by Alan Hardy
“No need to spin it out, Fiona…” said an annoyed Matthew.
“So, it would be in their interests to claim that you are a German spy, and, for good measure, to claim I was also, since—”
“Since I’m often with you…yes, yes… Maybe to claim we make up a cell…”
“But it’s quite possible, if not certain, that British Intelligence would have told them of your reported suspicions concerning me, wouldn’t they? Otherwise, they wouldn’t be giving them the fullest information they need for their investigation, would they?”
She glared at Matthew, willing the truth out of him.
“No,” he answered. “You’re probably right.”
“So, if some other person has been told I am a spy, they would either have had to be told that by you, or the person you call the third spy. Right?”
“What do you know, Fiona?” he asked impatiently. “You’re not permitted to keep secrets from me.”
She looked up, and viciously slapped him across the face.
“And you’re not permitted to speak to me like that!” she yelled, fuming.
He grabbed at her, but she pushed him away, retreating from him.
“And you’re permitted to treat me like this?” he yelled back, putting his hand to his cheek.
“I’ll treat you any way I want!” she shouted, her eyes possessed by demonic defiance. “I decide what I’m permitted and what I’m not permitted!”
“That goes for both of us!” he shouted back. “We can both decide what—”
He reached forward again. She spat at him. Once. And then again. And once more for good measure. They struggled with each other, fumbling with each other’s hands and arms, grabbing and shoving them, trying to get to each other’s faces with the intention to hit, or bite, or spit, or…
Suddenly, they were biting each other, kissing, licking, sucking, groaning, yelling, hurting each other, loving each other…
They were on the ground by a tree, rolling over each other, ripping off clothes, putting their hands everywhere they could, until he was inside her, and they were thrusting, wriggling, grinding, shoving, in a shared ecstasy where they had both surrendered to one another at the same time as fighting for dominance over the other.
Then, their forces spent, their delirium subsiding into moans as of wounded animals, they lay there, once more alone and separated. For now.
“All right, Fiona,” said Matthew, “let’s get dressed before we catch our death. You can tell me over a drink and a smoke who it was you spoke to.”
22
Fiona and Matthew were in the study, where it was so reclusive and cosy.
He told her he wanted to phone London to give them the gist of his report. He would finish typing it up there in the study later, and get it collected by courier. With any luck, it would be at HQ before the day was out.
“What else will be in your report?” she asked him.
“The main point is about you, of course, Fiona. Namely, that you’ve admitted being a spy, but I have managed to turn you by making you fall in love with me. The other—”
“And was that always the plan, Matthew?” she queried sombrely, her face quivering again, and her hand going to her left cheek.
Mind you, she noticed he looked a bit wary, his eyes fixed on her hands, and darting occasionally to her mouth, let alone her eyes.
They must be scary. Flashing a warning light. Terrors to come if that was his game. Be careful, Matthew darling, she thought to herself.
“Fiona…” he murmured in an exasperated tone.
“Well, what else will you say?” she repeated, sniffing girlishly.
“I’ll say that I’m still looking for the third spy, and, for the moment, all I can do is rule out certain people. Freddie, for instance. And Turnbill. I’ll state categorically that Turnbill was not a spy. I set up a situation where, if he had been a spy, he would have acted in a particular way. But he didn’t. He would have taken out Freddie to cover himself, and throw suspicion on Freddie. But there’s also another thing. I’ll tell them an attempt has been made to frame you by making it look like you killed Turnbill. Him being killed in your rock garden, and with your Luger. Such details will be readily passed on by the police, if HQ request them, even if Turnbill’s murder is still under a reporting black-out for a day or two. I will state this attempt to frame you has almost definitely been organized by the third spy. I have to get the report in pronto to get one over the other agent who is no doubt preparing his or her report. With any luck, he or she will make a terrible blunder.”
“Which is?”
“Well, if they’re a bit greedy and plan to put themselves in the clear right now, the options they’ve got for naming the three spies are pretty obvious. Wentworth is one spy, that’s accepted. That leaves two places to fill. With somebody taking a pot-shot at us, and an attempt being made to implicate you strongly in Turnbill’s murder, it suggests the places are being set up to be filled by any two out of me, you and poor Turnbill. So, the options are Wentworth, you and me; or Wentworth, you and Turnbill; or Wentworth, me and Turnbill. The mistake would—”
“—would be to name the spies as Wentworth, me and Turnbill,” cut in Fiona.
“Exactly! Don’t forget, in my report to HQ, I’m naming you, and Wentworth, as two of the spies. That leaves one place to be filled. HQ will immediately double-check with their other agent, who’s shadowing me. They’ll ask the question. Flight Lieutenant Manfred claims this and this. What’s your opinion? The irresistible temptation might be to fill the missing spot with poor Turnbill, informing London you were probably involved in his murder. You know, Spy Number Two callously rubbing out Spy Number Three in some spectacular fall-out, or failed, bungled attempt to put herself in the clear while pointing the finger at him…”
“British Intelligence would be immediately suspicious,” continued Fiona, taking up the thread. “They would know that you had cleared Turnbill, and that the third spy had tried to set me up as Turnbill’s murderer. So, the third spy would be unmasking themselves by claiming Turnbill was the spy, and that I was involved in his murder. Only the third spy would know that. But would the third spy be so stupid?”
“Who knows? Just depends on how good the third spy is,” Matthew commented.
“If they’re any good,” said Fiona, “they’ll agree with you. They’ll say two of the spies are Wentworth and me, and the third is still to be unmasked.”
“And that it’s not Turnbill or Freddie…”
“What’s your gut feeling, Matthew? What will happen?”
He shrugged.
“I think the story I’m going to tell you, after you’ve made your call, Matthew, will help,” she added.
“Story?”
“About what happened yesterday.”
“The other thing I’ll tell HQ, Fiona, is that I need you here to help me find the third spy. It won’t serve any useful purpose them dragging you off to London for interrogation.”
“Will they swallow that?”
“The planned meeting at Scapa Flow is getting nearer and nearer. The third spy must be neutralized pretty damned quickly. How can they doubt that, as a German spy, you won’t have valuable insights to help me in my search for Spy Number Three?”
“I love it when you look after me, Matthew…” she murmured, tickling his throat with her long-nailed fingers. “As long as you do that, everything will be fine…”
Matthew listened to Fiona’s account, not appearing too surprised or agitated for the most part, just looking up ruefully, and rubbing his own cheek, when she described, with undisguised relish, how she gave Paula a good thrashing.
“So, for £750, she’ll keep quiet about you, and tell you who informed her you were suspected of being a spy. Right?”
Seated at the writing-desk, Matthew was laboriously typing out the last page or so of his report for MI5 as he spoke, using just the one clumsy finger, slowly and hesitantly.
“That’s it, Matthew,” Fiona
replied coldly. “She’ll either say it was you, or she’ll name another person.”
“Only if she knows what’s she’s talking about, and isn’t making it all up, and just guessing,” commented Matthew dispassionately.
“We shall see,” said Fiona, eyeing him from the sofa. “But, quite interesting, isn’t it?”
“We shall see,” echoed Matthew rather blandly, engrossed in his irritating type-writing task. “Is there anything else she told you? Or is going to tell you?”
“No,” lied Fiona.
She didn’t mention Paula had promised to reveal all about Matthew. Paula’s own relationship with him. Everything he got up to with her.
It might just have been Paula winding her up, trying to make her jealous with a bit of sexual innuendo—a naughty hint or two—but Fiona would find out. Even if she had to batter Paula to a pulp. Either way, Matthew didn’t need to know about it.
“How did you leave things?” he asked.
“She’s going to contact me to arrange a meeting, once I’ve got the money, of course,” Fiona replied, open-eyed, and expressionless.
There was no way she was going to tell him she’d arranged to meet Paula tomorrow at The Red Lion at two o’ clock. That would have been too stupid.
“All right,” murmured Matthew, “but you should have pressed her for a specific date and time.”
“I tried, but she refused. She wanted it that way.”
He nodded, fiddling with the keys of the typewriter, disentangling one stuck key from another, and rubbing the dirty tips of his fingers together to dry up the ink-stains.
“It must have been Paula who took the Luger,” he suggested. “When your handbag got thrown to the ground. You said it fell open. The gun got flung out somewhere, and she spotted it. You didn’t notice.”
“Could be… So, Paula killed George Turnbill?”
“Perhaps… Or she gave the gun to the person who did.”
“Or the murderer came along later, saw it lying on the ground, and saw his opportunity… if Paula hadn’t spotted it. What do you think?”
“Could be,” replied Matthew, checking over the pages of his report, before folding them up and putting them in an envelope. “Do you want to give my report the once-over, darling?”
He paused, the envelope in his hand, looking intently at Fiona.
“That’s not necessary, darling,” she replied without hesitation. “I trust you.”
He licked the envelope and sealed it. He then wrote on the envelope itself with a fountain pen taken from its holder on the desk.
“Where were you when Paula came to see you?” he asked.
“In the gardens, in—”
“Not the rock garden?” he cut in, looking anxious.
“No, no, not the rock garden itself.”
“Thank God… I was thinking for a moment the Luger might have been found beside poor Turnbill’s body by accident, you know, it had fallen there when you walloped Paula, and wasn’t the murder weapon.”
“Have the police confirmed it was yet?”
“I haven’t heard anything…”
“Are they accepting our story?” asked Fiona. “That the Luger was stolen by the murderer, and I’m totally innocent?”
“Why shouldn’t they?” he responded. “Anyway, they’ll believe whatever MI5 tell them to believe. And what MI5 believe depends,” he continued, brandishing the envelope, “on them taking my words as the truth, and nothing but the truth.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Yes?” Fiona called out.
James, the butler, entered.
“Flight Lieutenant Manfred,” he said, turning to face him, “the courier has arrived.”
“Hand him this, will you? Good man…”
When James had dutifully closed the door, Matthew stood up, stretched out his body to relax muscles strained by a posture and movements usually foreign to him, and moved over to Fiona.
“Tomorrow, if not tonight, they’ll ask for and receive the third spy’s opinion on what I’ve written, and, in fact, have already told them in gist-form over the blower. Will that spy make a calamitous mistake, or…”
“Yes, will he or she give the game away by mentioning George Turnbill, and my possible role in his murder…or not?
“You’re sure the Luger was in your handbag when you saw Paula?” asked Matthew, sitting down beside her.
“I think so,” said Fiona, shrugging. “I can’t be sure… I hadn’t used the handbag since the fete three days before. I mean, I could have lost the gun there, I suppose…”
“Lost it?” repeated Matthew, leaning towards her and kissing her on the lips, his hand squeezing her thigh, and causing her to give a little jump, and hot breath to escape from her mouth into his.
“I mean, somebody could have filched it… What with all the people there, and the confusion, you know…”
“Who did you bump into?”
“Well, Paula again…” answered Fiona, straining to remember, and causing compressed lines to appear on her brow, “…and Group Captain Jenkins, looking for booze as always. And that old fool, Lord Mendelson, arm-in-arm with the charming Mary Wilkinson. Who else? Belinda, of course. Her hubby..? No, he was over the other end, glad-handing and sucking up, as he does… I think that was it.”
“Interesting…” murmured Matthew, caressing her face, and gazing into her eyes.
“Do you think one of them could have snatched it? Without me noticing? Hardly likely. And me then not noticing it wasn’t in the handbag…”
“While we wait for Paula to contact you, we might as well go after her ourselves,” he said, moving away from Fiona slightly. “I’ll go to her barracks tomorrow morning, see what I can pick up from her mates, and then the ops-room, to quiz her colleagues. They might know something. I’ll come back here afterwards. I’ll be here about twelve. We can talk again.”
“Can’t we talk now?”
“I have other suggestions for how we can spend our time the rest of today,” he murmured, leaning forward again and licking her face and neck.
“Anyway, after that report,” said Fiona, rubbing his back and shoulders, “there doesn’t seem much point in staying apart. The powers-that-be will know we’re together. We don’t have to pretend, and ration our trysts, so to speak…”
They started to bite, lick and suck each other’s lips and mouths.
“Not that we made such a good job of that, anyway,” said Matthew, giggling.
“No,” agreed Fiona, opening up the buttons of his shirt, inserting her fingers inside, and running them along his soft flesh. “We just can’t get enough of each other.”
Matthew stiffened. He stared at her. His face and body didn’t stir.
“Fiona,” he said, looking very serious, “there’s nothing else?”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing else Paula told you?”
“No, nothing.”
“There’s not something you didn’t tell me?”
“No, Matthew. I told you everything.”
23
Matthew was coming at twelve o’ clock. Fiona had suggested going for a drive, and getting a spot of lunch. It was a lovely April day, crisp and sunny.
Fiona was getting ready. She’d slung on a beige, black-belted frock, and had already put on her black coat. It was nothing special—tight at the waist and wide flowing at the bottom—but she had always noticed how excited Matthew got when she wore it. He loved the cut and curve of its collar and lapels drawn tight around her neck and chest.
She knelt down in front of an opened door of her huge bedroom wardrobe. She took out a collection of her shoes, and a few belts which had fallen there, and, with difficulty, removed that section’s wooden base. She took out an envelope from under there, which contained the £750, and put it by her side.
She rummaged about in the cavity at the bottom of the wardrobe again, and took out a Smith and Wesson revolver. She then reached in its furthest recesses for the pac
ket of bullets. Once she had grasped it, she dusted off the straggling cobwebs which were clinging to her hand.
She loaded the revolver.
She stood up, reached inside the top of her wardrobe for her beige handbag, and put the revolver, and the envelope, inside.
Her Nazi handlers had obviously not been so stupid as to give her a German gun. They had given her an American one.
She went downstairs to wait in the drawing-room.
She drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly, putting an edgy strain upon her chest and stomach muscles, as she stared at herself in the standing-mirror.
There was no alternative.
She had thought about it long and hard.
She was determined. Resolute. Firm.
But, would she manage it, when the moment actually came…
She saw she was fiddling with her face just below her tearful left eye. She drew her hand away, flicking it back and forth on her coat, like a barber’s shaving-knife being sharpened.
She and Matthew went for a drive in the glorious Highlands of Scotland, nothing before them but undulating green vistas, and the stunning backdrop of mountain-peaks.
They had a bite to eat in a tiny village nestling in a valley. Fiona picked at her food, absent-mindedly returning some pressure on Matthew’s hand whenever he reached for her.
She noticed him looking curiously at her once or twice.
Motoring in her Bentley along narrow, winding roads, they headed back home. They didn’t say much, as they had promised not to talk ‘shop’ until they returned. Matthew hadn’t mentioned anything about his morning’s investigations into Paula’s whereabouts.
Fiona glanced at her wrist-watch. It was half-past one.
She grabbed her handbag, which she had laid by her feet in the passenger-seat. She opened it. She took out her lipstick, and applied it gingerly to her lips, sucking first the bottom one, then the top one, afterwards.
She put the lipstick back in the handbag. She took out the Smith and Wesson revolver.
“Stop the car, Matthew!” she ordered, pointing the revolver at him, with only the slightest of tremors in her voice.
He cast a quick, surprised glance at her, but, taken aback as he was, did as he was told. He pulled up on the verge.