They were not real spectacles.
The lenses were quite plain, ordinary glass.
She dropped the spectacles back on to the table as though they had burned her fingers. Why would a person wear pretend spectacles – spectacles that clearly they did not really need? It was as though Miss Carter were wearing a disguise, or a costume. As though she were merely dressing up as a governess, and acting the part.
The thought electrified her, as though a flash of something had run through her. Now she was quite sure of it. There was something very strange about the new governess, and Anna was determined that she would find out exactly what it was.
Victoria Station, London, England
‘Read all about it! Preparations under way for the coronation of His Majesty George V! Read all about it! Arnovia faces new pressure from Germany! Grand Aerial Tour to launch in Paris! Read all about it! ’
It was going to be another scorcher, thought the newspaper-seller, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. It was not yet ten o’clock, but already the streets outside Victoria railway station were hot and dusty, and he was thinking longingly of a glass of cold beer. ‘Thank you kindly, guv’nor,’ he muttered, without really paying attention to the thin man in grey who took a copy of The Daily Picture and handed over a ha’penny before shuffling on in the direction of the station entrance.
The thin man’s jacket was grey, his hat was grey, and the hair that could be seen beneath it was grey too. Even his face – if the newspaper-seller had noticed it – had a greyish tinge. But neither the newspaper-seller nor anyone else gave the man a second glance as he crossed the busy station concourse, heading in the direction of the Left Luggage Office. It was the grey man’s special gift, his ability to move through crowds unseen.
As it happened though, there was one person at Victoria station who was looking out for the grey man. Not far away from the newspaper-seller, a girl with a blue parasol was making her way sedately into the station. The girl knew a great deal about the grey man. She knew that if anyone had asked him – that policeman over there, talking to a station porter, perhaps – he would have said his name was Dr Frederick Muller, which was the name on the identity papers he carried in the pocket of his grey jacket. She knew that those papers stated that he was a scholar from Hamburg University, who wrote learned articles about museums for a German magazine. She knew too that the papers were a clever forgery, and that the grey man had never been near Hamburg University in his life.
She watched him closely as he made his way between the people: porters sweating under the weight of heavy luggage; ladies in shady hats, up to London for a day’s shopping; a huddle of tourists, poring over a Bradshaw’s Railway Guide. Not one of them noticed the grey man, but the girl’s eyes followed him keenly.
As the grey man drew near the Left Luggage Office, she went briskly in the same direction. Seeing a young lady approach, he doffed his hat with a courteous but unremarkable bow, and held the door open for her, keeping his head down. Her frilly skirt swished forward as she tip-tapped ahead of him into the office.
The Left Luggage Office was busy and the grey man slid invisibly through the hustle and bustle to join the queue behind a smart gentleman in a bowler hat. Rummaging in her handbag as if she were looking for her ticket, the girl stepped quickly into the queue behind him. He was staring down at the newspaper in his hand, as if quite absorbed in an article of the kind that would have interested Dr Muller – a write up of a new exhibit at the British Museum.
When it was his turn to approach the counter, the ruddy-faced fellow on duty barely glanced at him as he handed over the ticket. ‘Right you are, sir! Just a moment!’ he said cheerfully, disappearing to the shelves where the parcels were stored.
The grey man waited. His shoulders had stiffened slightly and for the first time, the girl thought she could detect signs of unease. He leaned forward, turning his grey hat over in his hands. She tried to imagine what he was thinking. Was he wondering why the fellow was taking so long? Was he wondering if his contact could be trusted – whether he had delivered the parcel as promised, or whether he’d simply taken the money and run? Was he thinking of Ziegler, watching and waiting in faraway Berlin? But then – there it was! The fellow was returning, and in his hands was a small rectangular parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.
‘Here you are, sir.’
The girl’s breath quickened as the parcel was placed into the grey man’s hands. It looked heavy: there must be at least four of the books inside. She could not allow them to fall into Ziegler’s possession.
The grey man’s face did not reveal even a shadow of excitement. He remained bland and ordinary as he said a polite ‘thank you’, wished the fellow ‘good day’ and turned to go, the parcel tucked under his arm.
The girl stepped swiftly after him. She must not lose him now; she had to get her hands on that parcel. But even as she did so, the fellow on duty called out: ‘Excuse me, sir, stop there!’
The grey man froze.
‘Now then, sir. Don’t you rush off in such a hurry. You’ve forgotten your hat!’ said the fellow cheerfully, as he held the grey man’s hat out towards him.
The grey man beamed back at him. ‘So very kind,’ he flustered.
How foolish, how unexpectedly amateur of him to have forgotten his hat like that, the girl marvelled! Yet as he set down the parcel for a moment to reach into his pocket for two-pence to press into the fellow’s hand, it came to her that perhaps it was not so very stupid after all. He was playing the part of scholarly Dr Muller to perfection, she realised. Leaving his hat behind was exactly the sort of thing that a man like Dr Muller would do. He would be forgetful and absent-minded, distracted by the research he was doing in London’s museums. He was quite beyond suspicion – the kind of man who could not even remember his own hat.
All the same, he had played right into her hands. As the grey man bowed and smiled, she stepped forward, swept up the package from where he had set it down, and was gone in an instant, before he or anyone else had realised she was there.
The office door swung open before her. Behind, she heard a voice cry: ‘My . . . my parcel!’
‘Your parcel, sir?’
‘It’s gone!’
She did not stay to hear any more. The station concourse was large and she knew the grey man would soon be on her trail. She made her way through the crowds walking briskly, but not so fast as to draw attention to herself. She weaved between a porter with a pile of trunks and a man with a luncheon basket, making for the station exit. Behind her, she knew that the grey man was following. As she stepped outside, she dared to glance back over her shoulder: yes, there he was, speeding through the crowds. He was gaining on her, and she knew exactly what he would be thinking. She’d heard it plenty of times before. A young girl – all alone! He’d be certain that she’d be easy to overpower, or outwit.
‘Hey, mister, watch where you’re going!’ she heard the newspaper-seller call out indignantly as the grey man sprinted out of the railway station and down the steps behind her, shoving his way past the barrow of newspapers. He was no longer concerned about being quiet or anonymous, the shuffling Dr Muller quite forgotten now. Ziegler must want this parcel very badly indeed. She tried to hold her nerve, to keep walking,
