The Secrets of Latimer House

by Jules Wake

  The Secrets of Latimer House

  Jules Wake

  One More Chapter

  a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

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  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

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  Copyright © Jules Wake 2021

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  Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

  Cover photographs © Stephen Mulchey/Trevillion Images (figures), © Maria Heyens/Arcangel Images (background) and Shutterstock.com (hedges and planes)

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  Jules Wake asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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  A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

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  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

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  Source ISBN: 9780008408985

  Ebook Edition © August 2021 ISBN: 9780008408978

  Version: 2021-07-20

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you for reading…

  You will also love…

  About the Author

  Also by Jules Wake

  One More Chapter...

  About the Publisher

  To my dad, for giving me the priceless gift of reading. He taught me to read before I even went to school and I’ve never looked back.

  Chapter One

  March 1943

  Evelyn – Falmouth

  The bedraggled sailors might have varied in rank but the expressions on their sullen, wary faces were indistinguishable. Huddled into salt-stained, crumpled uniforms, the younger seamen looked little more than boys and while she didn’t show it on her own face, Evelyn Brooke-Edwards’s heart contracted a little. Had her own brother suffered the indignity of being scrutinised like this when his plane was shot down over France? Now he was held in a prisoner-of-war camp, and she prayed that he was being well looked after, although her mother hadn’t had a letter in months.

  Aware that her own clean, crisp uniform emphasised their uncertain situation, giving her significant advantage in the small amount of time she had available, she turned to face the most senior officer. ‘Leitender Ingenieur. Dein Name bitte.’ Her fluent German and the recognition of his rank of Chief Engineer surprised him and his face blanched in dismay as it dawned on him that she knew exactly how important he was. She’d already earmarked him as a potential important source of information. It was her job to identify those POWs from whom useful intelligence could be gleaned under further strategic interrogation.

  Quickly she stated, in German, the standard protocol of the Geneva Convention, to reassure those assembled in front of her that they would be treated humanely despite the gimlet-eyed, grim study from the guards flanking her, all on high alert at being face to face with the enemy.

  The Chief Engineer stared at the Lieutenant stripes on her sleeves, frowning. Being confronted by a female Naval Intelligence Officer – a deliberate tactic – surprised and disconcerted prisoners, which meant that they often blurted out more than they planned to, usually under the mistaken belief that this initial contact, if conducted by a woman, clearly wasn’t being taken seriously by the English authorities. After all, interrogation was men’s work. Serious work.

  Evelyn’s gentle, kind voice belied significant training as she asked for his name, rank, serial number and the name of his vessel. Despite the mutinous line to his mouth, he complied, reeling off the basic information, which was recorded by a young Wren. As soon as this was done, with a nod to a junior officer, Evelyn instructed the man to be taken to a different holding area. He would be transported for a more detailed interrogation elsewhere. Quickly she worked through the sad collection of survivors, conscious that the majority of their comrades from the U-boat were lost to the lonely, cold depths of the Atlantic.

  A tired sense of relief flooded her as nearly all followed their senior officer’s lead; it had been a long day and her watch was nearly over. She was ready to return to her billet and the cosy fire in the kitchen that her landlady Mrs Rankin would have stoked on this miserable spring day. These men, still in damp uniforms, would be spending an uncomfortable night here before they were transferred in the morning. But at least if she hurried up they would receive a hot meal sooner rather than later, even though the cook begrudged feeding those ‘damned Jerries’.

  At last she came to the final group, still in training by the looks of their frightened young faces, and was working her way through them when Lieutenant Commander Williamson strode up.

  ‘Can you wrap this up, Edwards? Some of us have places to be. There’s a nice bottle of brandy with my name on it in the Officers’ Mess. Get these Fritzes out of here.’ He eyed the men with a malevolent glare before saying, ‘If I had my way, I’d have left the bastards to drown.’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ she said with a bland expression, while she gritted her teeth at his unwelcome interruption. Even if they didn’t speak English, his obvious contempt had made a few of the men straighten up, their wary attitude changing into instant patriotic defiance.

  Thanks a lot, Sir, she thought to herself. Typical of Williamson. His usual odious behaviour.

  Ignoring him, she gave the boys – not one of them could have been more than eighteen – a kind smile and continued her unhurried questioning. One seaman turned bullish, refusing to give her his name and rank, standing with his chin, that still had little need of a razor, lifted.

  She mentally cursed her commanding officer. Time to use the fall-back option.

  Evelyn wasn’t the least bit vain – well, perhaps just a little – but she knew she’d been blessed with good looks: fair skin, blonde hair with its own curl and well-shaped blue eyes as striking as her own mother’s, and although she’d been encouraged in training to use her looks to her advantage, she never felt quite comfortable doing so.

  However, she was aware that more flies were to be had with honey than vinegar. Ignoring the sailor’s juvenile defiance, she turned her gentle smile up a few notches as she reminded him in firm tones that the sooner they finished, the sooner they could be moved inside and receive a hot meal. Thankfully, this approach provided quick
results and with five minutes to spare to the end of her watch, she was able to hand over all the official paperwork to one of the other subordinate Wrens and head away from the docks back into the offices in Forte 1 to file her own report, rubbing her hands together as she escaped the chill wind blowing off the sea.

  To her dismay Lieutenant Commander Williamson had returned to the office ahead of her and was sitting behind the main desk, his feet up on the surface, lounging back with his head behind his hands.

  ‘Ah, Edwards. All done. You took your sweet time.’

  She swallowed and nodded politely. There was something about Frederick Williamson that she couldn’t like even though she knew lots of the younger Wrens found him rather dashing with his David Niven moustache and slicked-back hair. Personally, even aside from the way he viewed the prisoners, she thought he had a cruel mouth, more inclined to sneer than smile, and cold, grey eyes that looked down on the rest of the world as if he knew better than them.

  She moved to the other smaller desk, even though the files she needed were beneath Williamson’s heels on his desk.

  ‘Want a nip to chase away the cold?’ He produced a bottle from beneath the desk and she involuntarily looked at her watch.

  ‘Off duty now, Edwards,’ he said as he poured himself a generous slug.

  ‘Best not, Sir,’ she said, and unable to stop herself added, ‘and it’s Brooke-Edwards.’ She knew it was a stupid thing to say but he irked her so much, and of course he pounced. She really ought to have known better.

  ‘Of course, Brooke-Edwards. Mustn’t forget that Uncle is Vice Admiral must we?’ Williamson’s eyes lit with malicious glee.

  Evelyn regarded him steadily, determined to remain pleasant. He was a nasty piece of work that enjoyed toying with the lower ranks like a cat with mice at his disposal – never prepared to let go until he was ready. Unfortunately, as he was her superior officer and the most senior in this small unit within the base on the Cornish coast, it made it difficult to tell him to leave her and the other girls alone.

  Swinging his legs off the desk top, he stood up and tossed back the whisky in his glass.

  ‘I think you need reminding who’s in charge here. Debs like you have no place in the Navy, playing at being an officer. I notice you’re all smiles with those Krauts. You think we don’t know what you’re saying to them? With your pretty, girlish smiles?’

  His moustache framed the snarl twisting his mouth and a tiny frisson of fear crept up her spine as she realised that she had backed herself into a corner behind the desk, one side of which was flush against the wall.

  Her fluency in German had always been a source of contention. He didn’t like not knowing what she was saying to the prisoners or that she treated them with basic decency. Moreover, he particularly disliked that her record for gaining co-operation from the POWs was higher than that of her predecessor, a particular crony of Williamson’s. It wasn’t the first time he’d intimated something so unsavoury. Her mother would be appalled and her father would have most certainly punched him.

  ‘Do you like that? Those boys panting after you.’

  Evelyn clenched her fists and tried to move out from behind the desk but Williamson moved quickly, his body coming into contact with hers and shoving her up against the wall, breathing whisky fumes over her. She reared back, her head making sharp, painful contact against the bricks. He smiled, a nasty smirk, his hands at his sides, palms vertical in mock surrender as if he wasn’t doing anything, while his pelvis and rib cage pushed at her. His face was too close to hers and unpleasant excitement sparked in his eyes as his heavy body settled up against hers, pressing into her. Peter, whose kisses had set light to a stronger yearning, had never pressed himself upon her like this. The musky masculine smell of Williamson, sweaty and wet-doggish mixed with alcohol, filled her nostrils.

  ‘Lieutenant Commander, please stop this,’ she said, trying to sound calm and authoritative, knowing that any sign of panic or fear would incite him further. Instinct rather than experience told her this. In truth she had very little understanding of men like Williamson, ruthless in their quest for promotion and power, unlike the male contemporaries she’d known at Oxford or the men at the summer parties of her youth. Her experience of men was limited to the protective respect of her brother and his friends and the gentle, loving courtship of Peter, whom she hadn’t heard from since the summer of 1939, and she had no idea when she might ever see him again. If it weren’t for this damned war, they would have been married by now.

  The thought of Peter and how much she missed him, made her shove Williamson sharply with her hands, pushing him away.

  He stumbled back a pace before righting himself, with a cold smile filling his face.

  ‘Lay your hands on a senior officer, would you, Edwards? That’s a court martial offence.’ He advanced again and this time grabbed her head with both hands in a cruel, tight grip and mashed his moustached mouth against hers and forced his fat slug of a tongue into her mouth. The intrusion almost made her retch and for a moment her knees weakened and panic started to take over. Pressing his advantage, he ground his body against hers and she recoiled, trying to process all the horrible sensations, the awful slobbering tongue, the bullish barrel chest squashing her and the ghastly grinding and rubbing below.

  She couldn’t breathe until his hands slid along the skin between her stockings and cami-knickers. More shocked than she’d ever been in her life, she twisted her head painfully against the wall to wrench her mouth away from his and sucked in a furious breath.

  ‘No!’ she gasped and pushed at him. Bigger and stronger than her, he simply grinned and his sausage fingers touched the edge of her knickers. Desperate now, fearing what would come next, she grabbed a heavy torch from the desk. Raising it, without thinking, she hit him on the side of the neck as hard as she could. The resulting sickening crunch as it connected with his jaw made her freeze in horror for a second.

  Williamson staggered a little and fell away from her, his hands clutching his face.

  ‘You bitch,’ he said, the words slurred. Before he could say anything more, she dropped to her knees and scooted under the desk, wriggling beneath the vanity board to the other side and, breathing hard, got to her feet again.

  Now standing, she stared terrified at him, horrified by what she’d done, shaken by what had occurred. She was for it now. She’d be court martialled, lose her rank.

  Williamson, still holding his face, glared at her but there was triumph in his eyes.

  Cupping his chin, he ground out, ‘You just put an end to your career. Report here at 0900 tomorrow morning. That’s a direct order.’

  Now tears threatened to fill her eyes but she wouldn’t let him see her cry. Instead, she lifted her chin, gave him a cool stare and said with ill-concealed contempt, ‘Yes, Sir.’

  She turned and yanked open the door, letting the tears come, and raced down the corridor. As she reached the end the double doors opened and she came stuttering to a halt at the sight of the man there. She swallowed, conscious of the tear streaks on her cheeks, but managed to lift her hand in a salute, wondering what on earth he must think.

  ‘Captain Jennings,’ she managed to gasp, frantically straightening. He was the area commander and occasionally called in, although usually he was expected and Williamson would have met him at the gate.

  ‘Lieutenant Brooke-Edwards,’ he said, a smile lurking in his eyes although it dimmed quickly when he looked at her face. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. Just going off watch.’ One stray tear trickled down her neck but she kept her ramrod posture.

  ‘At ease, Lieutenant. I hear you had another U-boat crew pass through. All processed?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Excellent work. Williamson still here?’

  She nodded, stiffening again as her stomach rolled and bubbled with nausea.

  ‘I’ll let you get off.’

  She nodded and, with a sense of dread and shame, lifted her
eyes to his face. At sixty he had the weather-beaten grizzled face of a veteran of the Great War and deep lines scored his forehead which was now furrowed into a deep frown.

  Without a shadow of doubt, she knew that her days as a Lieutenant were numbered; at the very least she would be demoted and most likely court martialled.

  Chapter Two

  Judith – London

  For the first time in a very long time, Judith’s faded spirits stirred a little as she looked up at the famous Nelson’s Column and the bright-red buses skirting Trafalgar Square. Being in London made a welcome change after spending several months in a British northern town. Her reprieve, however, was brief. Tonight, she’d be travelling back up to Hull on the train.

  She didn’t belong there, anymore than she belonged here but at least in London she enjoyed a sense of anonymity, something that had been a bit of a relief when she’d first come to this country before the outbreak of war. But, even after five years, England still seemed alien and she still felt more dead than alive inside. She glanced around at the thin, pinched faces of the people walking by. Although no one deliberately jostled her in the street, called her names or pointed to her, she kept herself to herself, avoided eye contact with anyone and rarely spoke unless she absolutely had to. It was difficult to hide a German accent.