The Scandal At Bletchley

by Jack Treby

  ‘If only it were just them. But the world’s getting smaller. If one part goes under, we all go.’

  ‘You don’t have stocks and shares in the US surely?’

  ‘No, I don’t. But...er...’ He leaned forward confidentially. ‘There’s an American company I’ve been in communication with. They’re interested in taking over JW Smith. I’m expecting to receive an offer in the next few days.’

  ‘What, for your whole business?’

  ‘Aye. Lock stock and barrel. But if the market collapses over there then it’ll all fall through.’

  ‘That’d be a shame,’ I said, feigning sympathy. ‘But probably just as well, isn’t it? Hardly ideal, having British factories bought out by Americans.’

  ‘You don’t understand. They’re losing a fortune. It’s all these bloody trade unions, demanding extra money for their workers. We haven’t made a profit in over two years. I want to get out, before the whole thing collapses.’

  ‘And these Americans are willing to pay for a failing business?’

  ‘Oh, they won’t pay what it’s worth. But they’ll pay me and the wife enough to retire comfortably.’

  ‘What about the workforce?’

  ‘Sod the workers. I’ve done my best for them, but they’re an ungrateful bunch. I won’t be sorry to see the back of that lot, I can tell you. But if we can’t finalise the deal in the next couple of days, well...I dread to think what will happen.’

  ‘Good show!’ I called out as Dorothy Kilbride knocked her ball through the “Rover” – the final hoop – and made a start on the return journey. ‘I’m sure everything will sort itself out,’ I assured Mr Smith. Not that I cared one way or the other. There was something inexpressibly vulgar about the man. I had only known him five minutes and already he was confiding in me about his personal finances. If I wasn’t careful, he’d soon be discussing his love life and there I would have to draw a line.

  ‘I hope you’re right, Sir Hilary,’ he said.

  There was a brief lull in the conversation and I took that as my cue to escape. I rose up, empty plate in hand. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Mr Smith, I think I’ll go and get a bit more food.’

  Felicity Mandeville Jones was laughing as I moved across to the tables. She was dressed in a brimless cloche hat and a long winter coat. Her face was prettily made up, but the bruise mark on the left side was still visible. Harry was working his customary magic, standing almost too close for propriety, with his eyes locked on her face. A master craftsman in action.

  I coughed and Harry turned around to acknowledge me. ‘I got your whisky, old man,’ he said, proffering the glass at last, having not moved more than an inch from the decanter to deliver it.

  I took the glass with an acid glare. ‘You’re looking much better, Miss Jones,’ I observed.

  Felicity Mandeville Jones smiled a dazzling white smile. I could see why Harry was so enamoured of her. He wanted to win his bet, of course, but I suspected there was rather more to it than that. ‘I’m feeling a lot better,’ she said. Her voice was a pleasingly light trill, effortless and unaffected, a pleasant change from the guttural vowels of some of the other guests. ‘A bit of fresh air does me the world of good. You must think me an awful bore, missing the treasure hunt, but I had such a splitting headache this morning.’

  ‘You weren’t the only one,’ I admitted, knocking back the whisky. ‘I had a devil of a job getting out of bed.’

  Harry laughed. ‘You’d think he’d be immune, the amount he puts away.’

  ‘Well, it is meant to be a celebration.’

  ‘You’re quite right,’ Felicity agreed. ‘It’s been super fun so far. The Colonel was so kind to invite us all.’

  ‘Well, quite.’ There was an awkward pause. Harry clearly wanted to continue the conversation in private. His efforts were diluted with me standing there. But I wasn’t about to make things easy for him. ‘Are you joining in the games later?’ I asked, gesturing to the croquet lawn.

  ‘Cripes, I don’t think so,’ said Felicity. ‘I wouldn’t have a hope. Miss Kilbride is such a good player. Who’d have thought it?’

  ‘Not Harry,’ I said. ‘I think he owes me two guineas already. Good shot!’ I called. Professor Singh was within a few feet of the final hoop. At that moment, a splash of rain fell on my cheek. I put out a hand to confirm the downpour. ‘That’s a shame,’ I said with a huge grin on my face. ‘If it rains, I’ll have to miss my turn.’

  ‘Too bad, old man, too bad.’ Harry twinkled. ‘Of course, if they have to abandon the match then all bets are off.’

  I wasn’t having that. ‘I’ll see if I can find them some umbrellas.’

  By now, the rain was really starting to pour. We would have to retreat to the house to avoid a thorough soaking.

  ‘Damnation!’ Anthony Sinclair cried, from the other end of the lawn.

  ‘Just one more shot,’ Lettie Young insisted. ‘Go on, professor.’ She was a good sport, that one, I had to admit.

  A final thwack sent the ball through the hoop.

  And with that, for the first and only time that weekend, I won a bet with Harry Latimer.

  Chapter Eight

  The ballroom was situated in the southwest corner of the house, just along from the billiard hall and directly beneath the guests’ quarters. By eight o’clock, the sound of music was already beginning to waft up the stairs. Hargreaves was putting the finishing touches to my bow-tie in the bedroom. The orchestra had opened with a lively rendition of Fascinatin’ Rhythm, which was fast becoming a standard. Hargreaves was tapping along to the melody as he brushed off the shoulders of my evening jacket.

  A telephone rang somewhere in the house, instantly destroying the mood. I tutted in irritation. I have always disliked telephones. If it was up to me, the damn things would never have been invented. They are far too intrusive. If you are in the middle of a conversation and some idiot comes towards you ringing a bell, insisting that you talk to him, you would give him short shrift. But if the telephone rings, everything must stop at once. It’s the devil’s work. Luckily, the phone rang off after two or three loud blasts. A passing servant must have stopped to answer it. But who on earth would be calling at this time in the evening?

  I adjusted my bow tie and examined myself critically in the bedroom mirror. I have never been handsome, but like my valet I can scrub up well enough when the need arises. The tight formal wear of the age suited my straight, masculine physique, though I had no particular liking for the starched shirts and cumbersome jackets that were de rigueur on such formal occasions.

  I took a quick sip of whisky from a glass on the bedside table and headed out into the corridor.

  Mr Smith was standing at the far end of the upper landing, looking somewhat annoyed. ‘You look fine, woman,’ he shouted through to his wife, who was presumably still getting dressed. ‘Get a bloody move on!’ He acknowledged me with an exasperated nod.

  I turned right and made my way down a narrow set of steps onto the lower landing. There was an archway to the left and, passing through it, I came to a halt at the balustrade overlooking the main stairs.

  Anthony Sinclair was by the telephone in the hallway beneath me. The timber staircase snaked down at right angles from the first floor in three short flights and I could see the man’s slicked back hair from above, as he stood by a small table, scribbling information down in a blue notebook while holding the receiver awkwardly in one hand. The evening dress he wore was almost identical to my own, though it was perhaps a touch more stylish. Sinclair was the kind of man who paid particular attention to his appearance and – I have to admit – he was handsome enough to make it worth the effort. He must have been near the telephone when it rang, since there hadn’t been time for a servant to come and fetch him.

  I made my way down the stairs towards him, past the large frosted windows opposite the balustrade. Sinclair stiffened slightly. ‘Bit late for phone calls, isn’t it?’ I observed, as I reached the bottom step. Strictly speaking, h
e shouldn’t have been using the telephone at all. Mr Smith had set an unhelpful precedent.

  Sinclair placed the receiver back in its cradle. ‘Not really any of your business, is it?’ The fellow had abandoned any pretence of civility towards me since the billiard game the previous evening

  ‘Just making conversation.’

  He flipped the notebook closed and returned his pen to a breast pocket. ‘If you must know, I was on the phone to the office.’

  ‘What, on a Saturday evening?’ I snorted.

  ‘There’s always somebody there. The news doesn’t stop at the weekend, you know.’ He scratched his chin idly. ‘I’ve got a little story brewing and I needed to check a few facts.’

  I regarded him suspiciously. ‘A story? What story?’ Everything at Bletchley Park was off limits. It might be a social occasion, but it was still an MI5 affair.

  ‘Oh, rather a shocking one, I’m afraid.’ Sinclair smiled maliciously. ‘Perhaps not front page material, but certainly something that will raise a few eyebrows.’

  I grunted. ‘Ruining somebody’s life, no doubt. That’s what you do, isn’t it? All that scandal and tittle-tattle.’ The Colonel would have a fit.

  ‘I just report the facts, Sir Hilary. And this one’s a corker. Fraud, deception. Sexual deviancy. You name it. Actually, it might be of interest to you. Do you take the Mail?’

  ‘My wife does.’

  ‘Sensible woman. Ah, here comes Felicity.’

  The Honourable Felicity Mandeville Jones was a vision of painted splendour, descending the winding staircase with all the grace and confidence that only someone of her class could muster.

  ‘You look delightful, my dear,’ Sinclair smarmed.

  ‘Thank you, darling.’

  Lettie Young was following behind with considerably less poise but greater enthusiasm. Sinclair made a point of reserving his charm for people of his own class, so it was left to me to pay Lettie the appropriate compliments. ‘You look as radiant as ever, Miss Young,’ I flattered politely.

  ‘Thank you, kind sir.’ She grinned, reaching the bottom step and performing a mock curtsy. ‘The bands not half bad, is it?’ she said, straightening up. ‘The Colonel’s done us proud, I reckon.’

  The orchestra had already raced through Yes, We Have No Bananas and was now moving on, rather appropriately, to Has Anybody Seen My Girl.

  Sinclair was not so easily impressed. ‘That remains to be seen,’ he declared acidly.

  For an awkward moment, the four of us were stood together at the bottom of the stairs, crammed between the last step and a couple of badly placed marble pillars. Sinclair pocketed his notebook.

  ‘Shall we go in?’ I suggested, taking Felicity Mandeville Jones by the arm while her odious lover was momentarily preoccupied.

  Sinclair grimaced. That left him with no choice but to escort the other young woman. ‘Miss Young,’ he said, proffering his arm with ill grace. She rewarded him with a dazzling smile.

  We made our way through the billiard hall towards the swirling lights of the ballroom. Sinclair’s words were playing on my mind. Which poor blighter did he have in his sights this weekend? It was typical of the man to abuse the hospitality of his hostess and spy on his fellow guests. And there couldn’t be anybody here whose behaviour was any more scandalous than his. What right did he have to expose the private peccadilloes of other people when his own life was such an unpardonable mess? Perhaps, I thought, it might be worth having a word with the Colonel. The slightest whiff of scandal would be anathema to an MI5 man, even if it was just a few extra-curricular bedroom antics. Yes, Sir Vincent would put a stop to any scandal on his doorstep. But perhaps now was not the time to broach the matter.

  The dance was in full swing. The large oak-panelled ballroom was illuminated from above by several vast candelabras. There were multiple windows along the two exterior walls, dark now of course, and an elaborate coved ceiling. Several guests had taken to the dance floor. Dorothy Kilbride had nabbed Professor Singh and even Lady Fanny Leon had got into the spirit of things, accompanying the Colonel in a quick but elegant twirl. The valets and various ladies’ maids accompanying us all for the weekend had been press-ganged into serving as waiters for the evening and drinks were being passed around on silver platters. A set of caterers had been brought in and were slaving away in the kitchens. The Colonel’s man, Townsend, was in overall charge, but my man Hargreaves was helping out on the floor, alongside one or two of the other valets.

  At the far end of the hall, the Johnnie Hazelwood Orchestra were already in full flow. They were a typically nimble dance band, a tuxedoed octet with a cheery-eyed saxophonist, a manic drummer, and a trumpet player whose enormous moustache would not have disgraced a Mexican bandit. Where the Colonel had found them I had no idea, but they were certainly a jolly bunch. The orchestra had galloped through three songs in a little under ten minutes and, as I grabbed a glass of whisky from a passing Welshman, they struck up anew with the inevitable Charleston.

  By 1929, anyone with any sense was getting fed up with the Charleston. It had been fun enough for the first couple of years, but the dance required such energy and co-ordination that it was simply impossible to enjoy. The purpose of dancing – as Harry Latimer would attest – is to get men and women as close together as possible, in the hope that a few sparks might fly. If your arms and legs are crashing around all over the place, that is hardly likely to happen. There is certainly no chance of prolonged intimacy. Give me a good waltz, any day. One, two three. One two three. That I can manage.

  Felicity Mandeville Jones was observing the proceedings with keen interest, waiting politely as custom demanded for me to make the appropriate offer. Harry Latimer was approaching, fresh from a mad jig with Mrs Smith, and the thought of depriving him of Miss Jones’ company for a few more minutes prompted me to do the decent thing. If I could keep her away from Sinclair too, so much the better. ‘Would you care to dance, Miss Jones?’ I said, proffering my hand.

  She smiled sweetly. ‘Darling, I thought you’d never ask.’

  The Colonel was taking a well-deserved breather and after ten minutes of embarrassing gyrations – mine, not Miss Jones’ – I joined him at the outer edges of the hall, grabbing another whisky and catching my breath. ‘Capital fun, eh, Butler?’ he said.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I lied. ‘Nothing like a good dance.’ And that, I added silently, was nothing like a good dance.

  ‘You’re a damn liar,’ Sir Vincent asserted good-naturedly. ‘You’re just here for the whisky. Ha ha!’

  I nodded. The Colonel was nobody’s fool. ‘It’s good exercise, I suppose. But I draw the line at the Lindy Hop.’ That was one of the most recent dances. It was all right for the hoi polloi in downtown New Orleans but scarcely appropriate for Bletchley Park.

  ‘No stamina, Butler, that’s your trouble. Latimer seems to be enjoying himself, though.’ There was a hint of disapproval whenever the Colonel mentioned Harry Latimer. ‘Quite a good dancer, too,’ he observed with distaste.

  Harry had grabbed hold of the Honourable Felicity Mandeville Jones as soon as I had deserted her. ‘Hey, honey,’ he’d said, as I was leaving the dance floor, ‘I’ll show you how a real man dances.’ The nerve of the fellow. Utterly shameless. And the worst of it was, he knew exactly what he was doing. So did Miss Jones, as I had already discovered. The two were now throwing themselves about the dance floor with gay abandon.

  ‘Rather a jolly band, aren’t they?’ the Colonel observed.

  ‘I’ve seen a lot worse.’ I nodded amiably.

  ‘Not professionals, you know. Just a few friends earning a bit of pin money. But not bad, all things considered.’

  The Johnnie Hazelwood Orchestra may not have been in the top drawer but they could certainly hold their heads up in respectable company. Jazz music was all the rage in the twenties, of course, though it wasn’t real jazz of the negro kind. Orchestras like this played comfortable middle class dance music with a slightly jazzy flavour and wer
e none the worse for that.

  Lettie Young was certainly enjoying it. She was throwing herself across the dance floor like a whirling dervish, in front of a bemused Mr Smith. The fat northerner had two left feet but Lettie didn’t seem to mind. She lacked any sense of inhibition – or skill, to be brutally honest – but the sight of her gleeful face darting across the floor couldn’t help but make you smile. Against my better judgement, I was really starting to warm to the shameless little minx. For all her lack of education, and impropriety, and atrocious manners, and inability to speak the King’s English, she certainly knew how to have a good time.

  The same could not be said for all the guests. My eyes rested for a moment on Mrs Mary Smith, the unfortunate wife of the fellow currently dancing with Lettie. She was a queer one, I thought. A home counties bride whose rigid dance style reflected a much less flamboyant character. I’d only spoken to her briefly, the previous evening. She had struck me as rather snooty, but vulgar too. She affected an air of superiority, but years spent married to a Yorkshire man had clearly coarsened her. She wore an elaborate sequinned dress that was dripping with jewellery; the kind of ostentatious baubles more appropriate for the opera than for a dance hall. She was paying little attention to her partner, the amiable Doctor Lefranc.

  I avoided the Frenchman’s gaze as the mismatched couple swept by. I was itching to ask the Colonel about him. I was still doubtful of the coincidence of him being here this weekend. But – as with Sinclair – this was not the time or place to enquire further. Even if the Colonel did know anything about the man, it was unlikely he would confide in me. For all his jovial exterior, Sir Vincent hoarded information as jealously as a nun guarded her virtue.

  I was not the only guest to have abandoned the dance floor. Anthony Sinclair was over by the window, involved in a polite conversation with Professor Singh. His mind was on other things, however. I could see the daggers he was directing at Harry Latimer.

  A valet passed by with a tray of food and I quickly snaffled a few mouthfuls. Polite applause greeted the end of another number and for a brief moment the floor emptied. Dorothy Kilbride approached the Colonel. She was looking a little dizzy. ‘I can’t keep up with these modern dances, I’m afraid,’ she admitted.