The bus doors opened, and Marie readjusted the black leather handbag that hung on her wrist. She opened her mouth to ask the large gentleman wearing a brown suit to move but stopped herself. Instead, she put one hand to her hat, angled her shoulder, and pushed through to the crowd.
“I beg your pardon,” said a short, red-faced man with an umbrella hooked over his arm that threatened to poke anyone who came too near.
She gave him a small smile but still pushed through until she stepped down onto solid pavement.
The rush of air after the stuffy bus felt good against her skin. She resettled her handbag on her arm and hurried through the tall iron and redbrick gates of Royal Imperial University’s south entrance.
Students scurried around her, including two men with small cases on long leather straps that bounced against their hips as they walked. Their gas masks. Everyone was supposed to carry them or risk being fined by one of the volunteer air raid wardens who now patrolled London’s streets. Normally Marie dutifully toted hers around, but that morning she’d heard stirrings from inside Henrik’s room. In her hurry to leave the flat and avoid her cousin, she’d forgotten to pull her mask out of the coat closet near the front door.
Marie tucked her chin down and sped up her steps as she made her way down the eastern corridor of the main campus courtyard, right through the door to the humanities building, up two flights of stairs. There was no light on under the door of the Russian Department offices. No Anna yet.
The door to the German Department offices was unlocked, but that was hardly a surprise. Herr Gunter kept unpredictable morning hours. Sometimes he would come in for afternoon classes only, choosing to write his articles at his house in Wimbledon in the mornings. But then there were days when Marie would come in and find the office already hazy with cigarette smoke. Sometimes Herr Gunter even made his own coffee in the little kitchenette to the right of her desk, something he would never do if she was at work.
She put her handbag into her desk drawer and took off her hat and the cropped light brown and white checked jacket that topped her dress. Then she removed the dust cover protecting her typewriter. Before sitting down, she knocked on Herr Gunter’s door. A pause. No sound. She checked her watch and frowned. That was odd. He must be in because she was certain she’d turned off the lights when she’d left the evening before—last one out, as happened so often these days as she tried to avoid Henrik’s nights at home.
Deciding that Herr Gunter must’ve gone in search of something to eat, Marie set about pulling things down from the cheap laminate kitchenette cabinets to make fresh coffee while water boiled in the kettle. The professor was particular about his coffee, demanding a freshly made pot next to his hand whether he chose to drink it or not. It was one of the first things she’d learned when he’d taken over the German Department.
When the kettle had boiled, Marie poured the water over the grounds, replaced the lid on the Arzberg china coffeepot, and hefted the tray set with all of the accessories. She made her way back to the professor’s door, setting the tray down to knock again. When there was no answer, she twisted the doorknob, picked up the tray again, edged the door open with her hip, and stopped in her tracks.
Herr Gunter’s usually impeccable office was an absolute mess. Desk drawers were pulled half open, and the large leather office chair sat askew. Papers were strewn everywhere, as though someone had sifted through them at a manic pace, not caring that they were all over the floor. Half the books were missing, leaving those that remained leaning drunkenly on their shelves. The prints that lined his walls were all still there, but the oil painting of a ship canting dangerously in a storm by a minor nineteenth-century artist was gone.
“What on earth…”
Neil stood a few feet behind her, peering over her shoulder at the ransacked office.
“The door was unlocked when I came in, and when I opened it…” Marie looked in dismay at the office.
“Was he robbed?” Neil asked.
“I don’t know.” Marie looked around for a place to set the tray but every surface was covered. If this had been a robbery, the police wouldn’t want her disturbing anything.
“Here, let me,” said Neil. His fingers brushed over hers as he took the tray from her and set it down on her neat desk.
“Thank you.”
She snuck a glance at Neil from under her lashes as he came back to join her just inside the door. She’d hardly seen him since the night he’d kissed her. After war had been declared, Tante Matilda had been nervous about Marie going anywhere in the evenings.
Still, she’d missed him. Seeing him in the department was always so different. Here they were on uneven ground, and she could feel it even more acutely since their kiss.
“What if he was taken?” Neil asked, breaking the silence. The letters ordering Germans and Austrians living in Britain to attend tribunals had starting coming out of the Home Office, just as Nora had warned her they would. Every resident alien now lived in fear of the postman, knowing that soon an envelope with their name on it would appear in their letter box.
Still, something nagged at Marie.
“Half of his things are missing. Far too many to fit into a simple briefcase. And the painting that hung over there was too large to pack away easily. I think he left it because he had to,” she said.
“Very astute, Miss Bohn.” A deep voice made both Marie and Neil jump. Behind them, a man in a nondescript gray suit came through to the main office trailing Dr. Bertram Hughes, the dean of humanities at Royal Imperial University. The two men stopped, their eyes fixed on Marie and Neil as though trying to read straight into their souls.
Marie folded her hands behind her back. “Dr. Hughes, good morning.”
“Good morning, Miss Bohn. Is that coffee you’ve made?” he asked, staring down at the service on her desk. She nodded. “It’s a shame it’s not tea, but never mind. This is Thomas Dennison, from the Home Office.”
Marie’s hand flew up to the base of her throat. The Home Office didn’t come out to German professors’ offices for no reason.
“Miss Bohn. And you are?” Dennison asked, looking straight at Neil.
“Neil Havitt.” He stuck out his hand, and Dennison examined it a moment before gingerly shaking Neil’s hand.
“Are you a professor?” Dennison asked.
“One day,” said Neil with a grin.
“Herr Gunter was Neil’s adviser,” said Dr. Hughes quickly.
Neil’s smile fell at the mention of the connection between himself and Herr Gunter, but Dennison didn’t look at him. Instead, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and began to methodically wipe the hand he’d used to shake Neil’s. “I see.”
“Miss Bohn is Herr Gunter’s secretary, as I mentioned,” said Dr. Hughes.
“Yes. Miss Bohn, I’d like to speak with you,” Dennison said. It was not, Marie noticed, a request.
“Of course,” she said.
“Here is fine. And we’ll have coffee, since you’ve made it,” said Dennison.
Marie’s spine stiffened. She wanted to tell the man that she wasn’t his secretary—he could pour his own coffee if he wanted it so badly—but he was from the Home Office, and something about him made even Dr. Hughes nervous. Reluctantly, she set about pouring.