Daisy panicked. She gathered her meager belongings and fled, stopping to make a call from a pay phone. A short bus ride later, she sat on Gloria’s sofa.
“Served the bastard right,” Gloria said, “but Daisy’s history. We have to reinvent you. And you can’t stay here, luv. They know we were cell mates. This is the first place they’ll look. But not to worry. Auntie Gloria’s on top of it.”
Gloria found Daisy a place to hide with a trusted friend of a friend and reappeared two weeks later, in disguise and carrying a shopping bag.
“Sorry, luv,” she said, hugging Daisy. “The coppers were all over me for a while, but I think they’ve given up. Just to be safe, I came here by tube and transferred a half-dozen times.” She grinned and led Daisy to the sofa. “I wanted to deliver your new life in person.”
Daisy looked on, confused, as Gloria fished a newspaper from the shopping bag. She saw a photo of a woman resembling herself above a story titled “War Widow Dead in Car Crash.”
“Wh… what is this?” Daisy asked.
“Your new life, luv,” Gloria said. “Gillian Farnsworth, age twenty-four. Died three weeks ago in a crash. Widow of Leading Seaman John Farnsworth, Royal Navy. Poor sod. Died in the Falklands when the Argies sank his ship. No kids and both John and Gillian are only children of dead parents.” Gloria smiled. “It’s bloody perfect.”
“I… I don’t know Gloria. How can I—”
“Daisy. Luv,” Gloria said. “We couldn’t ask for more. Widow of some poor enlisted sod blown up by an Argie bomb. Anyone asks, you tear up. It’s too painful to discuss. It’s perfect.”
“But… but how can I pretend? I don’t know anyth—”
“You don’t pretend, luv,” Gloria said, “you become.”
She pulled a thick file from her bag.
“It’s all here. Parents’ names, important dates, schools, teachers, everything. With that mind of yours, in two weeks you’ll know Gillian better than she knew herself.”
“But surely there’s a record of her death.”
Gloria nodded. “In Oxford, where she died in a crash while passing through, and which is not at all cross-referenced to Reading, where she was born and lived her whole life. Only a search at Oxford will turn up Gillian’s death certificate, but someone would need to know first, that she was dead, and second, that she died in Oxford. But no one is likely to be looking. She has no family, and all her friends live in Reading. If they should cross your path in London at some point, they’ll just assume it’s a coincidence. Many people share names.”
“But how will I live? I’m not even a very good waitress, and I’m sure she worked at something I couldn’t possibly do.”
Gloria smiled. “Perfect again. She worked as a nanny to a family that returned to the US just before her death. She was between jobs. I phoned the American family, pretending to be a prospective employer. They didn’t know of her death and gave a glowing reference.”
“I don’t even know what a nanny does.”
“She wipes noses and bums and says ‘there, there’ a lot,” Gloria said. “You’ll pick it up. We’ll position you with an arriving American family. They’ll likely be clueless and over-the-top with the whole idea of having a ‘real British’ nanny. That’ll give you a chance to get Kings Cross out of your speech. Most of the Yanks can’t seem to tell a Yorkshireman from an Aussie anyway. Anyone who isn’t North American sounds like Sir Lawrence Olivier to them.” Gloria patted her hand. “You’ll do fine, luv.”
And so she had, finding she’d a real aptitude for the work. She worked for a succession of families, receiving glowing references from them all. Twelve years later, there was no better nanny in London than Gillian Farnsworth.
Kathleen Kairouz had hired her on the spot, and Gillian soon fell in love with the gentle woman and flawed child. When Kathleen was diagnosed with cancer, Gillian took on Kathleen’s care without a second thought but began to have misgivings. She’d grown to love Cassie and worried about the impact on the child if she were found out and arrested.
She found Alex Kairouz in his study one evening, staring into the fire. He looked up and motioned her to a chair across from his desk.
“How is she?”
“Resting comfortably. They increased her dosage. I hope she’ll have an easy night.”
Alex nodded as Gillian went on. “Mr. Kairouz, when Mrs. Kairouz… no longer needs me, I will be tendering notice.”
“But why, Mrs. Farnsworth? Cassie needs you. I need you. If it’s money—”
“No, no, sir. That’s not it at all. There are… things. Personal reasons I can’t discuss.”
Alex persisted. “You can’t just leave us in our hour of greatest need. Please, tell me what’s wrong. We can work something out.”
“I can’t say, sir. But I will stay until you’ve found someone.”
Alex stared at her a long moment and then nodded, almost to himself, as if he’d made a decision. He unlocked a drawer and handed her a file.
“Does it concern this?”
The file held a photo of Daisy Tatum stapled to her arrest report. There was a copy of her prison record, an article about Tommy Tatum’s death, and a copy of Gillian Farnsworth’s death certificate.
“When did you know?” she whispered.
“The second week,” Alex said. “Kathleen was supposed to wait for the report before hiring.” He smiled. “I didn’t sack you because she wouldn’t have it. She’s an uncanny judge of people, you know. I often included her in business dinners for her opinion of potential clients or associates. She’s never wrong.
“Anyway,” he continued, “she made me reread the damned report line by line as she stood at my shoulder, pointing out you were victim, not villain. So I didn’t turn you in. A decision for which I’m most thankful.” He held out his hand, and she returned the folder.
“But I won’t compel you to stay, though our need is great.” He paused. “I’m not without connections. Two months ago, the body of a street person was fished from the Thames, a drowning victim. Her fingerprints were a match to Daisy Tatum, allowing the police to close that file.” He paused again. “I also understand that when the records office in Oxford moved last month, several death certificates were misfiled. Just simple clerical errors, but I doubt Gillian Farnsworth’s death certificate will be located in a hundred years.”
He walked to the fireplace and tossed the file into the flames. “So Daisy Tatum is dead and Gillian Farnsworth very much alive. You’ve a place in my home as long as you wish, but the decision is yours. The file burning brightly is, I assure you, the only copy.”
Tears streaked her face as she watched her past disappear up the chimney.
“Thank you, sir. I should like very much to stay.”
“Then so you shall, Gillian. Welcome home.”
Kathleen passed ten days later. The death hung over the household, but Gillian refused to let Alex bury himself in work. “The child has lost her mother and shouldn’t lose her father as well,” she said, insisting he spend an hour with Cassie each morning and evening. He soon cherished his time with the laughing child and spent most of his free time with her.
Cassie was their salvation and their bond.
Chapter Eleven
“You’re sure the house isn’t bugged?” Dugan asked for the third time.
“Swept it myself after Anna alerted us to the dinner,” Harry said. “Showed up this afternoon as a meter reader while the cook was at market and the Farnsworth woman and driver were collecting the girl at school. I had time alone in the house. Things are unchanged; phone taps to a recorder in Farley’s quarters but no bugs in the house. Makes sense. Cuts out a lot of idle household chatter.”