“He’s not of their class, sir. And not influential enough. Small-fry. They wouldn’t be interested.”
“If they had a particular job for him to do, they might.”
Joan Miller nodded. “And you didn’t tell him that we have Margot Sutton safely back in England?”
“Not yet. I’m uneasy about that one, Joan. The whole rescue was too damned easy. I think they were letting her get away. And the question is why.”
Ben couldn’t shake off the feeling of unease as he walked from Dolphin Square to Victoria Station. Was he being used for something? As bait, perhaps? He took the tube to Marylebone Station and then the overground train out to Buckinghamshire. He got out at Marlow, and then found he had to wait for a local bus to take him to the village of Medmenham, about three miles away. Again he experienced that feeling of unreality as he looked at the Thames, sparkling beyond Marlow’s spruce little shops. There was even a rowing boat being skulled along the river. Nothing seemed to have changed here. It was amazing that somewhere so close to London could seem unaffected by war. The bus came at last, and he rode through leafy countryside where cows grazed in lush meadows. From the village he followed Joan Miller’s directions to a former stately home and had to undergo three rounds of security before he was sent to the operations room. The former ballroom was now filled with tables, each one covered in maps. He was surprised to find many of the people poring over the maps were women—young women, many of them dressed in the blue uniform of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. He waited, and a girl in civvies came over to him. “Hello,” she said. “Mr. Cresswell? We were told you were on your way. It’s a bit remote, but not bad digs here at all, is it?”
“Not bad at all.” He returned her smile. She had a round, pleasant face and bouncy curls, a little like a grown-up Shirley Temple. Curves, but not fat, Ben noted.
“You’ve come about the photograph?” she asked. “Sorry. We’ve been overwhelmed recently, and I haven’t had too much time to spend on it. It’s been all about locating German factory sites and railway-goods yards. Can I get you a cup of tea?”
“Oh, no, that’s not necessary—” he started, but she cut him off.
“Oh, come on. Be a sport. If we have visitors, we’re allowed to open the biscuit tin!”
“All right, then. How could I refuse?” They went through to a small kitchen. She poured tea and took down the biscuit tin from the shelf. “Go on. Help yourself,” she said.
“Only if you’re allowed to have one, too.”
“Not really, but who’s counting?” She flashed a wicked grin again and picked up a Bourbon biscuit. Ben took a custard cream. “One of the perks of working here,” she said. “We have to entertain visitors.”
“So you haven’t had time yet to work on the location of the photograph?” he asked.
“I’ve done some preliminary stuff. The problem is that we don’t have many aerial photographs of England, especially not of the remote western bits that aren’t crucial to the war effort. So it’s working from an ordnance survey map, and that is more tedious going. We’re looking for where the contour lines are close enough together to indicate a steep hill and which steep hill has a river about a half mile from it and a church on it. And as soon as I’m getting into it, I get called back because new photos have just come in from Germany. Is this terribly important?”
“It could be,” he said. “I don’t know what they told you, but a parachutist, who was almost certainly a German spy, fell to his death in a Kentish field, and the only thing he had in his pockets was this photograph. So we need to know why it mattered.”
“Oh, golly. How exciting. Of course. I’ll do my best. Stay late.”
“Thank you. It’s good of you—?” He left the query hanging.
She smiled. “It’s Mavis. Mavis Pugh.”
“I’m Ben,” he replied. “Pleased to meet you.” He wasn’t sure whether he should shake her hand.
“Do you work in London?” she asked.
“Most of the time, yes. They send me out on errands like this. Are you billeted down here?”
“Not billeted. I live with my mum in Marlow, worse luck. She’s a nervous sort, so it does rather cramp my style.”
“Do you get up to London ever?”
“You bet,” she said. “The moment we have a day off, I’m up to London on the next train. Why, were you about to ask me out?”
“I was thinking of it.” Ben blushed. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually so fresh with a girl I’ve only just met.”
“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” she replied. “One has to take one’s chances in a war like this. We’re all so horribly aware how often one of our RAF pilots doesn’t come back. You can be chatting with a bloke one day, and the next you hear he’s been shot down. So grab life while you can, that’s become my motto.”
“How about the pictures sometime, then?” he asked. “Cinema, I mean, not what you’re doing here.”
“I love the pictures.” She flashed a smile at him. “Clark Gable. He’s my favourite.”
“Do you get regular days off?” he asked.
“Not really. But I get quite a few evenings free, when I’m on early shift like this. It’s not that far to pop up to town, is it?” She paused, smiled at him again. “So let’s make a date, shall we?”
“The only thing is I don’t know if I’m supposed to be back at work in London now or still running around the countryside. I’ll have to let you know.”
“You’re not giving me the brush-off, I hope? Is there someone else?”
“No, absolutely not. And nobody else.”
“That’s good, then. I must say I rather fancy going out with a chap who is not going to be shot to pieces the next day. Reassuring.”
“I suppose we should get back to work and take a look at that photo,” Ben said. “Do you have a telephone at home where I can ring you?”
“I’d rather you left a message for me at work,” she said. “My mum is too inquisitive, and she’s likely to invite you for tea, and then pepper you with embarrassing questions. She means well, I suppose. She wants to keep me safe when nobody can be kept safe.”
“All right. Give me the work number.”
He followed her to her table, and she wrote it down for him. A blown-up copy of his photograph was pinned next to a map. As he bent to look at it, Mavis’s name was called.
“Mavis, do you have those photos ready yet? The man from the ministry is here for them,” a large woman wearing sergeant’s stripes called across the room, giving Ben a disapproving glance.
“All ready to go, ma’am,” Mavis called back. She turned back to Ben. “Just let me hand these over to the bloke from the ministry, then I’m all yours.” Her double meaning was quite clear. As she started for the door, it was pushed open and a man in an RAF uniform came in.
“I’m here to collect . . .” He began. He looked at Mavis, then at Ben.
“Good God, Ben,” Jeremy said. “What on earth are you doing here?”
When Ben recovered from his shock, he realised that he should not be surprised to see Jeremy. After all, he had told Ben that he would be working at the Air Ministry until he was fit to fly again.
“Hello, Jeremy,” he said.
“But what are you doing here?” Jeremy asked. “You don’t work for the Air Ministry, do you?”
“No, but I was sent to pick up a photograph here for one of the bosses.”
“Amazing coincidence,” Jeremy said. He turned to Mavis. “This chap and I were best friends growing up. And to meet him here of all places.”