‘And for God’s sake, stop charging about like a bull in a bloody china shop.’
The following morning, after Stratton had surrendered the deed box and received another lecture in which upset apple carts and rocked boats featured heavily, he entered his office to find Policewoman Gaines already there, proffering a cup of tea with one hand and clutching a sheaf of paper in the other. ‘Anything on Symmonds?’ he asked, wearily.
‘No-one of that name in the records, sir, with that birthday. I found an Arthur Daniel Symmonds, born on the fourteenth of April 1894, but he’s at RAF Waddington in Lincolnshire. We checked, and he was posted there in May this year - he’s an instructor - and he’s been there ever since.’
‘We?’
Policewoman Gaines flushed slightly. ‘Constable Ballard has been giving me a hand, Sir. Not on duty,’ she added, hastily. ‘In his own time, sir.’
I don’t blame him, thought Stratton. ‘Very commendable,’ he said, ‘as long as it doesn’t interfere with his work.’
‘No, sir. Of course not, sir.’ Gaines’s face was now a very pretty shade of rose. Stratton studied it for a moment, then said, ‘Any others?’
‘No, sir. Well, there were, but they’re either too young, or too old . . .’ Gaines looked down at her notes, more, Stratton thought, from embarrassment than because she needed to refresh her memory, ‘ . . . and there are two serving overseas. That’s been confirmed.’
‘What about chiropodists?’
‘Nothing so far, sir.’
‘Well, keep looking.’ Feeling he’d been rather churlish, he added, ‘You’re doing a good job.’
Which is a damn sight more than I am, he thought, as Gaines left the room. Perhaps his first theory was right and Symmonds really was a bigamist using a false name. After all, it was possible to obtain forged identity cards and ration books. Presumably, Symmonds had taken his with him when he’d disappeared, and whoever’d killed him - if he was killed - had removed them. It was certainly worth checking. Gaines could do that, too, with or without the help of Ballard. Really, Stratton thought, I ought to issue a warning; after all, it was against the rules, but what the hell. He’d probably have done the same if he were in Ballard’s position. Actually, there was no ‘probably’ about it - he’d have had a pop at her, all right, and bugger the consequences.
He wondered what would happen to the deed box. Would Machin, after consulting SDI Roper, conveniently ‘lose’ it? Christ, talk about one law for the rich . . . Bollocks to that, thought Stratton. There had to be some connection between Mabel Morgan, Sir Neville and the corpse in the church, not to mention Marks and Wallace - and the sooner he discovered who the dead man actually was, the clearer it would be.
THIRTY-SEVEN
As the car turned the corner, Diana, sitting in the back with Forbes-James, saw Bletchley Park for the first time. It was a late Victorian mish-mash of different styles - a rotunda, Dutch gabling with pineapple-shaped finials, black-and-white mock Tudor timber and crenellations. The architect, whoever he was, had obviously been told to lay it on with a trowel. On the right side of the house was a stableyard with a clock-tower, and on the left, a green painted, prefabricated wooden hut. There seemed to be an awful lot of building work going on - men in overalls and flat caps were everywhere, sawing planks on the lawn in front of the house before carting them off to a messy-looking site of half-erected structures on the far side of the brick outbuildings.
Diana had expected the car to be met by a soldier, and blinked in astonishment when she caught sight of Phyllis Garton-Smith, with whom she’d done the season, hurrying towards them. Phyllis was clad in civilian clothes - blouse, skirt and pearls - and behaved as if the pair of them had simply motored down for a weekend house party. ‘Wonderful to see you, darling! Admiral Candless is expecting you, sir,’ she told F-J. ‘I’ve been asked to show you around - or rather, not, because one isn’t allowed to see anything. I’ve no idea what’s going on over there,’ she waved an arm in the direction of the building work, ‘except that they keep demolishing perfectly nice flower beds and putting up these wretched huts.’
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Diana, when F-J had been escorted away by a WREN.
‘Filing clerk. It’s priceless. Uncle Tony got me the job. I haven’t the first clue what it’s all about. No-one has, really - at least, no-one I know. Isn’t it a hideous house?’ Linking her arm in Diana’s as they went into the entrance hall, she continued, ‘Jeanie’s here, too - Sally Monkton’s sister, you remember - and Merope Wright, and . . .’ Diana listened with half an ear as she took in the decoration and the Italian marble pillars, and caught sight of elaborate panelling and ornate ceilings as they passed various once grand rooms, most of which were now partitioned at odd angles with boards. It wasn’t so much a house party, she decided, more like an Oxford College she’d once visited - if you ignored the teleprinter and the various women rushing about the place. Besides these, the house seemed to be full of slovenly middle-aged schoolboys, clad in tweeds and baggy flannels.
‘They’re all geniuses, or so I’m told,’ Phyllis murmured. ‘They seem quite mad to me, but one gets used to it. I saw one chap take his tea down there,’ she gestured out of the window towards a large duck pond, ‘and when he’d finished, he looked at the cup in amazement, as if he’d absolutely no idea how it got into his hand, and threw it into the water. Quite extraordinary. Anyway, how are you, darling? I hear you’ve been having a high old time in London, you lucky thing ... Is that lovely man your boss?’
‘Yes,’ said Diana.
‘It’s all right, darling, I know I’m not supposed to ask questions. Even if I did, I don’t suppose I’d understand the answers, but they’re terrifically fierce about it. When I arrived, they told me I’d get sent to the tower if I ever breathed so much as a word. Anyway, it’s all frightfully important. I expect you’re gasping for a cup of tea, aren’t you?’
‘I am, rather.’
‘We can get one in the mess room. They don’t really like us in there, but they don’t ask too many questions.’ She led Diana into a room full of armchairs, where two men, one wearing a mackintosh, were playing ping-pong. Both were leaping about, scarlet in the face, and each time they hit the ball - which didn’t seem to be very often - they would shout a number (‘317,811!’ ‘514,229 - Prime!’ ‘832,040!’) that bore no relation whatsoever to the score. ‘Genius at play,’ whispered Phyllis, settling her in an armchair by the window. ‘Or they could be working, one can never really tell. Anyway, they’re quite harmless. Shan’t be long.’
Left alone, Diana tilted her face to the thin October sunshine. Listening to the faint chattering of the teleprinter and the clatter of the ping-pong ball on the table, she wondered how long F-J would be closeted with Admiral Candless, and whether it would be one of the boffins now prancing in front of her who would be given the job of translating their coded message into something intelligible.
I should never have told Claude, thought Diana. She’d cursed herself afterwards for her weakness, but at the time ... He’d been so kind, coming round to the flat with brandy, and calming her down. All the same, she thought, I should never have let him take me to bed. It must never, ever happen again. So far, she’d managed to avoid him, but they were bound to run into each other sooner or later, and then ... Diana massaged her temples. It was all very well to make such a resolution while sitting here in a comfortable armchair and feeling reasonably at peace, but what would happen when she saw him again?
Reporting back to F-J, which she’d done first thing on the Saturday morning, had helped to improve matters, and so had his assurance that he’d arrange for her to be transferred to another department. Telling him about Apse, though, had been just as excruciating as she’d feared. He’d asked several times if she were sure about what she’d overheard, but hadn’t - thank goodness - pressed her for any details. As Claude had predicted, his attitude had been one of resignation.‘The whole thing’s a bloody nuisance,’ was what he’d said. ‘Does anyone else know?’
‘No,’ Diana had replied. ‘At least, not to my knowledge.’ Fortunately, F-J had taken her obvious discomfort for embarrassment (which it was, partly), and not as evidence of lying. ‘You didn’t hear any mention of it at the Right Club? Anything that didn’t make sense at the time?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Unfortunately, it remains a possibility. The first thing to do is get some sense out of that message. You’re coming with me. Don’t worry, I’ll deal with Apse - I shall tell him I’m borrowing you to cope with a backlog of paperwork. That’ll solve the immediate problem.’
‘Here you are.’ Phyllis presented her with a cup of tea, ducking to avoid a wide shot from the ping-pong table. ‘Look out!’ Both men started violently, as if they’d just noticed that there were other people in the room, and the one in the mackintosh came over to retrieve the ball from behind Diana’s chair.
‘Your lovely boss should be out in a minute,’ Phyllis said. ‘The Admiral’s terribly brisk. He’s so used to bellowing orders at people on great big ships that he’s forgotten how to talk normally. The billeting officer’s found your Colonel a room at The Bull in Stony Stratford - he’ll be dining with the Admiral first, of course - and you’re coming with me. It’s just outside the gates - a hostel - but you meet the most wonderful people. There’s a girl in my corridor from the East End, and you’ll never guess ...’
Diana drifted off again, staring out of the window and thinking about Apse. Perhaps his air of self-satisfaction wasn’t merely to do with who he was, but also because - thus far, at least - he’d successfully concealed not one, but two secrets from everybody. Although surely the strain of not being what you appeared to be would make you worried, not smug? It would me, she thought. I’d be terrified all the time. Unless, of course, one actually relished the danger, as she suspected Claude would if he really was a double-agent.
Phyllis nudged her arm, and she looked round and saw a WREN standing beside them. ‘Follow me, please.’
F-J and the Admiral were standing on the lawn, admiring the duck pond. After a few moments conversation, F-J told Diana to meet him at quarter to nine the following morning, and they departed. ‘You poor darling,’ said Phyllis, ‘you must be shattered. Come on. There’ll be time for you to lie down before dinner if you like. We’re going to the Hartleys’ - old friends of Ma and Pa - terribly sweet. I go there for baths.’
The following morning Diana, feeling exhausted, presented herself at Bletchley Park. The Hartleys had indeed been terribly sweet, and the hot bath had been lovely, but they seemed to regard her as an authority on everything that was going on in London and wouldn’t stop asking questions, and then Phyllis had wanted to stay up half the night chattering.
She was taken to a large room filled with long tables covered in grey, army-issue blankets, where F-J was sitting with three others, one of whom was the mackintoshed table-tennis player from the previous day. Beside him was a little chap with a flat face that made her think of a barn owl, who blinked at her in surprise, and a younger man with protruding teeth. F-J made introductions. ‘Professor Upjohn’ (mac), ‘Professor Ingersoll’ (owl-man), ‘and Mr Matthews’ (teeth). ‘This is Mrs Calthrop.’
All three men leant forward as Diana put her copy of the coded document on the table in front of them. After studying it for a moment, Professor Upjohn said, ‘You’re not sure of the language of the plaintext?’
‘Plaintext?’ Diana looked at F-J for enlightenment.
‘The language of the concealed message.’
‘Oh, I see. English or German, I should think.’ Diana realised she didn’t actually know whether Apse spoke German, but had simply assumed it.
‘Those are the most likely,’ said F-J.
‘Can you be fairly sure it comes from this particular organisation? ’ asked Upjohn, as the other two pored over the paper.
‘I believe so,’ said F-J, who must, Diana thought, have explained about the Right Club before she arrived. ‘But not necessarily. It might have been obtained from another source.’
‘And you don’t know what that source might be?’
‘An embassy, perhaps. I’ve spoken to our chaps in London about it, and it doesn’t appear to be anything official. Not from us, anyway.’
‘Is there,’ Professor Upjohn asked Diana, ‘any particular key you think this Right Club lot might have used?’
‘Key?’
‘A word or phrase.’
‘Well ...’ Diana remembered the horrible silver brooch Mrs Montague had given her. ‘PJ, perhaps. It stands for Perish Judah.’
‘That’s J - U - D - A - H?’
‘I suppose so. I’ve never seen it written down.’ Beside him, Professor Ingersoll began writing rapidly in a notebook.
‘Nothing else?’ said Upjohn. ‘Names, that sort of thing? Books? Poems?’
‘The founder, Peverell Montague, or Protocols of the Elders of Zion or something like that, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well ...’ Diana considered. ‘There’s a rather nasty little verse that Montague wrote. I could write it down for you, if you like.’
‘Please.’ Upjohn pushed a piece of paper towards her, and Diana began writing:
Land of dope and Jewry, Land that once was free, All the Jewboys praise thee, While they plunder thee.