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  “If that’s the case, Miss McFadden,” concluded Major Philpott, “it leaves the finger pointing squarely at you.”

  -2-

  Treason

  Commander Evans leaned back, touching the tips of his fingers together in a reflective gesture. “We need to keep an open mind,” he said. The slow cadence of his upper-class British accent conveyed authority and respect. “Espionage and treason in wartime have serious consequences.”

  “You are a signatory of the Official Secrets Act?” the major cut in.

  “Yes,” said Frances.

  “You are familiar with the penalty for someone found in breach of the Official Secrets Act?”

  “Yes. Two years in prison.”

  “Unless espionage is involved,” added the major with a menacing smile, “when a conviction can carry up to fourteen years in prison, or the death penalty. Please note that anything communicated in this room is governed by the act.”

  Frances frowned. “Surely if there’s a security concern at the Bank of Canada, Governor Towers should be informed.”

  Major Philpott glanced swiftly at his colleagues before glaring back at Frances. “I will decide what information will flow from this committee to Governor Towers.”

  “What drew you into the spotlight,” continued Commander Evans, “is your access to the documents, your lifestyle, and your communications with German nationals. Could you shed some light on how your salary possibly covers your rent?” The commander sounded curious rather than accusatory.

  “I came into an inheritance when my mother died in 1937,” said Frances. “The owners of the Balmoral Arms were experiencing financial difficulties and offered generous longterm leases to tenants who could pay in advance. My inheritance covered a lengthy lease.”

  “How long?”

  “Thirty years.”

  “And the lease includes . . . ?” continued Commander Evans.

  “Rent, heat, electricity, and a weekly cleaning service.” Frances paused. “There is a sublet clause, in case I’m incarcerated for an extended period.”

  Inspector Hollingsworth and Commander Evans grinned. The major did not.

  “The telephone bill is my only extra expense.”

  “You can prove all this?” demanded the major.

  “Speak to either Mr. Carlyle, the manager of the Balmoral Arms, or my lawyer, Mr. Morningstar, of Morningstar and Mowbray. He handled my mother’s estate and the leasing arrangements on my behalf.”

  Frances was too tired to be greatly alarmed. “Help me understand this. You’ve concocted a scenario showing me as a money-hungry pacifist and a German sympathizer willing to steal and sell state secrets possibly to aid someone who might be imprisoned by the enemy?” She did not hide her incredulity. “Is that about it?”

  The prolonged pause was wordless confirmation.

  “Well, I don’t need the money. I dislike the Nazis. I haven’t heard from my friend in months. He might be dead for all I know.”

  “And the German cooks?” asked the commander.

  “Actually, they were quite cagey about being accused by their peers of fraternization. We mostly talked, in loud voices, about recipes and the weather.”

  “Frankly, Miss McFadden,” said the major while lighting a cigarette, “I don’t believe a word you’ve said.”

  “Well, frankly, Major Philpott, I don’t believe you have any confidential documents from the Bank of Canada. We haven’t noticed anything missing, so this charade confuses me.”

  “Are all Bank documents stored securely?”

  “In locked filing cabinets in a locked room.”

  “Who has keys to this room?”

  “I do, as does the head filing clerk, Miss Stanton.”

  “And the others in your secretariat . . . ” Major Philpott checked his notes. “Miss Allen, Miss Hall and Mr. McGuire . . . would they have access to this file room?”

  “During office hours the file room is left open.”

  “So any of them could have surreptitiously removed files during that time?”

  “They could have. I don’t believe they would have.”

  “Are you sure about that, Miss McFadden?” leaned in Major Philpott. “We’ve done some checking on your office mates.” He opened another file. “I don’t believe any of them are the brains behind this, but suspicious behaviour abounds. This Brendan McGuire belongs to a golf club. How does he pay those dues on a clerk’s salary? Apparently, he bets on the outcomes of games. Where does that money come from?

  “Madeline Hall had some very questionable associations at the University of Toronto.” He read off a list before adding, “Her father is wealthy enough to keep her in clover until she marries. What’s her real motivation for working as a bank clerk?

  “Bridget Stanton is the daughter of Liam Stanton, a radical Irish nationalist. He’s publicly stated his hatred for the British government many times. We’ve had our eye on him for years.”

  Into his triumphant gaze, Frances added, “Don’t forget Claire Allen. She’s an exceptional athlete. Perhaps she covets a spot on the German Olympic team?”

  Inspector Hollingsworth looked down to hide a smile while the major’s face boiled to a nasty red. “You find the death penalty for treason a laughing matter, Miss McFadden?”

  Commander Evans tried a different tack. “Why is it that you have been followed to work every other day for the last week?”

  “You think I’m being followed?” queried Frances. “Is that the reason for the subterfuge leading to tonight’s meeting?”

  “Somebody’s following you or staking out the Balmoral Arms. Or both.”

  Frances pondered this one. “In order to know that, you also would need to be following me, or be staking out the Balmoral Arms, or both.”

  “We were curious as to why anyone would follow an innocent bank clerk around,” said the commander.

  “Beats me. Maybe you should ask the follower,” suggested Frances.

  “You’ve never noticed being followed?”

  Frances’s tone sharpened three notches. “The thought has never crossed my mind. When walking, I look where I’m going, not where I’ve been. It must be a pretty boring job. I leave for work about 7:00 a.m. I return home around 7:00 p.m.”

  “But you vary the route you take between your home and the Bank of Canada. Why is that?”

  Frances almost rolled her eyes. “To elude some wily follower? Come, Major. It’s not much of a secret where a Bank of Canada employee is heading every morning. I need to walk ten blocks north and three blocks west to get to work. Sometimes I walk straight up Metcalfe to Sparks. Sometimes, for variety, I zigzag. If I’m late, I take the streetcar.”

  The major consulted notes in a file. “Yet on Friday last, you crossed Albert Street northbound at the corner of Metcalfe, and instead of heading west towards the Bank of Canada, you turned east, crossed Metcalfe, then crossed to the south side of Albert, before crossing Metcalfe again and then Albert again. A full circle at one corner. Why do this if you were not tying to throw off a follower?”

  Frances sucked in her cheeks and reflected. “Last Friday . . . oh, right. It was Maddie’s birthday, and I decided to pop back to Fenton’s bakery to pick up a cake. In mid-stride I realized the bakery wouldn’t open until 8:30, so I re-crossed Metcalfe and Albert again towards the Bank.” She laughed. “Someone was following me? And someone was following the follower? Ring around the rosy. Must have looked like the Keystone Cops.”

  “You have no idea why someone would be following you?”

  “No. Do you, Major? Have any ideas?”

  Major Philpott glared again and his voice rose. “I ask the questions here!” When he regained control, he continued. “It is all very suspicious, under the circumstances.”

  The major looked at his watch and quickly began shuffling his files into a briefcase. “I’m required at another meeting. Please consider the consequences of your behaviour, Miss McFadden. I need your word of honour that you won’t try
to leave the city, or else I’ll have to lock you up.”

  Frances looked askance. “You’ll take my word, Major, even though you suspect me of treason and don’t believe a thing I’ve said?” She slapped herself on the forehead. “Oh, of course! Your follower can keep you posted on my whereabouts. For a moment there, I thought you were being chivalrous.”

  The major went all shifty-eyed. “We will break for the Lord’s Day so you can attend church tomorrow. Please contemplate the fate of your immortal soul. I want you back here Monday night at 7:00 p.m. sharp, and we’ll sort this out.”

  While Miles, the doorman, brushed the snow from Frances’s coat in the lobby of the Balmoral Arms, in came her seventh-floor neighbour, Sir Lyman Duff, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. They entered the elevator together and, after the compulsory comments on the weather, Frances said, “Sir Lyman, I’ve recently been party to a discussion on the Official Secrets Act and the crimes of espionage and treason. I confess that I find all these laws confusing.”

  “The law is seldom simple, Miss McFadden. Those laws in particular. If you have twenty minutes, I’d be happy to interpret them for you over a pot of tea. My housekeeper, Mrs. Cann, has left me a light supper of fresh raisin scones and a cheese plate. Care to join me?”

  As she spread raspberry jam on a still-warm scone, Frances opened her query. “I’ve signed the Official Secrets Act, as have you, I’m sure.”

  Sir Lyman nodded as he poured tea.

  “I fully understand that any activity I do as an employee of the Bank of Canada is covered by that act.”

  Another nod.

  “Now suppose — this is all hypothetical, of course, Sir Lyman — suppose someone from, say, the Ottawa Police Department were to ask me questions about a police matter. Would that discussion be covered by the Official Secrets Act?”

  “Of course not.”

  “What if the questions related tangentially to the Bank of Canada?”

  “No matter. The Official Secrets Act governs information you receive as an employee of the Bank. You have no such obligations with respect to questions from the Ottawa Police.”

  “They couldn’t put me in jail for relating their questions to the governor, for example?”

  “Absolutely not. In fact, if you became aware that the police were interested in the Bank of Canada, it would be dereliction of duty for you not to notify the governor.”

  “I see. Now on to treason and espionage. I understand the definition of the words, but what do they actually mean in terms of the law? What would you have to do to be convicted of treason?”

  “Oh, dear. A conviction of treason is very difficult to obtain under Canadian law, which is based on British common law. This ‘difficulty’ is intentional. In earlier times, British kings were quick to condemn any behaviour they disliked as treason. A very good way to keep people in line. About 1340, laws were written to rein in the power of the Crown.

  “Essentially, treason is criminal disloyalty to the Canadian government. Trying to overthrow the government, or spying for a hostile nation, or attempting to assassinate senior government officials — that sort of thing. A conviction of treason requires first that the alleged traitor has obligations of loyalty to the state.”

  “Like being a signer of the Official Secrets Act.”

  “Correct. Then, solid evidence that the accused has betrayed those obligations.”

  “Another hypothetical question,” said Frances. “Suppose a file were discovered in the public domain that seems to have come from a government source. Could someone be charged with treason connected to that file?”

  “That depends. You must prove the file was intentionally stolen by the accused, not accidentally lost or misplaced. You must prove the file contains state secrets — information covered by the Official Secrets Act. If it just contains minutes of a meeting, it may not be secret. Even if a person did take a secret file, in order to prove treason in a court of law you would need to prove the documents were passed into the possession of an enemy agent.

  “Treason has its own rules of evidence and procedure, which makes it difficult to prosecute accused traitors. Louis Riel is the only Canadian ever to be executed for treason and that was back in 1885.

  “Another scone, Miss McFadden?”

  -3-

  The Rascals

  “Excepting the Victory Bond launch this week, we’re in a bit of a lull,” Governor Towers confided to Frances at their Monday morning meeting. “Seems a good time for me to get down to Florida with Molly and the dogs. C.D. Howe has kindly lent me his private rail car for the threeday trip south — a very pleasant way to travel — and we’re out of Union Station by cocktail hour this afternoon. I’m glad you’re taking some time off as well. You’ve earned a break. The deputy governor and your Little Rascals can run the Bank for two weeks.” He smiled. “You’ve trained them well. Good chance for them to test their wings. I just need you to accompany Mr. Meldrum to the VB launch at the armouries on Thursday. He’s a sterling orator, but he needs logistical support.”

  Frances decided against mentioning the treason investigation. She wasn’t cowed by the Official Secrets Act threat; she just didn’t want to cloud the governor’s holiday with the major’s posturing. She did venture as she rose to leave, “Does the name Major Philpott mean anything to you?”

  “God Almighty!” the governor exclaimed. “Met him once. Once too often. An insufferable nincompoop in Military Intelligence. He did a presentation to deputy ministers that I was invited to attend several weeks ago. Without a shred of evidence, he chastised us all about security lapses in our departments. Handed out a twenty-page ‘how to’ manual on tightening things up. Announced he would give us three weeks to update procedures before he came by for inspection.

  “I explained that the Bank was completely protected without his draconian measures. I told him I would take personal responsibility for security at the Bank and would report any concerns directly to the prime minister. He blathered on about national security being vital to the war effort, that he was charged with ensuring enemy agents had no access to our operations, and that he needed to verify things personally. I threw his manual directly into the waste basket and told him that if he darkened the door at the Bank of Canada, I’d have him arrested for trespassing.”

  Frances emerged from the governor’s office to the staccato of racing typewriters. “Claire? Brendan? Bridget? Maddie? May I see you all for a minute in Miss Briscoe’s office?”

  Miss Briscoe had been Governor Towers’s personal secretary until cancer took her down in late 1939. When Frances took over the job, she preferred to work from a desk in the outer office, guardian of the governor’s door. There was no brass plaque, but Miss Briscoe’s long and revered service was immortalized by reference to her former office as the MBO. The space was used by all the Rascals for breaks, meetings and working on tough assignments.

  Sidelong glances were exchanged as the Rascals stood to follow her. “All of us in the MBO at once?” asked Brendan. “Have we been bad?”

  “What about the phones?” asked Claire. It was a cardinal rule that the phones that served the Governor’s Office were never left untended during working hours.

  “Leave the phones,” said Frances.

  Bridget raised her eyebrows. “Woo! Serious!”

  Brendan opened the door for his female colleagues then closed it behind him.

  “As you know, the governor leaves this afternoon for three weeks. The deputy governor will handle contingencies. I’m starting holidays tomorrow, although I will ride shotgun for Mr. Meldrum at the Victory Bond launch this Thursday. I’d hoped to get out of town after that, but something’s come up.” Frances rubbed her forehead.

  “Last night I spent a nasty ninety minutes being interrogated by three officers. This is all hush-hush, Official Secrets Act stuff, so I’m afraid to share more than the bare bones in case you are later called to testify. Essentially, they believe a serious security breach originates from
our office.”

  Brendan laughed out loud.

  “Precisely my response, Brendan, but it only got me into hot water.”

  “Ridiculous,” exclaimed Claire.

  “They can’t be serious,” said Maddie.

  “They are quite serious and quite without any sense of either proportion or humour on the matter,” said Frances. “They claim to have recovered sensitive documents that originated from the governor’s office. They did not share the evidence, or any details on how they got them.

  “Apparently, my initials were on the alleged documents. So my integrity, loyalty and personal life were put through the meat grinder as they concocted a scenario in which I pass Bank secrets to the enemy. It was most unpleasant. When I told them how ludicrous their accusations were, they countered that if I were actually innocent, then, by default, the guilty party must be one of you.

  “Serious sleuthing had been done into our personal lives. They had background information on all of us, including random details that, out of context, could lead to misinterpretation. They knew my Balmoral rent was greater than my secretarial salary and implied I must be selling secrets to maintain my lifestyle. I told them to contact my lawyer about my inheritance. They are likely checking it right now. They also knew that I visited the POW internment camp in Hull on behalf of the Red Cross. That charitable deed was interpreted as consorting with the enemy.

  “They hinted at suspicious behaviour about each of you. It is quite possible that you all could be hauled before this star chamber. I’d like to spare you that experience.

  “Be assured that I do not doubt the loyalty or integrity of any of you. I do need your help in waylaying suspicions about possible motivations.” Frances sighed. “I’m embarrassed to do this, as your private lives are none of my business, but I’ve been ordered back tonight for round two. I’d like to clear all our reputations. I just need a few questions answered. Questions that I’m sure have logical answers, but out of context — the way they were presented to me — could raise apprehensions. That’s all I’m looking for — context. Who wants to go first?”