by Seb Spence
“Which brings me to the second item,” he said, holding up a photograph. “The courier brought this with him in the diplomatic bag to the Spanish Embassy. It is a Luftwaffe aerial reconnaissance picture showing an array of radio masts that has been erected at a site in Buckinghamshire. Unconfirmed reports suggest there may be an important government facility based at this location. Our Abwehr colleagues feel it is worthy of investigation and have given this task to us.
“Hugo,” he continued, turning towards DaSilva, “ I would like you to obtain us bookings in the vicinity of the town of Bletchley – Aylesbury, Northampton, Bedford, Newport Pagnell, Leighton Buzzard, Luton, Buckingham itself, in fact anywhere within a 20 mile radius of the place. Theatres, church halls, scout huts even – no venue is too humble if it will enable us to mingle with people working at this facility.
Chapter 6
1.
Thursday, 15th May, 1941: RAF Halton, Buckinghamshire
Barton could remember very little about his first few weeks in hospital. He learnt later that he had been unconscious when he was admitted and remained in a comatose state for two weeks afterwards. Even when he regained consciousness, his mind drifted in and out of reality, for throughout his initial period in hospital he had been drugged up with morphia for the pain. An image that often came to him during those days of semi-consciousness was of a leering, demonic face behind a steering wheel; it came many times, always the same face. Looking back, Barton could not decide if this was a genuine memory from the accident or something his imagination had produced.
Immediately after the accident, he had been taken to the new Westminster Hospital, where they found him to be suffering from concussion, an open fracture of the right leg and numerous cuts, abrasions and bruises. Once his condition had stabilised, his leg was operated on and after a few days, he was transferred to an RAF hospital at Halton, near Aylesbury. However, there had been complications: the wound had become infected, and this had slowed down the healing process. It took twelve weeks in plaster before his leg was judged to have recovered sufficiently for the cast to be removed and for him to try walking with a stick. At this point, he was moved into a convalescent ward and began a course of physiotherapy to bring the leg up to strength. He was now able to get about with the aid of a stick, and the hope was that he would be back to normal walking by the end of May.
The period when his leg was in plaster, and he had been mainly confined to bed, had gone by slowly but pleasantly enough. The nurses did their best to keep the patients entertained, getting them books, magazines and newspapers; chatting when they could spare a moment, or supplying them with cards and board games. On fine days, those patients who were not completely bed-ridden were put in wheelchairs and taken out to sit in the grounds. Barton had spent several agreeable afternoons reading and dozing outside in the sunshine. Occasionally the medics arranged for a show to be put on in which patients and staff did turns. Barton himself had participated in one: he along with a few others from his ward had done a rendition of ‘She had to go and lose it at the Astor’, with Barton on the piano. It had gone down very well.
The patients in the convalescent ward were a fairly lively crowd and not averse to making their own amusements. The prime mover on these occasions was a fighter pilot, Flying Officer ‘Dinger’ Bell. His Hurricane had been shot up over Sussex and he had had to bale out. Unfortunately, he had landed awkwardly and broken a leg. One of his favourite pursuits was to organise wheelchair races between all the men with leg injuries and run sweepstakes on them. He called these events his ‘chariot races’. Against the odds, Barton had won one of them and this had endeared him to Dinger, not least because the man had made a tidy sum from the betting. Since then, the two had got on well together, and both were disappointed when the medical staff, learning of the races, had the chairs locked away when not in official use. The reason given was that such escapades were likely to lead to further broken limbs, but Barton suspected the docs were really just trying to maintain some semblance of military discipline in the place.
And then there were the visitors. Several of Barton’s friends and relatives had come to see him, some visiting regularly. Bronx Moncur drove up in his Alvis Tourer as often as his duties would permit, although Barton suspected his main purpose in coming was to take the car for a spin and flirt with the nurses. Even Colonel Minton had paid a visit: he appeared out of the blue just after Barton had arrived at Halton. Minton had not been very cheery company though, seeming preoccupied and a little weary. He had given a depressing update on the search for Cobalt: there had been little progress, and it looked as if Lucy Walker was going to remain in Holloway for the foreseeable future, unless there was a breakthrough in the case. Minton seemed to be pinning his hopes on cracking the code the gang were using. When Barton asked how Lucy was faring, Minton replied she was in reasonable spirits – she was being well looked after and seemed confident she would be released eventually.
Minton was a suspicious fellow. Upon the conversation turning to the incident with the van that had led to Barton’s hospitalisation, Minton had asked whether he thought it was really an accident. Barton had been surprised at the question; after all, what else could it have been? The police were treating it as a ‘hit and run’ case. However, they had not made much headway. The only witness was a Wren, who had managed to get the licence number of the van, but its plates turned out to be false. The chances of catching the driver looked remote. Minton then went on to ask if he had got a look at who was driving the van, but all Barton could do was describe the recurrent vision he had had of a face behind a steering wheel and his uncertainty as to whether it was real or imagined.
One person had been conspicuously absent from the list of visitors: Grace Harrison. A few days after the misadventure with the van, Bronx had rung her home number but no one had answered, so he had phoned the Silver Masque Club instead and left a message for her saying that Barton had been in an accident and was in hospital. However, since then she had not even phoned or written. Barton had wanted to contact her but was deterred by a nagging doubt; there was something not right about the whole incident, though he could not put his finger on what it was. Grace, he felt sure, would have contacted him, even if only to apologise for missing the appointment. The fact that she did not, meant she had either stood him up deliberately for some reason – or else it was not Grace who had rung Bronx that evening to arrange the rendezvous.
#
At his previous visit, Bronx had suggested that when he next came up they should take the Alvis and go for a tour of the nearby countryside, weather permitting. Barton had been looking forward to this, as it would be a milestone in his journey back to normality: it would be his first sortie from the hospital since he had arrived there. Today was the day. Bronx arrived just after 10am, bringing with him sandwiches and a flask of tea for their lunch, along with an old pair of binoculars in case they came across any views worth admiring. It was a cloudless, sunny day – perfect for driving around in an open top. The plan was to take a run up to Woburn Abbey, which was less than twenty miles away, and visit some of the local sights en route.
On reaching Woburn village, they discovered that The Abbey could only be viewed from afar, for it had been requisitioned by the government, and access to the house and grounds was restricted. They learnt from a local that it was being used as a barracks for Wrens, though why naval personnel should need to be quartered so far from the sea was a mystery to them.
After admiring The Abbey’s Palladian architecture from a distance, they had driven round in the vicinity and then stopped at a spot with a pleasant outlook over rolling fields. A church spire visible far away above a line of trees was the only indication in the landscape of human habitation. Parking the Alvis on the verge, they walked – or in Barton’s case, hobbled with the aid of a walking stick – to the top of a knoll fifty or so yards from the road and sat down to consume the refreshments.
Barton had been navigating in the car using some O
rdnance Survey maps that he had borrowed from an orderly at the hospital. He now took them with him to the knoll so that he could work out the most scenic route back to Aylesbury. Having finished his sandwiches, he selected the map for the area around Woburn and began to examine it in order to find their present position. Looking up, he scanned the surroundings for a landmark he could use to identify their location.
“Do you know where that leads to?” he asked, pointing to a road about a quarter of a mile away that went off at right angles from the one they were parked on.
“Not sure – some place called Bitchley, I think.”
Barton looked at the map. “Do you mean Bletchley?”
“Probably. Whatever it’s called, I don’t think there’s anything of interest there. We should head back towards Aylesbury; there’s a Tudor manor house on the way that might be worth a look.” Bronx lay back on the grass, closed his eyes and addressed himself to absorbing the sun’s rays.
Barton continued to sit and admire the panorama, from time to time using the binoculars to examine places in the distance or inspect the wildlife. He had been sitting for ten minutes or so without a single human being coming into view, when he noticed someone on a bike approaching in the distance. For want of anything better to do, he took up the binoculars again and observed the cyclist.
“I’m watching the weirdest thing,” he commented to Bronx after a while, “there’s a fellow cycling along wearing a gas mask.”
“Maybe it’s to avoid the farmyard smells,” Bronx responded, raising himself on his elbows to see the spectacle.
After cycling a few hundred yards, the man got off the bike, crouched down and fiddled with the chain. He then re-mounted, continued pedalling along for another few hundred yards, got off again and once more tinkered with the chain. They watched this performance being repeated several times until the man passed out of sight down the road leading to Bletchley.
“There are some strange people in the countryside,” Bronx declared and then lay back again to continue basking.
After a long pause, Barton raised a different subject: “Why do you think Grace Harrison hasn’t been to visit me? I know we didn’t part on good terms, but she’s the sort of girl who would always do the decent thing and visit a friend in hospital, even if she’d fallen out with them.”
“I expect she’s too busy working at that club.”
“I suppose so,” Barton mused. “And then there’s her father, of course – she has to look after him. Perhaps she just hasn’t been able to find the time.”
“Why don’t you try contacting her?”
“I feel it’s up to her to make the first move – she’s the one who stood me up at Green Park. She should contact me, if only to explain why she didn’t turn up.” Barton then added irritably: “If it hadn’t been for Grace asking me to meet up with her, all this would never have happened.” As he said the last few words, he poked his damaged leg with the walking stick.
“You can’t blame her for your accident. It wasn’t her fault some clot decided to drive on the pavement instead of the road.”
“I don’t blame her, it’s just that ... ” Barton broke off. “Never mind. Anyway, it’s too late to contact her now; it’s been fourteen weeks since the accident.”
#
They took in a few more places of interest on the way back to Aylesbury, however the conversation about Grace had cast a slight shadow on the rest of the outing, for it had brought back to Barton memories of the accident. Bronx did his best to cheer things up, but Barton was in a sombre mood when they arrived back at the hospital just after six thirty. As they drove up to the main door, Barton observed that a number of wicker armchairs had been set out on the lawn at the front of the building. Some of the other convalescents had obviously been out sunning themselves in the afternoon. The armchairs were all empty except for one that was occupied by a dozing figure in RAF uniform. A walking stick was propped up between his legs.
Barton got out at the steps leading up to the main door. “Sorry for being a bit glum. I’ve enjoyed the excursion – really I have. Only, it brings me down when I think about the accident.”
“No need to apologise, Barton. I know you’ve had a rough experience.” Bronx passed him the maps he was about to leave behind in the car and continued: “We can go for another tour next time I’m up. I should be able to get back here at the end of the month, which means I’ll be seeing you again in a couple of weeks. Say goodbye to the nurses for me.” With that, Bronx put the Alvis in gear and set off on his return journey to Stanmore.
The noise of the car’s tyres on the gravel drive roused the man in the wicker armchair, who now sat up and looked round. It was Dinger Bell.
“So, Barton,” he shouted, waving his stick in the air, “how did you enjoy your first day out of jug?” Barton hobbled over to see him. “Wonderful feeling isn’t it?” Bell continued. “I went on a pub crawl round Luton my first time out. Didn’t get back until three in the morning. Had to get in through a window.
“Listen, if you’re looking for ideas for another outing, I’d recommend the play that’s currently on at the Lyceum in Northampton. The details are on the entertainments board inside. It’s a farce – very funny, laugh-a-minute. There’s a stunning girl in it, what’s more – spends most of the second act on stage in her underwear. If only Shakespeare was like that!”
“Thanks – I’ll bear it in mind. Think I’m going to have to turn in now, though, Dinger; the leg’s a bit tired. We’ve been on the road all day.”
“I know the feeling. See you back in the ward.”
The prospect of going to a farce, however hilarious, did not appeal to Barton in his present mood, but as he was passing the entertainments board on his way back to the ward he thought that, out of politeness to Dinger, he should at least take a look at the details of the play. The board was cluttered with information: handbills and notices advertising the local cinemas, theatres and variety halls; posters for ENSA performances; and numerous fliers for amateur productions – plays, concerts, recitals and the like. In amongst all this he eventually found the playbill for the Lyceum Theatre, Northampton, and began to read it:
For two weeks only
The Kingsmead Players
present
‘Affairs and Graces’,
a farce set in the stately homes of England.
The title seemed familiar to Barton: after a few moments he recollected it was one of the productions he had come across in London, when he had been going round stage doormen with his photographs of Lucy Walker. From the brief description given on the sheet, the play sounded rather turgid. He was about to turn away, when a name on the cast list jumped out at him: “Lady Constance Lovelace, played by Miss Vivian Adair.” He recalled the attractive blonde he had passed in the corridor at the Silver Masque Club. The play might be worth going to see after all, he thought, and continued reading. There were a few other actors’ names on the list that seemed vaguely familiar: Elliott de Johns, Hugh Silverman, Mitch Robertson, Jane Wilkinson. Where had he come across those names before?
Suddenly he froze, remembering the names he had heard in Minton’s account of the fake film company that had tried to set up Lucy Walker: John D. Elliott, Hugo DaSilva, Robert Mitchell and Joan Wilks. A feeling of excitement welled up within him: surely, he reflected, the names on the playbill were more than just chance similarities? Could it be that, finally, this was the cell he had been trying to track down? It certainly needed to be investigated. He noted there was a matinee performance at 2.30pm the following day.
Barton pulled the playbill off the board and took it with him back to the ward. He realised straightaway that he would need some assistance to take these people on if they were indeed Cobalt’s accomplices. He felt, though, that it was too early to tell Minton about this: the similarities between the names might turn out to be accidental after all. He needed hard evidence before involving the Colonel.
The only other option was to get Bronx
back. Barton lay on his bed and spent some time working out what needed to be done. He consulted the maps he had taken on the outing. Northampton was about 35 miles north of Aylesbury – double the distance to Bletchley, the small town near the spot where they had stopped for their refreshments that afternoon. They would have to go along some country roads to get to Northampton, and he estimated it would take about an hour to drive there in the Alvis. He looked at his watch: it was just after eight o’clock. He guessed Bronx would have arrived back in Stanmore by now and determined to phone him immediately.
The patients had the use of a phone in the day-room, and Barton headed off there as fast as he was able. It was a while before he could make the call, though, as there were three other inmates already waiting to use the phone. As usual, there were also problems on the line. It was nearly 8.45 before he got through to Bronx.
“Listen, I think I’ve found the gang that got GK. You have to come back up here tomorrow.”
“Don’t know if I can do that, Barton. There’s a war on, you know. I have duties to carry out.”
“You’ll have to arrange it somehow – make up a story: tell them you’ve just learnt your sister’s getting married, and you need special leave to attend the wedding. I can’t take on this gang alone – I must have help, and you’re the only one there is. For a start, I need you to give me a lift to Northampton.”
