Grace flipped through the paper. On page nine, a picture of Eleanor Trigg, the same one that had been on the news the previous evening, was displayed on the bottom half. There was a second photo, a grainy, nondescript image of the street, not the grisly scene itself, thankfully. Grace scanned the article but it contained nothing more than she already knew.
It was not, Grace reminded herself, her problem. She smoothed her skirt and then marched into the consulate, eager to be rid of the photos and on her way to work.
The lobby of the British consulate was unremarkable, with just a few hard-backed chairs and a low table holding a plant that had died weeks ago. A lone man in a suit and derby hat sat in one of the chairs, looking as though he would rather be anywhere else. The receptionist, an older woman with her gray hair swept up in a knot and reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, clacked at a Remington.
“Yes?” the woman asked. She did not look up from the typewriter as Grace approached.
Grace saw how it must look—an unknown woman, arriving unannounced. She was nobody here.
But Grace had learned much from her months of working with Frankie to help the immigrants about wheedling her way through government bureaucracy, getting what she wanted from tired civil servants. Steeling herself, she held up the envelope. “I found these photos and I believe they belong to a British citizen.” Belonged, she corrected herself silently.
“And you want us to do what with them, exactly?” The woman, her English accent cold and clipped, did not wait for an answer or bother to mask her impatience. “Thousands of British citizens come to New York every day. Very few of them ever check in with the consulate.”
“Well, this one won’t be checking in with the consulate at all,” Grace replied, more snappishly than she intended. She held up the newspaper. “The photographs were owned by Eleanor Trigg, the woman who was hit by a car outside Grand Central yesterday. She was British. I was thinking if there was a family member or next of kin, they might want these photographs.”
“I can’t comment on the personal matters of British citizens,” the receptionist said officiously. “If you would like to leave them here, we can hold them and see if someone claims them.” The receptionist held out her hand impatiently.
Grace hesitated. This was her moment and she could just leave the photos and be done with them. But she felt a connection to the photos now, a sense of ownership. She couldn’t just abandon them to someone who so clearly couldn’t care less. She pulled back her hand. “I’d rather speak with someone. Perhaps the consul.”
“Sir Meacham isn’t here.” And wouldn’t see you even if he was, the receptionist’s tone seemed to say.
“Then can I make an appointment?” Even before Grace finished, she knew she would be turned away.
“The consul is a very busy man. He doesn’t get involved in these types of matters. If you would prefer not to leave the photos, you can leave your contact information in case anyone inquires about them.” Grace took the pencil the receptionist offered and jotted down the address and phone number of the boardinghouse. She could practically hear the paper falling into the wastebasket as she reached the exit.
Well, that hadn’t worked out, Grace thought as she started out the door of the consulate. She lifted the envelope of photographs to study it for further clues. Then she glanced up at the clock on the building across the street. Nine thirty. She was late for work again. Maybe if she told Frankie what had happened, he might have some idea what she should do next.
As she started down the steps of the consulate, an older man with a waxed moustache wearing a pinstripe suit passed her in the other direction, entering the building. “Excuse me?” Grace called out impulsively. “Are you Sir Meacham?”
Confusion crossed the man’s face, as though he were not quite sure himself. “I am,” he said. His expression changed to one of annoyance. “What is it that you want?”
“If you have a moment, I just need to ask you a few questions.”
“I’m sorry, but I really don’t have the time. I’m late for a meeting. If you make an appointment at the front desk, I’m sure the vice consul will...”
She did not wait for him to finish. “It’s about Eleanor Trigg.”
He cleared his throat, an almost cough. Clearly, he had heard. “I suppose you saw the news story. Very sad. Were you a friend of hers?”
“Not exactly. But I have something that belonged to her.”
The consul waved her hurriedly back inside the building. “I have two minutes,” he said, leading her across the lobby. Seeing Grace with the consul, the receptionist’s eyes widened with surprise.
The consul led her to a room off the main lobby that was well-appointed, with brown leather chairs scattered around dark oak tables and heavy red velvet curtains held back by gold rope. A bar or club of some sort, presently closed. “How can I help?” Sir Meacham asked, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice.
“Eleanor Trigg was a British citizen, wasn’t she?”
“Indeed. We received a call last night from the police. They knew from her passport that she was British. We’re trying to locate family to claim her body.”
Grace hated the cold, impersonal way that sounded. “Did you know her?”
“Not personally, no. I knew of her. I happened to be detailed to Whitehall during the war. She worked for our government, did something clerical for one of the sections of SOE, that is, Special Operations Executive.”
Grace had never even heard of Special Operations Executive and wanted to ask the consul about it. But he was looking at the grandfather clock in the corner impatiently. She was running out of time.
“I found some photos,” Grace said, being purposefully vague as to how. She took them out of the envelope and spread them before the consul like a hand of cards. “I brought them to the consulate this morning because I believe they belonged to Miss Trigg. Do you know who these women are?”
The consul pulled out his reading glasses to study the photographs. Then he shifted his gaze away. “I’ve never seen them before. Any of them. Perhaps they were friends of hers, or even relatives.”
“But some of them are in uniform,” she pointed out.
The consul waved his hands dismissively. “Probably just FANYs, members of the women’s nursing auxiliary.” Grace shook her head. Something about the girls’ grimly set jaws, their serious expressions, suggested more. The consul looked up. “What exactly is it that you want from me?”
Grace faltered. She had come here just to return the photos. But now she found she wanted answers. “I’m curious who these girls are—and what their connection was to Eleanor Trigg.”