by Rhys Bowen
“Good idea.” He got up. “Let’s call it a day, shall we. My bottom is numb from sitting on a hard seat for hours.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
London
It was pouring hard when Ben arrived back in London, late at night. He had endured three fruitless days of crowded trains, uncooperative people, and constant rain. He had seen no terrain that resembled the photograph, nor learned any details of the battles that might have relevance today. He stomped up the steps to his billet at the rooming house on Cromwell Road. It had been an inferior sort of hotel before the war, now requisitioned to house those working for the government. The rooms were spartan, with bed, wardrobe, table, chair, and a shelf in one corner with sink, cupboard, and gas ring. He had to drop sixpence into the meter for gas. As he put in his key, the door across the hall opened, and Guy’s face peeped out. “God, you look like a drowned rat,” he said. “Come on in. I’ll make some tea, and I’ve still got a few drops of brandy to put in it.”
“Kind of you, but I really don’t . . .” Ben began.
“Don’t be a martyr,” Guy said. “We don’t want you coming down with a chill and not being able to do your work, do we?”
“I’ll take off my raincoat first,” Ben said. He went into his own room, which felt cold, damp, and unwelcoming, hung the coat up on a peg behind the door, then went across the hall to Guy’s room. In contrast, this room felt comfy and lived in. Guy had hung bright curtains at the window. Some of his favourite modern-art prints decorated the walls. A plant stood on the windowsill, and there were cushions on the chair. Guy likes his creature comforts, Ben thought. He sat while Guy made tea, then poured cognac into it.
“Get that down you. You’ll feel better.”
Ben drank, gratefully. “I’ve been soaked all day,” he said.
“Where were you?” Guy asked.
“In Yorkshire yesterday and the Welsh border today.”
“Doing what, for God’s sake?”
“I don’t suppose it can hurt to tell you,” Ben said. “Checking the site of ancient battles.”
“Are you writing a thesis, or was this something to do with actual work?”
“The latter, but I can’t tell you what.”
“Of course not. Did it prove fruitful?”
“Absolute bloody waste of time.” Ben grinned.
“Most of the things we do are, aren’t they?” Guy said. “I was sent out again today to a report of a possible German spy. And, of course, it turned out to be another Jew who has lived here since before the Great War.”
Ben nodded. “But of course, the real fifth columnists must be damned clever,” he said. “They wouldn’t stand out in any way. I doubt if I’ve ever actually met one.”
“No?” Guy asked. He grinned. “I’m pretty sure I have.”
“Really—where?”
“At a meeting I was sent to. But I suppose I can’t tell you any more. Captain King would shoot me. Or Miss Miller would. She’s more formidable than Knight, isn’t she?”
“Absolutely,” Ben agreed. When he left Guy’s room, he felt comfort, and not just from the brandy working its way through his system. He and Guy were working for the same outfit, even if they couldn’t tell each other what they were actually doing. That made it easier somehow.
The next morning Ben returned to Dolphin Square to report in and was ushered into the inner sanctum.
“Ah, Cresswell. Come in.” Maxwell Knight looked up from his paperwork and held out his hand to Ben. “Successful trip? Any luck?”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” Ben replied. “I visited both the battle sites, and there was nothing in the terrain that resembled the photograph. So I was wondering—isn’t this something that aerial reconnaissance at the Air Ministry might be able to help us with?”
“Already sent them a copy of the photograph,” Maxwell Knight replied. “No word as yet. They’ve got bigger fish to fry these days. But you might pop over there yourself and chivvy them up a bit.”
“So you don’t want me to go back down to Kent?”
“Is there anything else you might hope to accomplish there?”
“Not really, sir.” As he said this, he swallowed back frustration. He had been given a plum assignment and not achieved a single bloody thing. “I suppose the question is whether that particular place was important. Whether there was a contact there who was vital to the Jerries. And if so, will they try to send another messenger or use another format to make contact?”
“Quite.” Max Knight nodded. “And if the time and place weren’t important, then they’ve already sent their message in another way—pigeon or radio.”
“If it weren’t important, why risk a parachutist?”
Max Knight nodded. Then he cleared his throat. “Cresswell, there is something you should know. This is strictly between ourselves, you understand. Never to leave this room.”
“Yes, sir.” Ben felt his pulse quicken.
“I mentioned to you before that we were only interested in the aristocrats in your part of the world. There’s a reason for this. You’ve probably heard that there are several pro-German groups working in Britain.”
“Well, yes. One hears of the Anglo-German Fellowship, and of course the British fascists can’t be counted out.”
“Both relatively harmless. They welcome friendship with Germany in principle. I don’t think either group would work actively to bring about a German takeover of Britain. However”—he paused, tipping his chair back so that it balanced precariously—“you may also have heard that there is an element of strong pro-German sentiment among the upper classes.”
“You mentioned before that there are those who would like to see the Duke of Windsor on the throne,” Ben said.
“And working to achieve this. We can’t be sure yet whether they would go as far as actual assassination of the current royal family. But we are taking precautions. Monitoring wherever possible. You see, Cresswell, there is a small, secret group we’ve only just learned about. They are made up almost exclusively of aristocrats. They call themselves the Ring. Some of them have the misguided belief that they can spare Britain from total destruction by aiding the German invasion. Some believe a Hitler-style government wouldn’t be so bad, that we have deep ties with Germany, including our royal family.”
“Absolute fools,” Ben blurted out. “Surely anyone can see that we’d be at best a puppet state with slave labour.”
“You and I can see that. There are those who can’t or won’t. And they are dangerous, Cresswell. There are those among them who will do what it takes.”
“So how do we root them out and stop them?” Ben asked.
“Good question. I have my people infiltrating their meetings whenever we get wind of them.”
Ben thought for an awful moment that Knight was about to suggest he infiltrate such meetings. This was followed by the thought that he should volunteer for such an assignment. “Is there any way that I can be helpful, sir?” he asked.
“Yes. Keep your eyes and ears open, and for God’s sake let’s find out about that bloody photograph,” Knight said. “Ask Miss Miller how you get to Aerial Reconnaissance. They are buried somewhere in the depths of the country. Top-secret hideout. I’ll let them know you are coming.”
As Ben went down in the elevator, he had an odd feeling. Why had Knight let him go off on a wild goose chase to Yorkshire and Herefordshire when the photograph was already being analysed by the Air Ministry? And why wait so long to tell him about the Ring? He toyed with the idea that he was being kept busy and out of the way for a reason. And he wondered whether the reason was that the dashing Max Knight was part of the secret ring himself.
As soon as Ben had left the office, Mr. Knight’s secretary, Joan Miller, came in and closed the door behind her.
“You’ve told him about the Ring?”
“Yes. He seemed to find it hard to believe that noble Britons could possibly behave like that. He’s a naïve chap, I’d say.”
“Or a good actor, sir.” Joan Miller held his gaze. “We can’t completely discount that he’s working with them. Why volunteer to rush up to Yorkshire when we know they just held a meeting up there?”
“My contacts and my gut tell me he’s all right, Joan. But then I have been wrong before. You might mention his name next time you’re with them. Suggest him as a possible recruit and see if you get a reaction.”
“He’s not of their class, sir. And not influential enough. Small-fry. They wouldn’t be interested.”
“If they had a particular job for him to do, they might.”
Joan Miller nodded. “And you didn’t tell him that we have Margot Sutton safely back in England?”
“Not yet. I’m uneasy about that one, Joan. The whole rescue was too damned easy. I think they were letting her get away. And the question is why.”
Ben couldn’t shake off the feeling of unease as he walked from Dolphin Square to Victoria Station. Was he being used for something? As bait, perhaps? He took the tube to Marylebone Station and then the overground train out to Buckinghamshire. He got out at Marlow, and then found he had to wait for a local bus to take him to the village of Medmenham, about three miles away. Again he experienced that feeling of unreality as he looked at the Thames, sparkling beyond Marlow’s spruce little shops. There was even a rowing boat being skulled along the river. Nothing seemed to have changed here. It was amazing that somewhere so close to London could seem unaffected by war. The bus came at last, and he rode through leafy countryside where cows grazed in lush meadows. From the village he followed Joan Miller’s directions to a former stately home and had to undergo three rounds of security before he was sent to the operations room. The former ballroom was now filled with tables, each one covered in maps. He was surprised to find many of the people poring over the maps were women—young women, many of them dressed in the blue uniform of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. He waited, and a girl in civvies came over to him. “Hello,” she said. “Mr. Cresswell? We were told you were on your way. It’s a bit remote, but not bad digs here at all, is it?”
“Not bad at all.” He returned her smile. She had a round, pleasant face and bouncy curls, a little like a grown-up Shirley Temple. Curves, but not fat, Ben noted.
“You’ve come about the photograph?” she asked. “Sorry. We’ve been overwhelmed recently, and I haven’t had too much time to spend on it. It’s been all about locating German factory sites and railway-goods yards. Can I get you a cup of tea?”
“Oh, no, that’s not necessary—” he started, but she cut him off.
“Oh, come on. Be a sport. If we have visitors, we’re allowed to open the biscuit tin!”
“All right, then. How could I refuse?” They went through to a small kitchen. She poured tea and took down the biscuit tin from the shelf. “Go on. Help yourself,” she said.
“Only if you’re allowed to have one, too.”
“Not really, but who’s counting?” She flashed a wicked grin again and picked up a Bourbon biscuit. Ben took a custard cream. “One of the perks of working here,” she said. “We have to entertain visitors.”
“So you haven’t had time yet to work on the location of the photograph?” he asked.
“I’ve done some preliminary stuff. The problem is that we don’t have many aerial photographs of England, especially not of the remote western bits that aren’t crucial to the war effort. So it’s working from an ordnance survey map, and that is more tedious going. We’re looking for where the contour lines are close enough together to indicate a steep hill and which steep hill has a river about a half mile from it and a church on it. And as soon as I’m getting into it, I get called back because new photos have just come in from Germany. Is this terribly important?”
“It could be,” he said. “I don’t know what they told you, but a parachutist, who was almost certainly a German spy, fell to his death in a Kentish field, and the only thing he had in his pockets was this photograph. So we need to know why it mattered.”
“Oh, golly. How exciting. Of course. I’ll do my best. Stay late.”
“Thank you. It’s good of you—?” He left the query hanging.
She smiled. “It’s Mavis. Mavis Pugh.”
“I’m Ben,” he replied. “Pleased to meet you.” He wasn’t sure whether he should shake her hand.
“Do you work in London?” she asked.
“Most of the time, yes. They send me out on errands like this. Are you billeted down here?”
“Not billeted. I live with my mum in Marlow, worse luck. She’s a nervous sort, so it does rather cramp my style.”
“Do you get up to London ever?”
“You bet,” she said. “The moment we have a day off, I’m up to London on the next train. Why, were you about to ask me out?”
“I was thinking of it.” Ben blushed. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually so fresh with a girl I’ve only just met.”
“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” she replied. “One has to take one’s chances in a war like this. We’re all so horribly aware how often one of our RAF pilots doesn’t come back. You can be chatting with a bloke one day, and the next you hear he’s been shot down. So grab life while you can, that’s become my motto.”
“How about the pictures sometime, then?” he asked. “Cinema, I mean, not what you’re doing here.”
“I love the pictures.” She flashed a smile at him. “Clark Gable. He’s my favourite.”
“Do you get regular days off?” he asked.
“Not really. But I get quite a few evenings free, when I’m on early shift like this. It’s not that far to pop up to town, is it?” She paused, smiled at him again. “So let’s make a date, shall we?”
“The only thing is I don’t know if I’m supposed to be back at work in London now or still running around the countryside. I’ll have to let you know.”
“You’re not giving me the brush-off, I hope? Is there someone else?”
“No, absolutely not. And nobody else.”
“That’s good, then. I must say I rather fancy going out with a chap who is not going to be shot to pieces the next day. Reassuring.”
“I suppose we should get back to work and take a look at that photo,” Ben said. “Do you have a telephone at home where I can ring you?”
“I’d rather you left a message for me at work,” she said. “My mum is too inquisitive, and she’s likely to invite you for tea, and then pepper you with embarrassing questions. She means well, I suppose. She wants to keep me safe when nobody can be kept safe.”
“All right. Give me the work number.”
He followed her to her table, and she wrote it down for him. A blown-up copy of his photograph was pinned next to a map. As he bent to look at it, Mavis’s name was called.
“Mavis, do you have those photos ready yet? The man from the ministry is here for them,” a large woman wearing sergeant’s stripes called across the room, giving Ben a disapproving glance.
“All ready to go, ma’am,” Mavis called back. She turned back to Ben. “Just let me hand these over to the bloke from the ministry, then I’m all yours.” Her double meaning was quite clear. As she started for the door, it was pushed open and a man in an RAF uniform came in.
“I’m here to collect . . .” He began. He looked at Mavis, then at Ben.
“Good God, Ben,” Jeremy said. “What on earth are you doing here?”
When Ben recovered from his shock, he realised that he should not be surprised to see Jeremy. After all, he had told Ben that he would be working at the Air Ministry until he was fit to fly again.
“Hello, Jeremy,” he said.
“But what are you doing here?” Jeremy asked. “You don’t work for the Air Ministry, do you?”
“No, but I was sent to pick up a photograph here for one of the bosses.”
“Amazing coincidence,” Jeremy said. He turned to Mavis. “This chap and I were best friends growing up. And to meet him here of all places.”
“Oh, then you
can tell me all the secrets of his past,” Mavis said.
Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I get it. You and she . . . you sly dog.”
“We’ve only just met,” Ben said. “But I did ask her out to the pictures.”
“Tell you what,” Jeremy said, “why don’t you bring her to my party on Wednesday?” He turned to Mavis. “I’ve just moved into my parents’ flat in Mayfair, and I’m going to celebrate my freedom with a flat-warming party.”
“Mayfair? How grand.” Mavis’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, Ben. I’d love that.”
“Can you get time off?”
“You bally well know I’m going to work it somehow. Even if I have to take awful shifts for a month.”
“Then let me write down the address for you,” Jeremy said. “We’ll have fun. The old man has a good cellar, and I plan to work my way through it.”
“Spiffing,” Mavis said. “I’m glad you have such interesting friends, Ben.”
“Interesting?” Jeremy gave a mock frown. “How about handsome, dashing, debonair?”
“Those too,” she said.
“Are the Sutton girls coming?” Ben asked, trying to sound casual.
“Just Dido and Pamma. Livvy is too old and stodgy, and Feebs is too young. It was quite a job persuading Lord Westerham to let Dido come up to town. They keep her on such a tight leash.”
“Probably with good reason,” Ben said, and Jeremy grinned.
“There are going to be titled people there?” Mavis asked, her eyes wide now. “Crickey. You’re not a lord or something, are you?” She turned to Ben.
“Just plain mister,” Ben said. “Jeremy’s father is a sir.”
“But I’m also just plain flight lieutenant,” Jeremy said. “And I haven’t even told you my name yet. Jeremy Prescott. And yours is?”
“Mavis,” she stammered it a little. “Mavis Pugh.”
“There you are, Jeremy. You’ve bowled the poor girl off her feet,” Ben said.
“So if you’re a flight lieutenant, why aren’t you flying?” she asked, sounding bolder now.
