“I can assure you that we vet all of our clients,” Hazel said.
“How?” he asked.
“References. Identification cards. Service records. University degrees. We want to ensure that everyone is being honest. We also require documentation of all letters of patent in the case of peers,” Hazel said.
“You have members of the peerage using your service?” he asked.
“Mr. Dennison, it would shock you who I have matched with their spouse,” Hazel said. Marie could feel the implied power hang in the air.
Still, Dennison said, “I would like to see your record books and your correspondence. As Miss Bohn is Gunter’s secretary, she should be more than equipped to identify his handwriting.”
Before Marie could protest, Hazel smiled at the man. “I’m afraid that will be rather difficult.”
“Why?” Dennison asked.
Outside in the reception, a woman’s bright, “Wonderful day to help people fall in love, darlings!” rang out.
“Who is that?” Dennison asked.
Hazel’s lips twitched. “That would be Lady Moreton. Perhaps you would like to make your request to open up our books to her yourself.”
All the years that Marie had been coming to the agency, she’d never met Lady Moreton. Part of it was her own doing. There was something intimidating about a regular girl meeting a baron’s wife. But in that moment Marie couldn’t have been happier for Lady Moreton’s elevated status because it unsettled Dennison. He couldn’t bully or demand from Lady Moreton in the way he might with Marie or Hazel. Lifting his chin, though, he said, “I shall do just that.”
Dennison was the first through Hazel’s door, giving Marie just enough time to grab Hazel’s hand as she rounded her desk. “I haven’t told him that we know each other.”
“I gathered as much. I think it’s best to keep him in the dark. I don’t like the things he’s hinting at one bit,” whispered Hazel.
Out in the reception, Dennison appeared already to have introduced himself to Lady Moreton, because she was staring him down as though he were lower than pond scum.
“Does the Home Office not have enough to do without involving itself in the personal lives of British citizens?” asked Lady Moreton with a sniff.
“It is precisely because there is a war on that I’m here, my lady,” said Dennison.
“What is it that you want then?” Lady Moreton asked.
“I would like you to open your records for our inspection.”
“Lady Moreton, I’ve already informed Mr. Dennison that we will not do that,” said Hazel.
“Well, what do you have to say to that, Mr. Dennison?” Lady Moreton asked as she removed a cigarette from a gold case she’d produced from her handbag.
“I will need to see all of your records. Matches, correspondence, receipts,” he pressed.
Lady Moreton lit her cigarette, taking her time as she drew on it and blew the smoke out to the ceiling. Then she said, “No, I think not.”
“I’m sorry?” he asked.
“I refuse to have you snooping around in my business dealings without a judge’s order.”
Dennison stiffened. “There is a war on.”
Marie was beginning to understand that he used the refrain like a bludgeon to get his way.
“The papers don’t seem to be convinced that there’s much happening at all at the moment. So anticlimactic after all the fuss when Hitler invaded Poland. So far, all this war seems to have done is produce a lot of pesky false air raid sirens. And did you know, they told my nephew there will be a wait before he’s called up because too many young men have tried to join the army? Of course, my sister’s overjoyed, even though he’ll look dashing in an officer’s dress uniform,” said Lady Moreton.
“Ma’am, the records,” Dennison prompted.
The baroness arched a brow. “Mr. Dennison, the last time I checked, none of this changes the fact that you have no legal grounds to come in here and make such demands of a private business.”
“I can compel you on legal grounds.” Dennison practically ground out the words.
“Then I suggest you do that, or else I shall have to pay a visit to the Lord Chief Justice. He was up in the country with us in June, you see. He’s mad about cricket.”
“You have a duty to your country, madam,” he said.
“I am acutely aware of my duty, and it does not include helping men like you persecute people when you cannot produce solid evidence of any wrongdoing. Good day, Mr. Dennison. You’ll forgive us for not seeing you out.”
Dennison clenched his hands into fists, but nonetheless made a small bow. The door slammed behind him.
Lady Moreton let out a long breath. “If ever there was a time for a stiff drink, this is it. Still, if we start drinking before luncheon, where will we be? Nancy, if you would brew a pot of tea?” Then the agency owner turned to Marie. “Now, who are you?”
Marie would’ve laughed if she hadn’t been quite so shaken by the events of the morning. “I’m Marie Bohn.”
“Oh, you’re the friend from boarding school,” said Lady Moreton.
Marie glanced over at Hazel. “Yes, Ethelbrook. We lived with our friend Nora.”
“Nora Walcott, now it’s all coming back to me,” said Lady Moreton. “Do you know Mrs. Walcott? Horrible woman. Nose stuck so high up in the air it’s a wonder she can see where to walk. Now, Hazel”—Lady Moreton turned to her head matchmaker—“what is all this nonsense about?”
In a few sentences, Hazel filled her employer in on Dennison’s visit.
“Do you know Herr Gunter?” Lady Moreton asked.
“Yes, I matched him with Mrs. Boyne,” said Hazel, her eyes sliding to Marie. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. He contacted me ages ago and said that he had heard you mention me and the agency when you were talking to one of your friends in the office.”
“What’s happened to the man?” Lady Moreton asked.
“They think he set sail on one of the passenger ships under a false name. I doubt they’ll ever find him,” said Marie. I doubt I’ll ever hear from him again.
“Well, what’s done is done,” said Lady Moreton, stubbing out her cigarette.
“What shall I do if Dennison comes back?” Hazel asked.
“Ring round to the house. I’ll speak to our solicitor to see what legal ground we have,” said Lady Moreton with a definitive nod. “War or not, I refuse to be ordered around by a man who’s clearly never even heard of a good tailor.”
eight
To the editor:
It is time for this government to consider the very real threat of the people living among us. There may be some Germans who look upon Britain fondly, but it is too much to ask the British people to risk their safety to keep those innocent few free. Intern them. Deport them. It is vital for the safety of this country that the German population be monitored and contained.
—Albion Evening Courier, October 9, 1939
A light mist of rain drifted down on Tottenham, dancing in the dim light of the streetlamps nearly entirely covered in accordance with the blackout. Marie tugged her coat closed at the throat and resisted the urge to pat the scarf that covered her hair again. Fussing with it would only cause the silk to slip off and bag around her neck.