by Seb Spence
She was so surprised at the suddenness of his leave-taking that it took her a few seconds to reply. “Yes, that would be nice,” she called after him. He looked round and waved to her when he got to the doorway, and then he disappeared.
Although Grace Harrison had never met a fighter pilot before, she had a preconception of what one would be like, and she had to admit that Frank Barton did not match up to it. He was … well, rather ordinary, in both appearance and manner. You could not have said he was handsome, or even good-looking, but he had a likeable face. The eyes were the most striking feature: they were large and dark, giving him a rather surprised expression. There was also a humorous glint in them, and she had to concede he was amusing. She liked his hair, too: it was thick and black and came down in a sweep across his forehead. She guessed it was a haircut that would not have been tolerated in the army, but clearly, the RAF were not so fussy. On the negative side, there was a slight plumpness to the face, and she had discerned an incipient double chin – yes, the chin was definitely a letdown. But overall, it was an agreeable face, a face one could feel comfortable with rather than one that instantly inspired admiration. On reflection, she realized her preconceived ideas had been foolish. Grace looked down at the mug she was holding; she felt slightly bemused, and also disappointed, not by Barton’s failure to meet her expectations, but by his sudden departure just when they were starting to hit it off.
“You look like Prince Charming at the end of the ball, left clutching the glass slipper.” The voice came from behind her. Grace turned around to find Roy Miller standing in his raincoat and ready to go. He had a knowing look on his face and the implication in the remark made her colour.
“He was just passing through the village on RAF business,” she replied defensively.
“Anyway, I’m off now and just wanted to say thank-you before I go. You did a wonderful job this afternoon.”
“It’s kind of you to say so, but you don’t need to thank me – I enjoyed doing it.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a permanent position as my assistant?”
“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Miller, but no. It was fun to do once, but I don’t want a career on the stage.”
“Well then, I suppose it’s time to say ‘Adios’. I have to go for my train now; the Talbots are giving me a lift. All the best, Miss Harrison, and thanks once again for getting me out of a fix.” With that, he shook hands with her and made to go back through to the kitchen where Mr. and Mrs. Talbot were waiting for him; but then he seemed to have an afterthought and turned back towards her. “Here,” he said, and handed her the small trick matchbox he had been demonstrating earlier on. “A souvenir of the afternoon. Try it out.”
Grace pushed it open from one end and it appeared empty. She tried again from the other end and it opened to reveal a brass button with the RAF crown and eagle crest embossed on it.
“Where did you get this?” she asked, looking up, but Miller had disappeared.
6.
Friday, 30th August, 1940: Stanmore, North London
Barton’s recovery unit was attached to Balloon Command HQ at Stanmore, eight miles north-west from the centre of London. The RAF had requisitioned several houses in Stanmore Village and it was in one of these that Barton was billeted, along with two other officers: Flight Lieutenant Bill “Bronx” Moncur, who worked in the meteorology unit at Balloon Command, and Pilot Officer George Kemp, known simply as GK.
GK was in the air intelligence section of Fighter Command HQ at Bentley Priory, which was also near Stanmore, and tended to be rather secretive about his work there, but from what they could piece together from the titbits he sometimes let slip after a few drinks, he seemed to be involved in interpreting aerial reconnaissance photos.
All three had been at university when the war broke out and had volunteered straightaway for the RAF with the hope of becoming pilots, but for medical reasons none of them had been selected: Barton because of his eyesight, Moncur because of his asthma, and Kemp because … well, there were so many reasons, but agoraphobia and ‘total lack of co-ordination’ figured highly on his official medical assessment.
It was after midnight when Barton arrived back at the billet after capturing the renegade balloon in Pottinger’s Wood. Just as Madge Talbot had warned, it was not a very accessible spot, and they had had a hard time getting the recovery truck to the place. As he took off his raincoat in the hallway, he noticed in the mirror of the hallstand that the top button on his tunic was missing. “Damn!” he muttered. “Something else that needs to be fixed.” He saw there was a light on in the living room and went in to find that Bronx Moncur was still up: seated in an armchair, the tall, lean Scotsman was smoking a pipe and reading a copy of Life magazine.
Looking up, Moncur greeted him: “Home is the hunter, home from the hill! So, did you manage to capture it?” His receding hairline elongated his face, and this together with his narrow eyes gave him a somewhat elf-like appearance in Barton’s view.
“Of course. A Mountie always gets his balloon.”
“Excellent! A grateful nation offers its thanks; we can all sleep soundly tonight. No doubt a congratulatory telegram from Mr Churchill will be arriving in the morning.”
“And deservedly so,” Barton responded, slumping down in an armchair opposite Moncur. “We had a devil of a job with this one. The thing came down in a wood on a hill in some inaccessible part of Kent. It took hours getting the recovery truck across country to the place, and even then we could only get it within quarter of a mile of where the balloon was.”
“Have some supper,” Bronx said, jerking his thumb towards a loaf of bread and an opened tin of corned beef on the dining table. “I’m afraid there isn’t any marge, but you can have one of these to wash it down.” He pulled a bottle of pale ale from a beer crate at the far side of his armchair and tossed it to Barton.
Barton looked across at the table while he opened the bottle. “Another fine dining experience at Chez Moncur. I think I’ll give it a miss, actually.”
It had been a long day for Barton, but, though tired, he was feeling satisfied. He stretched out in the chair and took a mouthful of pale ale from his bottle. “My day wasn’t entirely wasted: I met a rather nice girl down in Kent. I think she could be the one.”
Bronx put down his pipe. “A full and detailed report, please, Pilot Officer”
“Dark hair, grey eyes, very attractive. Intelligent, cultured, sense of humour. Pleasant personality and mellifluous voice. Seems to adore me.”
“So near and yet so far!” Bronx responded, shaking his head. “Your claim was believable until the ‘seems to adore me’ bit. There have been a few unconfirmed reports that women with the qualities you describe really do exist – like the yeti – but to say that one of them would be attracted to you is like saying you saw a yeti wearing a bowler hat and carrying an umbrella. No, no, my friend, this story cannot be true.”
Barton paused before replying. “Unfortunately, there was a slight misunderstanding – she thinks I’m a fighter pilot,” he said, squirming slightly.
“You told her you were a fighter pilot? That’s rather despicable – still, I suppose the only way someone like you is ever going to impress a girl like that is by lying outrageously.”
“I didn’t actually lie, at least not to start off with. There was a misinterpretation of something I said, and I failed to correct it.”
“And so the legend of Frank Barton, fighter ace, was born. Joking aside, Barton, if you really like this girl you’re going to have to tell her the truth, and the sooner the better. You won’t be able to keep up the pretence very long, and a lie like that is bound to be found out. For a start, your dear friends are likely to drop you in it just for fun.”
“While we’re giving each other advice, did anyone ever tell you that smoking is bad for asthma?”
“Pointing out my sins won’t absolve yours – you need to set the record straight with this girl if you want to stand a chance
with her.”
“I suppose you’re right. I’ll tell her next time we meet up. I’ve got a few days leave due, and I’m planning to get a day off soon to see her.” Barton paused and then went on, “Talking about dear friends, where’s GK? Has he turned in for the night?”
Bronx frowned. “GK’s not back yet.”
“Not back! Has he phoned?”
“No, but his CO did this morning. He wanted to know where the hell GK was. He’s heard nothing from him either and has put in a report to the RAF police.”
“The scuffers? Why involve them?”
“His CO says there are just two possibilities: either GK has gone AWOL, or something’s happened to him. In either case, the scuffers need to investigate. All his CO would divulge was that GK went up to the Midlands on RAF business.”
A worried look clouded Barton’s face. “We know he hasn’t done a bunk, so something must have cropped up. Let’s review. GK left here early morning three days ago. I wasn’t here when he went off. What happened?”
“He left in a rather excited state, actually,” Bronx replied. “He took a phone call just as we were having breakfast, then ran into the hall, grabbed his coat and rushed out without even finishing his bacon sandwich.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“I told you the other day: just that he would be heading up North and would be back in a day or two.”
“Anything else?”
“As he was going out the front door he shouted something like ‘The game’s afoot!’ I assumed he was referring to something that was starting up at Bentley Priory.”
“‘The game’s afoot!’ Isn’t that what Holmes used to say when he set off on the trail of his quarry?”
“You’re not suggesting GK is moonlighting as a private detective?”
Barton ignored the question. His face took on a far-away look and he seemed lost in thought for a while. Eventually his gaze focussed on Moncur again. “I don’t like this, I don’t like this at all, Bronx. What do you know about the information leak GK has been investigating?”
“Very little. You know how secretive he is, except when he’s had a few. He mentioned weeks ago that some very sensitive air reconnaissance material had found its way to the Germans recently. He was convinced the source was at Bentley Priory and that he had a good idea who was responsible. That’s all he told me. Is there anything more?”
“A few days before he went off, GK and I were at a mess party at Bentley Priory. You missed it because you were on duty that night.”
“That’s right – it was quite a lively affair if you can believe the rumours.”
“GK had been drinking boilermakers all evening and was fairly well oiled by the end of the party. On the way back to the billet he blurted out a fair bit of stuff he probably shouldn’t have. He told me not to repeat it, so I’ve said nothing about it since then. As it’s possible GK has now got himself into a real mess, I think I should probably fill you in on what’s been going on. If we can figure out where he went, maybe we can help him.”
“What do you mean ‘help him’? What kind of fix is he in? Is he in danger?” Bronx was also looking worried now.
“I think he might well be in danger, and I don’t just mean from air-raids. After the mess party, GK told me that a month ago his section at air intelligence had processed some aerial reconnaissance photographs of an installation the Germans are building at some place on the French coast – possibly part of some kind of direction-finding system. Two weeks later, there was a big stink in GK’s section because apparently a description of these photographs had appeared in a message transmitted by a German agent, codenamed ‘Cobalt’, operating in the UK. The transmission had been monitored and decrypted by MI5, who immediately sent a couple of their goons down to interrogate the whole section and find out who had leaked the information. GK said they were given a really tough time by one of these men – a fellow called Minton, Colonel Minton I think. Minton concluded that the information had not been revealed deliberately by anyone at Bentley Priory and made some recommendations for tightening security there. GK told me he had an idea how the information had leaked out but wasn’t ready to tell Minton yet.”
“Why ever not? If he had suspicions, he should have made them known to Minton at the time.”
“The fact is, GK isn’t very happy with his lot in air intelligence – he says he spends most of his time poring over photographs with a magnifying glass. He’s been looking for something a bit more exciting and wants to join the Air Section of the SIS. He thought that if he could solve this case it might help his chances of getting a transfer to them.”
“I don’t see what all this has to do with GK’s absence.”
“He told me that if his hunch was right it might lead him to this agent Cobalt. Supposing he did track Cobalt down, you know what GK’s like: he doesn’t go in much for careful planning, he’s just going to dive in and try to make the bag himself.”
“You’re right: GK tends to rush in where even fools fear to tread.”
“There’ll be a confrontation and GK could get hurt – or worse.”
“So what do we do?”
“We need to start by finding out exactly where he went. I’ll contact his CO first thing tomorrow.”
Chapter 2.
1.
Monday, 2nd September, 1940: Bermondsey, London
At breakfast with her aunt, Lucy Walker managed, with some difficulty, to conceal her excitement and behave as if it were any other Monday morning. As she chewed her way through the rubbery omelette her aunt had prepared for her from powdered egg, Lucy thought about the audition. By now, she knew the address on John Elliott’s business card by heart, and as she recited it in her mind, she tried to picture the premises: ‘Lyonesse Films, Brown’s Buildings, Riga Street, Bermondsey’.
Lucy set off from her home at the usual time, but today she did not go to Pickering’s Bookshop. Instead, she caught a number 47 bus to Bermondsey. It was a route she knew, since it was the one she and her aunt took on the infrequent occasions when they went shopping in town. This morning, however, the journey was taking longer than normal, for the bus had to make two diversions: one to get around a collapsed building and the other to avoid an unexploded bomb.
As they began the first detour, the conductor announced proudly to the passengers on the lower deck, where Lucy was sitting, that he had seen it all happen the day before. He described how, as his bus was travelling along Evelyn Street the previous afternoon, he had seen a lone Jerry – a Messerschmitt 110 he thought – swing round over Deptford. He could see clearly that it was damaged as there was smoke streaming from its port engine, and he guessed it was turning about to head for home. As it arced round high above, it jettisoned the two bombs it was carrying below its fuselage: one exploded in a four-storey building, causing it to collapse into the street; the other landed in a front garden several blocks away but failed to go off.
Eventually the bus reached Bermondsey, where Lucy got off at Southwark Park. As she walked along the side of it, she looked through the railings and noticed that in the distance a battery of four mobile anti-aircraft guns had been set-up in one of the grassy areas. For stability, their front wheels had been swung upwards to allow the guns to rest on their bases, and this made them look somehow odd to Lucy. She studied them as she went along, trying to figure out why their wheels appeared to be floating in the air.
As a result of staring at the guns, she almost collided with a workman in dungarees and cap who was walking in the opposite direction. He was a small, wiry man – probably in his fifties, she guessed – and was carrying a shovel over his shoulder.
“What a bleedin’ racket they make when they’re firing”, he said, nodding towards the guns. “Worse than the bombs it is. And the shrapnel from the shells! Rains down like iron confetti, tinkling on all the roofs.”
Lucy deduced he was a local. “Could you tell me where Riga Street is?”
The man gave her the directions
, adding that it wasn’t far. She thanked him, then, following his instructions, crossed the road and set off towards the Thames. Before long, she found herself walking in an area that seemed to consist entirely of warehouses, bonds, depositories and storage depots. There were very few people around, and she noticed there was a strange smell in the air, like smoked fish. It was a dismal place, and she began to feel her initial enthusiasm ebbing away.
Ten minutes after her encounter with the workman, she was standing in front of a long, two-storey, dirty brick building with a sign in flaking paint over the entrance announcing ‘Brown’s Warehouse’. It was not how she had imagined it. She looked about for confirmation that she had found the right place, expecting to see some indication on or near the door that this was the location of Lyonesse Films, but there was nothing. She began to wonder if this was such a good idea, and, as she vacillated, she looked up and down the deserted street. It occurred to her that there would be no one to hear her cries if she were attacked or abducted. Checking her watch, she noted it was three minutes past ten. She was late, but still hesitated to go in.
Suddenly the door opened and a thin, middle-aged woman in a grey suit and glasses looked out. The woman pressed her lips into a smile. “You must be Miss Walker. Please come in.”
Lucy forced a smile in return and entered.
“I’m Joan Wilks,” the woman continued, “Mr Elliott’s assistant. He’s in a meeting at the moment but should be finished soon. I’ll take you to his office and you can wait for him there. Did you manage to find us alright?”
“Yes, no problem really. My bus was diverted because of a bombing incident, which is why I’m a bit late.”
“Not to worry. There’s a war on, and these things happen in wartime.”
