The Scandal At Bletchley

by Jack Treby

  ‘But we can’t have communists running the country!’ Sinclair exclaimed, in horror.

  ‘They’re socialists, not communists. And they’re hardly radicals. Rather an ineffectual lot, I thought.’

  Sinclair shook his head. ‘They should never have been allowed to get in. It’s all these women voters.’ He glared distastefully across the room at the two girls attending the smiling figure of Harry Latimer. The women had fashionable washboard figures. They wore backless dresses with asymmetrical hemlines that brushed the tops of their knees. Perfectly respectable looking, by the standards of the day, and several decades away from the horrors of the Mary Quant miniskirt. Sinclair was disgusted, however. ‘Not a thought in their heads,’ he said. ‘Damn flapper vote. Should never have been allowed. If something isn’t done, we’ll end up with women running the country.’

  The 1920s was of course the golden age of male chauvinism and Sinclair was one of its most vocal exponents. His regular column in the Daily Mail had half the country fuming. I had learnt to bite my tongue in the face of such antediluvian attitudes. Let the idiot spout his drivel. If I had to challenge every bloody fool who denigrated the fairer sex I’d scarcely have time to brush my teeth in the morning.

  ‘Women, or coal miners,’ Sinclair added, with a shudder. ‘You mark my words, Sir Hilary. It’ll be government by the mob. And all the little oiks will be telling us what to do.’

  ‘Might not be such a bad thing,’ I mumbled, ‘if it keeps cretins like you out of power. Excuse me. I’m feeling a little parched.’

  Sinclair stared open-jawed as I brushed past him.

  I try to be pleasant on social occasions, but – really – the fellow was unconscionable. This was hardly the time or place for a political discussion and there were limits even to my tolerance. I grabbed a glass of whisky from a passing flunkey, found an ashtray to stub out the cigarette and went over to join Harry with the girls. The American was in his element, surrounded by young women, but he pulled himself away for a moment. ‘What did you say to that journalist?’ he asked, glancing across at Sinclair on the other side of the hall. ‘He looks like someone’s just slapped him.’

  ‘Nothing he didn’t deserve. How are you getting on with the Mitford sisters?’

  ‘Oh fine, fine. Just a matter of time, old man. I think the blonde might play ball, if I play my cards right.’

  I laughed. ‘Do you always talk in clichés?’

  ‘I’m an American. It goes with the territory.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I gulped down the whisky and surveyed the room. It was a fair old mix of people. “Cosmopolitan” I believe is the polite word. One of the girls Harry had his eye on was positively working class. A music hall star, if you can believe it. Her name was Lettie Young. I’d heard her sing a few years before at the Hackney Empire. A pretty little thing, to be sure, with a serviceable singing voice, but not a patch on Marie Lloyd. On the other side of the room, a northern industrialist was making conversation with Anthony Sinclair, in an absurdly booming voice. His wife was over by the window, ingratiating herself with Lady Fanny Leon. How people such as this had managed to inveigle their way into polite society eluded me, but it was happening everywhere. I was all for universal suffrage, but that didn’t mean I wanted to socialise with such people. There was even – for goodness sake – an Indian gentleman standing over in the corner, talking animatedly to some fat idiot. Secret service work has always by its nature been egalitarian, but this was ridiculous. Even the fat man looked foreign. ‘Who’s that fellow over there?’ I asked Harry. ‘Talking to the Maharajah?’

  Harry shrugged. ‘No idea. Someone said he was a doctor.’

  ‘The face looks familiar.’

  ‘You’ve met him before?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  At that moment, the fat man glanced over at me and for a moment he frowned.

  Things picked up over dinner. The dining hall on the north east corner of Bletchley Park mansion was laid out like a medieval banquet and here the mix of people showed its worth. I doubt whether you could have found a more diverse congregation anywhere on Earth. There were doctors, journalists, society girls, even a couple of continental types. Only Dorothy Kilbride, the Colonel’s head of payroll, seemed to lack sparkle, though even she had made a remarkable career for herself in a male-dominated world. Her conversation, however, was as dull as the proverbial ditch water. I can attest to this personally, as I had been placed next to her at the dinner table and she spent the entire evening talking about horticulture, a subject which bores me rigid. The two of us had once shared an office, before the war – I even dimly remember taking her out for dinner a couple of times, in the years before I’d met Elizabeth – but that was scarcely any reason to seat us together now.

  ‘Lady Fanny was telling me about the sculpting of the gardens her husband helped to conceive just before the war,’ she was droning on. ‘I gather there were several articles about it in The Gardeners’ Chronicle at the time.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ I said, struggling manfully to stifle a yawn.

  The Indian gentleman to my left seemed a little more animated. He had studied at Oxford a few years before I had and – much to my irritation – seemed to speak better English than I did. What is it about foreigners and grammar? I can conjugate a verb in Latin if circumstances require, but I don’t feel the need to demonstrate it in public. What was worse, Professor Singh had actually completed his degree and become a doctor of philosophy. I had been sent down in my second year after getting myself into a spot of bother over a few gambling debts.

  ‘It is most interesting, do you not think,’ he said, ‘to observe the rituals and hierarchy of the English class system at close hand? An evening such as this provides a perfect opportunity to analyse the strains imposed upon such an antiquated system, when it is clearly struggling to adapt to an ever changing and more complex world.’

  I turned back to Miss Kilbride. ‘Yes, the gardens are quite impressive. I hear they’ve even got a maze.’

  I was saved from further tedium by Sir Vincent Kelly, who had risen to his feet and tapped his glass. The room quietened and all eyes turned politely to the Colonel. ‘I won’t keep you long,’ he promised. ‘The brandy will be here shortly.’ That got a brief cheer. ‘I really just wanted to thank you all for coming. I was in two minds whether to hold a celebration for our twentieth anniversary. Being such a poor relation to other departments, we could hardly afford the Royal Albert Hall, what?’ There were knowing nods from some of the diners. It was common knowledge that the foreign intelligence service received significantly more funding than MI5. ‘But I thought it might be amusing to gather together a few chaps...a few of the characters from over the years who for various reasons...’

  ‘National security!’ somebody barked good-naturedly.

  ‘...For various reasons have never had the opportunity to meet before and just...well, have a jolly good knees up. I must, of course, thank our charming hostess, Lady Fanny Leon, for allowing us to make use of her home in this quite disgraceful manner. Ha ha! And particularly for allowing our own people to trample all over the kitchens and the servants quarters.’ Most of the regular staff had been packed off for the weekend, just to keep everything tidy. Only the housekeeper, a couple of maids and a stable boy had been allowed to stay behind.

  Lady Fanny nodded her head graciously. She was sitting at the head of the table, an imperious matriarch, the living embodiment of the spirit of Britain. I wondered briefly if the man from the Daily Mail had realised his hostess had once been a suffragette. She may not have chained herself to any railings or thrown herself under a racehorse, but Lady Fanny had always been a vocal exponent of women’s rights. Nowadays she even had a seat on the local council. It made me proud to think of it. I daresay if there had been a few more women like her we would never have lost the Empire.

  The Colonel was standing at the opposite end of the table, the de facto lord of the manor, if only for th
e weekend. ‘We promise to clear up after ourselves, of course. Ha ha!’ He lifted his glass again. ‘I would like to propose a toast. To our delightful hostess,’ he said.

  ‘To our hostess,’ the diners echoed politely.

  ‘And to twenty years of inspired madness on behalf of His Majesty King George V.’

  ‘His Majesty King George V!’ we echoed again.

  Sir Vincent nodded with satisfaction and gestured to his man to bring on the brandy and cigars. ‘Now let’s drink ourselves silly and have some fun.’

  Chapter Three

  Gambling is a deadly addiction and one that has afflicted me throughout my life. Several times I have come close to ruin. More often than not, however, it has proved a pleasant distraction from the dull routine of everyday life. For me the appeal is not so much in the winning – which in my case is probably just as well – it is in the trouncing of an opponent. There is a curious delight to be had in watching somebody else lose an awful lot of money. When the opponent is a man like Anthony Sinclair that pleasure is magnified several times over. It doesn’t matter what the sport is – in this case billiards – it only matters that the other person is utterly humiliated.

  Unfortunately, Anthony Sinclair was proving to be something of a master at the billiard table. I had barely managed to hit a ball during our match and even the Colonel took something of a thrashing. I’d lost five guineas on each of these games and was now determined to recover them. There had to be somebody in the building who could stand up to Sinclair. ‘Any other takers?’ the journalist enquired smugly.

  It was eleven thirty in the evening and doubtless some people were thinking of calling it a night. The dance band wasn’t booked until the following evening and there was no reason for anyone to stay up past midnight, unless they really wanted to.

  ‘I’ll give it a whirl,’ one young woman volunteered. It was Harry’s current favourite, the Honourable Felicity Mandeville Jones. She was a plucky young thing, a slim blonde, full of vim and spirit, not conventionally pretty but with lively eyes and an inviting smile. I could see why Harry was attracted to her. Even her fashionably short hair spoke of centuries of breeding. Her father, Sir Hugh Mandeville Jones, had been a minister under Stanley Baldwin and was tipped as a possible future prime minister.

  Harry was confident he could make a conquest. He had played it cool, flattering the girl with just enough attention, complimenting her on her appearance and calling her ‘honey’ in that nauseatingly over-familiar American way. His speech patterns may have been moderated by many years spent flitting across Europe, but when it came to seducing the ladies, Harry always reverted to his native brogue. ‘I figure I’ll get to first base this evening,’ he declared with irritating assurance, ‘and make the home run tomorrow night.’

  The terminology was unfamiliar to me. ‘I really have no idea what you’re talking about. What in God’s name is “first base”?’

  ‘Just a bit of canoodling, old man. It’s a sporting reference. Don’t you follow baseball?’

  ‘Oddly enough, no. I don’t hold with these silly American games. Cricket is the only sport for a gentleman.’

  ‘Yeah, well I’m not exactly a gentleman.’

  ‘There at least we can agree. But I’ll bet you fifteen guineas here and now even you can’t charm the bloomers off that particular young woman.’

  ‘Why not? Do you know something I don’t?’

  ‘Almost certainly. And it’s only fair to tell you, Harry, the wealthiest young bucks in London have been after that little filly for months, and none of them of them have got anywhere near her.’ Despite my lack of interest in such things, Elizabeth always insisted on keeping me up to date with the latest society gossip. ‘She can have her pick of the men,’ I explained. ‘She’s hardly likely to risk her reputation with a notorious rake like you. In any case, her father’s got his eye on some royal, so I hear.’

  ‘Well, if that’s what you think, old man...’ He extended a hand. ‘Then I guess you’ve got yourself a wager.’

  Now another little bet was brewing. I had observed the Honourable Felicity Mandeville Jones as she took up the billiard cue. She looked surprisingly confident. She thinks she can beat him, I thought at once. It may sound ridiculous, but sometimes you can see a person and just know they have an ace up their sleeve (Harry Latimer is not the only one who can talk in clichés). That was good enough for me. I laid down another five guineas.

  Sinclair looked rather put out to be challenged by a woman. He was – as I have already mentioned – a male chauvinist of the worst kind. Not that there’s a best kind, come to think of it. In many ways, he reminded me of my father. Sinclair was the sort of fellow who believed women should be allowed to play one round of bridge after dinner and then be packed off to bed.

  Dorothy Kilbride had done just that, funnily enough. She had retired early, complaining of a headache, and the rest of the party had then split in two. A few gay souls were having a sing-along in the drawing room. Not everyone was interested in gambling or billiards. Professor Singh was at the pianoforte, accompanying Lettie Young – the cockney songbird – in a succession of cheery ditties. Her rendition of I've danced with a man, who's danced with a girl, who's danced with the Prince of Wales could be heard even from the other end of the hallway.

  Anthony Sinclair moved back to the billiard table where the Honourable Felicity Mandeville Jones was waiting. The two competitors placed their cue balls down and a quick shot from each had the balls ricocheting off the far side of the table. Felicity’s ball covered more ground, almost returning to the near cushion, which gave her the choice of starting or not. ‘I’d quite like to break, if that’s all right.’ She beamed. ‘This is all tremendous fun.’

  Right from the first shot, it was clear that English Billiards was a game the Honourable Felicity Mandeville Jones knew inside out. It is quite a simple game, really, but it requires some skill to play. There are three balls, two white and one red. The players have to hit the opposing balls with their cue ball, pocketing one or other if they can, and thus acquiring points.

  Sinclair looked on in horror as Felicity hit both balls in one shot and had soon lined up the red in the far corner and pocketed it. I gleefully marked down the score on the black board.

  Felicity gave her opponent a dazzling smile. ‘Sorry darling. Just beginner’s luck.’ But the luck continued for the next three strokes.

  Sinclair’s appalled expression was a pleasure to observe as the game progressed. The man could not afford to lose his temper in such a public arena, but he was clearly having difficulty keeping his anger in check. I met Harry’s eye and we exchanged a moment of mutual satisfaction. When the time came for him to take his turn, however, Sinclair pulled himself together and focused all his energies on the table. He struck the cue ball with an expert hand and earned his first points with ease.

  ‘Good shot,’ the Colonel applauded, even handed as ever. Everyone else was rooting for Miss Jones.

  The game lasted half an hour, with scarcely a miss-cue between the contestants. Felicity Mandeville Jones was probably the better player – quite where she had picked up the skills I had no idea – but she was only just nudging ahead as we came in sight of the finish line. Another red ball left her within a single point of victory. Sinclair was breathing down her neck, at 297 to 299, but it made no difference. Felicity had already won. She didn’t even need another pot; all she had to do was hit the white ball head on. If that kissed the red, I would be up five guineas and Sinclair would be a laughing stock.

  The man was shaking with barely suppressed rage. Felicity gave him a charming smile and bent forward, aiming her cue with slow deliberation. Not a sound could be heard as she sized up the shot. Even the pianoforte on the other side of the house seemed to momentarily hold its breath. There was a loud thwack as the cue struck the white ball with unexpected ferocity. A groan erupted from the crowd. I watched aghast as the ball leapt into the air, thumped the edge of the table and flipped over the
cushion. In apparent slow motion, it plummeted to the floor.

  For a moment, there was silence. The sing song in the drawing room had broken up and the revellers, coming by to say goodnight, had already been caught up in the drama.

  Miss Jones smiled beatifically. ‘It looks like you’ve won after all, darling.’ She beamed.

  And so it proved. Sinclair picked up the white ball, reset the table and in one swift move took the game.

  I could scarcely credit it.

  Harry Latimer was chuckling to himself. He’d made money on Sinclair in the first two games but hadn’t bet anything on the third. He always knew when to quit, did Harry.

  ‘Well done,’ said the Colonel, amidst a smattering of polite applause. ‘Awfully bad luck, there, Miss Jones.’

  The lady in question sighed theatrically. ‘And I came so close. Well done, darling.’ She touched Sinclair’s arms gently.

  I stared at the two of them. There was an odd look in her eye, a knowing look. And suddenly, the truth hit me. Felicity had thrown the game. She could have beaten Sinclair but she had chosen not to. I gaped at her in astonishment. What possible reason could she have had for doing that? Damn it, was she sleeping with the fellow? Whatever the reason, the bloody woman had lost me five guineas. And the only crumb of comfort was that Sinclair knew he had been allowed to win. He pulled his arm away from her, his face a textbook illustration of public humiliation.

  ‘It’s getting late,’ he said, collecting his winnings with ill grace from the edge of the table. ‘If you’ll all excuse me, I think I shall retire. Goodnight everyone.’ And with that, he marched off.

  ‘I’ve heard of bad losers,’ Lettie Young laughed from the doorway, in her alarmingly guttural East London accent, ‘but he takes the biscuit. Blimey, what a pillock.’ The intrusion of such crude vocabulary broke the tension of the room and conversation abruptly resumed

  ‘Actually, Sinclair won every game,’ the Colonel pointed out.