PRAISE FOR RHYS BOWEN

  “Rhys Bowen is a gift to all who love great writing, rich and complex characters, and a plot that grabs from first words.”

  —Louise Penny, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Chief Inspector Gamache novels

  “Thoroughly entertaining.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A truly delightful read.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Keep[s] readers deeply involved until the end.”

  —Portland Book Review

  “Entertainment mixed with intellectual intrigue and realistic setting[s] for which Bowen has earned awards and loyal fans.”

  —New York Journal of Books

  “[A] master of her genre.”

  —Library Journal

  “An author with a distinctive flair for originality and an entertaining narrative storytelling style that will hold the reader’s rapt attention from beginning to end.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Bowen’s vivid storytelling style holds readers enrapt.”

  —Historical Novel Society

  ALSO BY RHYS BOWEN

  In Farleigh Field

  The Tuscan Child

  The Victory Garden

  What Child Is This

  Above the Bay of Angels

  The Venice Sketchbook

  CONSTABLE EVANS MYSTERIES

  Evans Above

  Evan Help Us

  Evanly Choirs

  Evan and Elle

  Evan Can Wait

  Evans to Betsy

  Evan Only Knows

  Evan’s Gate

  Evan Blessed

  Evanly Bodies

  MOLLY MURPHY MYSTERIES

  Murphy’s Law

  Death of Riley

  For the Love of Mike

  In Like Flynn

  Oh Danny Boy

  In Dublin’s Fair City

  Tell Me, Pretty Maiden

  In a Gilded Cage

  The Last Illusion

  Bless the Bride

  Hush Now, Don’t You Cry

  The Family Way

  City of Darkness and Light

  The Edge of Dreams

  Away in a Manger

  Time of Fog and Fire

  The Ghost of Christmas Past

  Wild Irish Rose

  ROYAL SPYNESS MYSTERIES

  Her Royal Spyness

  A Royal Pain

  Royal Flush

  Royal Blood

  Naughty in Nice

  The Twelve Clues of Christmas

  Heirs and Graces

  Queen of Hearts

  Malice at the Palace

  Crowned and Dangerous

  On Her Majesty’s Frightfully Secret Service

  Four Funerals and Maybe a Wedding

  Love and Death Among the Cheetahs

  The Last Mrs. Summers

  God Rest Ye, Royal Gentlemen

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2022 by Janet Quin-Harkin, writing as Rhys Bowen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542028868 (hardcover)

  ISBN-10: 1542028868 (hardcover)

  ISBN-13: 9781542028844 (paperback)

  ISBN-10: 1542028841 (paperback)

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  First edition

  I dedicate this book to my old and dear friends Penny and Roger Fountain, who always give me such a warm welcome in their Lincolnshire home.

  They have also helped me with my research, taken me to RAF museums, shown me a Lancaster bomber and generally set the scene for this book.

  You are both very special to me!

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  London, November 1940

  Josie Banks’s favourite part of the day was when she walked to work down the Mile End Road at eight thirty every morning. That was when the street sprang to life around her: men returning from the night shift at the nearby docks—grimy, bleary eyed and stumbling with exhaustion; shopkeepers rolling up blinds on good days or sweeping up glass from a night of bombing on the bad. The smell of watery decay blew in from the Thames, mingling with the fumes of bus engines and the various scents coming from the opening shops. On the good days the greengrocer would be arranging turnips, swedes and cabbages in an attempt to make them look attractive, the fishmonger laying out what bits and pieces he had been able to scrounge from Billingsgate fish market that morning. The fishy smell overwhelmed the others as Josie approached. The fishmonger always had something to say to her.

  “Fancy a nice bit of whale meat, Josie, love?”

  “I ain’t that desperate yet,” she called back.

  “Better than starving, some say.”

  “What’s it taste like, anyway?” she asked, frowning at the slab of pink flesh that lay on the marble slab.

  “Don’t ask me; you won’t see me eating it,” he replied, and she walked on, both of them chuckling. She had pegged him as a bit of a flirt, but she didn’t mind. A few words exchanged in the high street were harmless enough, and the fact that the local shopkeepers now knew her made her feel alive—as if she belonged.

  Her destination was an improbable sight amid the pubs and fish and chip shops, the working-class commerce of the busy East End street. Just past the Mile End tube station, she came to an unassuming shop window, draped with faded lace curtains. Josie paused outside the front door where a discreet sign read “The Copper Kettle Tearoom,” took out a key and let herself in. Every morning, as Josie closed the door behind her, she looked around and gave a little sigh of contentment.

  The tearoom had been started by Madame Olga back in the early days of the century after she had fled from Russia. She had attempted to create a tiny glimmer of civilization amid the bustle of the East End. Lace-edged tablecloths and pretty pink-and-white-flowered china, teacakes and sandwiches with the crusts cut off. These days the lace-edged cloths had been replaced with glass tabletops, the china tended to be chipped and mismatched, and there were no teacakes to be had, but Josie did manage scones when she could get the flour and the margarine. Otherwise it was toast and jam, baked beans on toast, Marmite on toast and occasionally Welsh rarebit if there was the miracle of a cheese ration.

  However much it had come down in the world, the Copper Kettle still attracted housewives who wanted a cup of tea and a minute’s escape from the chores and the children or to have their nerves calmed after a night of bombing. And to Josie it represented heaven.

  Josie remembered clearly the first time she had discovered it—like a little mirage between the ironmonger’s and the pawnshop. After five years of being a housewife, she was on her way to get a job. Stan had been called up into the army, and she had pointed out that every able-bodied person was supposed to help the war effort. Stan could hardly refuse. Josie set out with excitement mingled with a little apprehension. She hadn’t worked for five years, and before that only in a garment factory. But it was a beautiful, clear January day, one of those rare winter days when a brisk wind coming up the Thames from the sea had cleared out the usual layer of choking smog that hung over the city. The sky above the warehouses and church steeples glowed like a blue arc. Josie found she had a spring in her step. Life seemed full of possibilities. She was heading for the civilian recruitment centre at Liverpool Street Station when she happened to glance at a row of shops and saw the lace curtains in the window. And what’s more, a sign pasted on the rather dirty glass: “Help Wanted.” She peeked in through the window. It was a tea shop. The sort of tea shop she had seen in the West End and where she had very occasionally treated herself to a cup of tea.

  Josie had opened the door gingerly. A bell tinkled above her head, and she stood taking in the improbable scene: little round glass-toppe
d tables with proper china teacups and saucers on them. Small vases of tired artificial flowers on each table. A large older woman appeared from behind a curtain. She was rather an alarming sight—dressed all in black, her hair swept up and held with tortoiseshell combs. She was wearing too much make-up for her age—bright red lipstick and red circles of rouge on her cheeks, her eyebrows plucked to thin lines.

  “We are not open yet,” she said to Josie in a voice heavy with a foreign accent. “Come back at eleven.”

  “I came about the job,” Josie said. “‘Help Wanted’? In the window?”

  “You have experience?” the woman asked, eyeing Josie suspiciously. “This is an establishment with class. People who come here want to be treated properly. Where have you worked?”

  “I haven’t worked recently, and nowhere like this,” Josie said. “I’ve been a housewife, taking care of my husband. But now he’s in the army and everyone is supposed to be getting a job.”

  The old woman shook her head so that the large earrings that hung from both ears rattled and jangled. “Sorry. No experience. Try somewhere else.”

  “Hey, just a minute,” Josie said. “You could at least give me a chance. What do you need—a waitress or a cook?”

  “Some of both, I suppose. My old legs are not as young as they were. I get tired easily.”

  “My husband ain’t never complained about my cooking, especially my cakes and pies. And scones. Stan says I do a good scone, you know.”

  The woman sighed so that her many chins wobbled. “Not that there is much cooking these days. No flour, no sugar and certainly no butter or eggs. We have to make do. But you just condemned yourself with your words, my dear. You said ‘ain’t.’ Too common. My customers seek refinement.”

  “In the Mile End Road?” Josie laughed. “Go on! I bet there ain’t—isn’t a refined person within five miles of here. And I can try. I’m a quick learner. And if you don’t want them to see me, just shove me in the kitchen and I’ll do your washing-up for you.”

  The woman was eyeing her with interest now. “Why do you want this job?” she asked. “Now there is a war on, there are jobs again. You could work for the government. Join the WAACs. Plenty of work.”

  Josie looked around the room. “I like nice things,” she said. “I see you’ve got Royal Albert china. Nice pattern, that.”

  “How does a woman like you know about Royal Albert china?” she demanded.

  “I may not be able to afford good stuff, but it doesn’t mean I don’t know about it. A cat can look at a king, they say, don’t they?” She gave the woman a defiant stare, then continued, “I go up west and I look in Liberty’s and Selfridges. And what I see here is that this place has got run down. You say you expect refined clientele—well, they wouldn’t appreciate the dirty windows and the curtains what needs washing, would they?” When the woman didn’t answer, she went on. “I could make this place look really nice again. I’m not afraid of hard work.” The woman was still eyeing her, so she pressed on. “And anyway, you’re a foreigner. Someone must have given you a start when you came here. Had you worked in a tearoom before this?”

  The woman gave a sad sort of smile then. “Me, I had not worked at all before I came here. I fled from Russia at the turn of the century. Before that, I was married to a high-ranking government official in Moscow. We had a fine house and a dacha in the country. Lots of servants. I never lifted a finger. I went to balls and parties and lived a ridiculous life. But then the sentiment against Jews became strong. I am a Jew, you see. My husband was murdered before my eyes. I escaped through luck and came here with nothing. I sold my last good jewellery and bought this little shop.”

  “Why here? Why not the snooty part of London?”

  “Because Jews are welcome around here. I think there is still prejudice in what you call the snooty part of London. And it was cheap enough for me.” She gave a little chuckle. “And I thought the place needed some refinement, yes?”

  “So?” Josie said. “Are you going to give me the job or not? Because if not, I’ll be on my way. But if you do, you won’t regret it. I’ll make this place very nice for you.”

  The woman smoothed down the front of her dress as if she was wiping off her hands. “I’ll give you a week’s trial, and then we shall see. I am Madame Olga.” She held out her hand.

  “Josie Banks. Pleased to meet you,” she said.

  The week’s trial at the Copper Kettle turned into a month, and it became quite clear that Josie was an asset. After years of looking after her six younger siblings, following their mother’s death, the work didn’t seem hard, and Josie loved chatting with customers, making sure all the china sparkled and trying to stretch the flour and margarine to bake the occasional cake or biscuit.

  “You are a good little worker, I’ll say that for you” was Madame Olga’s grudging first compliment. “You have children at home?”

  Josie shook her head, looking away, out of the newly cleaned window. “No. We haven’t been blessed that way yet.” She turned back to Madame Olga. “How about you? Did you have children?”

  “I had a son. Sasha,” the old woman said slowly, as if it was a pain to draw out each word. “The light of my life. Such a charming little boy. He made us all laugh. But he was very delicate. He caught a chill, out playing in the snow. It turned to pneumonia, and he died. It broke his father’s heart. And mine, too. He was only four.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Josie instinctively reached out and covered the old woman’s hand with her own. Madame Olga recoiled at the unfamiliar contact, then her eyes met Josie’s.

  “I see you have much love to give,” she said. “Your husband, he is a lucky man, I think.”

  “Go and tell him that.” Josie gave a bitter laugh. “He ain’t—isn’t—too hot on compliments. Usually it’s telling me what I’ve done wrong. And one of the things is not having any babies.”

  Madame Olga drew herself up, her eyes flashing. “You send him to me. I set him straight.”

  Josie had to laugh. “He’s off in the army somewhere. And he wouldn’t listen to no woman.” She examined Madame Olga, sitting there erect and formidable. “They should use you against the Germans. Our secret weapon. I bet you’d know how to set that Hitler straight.”

  Madame Olga chuckled, too. “I’d certainly like to give him a piece of my mind. If only we women ran the world, there would be no war, don’t you think?”

  As the weeks went by, an unlikely friendship formed. During lulls, they sat together at one of the tables with cups of tea—Russian style, brewed in a samovar—and Madame Olga told Josie tales about her youth in Russia, about the grand balls and sleigh rides with handsome Cossacks. All of it sounded too good to be true. But Josie loved to hear the stories nevertheless. Couldn’t get enough of them.

  “Tell me again about that grand duke who was courting you.”

  Madame Olga smiled sadly. “It’s all so long ago now. Like a beautiful dream for me, too.” She patted Josie’s cheek. “You are like a daughter to me. The daughter I never had.”

  Josie got the implication: Madame Olga had said she had no one in the world, except for her dear cat, Mishka. She was hinting that she was going to leave Josie the tea shop when she died.

  CHAPTER 2

  When she was a child, Josie was convinced that the stork must have left her on the wrong doorstep. The other members of her family were big-boned peasant stock with round faces and light hair. Josie was thin and dark with high cheekbones and interesting green eyes. Her mother once told her that her great-grandfather had run away with a gypsy and that she clearly had gypsy blood. She had meant this to be shaming, but Josie found it romantic. She was also blessed with an imagination—something none of her siblings possessed—as well as an appreciation for beautiful things, of which there were none in the cramped little house behind the gasworks. Her dad worked as a porter on the railway and sometimes would bring home magazines that passengers had discarded. Josie would pore over these magazines as if they were portals to a magic world—one she could transport herself to by wishing. She would cut out pictures of fashionable women and posh houses and try to imagine herself in those scenes of garden parties and horse race meetings at Ascot.

  Josie’s mother told her more than once that no good comes of daydreaming, and the sooner Josie faced the harsh reality of life, the better. She should know what she was talking about: nine children and a tenth on the way, plus a husband whose pay packet didn’t stretch to enough food even when he didn’t drink half of it. Josie’s one ray of hope lay in her teachers at school. They were impressed with her quick brain, her desire to learn, her mathematical ability and her love of reading. They told her they would recommend her for teacher training when she left school at fourteen. This sounded wonderful to Josie, but the dream was crushed when her mother died in childbirth with her tenth child, leaving six children younger than Josie. Her older brothers were already out of the house, her older sister in service. So it fell to Josie to leave school and become the mother. This continued until her father married a widow who made it clear that Josie should be out and earning money—preferably living under someone else’s roof. The chance for teacher training was now long gone. The neighbour’s daughter, Alice, made good money at a garment factory and suggested Josie join her. “You have to work fast, but it’s a lot of laughs,” she said. So Josie found herself at a sewing machine in a room with fifty other women, all singing and laughing loudly as they worked. The clatter of machines and constant chatter of the girls took a lot of getting used to.