The Paris Agent(17)

When I glance to my right, I see Theo Sinclair is utterly enthralled by these discoveries, but when I glance to my left, I see my father is staring at me in confusion, as if he cannot understand why we’re staying. As Mrs. Lowe once again takes the floor and her next library anecdote drags on until it devolves into an analysis of the politics of the 1950s, I start to wonder that myself.

Just when I’m thinking about the politest way to excuse myself, Mrs. Lowe finally runs out of steam and all eyes turn to me and Dad. Theo smiles expectantly.

“Would you like to introduce yourselves?”

“I am Noah Ainsworth, and this is my daughter Charlotte,” my father says. “We are… You see, it is because… I just think that we—” He looks to me helplessly, then trails off with a confused “I really do think we’re in the wrong room or something.”

I wince as I explain. “To be completely honest, we aren’t looking to complete our family history.”

“Oh, you should,” one of the men in the group says. “Our family history teaches us so much about ourselves, young lady. How can you know who you are if you don’t know where you came from?”

“Absolutely,” I agree hastily. “But the thing is, we are actually looking for a specific man that my father probably knew during the war. Right, Dad?”

“Right,” Dad says.

“We’ve tried several routes to find him which led us to Professor Read’s office and his secretary suggested that this group might be able to assist us better.”

“Mrs. White sent you here?” Theo says, surprised, but his tone is resigned as he adds, “Ah. I see.” There’s an awkward pause. I rush to fill the silence.

“It’s just…she said that this was an amateur history group and I thought—”

“Amateur!” someone exclaims, outraged. Theo winces, then shoots the woman a placating glance.

“Now, now, Ms. Peters, that’s not an insult at all. I’m sure Mrs. White just meant that in the sense that none of us are paid in a professional capacity to work with history, we are technically amateurs.”

I recognize that tone. I use it myself every day in the classroom when one child or another becomes upset by something that seems bewilderingly insignificant to me. Theo turns his bright blue gaze on me and Dad and I feel myself inexplicably blushing.

“Mr. Ainsworth.” He glances down at my left hand then adds, “Miss Ainsworth?” I nod. “This group generally does exist to help people find their ancestors and trace their family tree so it’s not really a fit for what you’re trying to do. However, it is true that some of the people in this room have research skills to rival any academic I’ve ever worked with so if you stick around and listen, I know you’ll learn a thing or two. And perhaps if you hang back at the end I can hear a little more about what it is you’re trying to achieve.”

I glance at Dad, and he shrugs, so I stay seated and the group continues on around us. By 7:30, some of the participants are yawning, others look half-asleep, and Theo draws the meeting to a close. The men begin to pack up the chairs and I rise automatically to help them—it only seems right given I’m the youngest person in the room. Theo walks the women to their cars, and then he and Dad gravitate toward a small kitchenette at the back of the hall.

I leave three chairs out. Dad brings me a tea and sits beside me with his own. Theo’s instant coffee is strong enough that I can smell it when he sits beside me.

“So you’re looking for someone you knew in the war, and I’m guessing since you found your way to Professor Read, you or they worked with the SOE?”

“I was an agent,” Dad confirms, then he points to the scar on the side of his head. “I was injured in the field, you see. I woke up in a hospital and a nurse told me a man named Remy brought me in.”

“Remy was his operational name?”

“I think so, but I’m not entirely certain. I had a terrible concussion and haven’t recovered all of my memories from around that time, but I do feel as though he was an agent.”

“Remarkable,” Theo murmurs. “Where was this? And what year?”

“The hospital clinic was in Brive-La-Galliarde. And it was 1944, probably June, but I’m guessing that because I have a sense that the mission was just after D-Day.”

“And you say you were an agent. Did you complete the finishing school at Beaulieu?” Theo asks, leaning forward, his gaze intently fixed my on dad’s face as he nods. “Did you work with Colonel Maxwell?”

“Not closely, but of course, yes. I knew of him,” Dad says.

“Helen Elwood? Freddie Booth? Gerard Turner?”

“Yes,” Dad says, eyebrows lifting. He gives me a surprised, pleased look. “Yes, I knew all of them. You really know your stuff, Theo.”

“I’m guessing they were the only real names you ever knew.”

“Maybe that’s part of the problem,” Dad admits. “Secrecy was paramount. Everyone had a code name and we weren’t ever allowed to share personal details. It’s hard to recall information now when the main thing I do remember from my training is that we tried so hard to make sure we didn’t know much in case we were captured and interrogated.”

“Who are those people?” I ask. Theo glances at me.