as what you might perhaps term a consultant. Professor Blaxland had a specific area of expertise that was very useful to us. He was a language specialist, teaching at the Sorbonne in Paris, with a particular interest in codes and ciphers.’
Sophie looked up from the picture. ‘Was ?’
‘I am sorry to say that two days ago, Professor Blaxland was murdered.’ The Chief ’s plump, good-natured face looked sombre as he went on: ‘He was shot in his apartment, in the fifth arrondissement of Paris. It appears to have been a burglary gone wrong – his apartment had been broken into and the intruders were going through his possessions, when he returned and surprised them. The thieves shot him and escaped. However . . .’ C fell silent for a moment, leaving a heavy pause hanging in the air before he continued: ‘My fear is that Blaxland may have been deliberately targeted, and the murder set up to appear like a burglary.’
‘But who would do that, and why?’ asked Sophie.
‘That is exactly what I want you to find out. I am sending you to Paris, Miss Taylor. You leave on tomorrow morning’s boat-train.’
Sophie stared at him, taken aback. Paris? Following suspects; intercepting parcels; trailing Ziegler’s spies through the London streets she knew – she could do all that quite easily. But investigating a murder in an unknown foreign city was something else altogether. Why would the Chief send her on an assignment like that when he had plenty of more experienced and well-travelled detectives working for him – tough former Scotland Yard men, and seasoned private investigators like her friend Mr McDermott?
But C answered her question before she had chance to ask it: ‘You’ll be going undercover, of course, as Miss Celia Blaxland, the Professor’s niece.’ He pushed another folder across the desk towards her and opened it, tapping the photograph that lay on top. Sophie leaned forward to see a portrait of a fair-haired girl of about eighteen years old. ‘As you’ll see from the dossier, she is rather a wealthy young lady. She hasn’t seen her uncle for several years, but she is his only close living relative, so the authorities will not be at all surprised to see her – or, that is to say, to see you. I’d suggest you begin by meeting with his solicitor to find out as much as you can about what happened. It would also be worth talking to his friends and colleagues at the Sorbonne.’
Sophie looked from the Chief, to the photograph, and back again. She had so many questions it was difficult to know where to start. ‘But why the need to send someone undercover?’ she asked at last. ‘Couldn’t the French authorities investigate through official channels?’
C tapped his pen thoughtfully against the desk in time to the music. ‘Blaxland worked for us on the quiet, and I’d rather we kept it that way. I’d prefer our investigation to go unnoticed by either the French or the German authorities, and by the newspapers too, for that matter. With that in mind, you’ll need to be discreet, Miss Taylor. Stay on your guard and, whatever you do, don’t reveal who you really are.’
‘What about the real Miss Blaxland, won’t she turn up and give the game away?’
C shook his head. ‘We’ll take care of that. What I need you to do is to find out what happened to Blaxland. Did someone deliberately orchestrate his death, and if so who and why? Of course, my suspicions may be quite misplaced. It’s perfectly possible that Blaxland’s death was no more than the unfortunate consequence of an ordinary robbery – in which case, your job will be a straightforward one. But Blaxland was an unusual man with remarkable skills, engaged in top-secret work for our government. There is a clear possibility that his death may be the work of our enemies.’ For a moment there was silence but for the crackly sound of the music coming from the gramophone – the singing of the strings and the silvery notes of the flute – then the Chief continued: ‘I won’t mince words with you, Miss Taylor. This could be a matter of national security. If you do find evidence that Blaxland was murdered by our enemies, you will likely be in danger yourself. In that event, you must leave Paris and return to London at once and report to me, do you understand?’
Sophie nodded, and C went on: ‘Familiarise yourself with the contents of these folders. They include your instructions, and all the information you’ll need. Your train leaves from Victoria first thing tomorrow morning.’
The overture came to an end with three long notes, and Sophie realised she was being dismissed. She hastily scooped up the two folders, as he added:
‘Oh, one last thing. Miss Blaxland of course travels with a chaperone – normally, I believe, she has a lady’s maid to accompany her. You’ll need to arrange for someone to go with you in that capacity. I’m sure one of your quick-witted young ladies will do the job. Well, very best of luck. Farewell, or I suppose I ought to say au revoir.’
He smiled and turned away to fiddle with the gramophone, but Sophie paused at the door. She was still trying to make sense of all that C had told her, but in spite of that, she had to ask: ‘I . . . I don’t suppose there’s any news of Lil?’
She knew she wasn’t really supposed to ask. When they’d first agreed to work for the Bureau, they’d been told that their work would be top secret; and Lil’s current assignment was especially confidential. Even Sophie hadn’t been allowed to know where Lil was going or what she was doing. All she had been told was that Lil would be away for some weeks – perhaps months – and that she would have no way of keeping in touch. Sophie had sometimes imagined her sleeping in a tent in a desert; trekking through wild jungles; or even sunning herself on the deck of a steam-boat on a faraway ocean. Now she added, feeling rather foolish: ‘I just wondered if she was all right.’
C shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything.’ Her impatience must have showed on her face because he added more gently: ‘Not because I won’t, but because I can’t. I haven’t heard anything from her for a little while, you see. It’s not always easy for her to get reports through. Though last time I did hear from her, she was perfectly well and in high spirits as usual. Your friend is a very courageous young woman.’ He nodded her a brisk goodbye: ‘Bon voyage, Miss Taylor. Good hunting.’
Carruthers was typing very fast and very loudly when Sophie closed the office door behind her.
‘So we’re off to Paris, are we? How nice.’
‘It’s not a holiday,’ said Sophie tightly, wishing Carruthers didn’t always succeed in irritating her. ‘It’s an assignment.’
‘Oh, I know all about it. Someone has to prepare all those reports and dossiers, you know. Though I must admit I couldn’t quite believe it when I heard they were sending you undercover as Celia Blaxland.’ He snorted sarcastically. ‘Good luck!’
‘The Chief seemed to think I’d manage perfectly well. Good morning to you, Captain,’ and before he could say anything else, she swept out of the room.
She didn’t have time for Carruthers now. Her mind was whirling, and she knew she had to gather herself. She had a lot to do if she was to be on a train to Paris first thing tomorrow morning.
Paris! It was a daunting thought, but there was a spark of excitement too. Her mind darted at once to thoughts of artists and writers, the sumptuous outfits created by designer César Chevalier, grand boulevards, splendid architecture, delicious food . . . She’d never travelled abroad before, although she knew that her parents had been all over the world. Paris made her think especially of her mother, who had spent time there as a young girl: Sophie had read all about it in her mother’s old diaries, which she had inherited. She thought it would be rather wonderful to follow in her mother’s footsteps, although of course she wouldn’t have much time for sight-seeing. As she
