Read Online Every Secret Thing by Susanna Kearsley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susanna Kearsley
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may have passed you certain information that he wanted you to publish.’
I had stared at him a moment…then, deciding that what Mr Deacon had or had not given me was none of this man’s business, I’d said only an enquiring, ‘Yes?’
‘The thing is, Miss Murray, that a good deal of what Mr Deacon told you is protected by the Official Secrets Act, and I’m afraid that any attempt to make those details public would be very inadvisable. At best, any such publication would be suppressed. At worst, there might be charges brought.’
‘Charges against whom?’
He’d smiled, a condescending smile, instead of answering, but the implication had been clear to me then, as had the threat. It had the opposite effect, with me, from what he had intended. Always had. Just like Pandora’s Box – when someone told me that I couldn’t look inside, it only made the contents fascinate me more.
I’d placed my own notebook more firmly on top of the manila envelope James Cavender had brought for me, the one that held his uncle’s wartime letters home from Lisbon, and feeling indignation flare inside me I had turned to Sergeant Robert Metcalf. Anyone who fired a warning shot across my bow, I’d thought, deserved a full-scale onslaught in return.
I couldn’t quite remember what I’d said, what words I’d used…only that I’d been a little fierce, and very probably insulting, in my staunch defence of the freedom of the press. And then, not giving him a chance to speak again, I’d made a perfect exit, putting the whole incident behind me as I’d gone up to my room.
But now, this morning, sitting on my bed in my pyjamas with my breakfast tray in front of me, I wished I hadn’t been so hasty; that I’d stayed around a little longer, asked more questions, made an effort to be civil. If I’d kept my wits about me, and kept the man talking, I might have learnt just what Scotland Yard thought I’d been told by Andrew Deacon… might have learnt, in fact, just how they’d known I’d ever met the man.
Maybe it wasn’t too late. With my toast still in one hand, I reached for the phone and the London directory.
Sergeant Metcalf wasn’t at his desk. He wasn’t even, the receptionist informed me, in the country. I’d just missed him. He had flown out this morning, and wouldn’t be back until Friday. But if I cared to leave a message on his voicemail…
So I left a message, brief and to the point: I regretted the way I’d behaved when we met; could he please call me when he got back, at my home in Toronto, so we could discuss this?
I left him the number and hung up, faintly frustrated, honestly curious now as to what had been in Andrew Deacon’s report. He’d sent two copies off, so his nephew had said – one to Lisbon, the other to Whitehall, to someone named…
‘Petty.’ I said it out loud, so it lodged in my memory and, taking a moment to wash down my toast with a swallow of coffee, I once again reached for the phone.
This was trickier, and more involved, than calling Scotland Yard. Whitehall wasn’t one specific building, it was more of a district – a street, and a place, and a court, lined with government offices, stretching roughly from Trafalgar Square down to the Houses of Parliament. When someone spoke of ‘Whitehall’ they were speaking of the British Civil Service, but which branch…?
A half-hour of phoning around turned up only one Petty: a Stephen in the Foreign Office.
Stephen Petty’s secretary had a friendly voice. I almost hated lying to her, but I was fairly certain people in the Foreign Office weren’t inclined to volunteer much information to a total stranger calling, or to journalists.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I wonder if I could just check the status of some correspondence that my father sent to Mr Petty, this past summer.’
‘Yes, of course. Your father’s name was…?’
‘Andrew Deacon.’
‘Deacon…Deacon…Yes, of course, I do seem to remember that. I’m sure I passed
I had stared at him a moment…then, deciding that what Mr Deacon had or had not given me was none of this man’s business, I’d said only an enquiring, ‘Yes?’
‘The thing is, Miss Murray, that a good deal of what Mr Deacon told you is protected by the Official Secrets Act, and I’m afraid that any attempt to make those details public would be very inadvisable. At best, any such publication would be suppressed. At worst, there might be charges brought.’
‘Charges against whom?’
He’d smiled, a condescending smile, instead of answering, but the implication had been clear to me then, as had the threat. It had the opposite effect, with me, from what he had intended. Always had. Just like Pandora’s Box – when someone told me that I couldn’t look inside, it only made the contents fascinate me more.
I’d placed my own notebook more firmly on top of the manila envelope James Cavender had brought for me, the one that held his uncle’s wartime letters home from Lisbon, and feeling indignation flare inside me I had turned to Sergeant Robert Metcalf. Anyone who fired a warning shot across my bow, I’d thought, deserved a full-scale onslaught in return.
I couldn’t quite remember what I’d said, what words I’d used…only that I’d been a little fierce, and very probably insulting, in my staunch defence of the freedom of the press. And then, not giving him a chance to speak again, I’d made a perfect exit, putting the whole incident behind me as I’d gone up to my room.
But now, this morning, sitting on my bed in my pyjamas with my breakfast tray in front of me, I wished I hadn’t been so hasty; that I’d stayed around a little longer, asked more questions, made an effort to be civil. If I’d kept my wits about me, and kept the man talking, I might have learnt just what Scotland Yard thought I’d been told by Andrew Deacon… might have learnt, in fact, just how they’d known I’d ever met the man.
Maybe it wasn’t too late. With my toast still in one hand, I reached for the phone and the London directory.
Sergeant Metcalf wasn’t at his desk. He wasn’t even, the receptionist informed me, in the country. I’d just missed him. He had flown out this morning, and wouldn’t be back until Friday. But if I cared to leave a message on his voicemail…
So I left a message, brief and to the point: I regretted the way I’d behaved when we met; could he please call me when he got back, at my home in Toronto, so we could discuss this?
I left him the number and hung up, faintly frustrated, honestly curious now as to what had been in Andrew Deacon’s report. He’d sent two copies off, so his nephew had said – one to Lisbon, the other to Whitehall, to someone named…
‘Petty.’ I said it out loud, so it lodged in my memory and, taking a moment to wash down my toast with a swallow of coffee, I once again reached for the phone.
This was trickier, and more involved, than calling Scotland Yard. Whitehall wasn’t one specific building, it was more of a district – a street, and a place, and a court, lined with government offices, stretching roughly from Trafalgar Square down to the Houses of Parliament. When someone spoke of ‘Whitehall’ they were speaking of the British Civil Service, but which branch…?
A half-hour of phoning around turned up only one Petty: a Stephen in the Foreign Office.
Stephen Petty’s secretary had a friendly voice. I almost hated lying to her, but I was fairly certain people in the Foreign Office weren’t inclined to volunteer much information to a total stranger calling, or to journalists.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I wonder if I could just check the status of some correspondence that my father sent to Mr Petty, this past summer.’
‘Yes, of course. Your father’s name was…?’
‘Andrew Deacon.’
‘Deacon…Deacon…Yes, of course, I do seem to remember that. I’m sure I passed
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