by Jack Treby
A valet passed by with a tray of food and I quickly snaffled a few mouthfuls. Polite applause greeted the end of another number and for a brief moment the floor emptied. Dorothy Kilbride approached the Colonel. She was looking a little dizzy. ‘I can’t keep up with these modern dances, I’m afraid,’ she admitted.
‘Come, my dear, let me find you a chair.’ The Colonel was all concern. The two were old friends as well as colleagues. They had known each other since before the war. Dorothy Kilbride had worked her way up from humble secretary to head of payroll, a remarkable achievement in such chauvinistic times, especially given her distinct lack of personality. ‘Good woman that,’ the Colonel mumbled, when he had properly seated her. ‘I hope you’ll ask her to dance when she gets her breath back.’ It wasn’t exactly a request. Evidently, Sir Vincent felt quite paternal towards Miss Dorothy Kilbride.
‘I’d be delighted,’ I said.
Three hours later, everybody was feeling a little the worse for wear. The band had taken a short break and there was a healthy buzz of conversation across the dance floor. Food was being consumed to act as ballast against the alcohol and there was a smattering of laughter. Harry was schmoozing with Felicity Mandeville Jones over by the far window. Lettie Young was with them, shrieking away with no sense of shame but knocking back the gin without any deleterious effect that I could see. She was always shrieking away. Lettie could handle her alcohol better than I could. The combination of dancing and whisky had disorientated me slightly – I was not exactly young any more – but though my speech was becoming a little slurred, I was still some way from the fall-down drunk stage that I intended to reach by the end of the evening. There were a few hours of heavy drinking to go before that.
Not everybody would stay the course, however. Dorothy Kilbride was already slumped in a chair, fast asleep. She had perked up on the dance floor, through a couple of quieter numbers, but was now thoroughly exhausted.
I felt a pang of sympathy. ‘Should we leave her to sleep?’ I asked the Colonel.
‘Better pack her off to bed,’ he thought. ‘You can do the honours, old chap. I’m sure Miss Young will give you a hand.’
Lettie was only too willing to help. ‘Come on, love,’ she said, waking up the dozing figure with a gentle pat. ‘Time for beddie-byes.’
Dorothy Kilbride blinked uncertainly, not quite sure where she was, but the drowsy woman soon struggled to her feet. Lettie and I escorted her from the ballroom, through the billiard hall to the main stairs.
The orchestra were reassembling for the next session behind us. ‘This is a brand new song,’ the compère announced, in a fashionable but unconvincing American accent. ‘Hot foot from the US of A. It hasn’t been released here yet but we think it’s going to be a big hit. It’s called Happy Days Are Here Again.’ And with that the orchestra was in full swing once more.
Lettie Young laughed. ‘I like the sound of that. Here, mind the step.’ We were halfway up the staircase now, navigating the second corner towards the balustrade, and from there it was a short but tortuous journey to the guests’ quarters on the southern side of the house. The geography of Bletchley Park was difficult to fathom when sober, but slightly tipsy as we were, it might as well have been one of those impossible paintings by Escher.
On the upper landing, confusion rained. There were half a dozen bedrooms in this part of the house, and the only one I knew about was my own. ‘Which one is it?’ I asked Lettie.
‘Search me.’ She shrugged. ‘Hey, Dottie. Which one’s your room?’
The older woman swayed blearily, but gestured nonetheless in the direction of one particular door.
‘In here?’ I asked again, as we arrived at the door.
Dorothy nodded vaguely. She was starting to hiccough.
I pulled at the brass handle and we entered the room. A rather grand four poster bed formed the centre piece of the chamber. The walls were wood panelled and the décor cod-medieval. The room was a little larger than mine, but looked out onto the same neat lawn. A small fireplace on one wall offered the possibility of warmth, but the fire had not been lit. The blankets on the bed would have to suffice. There was carpet underfoot, however, and the room did not seem particularly chilly. I had managed perfectly well on Friday night and Dorothy Kilbride was too far gone to care.
I helped her over to the mattress and she flopped down in one solid movement. In seconds, she was asleep.
‘Ah, bless her,’ Lettie said, gazing down at the woman. She certainly looked peaceful, snoring quietly there but with the occasional loud snort interrupting the rhythm of her breathing. The Colonel was right. She was a decent old stick. She might lack sparkle but she had a good heart.
‘He’s got a real soft spot for her, you know. The Colonel,’ Lettie said. ‘She’s been with him right from the start.’
‘I remember.’ Dorothy Kilbride had been the first member of MI5 I had ever met. My father had arranged the interview with Sir Vincent – his last act of kindness towards me after I had been sent down from university – and it was Dottie who had shown me into the great man’s office. She had been pretty, then, in a quiet way, and we had got to know each other fairly well over the next couple of years.
‘Poor cow,’ Lettie said. ‘She hasn’t had much luck in life, has she? Two dead husbands and a couple of miscarriages.’
‘Miscarriages?’ I had not heard anything about that.
‘It’s not exactly something you talk about.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ It was bad enough having a child, I knew from personal experience, let alone losing the damn thing.
‘And when her second husband kicked the bucket, that was that.’
‘How do you know so much about her?’ I asked, suspiciously
Lettie grinned. ‘Oh, the Colonel and me, we’re thick as thieves. He tells me everything.’
‘I find that difficult to believe.’
‘It’s true,’ she insisted. ‘Going way back. He was a friend of my mothers.’
‘Oh, really? A “friend”?’ I smirked.
‘Nothing like that, you dirty sod. She was a house maid. Worked for him before the war. I mean, well before the war. She got into a bit of trouble. Not with him, some footman or other. And...well, here I am.’
‘So you’re a bastard, then,’ I observed, with some relish.
She grinned. ‘Too right. It ain’t a secret, neither. I’m proud of it. Take what you can get, that’s what I say. But my mum died when I was just a nipper, and the Colonel, he promised to look after me.’
‘I thought you were brought up in an orphanage?’
‘I was. He could hardly bring me up as one of his own, could he? But he found a decent enough place for me, as far as it goes. And he often came by and said hello. Got me my first job and everything. He’s been good to me.’
‘So it seems.’ Not the typical spy master at all.
‘Well, are you gonna stand there gawping or are you gonna sod off and let me get her undressed?’
I started. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll leave you to it.’ I hurried towards the door. A gentleman cannot stand and watch while a woman is being undressed (sometimes I get so caught up in my life as a man, I fail to see the absurdity of it).
Lettie was already searching for some appropriate night clothes. ‘You know she’s got a bit of a soft spot for you, old Dottie.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, from the door.
‘Fancies the pants of you, so I hear.’ She grinned maliciously. ‘You old devil.’
I pursed my lips. ‘Maybe when we were younger. But it’s been years since I last saw her. And we’ve both been married.’
‘Still holds a bit of a torch, I reckon. You know it was her what got you the invite.’
I frowned. ‘She invited me? This weekend?’
‘Typed up the list. And asked the Colonel if she could add your name, for old time sake.’
I glared at Lettie, unconvinced. ‘You’re making this up.’
‘’Cou
rse I am.’ She winked. ‘Shut the door on your way out.’
I stood in the corridor for a moment, a little nonplussed. The idea of Dorothy Kilbride holding a torch for me after all these years was laughable. But she had certainly enjoyed our dance that evening. And she had pressed against me rather tightly through the slow numbers. I dismissed the idea. It was just Lettie making mischief.
I needed another drink. I had promised Mrs Smith a dance and I knew I would not be allowed to break my word. It was time to return to the ballroom.
Descending the main stairs, my attention was caught by raised voices coming from the front of the house. A man and a woman. Light was streaming out from the drawing room through the lounge hall. By the sounds of it, quite a serious argument was in progress. Before I could step forward and investigate, the Honourable Felicity Mandeville Jones swept out of the drawing room and across the hallway directly in front of me. Her eyes were wet with tears. I barely had time to register the sobs as she bolted through a side corridor and into the library.
I made to follow her but then stopped myself. There was only one person I could think of who might have upset her in that way. A certain disreputable journalist. I peered through the arches leading back into the lounge. The damned fellow wasn’t going to get away with it a second time.
Anthony Sinclair would get a piece of my mind.
Chapter Nine
The lounge room leading off from the main hall was empty when I looked in, its bizarrely shaped glass roof as dark as the sky above it. But lights were burning in the drawing room just beyond and the acrid fumes of a lighted cigar wafted in my direction. I pushed open the door.
Anthony Sinclair was standing between two large wooden pillars on the far side of the room, his back to me, looking out quietly through the windows at the trees swaying in silhouette just beyond the carriage turnabout. There was enough residual light spilling out from the house to illuminate at least some of the driveway. Sinclair took a puff of his cigar and must have caught sight of my reflected image in the window as, at that moment, he turned slowly and regarded my entrance to the room with well-practiced disdain.
The door swung shut behind me.
‘Not dancing, Sir Hilary?’ Sinclair raised a quizzical eyebrow. He was a good looking man, with shiny black hair and a pencil moustache, but the permanent sneer on his face provided ample warning of his true character.
‘Evidently not,’ I snapped. The impertinence of the fellow. Alcohol was flowing through my veins and I was not about to pull any punches. ‘And neither was Miss Jones, by the look of her.’
I stepped forward. The drawing room was lightly furnished, with barely more than a sofa and a couple of tables. A pianoforte stood abandoned in one corner. The walls were covered in the same oak panelling as the entrance hall and the ceiling was patterned with basic geometric shapes. A wooden fireplace dominated the northern side of the room and there was a blandly functional grey carpet spread out beneath us
Sinclair frowned. ‘I think she has danced enough this evening.’
‘The woman was in tears,’ I said. ‘If you’ve done anything to hurt her...’
‘What are you talking about?’ Sinclair stared at me, his face a mockery of perplexed innocence.
‘I heard the two of you arguing, just now. And then I saw Miss Jones running away. In something of a state, I might add.’
Sinclair laughed humourlessly. ‘You have knack for over-dramatising, Sir Hilary. You ought to be a journalist. It’s none of your damn business.’
‘A woman in distress is everyone’s business, Mr Sinclair.’
He laughed again. ‘She was hardly in distress.’ He took a puff of his cigar. ‘If you must know, I was merely castigating Miss Jones for her inappropriate behaviour this evening.’
‘Castigating her?’
‘You must have seen her dancing with that American...well, I hesitate to use the word “gentleman”.’
‘Harry Latimer is a friend of mine.’
Sinclair exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me.’
‘And you disapprove of a young woman dancing, at a dance, with another man?’
‘No, Sir Hilary. I disapprove of a woman disappearing into a private room and engaging in a passionate embrace with a man who is not her husband.’
Now it was my turn to be nonplussed. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘Your friend Harry Latimer. He was in the library, embracing Miss Jones. Kissing her. I saw them together.’
My jaw dropped. It looked like Harry had got to “first base” after all. I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. It might be worth losing fifteen guineas, I thought, if it upset Sinclair so much.
‘You find it amusing? That Miss Jones would risk her reputation for a scoundrel like that? I’ll have you know, her father is a close friend of mine. You have heard of Sir Hugh Mandeville Jones?’
I nodded. The man was a prominent Tory MP.
‘Sir Hugh would be outraged. But I think the girl just needed a good talking to. I told her to buck her ideas up. She will not be speaking to Mr Latimer again.’ Sinclair took another puff of his cigar. I could scarcely believe the hypocrisy of the man. Here he was, pretending to be the protector of Miss Jones’ virtue, yet in reality he had already compromised that virtue and in a manner far graver than Harry’s harmless flirtation.
‘You, sir,’ I breathed, ‘are a hypocrite.’
Sinclair blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’
My anger could not be constrained. ‘You have the effrontery to criticize that poor woman when your own behaviour beggars belief. You present this ridiculous image of propriety, when your own profession takes such pleasure in ruining people’s lives. And you yourself behave in the most depraved and scandalous manner imaginable.’
Sinclair reached for an ashtray and stubbed out the remainder of his cigar. ‘I don’t care for your tone, Sir Hilary.’
‘I don’t care for you at all, Mister Sinclair.’
The man laughed suddenly. ‘If I’m a hypocrite, Sir Hilary, then what does that make you?’ There was an evil gleam in his eye. All trace of civility had disappeared. ‘Tell me, is it possible for a daughter to inherit a baronetcy from her father?’
I flinched. ‘What...what do you mean?’
‘And is it legal for a woman to enter into matrimony with another woman?’
‘I...I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, you know exactly what I’m talking about, Sir Hilary. I overheard your little conversation with Doctor Lefranc this morning. It was most illuminating. Unlike the Frenchman, however, the very idea of it sickened me. You, sir, are a pervert. A sexual deviant. Not only that, you are a criminal. A fraudster. And you have the effrontery to accuse me of hypocrisy. You, a middle-aged woman who has spent her entire life pretending to be a man.’
There was a long pause. I was having some difficulty breathing. ‘You...overheard everything?’
‘Indeed I did, Sir Hilary,’ he boasted, with some relish. ‘The two of you were out by the tradesman’s entrance. I’d gone to answer a call of nature and overheard your conversation through the bathroom window. Then, after the treasure hunt, I put a call through to the paper, just to check a few facts – your title, how long you’d been married, that kind of thing – and they telephoned me back this evening with all the sordid details. It couldn’t have worked out better. The perfect garnish for our Monday morning edition.’
This was too much. ‘You’re...you’re going to publish a story? About me?’
Anthony Sinclair smiled cruelly. ‘Indeed I am. The woman who lived her life as a man. How she deceived the world and had a love child with a tram conductor during the General Strike. The readers will lap it up.’ He patted his jacket pocket. ‘It’s all in my little notebook. I shall write it up this evening before I go to bed.’
My heart was thumping. Good god, what would Elizabeth say? I would be ruined and she would be a laughing stock. ‘I won’t let yo
u do it,’ I breathed. ‘I won’t let you destroy my life.’ Lord knows, I had never loved my wife, but I couldn’t bear to think of the shame and ignominy that would be heaped upon her. Perhaps – my mind was grasping for an alternative – perhaps Sinclair would accept a bribe. He struck me as that type. Not an honest man, like Doctor Lefranc. ‘I have some considerable funds,’ I said. ‘Well, my wife does. Perhaps if I were to...’
He raised a hand to forestall my offer. ‘I have no need of your money, Sir Hilary. I am a man of independent means and I take considerable pride in my work. I do not take bribes, not from you or from any man. Or from any little slut, come to that, which frankly, my dear, is exactly what you are.’
‘You sanctimonious prig,’ I snarled. It was clear that there was no reasoning with the fellow. If he was determined to ruin me, the least I could do was return the favour. ‘I’m warning you, Mr Sinclair. If you print a single word about me or my wife, I will make it known to the whole world that you are having sexual relations with the Honourable Felicity Mandeville Jones.’
‘I – .’ Sinclair stopped. Momentarily, he was lost for words. He hadn’t expected me to know any of his secrets. The boot was on the other foot now.
‘You have deceived your wife and dishonoured the daughter of a former cabinet minister,’ I continued, warming to my theme, ‘who I’m sure will have your private parts on a platter if he’s got any sense when he discovers the truth. And you claim he’s a friend of yours!’
Sinclair was glaring angrily. ‘How dare you!’ he exclaimed. ‘How dare you suggest Felicity is my mistress! I would never...’
‘Don’t try to deny it,’ I said. ‘I know she’s your mistress. I saw you in her bed chamber last night. And everyone saw the bruises on her face this morning.’
That hit home. Sinclair flinched, as if I had slapped him across the face. ‘Sir Hilary,’ he growled, ‘you have taken leave of your senses. I have never laid a finger on that girl and she is certainly not my mistress.’
‘There’s no point denying it. I saw the two of you together. And I saw the marks across her face.’ The nerve of the man, to deny the truth in such a bare-faced manner. ‘You’re a vicious brute, Mr Sinclair. And since journalism is so close to your heart, I’m going to do you a favour and tell the whole world exactly what you’ve been getting up to.’
