Deathwatch: Inspirational WWII Suspense

by V. B. Tenery

  DEATHWATCH

  by

  V. B. Tenery

  Inspirational WWII Suspense

  A Novel

  DEDICATION

  To my Savior, Jesus Christ.

  May all I do honor You.

  To my grandson,

  Marine Lance Corporal Chase Stablier, my personal hero

  who embodies the strength and honor the Corp represents.

  And

  To the “Greatest Generation” whose

  courage, wisdom, and unwavering resolve

  kept the world from falling into the

  hands of merciless tyrants.

  On September 7, 1940 only a few weeks after the British victory in the Battle of Britain, at 5:30pm, some 348 German bombers escorted by 617 fighters pounded London with bombs until 6:00pm. Guided by the flames, a second group attacked with more incendiary bombs two hours later, lasting into the next day. Thus began what is known as The London Blitz--Germany’s eight-month reign of terror from the skies on a courageous and undaunted English people.

  Copyright

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEATHWATCH

  COPYRIGHT © 2016 by V. B. TENERY

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording—or in any other manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  eBook editions are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. eBooks may not be re-sold, copied or given to other people. If you would like to share an eBook edition, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.

  Contact Information:

  Website: www.vbtenery.com

  Twitter: @teneryherrin

  FB Author Page: www.facebook.com/VBTenery

  Scripture quotations are taken from the

  King James translation, public domain.

  Cover Art by Sharon A. Lavy

  Edited by Kimberly Huther

  Publishing History

  First Edition CBC Press, A division of CBC Services April 2016

  Published in the United States of America

  AUTHOR PREFACE

  I’ve tried to keep this novel true to the historical events between 1939 -1941 that are used as the backdrop for the story. The main characters are factitious. The names of real people and places have been used, such as William Donovan and the leadership at the Code and Cypher School at Bletchley Park and at MI6.

  I’ve tried to portray the heroism of the French Resistance fighters as realistically as possible from the research available.

  CHAPTER 1

  FEBRUARY, 1941

  Bletchley Park Mansion

  Buckinghamshire, England

  The Director General’s secretary appeared in robe and slippers at Grey’s flat at 1:00 a.m. Grey held the door open for him but he remained in the hallway. “Get dressed, Commander. A car is waiting downstairs to take you to London. Someone from Special Branch will meet you there. He’ll explain what you need to do.”

  Urgent missions in the middle of the night were not unusual for MI6 Commander Grey Hamilton, but the secretary’s unusual lack of information sent his imagination soaring. Normally the summons resulted from a mission he was already involved in, but he was currently between assignments.

  Whatever the problem, it was important enough for someone to send a car all the way from London to Buckinghamshire to fetch him.

  Rain pounded a constant drum beat on the roof of the ancient Austin as he and the driver made their way through the darkness into London. The windscreen wipers fought valiantly against the downpour, and he struggled to find familiar landmarks. The Blitz had leveled most of the recognizable London streets and buildings, leaving a sprawling mass of jagged rubble in their stead. It was pitch-black and bone-chilling cold, and the automobile’s heater blew air almost as frigid as that outside. He glanced over at the WPC at the wheel, who had introduced herself as Molly Hixs, a middle-aged matron with tightly-permed red curls. She effortlessly avoided road cavities and ruins despite the blackout. “Bloody night, wot, sir?”

  “The only good thing about this weather, Mrs. Hixs, is that the limited visibility keeps the Luftwaffe at home,” he agreed.

  “Too right ‘bout that, Commander, and call me Molly, sir.”

  With most of the men ages sixteen to sixty in the service, courageous ladies served in the Women’s Police Corp, filling a desperate need at the Yard and other Vidal interests in England’s war efforts.

  “Where are you taking me, Molly?”

  She gave a soft chuckle. “Can’t say, sir. Was told to keep me lips zipped.”

  Bristol Arms Apartments

  London, England

  After a little more than two hours, the driver shifted gears and nosed the Austin to the curb in front of an address Grey knew intimately. It was an exclusive apartment building on the east side of Piccadilly that had so far escaped Jerries’ bombs. It was the home of his former fiancée. The flats stood within walking distance of his old office at St. James Place before they moved him to Bletchley Park.

  He tugged down the brim of his fedora and flipped up his Mackintosh’s collar before he opened the car door. A blast of wind and icy rain hit him as he stepped onto the sidewalk. He quickly leaned back into the car and spoke to the driver. “Will you be around to take me home later, Molly?”

  She smiled and nodded. “I’ll be ‘ere when you need me, sir.”

  Under the awning entrance, a grizzled old soldier wearing his ragged, too-thin First World War uniform stepped towards him. “Don’t have a fag ye can spare do ye, guv’na?”

  “Sorry, my friend. I don’t smoke.” He pulled a five-pound note from his pocket and handed it to the old warrior. “See if you can find something warm to eat and drink.”

  “Thank you kindly, guv’na.” A weary smile settled on his whiskered face as he stuffed the money in his trousers and hurried away into the rain-soaked darkness. He would probably head for the nearest pub, but he could get a bite to eat to go with his ale.

  A uniformed porter held open the door. “Sorry about that, sir. We try to keep him away, but it’s near impossible, and on a night like this I feel right sorry for the old bugger.”

  “No need to apologize; no harm done.” Grey hurried into the lobby’s warmth. Cold weather had awakened the pain of his leg injury. Fortunately, the heat would loosen up the stiff muscles.

  “Are you Commander Hamilton, sir?” the porter asked.

  Grey nodded.

  “There’s a gentleman waiting for you in the office to the left. He said to tell you just to knock when you arrived.”

  The familiar marble corridor was dotted with potted ferns. Huge oil paintings in gilded frames hung on the walls in muted shades that blended with the carpet runner. Before the war this had been the premier address for young aristocrats, but the old girl was looking a little worse for wear.

  He strode to the door the porter had indicated, and knocked. A cultured masculine voice invited him to enter.

  Grey closed the door behind him and studied the man, who stood and offered his hand. He was tall and lean, tending toward the frail side, his skin pale, brown hair neatly brushed, with light blue eyes. Near Grey’s own age of thirty-three, the cuffs of his double-breasted pinstriped suit were slightly frayed but still in fair condition. Tailors and fabric were in short supply
in Britain, and, like everything else, were rationed. The man extended his hand. “Nigel Lewis, Special Branch, and you are Commander Hamilton, I presume.

  “Yes,” Grey said.

  “Have a seat, Commander, and I’ll tell you why you’ve been sent here.” He waited until Grey was seated before he continued. “There’s been a murder upstairs, apartment 3C. She’s French, her name is Jacky Vidal, strangled with her own scarf. She worked at Bletchley Park.”

  Grey immediately understood why he was here. He wasn’t a police inspector, but anything connected to the Government Code and Cypher School required the attention of Military Intelligence.

  The victim was a cryptanalyst at GC&CS. The Ultra program was the best-kept secret in England, and it was imperative that it stay that way. Unless, of course, Miss Vidal had already leaked their secret to the wrong people. Lewis probably didn’t even have security clearance. Few people outside of Bletchley Park did.

  The possibility the Nazis knew their secrets would be catastrophic. If Germany discovered Enigma had been broken, they would change the codes. The loss of information from German radio and tele-printer communications would be disastrous for Military Intelligence. They depended heavily on data of troop and ship movements from intercepted messages. Even worse, Germany wouldn’t change the code but would instead use Enigma to send false information.

  Lewis handed him a file. “This is all we have on Jacky Vidal and Grace Sullivan.”

  “Who’s Sullivan?”

  “She found the body, and also works at GC&CS. They were on scheduled leave this week.”

  Grey let his gaze sweep the room. “Is Vidal from a wealthy family? I know the cost of a flat here and I also know what those women earn.”

  Lewis shook his head. “That information isn’t in her personnel records. It’ll be your job to find out where the money came from.”

  “Has Scotland Yard arrived?”

  Lewis nodded. “Yes, an hour or so ago. Miss Sullivan had her head about her. She called Commander Dennison at the Park right after she determined Miss Vidal was dead. He notified the Director General, who called Special Branch. We made the call to the Yard. Inspector Milford has been assigned to the case.”

  “Aubrey Milford?” Grey asked.

  “Yes, I believe that’s his name. Do you know him?”

  “We were at Eton together. He’s a good man.”

  Lewis stood, ending the meeting. “I was instructed to tell you that your charge is to find out if Miss Vidal’s murder has anything to do with GC&CS, and if she compromised the operation in any way. I don’t have to tell you how important that is, Commander.”

  He was right. Grey knew that all too well.

  As he turned to leave, Lewis stopped him. “I’ve arranged for Inspector Milford to work with you. If this proves to be just a random murder, he will take over at that point.”

  “Understood.” Grey closed the door behind him and stepped to the lift. The door stood open and the operator, a short, plump girl with a friendly smile, straightened her posture when he approached then followed him inside.

  She took him to the third floor without asking where he wanted to go. He checked his pocket watch. At four-thirty in the morning, number three was likely the only floor seeing any activity. Sane people were still snuggled into their warm beds.

  The door to 3C was open. In a small alcove that smelled of Chanel No. 5, Aubrey Milford stood with a gray-haired man in a black suit and medical bag. Grey assumed he was the Home Office pathologist.

  Aubrey hadn’t changed a lot since university. His face had lost its boyish softness and he’d matured into a polished gentleman with film-star good looks. His green eyes and light brown hair revealed none of his Jewish lineage. Grey was one of very few people aware he had been adopted. His English parents deliberately kept his ethnicity secret. Almost as much anti-Semitism existed in the English upper classes as there was in Germany.

  The Inspector waved Grey over, beamed, and gave his hand a firm squeeze. “It’s been a long time, Grey. Lewis told me you were on your way.” Milford introduced his companion as Dr. Gordon Bruce, then said, “Dr. Bruce was about to give me some idea as to the time of death.”

  “Aye, she’s been in full rigor, and from the condition of the body she hasn’t been dead long. My guess would be the lass died aboot three to four hours ago, as the rigor is relaxing somewhat. If yer through here, Inspector, I’ll take her on to the university for autopsy.”

  “By all means, Doctor. I’ll be in touch with you later.”

  Through the bedroom doorway, Grey watched as two men transferred the silk-nightgown- clad body of the young woman from the bed onto a gurney and covered it with white sheets.

  Grey watched the gurney disappear into the hallway and glanced at Milford. “She’s African?”

  “Mixed, which accounts for her light coloring. Her father was French, her mother an African tribal princess, or so I’m told.” Milford gave a frustrated shake of his head. “It’s a bloody shame. She was a beautiful girl. Too young to meet such a tragic end.”

  Milford heaved a deep breath and seemed to collect himself. He nodded at a man with a camera strapped to his shoulder. “He’s the Special Branch photographer and is just finishing up. He has snapped photos of the bedroom and the body. We have also collected the other evidence from the flat. I’ll see you have access to everything. Would you like to speak to the young woman who found the body?”

  “Yes, if she’s still available. Sullivan is Irish, I take it?”

  “She’s American,” the Inspector said, and motioned for Grey to go first through the doorway. “Her apartment is just down the corridor.”

  He chuckled. “My sergeant has been quite beside himself in her presence. Says she reminds him of a Swedish film star whose name he can’t recall. I say, if I weren’t an engaged man, I would get in queue for that young lady’s hand.”

  Aubrey hadn’t changed in the years since Grey last saw him—still a Lothario. Grey’s attention was also turned to Miss Sullivan, but for a different reason. He almost voiced the first thoughts that came to mind. How was it that an American had been allowed to work at

  England’s top-secret code-breaking facility? And why would a young American girl be in war-torn England at all? Indeed. These were questions he intended to put directly to Miss Sullivan.

  They made their way down a long corridor to 3B, and Milford rang the bell.

  The door opened and the Inspector stepped forward. “Sorry to disturb you, Miss Sullivan, but we have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course, Inspector. I wasn’t sure you would return tonight, or should I say this morning. But I couldn’t sleep anyway. Please come in.”

  She stepped aside for them to enter, and Grey had his first look at Grace Sullivan. He immediately knew the actress whose name the sergeant couldn’t remember. Cynthia, his fiancée, had lured him into seeing Intermezzo, an American film starring Ingrid Bergman, and Miss Sullivan had the same fresh-faced natural beauty of the star.

  She was of average height, probably five-feet-five-inches. She wore a green wool dressing

  gown that managed to look both warm and elegant at the same time. Dark blond hair hung in loose waves around her shoulders, and her deep sapphire eyes appeared more shocked than grief- stricken. That wasn’t unusual. People were often first traumatized by violent death. The grief would come later.

  “This is Commander Grey Hamilton, Miss Sullivan. Because of Miss Vidal’s connection to Bletchley Park, he is working closely with Scotland Yard.” Milford sniffed the air. “Good heavens, is that real coffee I smell? You must have a good friend in the black market.”

  Her lips formed a slight smile. “No, just a mother in America who sends care packages regularly. Would you like some? I just made a fresh pot.”

  “I would love it,” Milford said without embarrassment. “The ersatz barleycorn substitute at the Yard is ghastly.”

  She led them into the small kitchen
. “Have a seat while I get the coffee. We can talk in here.”

  Grey watched the young woman move into the kitchen, her poise obviously shaken by the death of her friend. She was acting the gracious hostess, but the sadness in her eyes said she would rather be elsewhere.

  A few moments later, she returned, placed a service tray on the table, and poured three cups.

  Milford took a long sip from his cup and flashed her a dashing smile. “And you have cream and sugar. It’s a wonder your pantry hasn’t been plundered by your neighbors.”

  “It isn’t real cream, just evaporated milk, but it’s better than nothing.” She gave a half-hearted smile. “There does seem to be a telegraph system in the building. When a package arrives from home, I’m suddenly the most popular woman in the complex.”

  “God bless mothers,” Grey said, not trying to hide the cynicism. He was tired and it was

  time to get down to the business at hand. “How long have you been at Bletchley Park, Miss Sullivan?”

  “A little over a year.”

  Milford took out his notebook. Grey didn’t need to take notes; he had total recall, a blessing and a curse in his profession.

  “Tell us when and how it is that you found Miss Vidal’s body,” Grey said.

  “I’d gone out to dinner with a friend, and when I returned I found a note asking me to come see her, no matter what time I came in. I thought it must be important, so I went right over. I knocked on the door, and when she didn’t answer I went in. The door wasn’t locked and the lights were on.” She stopped and bit at her lower lip. “That’s when I found her . . .”

  “Is it normal for you to walk into Miss Vidal’s home if she doesn’t answer the door?” Grey asked.

  “Yes; if the door wasn’t locked it meant she was home alone. We were very informal.”