The Scandal At Bletchley

by Jack Treby

  ‘I always wanted to own a horse,’ she confided. ‘You’re a handsome devil, ain’t you?’ Thankfully, at this point, she was talking to one of the horses. She patted its head and the animal nickered happily.

  ‘I think it’s a mare,’ I said.

  Lettie laughed. ‘You need your eyes testing, mate.’ She gestured to the rear of the animal and I realised, on reflection, that it was actually a rather impressive stallion. Appearances can sometimes be deceptive.

  The horse was of far less interest to me, however, than the sheet of white paper pinned to the far wall of the stable. Which poor sap, I wondered, had been tasked with the duty of placing all these silly bits of paper across the estate? Probably that stable boy. It would be beneath the dignity of any of the valets.

  Lettie stared happily at the large letter “A”. ‘Looks like you were right.’ She grinned. ‘Clever sod.’ She grabbed the sheet of clues from my hand. ‘So, what’s the next one then?’

  ‘Forget it,’ I told her. ‘We know where the treasure is. We might as well go straight there.’

  She smiled mischievously. ‘You’re a crafty beggar, you are. I don’t know if I should be left alone with you, what with all this hay lying around.’

  I let out a sigh. The damn woman was flirting with me. ‘I assure you, Miss Young, you are perfectly safe with me.’ My tone was less than friendly.

  She made a pretence of disappointment. ‘You don’t like me very much, do you?’

  ‘I...haven’t formed an opinion.’

  ‘Don’t give me that.’ Her eyes were gleaming with mischief. ‘You think I’m a mouthy little tart who doesn’t deserve to be here with all you respectable types. Be honest, that’s what you think, ain’t it?’

  ‘Very well. If that’s what you want me to say, then yes, that is what I think. A respectable country house is not the place for an East End girl. It makes everyone feel very uncomfortable.’

  ‘Not me, it don’t. It’s no skin off my nose what people think. You go on the stage, you’re used to dealing with all sorts. But you,’ she observed me shrewdly. ‘You ain’t comfortable anywhere, are you?’

  I snorted. ‘That’s your considered opinion, is it?’

  ‘Yes, since we’re being honest. I think you’re a stuck up prig who wouldn’t know a good time if it bashed you in the face.’

  I blinked. And then I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. I do admire plain speaking. ‘Miss Young, I believe I may have misjudged you.’

  ‘Too bloody right. Now are we gonna win this stupid treasure hunt or what?’

  I gestured to the stable door. ‘To the library!’

  Lettie grinned. ‘I’ll race you there!’

  That was going too far. ‘I have no intention of running.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ She bolted from the stable without another word, nearly crashing into the groom before clattering inelegantly across the yard. I stopped in the doorway and watched her go. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she was heading in the wrong direction. There was an archway off to the right that led straight through to the back of the house. I could pass under that and arrive at the library in half the time. And I wouldn’t have to run.

  I pulled out my fob watch and checked the time against the clock on top of the arch. It was just coming up to midday. On the far side was a set of garages, running parallel to the rear of the house. The metal shutters were down, meaning all the automobiles were safely locked away. I wondered idly if the Morris Oxford had arrived back yet, but Harry had only been gone a couple of hours, so it seemed unlikely.

  Lost in thought, I almost collided with one of my competitors, heading in the opposite direction. It was the doctor, the portly Frenchman who had been out smoking with Professor Singh the previous evening.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Monsieur,’ he said, as we nearly crashed head first into one another. He was tubby fellow with a crop of short curly hair and a rather fine moustache. He walked with a gentle limp and had his own sheet of clues clutched tightly in his hand.

  The man was unaccompanied. There had been an odd number of participants, with the Honourable Felicity Mandeville Jones unwell, and he had volunteered to be the odd man out.

  I stepped back politely. ‘Monsieur Lefranc.’ I had finally learnt his name. Gaston Lefranc. The name, like the face, had a nagging familiarity. I had only been to France a couple of times and it was not a place I had any happy memories of. The most recent trip had been three years ago to the south of the country and I had barely met a soul during several months of confinement.

  The memory of that suddenly collided with the amiable Frenchman standing in front of me. And now I knew where I had seen him before.

  Gaston Lefranc observed me with quiet amusement. ‘You recognise me at last,’ he observed. ‘I wondered whether you would.’

  My throat began to constrict. ‘You...remember me?’ I asked, my voice a hoarse whisper.

  ‘I didn’t at first. It was your manservant I recognised. I saw him this morning preparing the car for Mr Latimer. I knew him at once, although not by the name of Hargreaves.’

  ‘Listen.’ I gestured him away from the arch and over towards the back of the house. ‘This is damned awkward.’

  ‘Do not worry.’ Lefranc placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. ‘Your secret is safe with me, Madame.’

  Chapter Five

  Affairs of the heart can be damned difficult when you’re leading a double life. I have the same impulses as any normal hot-blooded woman. When I was a child, my tutors had insisted that “female persons” did not have sexual desires. Men lusted, they said, women acquiesced, though only in the devoutly Christian context of the marital bed. When I hear people in the latter half of the century talking nostalgically about “Victorian Values” I always let off a snort of derision. The Victorians, like every other generation, were a bunch of hypocrites. I had desires and, though my peculiar life as an English gentleman did make things difficult, I also had my fair share of romantic encounters.

  One particular liaison, pertinent to this story, took place during the General Strike of 1926. I had volunteered to drive a tram – helping to keep London running while the rabble sat around drinking themselves into a stupor, pretending they were being radical. One young man had taken my eye and although I would usually only dally when away from home – where I was less likely to be recognised – he was such a fine looking fellow and it had been such a long time since I had last indulged myself that I was determined to have him.

  Hargreaves set me up in a small flat in the vicinity of Sloane Square, and posing as a Mrs Rimington, a respectable widow, I set about seducing the young tram conductor. It wasn’t difficult. He was twenty-one and had never had carnal knowledge of a woman. Whether he was saving himself for marriage or had just been unlucky I didn’t know. But I was thirty-seven and well versed in the arts of love.

  It was a gloriously inconsequential affair and of course it couldn’t last.

  When I found myself in a state of embarrassment some months later, I realised I had been the naïve one. I’d thought there was little risk of me getting pregnant in my late thirties, but evidently I had been mistaken. An abortion was a possibility – even in those days, there were doctors who were willing to break the law for the appropriate fee – but I’d had an abortion once before, in my university days, and I couldn’t face going through that a second time. So I travelled to the south of France instead, for six months, with Hargreaves posing as my husband, and awaited the happy event. I don’t think Elizabeth even noticed I was gone.

  The midwife we engaged was an astonishingly ugly old crone who can’t have been a day under a hundred and three. She didn’t speak a word of English and her accent was so thick I wasn’t even sure she could speak French. But she knew her job and helped deliver a healthy baby. I think it was a boy, but I was too exhausted to care.

  It was Hargreaves who then sent for a doctor, to give the baby the once over before we packed it off to the orphanage.

>   And it was then, lying flat on my back, covered in sweat, that I had briefly met the man standing before me now in the back yard of Bletchley Park. Doctor Gaston Lefranc.

  It was a moment I had feared for so long, it was almost a relief that it had finally arrived. I had had so many narrow escapes over the years, particularly in my Oxford days. And now someone had discovered the truth and my fate was in his hands.

  ‘How much do you want?’ I asked, with a frankness born of desperation. Perhaps it might be possible to buy his silence.

  ‘Want?’ Lefranc stared at me blankly. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand, Monsieur.’

  ‘How much money do you want? To keep quiet?’ If I could persuade him to take a bribe, it would make everything so much simpler. But perhaps he intended to blackmail me, to take me for every penny I had. That is what Harry Latimer would have done. This was a disaster.

  ‘I assure you, Sir Hilary, I have no desire to extort money from you. If you choose to live your life as a man, that is your business, not mine.’

  ‘You’re...not going to tell anyone?’ I couldn’t quite believe it.

  ‘Why should I? It is none of my concern. In any case, we doctors, we are like priests. We respect people’s privacy.’

  ‘I was never really your patient, though.’

  ‘The principle still applies. I must admit, however, I am intrigued by this strange life you are leading. I have come across cases of indeterminate sex, but that is a medical matter. I have never heard of a woman choosing to live her life as a man. It is absolutely fascinating. I was talking to Professor Singh just recently and he was saying...’

  I blanched at the name. ‘Please tell me you’re not going to discuss it with him!’

  ‘Do not concern yourself, Monsieur. Professor Singh is a very learned and intelligent man, but patient confidentiality must take precedence over everything else.’

  ‘I...I’m glad to hear it.’

  Lefranc stared at me thoughtfully. ‘But I must confess, I am curious to know why anybody would choose to live in such a way.’

  ‘I didn’t exactly choose it,’ I said, somewhat defensively. ‘And it’s not as if I’m the only one doing it.’ It felt odd to be discussing this so openly. I had never spoken to anyone about it before. It made me feel rather uncomfortable. ‘Quite a few women signed up to fight in 1914, you know. Joined the army as men and fought alongside the other Tommies. You won’t read about it in the history books, but it happened.’

  ‘You fought in the trenches?’ Lefranc was incredulous.

  ‘Good lord, no,’ I said. ‘I packed my bags in 1914 and went to live in America. But plenty of others stayed behind.’

  For the first time, I saw a hint of disapproval in the doctor’s eye.

  ‘You must have been with the French army,’ I guessed.

  Lefranc nodded. ‘I was a battlefield surgeon. It was a distressing experience. I am glad I will never have to go through that again. But Monsieur. Madame. Forgive me. I am fascinated by this double life of yours. It must create all kinds of difficulties. Have you lived your entire life this way?’

  I nodded. ‘It was my father’s fault. He couldn’t stand women.’ Sir Frederick Manningham-Butler had wanted a son and heir, but my mother had died giving birth to me and Sir Frederick couldn’t bear the thought of having to marry anybody else. ‘He falsified the birth certificate and brought me up as a boy.’

  ‘It cannot have been easy.’

  ‘Lord, no. He couldn’t exactly pack me off to boarding school. Not with the rugger matches and the communal showers.’ I laughed. ‘More’s the pity. Nanny Perkins knew the truth, of course, as did my valet. But I was educated privately. Personal tutors, formal lessons. And everybody was kept in the dark. It wasn’t until I went off to university that things began to get really tricky.’

  ‘You could have rebelled, Monsieur. You could have revealed the truth, despite your father.’

  ‘Don’t think it didn’t occur to me. I was quite a reckless young thing. Played fast and loose. Got sent down in the end. But eventually I learned to live with it.’

  ‘And this man of yours, Hargreaves. I assume he is not really your husband?’

  ‘God, no.’

  ‘Or the father of the child?’

  ‘No. There was...another fellow. A brief fling, you understand. Nothing serious.’

  ‘I understand.’ There was no recrimination in Lefranc’s voice. I suppose a doctor cannot help but be a man of the world. ‘What happened to the child I examined?’ he enquired.

  ‘Off to the orphanage. Probably put out for adoption. A couple of Frog parents, I daresay. Oh, no offence.’

  ‘None taken.’ He smiled warmly. The man was altogether too amiable. It was rather unnerving.

  ‘You won’t...you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone?’ I asked again.

  ‘I have given you my word, Monsieur. And we are all, are we not, experts at keeping secrets?’

  ‘I’ll say. A house full of secret agents.’ I wondered suddenly how Lefranc had got involved in all that. But if my double life was none of his business, then his life as an employee of MI5 was none of mine. As the Colonel had said, no shop talk.

  ‘Now I must finish the game,’ Lefranc declared. ‘I am convinced the final word is “library” but I need one more letter to confirm it.’ Each team had been given a slightly different set of clues.

  I gestured to the stables, just visible through the elaborate archway. ‘The far end, by the final stall. Watch out for that black stallion. I think he’s getting a bit frisky.’

  Lefranc bowed. ‘Merci, Monsieur.’

  I stood for a moment after he had left, breathing in the cold air. My heart was beating rapidly. The doctor seemed a thoroughly decent fellow, but I was loath to accept his assurances at face value.

  I would have to have a word with Hargreaves.

  A loud clunk sounded from somewhere nearby. I looked around with concern, but there was nobody in sight.

  My secret was safe, for now.

  Chapter Six

  Lettie Young was attacking the small wooden box with a hat pin. Her face was screwed up in deep concentration as she manoeuvred the pin inside the lock. Professor Singh stood to her left, peering over her shoulder in benign amusement. ‘You’ve just got to tickle it,’ she explained to him, her voice peculiarly strained. All at once, there was a gentle click and a sudden round of applause from the assembled guests. ‘There you go, professor,’ she said. ‘Piece of cake.’

  The young music hall star stepped back and allowed Professor Singh to open the box. The chest was made of heavily polished wood. It was about six inches tall and almost a foot across. The lid was narrow and as Professor Singh pulled it open a miniature ballerina sprang up and a mechanical device started playing a brief extract from The Sugar Plum Fairy. The ballerina danced or rather revolved with little reference to the music being played.

  ‘Most delightful!’ the professor exclaimed. He lifted up the box for a moment, examining it in minute detail, and then gallantly presented it to Lettie.

  ‘You’re a real gent.’ She grinned, holding the box proudly for a moment. Then she saw me standing in the doorway. ‘And where the bleedin’ hell have you been?’ she exclaimed.

  All eyes shifted in my direction.

  I had dallied for several minutes along the pathway that led around the back of the house. It had taken me some moments to recover my wits after the alarming conversation with Doctor Lefranc. The sheer coincidence of the good doctor being here had seriously unnerved me. Two strangers who met once in the south of France might plausibly bump into each other again a few years later in England, but surely not at the same country house and having belonged at one time to the same organisation? I have always distrusted coincidence and this particular reunion had done nothing to make me reconsider that attitude. Doctor Lefranc’s presence at Bletchley Park beggared belief. If someone was playing games, then I for one was not remotely amused.

  Ther
e was no time for further reflection, however. Having arrived at the doorway, and with all the guests now staring at me, some justification for my tardiness was required. ‘I...got side-tracked,’ I explained, rather lamely, stepping forward into the library.

  The room was an oasis of ordered calm. The book-lined walls would have done the British Museum proud. An oak-framed fireplace dominated the near wall, with a huge mirror hanging above it. Bookshelves filled the remaining space, packed solidly with innumerable worthy volumes, except to the south, where a wide bow window provided a pleasant view of the gardens. Several solid leather armchairs were scattered across the room, helping to create the impression of a gentleman’s club in miniature. Not the kind of club I would have wished to join, admittedly – it was a little stuffy for my taste – but the kind that the Colonel and even perhaps (in those progressive days) Professor Singh might have felt at home in.

  Lettie Young was standing by a small table, a picture of working class inelegance, her pretty rouged face glowing with enthusiasm (she would not have been allowed to join the club; the days were not that progressive). Lady Fanny Leon, by contrast, seemed rather at home there. She was seated comfortably in a heavily padded armchair, observing the proceedings with an amused detachment. She had been partnered with Professor Singh and it was the Indian gentleman, naturally, who had been the first to follow the trail of clues to the music box. The damned fellow was now positively beaming with pride. Lady Fanny, for her part, still looked a little flustered. She was a rather portly woman and was probably not used to the exertion. I knew exactly how she felt.

  ‘Professor Singh just nipped in before me,’ Lettie explained. ‘If you’d told me which way to go I might have got here first.’

  ‘Alas,’ the professor exclaimed, ‘I was unable to open the box without the proper key.’