“Did Radison say what he wanted?” Ben asked.
“My dear chap, we’re supposed to be a secret service organisation, aren’t we?” Harcourt asked with a grin. “He’s hardly likely to come in here and tell me what he wants with another agent. There has to be some air of mystery about things.”
“Did he seem annoyed with me?”
“Why, have you blotted your copybook?” Harcourt was grinning now.
“Not that I know of. I was rather short with that chap who wanted his Jewish neighbours locked up as Nazi spies.”
“Better hurry up and see what he wanted, then, hadn’t you? And if you don’t come back, can I have your chair? It’s less wobbly than mine.”
“Very funny.” Ben tried to sound more lighthearted than he felt. He couldn’t think what he might have done, but one never knew. Departments like this were all about the old-boy network, and he didn’t have connections.
Mr. Radison regarded him suspiciously after Ben knocked and entered his office.
“Been out to lunch, have we?” he asked.
“I believe I am allowed a lunch break, sir,” Ben answered. “And I only went to the canteen. Horsemeat rissoles.”
Radison had nodded with understanding then. “I’ve had a message from headquarters. You’re to report to this address on Dolphin Square.”
“Dolphin Square?” He had heard vague rumours about an office in Dolphin Square. Again, nobody was supposed to know that MI5 maintained an office there or whose office it was, but he was fairly sure that it was that of a nebulous character known as Captain King or Mr. K. Someone who was outside the usual hierarchy of the various divisions. Ben felt excitement tinged with apprehension. What could this person want with him? He might have a leg that didn’t always work well, but none of his assignments had required cross-country sprints yet. As boring as his low-level assignments were, he’d fulfilled them perfectly. He had shown himself to be keen and willing. So perhaps this really did bode well—a promotion, a juicy assignment at last.
CHAPTER SEVEN
London
May 1941
Ben snapped out of these thoughts as the loudspeaker announced the arrival of the train, with the warning to stand clear and mind the gap. Doors opened and the crowd surged forward, bearing Ben with them. He managed to grab a pole as the doors closed and the train rattled off. He felt lucky to have something to hang on to; his balance was none too steady, and his bad leg was apt to give way at inconvenient moments. But he made it to Notting Hill Gate Station and changed to the Circle Line to Victoria. The whole journey went remarkably smooth, and he heaved a sigh of relief as he set off down Belgrave Street toward the river. It was a pleasant summery day, warm for May, and Londoners who could escape from offices for a few minutes were sitting at any little square of green they could find, soaking up the sunshine. Dolphin Square rose in front of him, a giant rectangular block of luxury flats. Ben had never seen it before and wondered now how many of those flats were still occupied by rich people who needed a London pied-à-terre. He suspected that anybody who could afford to was staying well away from the Blitz.
There were four big modern buildings around a central quadrangle; the address he had been given said 308 Hood House. He studied the bank of doorbells outside the front door and was surprised to find that 308 was listed as Miss Copplestone. Had he been given the wrong address? Was it someone’s idea of a joke to send him to confront an angry spinster? It was the sort of thing that Halstead might do to liven up a boring afternoon, but the directive had come from Radison, and Radison was the epitome of a civil servant with no sense of humour. With misgivings, Ben pressed the doorbell.
“Can I help you?” said a patrician voice. Ben was tempted to walk away rapidly, but he said, “I’m not sure if I have the right address. My name is Cresswell, and I was told . . .”
“I’ll let you in, Mr. Cresswell,” said the efficient voice. “Take the lift. Fifth floor and turn right.”
At least he was expected. A tinge of apprehension mingled with excitement as the lift rose slowly. He came out to the fifth floor. The hallway was carpeted and smelled of polish, with a lingering tinge of pipe tobacco. He found the flat and saw that Miss Copplestone was also on the doorplate. He took a deep breath before he knocked. The door was opened by an attractive young woman, her well-cut suit and patrician air betraying that in other times and circumstances she would have been a deb and then been married off to a dull young man of impeccable pedigree. For young women like her, the war had presented a great opportunity to escape, to prove that they were good at all sorts of things, not just small talk and knowing where to seat a bishop at a dinner table.
“Mr. Cresswell? Mr. Knight is expecting you. Come in,” she said in a clipped upper-class voice. “I’ll tell him you are here.”
Ben waited, heard low voices, and was immediately ushered into a large, bright room with windows that looked down the Thames to the Houses of Parliament, barrage balloons bobbing over the buildings to prevent low-level bombing raids. The man sitting at a polished oak desk had his back to the view. He was slim and fit-looking, clearly an outdoor type, and to Ben’s amazement, he was handling what Ben initially thought was a length of rope, which uncoiled and revealed itself to be a small snake.
“Ah, Cresswell. Good of you to come.” He stuffed the snake back into a pocket and held out his hand to Ben. “I am Maxwell Knight. Take a seat.”
Ben pulled up an upholstered leather chair.
“Cambridge man?” Knight asked.
“Oxford.”
“Pity. I find that Cambridge produces men who can think creatively.”
“I’m afraid I can’t undo that now,” Ben said. “Besides, Hertford College offered me a scholarship. Cambridge didn’t.”
“Scholarship boy, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And before that?”
“Tonbridge. Also on a scholarship.”
“And yet, apparently, you hobnob with the gentry. You know the Earl of Westerham.”
The statement took Ben completely by surprise. “Lord Westerham?”
“Yes. I’m told you’re quite pally with him. Is that correct?”
“I wouldn’t say pally, sir. I wouldn’t presume to claim friendship, but he knows me quite well. My father is the vicar of All Saints, Elmsleigh, the village next to Farleigh. I grew up playing with Lord Westerham’s daughters.”
“Playing with Lord Westerham’s daughters,” Max Knight repeated with the hint of a smile.
Ben’s face betrayed no emotion. “May I ask what this is about, sir? Has my background anything to do with the quality of my work here?”
“Absolutely, at this moment. You see, we need insights, young man. An insider.”
Ben looked up, frowning. “Insights into what?”
Max Knight’s clear blue eyes still held Ben’s. “Three nights ago now, a man apparently fell from a plane onto one of Lord Westerham’s fields. His parachute didn’t open. He was pretty much a mess, as you can imagine. Face too damaged to get an idea what he looked like. But he was wearing the uniform of the Royal West Kents.”
“They’ve taken over most of Farleigh, haven’t they?” Ben frowned. “But they’re an infantry regiment. Where did the parachute come in?”
“It didn’t. Their commander says that his chaps don’t leap out of planes and are all present and accounted for. The identity disc belonged to a soldier who was killed at Dunkirk, and it turns out that the cap badge was the one the regiment wore in the Great War.”