The Scandal At Bletchley

by Jack Treby

  Hargreaves was on the far side of the hall, not far from the Johnnie Hazelwood Orchestra, who were still belting out songs though it was after midnight now. It was entirely possible they would still be here at four or five in the morning. These events did tend to go on rather. Hargreaves was laying out food for the first breakfast. An early hours meal was often provided so that people had the stamina to see the night through.

  Harry Latimer accosted me before I could make my way across the dance floor. ‘Where have you been skulking?’ he demanded. ‘You’ve missed all the drama, old man.’

  ‘I haven’t been skulking. I was just – what drama?’

  Harry looked at me for a moment. ‘Are you okay, old man? You don’t look too bright.’

  ‘I...I was feeling a bit sick. Had to find a lavatory.’ It was as well to stick with the story I had given Townsend.

  ‘Too much lemonade?’ Harry sympathised.

  ‘Far too much. I doubt I’ll last the evening.’

  Harry peered at me critically. ‘I don’t think you’ll last the hour,’ he mocked. ‘No stamina, you limeys.’

  I grabbed a second glass of whisky and knocked it back. I was more concerned with his earlier comment. ‘What did you mean, a drama?’

  Harry smirked. ‘Oh nothing, nothing. Miss Jones and I had a little tête a tête away from the dance floor. A little canoodling, in the library. You know the kind of thing.’

  ‘You filthy swine.’ I did my best to laugh.

  ‘Oh, all quite innocent, old man. Just a bit of harmless fun. But then your journalist friend Anthony Sinclair comes in, acting like the jealous husband. All protective. It might have been sweet if it wasn’t so absurd. He threatened to thump me.’

  ‘Good lord.’

  Harry grinned. ‘I talked him out of it.’

  ‘Probably just as well.’ Sinclair might have been good with his fists, but Harry fought dirty. There were no Queensbury rules in America. I had once seen Harry Latimer fell a man twice his size in New Orleans. It had not been a pretty sight. Not that backing down had done Sinclair any good in the long run.

  ‘But he dragged Felicity away and gave her a good talking to. Said he was friends with her father and wanted to protect her reputation.’

  That was the line he had taken with me. It was strange, how vehemently Sinclair had protested his innocence, when I had accused him of sleeping with her. ‘I did...I did think I heard raised voices in the drawing room. When I came down,’ I said. And if everyone knew about the row then perhaps Felicity Mandeville Jones would be blamed for Sinclair’s death, when the body was eventually discovered.

  ‘It was all very predictable,’ Harry said. ‘Felicity was in tears, of course, and ran off to her room.’ He grinned.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re looking so happy. You’ve lost your bet.’

  ‘Not at all, old man. It’s all to play for.’

  I glared at him suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I figure I’ll leave it ten minutes and then slip upstairs. Pay the little lady a visit.’

  ‘Miss Jones has invited you up to her room?’

  ‘Well, no, not exactly invited me. But I figure if I bring her a bottle and offer some consolation she won’t say no.’

  ‘Harry, you’re a rogue.’

  ‘Well, fifteen guineas is fifteen guineas, old man. I’d hate to lose two bets in one day.’

  I grabbed another glass of whisky.

  ‘Hey, steady on, Hilary,’ he warned. ‘I don’t want to have to carry you to bed as well.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lied, wiping the dregs from my lips. ‘I just need to have a word with my man. Excuse me a minute.’ The orchestra was coming to the end of Let’s Do It – no doubt played for Harry’s benefit – and a gap had opened up in the floor. I marched quickly forward to grab hold of my man Hargreaves. Before I got halfway, however, I was accosted by Mrs Smith.

  ‘You promised me a dance, Sir Hilary,’ she announced imperiously.

  That was the last thing on my mind. ‘I...I’m not feeling terribly well,’ I said, excusing myself.

  ‘Nonsense! One dance won’t kill you.’ Mrs Smith was the kind of woman who would not take no for an answer. She was a short, slim-hipped creature with a cold, pretty face and an unfashionably prominent bust. Her dress was dripping with jewellery and she moved with a confidence born of life-long wealth. The band were already skipping on to the next number and the damn woman grabbed hold of me before I was able to protest further.

  Hargreaves had seen me now and taken note of my imploring gaze, but there was little he could do.

  Lettie Young was at the bandstand. She had just spoken to Johnnie Hazelwood, the moustachioed band leader, requesting a reprise of the new American song the orchestra had played when we had left the dance floor earlier on.

  And so, increasingly dizzy, with the alcohol sloshing in my belly and the corpse of Anthony Sinclair lying cold beneath a table less than fifty yards away, I found myself dancing with a gaudily bejewelled Mrs John Smith to the joyful strains of Happy Days Are Here Again.

  Chapter Eleven

  My head nestled comfortably in the groove of a plump white cushion. The mattress was warm and soft beneath me, my torso enfolded in gentle cotton beneath a heavy woollen blanket. It was a rare moment of joy and I would happily have remained there in that blissful slumber, but for an urgent whispered voice summoning me back to the realms of consciousness. As I awoke groggily in bed, the weight of the previous night came crashing down on me. My throat was as dry as the Atacama Desert and my head was screaming in protest at the abuse I had inflicted upon it the previous evening. I did manage to prise open an eye, but then winced at the blinding light emanating from the bedside table.

  Hargreaves was leaning over me, immaculately turned out, the yellow glow of the lamp bouncing harshly off the top of his balding pate. He handed me a glass of water and I pulled myself up to take a sip. ‘Lord, my head,’ I croaked, as I swallowed the precious liquid and coughed my voice back into some semblance of normality. ‘What time did I go to bed?’ I clutched my face mournfully. The events of the previous evening were – momentarily – a complete blank.

  ‘About half past twelve, sir,’ Hargreaves answered smoothly. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn there was a glint of amusement in those otherwise deferential eyes. ‘I brought you up to bed. You appeared to fall asleep on the dance floor.’

  I coughed again and took another gulp of water. ‘What are you blathering about? Nobody falls asleep on the dance floor.’

  ‘You seemed to manage it, sir,’ Hargreaves responded dryly.

  I glared at him. ‘Hargreaves, I’ve warned you before about flippancy.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. But you did fall asleep, on Mrs Smith’s shoulder. While the two of you were dancing.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ I snorted. I had never heard anything so preposterous. ‘Fell asleep on her shoulder!’

  ‘I judged it a good time to put you to bed. I hope that was all right, sir.’

  I grunted, placing the glass back down on the bedside table. Perhaps it was true at that. I had been somewhat inebriated and it wouldn’t be the first time I had fallen asleep in an embarrassing position. At least I had dropped off on Mrs Smith’s shoulder and not in her décolletage. ‘What time did the party go on to?’ I asked.

  ‘A little after three o’clock, sir.’

  I wiped my eyes blearily and stretched my arms above my head. My mind really was fogged. I took a moment to collect my thoughts. ‘What time is it now?’ There was no light coming through the curtains. It looked like it was still the middle of the night.

  ‘It’s a quarter past five, sir.’

  ‘A QUARTER PAST FIVE??’ I spluttered, in abject horror.

  Hargreaves didn’t blink. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What the blazes do you think you’re doing, waking me up at this ungodly hour?’

  ‘Please, sir, if you could keep your voice down. Other people are
trying to sleep.’

  That was too much. ‘I was trying to sleep, you blithering idiot, before...’ I stopped. A sudden shard of memory was stabbing at me from the dark.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  There were images flashing through my mind. Disturbing images. But as yet they weren’t making any kind of sense. ‘I...I think I must have had rather a bad dream.’ I frowned. ‘So why, Mr Hargreaves, did you think it a good idea to wake me up quite this early on a Sunday morning?’

  The valet hesitated. ‘I’m not exactly sure, sir. The Colonel asked me to wake you up. He says there’s been...some kind of incident.’

  And then the full force of it hit me. Anthony Sinclair. The body in the dining room. I let out a strangled cry. A quarter past five in the morning! The corpse had been lying in that dining room for over five hours. An incident? That could only mean one thing. One of the servants must have stumbled across the body. ‘What...kind of incident?’ I asked, my voice a gravely whisper.

  ‘The Colonel wouldn’t say, sir. But I think it must be serious. Doctor Lefranc was speaking to him as I came away.’

  Lefranc. That confirmed it. A doctor to examine a dead body. It made perfect sense. The Frenchman was close to hand and obviously he would be asked to make a quick examination while somebody else called the police. ‘Hell!’ I grasped for the glass on the bedside table and took another swig of water. ‘Haven’t you got anything stronger?’

  ‘Of course, sir. I didn’t have time to prepare your usual...’

  I waved my hands at him in exasperation. ‘Well pour one now!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Hargreaves reached for the whisky. I always keep a bottle by the bedside for emergencies, even when I am away from home.

  Damnation!

  I gulped down the whisky and pulled back the sheets.

  The Colonel may have found the body, but unless someone had actually seen me kill Anthony Sinclair there was no reason for him to suspect I had anything to do with it. I had removed the notebook from the man’s jacket pocket and destroyed everything he had scribbled down on the telephone. They would check his office eventually and find out that he had been making a few enquiries about me, but that was unlikely to happen for some hours yet. It was still the middle of the night, after all. I had a little time left to brazen things out.

  ‘Pack up my things, Hargreaves,’ I said. ‘We might have to leave in a hurry.’

  ‘Is something wrong, sir?’

  ‘Nothing at all!’ I snapped, wincing at the cold floor under my feet. ‘What could possibly be wrong? Now find my damn slippers and help me on with that dressing gown...’

  Sir Vincent Kelly was taking tea in the drawing room. A silver service had been laid out and the lights were blazing, though the rest of the house was shrouded in darkness. The occasional table was where I had left it, covering the bloodstain on the carpet. That was the first thing I noticed as I stepped into the room. The bay windows at the front were as cold and black as ever, but someone had stoked the fire in the hearth and a warm glow permeated the room. The Colonel made to rise and gestured to a chair opposite.

  ‘You’re looking a bit the worse for wear, Butler,’ he observed. ‘Some job falling asleep on the dance floor like that. Ha ha!’

  No matter what the gravity of the situation, the Colonel always maintained the same jocular tone. It was a mistake, however, to believe there wasn’t a calculating mind behind that absurd monocle. You don’t get to be head of the British Security Service without a first class brain.

  I seated myself down cautiously. The body of Anthony Sinclair may have been discovered, but the Colonel could not yet know that I was responsible for his death. There was nothing to connect the two of us. The fact that the Colonel had woken me to discuss the matter, however, suggested he might have some suspicions. I would have to be very careful.

  ‘Sorry to drag you out of bed like this. You must have a shocking head. Would you like some tea?’ he asked, sympathetically. ‘Doctor Lefranc’s man was kind enough to brew us a pot.’

  I demurred. Tea was the last thing I needed. I should have brought down the whisky. The cups and saucers had been laid out on the occasional table. I glanced down nervously, but the bloodstain was out of sight beneath the finely crafted legs. The dining room door had been closed too. Passing through the lounge hall, I had glanced across at it, just to make sure. ‘Hargreaves said there had been some kind of incident?’

  The Colonel nodded gravely. ‘Rather a bad one, I’m afraid. No easy way of putting it, Butler. One of the guests has been murdered.’

  I gave myself a moment to register the information. ‘Murdered?’ I tried to sound shocked.

  The Colonel nodded again. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Lord.’ I pondered the unexpected news for several seconds, giving the information time to sink in. I have never been much of an actor, but when necessity compels me I pride myself I can fake a reaction as well as anyone. Harry would have been proud of me. ‘Are you sure?’ I asked, eventually.

  ‘No two ways about it. A bullet through the head. Couldn’t possibly be suicide.’

  ‘A bullet?’ My jaw dropped open. What bullet? What was he talking about? ‘I...I didn’t hear a shot.’

  ‘I doubt you’d have heard anything, Butler, the state you were in. Ha ha! But yes. Definitely a gun shot to the head. I discovered the body myself.’

  My mouth opened and closed without uttering a sound. A gunshot? Surely someone hadn’t put a bullet in Anthony Sinclair? Not after I’d bashed him across the head. I struggled to regain my composure. I had to be very careful. I hadn’t asked the obvious question yet. ‘Who...who was the victim?’

  Here at least there would be no surprises.

  ‘Dorothy Kilbride.’

  ‘Do –?’ I wish someone had taken a photograph of my face at that moment. It would have been the definitive portrait of blank incomprehension. I cannot think of any other time in my life when I have been taken so completely by surprise.

  The long pause that followed did not need to be faked.

  Dorothy Kilbride? ‘Good lord,’ I whispered at long last.

  The Colonel sighed. ‘Poor old Dottie. Been with me for years,’ he said. ‘Irreplaceable. Absolutely irreplaceable.’

  ‘But...but...’ I stammered. I could barely begin to register the news. ‘Who...who on earth would want to kill Dorothy Kilbride?’ It was unbelievable. The fact that one person had been killed that evening was shocking enough. But two people, by two different murderers? No, it wasn’t possible. It must be some sort of joke. The Colonel was playing games with me.

  But I could see from his expression that he was not.

  Another, even more preposterous idea flickered across my mind. Was it possible the Colonel hadn’t discovered the body of Anthony Sinclair? My heart skipped a beat. If he had woken me to talk about the murder of Dorothy Kilbride then...was it conceivable that Sinclair’s body hadn’t yet been found? No, I didn’t dare to hope that.

  But the house was quiet and the dining room was closed up.

  It was maddening not to know the truth. And I couldn’t exactly get up and have a look.

  ‘That’s what we have to find out,’ the Colonel said, in response to my question. ‘Whoever did it must have used a silencer.’

  That at least was true. An ordinary gun shot would have been heard right across the house. Even with a silencer there would have been some noise, though perhaps not enough to be heard beyond the adjacent rooms. ‘A professional, then?’ I suggested, trying to concentrate on what the Colonel was saying.

  ‘It would have to be. Unfortunately, we’ve got a house full of professionals this weekend.’

  ‘Not professional assassins, though.’

  ‘No, but people who know how to handle firearms.’

  That was also true. Harry Latimer had a small hand gun, that much I did know, and I had a couple of pistols locked away in a cabinet at home. Doubtless, other people had access to similar weaponry. Harry’
s revolver, of course, had been in the holdall I’d brought up with me from London. But Harry could have nothing to do with the murder of Dorothy Kilbride. He had never met the woman and was not the type to kill in cold blood. Besides, a Newton .32 was hardly the weapon of choice for an assassin; and a revolver like that wouldn’t work with a silencer in any case.

  ‘Have you called the police?’ I asked. That was the most important question, from my point of view.

  The Colonel shook his head. ‘Doctor Lefranc is upstairs, giving the poor girl a preliminary examination. My man Townsend is up there too. He was a police sergeant during the war. He’ll make sure nothing’s tampered with. He’s going to take a few photographs as well. We were lucky enough to find a camera in the servants’ quarters. And I’ll get some men up from London to examine things properly this afternoon.’

  ‘What, from Scotland Yard?’

  ‘God, no. The last thing we want is Special Branch crawling all over the place.’ The Colonel had a well-known antipathy towards that particular organisation. ‘They’re not exactly reliable these days, Butler. Been leaking like a sieve the last couple of years.’ There had also been disturbing rumours of a takeover bid for MI5. The two organisations had long been rivals. ‘No, we need to keep this quiet, if possible. It’ll have to be an internal matter. Otherwise we’ll be a laughing stock. Egg all over our faces.’

  ‘But surely the most important thing...’

  ‘The most important thing, as always, is to discover the truth. But don’t fret, old chap. Townsend knows his stuff. And I give you my word: justice will be served. We’ll find the devil who did this. But quietly, behind closed doors.’

  I was still having trouble believing Dorothy Kilbride was dead. The news hadn’t really sunken in. She had been such a harmless creature. It wasn’t her fault she was a little dull. ‘No one could have anything against Dottie,’ I said.

  ‘Nothing personal, certainly. But she was in charge of payroll.’ The Colonel had had more time than me to think through the implications. ‘She handled all the wages. Plenty of scope for abuse. Not by her, of course, but some of the case officers. Maybe a chap on the ground. It does happen.’ He leaned forward. ‘There is another possibility, though. That’s why I got you up, Butler. I needed to ask you something.’