by V. B. Tenery
It was a question Grey had been asked many times. The MI6 chief’s name was Sir Stewart Menzies. Grey knew that, but not because anyone in MI6 had told him. He’d met the man socially while he was in the Royal Navy. Menzies was aware Grey knew his identity, but he also knew his agent would never reveal it to anyone.
Grey continued. “His name is classified, and he is referred to as C for obvious security reasons. As you might imagine, he would be a prime target for assassination. The initial has nothing to do with his real name.”
“Really? How strange.”
“Not when you know the history. The first head of MI6 was Sir George Mansfield Smith-Cumming, who was known simply as C. His initial has been used for every succeeding DG since.”
They arrived at the Mansion and after being cleared at the security gates, Milford pulled the Riley to the curb near the entrance. He shifted in the seat to look into Grey’s eyes. “Is finding this killer as important as everyone seems to think?”
“It couldn’t be more critical. If Miss Vidal gave information to her killer, and Germany learns we have captured the Enigma and Lorenz cyphers, they will change everything and the information will be worthless.” Grey let his gaze rest on the old mansion then glanced back at his friend. “England has three things going for it, my friend; Our radar, which is the best in the world. It tells us when the enemy is in range. Our cypher data tells us where the Nazis are headed, and finally the courage of our military and our people. If we lose any one of the three, Hitler may very well win this war.”
Bletchley Park Mansion
Buckinghamshire, England
Inside the impressive mansion’s marble floors and mahogany walls, Grey led Milford to the top floor and introduced him to his superior, then let C’s assistant show Milford around while the Director General and Grey had a private chat.
The DG was in his early fifties, always impeccably dressed, shirt immaculate, tie straight, and shoes shined to a bright sheen; a hold-over from his military career. His silver hair was worn short with a receding hairline and white mustache. He was slight of build, four inches shorter than Grey, with intelligent blue eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses. The DG was one of the few people Grey trusted implicitly.
Grey passed C his report. “This is all we know at present, sir. Milford and I plan to interview Vidal’s team members and see if we can get a lead on the two suspects. Did you find our RAF lieutenant?”
“In a manner of speaking.” C took a deep draw on his long-stemmed pipe. “There is no Lieutenant Geoffrey Whitman in the RAF.”
The revelation came as a surprise to Grey. “That’s not good news. So, it would appear we have a spy posing as an officer in His Majesty’s Royal Air Force.”
“That would be my guess,” C said. “It could also be some chap decked out in uniform trying to impress the ladies, but I’m leaning toward the former.”
“This makes our job somewhat more difficult. We now have two unidentified suspects. Miss Sullivan gave us a good description of Old Foss, but we’ll need to ask her and the lift operator for a profile on the lieutenant.”
“Speaking of Miss Sullivan, I’ve asked Dennison to assign her to you, along with Inspector Milford to assist in the investigation. He cancelled her leave. She arrives this afternoon.”
Disconcerted and more than a little put-out, Grey almost rose from his chair. “Why on earth for? She’s a cryptanalyst, not an investigator.”
“Three reasons, actually,” the DG said. “She scored higher than anyone ever tested in solving puzzles. Her IQ is 210, which places her solidly at the top of the genius class. Dennison was astonished. She also knew the victim very well and may recall something important. Also, and most importantly, I received a call from Nigel Lewis in London just before you arrived. Tilly Crocker, the lift operator in the apartment building, was found strangled this morning. Our Miss Sullivan will be safer in your charge.”
The friendly face of the elevator operator flashed into Grey’s mind. There was too much death in this bloody war. Tilly’s was unnecessary, and therefore more tragic. “Wouldn’t Miss Sullivan be more secure here, sir? The place is well guarded. Only those with top security clearance get through the gate.”
“You’re assuming a killer or spy hasn’t somehow infiltrated Bletchley Park. That is of great concern to me since Miss Vidal’s death.”
The DG was right, of course. Grace Sullivan and Tilly were the only two people who could identify Jacky Vidal’s two suitors. But he was still steamed. She would be much better off here than having him and Milford nanny her around London. Besides, solving a crime was not exactly the same as excelling at crossword puzzles.
The assistant had timed Milford’s tour to end just as Grey exited the DG’s office. Grey shook C’s hand, then stomped towards the stairwell.
Milford caught up with him at the landing. “What’s wrong, old man? Steam is practically seeping from your ears.”
Grey stopped, turned away, then back to Milford. “The DG just added a new colleague to our investigation team.”
“I always say the more the merrier. Three heads are better than two, and so forth. Who is our new member?”
“Miss Sullivan. Let’s find some coffee. I have more bad news for you.”
Later, they rounded up the few people who worked closely with Vidal. One important lead came out of the meetings. A young lady thought Old Foss worked in the government, but she didn’t know where.
At least it was a place to begin.
***
Commander Dennison sent the car to Moorhead Manor to bring Grace back to the Park. The driver had been vague and Grace wondered if something big was in the wind. Leaves were cherished and seldom, if ever, cancelled.
She welcomed the opportunity to get back to work. The distraction was sorely needed. At the Mansion one never had time for personal problems.
Jacky’s death still haunted her. The realization that she was gone forever was like an open wound. The last sight of her friend’s body had replaced all the good memories—her laughter and love of life, her gift for comedy, and sly wit that made her popular with everyone.
A frigid wind cut through her thick wool coat when she walked up the steps to the mansion. She checked in, then went directly to Hut 3 to tell Turing she had been reassigned. The demand for more and more cryptanalysts had forced the War Office to build a number of huts separate from the mansion to house the various projects.
Turing wasn’t happy, but managed to take the news with grace. After leaving his office, she had twenty minutes to spare before reporting to Commander Dennison. She used the time to clear away her desk, and let her roommate at the Park know she was leaving indefinitely.
Dennison met her outside his office with two cups of tea in hand. “Ah, Grace, it’s good to see you. We haven’t had a chat for some time. How is that lovely aunt of yours?” He stood beside the open door for her to enter first.
The Commander was in his sixties, with close-cropped grey hair and beard. She was surprised to see he didn’t look well, although she’d heard he was scheduled for surgery soon. “She’s fine, sir, and thank you for asking.”
He handed her one of the mugs and sat behind his desk. “I’ll make this short, Grace. You will report to Commander Grey Hamilton upstairs at MI6 when you leave here. He’ll explain your new duties.”
“Commander Hamilton? Are you sure, sir?” She would bet a month’s salary her new job had not been Commander Hamilton’s idea.
“Quite sure,” he said. “The assignment came from his superior, as I understand it.”
They spent a few minutes in small talk while she finished her tea then she rose to take her leave, suppressing a grin. Grey Hamilton would not be pleased at this turn of events. And she wasn’t exactly happy about the assignment.
Dennison set his empty cup on a trolley near his desk. “The Commander and Inspector Milford are waiting in his office. Afterwards, I expect you will return to London with them.”
“Do you
have any idea what my assignment will be, sir?”
“None at all, I’m afraid. But I’m sure he will fill you in shortly.”
As she made her way down the corridor, the change in her duties niggled at the back of her mind. She assumed she was to be involved in the investigation of Jacky’s murder, but she had no idea why. She wasn’t a detective and had no desire to become one. Not to mention working with the irascible Commander would be no walk in the park.
After asking directions from one of the guards, she found herself before a finely carved oak door and was reminded this had once been a stately home.
She gave a sharp rap on the lintel and a voice she recognized invited her in. “You wanted to see me, Commander?”
“Yes, Miss Sullivan. Please have a seat. I’m glad you came so promptly.” The grim set of his jaw said otherwise.
She took the chair next to Inspector Milford who gave her a friendly smile, and then she addressed the Commander. “I was told to report to you, sir, for my new assignment.”
“Right, I think we can use your skills for research while the Vidal investigation is ongoing. You can work from your apartment in London. It should be a nice holiday for you, considering the stress and hours you work here.”
Heat rushed through her as his plan became clear. He intended to stick her in the apartment and go about his business. And that simply wasn’t going to happen.
She rose from the chair, planted both hands on his desk and leaned as close to him as she could get, her face hot with anger. “Whether you realize it or not, Commander, the work I do here is one of the most important jobs in this horrible war. We’ve broken the Luftwaffe’s code and the information we pass on to Military Intelligence helps keep those boys out there,” she waved her arm toward the window, “And I do mean boys, alive. They fight battles every day in second-hand planes against an enemy with the finest aircrafts in the world. They need every edge we can give them. Even under these condition, the RAF is winning, downing five planes to their one. We play a small part in that victory.”
The back of her eyes burned with angry tears, but she forged on. “We’re working around the clock on the German naval codes. You have heard of a little battleship called the Bismarck, haven’t you? She and her sister are trying to break out into the North Atlantic, and God help our navy if she succeeds.
“I will not be set aside for your busy work. You can get a WPC to do your bloody research and I will return to my job where I’m truly needed. Are we clear on that, Commander?”
“As my mother’s Waterford,” he said. His face darkened as he shoved his chair back and stood, towering over her. “I’m well aware of the job done here and the casualties out there. I see the numbers every day. My country is tottering on the brink of disaster while you Americans twiddle your thumbs trying to decide whether or not to stand up to Hitler. Are all American women as . . .? Forgive me, I’m looking for the right word.”
“Blunt, direct, frank, honest? The answer is yes, when it’s called for.” She turned to leave and stopped at the door. “I’ll meet you for breakfast downstairs at 7:30 tomorrow morning. You can let me know then if I’m to be an active member of this investigation or not.”
“Make that 6:30, Miss Sullivan. I’m an early riser.”
***
Grey listened to the angry click of her heels as they faded down the hallway. He glanced over at Milford, who gave a solemn shrug.
“She’s right, old man,” he said after a long draw from the ever-present cigarette. “There are more important demands for her time and talents than doing your research, or sitting on her duff waiting for instructions that you have no intention of giving her.”
Grey stared silently at his friend for a moment then ran his hands down his face. “Of course, she is.” He sank heavily back into his chair and gazed out the window at the dark sky threatening more snow and sleet. “And in the process she made me feel like a selfish, arrogant ass.”
“That about sums it up,” Milford said. He pulled down his overcoat and Trillby from the coat rack. “As my car is only a two-seater, I’m returning to London. I need the details on poor Tilly’s death.” He shrugged into his coat and stuck the hat securely on his head. “A sad business that. She was a nice girl.” He wagged his head slowly. “Sometimes I hate this job.”
He got halfway to the door and turned back. “By the way, why didn’t you tell Miss Sullivan about Tilly?”
“It didn’t seem the proper time while she was dressing me down. I’ll tell her tomorrow on the train back to London. Her sudden visit to her aunt may have saved her life. Can you have someone pick us up at Kings Cross?”
“Of course. I’ll have one of the WPCs give you a lift. Where shall we meet?”
“At my mother’s flat. If the Vidal apartment is ready for lease, I’ll move in next to Miss Sullivan . . . at least until we find our killer.”
CHAPTER 4
Bletchley Park Mansion
Buckinghamshire, England
Grey entered the dining area at 6:28 the next morning and found Miss Sullivan already seated at a table, tea cup in hand. He ignored how lovely she looked despite the early hour. Apparently, she hadn’t lost any sleep over his rudeness last evening. “I’m glad to see you’re punctual. That will make my job easier.” He called the ancient waiter over and placed his order.
She grinned behind her cup. “I aim to please, Commander.”
“Is that sarcasm, Miss Sullivan, so early in the morning? And here I came to apologize for yesterday.”
“There’s no need . . .”
He held up his hand. “Let me get through this. I practiced all morning while shaving. And apologies do not come easily to me.”
“Then by all means, proceed.”
“Before I begin, have you eaten?” he asked.
“I’ve ordered toast and jam to go with my tea.”
“That’s not breakfast; it’s mid-morning tea. You look like a strong wind would blow you away. Now where was I? Oh yes . . . my apology.”
The waiter tottered over and placed toast with jam in front of Grace, then a steaming plate of fried Spam, powdered eggs, and toast before him. He raised his fork. “You know, Spam is a much maligned delicacy. Most people turn up their noses having never tried it. It’s quite good. You should give it a go.” He speared a forkful and offered it to her. “It would put some meat on your bones.”
She shook her head. “No, thank you. My bones are quite happy as they are. Is that your apology?” Her mouth spread into a wide grin that brightened her face. “Are you actually comparing yourself to Spam? Is that your subtle way of saying I should get to know you before I decide to dislike you?”
“That was merely an aside before I get down to serious business, but it isn’t a bad analogy.” He placed the fork on the table, wiped his mouth with the napkin then sat back in his chair, studying her face. “You were right yesterday. I was putting my personal preference before the good of this investigation and my own country. If you come aboard, you will be a wholly contributing member of the team, and I will show you no mercy. You and Milford will be at my beck and call whenever needed. Understood?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She gazed down at his plate as he finished off his breakfast. “For a lord, you have bourgeois taste buds.”
“Lords are merely men, Miss Sullivan, although spoiled more than most, granted a title at the whim of the king. Not of the blood royal, so to speak. Besides, rationing has forced me to retrain my palate. Are you packed?”
“I never unpacked.”
“You and I are going to get along famously, Miss Sullivan.”
“About that ‘Miss Sullivan’ business, do you think that since we will be working together we might be less formal?”
“Absolutely. I shall call you Grace and the Inspector, Aubrey. You can call me Commander.”
She looked for signs that he was kidding and saw a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth that vanished so qui
ckly she wondered if she’d been mistaken. “I don’t have to genuflect or anything, do I?”
“No, nor is a salute required. A simple ‘Commander’ or ‘Sir’ will suffice. I’ll see you at the entrance in ten minutes. I have to secure a ride for us to the station.”
Buckinghamshire Station
Buckinghamshire, England
The car stopped at the curb under swollen pewter clouds portending more bad weather. Grey exited to the station entrance with Grace at his side.
“Would you have a porter take care of my bags, Commander? I want to step into the shop next door for a moment.”
“This is hardly the time to go shopping, Miss . . . Grace,” he said. This was one of the reasons he was reluctant to add a female to his team.
“I’ll only be a moment. I promise.”
He helped the porter load their bags onto a trolley and went inside to purchase their tickets. A mass of locals and servicemen crowded the platform and he didn’t see her until, a little breathless, she touched his arm. He hadn’t realized how small she was until she stood in front of him, barely five-feet-five and weighing less than seven stones.
“See, that didn’t take long.” She trotted beside him, attempting to keep up with his long strides as they made their way onto the train and found their seats.
He took their coats and placed them on the bench between them. “What was so important it couldn’t wait until we reached London?”
She pulled out a sketch pad and charcoal pencils from the sack. “This. I’m a fair sketch artist. I thought a drawing of the lieutenant and Old Foss would help.”
“Is there no end to your accomplishments?”
“Is that sarcasm, Commander, so early in the day?”
He chuckled. “No, actually it’s a great idea. A good likeness of those two could be passed to Scotland Yard inspectors and constables on the streets.”
“Have you located the lieutenant?”
Grey cleared his throat. “There’s something I haven’t told you . . .” As the clack of the train’s wheels sounded in their ears, he told her about Tilly and the imposter lieutenant.
