wear to chase the Great White Hunter, Fredrick Fredricks, across the continent? I never could find a wig to match my own auburn hair. The closest I’d come was too orange and too puffy, and it made me look like I was wearing a pumpkin pudding atop my head. I’d already packed my favorite, a strawberry-blond bobbed number… along with several extra hairpins, which I’d learned in my espionage course came in handy for picking locks.

Touching each of my four remaining wigs in turn, I settled on a lovely brunette hairpiece with soft curls around the face and a chignon on top. I tugged it into place and examined myself in my hand mirror. The effect was startling. For a moment, I saw my great-aunt Mable staring back at me. Mable was never considered a beauty and eventually joined a convent. Whatever happened, I vowed not to do the same.

I took one last look at the flat where Andrew and I had spent four happy years, before Nancy, the husband-stealing tart, came along. She was another reason to get out of town. I still dreaded running into the second Mrs. Cunningham. Seeing their baby, little Georgie, at Andrew’s funeral had pulled at my heart, both out of pity for the poor little orphan, and because Andrew and I never were able to have a baby. If we had, maybe he wouldn’t have left me. I suppose little Georgie was living proof my body and not Andrew’s was defective in that regard.

Sigh. No matter. Brushing imaginary dirt from my hands, I turned my back on my life with Andrew and headed for the door. Remember, old girl, what your body lacks in ability, you make up for in determination. If I couldn’t be a mother, I might as well be a spy. I strengthened my resolve to catch Fredricks in the act of espionage and prove myself to Captain Hall.

Without looking back, I picked up my suitcase and stepped out the door to my flat and into the hallway. Goodbye, London. Hello, Paris.

* * *

At Victoria station, the platform was crowded with men in khaki uniforms. The few women with their colorful coats and frocks stood out like daffodils and bluebells against the bombed out remains of a Zeppelin raid. I picked at the fingers of my gloves and waited for the train. To calm my nerves, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, which I immediately regretted. The fetid smells of garbage mixed with unmentionable bodily fluids and coal smoke assaulted my nostrils.

A few minutes later, the Southeastern and Chatham Railway train screeched to a stop, and arriving passengers jostled against those waiting to get on. A large man with titanic cases in each hand pushed his way through the crowd. I had to jump backward to avoid getting run over. As I steadied myself and rearranged my skirt, I saw a familiar lanky form board a second-class car. Blast! Not him. I thought he was taking an afternoon train. He’d blow my cover for sure.

I shielded my eyes with my hand and peered at him from across the station. No doubt about it. Captain Clifford Douglas had just boarded my train. Think, Fiona. Now what? The overly eager captain would blow my cover for sure. It was too late to rifle through my luggage and get into one of my disguises. I’d have to avoid him at all costs.

The cost turned out to be exactly eighteen shillings and three pence, the price of upgrading to a first-class ticket, which, I must say, did considerable damage to my pocketbook. I wonder if the War Office could give me an expense account. At least if Clifford Douglas stayed put in second class, I wouldn’t have to worry about running into him during the eight-hour trip. Still, I’d have to be especially careful when transferring to and from the ferry boat.

I’d never ridden in a first-class train car. Instead of uncomfortable bench seats, cushioned wicker chairs sat on either side of the carriage. I found myself in a long, narrow sitting room featuring wood paneling, chandeliers, and heavy curtains adorning cut-glass windows. A porter helped me with my suitcase, and I took a seat in the back corner next to a small table upon which sat a lovely little vase with three pink roses. They stood out against the darker burgundy carpet. All in all, a jolly agreeable room.

I’d barely removed my gloves when a waiter appeared with a glass of champagne. I took a sip. When I thought of all those going without, a pang of guilt chased away the pleasure of the moment. Sigh. Well, perhaps not entirely. I finished my drink and marveled at the furs and feathers of the first-class world. The disparity between the luxury of this world and the wartime scarcity of my everyday existence was like the difference between a scone with clotted cream and a margarine sandwich on stale bread.

The conductor came through and asked to see my ticket and my passport. I guess even the wealthy can’t escape wartime security protocol.

My passport still had Mrs. A. Cunningham scrawled in blue ink across its cover. We’d been happily married when I got it and seeing Mrs. A. Cunningham on an official document had made my heart soar. Now, it made my heart ache. My marriage was gone and so was Andrew.

After the conductor moved on, I leaned my head back against the upholstered headrest, clutching my passport as if my life depended on it. Despite my excitement about the journey, the champagne combined with the train’s rhythmic jostling and the late hour made it difficult to stay awake.

* * *

The uncanny sensation of a human presence nearby woke me up to find an elegant woman bending over to brush off her gorgeous, beaded pump. When she saw me watching her, she slinked into a seat across from me and glanced around. Her catlike movements gave the impression she was stealing away from someone. She was dressed as if she’d just come from the opera, with a fur stole around her shoulders and a voluptuous velvet turban hat pinned to her raven locks.

I wrapped my cotton jacket more tightly around my chest to cover the inadequacy of my plain skirt and blouse.

When she glanced at me again, I realized I’d been staring and looked away, but not before she caught me with her mesmerizing cocoa eyes.

“Are you traveling to Paris?” I asked. Stupid question since it was a train to Paris.

“Yes,” she said in an accent I didn’t recognize. She draped her fur across the back of the seat.

“From London?”

She nodded with such grace you’d think she was on stage.

“Are you going home?”

“In a manner of speaking,” she said, tugging one at a time at the fingers of her long gloves. She removed her gloves and laid them across her lap. “Don’t all women who run away from their husbands go to Paris?”

Perhaps even this dark beauty was a wronged woman whose philandering husband had fallen into the arms of his secretary.

“Lady Gresha MacLeod.” She held out her slim hand as if she expected me to kiss it. A jade ring on her index finger sparkled in the light.

Not another countess. My experience with countesses was tragic.

“Fiona Smith,” I said, disappointed at my lack of imagination. Hadn’t Captain Hall told me not to use an alias? Only an hour into my assignment, and already I’d disobeyed a direct order.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Smith. Or is it Mrs.?” she asked with a mischievous grin. When she smiled, she looked like a twenty-year old, but under all her make-up, I suspected she was well over thirty.

“I’m afraid all women pretty much sums me up.” Truth be told, I too was running away to Paris to escape a husband, or at least the haunting memories of one.

She gave me a knowing nod, opened the velvet purse that was dangling from her wrist, and pulled out a bonbon wrapped in foil. “Would you like a chocolate?”

“You have chocolate?” I hadn’t seen chocolate since before the war broke out.

“From one of my admirers.” She held out her hand, the little gem sparkling in her palm.

“Thank you.” I took the sweetie, picked open the wrapper, and popped it into my mouth. I closed my eyes and savored the dark, rich bit of heaven. What a treat. “The only thing an admirer ever gave me was a head cold.”

Her laughter was as sweet as the chocolate.

“Do you have many admirers?” I asked, hoping her handbag was filled with more goodies.

“Now that you mention it…” she leaned closer and whispered. “There’s my longtime friend Émile Guimet, who gave me my start at the Musée. He’s very wealthy and spoils me. And the famous lawyer Édouard Clunet, perhaps you’ve heard of him? Or Louis Renault, the car manufacturer?”

I shook my head.

“Crown Prince William, you’ve heard of him, surely,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, and unwrapped another bonbon. “I’m not one to kiss and tell, but boy could he kiss. Beyond that though, he’s worthless.” She popped the treat into her rosebud mouth.

I gaped at her like a schoolgirl hearing about the birds and the bees for the first time.

Even with her hand in front of her mouth, I could see she was amused at my naiveté.

“A beautiful girl like you must have many lovers too, n’est-ce pas?”

My face burned. I lowered my gaze but didn’t answer. Andrew was the first and only. What was a virtue to others must seem silly to this worldly woman?

“No matter.” She waved away the clouds of embarrassment. “All that will change when you arrive in Paris.” She put her hand to her bejeweled bosom and sighed. “You haven’t lived until you’ve sampled the delights of Paris.”

The memory of Archie Somersby’s bare chest ambushed me, followed by a wave of guilt. I twisted the wedding ring around my finger. Even though Andrew was dead—and had left me—I couldn’t take it off. I guess that ring offered a kind of protection. “I expect with this horrid war, even the delights of Paris will be scarce.”

“You’d be surprised what a resourceful woman can do.” Lady MacLeod touched the pearl necklace around her throat.

“Many women feel all resources are best used to help the war effort,” I said and immediately regretted my abrupt tone. But the lady’s flippant attitude toward the war was grating. She obviously hadn’t spent time in a military hospital tending to those poor broken boys.

“If anything, the war teaches us to savor the moment.” She tightened the strings on her purse.

Maybe she had a point.

“Think of all those unfortunate women on the Titanic who waved away the dessert cart.” She winked.

I burst out laughing. I had to admit, Lady Gresha MacLeod was a charming woman. I could see how men might find her irresistible. Her playful but forthright manner calmed me considerably as I embarked on the adventure of my life.

“What do you miss most from before the war?” she asked.

“Strawberries, lovely ripe strawberries.” I don’t know why I said strawberries. Of all the things to miss. “And lemons. I miss lemons and a cool glass of lemonade.”

She pulled at her purse strings, and for a moment I thought maybe she was going to pull fresh produce from her handbag. “Sweet and sour,” she said. “You’re a woman of deep contrasts, a sign of intelligence. I think I’ll call you Miss Lemons.”

* * *

I stayed close to Lady MacLeod as we made our way onto the ferry boat. Again, the first-class section was decked out like a posh lounge. If it weren’t for the rocking, the foghorn, and the plume of smoke as we set sail, I wouldn’t have known I was at sea. But as the journey progressed, the wind whipped up the waves, making it harder to ignore that I was on a boat. I didn’t fancy boats. I never had. Even as a child, I hated the water. My father insisted I learned to swim, but I did my best to defy him and always managed to sink like a rock.

I gripped the arms of my seat and willed myself not to be seasick.

Lady MacLeod didn’t seem bothered by the roiling seas. “Champagne,” she said, giving me a look of pity. “Best cure for seasickness.” She ordered a bottle of some fancy French bubbly and then forced me to drink it.

I really didn’t trust putting anything into my mouth at the moment, but I obliged the lady by taking small sips until I’d finished the glass. By golly, maybe she’s right. I did feel a bit better. She took the bottle out of the ice bucket and refilled my glass. I suspected this was a case where too much of the cure could be worse than the disease.

When Lady MacLeod noticed I hadn’t touched the second glass, she asked, “May I?” and drank it herself. “I hate to waste good champagne.”

I guess the war had made us all more frugal, even posh ladies like Gresha MacLeod.

Despite the lady’s effective cure for seasickness, I was glad to soon be back on solid ground. Together, she and I disembarked the ferry and boarded the train for the final leg of the trip to Paris. I took the porter’s outstretched hand for support and took a big step up onto the train. As I did, I glanced down the platform. Crickey. I could swear I saw a man who looked exactly like Fredrick Fredricks. Must be the champagne going to my head. Fredricks was already in Paris at the Grand Hotel.

Lady MacLeod and I settled into another wonderfully comfortable first-class compartment. She ordered more champagne, saying, “Nothing like the duo of champagne and a nice traveling companion to make a journey pleasant.”

“Indeed,” I agreed. I was falling under the charming lady’s spell. But even she couldn’t compete with my need for sleep. I kept nodding off, and eventually gave in. Sometime around dawn, I awoke to the clattering of a tea cart.

Out the window, the farms, and forests we passed were bathed in a misty violet hue.

A waiter came round with the cart and offered tea and scones with real butter and thick-cut marmalade. I’d been eating stale margarine sandwiches for so long, I’d forgotten the pleasure of a warm scone slathered in butter and marmalade. Amazing how such a simple pleasure improved the quality of one’s life. More amazing how the privileged few still enjoyed the simple pleasures while so many went without.

Lady MacLeod extended a delicate pinky finger and sipped her tea as gracefully as she did everything else. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a lipstick. A playbill came with it and tumbled onto the floor.

Across the top, it read “Mata Hari, Poetry in Motion,” and across the bottom it said “Javanese Princess. Star of Dance.” In between was the photograph of a dark beauty wearing an ornate copper breastplate, sheer silken veils, and not much else. The Javanese princess had a crown on her head that looked like some sort of bejeweled antler. Did Lady Gresha MacLeod go in for that sort of thing?

Good heavens. I nearly choked on my scone. I glanced from the photograph to the lady sitting across from me. They were one and the same. Lady Gresha MacLeod was Mata Hari. What a strange name. I’d seen it some place before. But where?

My cheeks burned and I turned away. I’d never considered myself a prude, but if stripping off their petticoats and dancing behind veils was what wealthy ladies did in Paris, I was glad I wasn’t a lady, not an official one, anyway.

“Tickets and passports,” the conductor called as he entered the train car.

I hauled my handbag out from under the little table. When I glanced up, Lady MacLeod had disappeared. I opened my purse and rummaged around for my passport.

“That’s okay, miss, I remembers you,” the conductor said. “I seen your passport and ticket when we set out last night.”

I grimaced. I realized that was the last time I’d seen my passport and my ticket too. I looked around my seat. Nothing but crumbs from breakfast. When the conductor had passed through the car, I knelt and felt around on the floor. What happened to my passport? It was nowhere to be seen.

I remembered showing it to the conductor shortly after we’d left London. Then I fell asleep and woke up when Lady MacLeod—aka Mata Hari—was brushing her shoe… Blast it!

She wasn’t brushing her shoe. She was picking up my passport.

But why would Mata Hari steal my passport? view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. Did you learn anything about the time period or Paris during WW1?

2. What did you think of the representation of Mata Hari?

3. Did you find the tension between Fiona and Fredricks satisfying? Is he a worthy opponent for Fiona?

4. If Fiona is in a love "square" with Archie, Fredricks, and Clifford, whose side are you on?

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