“One can’t rule out the possibility, sir, that he was a spy. Wearing the uniform of the West Kents would give him a good excuse to roam around this area, wouldn’t it?”
Colonel Pritchard sucked air in through his teeth. “One hears about such things, but surely they are all rumour.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure there are plenty of fifth columnists around.”
“You think so?” Colonel Pritchard glared. “Englishmen deliberately wanting to work for the Hun?”
“I’m afraid so, sir. If someone needed to contact them, what better way than to parachute a man in on a dark, moonless night?”
Colonel Pritchard stared past him, out across the lawns. He found it hard to believe that this was England, Blake’s green and pleasant land, and yet they were no longer safe at home. Bombs were falling indiscriminately. And now, maybe spies were working among them.
“Send the tags to army intelligence. They can come and take the body. It’s out of our hands,” he said, then looked up as a private approached them, walking fast. He stopped, came to attention, and saluted.
“Begging your pardon, Colonel, sir,” he said, “but I was one of the men sent to get that body today. And at the time, I thought there was something that wasn’t quite right. Then I realised what it was. He still had his cap tucked into his lapel, and the badge was wrong.”
PART TWO
BEN
CHAPTER SIX
Wormwood Scrubs prison
Acton, West London
May 1941
The gate to Wormwood Scrubs prison closed behind Ben Cresswell with a clang of finality. Even though he had been coming and going through this particular gate for the past three months, he still felt an odd frisson of fear when he entered and an absurd sense of relief when he was safely outside again, as if he’d got away undetected.
“Let you out early for good behaviour then, did they?” the policeman on duty asked him with a grin. The joke had now become old, but apparently the bobby still hadn’t tired of it.
“Me? Absolutely not. I escaped over the wall. Didn’t you notice?” Ben replied, straight-faced. “Shirking on the job?”
“Get outta here!” The policeman chuckled and gave Ben a nudge.
MI5’s move to Wormwood Scrubs for security reasons was supposed to be strictly hush-hush, but everyone connected to the prison seemed to be fully aware of what the newcomers who had taken over one wing were up to. Even a bus conductor had been known to announce the stop by yelling down the bus, “All change for MI5.” So much for secrecy, Ben thought while he crossed the street to the bus stop. As the headquarters of a secret service division, the prison had proved to be a dismal failure. The cells they had been assigned were cold and damp; some doors had actually been removed, so it was easy to overhear what was going on in the next room. Furthermore, it was more inconvenient and difficult to get to than the former headquarters on the Cromwell Road.
Recently, part of B Division, responsible for counterespionage, had been moved out to Blenheim Palace in Oxfordshire, where rumour had it that, in spite of being in a stately home, the accommodations were even more primitive than at the prison. Even so, Ben wished he’d been assigned there and was actually doing something useful for the war effort. Since he had been recruited into MI5 a year ago, his spy catching had been confined to following up on rumours and tips in the greater London area. The rumours were nearly always a waste of time. Mostly they were false alarms or a chance to even old scores. A nosy old woman had peeked out of her blackout curtain and seen a furtive man slinking past her back garden. Definitely looked like an invading Nazi. Only it turned out to be the lover of the lady next door, sneaking in while her husband was away. Or a woman suspected that her neighbours were secret German sympathisers because they always played Mozart on their radiogram. When Ben pointed out that Mozart was actually Austrian, the woman had sniffed in annoyance. No difference really, she’d said. Wasn’t Hitler Austrian? And besides, they were always cooking with garlic. You could smell it a mile off. And if that wasn’t suspicious, what was?
Ben turned to look back at the ornate red-and-white brick towers that housed the prison gate. Trust the Victorians to make even a prison look impressive! Then he walked down Du Cane Road to the East Acton tube station. He hoped the tube would be quicker into central London than a bus, but one never knew. One bomb on the line overnight and everything would grind to a halt. His gait was slightly uneven and jerky, thanks to the tin knee in his left leg, but he was still able to move quite fast. Just not able to play rugger nor bowl at cricket. He was about to cross to the tube station when a man came out of the tobacconists with a paper under his arm, stared at Ben, then frowned. “Here, you, son. Why aren’t you in uniform?” he demanded, waving an aggressive finger at Ben. “What are you, a bleeding conchie?”
Ben had faced similar accusations many times since the war began. “Aeroplane crash,” he said. “One leg smashed up and no use to anyone.”
The man’s face turned red. “Sorry, mate. I didn’t realise you were RAF. Shouldn’t have spoken like that to one of our brave boys. God bless you.”
Ben no longer tried to correct anyone. Let them think he was RAF. He would have been, if he hadn’t been in that stupid plane crash at Farleigh. And if he had been? The thought danced around in his head. Shot down over Germany and now languishing in a Stalag Luft like Jeremy? What bloody use was that to the war effort? At least he was doing something vaguely useful in his current job. Or would be, if they’d give him a case he could sink his teeth into.
Ben sighed. The trouble was, the whole country was on edge, fearing the invasion at any moment. He bought his ticket and hauled himself up the steps, up to the platform, as the Underground line actually ran above ground this far out of the city. The platform was crowded, indicating that a train hadn’t come for some time. He squeezed his way close to the line and waited, hoping that it would show up soon and wouldn’t be too full. He had to get to central London in a hurry. For once, he had what might be an important assignment.
“You’re wanted by the powers that be,” his cellmate Guy Harcourt had said with relish when he returned from lunch.
“The powers that be?” Ben had asked.
“The grand pooh-bah Radison himself, no less. Most put out that you had the nerve to go off to luncheon rather than eat a cheese sandwich at your desk.” He was the sort of languid and elegant young man one would expect to find at a country house party, playing croquet with Bertie Wooster. Frightfully good fun, but not too many brains. Ben thought privately that he’d make an excellent spy. Nobody would ever suspect him. They had been at Oxford together, where Harcourt never seemed to do any swotting but managed to pass his exams anyway. They had never been friends. For one thing, Harcourt was too rich, too aristocratic for Ben to be part of his circle, so Ben was surprised when Harcourt had sought him out at the start of the war and recruited him for what turned out to be MI5. They were assigned the same billet at a dreary private hotel on the Cromwell Road and got along well enough.
“I’d hardly call it luncheon,” Ben said. “Do you know they are making rissoles out of horsemeat these days? I’ve had to have the cauliflower cheese three days in a row because the alternatives were too ghastly.”
“Never eat there myself,” Harcourt said. “I pop over to the Queen’s Head on the corner. Beer is nourishing, isn’t it? I plan to survive on it for the duration. I mean to say, horsemeat? These blighters have clearly never ridden to hounds in their lives. You wait, it will be dogs and cats next. Better lock up your Labradors.”