by Alan Hardy
“No,” she replied, instinctively pawing at her left cheek, with light, very light touches, as if dusting it.
“You’re lying, I can tell,” said Matthew, calmly enough.
She said nothing.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’ll come out eventually.”
“Will it?”
“You can’t hide things from me, Fiona,” he muttered confidently, a little too imperiously for Fiona’s liking.
“We shall see,” she said enigmatically, causing a momentary flicker of flushed doubt to disturb his serene face.
She smiled, which he found even more annoying.
“So, Matthew,” she continued, changing the subject, “in order to check whether George might be the third spy, you were prepared to sacrifice Freddie? You don’t care if he’s killed?”
“Do you?”
She shrugged.
“You can be a very naughty boy, Matthew,” she almost whispered, placing her hand on his knee. “Your boyish charm is a bit of a disguise, isn’t it?”
“Don’t forget, Fiona,” remarked Matthew, “that it’s possible, even if very unlikely, that Freddie is a spy himself. Who knows? Then we would be killing, or at least catching, two birds with one stone. One spy dead, and one exposed as a spy.”
“Why would one German spy kill another?”
“Well, we’re assuming for security purposes that each spy cell is isolated from the others… But, even if that’s not true, the Nazis are known for their ruthlessness, they would be capable of such a measure if it was to their advantage.”
“Well, I know someone else who can be quite ruthless…and who has the most beautiful blue eyes,” she whispered, snaking her hand higher and higher between Matthew’s legs.
Her face reddened perceptibly from the embarrassment she felt—but easily overcame—at a passion which was out of her control, and so new to her. And so foreign to her straitlaced past. Even shocking.
He grabbed her hand, abruptly stopping its upward journey.
“There’s one other occurrence today which kept us all very busy, Fiona,” he informed her.
“Namely?” she enquired, still flushed, but looking cross.
“Another disappearance.”
“Who?”
“Paula. She didn’t report for duty today. She hasn’t been seen all day.”
Fiona moved her hand away, and sat up.
“She’s probably going down to London to team up with George.”
“She’s on duty, Fiona. There is a war on. You can’t just take a day or two off because…well…you know…”
“So, what’s going on?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied, looking intently at her. “When did you last see her?”
“At the fete three days ago.”
“She’s not the person you spoke to today?”
“Who says I spoke to anyone?”
“I can always tell when you’re lying, Fiona.”
Her eyes dulled, and she stood up. She wandered over to make them both another drink.
“Only one thing matters, Matthew,” she said in a flat monotone, while pouring out the whisky. “I love you. And you love me. There’s nothing else.”
20
Fiona was lying serenely in bed, glancing occasionally at Matthew beside her, giving a playful poke in his ribs, or a rough caress to various parts of his body, happily and playfully disturbing his heavy slumber.
The reaction it caused in his body—a nervous twitch, a stirring of his limbs, a little moan escaping from his trembling lips—thrilled her.
She was leaning over him, about to plant a kiss on his luscious face, when an almighty din downstairs in the lobby made her jump. Ensuing loud voices startled her even more, as did footsteps mounting the stairs.
“Quick, Matthew!” she exclaimed, prodding him agitatedly in the arm. “Something’s up!”
“Mrs MacIntosh!” called out James, the butler, in a breathless voice. “William, the gardener, has seen something in the rock garden!”
“Just a moment, James! I’ll be right down!”
“Very good, Madam.”
“C’mon, Matthew!” Fiona hissed, throwing on her black coat over her silky-smooth night-dress.
“Keep your hair on,” he murmured, flinging on his clothes. “Grab your Luger. You never know…”
Fiona ran over to her massive wardrobe along the far wall, opened one of its doors, and grabbed her beige handbag. She rummaged around in it for a second or two.
“That’s funny,” she remarked, looking around. “Where…”
“Never mind. Let’s see what’s going on.”
As they descended the wide, sweeping stairway, they could see the wizened, old gardener pacing up and down in the lobby, clutching a glass of whisky James had thrust into his hand.
“Mrs MacIntosh,” he gasped, still charmingly taken aback by Fiona’s relatively undressed state, despite his obvious panic, “Mrs. MacIntosh… There’s…in the rock garden…a body…”
He gulped down the remnants of his glass.
“Lead the way, William,” Matthew commanded.
As they all bundled down the path leading to the rock garden, Fiona took hold of Matthew’s hand, and gave it a squeeze. She tried to meet his eyes, but he kept looking resolutely ahead.
“Here, Mrs MacIntosh,” William mumbled, stopping by a mound on the left of some cracked, stony, mosaic-dotted steps they had just descended.
He nodded in the direction of bushes just beyond the mound, behind which could be discerned something resembling a human shape. Neither he, nor James, hanging back, exhibited any desire to investigate further.
Fiona felt Matthew let go of her hand. He walked around the bushes, and looked down. His lower body was now obscured by the vegetation, although from the chest upwards he was quite visible. Fiona stared at him.
“Who is it, Matthew?” she asked, her voice cracking from the tension. “Freddie?”
“No, it’s not Freddie,” he replied, bending down, such that Fiona could now only see him through the bushes, a kaleidoscope of patchy colour and movement.
“Is it Paula?” she asked.
“No, it’s not Paula.”
“For God’s sake, Matthew!” she almost screamed. “Who is it?”
“It’s George Turnbill,” said Matthew in a soft, sedate voice.
“My God!” she exclaimed, putting her hands to her face. “Shall we call an ambulance?”
“No need for any rush…” he replied dispassionately, now kneeling beside the corpse. “I suppose we’d better inform the police, though.”
Fiona nodded at James, who moved off, followed by the gardener, who was eager to get away.
Fiona swallowed hard, and then moved round to join Matthew. He stood up as he heard her steps behind him. He reached out for her hand. She clasped his hand, and looked down, shaking uncontrollably.
Poor Flight Lieutenant George Turnbill was lying stretched out on his back, his mouth wide open, his eyes blankly staring at nothing, with a bloody stain on his chest, and, in the middle of the stain, the semblance of a hole from where the blood had oozed.
Matthew and Fiona stood side-by-side looking down at the corpse, Fiona laying her ashen-faced head on Matthew’s left shoulder.
“W-What does this mean?” asked Fiona.
“I don’t know,” replied Matthew. “We’ll figure it out later. But for now, what do you think we should do with that Luger lying beside poor Turnbill’s body?”
21
“Well, that’s that,” murmured Matthew, as he stood by the drawing-room windows looking out at the lengthy driveway—which led away to the gates in the far distance—along which the police cars, and the van containing Turnbill’s body, were moving slowly but steadily.
He turned around to face Fiona, who was sitting in an armchair. Still pale, she was sipping a drink, and smoking cigarette after cigarette.
“I take it that Luger wasn’t given to you by your German handlers?”<
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“What do you take me, or them, for?” snapped Fiona. “You don’t give a Nazi spy a German-made gun, do you? No, my father picked it up in the last war. He was a staff officer.”
“On whose side?” asked Matthew laconically.
Fiona sighed, grimaced, and raised her eyes.
“The winning side, Matthew.”
He laughed.
“That’s all that matters to you, doesn’t it, Fiona? Ending up on the winning side?”
“That’s the way one survives,” she replied, looking closely at him. “That sums up your sentiments too, doesn’t it? You want to survive as much as I do.”
“Of course, I do,” he concurred, strolling over towards her. “That’s partly why it’s so important to me to nab the third spy, as well as the second,” giving a knowing nod in Fiona’s direction, “because then, with any luck, I might get assigned to British Intelligence full-time. A cushy number at HQ would suit me fine, looking through files, or conducting interviews of suspects, maybe even a bit of fieldwork now and then… It would beat that real war up in the blue sky, whirling around in a dogfight where it could be curtains for you at any moment and from any quarter…Your life hangs by a thread…”
“Well, this particular piece of fieldwork, what with George being found dead in my rock garden, let alone someone taking pot-shots at us the other day, doesn’t seem so cushy to me…” remarked Fiona sardonically. “Anyway, I’ve always thought you might get appointed Squadron Leader of 287 Squadron when Jackson goes,” suggested Fiona.
“That would be fine too. It’s fairly quiet here. Just the occasional squirt at a Dornier or Heinkel.”
They smiled, happy to share images of what the future might hold, a future in which they were both alive, and together.
“It’s true we both want to survive, but, in my case, it’s just my life I want to preserve,” he said, looking round at the finery and luxury in every piece of exquisite furniture and adornment in the room, “but, with you, it’s your life and your position.”
“What’s mine is yours, my darling,” she said, blowing him a kiss.
“That’s a tempting offer…”
He moved over to her. She stood up and fell into his arms. She nestled her body snugly into his, with a few wriggles and wiggles.
“Mind you,” he added, pulling his head back, “it won’t be so quiet here next month. That’s when that big shindig is planned, you know, that hush-hush meeting with the Americans. Lots of big ships will be here to impress the Americans, and show them there’s life in the old dog yet… There’s even talk of American VIPs coming over.”
“Who in particular?” Fiona enquired, looking intrigued.
“Well, there’s talk of Roosevelt himself coming…”
“Why would Roosevelt run such a risk?”
“Well, another meeting between him and Churchill… They’ve established quite a rapport, well, that’s what the newspapers say, anyway… It could be important for the future conduct of the war, and America’s entry into it. Then it would really be curtains for the Nazis…”
“Maybe…” she said, smiling wanly. “But I can’t believe the President—”
“Well, maybe the Vice-President… The powers-that-be don’t tell minions like me everything, until they consider it’s time we need to know…”
“Matthew,” said Fiona, snuggling up to him again, as close as possible, “why are you passing on all these details to me? All this classified information?”
“So that you’ll go and retrieve your wireless transmitter, from wherever you’ve hidden it, and report what I’ve told you, word for word, to your German handlers, of course.”
He spoke in an unemotional, matter-of-fact way, and, when he had finished, planted a kiss on her lips.
She purred contentedly within his embrace.
“You’re sticking to your story that you didn’t kill Turnbill?” asked Matthew, as they strolled together in The Mansion’s sweeping grounds, keeping well away from the rock garden.
“Matthew…” she said wearily, leaning into him as she gripped his arm, and held her coat tight to her neck with her other hand to ward off the chilly breeze.
“What was he doing here, then?”
“I’ve no idea…”
“Sure?” he queried, bringing them both to a standstill as he stopped by an oak tree, and looked at her suspiciously.
Fiona felt like slapping him.
“I was married to a beast for thirteen years, and never once had an affair. Do you think that—”
“You’re having one now.”
“But only once Freddie had been killed.”
“He’s not dead now,” Matthew pointed out.
“Well, he should be,” Fiona retorted with feeling. “Nobody asked him to come back from the dead like that…”
As they started walking again—amidst the green landscape and its vast expanse of trees and bushes—she gave his arm a not so friendly squeeze.
“You’ll have to do something about Freddie, Matthew. I won’t have him ruining things. I don’t want him back here. It’s just you and me now.”
“Don’t worry about Freddie, darling,” he said calmly. “I’ll deal with him.”
Fiona’s body relaxed perceptibly, her muscles loosening and her lungs drawing in powerful gasps of air. She blew him a kiss.
“Why did you leave the Luger there for the police to find?” she asked.
“If we had removed it, the murderer might have found out, and drawn the obvious conclusion.”
“Which would be?”
“That we—or rather you—were not innocent.”
“Not innocent?”
“They would draw the conclusion that you were a German spy, as a German spy would not wish to be implicated in such a crime, thereby drawing unwanted attention to herself.”
“But I am a German spy.”
“But they don’t know that for certain.”
“And who are ‘they’?”
“They are the third German spy or cell.”
“And what’s their game?”
“Can’t you see, Fiona?” he said, looking into the far distance. “You’re the fall guy. You’re being set up. The Germans—or rather elements in their spy network—are going to sacrifice you. The third spy is gunning for you. He or she is going to prove beyond reasonable doubt that you’re a German agent, and British Intelligence will conclude they’ve got all three German spies.”
“And who are the three?” she asked irritably.
“Why, one possibility could be Wentworth, you and…”
“And?”
“Why, poor Turnbill, of course.”
“But he wasn’t a spy, was he?”
“No, but he can’t protest his innocence now, can he?”
“And the real Spy Number Three is masterminding all this?”
“Yes.”
“And who is it?”
Matthew didn’t answer.
“Is it you, Matthew?”
Fiona felt furious. She was on a roller-coaster of emotional rises and falls, one moment anxious and suspicious, the next moment relieved and loving, and then, as now, tormented, distressed, and wanting to spit at somebody.
“You see, Fiona, we’re involved in a vicious struggle with the third spy, or cell. They’re out to put themselves in the clear through convincing British Intelligence the three German spies have been exposed, and dealt with. And, on the other hand, we’re out to find that third spy, to make up the trio with Wentworth and you.”
“But why have they set their sights on me?”
“And on me, Fiona…” he replied. “Remember, the third spy is a double agent, they’re checking up on me for British Intelligence… They just need two others to put alongside Wentworth. Whether it’s you, me, Turnbill, or even Freddie, doesn’t matter…”
“Are you sure they don’t know I’m under suspicion?” Fiona asked, suspiciously.
Matthew didn’t answer.
“Are y
ou sure?” she asked again. “Do they know I’m under suspicion or not?”
Matthew looked uneasy. Fiona grew more and more perturbed.
“Fiona, I’m going to have to hand in my final report on you, there’s no other choice,” he said, speaking slowly and deliberately. “We’ve got to regularize things with British Intelligence. I’ve got to cover myself.”
“Is that all that matters to you?” she snapped accusingly, her facial muscles trembling menacingly. “Your own skin?”
“By covering myself, I’ll cover you,” he explained, coughing nervously. “I’ll state you are a German spy, that I have turned you, and you are willing to work for British Intelligence. You will be, in effect, a double agent.”
“And what’s the alternative scenario put forward by the third German spy, the double agent British Intelligence are being duped by?”
“They’ll be claiming that any two of you, me, Turnbill and Freddie make up the trio of spies with Wentworth. At the moment, it seems to me they’re plumping for Turnbill and me, or you, with me as your manipulated patsy. So, we’ve got to get our story in quickly, and set the scene for British Intelligence.”
“Control the narrative, Matthew?”
He nodded.
“Can I trust you, Matthew?” she asked, fidgeting with her left wrist, and nervously shifting on her feet with tiny, back-and-forth mini-steps.
“You have no choice.”
Fiona felt angry. Those secrets in her head she had guarded so diligently over the years now, in seeping out, were threatening her security and well-being. The agony and the ecstasy. In realizing her desires, in wrapping her legs around the love of her life, she was leaving herself as vulnerable to outside forces as she had ever been.
She took a decision.
“Matthew,” she said, taking a deep breath, “only two people could be suspicious of me. Is that right?”
He nodded.
“The two British agents,” she continued, “who are investigating 287 Squadron and the RAF base. You, and the person you refer to as the third spy. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“The third spy, who, unknown to British Intelligence—so you say—is a double agent, has been entrusted with the job of checking you out. Yes?”