Deathwatch: Inspirational WWII Suspense

by V. B. Tenery

  The house is falling apart, too big for Betty to take care of alone. Servants young enough have gone off to war and those too old to fight are working in factories or elsewhere.” She shook her head sadly. “And we’re losing more civilians than soldiers in these horrible air raids.”

  “I can take care of my bags. Let me drop them in my room and I’ll be right down.” Grace quickly stowed her two pieces of luggage and hurried back downstairs.

  “You look pale and distracted, my dear. Are you ill? It’s almost dinner time, or I would have Cook make tea. Bless her, she would do it, but it would be an imposition while she’s preparing dinner, and Lady Amherst is dining with us tonight. Have you met her?”

  “The name isn’t familiar.”

  Her aunt sat on the sofa beside Grace and took her hand. “Your eyes are sad. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

  A soft rain pattered against the windows as Grace told her aunt about Jacky Vidal’s death.

  “Oh, Grace. How horrible for you. Is that why you decided to pay me a visit?”

  “After what happened, I didn’t want to be alone at the apartment. I hope you don’t mind my hasty arrival.”

  “Actually, I think you should move in here with me. Your father would kill me if he knew I let you live in an apartment where a killer is running loose.”

  Grace gave a shaky laugh. “No killer is running loose, Aunt Edie. The authorities have it all well in hand.” At least, she hoped so.

  “For your sake, I hope you’re right. Speaking of your father, I received a letter from your mum.” She withdrew a thick envelope from a basket on the end table and handed it to Grace. “It took more than a month to get here, but I guess I should be glad it arrived at all. Nora sent pictures of your sister’s wedding and a copy of the society page’s coverage of the nuptials. Have you seen them? Beth and Harrison make quite a handsome couple.”

  Sifting through the photographs allowed memories to emerge that Grace didn’t want to revisit. “The apartment manager is probably holding a letter for me. He keeps my mail in his

  office while I’m away. I just haven’t picked up the post since I returned to London. I’m glad the wedding went off well for them.”

  Grace handed the packet to her aunt, who tossed it back into the basket.

  “Weren’t you and Harrison an item a few years ago? Your mother tells me he was quite a catch, one of the most eligible bachelors in Washington. What happened?”

  “That was a long time ago, Aunt Edie. It just didn’t work out.” She didn’t want to give her aunt the details of her broken engagement. The betrayal of Harrison and her sister still stung.

  Her aunt’s dark eyes studied her face for a moment. “I had wanted you to meet Lady Amherst’s son, but that’s probably a bad idea. He’s such a misogynist, although you can’t say he doesn’t have good reason. Too bad he dislikes women so much; he’s really charming, and very handsome.”

  Grace picked up a dress pattern book from the coffee table. Hopefully her aunt hadn’t decided to become her own dressmaker. She failed miserably at needlepoint. “Do you mean he’s …?”

  “No, no. He’s totally masculine. He was involved in quite a scandal a year ago. His fiancée was murdered by a jealous wife. She walked in on her husband in bed with Lord Amherst’s intended. The wife shot and killed them both. Then there was his mother.”

  “Lady Amherst? What about her?” Grace asked.

  Edie lifted a penciled eyebrow and a shadow crossed her face. “You are uninformed, aren’t you? Lady Amherst is one of my oldest and dearest friends, but she’s quite notorious. She was one of Prince Edward’s paramours before he met and married Wallis Simpson. He was the Duke of Windsor when Vic became involved with him.”

  Her aunt gave a slow shake of her head. “It was sad, really. Of course, there is never a good

  reason to commit adultery. Richard Hamilton was one of those men who felt a woman’s place was at home, and she should never make any emotional demands on him. He left Vic alone too much. She was incredibly beautiful and caught the Duke’s eye. He flattered her, made her feel desirable, and the rest, as they say, is history. The Duke was really a thoroughly objectionable man, but charming nevertheless, and his title didn’t hurt his appeal.”

  Growing up in Virginia, Grace understood. She had seen the same thing happen to marriages among her parents’ friends. “Did his father divorce her?”

  “As a rule, nobility doesn’t divorce, pet. He just drank himself to death.

  “Grey’s life has been an uphill battle for the last few years. Before you arrived in England, he sustained an injury to his leg when his ship was torpedoed. A terrible tragedy. So many lives lost.

  “His fiancée apparently became afraid she would be stuck with a cripple, and so looked for greener fields. It took almost a year for his leg to mend, and the Admiralty transferred him to somewhere in Intelligence.”

  Grace stopped turning the pattern book pages and looked up at her aunt. “Commander Grey Hamilton is Lord Amherst?”

  “Yes. Have you met him?”

  Grace nodded. “Last night. He questioned me about Jacky’s murder.” The Commander’s past explained his coldness last evening. No wonder he held women in such low esteem. At least now she knew it wasn’t just her he disliked. It was women in general.

  “Are you still writing, Aunt Edie? I haven’t seen you at your typewriter in a while.”

  “No, love. My heart hasn’t been in it since the war began. I think my muse has moved to a war-free zone.”

  Dinner that evening was a solemn affair. Despite rationing, Cook put together a good, if not elaborate, meal with vegetables from last summer’s victory garden, braised lamb chops, and a nice pudding with custard sauce.

  Lady Victoria Amherst, who Aunt Edie called Vic, ate little and drank a lot. She was still a beautiful woman with a slim figure, dark hair and hazel eyes, her skin soft and unlined. Her movements and gestures were graceful and feminine, her voice soft and musical, though slurred.

  Over coffee, Aunt Edie spoke in a stern voice to Lady Amherst. “You’re drinking too much, Vic. Liquor will not solve your problems. It just creates new ones.”

  “I know, Edie, but sometimes . . . the ache . . . is so sharp I have to dull it with something.” She returned her cup to the saucer with a shaky hand. “I’ve made such a sorry mess of my life. My husband is dead . . . and my son hates me.”

  Grace felt she was eavesdropping on a private conversation between the two women, but thought it would be rude to get up and leave. Lady Amherst didn’t seem concerned about being overheard, almost as though she didn’t realize Grace was in the room.

  “You’re feeling sorry for yourself, old girl.” Aunt Edie focused on her friend with her usual forthright manner. “That’s very selfish of you. You need to get involved in the war effort. Take in some of the children from the city. There’s something for everyone to do.”

  “Amherst doesn’t belong to me, it belongs to Grey, and, as you know, he isn’t speaking to me.”

  “Knowing Grey as I do, he won’t mind. Just ring him and tell him you’re going to do it. He can only say yes or no.”

  The woman’s eyes brightened for the first time that evening. “Do you really think I could do it, Edie? I would like that. Despite my poor relationship with my son, I’ve always been good

  with children.”

  “Yes, I really think you could. Tomorrow we’ll see about making arrangements for your orphanage and my convalescence home.”

  Betty entered the dining room as they were finishing after-dinner tea. “Miss Grace, there’s a gentleman at the door who says he’s here to take you to Bletchley Park.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Lady Amherst’s Apartment

  London, England

  Luftwaffe bombs kept Grey’s mother away from the city. Who could blame her for preferring to remain at Amherst near her friends? That was fine with Grey. He avoided his mother whenever possible. Watching his father drink h
imself to death because of her infidelity had left an ache that still burned after ten years.

  He tossed off the bedcovers, made his way into the bath, and switched on the hot water tap. Frigid liquid flowed over his fingers. No doubt the gasworks had been damaged again by German bombs while he slept. It would take hours for the water to heat. He didn’t have hours to spare.

  The apartment building was one of the few in London that had installed shower baths before the war began. He took the world’s fastest dip under the cold water—like bathing in the North Atlantic among icebergs.

  He plunked a tea kettle on the kitchen gas ring to provide hot water for shaving. Carrying the steaming liquid into the bath, he filled the bowl. Still shivering from his cold shower, he dragged the straight razor down his face with an unsteady hand. Miraculously he didn’t nick himself.

  As he shaved, his thoughts turned irrationally to Grace Sullivan. He didn’t have room for a woman in his life. He was often gone for months, he would have to keep secrets about his missions, and he was often in peril of losing his life. That wasn’t much to offer a woman. He’d planned to retire after he married Cynthia, but that was now out of the question. The obligation to his country had precedence over his personal life.

  As he made the last drag of the cold steel down his chin, the doorbell sounded. He dropped the razor and mug in the bowl, snatched a towel from the rack and wiped the soap from his face. He opened the door himself. The servant shortage had left the flat without staff.

  His tall frame dressed in a brown Mackintosh and heavy wool scarf, his hat pulled low over his brow, Milford stepped past him without waiting to be invited. He stopped in the entryway and gave an appreciative glance around the drawing room, taking in the Regency furniture and Matisse artwork. “Nice. Your mum knows how to live well, doesn’t she? What have you got for a very late breakfast? I’m starved and the food at the pub is horrid. I’m never sure what I’m eating.”

  “I went straight to bed when I came home last evening and haven’t checked the pantry. Help yourself while I dress.” He hurried into the bedroom and threw on layers of clothing to restore his circulation. Dressed, he joined Milford in the kitchen and found him in the midst of making toast and tea.

  Milford grinned over his shoulder. “I found bread, margarine, and marmalade, which will do nicely. I would love to raid Miss Sullivan’s storehouse, but she has flown the coop, so to speak.”

  “Really?” For some reason the thought that he might not see her again made Grey uneasy—a sense of loss. No reason for it, really. She had every right to leave. “Do you know where she went? Back to the Park?”

  Milford shook his head. “No, she left word with the apartment management she was going to her aunt’s to finish out her leave. By the way, what is this leave business all about? Does Bletchley staff take leaves like the military?”

  Still chilled, Grey leaned against the counter and folded his arms. “Not exactly. The cryptanalysts work in six sometimes seven-day shifts around the clock, and ungodly hours. They burn out quickly so Dennison gives them one week’s leave each quarter.”

  “Did you know Miss Sullivan’s aunt is Dame Edith Moorhead, the mystery writer?”

  “Small world. Edie is a good friend of my mother. I’ve known her since I was a tot.” Funny that Grace Sullivan was related to Edie, the only woman he had ever known who was exactly what she seemed to be; honest, loving, and kind. He’d often wished she had been his mother.

  He grabbed cups and plates from the cupboard and placed them on the table while Milford brought the food. “Did you get a name for Old Foss from the manager?”

  Milford chewed his toast and took a sip of tea before he answered. “Unfortunately, no. The rent was paid semi-annually and in cash, delivered by messenger. I have a man checking with the service now.”

  The tea was hot and strong, just the way Grey liked it. Nothing worse than tepid tea. “Did you bring the interview cards with you?”

  “I didn’t think it was necessary. I went through them early this morning. They didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know. You can look at them yourself, if you like. However, I did bring a copy of the log and a list of the evidence we collected.” He passed a file to Grey.

  “I may look at the cards later.” Grey opened the file. “What’s this list of people’s names?”

  “It something I started a few years ago. I make a list of everyone who enters the crime scene. It saves going on a wild goose hunt, looking for a killer who smokes Woodbine fags when one of my constables dropped it at the scene.”

  “That’s a sterling idea, Aubrey. It should be adopted by every inspector at the Yard.”

  “The wheels of progress turn slowly.” Aubrey refilled the tea cup he had just emptied. “Not to mention that new ideas threaten some of my superiors.”

  Grey gave a knowing nod. “What do we have so far?”

  “Two possible suspects; the lieutenant and the toff. Sounds like a cinema title doesn’t it? Either of them could have used the service lift or the back stairs to enter the building without being seen. Motive theories would seem to be a lover’s quarrel or the spy angle. Either she wouldn’t divulge government secrets, or she did and was no longer needed. Let us pray it isn’t the latter.”

  Grey drained the last dregs from his cup and pushed away from the table. The urgency of his mission pressed in on him. “I’m going back to Bletchley Park today to interview Vidal’s associates. Perhaps they can tell us more about our suspects. Would you care to come along?”

  “Absolutely. I’m your shadow, old man, until this affair is settled. Those are my orders. I’ll have to get the chief inspector to sign a chit for the petrol. He’s very stingy, but considering the case’s importance it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Grey stacked the dirty dishes in the sink and grinned at Milford. “You’re rather handy in the kitchen. I hope your fiancée appreciates your talent.”

  He laughed. “Penelope is not at all domestic. I shall have to prepare all our meals or attempt to hire a cook.”

  “When are the nuptials to take place?” Grey asked.

  “In the summer at her parents’ country estate, away from the bombs. The Luftwaffe is not invited.”

  ***

  The drive back to Buckinghamshire in Milford’s smart Riley Kestrel was considerably more comfortable than the drive into London earlier. The biggest improvement being that the heater worked marvelously in the small two-seater. Grey had been too tired last night to pay attention to Milford’s car. “How have you managed to keep this beauty in one piece with all the fallout?”

  “By taking the crowded bus in to the Yard and storing it in their underground garage,” he said. “She is lovely, isn’t she?”

  “None finer that I’ve seen in a long while,” Grey agreed. “How is the crime business these days?”

  Milford retrieved a package of cigarettes from his inside pocket with one hand, tapped one out, and lit it before he answered. “Beastly.” He inhaled and blew out a stream of gray smoke. “Too many bodies to keep track of, with Jerry killing hundreds of civilians in their daily raids. Makes it too bloody easy for killers to conceal their crimes. They hide victims in with the other lot of civilian casualties, and most of the time we are none the wiser. Things have deteriorated so badly, men at the Yard calls themselves ‘the deathwatch’. What about you? Do you enjoy all this cloak and dagger business?”

  “I would rather be fighting this war in a ship at sea, but since that’s no longer possible MI6 is the next best thing. Although, it’s much more frightening being aware of what is happening behind the scenes, knowing the odds against us.”

  “I understand. Lack of knowledge has its comforts. You were injured at Scapa Flow, weren’t you?”

  “October ’39,” Grey said, the memory still all too vivid.

  On October 14, he was scheduled to take command of the HMS Royal Oak and had just come on deck when a U-boat penetrated the port and sank the ship anchored there.
The first torpedo struck the ship’s side and blew him into the water, unconscious. He was rescued by men from a nearby ship. A second torpedo blew a 30-foot hole in the Royal Oak, which flooded the ship and quickly capsized it. Of the 1,400-man crew, 833 were lost. Many nights he awoke tangled in sheets wet with sweat as the nightmare of that night returned.

  “Has your leg mended?”

  “For the most part. It only stiffens up in cold weather. I was one of the fortunate ones.”

  Aubrey gave him a thoughtful glance. “Do you ever consider we might lose this war?”

  “Constantly. Every time I see a report of the loss of our pilots and planes, I know how vulnerable we are. If Hitler had crossed the Channel after Dunkirk we couldn’t have stopped him. We were nowhere near ready to fend off the German horde. That’s when I knew there is a God in Heaven. Hitler didn’t press his advantage, and gave us time to shore up defenses along the coast.”

  Silence fell between them; Milford switched on the radio, searching for a clear signal. Finally, he found the big band music of Artie Shaw’s “Stardust”, which drowned out the patter of drizzle-turned-sleet on the Riley’s roof.

  The scenery outside the motorcar’s window was bleak but untouched by the blitzkrieg. He’d been away on assignment when The Park sustained its only hit. There had been minimal damage. They decided it must have been a Messerschmitt that wandered off-course and the pilot didn’t want to explain to Göring why his payload was intact.

  When the radio began a static crackle, Milford switched it off.

  “What happens when we reach Bletchley Park?” Aubrey asked.

  “First, I’ll introduce you to C. I have to make my report, then we’ll round up all of Vidal’s co-workers and see what they can tell us.”

  Milford shook out another cigarette and lit it. “Something I have always wanted to ask; why is the Director General of Military Intelligence called C?”