“I understand, Walter,” said Frances. “Who exactly are you meeting from Scotland Yard?”
Brimley looked at her quizzically.
“I don’t think that’s important,” he said.
“I know quite a few of the detectives at Scotland Yard, Walter,” said Frances.
He looked at her for a moment before speaking.
“Devlin Pearce.”
“I know him very well, I think we’ll wait around until he gets here. You never know, Declan, it might be related,” she said, looking over at her son.
Brimley was clearly getting frustrated.
“Look, can you tell me why you’re here? If it’s a tour you want, I’m afraid this next week isn’t going to work. I don’t mean to be unkind, but I really have important things to get on with.”
“More important than the murder of one of your girls?” asked Frances.
Brimley looked up at her.
“How do you know about that?”
Frances looked over at Declan before looking back at Brimley.
“You mean you know about Minnie Shelford?”
Brimley shook his head and rubbed his forehead with his hand.
“This has turned into a nightmare. No, I didn’t know about Minnie, though I had feared the worst. Pelagia was just found murdered this morning.”
“She also works here?” asked Frances.
Brimley nodded.
“Would you mind putting us in the loop, Walter, I’d like to help. Ask Inspector Pearce if you’d like, I’ve helped them on many cases.”
“I don’t think there is much to help with. I know who’s killed them.”
“A German?”
Brimley looked up at her and furrowed his eyebrows.
“You obviously know more than I give you credit for.”
“I’ll be happy to fill in the blanks, but would you mind explaining what’s happened?”
Brimley took a deep breath and sighed.
“It’s not like anything can get worse. Alright,” he said. “I’ve been running my own undercover operation. MI5 thinks that all German spies have been turned. I don’t believe that. I set up a double cross to try and trap one of them after one of the men here was introduced to a German spy because he has a loose tongue. I fed Minnie and Pelagia false information to give to this man of ours, Group Captain Stanley Dowd, to give to the German.”
“And these two women didn’t know?” asked Frances.
Brimley shook his head.
“I thought it was better for their safety. All they knew was that they were supposed to give certain documents to Dowd who would take them directly up to London as they were time sensitive. They were unsure of course, but they weren’t harming His Majesty’s Government.”
Frances nodded.
“So how do you think the women got caught up in this then?”
“As I’d said. Dowd had a loose tongue and he got too familiar with the spy. That’s my best guess.”
“And where is Group Captain Dowd now?” asked Frances.
“He’s dead. Scotland Yard found him this morning.”
“Oh, I see,” said Frances.
“Well, Walter,” said Declan, “you did prove that there were rogue agents out there still. Unfortunately that’s cost you three lives.”
Brimley looked at Declan for a moment with a dour, drawn out face.
“You’re right, Admiral,” he said. “Just when my career trajectory was a flip of a coin.”
“Well,” said Declan, “if you let us help, I’ll put in a good word for you at Box 500.”
Walter nodded.
“Of course, you’re welcome to help. I’m just not sure how.”
“Did the German give you a name?” asked Frances.
“He did, though I doubt it’s real.”
“Was it Edsel Schmidt?”
“Yes, it was. How do you know that?”
“I found out from those who were at the scene up at the Lake District.”
“Perhaps you could fill me in on what you know then?” asked Brimley.
“I was up at my home in the Lake District. I had been there for about a week or so when a constable from the Cumbria Constabulary asked me to attend to the Nisbet farmhouse with him. This was the morning of the tenth of May. That was this past Sunday.”
Brimley nodded.
“Elmer Nisbet is practically a neighbor. He tends to some sheep on his farm and lately he’s taken to offering his rooms to boarders and visitors. That evening before, the Saturday, he said a young woman had come to his door quite late at night looking for a room. She was there at about eleven pm. She said she’d come up from London to escape the raucous city for a day. She said she was leaving again the next afternoon. The name she gave him was Mary Sorrows.”
“How’d you know she was Minnie Shelford?” asked Brimley.
“After we’d found her murdered we went through her things in her room and we found her identification. She was Second Officer Telegraphist Minnie Shelford with HMS Pembroke V. The picture on her identification was clearly her.”
“How do you know it was a German who killed her?”
“One of the visitors there arrived earlier on that Saturday. He came in from Windermere Station. He said he’d been approached by a German asking after his cousin, and this German offered to give this gentleman a ride to the Nisbet farmhouse. During the ride he gave the name of Edsel Schmidt. Though there was something odd about this Frenchman staying at the Nisbet home.”
“What did you find odd about him?” asked Brimley.
“His French was almost perfect, yet the way he spoke it was almost as if it wasn’t his mother tongue. If I was to be honest, though it might just be the situation talking, I might suggest he was an Englishman pretending to be French.”
“For what purpose?”
Frances shrugged.
“I don’t know. Was he not one of your men?”
Brimley shook his head vigorously.
“If I had one of my men up there he certainly wouldn’t have allowed the poor woman to be murdered. Speaking of which, how did she die?”
“Elmer Nisbet came upon the murderer in the act. He was stabbing her. That’s how she died.”
“And why were you called in?” asked Brimley.
“I have helped the Cumbria Constabulary before,” said Frances. “But interestingly, we’ve determined that Minnie’s last words were an utterance of my name.”
“Really?”
“That’s what we believe. The last thing she said to Elmer Nisbet was trying to say my last name. She also gave him a piece of paper.”
“And what was on this piece of paper?”
“That’s what we’ve actually come to see you about. It looks like a cryptic message to me, but we’re hopeful that your specialists here might be able to make sense of it.”
“May I have a look at it?”
“DCI Milling with Cumbria has the original, though Alfred wrote it down verbatim.”
“Then let’s go and get it.”
“There’s something else that bothers me, Walter,” said Frances.
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know Minnie Shelford. So why was she up at the Lake District trying to get a hold of me?”
“I can’t explain that.”
“But perhaps even more importantly, how did she know I was up at the Lake District? Nobody knew except for my close family.”
“To be perfectly honest, Frances,” said Brimley. “We like to know where His Majesty’s most valuable assets are at all times. You would be amongst those valuable assets. That usually falls within our purview, though MI6 has been known to keep a lookout too.”
“I see,” said Frances, not sure whether to be flattered or frustrated, “that explains it.”
“Yes it does. But I assure you, that sort of information is not widely available. It’s on a need to know basis.”
“That’s the problem with intelligence,” said Frances, “the more y
ou gather, the more that spills out from the edges. You’ve already told me you have loose lips upon this ship. And you know what they say about loose lips, Walter, they sink ships.”
“Yes, I’m keenly and intimately aware of that right at this moment. I’ve lost three good people,” he said curtly.
“The reason my mother is upset,” said Declan, “is that you put her life in danger.”
“I don’t understand how that’s possible. I had no personal idea your mother was up in the Lake District this past weekend,” said Brimley.
“I don’t mean you personally. Rather, I’m talking about this operation of yours and MI5 in general. Clearly, my mother’s whereabouts are easily ascertained by those who want to know. Minnie Shelford being a prime example.”
Declan leaned in to make his point.
“This Edsel Schmidt, or whatever his name is, came back for my mother. He almost murdered the constable who DCI Milling had insisted stay with my mother. In fact, if it wasn’t for my butler… well, I’d rather not think about that. Nevertheless, our home in the Lake District has now burnt to the ground and it is imperative we find this German spy, for I fear he won’t rest until he's finished his business. And we know what that might be.”
Declan didn’t want to give voice to his mother’s murder, but that was clearly what was on everyone’s mind.
“I do apologize on behalf of MI5,” said Brimley, though his heart was clearly not in it. “Let’s all put our minds together in order to catch this man then. Do you have a good description of him?”
“Not really. I’m sure Constable Ernest Swales got a good look at him as he was fighting for his life. If he makes it through, which I pray to God he will, he might be able to give us a good description. What I do know is that Alfred likely got him with some shot when he fired at the man as he was fleeing my home. Swales did also tell me, as we waited for an ambulance, that Edsel Schmidt is missing his small right finger.”
Brimley nodded.
“That’s good, that’s very good news. My man is coming up from London this afternoon. He should be here anytime, and he’s bringing what photographs we have of this Edsel Schmidt as well as dossiers on the few German spies whom we believe to be in this country that we haven’t yet identified. Perhaps he will be in one of them.”
“Have you spoken to DCI Milling?” asked Frances.
“Yes, I’ve asked him to come down this afternoon too. It’s a good thing you’re here. It should be a full house of all of us who have been affected by this man.”
“In the meantime, perhaps we can see about getting this cryptic message that Minnie left for me decrypted,” said Frances.
“Yes. Let’s walk over to Hut 8. Alan and Dilly should be there and I have a suspicion this should be short work for them.”
TWENTY-THREE
Turing and Knox
“SO you managed to shoot the bloody kraut, did you?” asked Brimley, speaking to Alfred as they walked over to Hut 8.
“Yes sir, I believe that I did get him with a bit of shot.”
“That’s good news,” said Brimley, speaking to the group of them. “We heard from Inspector Pearce that a witness saw a foreign man, possibly German, leaving the flats where Dowd lived, walking with a limp.”
“We’re getting closer to naming him then,” said Frances. “Though I fear he will be leaving as soon as he can for the fatherland.”
“He will indeed. But once we have his photographs we’ll blockade all exits for him and hopefully smoke him out of his hole.”
Brimley led them into Hut 8. It was a busy hut. There were several women working at tables and a few men gathered at the back of the hut. Unlike Hut 10 which had an enclosed office at the back where Frances had met with Brimley, Hut 8 was all open. Frances’ eyes were drawn to a large machine at the back of the room which had on it dozens of dials in different colors. The machine was loud with a constant humming and ticking. It sounded like a large car engine idling with a slow moving train overlaid on top, that was the ticking part. The dials were almost the size of a teacup’s saucer and the machine was large, wider and taller than any of the men gathered here.
Brimley walked them up to the group of men. They were all of similar height though not of age. The youngest one and the oldest one Frances knew. Alan Turing was in his late twenties, perhaps almost thirty, with a boyish face and slim build. She knew him as one of the greatest mathematicians of the time and an equally good runner. The oldest of the three men was Dilwyn Knox whom she knew as a classics professor with a keen interest in ancient languages, especially Egyptian. He was slim with round glasses, a pinched mouth and a receding hairline. He was in his late fifties. Frances didn’t know the last man whom she put in his early to mid-forties.
Brimley tried to introduce them, but the racket from the machine was too much, and he didn’t fancy shouting. The man Frances didn’t know, led them outside through a side door.
“Gentleman, I’d like to introduce you to Lady Marmalade and Admiral Branham, and Mr. Alfred…”
Brimley turned to Alfred, realizing that he didn’t know Alfred’s last name. Alfred introduced himself to the three men. They all shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.
Clyde Albutt was the man that Frances had not met. The man in his forties. He had a long face similar to Knox’s with an unruly mop of blonde hair. He smelt of cigar tobacco. He seemed exceptionally cordial, though Frances did pick up on a bit of bad blood between him and Brimley.
“Nice to meet you, Frances,” said Albutt. “We spoke on the phone. I understand you’re here to help Walt with his problem. Any assistance I can offer I’d be glad to do so. Walt and I go back a long way.”
That wasn’t entirely true. They had known each other casually for some years but only recently had they been working together at BP. Albutt liked to use Brimley’s shortened name because it bugged Brimley. Though he wasn’t showing it this afternoon.
“Alan and Dilly are two of our greatest assets here at the Park,” said Brimley. “Without them, we wouldn’t be managing half as well during this war as we are.”
“Walter exaggerates,” said Turing. “We owe a debt of gratitude to the Poles for laying the foundation in decrypting the enigma machines.”
“Is that one of those enigma machines we just saw inside?” asked Declan.
“No,” said Knox, “that’s the bombe, it’s a machine designed to decrypt the ciphers that are generated by the enigma machines. Alan designed the bombe.”
Declan nodded.
“That’s quite something.”
“It is indeed,” replied Knox.
“What does it do?” asked Declan, looking at Turing.
“In a nutshell, the machine is tasked with finding the ciphertext code that we can then use for the day’s encrypted messages. The code changes everyday, so each day we start anew. It basically allows us to guess much faster than humanly possible, as the number of permutations is in the billions.”
Declan nodded as if he understood. It seemed to him to be like a number cruncher.
“There are some weaknesses in the enigma machines which have helped. But that’s an advanced topic and probably one you’re not here about,” said Knox.
“Incidentally,” said Turing, “we do have an enigma machine inside. You might have seen it. It was on one of the tables. It sits in a wooden box and looks vaguely similar to a typewriter.”
Declan nodded, he had seen such a machine, and remembered thinking how odd it looked if it were indeed a typewriter, which of course, he now knew it wasn’t.
Albutt leaned in towards Brimley.
“One of my men has come up to see you. He should be around here someplace.”
Albutt looked around, and behind them he waved at someone. Frances and Declan looked behind them and saw a very familiar man walking towards them in between the Huts.
“Ah, speak of the devil, here he is.”
“Félix Delastelle,” said Frances, to no one in particular. Declan heard.
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“You know him?” he asked his mother.
“I know him as that Frenchman I was telling you about, Félix Delastelle,” she said.
Brimley looked over at her.
“You know this man?” he asked.
“Yes, he was the Frenchman I was telling you about whom I thought wasn’t a Frenchman.”
“So your man let one of the women here die on his watch,” said Brimley, visibly mad and looking at Albutt.
Albutt didn’t say anything. He was smiling with difficulty at the man who was now almost upon them. He had curly, jet black hair with striking blue eyes and a beaked nose. A shadow of acknowledgement crossed his face as he saw Frances and Alfred.
“Walter, this is Carlisle Desmont, one of my men at MI6,” said Albutt.
Desmont went to offer his hand. Brimley had fire in his eyes and left the hand hanging in the air. Desmont brought it back down to his side. It was taking all of Brimley’s inner fortitude not to punch Desmont on the nose, and Albutt for that matter too.
“So you’re the reason that Minnie Shelford was stabbed to death on a farm,” said Brimley, almost choking on the words.
“That’s not entirely true, Walter,” said Albutt. “It was your rogue operation after all.”
Brimley shot him a glare.
“It is a deep regret of mine that I wasn’t able to intervene,” said Desmont.
“A regret! I have three decent people dead now because MI6 wasn’t keeping me in the know about what the hell was going on.”
“What are you saying?” asked Knox. “What’s going on here?”
“Walter’s been running a rogue operation and now it appears as if it’s been the cause of three of our people being murdered.”
“Who?”
“Minnie Shelford, Pelagia Paterson and Stanley Dowd.”
“Good God, those women worked for me. What on Earth is going on here?”
Knox was visibly upset and Turing didn’t look happy either.
“This was supposed to be a safe place to work,” said Knox, looking at Albutt.
“And it is.”
“Then I bloody well want an explanation,” he demanded.
“We’ll debrief you after, if you don’t mind, Dilly,” said Albutt.
The Golf, Cheese and Chess Society Page 14
