Deathwatch: Inspirational WWII Suspense

by V. B. Tenery

  Grey finished the coffee and set the cup aside. “Do you still have the note, and have you any idea why she sent it?”

  She reached into the pocket of her robe, withdrew a folded note written on quality stationery, and passed it across the table to him. “I have no idea what she wanted. It wasn’t like her to leave a note. That’s why I thought it important.”

  “Give me the name of your dinner date. It’s just routine, but we’ll need to confirm it.”

  She retrieved a notepad from a nearby desk and wrote down the name. “He works at Bletchley also. I’ll spell his name for you. He’s Polish.”

  “How well did you know Jacky Vidal?” Grey folded the papers and passed them to Milford.

  Her voice dropped to a low pitch and she blinked twice before answering. “I met her at work. We discovered we lived in the same building. Our leave rotations were scheduled together

  and we became friends. She was gifted, kind, and fun-loving.” Her grip tightened on the cup handle and she stared down into the liquid as if seeing the face of her friend. “I’ll miss her.”

  “Did she have any special suitors you are aware of?”

  She took a sip and gazed at him over the cup’s rim. “She had mmany men friends, but only two she saw regularly. A man she called Old Foss, a nickname I think, and an RAF lieutenant, Geoffrey Whitman. I met the lieutenant a few months ago, and I met Old Foss once in the elevator as they were going out.”

  “How did she afford to live here?”

  “I’m unsure of her family’s financial position . . .” She paused for a moment, staring at the blackout curtains covering the French doors. “I suppose you’ll find out anyway. Her friend, Old Foss, paid for the apartment.”

  Grey leaned back in his chair and studied her face. “So you met this ‘Old Foss’?”

  She gave a slight nod. “Only the brief encounter in the elevator.”

  “Can you give us a description?” Milford asked.

  “Tall, about six-feet, blue eyes, dark hair with a touch of gray at the temples.” She hesitated, apparently collecting her thoughts, then continued. “I would guess he was early to mid-forties. Not handsome like the lieutenant, but quite distinguished and extremely well-dressed.”

  Milford tapped his pencil on his notebook. “Anything else you can tell us about Jacky Vidal?”

  “She was beautiful, brilliant, and had a lovely French accent.” Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Her parents shipped her to England to finish college when Hitler began conquering one European country after another. Her father lived through one German occupation and didn’t want that to happen to Jacky.”

  Grey didn’t try to mask his suspicious nature when he spoke. “Do you have a ‘friend’, Miss Sullivan? Is that how you afford to live here?”

  Aubrey’s face tensed and he glared at Grey, but he didn’t speak.

  She lifted her chin and gave him a frosty glare. “No, Commander, I have a wealthy father.”

  Grey stood and pulled Aubrey aside, speaking in a hushed whisper. “You don’t have security clearance for the questions I need to ask Miss Sullivan about her work. I’ll need to speak to her in private for a few minutes. I’ll meet you outside shortly.”

  Milford nodded and spoke to the young woman. “Thanks for the coffee. It was a wonderful change from the usual war-brew. I have things to tie up next door. When you are finished with the Commander, I would like you to walk through Miss Vidal’s flat and see if you notice anything missing. I know it’s bad form to ask at this late hour, but it might be important.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  The door clicked as Milford left, and Grey returned to his seat across from Miss Sullivan. “Do you work with Joan Clarke in Hut 8?” Grey asked.

  She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Before I answer any questions about my work, Commander, I need to see some identification. I had to sign a secrecy document in order to work on Ultra. Discussing my job with unauthorized personnel is considered treason. Your title is Commander, yet you’re not in uniform.”

  Grey placed his credentials on the table. “I’m no longer in the Royal Navy, Miss Sullivan. I’m with MI6. We occupy the top floor at Bletchley Mansion. I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other.”

  She scrutinized his credentials, then nodded and shoved them back to him. “I work in Cottage 3 with Alan Turing, among others, although I’m what they call a floater. I go wherever

  I’m needed.”

  He tried to hide his surprise. Turing’s team was the top echelon of the project.

  British Intelligence had been provided a copy of a prospectus written by the military attaché at the American Embassy in Berlin. In October of 1923, the attaché witnessed a demonstration with a working model of Enigma. The man who had demonstrated the machine was Arthur Scherbius, the Berlin engineer who had assumed the patents from its inventor, Hugo Koch. Enclosed in the report about the Enigma machine, the prospectus claimed it was capable of producing 22 billion different code combinations. “If one man worked continuously day and night and tried a different cipher-key every minute,” the prospectus said, “it would take him 42,000 years to exhaust all combination possibilities.”

  England had obtained the machine, code-named Ultra, but not the key that would unlock the codes. Alan Turing was designing a computer to do just that. Until then, hundreds of men and women worked around the clock to find a thousand needles in a thousand haystacks.

  “No offense, Miss Sullivan, but how is it that you, a young woman . . . I’m guessing you’re about twenty-one . . . an American . . . was allowed to join some of the finest minds in England?”

  “I’m twenty-three. My mother is English. I was born at Moorhead Manor, my aunt’s home near Sandringham, Norfolk. I have dual citizenship.

  “I met Commander Dennison at one of my aunt’s dinner parties. After listening to her rave about my linguistic talents, he invited me to test for the project. I have two God-given gifts that Commander Dennison thought would be an asset. Namely, a gift for languages, I speak six, and a talent for solving puzzles. I tested and he offered me a position on the team.”

  “How nice for you.”

  “You obviously haven’t worked on Ultra, Commander.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Bristol Arms Apartments

  London, England

  After completing the interview, Grey walked Grace next door and turned her over to Aubrey, but continued to observe her from a distance.

  She strolled through the apartment until she reached the bedroom. An ornate black lacquered jewelry box sat on the dresser. After opening the lid and studying the contents, she closed it softly. “Her jewelry seems to be untouched. Old Foss gave her an expensive necklace of matched pearls that are still here. Most of the other items are costume jewelry.”

  She opened the armoire and glanced at the clothes and shoes arranged in neat order, by color and style. She reached down and picked up a pair of evening shoes with rhinestone clips. A tear rolled down her cheek and she brushed it away with the back of her hand. “She bought these yesterday.” Her voice became whisper soft, “She’ll never have a chance to wear them now.”

  Grace glanced up and saw him watching her, and abruptly turned and headed back to the entrance. “That’s odd,” she said, and stopped at a small table by the door that led into the hallway.

  “What’s odd?” Milford asked.

  “It’s probably nothing.” She glanced down at the carpet below the table. “But Jacky had a wooden coin with a four-leaf clover engraved on it that she kept in a bowl by the door. Her grandfather carved it and gave it to her as a talisman. She rubbed it each time she came in or went out. It was superstition, of course, but she swore by it. Did you collect it as evidence?”

  Milford shook his head. “I didn’t see it, but it’s possible they bagged it for some reason.”

  He walked Grace back to 3B and returned to Grey’s side and rounded on him. “Are you

  barking bloody mad
? You practically called that young woman a tart in her own home.”

  Grey glowered at him. “I have no patience with the hordes of rich young women who have flooded England looking to marry titles. Ever since Wallis Simpson caught the big fish, our shores have been inundated with these obnoxious females. Even the war hasn’t stopped them.”

  “How did you arrive at the conclusion she is title-hunting?” Milford asked, his face flushed. “What I saw and heard was a woman putting her life at some risk for a king and country to whom and to which she owes no allegiance.”

  Grey slipped into his overcoat. “We only have her word for being accepted at Bletchley Park. It is quite possible Dennison brought her on board as an ornament to keep the troops from getting bored. And she isn’t exactly suffering with her boxed goodies from America. Did you see the two oranges in the fruit bowl? There are English children who have never seen an orange, must less eaten one.”

  They stepped into the lift and the operator gave him a sideways glance, obviously having overheard his last remarks. “Miss Grace is very generous with her American food. She gives the charwoman’s two children fruit from time to time, but the poor woman sent them to the country to escape the bombs.” She heaved a deep sigh. “I wouldn’t mind having an orange meself.”

  Milford sent him a smug look and turned his attention to the young woman. He jotted down her name from the badge on her uniform. “Tilly, do you recall taking any strangers up last night? Anyone you hadn’t seen before?”

  “No, sir, just the tenants.”

  “How about regular visitors to 3C? Would you recognize them?” Grey asked.

  “When I take folks up, I don’t always know who they’re going to see. But Miss Jacky had a couple of regular visitors she went out with when she was in town. A proper toff, with his top hat

  and evening clothes, and a nice RAF lieutenant.”

  “Did you take either of them up last night?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you know the name of this toff?” Milford asked.

  “No, sir. They don’t give their names, mostly just ignore me. But he did visit her regular.”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  “Can you give me a description? Age and height?”

  “’A little shorter than you, sir,” she smiled. “Right elegant, he was, but old enough to be her father.”

  Milford jotted down the information and placed the notebook back in his pocket. “Is this the only lift?”

  She shook her head vigorously, making her dark curls bounce. “There’s one in back for deliveries but the tenants don’t use it, and there are stairs in the lobby and in the back.”

  Grey retrieved a card from inside his jacket and gave it to her. “If either gentleman returns, Tilly, please give me a call right away.”

  The lift slowed, gave a little bounce as it reached ground level, then Tilly opened the gate. Milford heaved a great breath and placed his hand on Grey’s shoulder. “Look, my friend, you’re letting your personal disappointments cloud your professional judgement. You have unlimited access to the Park. Check out Miss Sullivan and prove or disprove your assumptions.”

  Milford removed a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one with his Zippo, and took a long draw. His anger seemed to regain traction. “You may think your title gives you the right to be rude to mere mortals. However, if we’re going to work together, bear in mind that I have a

  superior who would frown upon my having taken part in harassing that young woman.”

  Grey didn’t respond right away. He buttoned his coat and put on his hat. The trek to the lobby gave him time to regain his composure, and a twinge of guilt unsettled him. Milford was right. He’d been unreasonably rude without cause. Perhaps because he’d found Grace Sullivan attractive and his defenses were raised.

  He gave himself a shake. He’d never made excuses for his behavior and he wouldn’t start now. “You’re absolutely right, Aubrey. I’ll apologize the next time I see Miss Sullivan, if there is a next time.”

  His contrition seemed to mollify his friend. “Where will you be staying while you’re in London?”

  Grey had given it some thought on the drive in. “My mother’s flat. I’ll be there until we decide what our next moves should be. Have you interviewed the other residents?”

  Milford nodded. “Two constables talked to them. The interview cards will be available later today. Get some sleep and I’ll drop by tomorrow. I’ll send Molly home and drive you to your mum’s flat.”

  A cold veil of misty rain settled over them as they strode to Milford’s motor car. The fog concealed the shells of the bombed-out buildings. He leaned back against the car seat, shoved his hat down over his eyes, and napped until they reached the flat.

  ***

  The lock clicked softly as Grace Sullivan closed the door behind the Commander. He and the Inspector were handsome men, almost exact opposites, one dark and the other fair.

  The Commander was the taller of the two, muscular and trim, probably because of his military training, with blue eyes and sandy blond hair. Although she’d never met or even seen the Commander at Bletchley Park, she’d heard of him. The women there often remarked about the handsome Commander and how he paid them no attention whatsoever.

  His demeanor troubled her. He’d taken an almost instant dislike of her for no apparent reason. Surely he didn’t think she’d been involved in Jacky’s murder.

  The hostility hadn’t been there initially. When he first arrived, she’d caught a brief glimpse of pain in his eyes, soon replaced with a chill in his attitude and a harsh tone, seemingly intent on insulting her.

  Perhaps she was being overly sensitive. He and the inspector must often deal with women in Jacky’s circumstances. The war brought out the worst or the best in people. Some determined to experience every thrill life had to offer because of the future’s uncertainty. While others dug in and made the best of things, offering whatever service they had to win this monumental clash between good and evil.

  Against her father’s wishes, she’d escaped to England, to avoid a painful episode she couldn’t share with him. She’d hoped to be of some help to Great Britain in their struggle.

  Except for the chance meeting with Commander Dennison, she might have become a nurse’s aide. When she landed at Bletchley Park, it felt right. The constant pressure to decode intercepted enemy messages left her nerves raw and bleeding. Failure meant the loss of pilots and seamen. She, and others like her, were saving lives literally by the hour. That’s why she came here. To make a difference in this terrible war.

  Visions of Jacky, the terrible card cheat, laughing when she was caught, her out-of-tune voice belting out the latest hit songs, had been erased forever by the strangled body in her

  bedroom. Grace shivered at the terror her friend must have felt in the last minutes of her life. Vibrant and alive, the stone face of the corpse seemed to belong to someone other than Jacky Vidal.

  Grace pushed the horror away and strolled back into the kitchen. She washed the dirty cups and saucers, then put them away. The long day and shock of Jacky’s death finally caught up to her. The softness of her bed called, but sleep eluded her.

  Finally, limbs weighted by exhaustion, she doused the lights and slipped between the warm flannel sheets. Before sleep claimed her, she decided to call Aunt Edie later in the day. She didn’t want to be alone. Tomorrow she would pay her aunt a visit. Spending the last five days of her leave in London with Jacky gone was out of the question.

  Moorhead Manor

  Outside London

  Henry, Aunt Edie’s chauffeur, arrived later that afternoon in her aunt’s old Rolls Royce. Her father had once laughingly told Grace there was no such thing as an old Rolls. Regardless, the British were finding vehicles of all kinds, parts, and petrol in short supply. Automobile factories were now busy turning out planes and bombs.

  With the shortage of petrol, sending
her driver had been a gracious gesture by her aunt. Grace didn’t drive in England, and navigating the Underground was out of the question. People who’d lost their homes in the air raids had moved into the tubes. Criminals and sanitation problems were rampant there. She wondered if the isolationists back home realized the desperate situation England faced. Surely if they knew, they would back President Roosevelt’s efforts to send the planes and ships Britain so badly needed.

  After stowing her bags in the boot, Henry opened the car door for her. With his arthritis, she

  felt she should be opening doors for him, but he insisted on doing his duty. After she was seated, she slid back the window between them. “How are things at the Manor, Henry?”

  He chuckled. “Your aunt is in a proper dither, complaining about the lack of servants. Wants to turn the Manor into a convalescence home for soldiers and refugees… them that’s well enough to leave the hospital, but too sick to live by themselves. She don’t rightly know where she would find food and the folks to help care for ‘em. There’s only me, Cook, and Betty left.”

  “It’s a wonderful thought, Henry. Knowing my aunt, she’ll find a way.”

  “That she will, Miss.”

  After the two-hour drive from the city, the car swung through the gates at Moorhead Manor, and Grace smiled. The great old mansion was a welcome sight, though a little ragged these days with its unkempt grounds. Winter had turned the grass brown, and the flowers beds hadn’t been prepared for winter. Ivy still covered the stately brick walls, and a few tiles were missing from the roof. Still, the three floors and multiple wings could house a lot of invalids.

  Henry deposited her bags in the foyer as Aunt Edie drew Grace into a breath-squeezing hug.

  “It’s so good to see you. How is it those slave-drivers let you leave the Park? Whatever their reason, I’m glad you’re here.”

  With her light brown hair only slightly frosted with white Aunt Edie was still an attractive woman, although slightly pigeon-breasted. Her bearing was as graceful and elegant as ever. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take your bags up to your room. Henry’s legs won’t let him climb the stairs these days,” she rattled on without taking a breath. “The servant crisis is no better.