Mrs. Roosevelt's Confidante (20 page)

RAF Captain Max Evans's film of the new construction in Peenemünde was sent on to Danesfield House in Medmenham, in Buckinghamshire, England. Like Bletchley Park, Danesfield House was a great house located just outside London that had been taken over by the government for war work. At Danesfield, that work specifically was photo analysis.

The men and women there were trained to look for “anything odd or unusual” in the thousands of grainy aerial images set before them. Their mantra was “size, shape, shadow, and tone.” They used black-and-white prints, rather than color, as the varying shades of gray in the shadows revealed more information about what was happening on the ground below.

In what used to be Danesfield House's ballroom, now filled with rows of military-issue desks and battered metal file cabinets, Daisy Langston, one of the low-level photo analysts, was going over the prints made from Captain Evans's film with a loupe. She'd never before seen anything like the three enormous circles. “It's strange, that's all I know,” she said to Beatrice Spencer, sitting opposite. She passed over the photograph.

The tea cart had just been by, and Bea was eating a Sally Lunn roll, but she wiped her sticky fingers on a cotton napkin, then took the photo. She squinted through her own loupe. “You're right. It's queer is what it is.”

Much of the time, Daisy and Bea didn't know what they were supposed to be looking for; the two young women joked it was like looking for a needle in a haystack when you didn't even know what a needle looked like. But they'd worked at Danesfield long enough and seen enough aerial photographs of Europe that they'd both developed a keen instinct for what was “normal” and what wasn't.

“Let's take a closer look.” Daisy grabbed for the stereoscope, which allowed her to see the photos in three dimensions.

Daisy was leggy and raven-haired, chosen both because her father was a Lord and because she had perfect vision—as did all the photo interpreters at Danesfield House, men and women alike. Like Bea, who had graduated from St. Hilda's in 1940, most were academics, mathematicians, and scientists recruited from Oxford and Cambridge. Finding the hidden details in photographs required not just excellent vision but also a sharp intellect and a creative mind. Seeing the image was one thing but working out exactly what it was, something else.

“Anything?” Bea asked. She was wide-shouldered and athletic, a former champion golfer, swimmer, and tennis player, with chestnut-brown hair and freckles.

“Here, look for yourself.”

“What is it? Some kind of tube?” Bea crinkled her nose.

“Look, if you see it in 3-D, you'll see it's something standing. See, here's the shadow.” Daisy and Bea knew that sometimes one could learn more from the shadow than from the object itself.

Bea looked with longing at her abandoned Sally Lunn roll but said, “All right, let's measure it, then.” The “tube” was almost forty feet high. “It's a big pole sticking up in the air!” she exclaimed.

Daisy pushed back a lock of blue-black hair. “Well, what do you think it's for?”

“No idea. Large phallic symbol?” Bea joked.

“Ha! But, seriously, what could it be? A dummy, to cover up something else that's going on there? Why would they make a huge tube?”

Bea tilted her head. “If there's anything I've learned from this war, it's everything is about the almighty penis. Have you noticed? Guns, tanks, bombs…”

They were coming to the end of an overnight shift and feeling a bit giddy. Daisy convulsed in laughter. “Stop! Stop it!” She tried to collect herself. “I'll take it to Captain Mitchell. See what he thinks.”

Bea giggled. “He'll probably see it as an homage to the all-mighty ‘Fatherland' as well.”

“Shut up, you!” Daisy barely got the words out through her laughter. “And I'll see you outside in five for our ciggy break.”

The day after Christmas, Prime Minister Winston Churchill was scheduled to address a joint session of Congress. It had been a last-minute decision. Many of the representatives were out of town for the Christmas holiday. Nevertheless, the event was packed. After the Congressmen and Senators, seats went to the diplomatic corps and government bureaucrats. The public was barred, and sentries were everywhere. But the restrictions didn't stop hundreds of Americans from queuing in a long line along East Capitol Street NE in the damp weather, in hopes of catching a glimpse of the P.M.

With John away, Maggie and David had even more work to do, helping Mr. Churchill prepare for his speech. But he was unexpectedly amiable, relaxed even, as Maggie brushed the lint off the lapels of his three-piece pin-striped suit. “There, sir,” she said. “Mrs. Churchill would approve.” They left for the line of long, shiny, black sedans that would take them to the Capitol.

“It's big,” David remarked as they walked up the white marble stairs, damp and slick, of the neoclassical building.

“Yes, one of the District buildings that survived the Brits in 1812.” Maggie pointed to the top of the high dome. “
Freedom
is one of my favorite statues.”

“A bit ironic as a topper for a building built by slaves, wouldn't you say, Mags?”

She sighed. “You have a point.”

They walked with the P.M. to a small room behind the Senate Chamber, where they would stay until he was introduced. “Ah, the theater of politics,” David murmured.

“Is he all right?” Maggie asked, alarmed, taking a closer look at Mr. Churchill. The Boss did look pale.

“I'll get him a glass of water,” David told her.

Maggie cracked open the door to peek at the crowd. In the high-ceilinged chamber, all attendees had had their cameras taken away, but, for the first time, a live radio broadcast was allowed, and she could see the huge cameras present for newsreels.

At twelve-thirty on the dot, the event began. Maggie and David watched from the wings as the President of the Senate, Vice President Henry Wallace, called the vast room to order, then announced, “The Prime Minister of Great Britain!”

Churchill walked to the well, surrounded by a thicket of microphones. There he stood, fingertips under the lapels of his jacket, waiting for the crowd to quiet. As the audience turned their attention to him, he calmly took a leather eyeglass case out of his pocket and removed a pair of gold-framed spectacles, which he settled on his nose and ears.

He looked up, his steady gaze taking in the vast room, including the balconies, making eye contact with as many of the audience members as possible. The air crackled with anticipation. “I cannot help reflecting that if my father had been American and my mother British, instead of the other way around, I might have gotten here on my own,” he began.

The Americans roared with laughter, and David and Maggie exchanged a relieved look. The Boss was fine. He was better than fine. He was downright
lovable
.

Churchill smiled, blue eyes sparkling, knowing he'd won them over. “I should not have needed any invitation,” he continued. “But if I had, it is hardly likely that it would have been unanimous.” Again, laughter erupted in the chamber.

“But here in Washington, in these memorable days, I have found an Olympian fortitude which, far from being based upon complacency, is only the mask of an inflexible purpose and the proof of a sure, well-grounded confidence in the final outcome.”

He was interrupted repeatedly with applause and huzzahs.

He gazed over the crowd. “Now that we are together, now that we are linked in a righteous comradeship of arms, now that our two considerable nations, each in perfect unity, have joined all their life energies in a common resolve, a new scene opens upon which a steady light will glow and brighten.”

He went on in that vein, finally concluding: “I will say that he must indeed have a blind soul who cannot see that some great purpose and design is being worked out here below, of which we have the honor to be the faithful servants. It is not given to us to peer into the mysteries of the future. Still, I avow my hope and faith, sure and inviolate, that in the days to come, the British and American peoples will, for their own safety and for the good of all, walk together in majesty, in justice and in peace.”

When he finished, he was showered with applause. As he left, Churchill raised his right hand in the V for Victory sign. “At least he got it right this time,” David muttered. The audience went wild, rising as one and stomping and cheering their approval as the P.M. waved and exited.

David and Maggie looked at each other, sharing the significance of the moment. An important battle had been won, even if it hadn't been fought with guns and tanks. They watched as Churchill shook hands with Vice President Wallace. “What's his schedule for the afternoon?” Maggie asked David as the crowd calmed and then dispersed.

“He's in meetings with Roosevelt and the top brass for most of the afternoon. Why?”

“If you don't mind, I have a few things to do for Mrs. Roosevelt.”

“Go! Go!” David said. He was in a triumphant mood. “It's all under control here. By the way, I like your book. Thank you.”

“You mean
Little Women
?”

“ ‘Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents,' ” he quoted. “And I like this androgynous couple of Jo and Laurie.”

Poor David. Don't get too attached.

Back at the White House, Mrs. Roosevelt was in her office. A fire crackled behind the screen, but it wasn't much use against the pervading damp. “Come in,” the First Lady said to Maggie, beckoning. “And close the door, please, Miss Hope.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

The First Lady pulled out a file stamped with the words
TOP SECRET
in red ink. “I've spoken to Mr. Churchill about your security clearance.”

Maggie's eyes widened. “Yes, ma'am.”

“You have quite a…colorful background.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Maggie swallowed. “Mrs. Roosevelt, I have some news. Maybe you'd prefer to sit?”

“Oh my, is it that bad?”

Maggie decided to be blunt. “There was another note,” she said. “Allegedly written by Blanche. I destroyed it.”

“What did it say?” the First Lady managed.

“It's similar to the pencil-rubbing one. It was given to a reporter by Byrd Prentiss, Blanche's fiancé. He said she gave it to him for safekeeping, ‘just in case' anything were to happen to her.”

Eleanor Roosevelt's hand moved to worry the triple strand of pearls around her neck. “A reporter?”

“It's all right,” Maggie said. “I vouch for him. And I burned the note.”

The First Lady's face creased. “But she committed
suicide
!”

“Well, that's what we assumed happened,” said Maggie. “And that's what someone wanted whoever found her body to think. However, I was able to obtain her file from the police, and the coroner's report indicated all physical evidence points to a murder. Blanche was drowned, and, after she was dead, her wrists were slit. Someone wanted to make it
look
as though she'd committed suicide.”

“Oh, my heavens. That poor child,” the First Lady murmured. “But then where's the note?”

Maggie felt a surge of impatience. “Ma'am, don't you see? What if someone knew she was going to accuse you? What if they murdered her and then took the note and destroyed it, in order to stop a potential scandal?”

The First Lady's face paled. “No,” she stated. “It's not possible…”

“Byrd Prentiss is the D.C. liaison to the Governor of Virginia.”

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Roosevelt nodded. “I remember him—just haven't heard that name in a while. Mr. Prentiss had a promising political career of his own, before he made a few missteps. Didn't realize he was working for Governor King now…”

“Ma'am, is there anyone—Mr. Hoover, perhaps?—who would go to such lengths to protect you? Your husband?”

Mrs. Roosevelt blinked away tears. Then she lifted her head and straightened her back. “No—there's not a chance Mr. Hoover could be involved, especially to protect me. He loathes both Franklin and me. He'd be absolutely delighted to see something scandalous take us down.”

“Then, if I may ask, do you and your husband employ someone to”—Maggie tried to think of the most politic phrasing—“protect you both? Is that something perhaps Mr. Harry Hopkins also does, in addition to his other duties?”

“Harry?” Eleanor Roosevelt shook her head. “Not Harry. First of all, he's the most respectable man I know, with the most integrity. Moreover, he's recovering from stomach cancer….No, not Harry. It couldn't be Harry.”

“Is this”—Maggie didn't know how hard to press, but she went ahead anyway—“is this something you could speak with your husband about? Would it be possible to ask him?”

“No,” the First Lady said. “No, no, Franklin wouldn't have anything to do with something so horrible.”

Maggie wasn't convinced, but she nodded anyway. “There could still be a note accusing you out there somewhere, ma'am. Even if the President doesn't know yet, there's still a chance he may find out.” She steeled herself. “I'm afraid that's not all, ma'am,” she added.

“Oh, good God, there's more?”

“I've been followed since I attended the Wendell Cotton meeting at the church. By a man in a black coupe who wears a fedora. I haven't gotten close enough to identify him, but he's definitely been following me. I believe he tried to attack me the night of Andrea's speech at the Metropolitan Church.”

The First Lady put a hand to her heart. “Are you in danger?”

“Yes, ma'am. I can handle myself, and now that I'm aware I'm being followed, I can keep an eye out for this man. But I do wonder if he's part of the President's entourage. If you can't speak with your husband about any private security detail he may have in place, is there any way for you to check his files? Go through his papers? Er, I realize how that must sound, yet…”