“Why not indeed,” Knight echoed.
“Apart from those, there are two foreign artists who have recently come to live in a converted oast house. One claims to be Danish, the other Russian. They seemed to be a little too self-absorbed to be spies, but there was one thing—there was a piece of artwork on the wall that the Russian claimed as his own, but it was actually from another well-known artist.”
“We’ll do some checking,” Knight said. “Foreigners have to register, so it should be simple to find out. Is that it?”
“Only a Jewish surgeon from Vienna, who is staying with our local GP. There are naturally rumours about him because he speaks with a German accent. But he was telling me about being persecuted in Austria. Again, he came to this country recently so should be easy to verify. Oh, and an Austrian land girl who is going out with one of the soldiers. That could be an easy way of getting information.”
Knight looked up from the paper. “And what about local gossip? Anything juicy there?”
“People seem to think that the parachutist was a German spy, probably come to spy on Biggin Hill Aerodrome.”
“Good work.” Knight folded the sheet of paper. “So what next?”
“I take it that the place in the photograph hasn’t been identified yet?” Ben asked.
“Not yet.”
“Then I have a couple of suggestions,” Ben said. “I mentioned that the numbers on the photograph could refer to a date in history and the Wars of the Roses. There were two major battles, one on the Welsh border and one in Yorkshire. I wondered if I should take a look at the battle sites and see if they resembled the terrain in the picture.”
“By all means,” Knight said. “No stone left unturned, eh?”
Ben hesitated. “Would I be entitled to travel vouchers, official reason for travel, that sort of thing?”
“Absolutely not,” Knight said. “This office does not exist, Cresswell. Nothing leaves this office that can be traced back to us. Keep track of your expenses, and we’ll reimburse you.”
Ben stood up. Clearly, he was being dismissed. He wanted to ask about Guy Harcourt—to drop a hint that he knew Guy was also some part of Knight’s stable, but he thought that protocol probably required that nobody claimed to know anyone else.
“Oh, and Cresswell,” Knight said. “You don’t have to stint. Stay somewhere decent. Treat yourself to a good meal for once.”
Ben paused at the doorway, turning back to Knight who had swivelled his chair to face the vista along the Thames.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but I couldn’t help wondering if the bomb had anything to do with the other incident.”
Knight swivelled back. “The parachutist, you mean? What are your thoughts on that?”
“I’m not sure what to think, but when two separate enemy actions take place within a few yards of each other, one has to wonder if they have something in common. So it did occur to me to wonder if the parachutist had been sent to assassinate somebody, and having failed, the house was bombed.” He paused as Knight said nothing. “I know it sounds absurdly outlandish, but . . .”
“Not at all,” Knight said. “Do you think Lord Westerham or any of his daughters would be worth the risk of sending down a parachutist to kill them?”
“Frankly, no, sir.”
Knight took a deep breath. “I think it’s most likely that they now have the house pinpointed as an army base. Not too hard to spot the army vehicles in the front garden, even though they do have camouflage over them. So maybe this was a warning bomb that they know the West Kents are headquartered there, and they will be back.”
“Yes, sir. That’s the conclusion I came to.”
He turned to go again.
“On the other hand,” Maxwell Knight said. “There is something you should know about Lord Westerham’s family. I don’t think it could have any connection to our parachutist or the bomb. However . . . Lady Margot Sutton has been taken by the Gestapo in Paris.”
“Crikey!” Ben blurted out before he realised how juvenile that sounded. He felt the colour drain from his face. “They’ve taken Margot? Because of her French lover?”
“Possibly,” Maxwell Knight said. “Also, possibly because she was one of ours.”
“A spy? Margot was a spy?”
“In a very minor sort of way. She went to the embassy, while it was still in operation, and asked that since she was stuck in Paris, could she be of any assistance. She was given a secret radio and passed messages along the chain. If they have found the radio, they will probably torture her and then shoot her.”
“Is there to be no attempt to try and get her out?” Ben asked.
“Being arranged as we speak,” Knight said.
“Sir, I’d like to volunteer to be part of that mission,” Ben said.
Knight actually grinned. “I admire your pluck and your loyalty, but I suspect that if your leg was working properly, you’d be up flying a Spitfire by now. Can you really see yourself clambering over Paris rooftops, shinning down drainpipes and running from German soldiers, firing over your shoulder as you go?”
Ben opened his mouth to speak, but Knight went on, “And for that matter, can you see yourself calmly slitting the throat of a sentry on guard? It takes a particular type of chap to be able to carry out assignments like that. That’s why we leave it to the commandos. They are trained.”
“Does her family know any of this?”
“No, and you are not to tell them until the mission is conducted satisfactorily. If it is not, we will decide on the right time and place to inform them.”
Ben nodded. “Might I ask that you let me know how the mission went?”
“Possibly. We’ll have to see.” He waved at Ben. “Go on. Off you go on your quest, then.” As Ben left the office, he noticed that Maxwell Knight’s secretary, Joan Miller, was as smartly dressed as if she were going for a meal at the Savoy. Grey silk and pearls, and a touch of makeup.
“You look very nice today, Miss Miller,” he said.
She smiled. “Why, thank you, Mr. Cresswell. I have a date with some important gentlemen. One has to look one’s best on such occasions.”
As Ben came out into the fresh air, he shook his head. There was always an Alice in Wonderland–like quality about visiting Dolphin Square. He found himself wondering if either of the people there were real. He also found himself wondering if his assignment was of any value.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
At Bletchley Park
On Sunday evening, Pamela caught the train back to Bletchley. Jeremy had offered to drive her.
He had just driven her home after an evening at a pub on the banks of the Medway. It was a romantic setting, but the food left much to be desired. The cod was like leather, and the cabbage boiled to a grey mass. They had laughed about it and compared it to the food at Nethercote.
“Must you go back to work?” he asked.
“Of course. It was quite out of order to allow me a week when we are so shorthanded, but I was suffering from the effects of too many night shifts and didn’t really get a proper break last Christmas.”
“Then we’ll go together. I’ve got to go up to town, anyway. I have to see the quacks at Barts to make sure my gunshot wound has healed nicely and that I’m fit to report back for duty.” He must have noticed the look of alarm on Pamela’s face. “Oh, not back to flying, old thing. Much as I wish, I don’t think I’ll be allowed in an aeroplane for a few more months. But they say they’ll find something for me at the air ministry. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. From what you and Ben say, they only allow you to do the routine stuff. I want to be able to plot the courses for bombing raids or interpret aerial photographs.”