by Rhys Bowen
Ben turned back. “I’d rather be here than in a German stalag, sir. And who knows how banged up he is, after bailing out of a plane.” He paused. “It was an accident. Pure and simple. No bad feelings. We were always the best of pals.”
He went then. It was only when he was in the lift going down that he realised Maxwell Knight had known all the details of his friends and neighbours before the interview started. It was he who had been investigated and put to the test.
Back at Wormwood Scrubs prison, Ben had just resumed his usual place when Harcourt breezed in. “You’re back. Not dismissed on the spot with a curt ‘never darken our doors again.’”
“So it would seem,” Ben replied.
“Damn. So I can’t take over your chair? Mine has started squeaking in a most annoying manner, as well as rocking.”
“You can use it for the next week or so if you like. I’ve been told to take some time off.”
“Time off? What for?”
“Apparently I’ve been overdoing it.” Ben grimaced with distaste and found it hard to get the words out.
“Good God. I haven’t noticed any hint of someone about to crack up,” Harcourt said. He came around to perch on Ben’s desk and peered down at him. “Frightfully sorry, old fellow.”
“I’m not about to go loony or anything,” Ben replied. He wanted to say there was nothing wrong with him. “It’s just that the quack felt I should take a couple of weeks off, that’s all.”
“I wish my doctor would prescribe the same thing,” Harcourt said. “I’m dying for strawberry and cream teas and some good village cricket.”
“I don’t think you’d find enough men still at home to make up a cricket team,” Ben said.
“Probably not.”
“I never asked,” Ben said, deciding that attack was the best form of defence, “but why aren’t you in uniform?”
“Strictly between ourselves, it’s flat feet, old sport. Terribly embarrassing, I know. I usually tell people I have a dickey heart. Feel as fit as a fiddle, but the local doctor wouldn’t sign off on me. Frankly, I’d rather be out fighting somewhere exotic and foreign. And not having to explain myself to every Tom, Dick, and Harry that I pass in the street.”
“I know. It’s pretty bloody, isn’t it?” Ben agreed.
“At least you can lift up your trouser and show them your leg,” Harcourt said. “I can tell they don’t believe me about the heart, and they certainly wouldn’t go along with the feet.”
There was an awkward silence. “So you’ll be going home for a bit?” Harcourt said.
“Just for a bit.”
“Lovely. Kent in late spring. Apple blossoms. Bluebells. You lucky duck. Mind if I come down and visit? My folks are in Yorkshire. Too far away for a weekend pass.”
Ben was surprised. “Of course not. You’re welcome anytime. My father actually has quite a good cook. No horsemeat on the menu, I can guarantee.”
“So you’re off today, then?” Harcourt looked down at him again. “Going to clear out your desk?”
“It’s not the end of term at school. And I’m not leaving anything confidential. Just a few pencils and the like.”
“Only I heard that we might be moving down to Blenheim Palace soon to join the rest of B Division. In which case . . .”
“In which case you’ll probably get a new chair,” Ben said.
Harcourt stood up again with that easy grace and started to leave, but then he turned back. “So it was nothing to do with Dolphin Square, then?”
Ben turned to look at him in surprise. “Dolphin Square?”
“Yes, your little jaunt today.”
“Isn’t that the big ugly block of flats where rich people keep a London pied-à-terre?”
“That’s right. But one also hears that”—Harcourt shrugged—“oh, never mind. I probably got the wrong end of the stick again.”
“What made you think I might be going to Dolphin Square?” Ben asked.
“It’s just that, well, I happened to be passing—and you know how you can hear through the bloody walls of these partitions—and I heard Radison saying, ‘You want him at Dolphin Square? Now?’ And then he came out into the hall and started looking for you. So naturally, being a chap who is quick on the uptake, I put two and two together.”
“And made five, I’m afraid,” Ben said. “So what does go on in Dolphin Square? Is it a cover for some kind of special operations?”
“How would I know?” Harcourt said. “I’m just a lowly peon like you. It’s just that”—he walked over to the door and closed it—“one does hear a certain chap who goes by various names operates out of an office there. And he answers to nobody, except presumably Churchill and the king.”
“Crikey,” Ben said. “Is he on our side?”
“One hopes so. It seems he could do a lot of damage if he weren’t.”
“Then it’s lucky we’re stuck with good old plodding but reliable Radison, isn’t it?” Ben said. He removed several pencils and a lined school notebook from his desk, along with some Rowntrees Fruit Gums, now gone hard, and a map of the Underground, and dropped them into his briefcase. “I hope to see you in a couple of weeks. Take care of yourself.”
“You, too, old chap. Get well soon.” And much to Ben’s surprise, Harcourt shook his hand.
CHAPTER NINE
Bletchley Park
May 1941
“You’re going on leave?” Trixie demanded. “When?”
Pamela had found her in their room, applying the final touches to her makeup before she headed for the late shift at 4:00 p.m. While other girls wore sensible two-piece suits or cotton frocks to work, Trixie always seemed to look as if she were about to attend a fancy luncheon. Today it was a flowery silk tea dress.
“At the end of this current rotation,” Pamela said.
“But that’s not fair.” Trixie shook her head in annoyance so that her curls bounced. She wore her dark-brown hair tightly permed in Shirley Temple fashion, unlike Pamela’s soft ash-blonde pageboy. “I applied for leave last week and was turned down. I was told that I took a whole week at Christmas, and I’d have to wait until July at the earliest before I could go again.”
“Obviously, you’re more valuable than I am,” Pamela said.
“Is there a reason for this sudden departure?” Trixie asked. “I hope it’s not bad news and compassionate leave.”
“Well, it is in a way,” Pamela said. “I just heard that a friend of mine has made it home to England after escaping from a German prisoner-of-war camp. We’d had no news of him for ages. We didn’t know if he was alive or dead. When I found out, I was so shocked that I collapsed outside the station. I’ve never done anything that stupid in my life—well, only once or twice I fainted when I went to early communion service at church without any breakfast. I went through a rather religious phase in my teens.”
“Golly,” Trixie said, “I certainly never did. But the fainting is quite understandable. I feel awful when I’m on night shift. One never gets proper sleep. And trying to read in that poor light always gives one a headache, doesn’t it?” She came over and put an arm around Pamela’s shoulder. “But clever old you. You faint and make them think you’re cracking up and need a break, thus achieving exactly what you wanted—to go straight home to see your chap.”
“I don’t know if he’s exactly my chap,” Pamela replied, turning pink. “We grew up together. We went dancing and things a few times, but it was never serious. He never asked me to be his girl before he went into the RAF. He hardly ever wrote. And I’m sure I wasn’t the only one in his life. He’s awfully good-looking and rich.”
“My dear, I might just have to come down to the depths of the Kent countryside to visit you,” Trixie said with a wicked grin. “Good-looking and rich. Who could resist?”
“Hands off,” Pamela said, laughing. “This one is mine. At least I hope he’s mine. We’ll see in a few days.” She put her hands up to her face. “Golly, how exciting. I can hardly wait.”
“You should be prepared for a shock, old thing,” Trixie said quietly. “I mean, if he crashed or bailed out of a plane, he might be quite badly wounded. Disfigured, you know.”
Pamela clearly hadn’t considered this. She paused, then said firmly, “He was strong enough to escape from a prison camp and make it safely home all the way across France. I think that was jolly brave of him.”
“Or foolish,” Trixie said. “If I were in a fairly decent prisoner-of-war camp, I think I’d stay put and sit out the war playing cards rather than being sent back to fight.”
“It’s different if you’re a fighter pilot,” Pamela said. “To them it’s a huge game. Like chess in the air. Jeremy loved it.”
“Jeremy? Are we talking about Jeremy Prescott?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
Trixie’s eyes lit up. “My dear, he was the talk of all the debs during our season. Eligible bachelor number one. Lucky old you if you snag him.”
“I fully intend to,” Pamela said. She bent to retrieve her suitcase from under the bed and opened it, ready to start packing.
The train from Bletchley seemed to take an eternity. It was shunted into sidings several times to let goods trains and troop trains pass. As the train entered London, recent bomb damage became evident. Blackened shells of buildings, a house with one wall missing revealing a complete bedroom still intact with a brass bed, a quilt with pink roses on it, and a china wash basin in the corner. On the next street a whole row had been demolished, yet one fish-and-chip shop stood unscathed in the midst of destruction with a notice tacked to the door, “Still Open for Business.” Pamela shut her eyes, willing the images to go away. She was desperately tired, having come straight from work, but even the rhythmic rocking of the train couldn’t lull her to sleep. She had been decidedly on edge, ever since she had overheard a conversation in her hut the night before.
The long hut in which she worked was partitioned into small rooms on either side of a central corridor. In the middle of her shift, she had needed to heed the call of nature. She had to walk the length of the hut to go to the ladies’ lavatory at the far end. She had almost reached the far door when she remembered she had left her torch behind. In the blackout, she would not find the lavatories without her torch. As she returned, she heard two male voices, speaking softly.
“So are you going to tell her before she goes on leave?”
“Absolutely not. If you want to know, I still think it’s a mistake. I’m going to try and talk the old man out of it.”
“But she’s damned good. You know that as well as I do. The right person for the job.”
“Is she? She’s one of them.”
“She could prove to be useful in her position.”
“Depends where her loyalty lies—with us or with them. I don’t think we should take the risk, old chap.”
Then one of them walked across and closed the door. And Pamela was absolutely sure the conversation was not meant for her ears and that they were talking about her.
So what could they possibly mean? she asked herself. Had they any reason to question her loyalty? And to whom did they think she might be loyal? Surely they couldn’t suspect she was a German spy? She waited impatiently for the train to pull into Euston Station.
Charing Cross Station was in its usual state of chaos as Pamela came up from the Underground that had taken her across London from Euston: servicemen of the various branches tramping past to a new assignment or going home on leave prior to being shipped out to Africa or the Far East. Small children with labels around their necks waiting together in a group, ready to be evacuated, while mothers stood watching behind the barrier, staring with anxious eyes. The train on the adjoining platform was about to pull out. Almost every window had a serviceman leaning out, saying good-bye to his sweetheart or his mother. One girl stood on tiptoe to kiss her darling. “Take care of yourself, Joe,” she said.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be just fine,” he answered. “I’m like a cat with nine lives, I am.”
Pamela looked at them with pity and longing. How many young men had said that same thing and never returned? And yet, she envied the way they gazed into each other’s eyes, as if nobody else existed in the whole world. Her train was already standing at the platform, and she fought her way aboard with the rest of the waiting crowd. She had chosen a carriage with a corridor and squeezed past soldiers with their kit bags who had already taken up position there, chatting and smoking as if this were a Sunday jaunt.
Some of them called out harmlessly flirtatious things as she passed. “Sit here, darling.” One patted a kit bag. “We’ll keep you entertained during the trip. Care for a Woodbine?”
She brushed them off good-naturedly, knowing that the bravado was necessary, and a smile from a pretty girl was just what they needed right now. When she found a compartment with an empty seat, she took it, gratefully. The carriage was already occupied by a mother with a toddler, sucking a thumb contentedly on her lap, a young Wren in uniform, and two stout middle-aged ladies, complaining bitterly that the railways no longer provided ladies-only compartments. “It’s a disgrace having to squeeze past those men,” the chubbier one said. “Do you know that one of them said, ‘Take it easy, mother. You’re not exactly giving me a thrill.’”
“Shocking. The world has gone mad.”
They looked at Pamela for sympathy. “I hope they didn’t accost you, my dear?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” Pamela smiled.
A whistle blew. There were running feet and slamming doors as the train lurched forward and pulled out of the station. Those newly arrived started moving past, along the corridor. Pamela turned away and stared out the window as the train crossed the railway bridge over the Thames, and a panorama of the City of London came into view, with the dome of St. Paul’s rising bravely among ruins. When they pulled into Waterloo Station on the south bank, she saw that someone had come to lean against the door of her compartment—a young man in a tweed jacket. There was something definitely familiar about the way that dark hair curled around his collar. She wrenched open the compartment door, making the man step away hastily and turn around.
“Ben? Good heavens. It is you,” she said, her face lighting up. “I thought I recognised the back of your head.”
“Pamela?” He looked at her incredulously. “What are you doing here?”
“Same thing as you, I suppose. Going home for a few days. Come on in. There’s room for one more.”
“Is there? I thought it might be ladies only. If the other ladies don’t mind . . .”
“Of course they don’t.” Pamela patted the seat across from her, and Ben put his bag up on the rack.
“What a coincidence that we’re going home at the same time,” she said, still smiling at him. “It is so good to see you. It’s been ages.”
“I got a brief glimpse of you in church last Christmas,” he said. “You’re looking awfully well.”
“And you, too. So they’re not working you too hard?”
“A lot of boring stuff. Rather repetitious, but necessary, I suppose,” he replied with a self-deprecating smile.
“You’re with one of the ministries, aren’t you?”
“Attached to one of them. Research. Looking up lots of useless information. Aren’t you doing the same sort of thing?”
“Similar. Clerical stuff. Frightfully boring filing and things. But someone has to do it.”
“Are you in London itself?” he asked.
“No, my branch has been evacuated outside to Berkshire. Have to keep the records safe from bombs, you know. How about you?”
“I’ve been in London, but I’m not sure where I might be sent next. It seems they are sending everyone out to the country these days.”
There was a silence. They exchanged a smile.
Ben cleared his throat. “Any word on Jeremy?”
Pamela’s face brightened. “You haven’t heard? You obviously haven’t been reading the papers re
cently.”
“Never read them. Always full of bad news.”
She leaned closer to him across the aisle. “He’s home, Ben. He escaped from the camp and made it all the way across France. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Amazing,” Ben said. “Well, if anyone could escape from a prison camp and make it halfway across Europe without getting caught, it would be Jeremy.”
“I know.” She sighed. “I could hardly believe it when I read it in the newspaper, but I telephoned my family, and he’s actually back at Nethercote, recuperating from his ordeal. You must come with me to see him.”
“Are you sure you want me tagging along?”
“Of course. Jeremy will want to see you as much as he wants to see me. And if he is . . . you know . . . banged up or something . . . well, then, I’d rather have you there with me.”
“All right,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”
“You must come up to the house as soon as you’ve said hello to your father. I’m sure they’ll all want to see you.”
“How are they all?”
“I haven’t been home since Christmas, but as far as I can tell from Mah’s letters, Pah is perpetually annoyed at having to live in such cramped conditions—as if one wing of Farleigh is actually cramped.” She laughed. “He’s also annoyed that he’s too old to do his bit, as he puts it. He’s enlisted in the local home guard, but I suspect he’s just a nuisance to them, wanting to give the orders. Mah just goes on in her usual sweet way, oblivious to everything. Livvy’s taken over the top floor for little Charles’s nursery. She’s become very maternal and stodgy.”
“Any news on your sister Margot?”
Pamela’s face clouded. “Not for ages. It’s awfully worrying. One hopes she is holed up somewhere with her French count, but one does hear terrible things about what’s going on in France these days.”
“And the two young ones are still at home? Or has Dido found herself a job?”
“She’d love to, but Pah says that nineteen is too young to be away from home. She’s positively bursting with frustration. You know Dido—not the sort to sit at home and practise the piano. I suppose I can understand. It’s very unfair on her that she won’t get a season like the rest of us. No dances. No chance to meet eligible men. Last time I saw her, she was talking of running away and going to work in a factory.”