by Seb Spence
In the middle of the wall facing the bar was a small fireplace with a coal fire burning feebly in its grate. Having finished surveying the patrons, Barton stared across at the guttering flames and started to ruminate on this latest phase of his life. He was beginning to find intelligence work rather tedious. He had been assisting Minton for four months now and felt they had made little progress in finding the gang who they believed had murdered GK.
A few days after the conversation with Minton over a bottle of scotch, Barton’s CO at Balloon Command had called him in to say that he had received a letter from the Air Ministry announcing that Barton was to be appointed as an advisor to a classified project currently being mounted by the Department of Miscellaneous Weapons Development. The letter stated that the post would require him to be called away from his present duties from time-to-time, probably at very short notice and possibly for extended periods. It advised that he should be exempt from any activities that might interfere with his availability. Grudgingly, his CO had relieved him of his balloon recovery duties.
The first call from the ‘Air Ministry’ came a few days later when Minton summoned him to an address off Baker Street, telling him to bring a suitcase with his civilian suit and enough clothing for a week. Minton was alone at the address, which turned out to be a flat MI5 used as a ‘safe house’. After changing into his civvies, Barton was briefed about his assignment: he was to go to Hednesford and see if he could pick up Cobalt’s trail. Minton went over the information MI5 had accumulated on Cobalt, which was not very enlightening as it just consisted of dates, times and approximate locations of her transmissions, together with the contents of the radio traffic that had passed between her and her controllers. At the end of the briefing, he had given Barton money to cover his expenses, a list with details of Cobalt’s transmissions, and a Browning 9mm automatic – for use in emergencies only.
Barton had set off for Hednesford immediately after the meeting and arrived there at the end of a gruelling eight-hour journey that involved changing trains at Birmingham. The express service he had taken from London had been held up several times due to ‘enemy action on the line’; it was also packed, and he had had to stand all the way to Birmingham. On reaching Hednesford, he had straightaway set about making enquiries at theatres in the area, asking if any young women answering Cobalt’s description had been working there the week that GK had gone missing. He was initially excited to get a number of leads – it seemed that actresses answering Cobalt’s description were fairly common. But it had been a long, slow process following them all up since it involved tracking the women down, and by then they had moved on to other parts of the country.
His enforced idleness on the journey north to Birmingham had given him time to concoct what he believed was a convincing cover story: he told the women he was from the Ministry of Health and was trying to trace performers who might have come into contact with a stagehand who had died of TB. He expected that when they heard this they would be anxious to know whether they might have been exposed to the disease and would be eager to cooperate and answer his queries about their movements. Using Minton’s list of the dates, times and approximate locations for all of Cobalt’s transmissions, Barton had been able to eliminate each woman in turn from his enquiries by comparing her locations with the details on the list. After cross-checking their stories with other performers, theatre managers or theatrical agents he was eventually able to establish that in each case the women either had an alibi for one or more of the transmission times, or could prove they were not in the transmitter area at the time of a transmission. It took him ten days in all to complete his investigation, and he was exhausted at the end of it. He was also disappointed that none of the leads had panned out, which meant he was no further on and had nothing to report to Minton on his return.
A few weeks later, he had gone back up to Hednesford at Minton’s request, this time to make enquiries at theatrical boarding houses in the area, but the result was the same: he found several potential candidates who he tracked down, but none of their itineraries in August and September matched the pattern of Cobalt’s transmissions.
It occurred to Barton that perhaps they were not casting the net wide enough: he remembered that GK in his phone message had not said specifically that Cobalt was an actress, only that she was probably ‘on the stage’. Barton had been focussing so far on theatres showing plays, but conceivably she was in a variety act – a singer or a dancer perhaps. Barton was keen to return to Hednesford and widen the search to include any stage performer answering Cobalt’s description.
Minton was sceptical when Barton put the idea to him: he pointed out that Lucy Walker’s fake passport had given her occupation as ‘actress’. However, in view of the lack of progress and Barton’s enthusiasm for the task, he agreed. Barton asked him for pictures of Lucy Walker – some full length and some headshots; he felt these might be useful in jogging people’s memories, rather than giving them just a verbal description. But it was all in vain: after two weeks and many false trails he had made no headway.
One thing that he had discovered, though, was the phone box from which GK had made his last call. Barton had contacted Supervisor Morrison at the Birmingham exchange to get its location and had sought it out. Situated in a narrow, secluded side street off the main road that went through the middle of the town, it was nowhere near a theatre, music hall or theatrical boarding house, so how GK came to be there remained a mystery. However, he noticed that on the floor of the kiosk were a few dark stains, which looked to him like dried blood. He guessed GK had been attacked there, or it might even have been where he was killed.
On returning from his third visit to Hednesford, Barton had decided to try a different approach. He felt that GK must have been put on Cobalt’s trail by something that happened at Bentley Priory, probably something to do with the leaked aerial reconnaissance photographs GK was investigating. Right at the outset of his intelligence activities, Barton had, of course, told Bronx that he was working with MI5 – he was sure Minton would not have approved, but Barton knew Bronx was one hundred percent trustworthy. Through Bronx, he now began to make very discrete enquiries at Bentley Priory. One thing he had tried to find out was whether anyone had had contact with a female stage performer around the time of the leak, perhaps at a party or a ‘do’. But this avenue of enquiry also lead to a dead end.
It seemed to Barton that the investigation was stalled. He was out of ideas, and Minton was snowed under with work in his new job and unable to offer much help. Barton was anxious to solve the case as soon as possible, not only for GK’s sake but also to allow Lucy Walker to be released from her unmerited imprisonment in Holloway. The impasse they had reached was frustrating, and Barton was starting to feel despondent. Now, every time he passed a theatre or music hall he would examine the pictures of the performers on display outside, looking for someone who looked like Lucy Walker. He would then go round to the stage door and show the doorman her photos, asking if anyone like her had played at the venue. It was the strategy of desperation.
Barton got to the end of this train of thought and noticed his pint glass on the table was empty. His headache had improved, but he was now feeling depressed. He got up and went out into the gloom of the blackout. A chill wind was blowing and the pavements were covered with slush, but at least there was moonlight, so he could find his way around without having to use the torch he always carried with him these days in case he was out after dark. In a few days time there would be a full moon – a ‘bomber’s moon’ as they called it now. He set off once more in the direction of the Underground.
Because of petrol rationing and the hazards of driving in the blackout, there were few cars on the road. Nor were there many pedestrians about: most people were at home or in the shelters, waiting for the next raid to start. There was something striking and unreal about the deserted streets in the moonlight. As he walked along, Barton felt it was like being in a dream sequence in a movie. The buildings remi
nded him of photographic negatives: what should be light was dark, and dark, light. Windows from which you would expect light to shine were black, but the blackened brickwork of buildings was pale in the moonlight. An air-raid siren went off somewhere in the distance.
He had been walking for fifteen minutes when he became aware that the street he had just entered was slightly busier than the others he had passed down. People seemed to be heading for a building with an ornate façade further down the street. Above its entrance, a canopy extended out over the pavement, and as he approached the building he realised it was a vaudeville theatre. Letters several feet high mounted on a frame that stood proud of the frontage were clearly visible in the moonlight: they announced ‘Wilson’s Palace of Varieties’.
He stopped when he reached it and listlessly examined the photographs and posters on display outside but saw no-one resembling Lucy. A name near the bottom of the bill, however, caught his eye: ‘Professor Prospero and Miranda – amazing illusions’. It seemed familiar, but he could not recall where he had come across it. A sign along the edge of the canopy gave the performance times: ‘Twice daily, 4.30 and 6.30pm.’ He looked at his watch. It was nearly half six; the next performance was just about to start. On impulse, he went in. After all, he thought, there was nothing better on offer that evening, and it might take his mind off his problems.
The show was not well attended: Barton estimated that at least half the seats must have been empty. This was the first time he had been to a theatre since the Blitz had started in earnest back in September, and he guessed the poor turn out was because people were reluctant to risk coming out at night for fear of the air raids. However, after seeing the first turn, he wondered if it might just be because the show was dire. The warm up act consisted of two rather plump girls giving an inexpert performance of highland dancing. Shortly after they commenced their routine, he was about to start laughing when it suddenly dawned on him that they were not a comedy act. They were followed by a comedian: a female impersonator who was better looking than the girls in the previous act but not nearly as funny.
There was not long to wait before ‘Professor Prospero’ appeared: he was on third. Barton recognised the tall, ectomorphic figure in dinner jacket and black bow tie as the man he had seen doing tricks in the village hall in Bramlington. He was accompanied by a female assistant, and there seemed something familiar about her too. Dressed in a rather skimpy turquoise, sequined top and a headdress with turquoise feathers, she was showing a lot of leg and a fair bit of cleavage, and was an instant hit with the audience, judging by the whistles from various parts of the auditorium. Her hair was swept back under the headdress, which framed the top half of her face – a very pretty, smiling, oval face.
Suddenly, Barton realised with a shock that it was Grace Harrison. It was the hair that had momentarily thrown him, otherwise he would have recognised her straightaway: he had been used to seeing her face surrounded with tousled, dark brown hair. He focussed on her, ignoring Miller, just as he had done at the performance in Bramlington.
She seemed much more confident on the stage now than she had done then: she moved about with poise, carrying out her tasks efficiently, all the while smiling out at the audience. She appeared very professional. Her role consisted mainly of passing Miller various props and moving items about the stage for him, although she did do a trick herself at one point. There was a routine where Miller was producing stuff out of a top hat, trying to find a cane in it but apparently without success; he eventually gave up, collapsed the hat and passed it to Grace, who sprang the hat open again, looked inside and pulled out a long silver topped cane, saying “Is this what you’re looking for?” She was also the centrepiece of his closing trick, in which he appeared to levitate her. Although she seemed to have a subordinate role, in reality the audience were just as interested in her as in Miller’s conjuring.
GK’s death had pushed all thoughts of Grace to the back of his mind, and when they had eventually resurfaced, he had supposed it was too late to attempt a reconciliation with her. By then he was also tied up with his assignments from Minton. Although he had thought about her often in the intervening months, he had felt that their relationship was over. However, watching her on stage now had re-ignited his interest, and as the act progressed, a mixture of feelings had started to churn within him: excitement, regret, anxiety. He wondered if he should go round to the stage door and try to see her. He agonised over the question for several minutes. Surely, he thought, this was fate offering him a second chance to make up with her. But then, understandably, she might not welcome a conciliatory approach from him so long after it had been due. She might cut him dead, or there might be an ugly scene. Even so, he finally decided, it was worth the risk.
When the act finished, it attracted enthusiastic applause. Barton got up as soon as they left the stage, went out the front entrance of the theatre and round to the stage door at the side.
There was an elderly, bespectacled doorman in the stage-door box. He was engrossed in a paper and did not look up as Barton approached.
“Could I see Miss Harrison, please?” Barton enquired, trying to sound as polite and amiable as possible.
“’Fraid not, sir,” the man replied, looking at Barton over the top of his spectacles. “Members of the public are not allowed backstage during or after performances. You’ll ‘ave to wait outside until she leaves.”
“It’s alright – I’m a friend of hers.”
“That’s what they all say, sir.”
“Listen,” Barton smiled, putting on a wheedling tone, “I don’t have much time. I’ve got to get back to my billet soon. Miss Harrison does know me. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if I popped in for a minute just to say hello.”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow it, sir. It’s the rules.”
Barton realised that he was not going to get anywhere with the man. He looked at his watch and was about to ask what time Grace might be coming out, when a figure appeared at the far end of the corridor they were in and began walking briskly towards the box. It was Roy Miller. He had a grey raincoat on over the tuxedo he had been wearing on stage. He smiled benignly first at Barton and then at the doorman and was about to pass between them when Barton addressed him.
“Mr Miller – don’t you recognise me? I’m a friend of Grace’s. I saw your act at Bramlington.”
“Ah yes, Bramlington. Friend of Grace’s, eh?” he said, peering at Barton’s face in an effort to place him. He was slurring his words slightly and smelt of drink. “I’m just off to have a little refreshment. It’s thirsty work being in front of all those lights. Why don’t you come along with me, dear boy, and we can have a chat?”
“I’ve actually come to see Grace. I don’t have much time. I have to get back to my billet in Stanmore.”
“See Grace? Of course. I’ll take you to her now.”
The doorman was still suspicious. “Are you sure this is alright, Mr Miller? You know members of the public aren’t allowed backstage.”
Miller put his arm around Barton’s shoulder and smiled at the doorman. “Yes, yes. This gentleman here, Mr–” He stopped suddenly and looked at Barton. “What is your name?”
“Frank Barton.”
“Mr Barton, here, is a dear friend,” he declared and then led him down the corridor. “So, you’re one of Grace’s admirers, eh?” he said as they walked along, and then added arcanely, “‘Many Jasons come in quest of her.’”
“Yes, we went out on a date a few months ago, but then something turned up and I haven’t been able to see her for a while. I just happened to catch the act tonight and thought I’d pop round and say hello.”
When they arrived at the door to the dressing room that he and Grace shared, Miller knocked and put his head round. “Are you decent, Grace? You have a visitor.” Miller swung the door open and waved him in.
Grace was seated in front of an illuminated mirror. She was wearing a dark blue silk dressing gown and had turned towards them, smili
ng expectantly. However, her smile faded rapidly when she recognised Barton. She looked annoyed.
“It’s me, Frank Barton. We met a few months ago at Bramlington.”
“Yes, Mr Barton, I remember,” she said frostily. “You’re the balloon man.”
“Well, I’ll leave you two alone,” Miller interposed. “I expect you have a lot of catching up to do.”
Grace glared at him. “There’s no need to go, Roy: Mr Barton won’t be staying long.”
But Miller was keen to get away and satisfy his craving for a drink. “Like to stay and chew the fat, but must push off. Previous engagement. Good to meet up with you again, Frank. See you tomorrow, Grace.” And with that he left the room.
Grace fixed Barton with a stony gaze and said nothing. She still looked very attractive, with her dark hair and grey eyes, but something had changed. She seemed to have lost the air of innocence he had noticed about her back in September. There was a hardness now in her attitude.
Barton broke the silence. “I just happened to be passing the theatre and noticed ‘Professor Prospero’ on the bill. I knew I’d come across the name before. I’ve got nothing else on tonight, so I thought I’d just come in and see the show. And there you were. It never occurred to me you’d still be his assistant. I thought you said it was just a one-off arrangement?”
“Roy needed an assistant, and I needed the money – it was as simple as that.”
“But surely you could have found a more suitable job than this?” Instantly aware that he was close to putting his foot in it, he began to backpedal. “Not that I’m saying there’s anything wrong with the act, of course; you were really good. It’s just that, well, going round half-empty music halls in the Styx can’t be very fulfilling.”
Grace did not respond.
Barton sensed that the conversation was about to fizzle out. He was starting to feel anxious and could not think of anything else to say. “How’s your father, by the way?” he asked in desperation.
