Melrose frowned. “Really?”
Jury nodded and returned his attention to Polly, who gave every indication of not wanting it, looking here, there, everywhere except at Jury, who now sat down on the arm of her chair. “How’d you storm this bastion of male enterprise, Polly?”
Rubbing her thumb across her wrinkled forehead, she mumbled, “Oh, you know…”
“She’s in London for the day to see her editor.” Melrose helped her out. “She cleverly found out my whereabouts. Good detective, Polly.”
Polly once more sat back and rolled her eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Why do people think just because you write mysteries you’re Sam Spade?”
“No one would take you for Sam Spade, Polly,” said Jury. His proximity, there on the chair arm, would probably bring on a seizure at any minute. “Have you got a new book in the works?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did you bring a manuscript along here for your friend to read?” He cocked his head at Melrose.
“Uh-huh.”
Melrose sat forward. Was that an “uh-huh” or a “nu-huh”? He hoped it was a nu-huh for he really was in no temper for Polly’s prose. Yet there was that brown paper-wrapped package squashed between her and the chair arm. Maybe if no one mentioned it, it would ooze down farther and under the seat… Oooze, Melrose prayed.
“This it?” Jury whisked it out.
Stupidly, she nodded. “Uh-huh.”
Jury smiled and excused himself. He saw Colonel Neame; he would be back. Dinner, perhaps?
“Uh-huh,” said Melrose.
“Bletchley Park, 1939. Yes, it was after I’d finished at Oxford and before I joined up. RAF, I think I told you. Some days those were! Bletchley. Crazy,” said Colonel Neame.
“What took you there, Colonel?”
“Oh, call me Joss, please do. What took me there was recruitment. You see, they needed many more people… Thank you, Higgins.”
Jury had ordered whiskey all around and Major Champs, upon receiving his, rose. “You two have business; I’ll just sit over there and read my paper.”
Jury invited him to stay, but he walked off, making little backward waves with his downturned hand and resettled himself on a sofa.
Neame sipped his whiskey. “Anyway, cracking a code as complex as the Enigma needed an odd combination of the artistic and the bookkeeping mind. Hard to find. They weren’t, you see, just after mathematicians. It took a different sort of mind altogether. You can imagine how much plodding had to be done in working through the range of possible matches-”
“How did it work? The Enigma code?”
“Codes, Superintendent. Different codes and different machines. To explain how the damned thing worked would take more time than I dare-say you have. The Poles broke it in the thirties. Didn’t help them much, poor devils. At that point the Germans were using a monalphabetic code-you know, the simpler kind. But they used a dozen different monos, so it was hardly simple. Now, when we graduated to the polyalphabetic ciphers, it became even harder.
“The machine was made up of rotors-wheels-so you had your wheels, your ring settings, your steckers. That was a plugboard on the machine that scrambled the identity of letters. Now all of that was difficult enough, but the Germans changed the settings every day to make matters worse. It would have been impossible to break the code by pure plodding; at some point, intuition, the ability to actually think irrationally was needed. Genius was needed, like Turing’s and a few others’. They could see the ghost behind the scrambled letters, if you understand what I mean. It’s impossible to obliterate language completely. There’s always a ghost of the original meaning, and if you’re good at it, you can see the ghost; you can see the pattern. I’m not doing the whole thing justice, the way I’m explaining it. It was infernally complicated, that Enigma stuff. Devilishly.” He tossed back the remainder of his whiskey. “You know the type of person who makes a good cryptanalyst? A paranoid.”
Jury was startled. “Why do you say that? I don’t see that thinking people are out to get you would do much by way of making you good at decoding.”
“No, no.” Impatiently, Colonel Neame shook his head. “You’re using only one definition of the word. “I mean ‘paranoid’ in the sense of being able to think irrationally. Being able to see something that no one else can see. That is ‘paranoid.’ You see something no one else does. In the way you used the word, which is the way most people use it, you mean you alone see danger and must therefore be imagining it. But that’s a dilution of the meaning of ‘paranoid.’ ”
“Did you ever know a young fellow named Ralph Herrick? RAF, also. And what’s more, awarded the Victoria Cross. As I believe you were?”
“My stint came later, but Ralph Herrick?” He gave the name the other pronunciation: Rafe. “Absolutely! Don’t forget, I was young once too, though a bit younger than Herrick. Ralph was at Oxford, also, though I hadn’t known him there. My goodness, yes, I remember him. He was in the Crib room, if memory serves me correctly. That’s what he had this incredible knack for. He was brilliant when it came to cribs-you know, the ‘educated guess’ sort of thing. You guess at some words and then see if those letters could be decoded into others. Ralph had an uncanny ability to do this. They sent him to Chicksands; that was the RAF intercept. Myself, I was in hut three. I was working on the Red key-the Luftwaffe.”
“Red key?”
“Yes. The keys were colors, a different color assigned to each branch of the service. Red, was the Luftwaffe. Green, army.”
Jury had pulled Simon Croft’s book from his pocket, and now opened it to one of the notations. “What about these dates in September of 1940?”
“Hmm. Well, I do remember in August and September of that year the Luftwaffe very nearly crippled the RAF with attacks on our airfields. If Göring had stuck to it, bombing the Isle of Wight-that was the Ventron station-radar, you know-I have no doubt they would have won the war in the air. But it was a strange thing about both of those men, Göring and Hitler; they had no patience; they expected to win quickly. I wonder if it’s the earmark of a megalomaniac that he thinks what he wants will happen quickly and painlessly. That it should happen that way and if it doesn’t, and he doesn’t get immediate results, he pulls out. I can tell you one thing, though: it’s a mistake Churchill never made. That man was tenacious; he believed in hanging on like a pit bull.”
Jury turned the book around so that Neame could read Simon Croft’s notations.
Which he did, after adjusting the monocle in his eye.
“Is that the place you mentioned, Chicksands? It’s abbreviated here.”
“Indeed. Yes. It’s in Bedfordshire.” Neame’s eye fell on the other abbreviated words in the list. “Cov. Coventry. Ah, yes. You know about Coventry. No, you wouldn’t have been born then.”
“I was born, believe me. But I have only a foggy notion.”
“Of Coventry. Terrible destruction. Bloody awful. We got word there was to be an attack, but not that Coventry was the target. London, Manchester, maybe Reading. Industrial cities. Never Coventry. Remember, one thing about breaking a code is, you obviously have to go to some pains not to let it be known you’ve broken it. Because of that, Churchill came in for a horrendous attack, being accused of having known ahead of time that Coventry was the mark and not doing anything about it because he didn’t want the Germans to know we’d broken the code. That’s rubbish. It’s vile. Churchill might have had his dirty little secrets, but Coventry wasn’t one of them. We didn’t get the right decrypt, that’s all. The Chicksands unit didn’t have as much experience, and all you have to do-”
“The decrypt came from Chicksands?”
“Far as I know, yes.”
“You said Ralph Herrick was assigned there.”
Furrowing his brow, Neame took another drink of whiskey. “Yes, but you know, I think Ralph had clearance for just about everywhere. He was able to go between the huts at Bletchley Park, one of the few who had that kind of clearance.” St
ill holding the book, Neame looked back down at the rest of Croft’s list. “What is this, then? Whose is it?”
Jury told him about Croft’s relationship to Herrick and about the account of the war Croft was writing.
Colonel Neame handed the book back to Jury; the monocle fell from his eye. “Hmm.” Neame studied his nearly empty glass. “What you need is someone who was in GC and CS-”
“Is that ‘Code and Cypher’?”
“Government Code and Cypher School, right. I’m trying to think who’s left who still-Ah! There’s Maples. At least he was alive a couple of years ago. His picture was in the paper. Got an OBE and also the George Cross for the work he did at Bletchley. Sir Oswald Maples. I expect he’d be easy enough to find.”
Jury smiled. “You were certainly a much-decorated bunch.” He rose and when Colonel Neame started up, Jury waved him back down. “Please don’t get up. You’ve been an enormous help, Colonel.”
“Seem to have left you with questions instead of answers.”
Jury smiled. “That might be what’s helpful.”
“What happened to Polly?” asked Jury, returning to Melrose’s chair. “Isn’t she having dinner?”
“Gone. We’re having breakfast tomorrow. She’s staying in Bloomsbury. I think she hopes the literary swank will rub off on her.” Melrose polished off his whiskey. “How about you? Ready for some more oxblood soup?”
“Any time.”
Having brought the wine, Young Higgins floated off like milkweed. The wine was a Bâtard-Montrachet, “the finest white wine,” Melrose had said, “in the world.” They raised their glasses and drank.
“What on earth were you into with Colonel Neame?”
“Bletchley Park. The Enigma code. Codes.” Jury smiled. “Neame isn’t just taking up space in Boring’s.”
“Did I say he was? He’s a nice old codger.”
“I expect that’s it; we tend to condescend to old guys like that.”
“What about Bletchley Park?”
Jury pulled Croft’s book from his pocket. “The book Croft was writing about the war. Since there was no manuscript, no laptop, no notes I could find, I had a look at a few of his books, presumably ones he used to research his subject. He wrote stuff in the margins-” Jury turned to the list on the last page, held it up for Melrose to see.
Melrose frowned.
“This is what I was talking to Colonel Neame about.” He told Melrose what Neame had said.
Melrose stared. “What are you making of this?”
“I’m not sure.” Jury picked up his wineglass, swirled the contents. “This might just be the best in the world.”
“It is.”
“How about Kitty Riordin, then?”
Melrose told him what he’d found in Keeper’s Cottage. “I think he’s right, your friend Haggerty.”
“I take your point about the bracelet. It’s unlikely she’d find it in the rubble.”
“She could have had another one engraved afterward. The only difference is the initial in the little heart. Links has them. I checked.”
“Links wasn’t around in 1940.”
“No. I simply mean such silver jewelry for babies is not hard to come by. She could easily have had the M engraved on the bracelet you saw, making it appear that’s what little Maisie had worn. I mean, she could’ve simply purchased a new bracelet. She didn’t have to dig it out of the rubble.”
“She didn’t really have to have it at all.”
“Well, its absence wouldn’t prove anything; its presence, though, suggests the baby really was Maisie.”
Jury nodded. “I see Mickey Haggerty’s point. All Kitty had to do was smash Erin’s hand. She thinks very quickly on her feet. I’d say she immediately sussed out the situation and in the noise and fright and confusion took little Erin somewhere and wham!-” Jury’s fist smashed down on the table, making the dishes and the remaining diners jump. His mind went back to that smile on Kitty Riordin’s face. “She’s cold-blooded enough.”
“There’s no way of proving any of this, though, short of finding the jeweler who engraved the bracelet and hope he’s still alive and has an elephantine memory. Pretty impossible.”
In silence, they finished off their dinners, bet on the dessert. Melrose said trifle, Jury said pudding. Young Higgins eventually produced Queen of Puddings, and Jury collected his fiver from Melrose.
“You always win.”
“I deserve it.”
They were silent, eating, until Jury looked up and said, “Why was she there?”
Melrose frowned. “Who? The Riordin woman?”
“No, Alexandra. Why was she at the Blue Last?”
Melrose shrugged. “Didn’t you tell me she and the baby visited there often?”
Jury folded his hands and rested his chin on his thumbs. Only his eyes were visible above the fingers. “Look, though: Why would she leave Tynedale Lodge to go sleep over in a pub, and haul the baby with her to boot? The blitz wasn’t a stroll through Green Park.”
“Those two families are addicted to each other. At least they were then.”
“I know. Which means Alexandra Tynedale Herrick and Francis Croft, they were too.”
Melrose set down his wineglass, dropped his spoon on his plate. “Are you suggesting-”
Jury nodded.
“Wait. You’re not saying little Maisie was Croft’s?”
“No, I’m not. Alexandra had an illegitimate child when she was- nineteen, I think. She took herself off somewhere. It was hushed up, not surprisingly; that sort of thing wasn’t all the fashion in the forties.”
“Money is, though. Money is always in fashion and Oliver Tynedale has enough to make anything go away. He could have taken care of a scandal in a dozen different ways. ”
“Oliver didn’t know,” said Jury.
“How in hell do you know that?”
“Because the baby was given up for adoption. His grandchild? Not in a million years. Tynedale wouldn’t give a damn for convention anyway. He’s the publish-and-be-damned type. Easier to be that way if you have money and, as you say, it’s always in fashion. My guess is Alexandra didn’t tell him because she was afraid Oliver would discover who the father was.”
“Thrash him within an inch of his life, you mean?”
“Wake up.” Jury snapped his fingers. “That Château-whatever is putting you under.”
Melrose looked at him. “Are you saying-”
“That Alexandra couldn’t have her father finding out Francis Croft was the father.”
Melrose sat back. “That’s pure speculation.”
“At least it’s pure.” Jury smiled. “Tynedale is a man who I think is very foregiving. But not in this case. In this case he’d have to be a fucking saint to forgive Croft. His best friend. His lifelong friend. A betrayal that would have ruined everything. Goddamn! It’s infuriating all of this had to happen a half century ago. But I’ll still have Wiggins go to Somerset House and do a record search.”
“And I still say it’s much too tenuous.”
“Tenuous is all I’ve got.”
They were back in the Members’ Room, Young Higgins having poured and deposited the French press pot on the table and Jury’s coat on the arm of the chair. Jury had asked him to bring it.
“My knowledge of the Second World War is shamefully small.”
“So’s mine. Except I do remember Dunkirk, the BEF being evacuated. I remember it mostly because it’s where my father’s plane went down.”
Melrose did not know whether to delve into this or not. “What was he flying?”
“A Hurricane. They were good planes. Except their engines weren’t fuel injected; they were carburetor driven. If they were forced into a dive, the engine quit. That’s what happened.” Jury looked away toward the part of Boring’s Christmas tree he could see, the tips of branches on one side. From one of them, a silvery angel hung precariously. “The RAF whacked the Luftwaffe over Dunkirk.”
They were silent fo
r a while. Colonel Neame and Major Champs had gone upstairs. There was no one left in the Members’ Room save for them.
Melrose said, “Listen, tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Come to Ardry End for Christmas.”
“That would be nice. But I really have to spend Christmas in Islington. You know.”
“Yes. Well, then come for dinner tomorrow night. Christmas Eve. You can spend the night and drive back to London the next morning. It’s not a long drive. Well, you know; you’ve done it often enough.”
Jury nodded. “Sounds good to me.” Then, “I like your new look.”
“What look?”
“The black clothes.”
Melrose looked down, seemingly surprised that he was he. “Oh.” He shrugged. “I just tossed on what was there. Didn’t have much to choose from.”
Jury shook his head. “Come on. That look’s assembled.”
Melrose was irritated at being found out about his clothes. Was his mind never to have any privacy? Did everybody know what went on in it? “Polly thought it was cool. ‘Way cool’ I believe is how she put it.”
“Oh, it’s way cool all right. A lot different from your usual get-ups.”
Get-ups? “What do you mean? That sounds like posturing?”
“No, no. Merely conservative. Expensive, of course-Michel Axel, Coveri, Ferre, Zegna, Cerruti-but conservative nonetheless.”
“Who are those people? Designers? If so, how do you happen to be acquainted with them?”
Jury laughed. “I’m not a total nincompoop when it comes to clothes. Although I expect you might not be able to tell from looking at me.”
“People look at you and they don’t even see your clothes. They see six-two and a smile. And of course your identity card. But you’re probably right; I guess I do look like I’m making a statement.”
“ ‘Fear wearing black.’ ”
“What?” Melrose laughed, briefly.
“It’s the definition of ‘cool.’ ‘Fear wearing black.’ Makes sense if you remember what ‘cool’ really meant before it got debased into meaning anything anyone approves of. ‘Keeping your cool’-the idea is that you don’t show any anxiety or fear. So there you are, as calm a dude as can be. And what’s icier than black?”
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