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“If it’s at the museum they haven’t the foggiest,” says Steed. He doesn't look up as the door opens, wrist steady as he replaces the stopper in the glass decanter, glossing over a greeting and jumping straight in favour of mid-conversation. He already knows who is at the door, recognises the light step and faint smell of jasmine.
“Doddering old academic?” Emma guesses, unpinning her hat and joining him at the sideboard. She revises at a shake of Steed’s head. “Overly invested matron?”
“Neither,” Steed turns and passes her a tumbler. “To the contrary, it’s the formidable Mrs. Gale.”
Emma takes the news with aplomb. Tilts her head considering. “Quite,” she sips at her drink. “And how is Mrs. Gale these days?”
“Lost amongst the many uncatalogued shelves,” Steed says significantly.
“Does X mark the spot?” muses Emma.
“If it does, Mrs. Gale might be our signpost. Although, that might be a slight against the considerable talents of Mrs. Gale.” He sets down his glass.
“Steed,” Emma calls as he gathers his hat. “And what will she think you are there for?” She’s heard about Cathy Gale, knows exactly how well-matched they were for each other and exactly how the relationship soured. Mrs. Gale isn’t stupid and has more reason than most to be suspicious of a sudden appearance.
“Ah,” he says. “The reminisces of an old friend?” He pauses at the door. “Although, I do believe there may be a performance this evening as well. Don’t worry, my dear, I can handle Mrs. Gale.”
Then he’s gone, and Emma is left looking at the door. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” she says dryly.
—
Cathy Gale walks into her office and stops short. There’s a man sitting behind her desk. A very familiar man. With a very familiar bowler hat. With a very familiar set of brogues perched on the edge of her desk. She promptly turns on her heel, and exits, the door closing firmly behind her with a satisfying snick.
“Gerard,” she addresses the intern who sits at the rickety desk in front of her office. “You didn’t mention I had a visitor.” She says it sweetly, though, because Gerard is one verbal cue away from snapping.
They had hired him for the summer because he knew about 18th-century decorative arts (false), local geological compositions (debatable), and had professed an enduring love of mythological motifs (true). So far Gerard’s main contribution has been jamming the typewriter while writing his thesis, and deep grudgingness to follow instructions. He lifts his gaze from his book. His eyes are wide and red-glazed, shirt collar wrinkled and unbuttoned. Cathy amends her previous thought: he looks like he might be one step away from murdering someone in cold blood. He’s reached the line— and gone past it. If that’s the case, she has the perfect target for him right on the other side of the door.
“Oh,” he says after a long pause. “Some man came by to see you.”
“That man is in my office.”
Gerard blinks at her.
“Nevermind. Go back to your book.” She glares at her office door. Takes a fortifying breath. Steps inside.
The scene hasn’t changed: John Steed is in her office, lounging back in her chair, casually juggling a paperweight between two hands.
“My dear.” It’s not disdain dripping from her words, exactly, more, well. Whatever is one shade off from disdain. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
One never really ever expects John Steed. Three years have elapsed since she saw him last. Their relationship ended in fits and starts: a dinner when she returned from the Bahamas; a stopover between appointments; an overlapping meeting at the Ministry. She’s been cordial, friendly, an understanding that whatever had passed between them is firmly in the past.
“I hope this isn’t an inconvenience.” He rises from behind the desk and leans forward kissing her cheek. His aftershave hasn’t changed in the slightest, rich and spicy. “My dear, you look marvellous as always.”
“Spain was good for me.” Even though it’s been six months since she returned to dreary old England, and the glow has all but disappeared from her skin. “What are you doing here?”
Because Steed never left London by accident. Steed, she knew all too well, never did anything by accident even when he was a bumbling fool. It was one of his most annoying traits.
“I’m in town to hear the kid sing,” Steed says.
“How is Venus?” she asks. “I saw her perform at a nightclub in America. Phoenix, I believe. Awful city; it doesn’t live up to its name.”
“Oh, you know Venus,” boasts Steed, prideful like an older brother. “Always making everyone fall in love with her.”
Cathy holds her tongue and manages not to comment on the niavety of youth being an attractive quality to a certain subset of the population. Her and Steed are at an impasse, stuck in a tableau: him behind her desk, Cathy refusing to budge. “Did you want something?”
He smiles, charming as always. “To ask you to lunch, my dear. It’s been too long.”
“I’ve eaten.”
He isn’t deterred. “Coffee, then. There’s a place downstairs that reminds me of that place you used to love in Soho.”
“You mean, the one that you burned down.” She gives him a considering look. “What do you want?”
“Nothing! So suspicious. Just a drink between two old compatriots.”
She doesn’t trust it, not exactly, but she moves aside and waits for him to hold open her coat for her. Curiosity has always been her weakness.
—
There are a lot of awful places to break into. Cathy would know, she’s broken into most of them herself: mission-critical radar rooms, a double agent’s lair; a smuggler’s port of operations. Motion sensors and lightless spaces are easily accounted for but it’s the unaccountable inaccuracies which are easily tripped. Tiny aisles with overflowing shelves, each space with its own quirk.
Only someone familiar with the museum collections storage would know where the ceramics are stored; the boxes of glass vases; the furniture too large to stay confined to its bay. The bucket of water in the corner, the heavy smell of wet despite best intentions. Because there shouldn’t be moisture in this space but everything is understaffed and underfunded, a former vicarage in need of repair, and this entire venture is the pet project of someone who has long since moved onto another hobby.
She knows. She’s familiar. She’s also expecting it: the light motion of a whisp of air, and the flicker of a torch. She lingers at the edge of the doorway, waiting for her moment.
And then pounces.
“I wasn’t aware this was a performing venue,” Cathy says, over the exclamation of Steed’s cursing, switching on the light. It flickers for a moment, temperamental, before illuminating the space in a sickly glow.
At first she sees everything in snapshots: Steed, bent at the waist, gasping, a wet spot rapidly expanding on his shirt as he holds it between two fingers. Steam rising from the puddle on the floor. A woman, crouched, defensively posed.
Cathy lets her hand holding the kettle drop, hip cocked, the last few drops of water dripping onto her leather boots.
“Mrs. Gale!” Steed sounds like he’s trying to drag up enthusiasm. “We weren’t expecting you this evening.”
“My invitation seems to have been misplaced.” She eyes the other woman in the room. A striking figure, much more rounded in the face than she expected. Steed’s weakness always was a beautiful woman with a dangerous edge. Their eyes meet and Cathy gets the impression she’s being evaluated in return. So this is Emma Peel. Cathy has heard, of course, through both official and unofficial channels of the exploits of Steed and Peel. Her replacement in more ways than one. Cathy notes the slim-cut black catsuit; the strength in her stance, and all the backroom whispers and laughter make sense: Steed has a type.
“You seem to have run into a spot of hot water,” Mrs. Peel quips, looking at Steed in undisguised amusement.
Steed cuts her a glance. One that says he’s amused but also recognises that it is at his expense. “Or rather,” he says, “It caught me.” He nods towards the door in recognition. “Your aim, Mrs. Gale, is impeccable as ever.”
Cathy inclines her head and takes the compliment for what it is. “Perhaps we can continue this conversation in my office,” Cathy says, ushering them through the doorway, eyes peeled to make sure nothing is pilfered.
“How did you know by-the-by?” Steed asks as they file into the hall.
“I looked it up. Venus is currently performing in Rhodesia.”
Mrs. Peel snorts softly, bringing up the rear. “Handle her, indeed.”
—
Upstairs she pulls open the bottom desk drawer and hands Steed a white button-down. “The former curator’s,” she explains. “He practically lived here.”
Steed takes it and glances around. “Perhaps, I—”
“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” Cathy interrupts cooly. “You don’t need to be modest on my account.”
Mrs. Peel, surveying the room, looks up from where she’s studying a replica sculpture figurine of Aphrodite. “Nor mine.”
There’s a moment where Cathy is certain Steed is going to argue but then his gaze swings between them: Cathy, the shirt, Mrs. Peel, and he seems to fully assess the situation for the first time. Steed takes the shirt without any sort of quip— Cathy notes with some satisfaction— and turns to face the row of filing cabinets along the back wall.
“Cathy Gale.” She holds out her hand and carefully doesn’t watch as he starts to undo his buttons.
“Emma Peel,” the new companion says, setting the figurine down on the table. Her hands are soft but steady, nails neatly trimmed.
“Yes, I’ve heard,” says Cathy.
“Oh, and what have you heard of Mrs. Peel?” Steed’s voice carries over his shoulder. He’s fishing for information. Cathy recognises that cajoling tone. She had almost missed it earlier over lunch, lulled into a false sense of security. Steed did tend to incur that.
“Mutual friends,” Cathy says airily. Steed didn't have the corner market on ministry intel; he wasn’t the only one with friends and colleagues who traded in secrets. And she has it on good authority that she is less of an enraging presence and a better chess player.
She crosses the room and fills the kettle with water to brew a new pot. The former curator had left a small kitchenette in one corner of the space, and Cathy has suspicions that the unpainted rectangular along the far corner once held a bed. It’s mostly an enranging thought after having been in one relationship with someone married to their job. Although, she also has it on good authority that Steed’s brittle edges have softened, and he’s learned to play nice with others. That, maybe, this time his personal and professional relationship is less contentious.
“Did the water have to be boiling?” Steed asks over the sound of rustling shirt.
“It appears she was letting off some steam.” Mrs. Peel’s teasing lilt prevents Cathy from sharing her instinctual response.
“Mrs. Gale would never. She holds me in high esteem.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Peel says, tone dry, catching Cathy’s eye as she paces a circle around the room. “She misted you a lot.”
“If he’s going to be such a baby about it there’s a bottle of salve in the drawer. Second from the top,” she tells Mrs. Peel.
The snick of the drawer. “Thank you, my dear,” Steed says, a non-descriptive diminutive directed at them both.
Cathy lays out three cups and saucers and tries to remember if she and Steed ever had such a repertoire. They did— she knows they did— but sometimes it’s difficult to remember how good things had been in the days before she wanted to wring his neck. Some people remember the past through rose-coloured glasses; others remember it through already cracked glass.
She looks up just as Steed turns round, shirt buttoned still fiddling with the cuffs on one sleeve. Mrs. Peel perched on the corner of the desk, the tub of salve next to her.
Cathy says, “Are you going to tell me now why you are here?”
Steed looks at Mrs. Peel. Mrs. Peel looks at Steed. And Cathy remembers what it was like to be part of that.
Mrs. Peel quirks her brow. Steed cocks his head. Cathy contemplates throwing another cup at him, but the element of surprise is long past. It’s incredibly frustrating how quickly he seems to adapt.
“It’s need to know. And you, my dear, don’t need to know.”
He’s lying. Cathy cuts her gaze to Mrs. Peel; wonders if she knows or if she’s just along for the ride as well.
Mrs. Peel shrugs. “We might as well,” she says to Steed.
He eyes Cathy speculatively. “Twenty-some years ago, Major Travis Burrow— quite an apt tunneller as his name suggests— stole some rather sensitive documents from the War Office. Very hush-hush, you understand.”
“And they’re just now becoming a priority?” Cathy interrupts. “How important could they be?”
Steed shifts, a bit guilty. “Yes, well, there’s been a bit of a backlog. Interdepartmental cooperation, and new aims and goals and paperwork. It all shone a new light on Major Burrow if you will.”
“A light at the end of the tunnel,” Mrs. Peel murmurs.
Privately, Cathy wonders exactly how bored he must be. This doesn’t sound like Steed’s usual fare, more like making mischief. Like a child on holiday without enough to entertain themselves.
“And what does that have to do with here?”
“When he died—not our doing— his estate was divided off and sold. We have it on good authority that the documents were stored in—well— Major Burrow had a rather extensive clock collection. Something to do with all the time he spent underground during the war.”
Cathy stares at him uncomprehendingly. “A clock collection.”
“Tick, tock,” Mrs. Peel says.
“So you’re trying to steal it back,” Cathy says. “You could have just asked. This espionage was unnecessary.”
Steed shrugs. “Where’s the fun in that? Live a little, Mrs. Gale!”
Cathy contemplates throwing her cup of coffee at him. Again.
—
The clock in question is in storage. Two aisles over from where she had surprised them earlier that evening— by unspoken mutual accord they ignore the puddle in between the aisles housing Georgian chairs and Wedgwood services.
“The honour is all yours, Mrs. Gale,” Steed exclaims with a flourish. She opens it. It’s a fiddly old thing; latch not quite aligned, and the wood swollen with all the excess humidity.
Mrs. Peel darts forward, nabbing the rolled paper tied between the two weights, unfurling it with ceremony while they watch. “I suppose the tunnels did get cold,” she remarks. Over her shoulder, Cathy can just make out the script—
“The sensitive document is a hot chocolate recipe?” Cathy isn’t certain if she wants to scream or laugh. That used to be her natural state around Steed, and suddenly she realises that this madness isn’t her problem any more. The secrecy and manipulated half-truths are no longer being spun around her; she’s just a footnote in whatever paperwork Steed will be submitting at the end of this mission.
It’s incredibly freeing.
“Not just any recipe,” Steed says, plucking the paper from Mrs. Peel’s hands and shielding it from view.
“Have you ever noticed,” Cathy comments, turning to Mrs. Peel. “His similarity to a Great Dane?”
They turn and watch as a self-satisfied Steed leaves the room, his nose still stuck in the letter.
“I can see the similarities,” says Mrs. Peel after a long moment. Her grin turns rueful, “Is this where you remind me to feed and water him, and walk him twice a day to keep him out of trouble?”
Cathy laughs. “I’m well aware of the impossible. I was going to wish you luck— and suggest a leash.”
A knowing look passes between them. Cathy bites back a smile— Steed’s taste extended to all sorts of similarities it seemed.
From down the hall floats: “Mrs. Peel, you’re needed.”
“He’s all yours,” Cathy reminds her, motioning for Mrs. Peel to exit the room.
—
“Mrs. Gale, you’re in early,” Gerard says. He looks startled to see her, but doesn’t acknowledge the two strangers who slipped by him on their way out the door. Cathy watches the door close behind them; the faint glow of morning sun through the clouds.
“I never left,” she says belatedly, realising he’s waiting for a response. She turns away from the door. The night is well and done, no use dwelling in the past. “There’s a puddle of water in storage,” she adds. “It needs to be mopped up immediately.”