The Nazi Spy

by Alan Hardy

  He himself stopped. He spoke without turning around.

  “Does that invitation to your birthday party still stand?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Does it?”

  “I haven’t withdrawn it, have I?”

  “So, it still stands?” he said again, like an insistent child.

  She hesitated.

  “Does it?”

  “Yes.”

  Then he did turn around, and approached her slowly.

  She didn’t know what to expect. A kiss? A gentle kiss? A rough kiss? Or something else?

  He came up close to her, and, despite herself, she flinched.

  He came up real close.

  “Fiona, be careful,” he whispered.

  His gaze was sincere, his tone considerate, but the words seemed menacing.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean,” he intoned slowly and deliberately.

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I’m just telling you, Fiona, to be very, very careful.”

  Then he left.

  Fiona looked down at her hands.

  They were shaking uncontrollably.

  8

  It was strange not having Freddie by her side, while greeting the guests entering the vast banqueting-room, as one by one, or couple by couple, they reached the head of the jostling queue snaking along the length of the vast lobby.

  She was overjoyed she no longer had to share her bed with the ghastly baboon, but it wasn’t easy standing there on her own, making small talk, smiling, nodding at mindless comments, and spitting out more and more pleasantries of her own.

  “So nice of you to come, Lord and Lady Montacue.”

  “Our pleasure, Fiona. So sorry to hear about your husband. Bearing up, are we?”

  A few of the chaps from 287 Squadron had already arrived, a bunch of them together, and others accompanied by wives or girlfriends.

  “You’re looking radiant, Mrs MacIntosh,” said the gushing mayor, giving the slightest of bows.

  “Thank you so much.”

  Group Captain Jenkins was already guzzling punch from the vast bowl on the corner table, taking refill after refill, as he viewed any hot totty on show from his increasingly inebriated vantage-point.

  Fiona was wearing a long, black evening-gown, keeping as tightly to her still attractive figure as she considered decency allowed. Its slimline straps exposed a modicum of flesh front and back, low enough to be intriguing, but high enough to be quite respectable.

  “Lovely to see you, Squadron Leader Jackson.”

  “Mrs MacIntosh.”

  “How are you, Fiona?”

  “Very well, Belinda.”

  “Must feel strange to be on show here without dear Freddie?”

  “Well…”

  Squadron Leader Colin Jackson was a decent sort. He was dapper-looking, well-brushed, smartly turned-out, and unfailingly polite and considerate. Belinda, his wife, was a cheery type, always laughing and chatting. She was a little plumpish, to be honest, and, although about the same age as Fiona, looked older. In contrast to her husband, there was something ill-ordered about her, her clothes just the wrong side of neat and tidy, and her behaviour rumoured to be just the wrong side of respectable. Brown-eyed. Cheeky-looking. A fearless face. There had been stories… Fiona had always suspected Belinda and Freddie were more than just the spouses of spruced-up Squadron Leader Jackson and pure-as-the-driven-snow Mrs Fiona MacIntosh. They had probably made up a separate, intimate unit of their own.

  There must have already been more than a hundred people at the celebration, milling around the rows of tables resplendent with mouth-watering delicacies and endless varieties of drink.

  It was occasions like this which reinforced Fiona’s conviction that, whatever burdens and disappointments there had been in her life, and still were, she had so much to be thankful for. It was her father who had worked so hard to build up the house, and the family’s local reputation, and she hoped she wasn’t doing anything to besmirch his memory, and his achievements.

  Still, time never stood still, and everyone—rich or poor, powerful or not—had to adapt to the times they lived in. What one chose to do was a gamble, and she hoped she wasn’t making any terrible mistakes.

  Flight Lieutenant George Turnbill had already arrived, not looking quite as sheepish as she felt he should, and accompanied by Paula Wentworth, scrubbed up nicely in her smart WAAF uniform, and bringing her beaming, roughened face—with far too much powder slapped over it—off-puttingly close to Fiona’s as she shook hands. A rude, pushy little minx.

  Flight Lieutenant Matthew Manfred had turned up—to Fiona’s immense chagrin—with another WAAF in striking blue. This one, as well as being young and fresh, seemed demure, friendly and quite well-behaved, however galling it was for Fiona to admit.

  Was it really correct for Matthew to behave like that? After all, he’d conducted himself quite disgracefully towards her in Regent’s Park, without taking into consideration the letters he’d written, and even denied. Would a decent man kiss a woman, and then turn up at that woman’s birthday shindig with another girl?

  Fiona kept wiping away tears, imagined or not, forming in her left eye, sniffing now and then for good measure.

  Apart from any stragglers who might still turn up, once everybody seemed to have arrived, Fiona started to circulate.

  She was accompanied by a nephew and niece as she made her rounds, both alternating between running excitedly around, and grabbing hold of her hand whenever encountering a stern look or exasperated sigh from one of the guests.

  Julia and Miriam, her sisters, each had three children, and would often seek some respite from them by off-loading them on to their childless, and now husbandless sister.

  She bumped into Matthew immediately.

  He had obviously made an immediate beeline for her.

  “What a beautiful, grand house you have, Fiona,” he commented, glancing round appreciatively.

  “It’s not the first time you’ve been here, is it?”

  “No,” he murmured.

  He looked intently at her. His gaze shifted slightly to her chest. Despite herself, she couldn’t help pushing her bosom forward, and noticing his luscious lips part.

  At that moment her noisy nephew and niece rushed up, barging into their aunt, each grabbing a hand.

  Matthew was taken aback.

  “I didn’t know Freddie had children,” he mumbled, completely consternated, his blue eyes wide and stupid-looking.

  “He doesn’t,” she responded, a cruel grin on her face.

  He looked even more dumbfounded and, staring more intently at her, rather crestfallen.

  “And nor do I, Matthew,” she added, with a chuckle. “I do have six nieces and nephews, you know.”

  “I see,” he said, with a sigh of relief. “I was thinking I never knew you had…well…”

  “And I never knew you had a fiancé,” said Fiona, taking advantage of his encouraging confusion, and giving a pointed glance around the spacious, chandelier-hanging room.

  “Fiancé?”

  “Well, girlfriend,” murmured Fiona, her eyes sparkling more and more.

  “Oh, you mean Mary. Warrant Officer Mary Wilkinson. She works at the airfield. She fancied seeing how the other half lived, so I… There’s nothing…you know… We’re just colleagues…”

  “Anyway, she seems a lovely girl,” continued Fiona, pleased, and not so pleased.

  He was eager to downplay any hint of a romance between himself and Mary Wilkinson, but, in terms of age, appearance and demeanour, there seemed no reason why something shouldn’t develop between them.

  She could see her now, with the other RAF types, dishing out punch to one another. She wasn’t a beauty—her teeth were rather too prominent, and her lips too large—but she was sweet-looking and charmingly open of nature. Black hair, honest eyes and a friendly smile. And just the right age for Matthew. That was the killer.
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  “How are you settling down at the airfield, Matthew? Back in the run of things?”

  “Well, glad to be out of harm’s way, I can say,” replied Matthew, with a naughty wink. “It’s getting a bit too hot down south.”

  “You need a break, Matthew. You’ve been on active service non-stop since last year, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve got two months leave now, actually.”

  “Now?” queried Fiona, taken aback. “Isn’t that strange? Posting you here, and immediately given you two months leave?”

  “You don’t begrudge me it, do you?”

  “Of course not,” she answered, still puzzled. “Wouldn’t it have been more logical to give you your two months leave while you were down south with your former squadron, before taking up your posting here?”

  “Oh, well, ours not to reason why…”

  Fiona felt disconcerted. It was undoubtedly strange. And, without quite knowing why, she felt the conundrum was, if anything, threatening her in some way.

  Who really was Flight Lieutenant Matthew Manfred, apart from being a beguiling, and at times badly-behaved young man she was in danger of losing her silly head over?

  Shouldn’t she know better? And shouldn’t she find out what was he was up to?

  “A penny, Fiona?”

  “A penny?”

  “For your thoughts?”

  “Oh…” she murmured, looking at his finely-chiselled face. “Just wondering what you’ve planned for your two months. Going anywhere?”

  “Oh, I might just hang around here… It’s so beautiful…the mountains…the valleys…well, you know better than me… I don’t think your option of European travel is open to me at the moment…”

  “No,” she concurred, with a laugh. “War destroys everything. I loved travelling, as I’ve told you. Each summer, we would… Well, all in the past now.”

  “Did you ever see any Fascist rallies? You know, in Italy, or in Germany? I saw them on newsreels a few years ago. They seemed so magnificent, and completely alien at the same time…and now here we are, fighting for our lives against them…”

  “I did go along to a couple of Nazi rallies when I was in Germany, just to see what it was like. A bit scary really, so different from politics in dear, old England. The fervour at the rallies…near-mania…totally different from our dry, old politicians here like Neville Chamberlain, Lord Halifax, and even Churchill… I couldn’t imagine them inspiring such blind devotion.”

  “Well, they’re the ones to blame for the war,” snapped Matthew quite viciously, looking as black as thunder. “They messed things up, and now it’s us young ones who have to pay for their failures, and do all the dying.”

  “But not Churchill, Matthew, he wasn’t to blame, was he?” asked Fiona, surprised at his anger.

  “Churchill? Just a bloody war-monger.”

  “You’re not much of a patriot, are you, Matthew?”

  “I do my duty,” he stated. “What else can they ask of me? And, at the same time, I do all I can to survive. I hope the two aims are not mutually exclusive.”

  She reached out, and squeezed his left arm.

  She had noticed Lord Mendelson wending his rickety old way towards her, and leant closer towards Matthew, whispering in his ear.

  “I want to see you later. It’s something about Freddie. I have to take you into my confidence.”

  “Always at your service, Fiona,” he responded, with a nod, but surprised.

  “My dear Lord Mendelson…”

  She managed to snatch a few words with Paula Wentworth.

  She was not a woman Fiona would normally wish to exchange more than humdrum pleasantries with, but she needed to investigate the present mystery as coolly and widely as she could, and interrogate the main players whenever the opportunity arose.

  “I was sorry to hear your husband was reported missing on the sortie during which my own husband was shot down.”

  “Thank you, and my commiserations to you also, Mrs MacIntosh,” Paula answered rather coldly and robotically.

  Her blank, blue eyes, her roughened, cosmetically-smeared face, and her straw-like blonde hair drawn back into a haphazard bun, gave her an unsympathetic harshness. She looked rough, and spoke rough.

  “Have you received any further news of him, Mrs Wentworth? Is he a POW?”

  “No further news.”

  “Oh, dear,” she murmured, as kindly as she could muster. “Were you still based here when you heard the news?”

  “No, I was actually based in an ops-room down south,” she explained. “You see, when John was posted down there, I put in for a transfer. Y’know, natural to want to be together.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  But wasn’t this another strange, coincidental piece of news? Another one in a whole series…

  Paula was bored. Fiona could see that. She kept looking around, searching for Flight Lieutenant Turnbill no doubt, anxious to escape from Fiona’s clutches.

  Fiona realized Paula saw her as an over-privileged, snooty snob. She didn’t care. She saw her in her turn as a shameless, low-class slut.

  “Just looking for my friend,” Paula explained without embarrassment, as she noticed Fiona staring quizzically, and contemptuously, at her.

  “Flight Lieutenant Turnbill?”

  “Yes, he’s a particular friend of mine,” she explained, grinning slyly. “He’s been very considerate since John was reported missing. As have many others, I must say. People can be very helpful, can’t they?”

  She smiled at Fiona with sweet, totally feigned innocence.

  “Yes, they can,” Fiona concurred.

  “Your husband, Mrs MacIntosh…” she added, with a cheeky grin out of the corner of her mouth, “he could be terribly considerate too, couldn’t he?”

  Nasty, little trollop, thought Fiona.

  “I think I saw your friend out in the lobby,” said Fiona, biting her lip, and not rising to the bait. “I have to check something out there. I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

  “So kind,” murmured Paula, with a wicked smirk, as Fiona brushed by her.

  Life was a series of humiliations at the moment, thought Fiona. But she mustn’t give in to a tramp like Paula. She had to stay strong, keep to her beliefs, and not give anything away.

  After all, it wasn’t as if she didn’t know her wretched Freddie went with women like Paula.

  Both Freddie and Paula were the sort of people who were only good for one thing. And that was indulging in utter filth.

  “James,” she snapped at her butler out in the lobby, “can you find out where Flight Lieutenant Turnbill is?”

  A minute later, James, the dutiful butler, led the Flight Lieutenant right up to her, as she stood by a pillar in the lobby, impatiently tapping her feet, and rubbing her wrist with her right hand, causing her décolletage to wobble.

  “Mrs MacIntosh,” said Turnbill politely, if circumspectly.

  Fiona nodded.

  “Mrs Wentworth is looking for you, Flight Lieutenant.”

  “Of course.”

  The lobby was now virtually empty, just one or two people meandering about in a far corner, and even they had soon moved out of sight, lost in the vastness of Fiona’s mansion.

  “Flight Lieutenant Turnbill,” said Fiona, holding up a hand to detain him, “Flight Lieutenant Manfred has admitted, more or less, that he coached you on what to say to me concerning the letters. You didn’t write those letters, did you?”

  He was totally disconcerted, made as if to speak, but merely closed his mouth again.

  “Flight Lieutenant?”

  “Look, Mrs MacIntosh,” he said, seeming quite sincere, “I can’t really comment any further on the matter.”

  “But why not?” she asked, totally exasperated.

  He looked at her with concern.

  “Shouldn’t you really speak about all this with Matthew? With Flight Lieutenant Manfred? He knows the ins and out of the matter in much more detail tha
n I do.”

  “But what hold does he have over you? Are you frightened to speak? Why do you do what he tells you?”

  “Well,” said Turnbill, with a chuckle, “Matthew’s not the sort of chap you say no to. When he asks you to do something, you do it.”

  Fiona was flabbergasted. What did he mean?

  “But you’re both the same rank. He’s not your superior. What is it that—"

  “Let me just say that he has contacts…contacts one doesn’t want to annoy…”

  Flight Lieutenant Turnbill looked around, moved closer to her, and placed a hand on her arm.

  “Look, Fiona, I hope you don’t mind me being too forward…but I feel I should warn you.”

  “Warn me?”

  His features seemed softened, and he bowed his head as he got closer, looking vulnerable and more sensitive than she ever remembered. And much better-looking.

  “Look,” he continued, “I feel I have to tell you that…”

  He looked closely at her, and seemed quite taken by her as she started wiping feverishly just below her left eye, looking agitated.

  He moved forward, as if—to her great astonishment—he were about to kiss her.

  “No!” she blurted out.

  “My apologies,” he said immediately, swerving aside to plant a kiss on her cheek.

  She realized he was holding her tenderly, his hands on her arms.

  “Fiona, I’m not really a decent sort, and nor was Freddie… But you’re a decent woman, probably the most decent woman I know, and I need to warn you… perhaps I shouldn’t, perhaps I will regret it, but…”

  “Yes?”

  “Fiona, you must be on your guard. I have the feeling—and I may wrong—but I have the feeling that Matthew means you a great deal of harm.”

  9

  “You look nervous, Fiona.”

  She didn’t answer, and continued fiddling with her wrist.

  “I’ve just spoken to George,” she said.

  “George?”

  “Flight Lieutenant Turnbill.”

  Matthew smiled.

  “I hope you made sure there were other people in the vicinity, and you weren’t compromised in any way,” he commented drily. “He’s a great womanizer, you know. Not your sort.”