“But still only doing the boring stuff, like me,” Trixie said. “When will they realise that we women are capable and could quite easily take on code breaking like the men?”
“Only if they ever become desperate, I suppose,” Pamela said. “Actually, there are some really brainy chaps here, so I understand. Absolute maths whizzes. I wasn’t bad at mathematics, but there was no way I’d ever daydream about new ways to solve algebraic problems and have numbers dancing around in my head like some of these boys.”
“Some of them are half-barmy, if you ask me,” Trixie said. “That chap who took me to the pictures. He made a weird sort of humming noise at the back of his throat and kept tapping his foot nervously, and he never got any farther than sliding his arm around my shoulder. We’re probably the only normal people here.”
Pamela was about to say that she was working with a chap she’d danced with as a deb, but then remembered that even such trivial matters had to remain secret.
A gong sounded. “I suppose we’d better go down and face the supper,” she said. “I’m rather afraid I smelled fish boiling.”
“Oh no, not her dreaded boiled fish,” Trixie said. “At least she couldn’t overcook Spam. Do you think we dare sneak out and go have a sausage roll and a pint at the pub?”
“What, and incur her wrath and be served the most gristly bits of stewed meat forever? Have you noticed that she always gives that creepy man, Mr. Campion, the best bits?”
“Of course, I have. She fancies him. But, unfortunately, he doesn’t fancy her. I mean, darling, who would?” She gave a bright laugh. Then she became serious again. “There have to be better digs somewhere nearby. I’d ask my family if we have any connections around here, but I can’t reveal where I am. I shall be furious if I find an aged uncle is living five miles away in a stately home and eating pheasant three times a week.” She slipped her arm through Pamela’s. “All right. Let’s go down and face the music, or rather face the boiled cod. Then we’ll go and get that pint. My treat.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
At home and abroad with Ben
Back home after his visit to London, Ben felt uncomfortable about searching Miss Gumble’s room. It wouldn’t be too hard, he realised. She’d likely be with Phoebe, giving her lessons during the morning. But all the same, there was a tremendous risk: Everyone in the house knew him. If he bumped into any member of the family, he’d have to come up with a reason for being there and possibly be taken into the house for tea. If he were seen going up the steps to the flat over the stables, he’d have to explain himself. Then his father came into the room, looking up in surprise to see Ben there.
“Oh, you’ve come back. I thought you were off to London?”
“Just for a meeting,” Ben said. “In fact, I have to go away for a few days. Up north.”
“What on earth would you be doing up north?” his father asked. “I thought you worked in an office.”
“Oh, I do. I do,” Ben said hastily. “But I’ve been asked to deliver some papers personally to a research station. You can’t be too careful these days. Mail could be intercepted.”
“Really? Surely not. The British post office is a reliable institution.”
“You never know, Dad. German sympathisers are supposed to have infiltrated all over the place.”
“That’s just scaremonger talk. I believe it’s put out by the enemy to drive fear into our hearts. Make us suspicious of each other. Think that Germans are landing every day. You know half the village believes that the poor man whose parachute didn’t open was a German spy. Utter rubbish. He was wearing an English soldier’s uniform. I saw him myself. A tragic accident, that’s what it was.”
“Probably,” Ben said. “So I’ll be gone for a couple of days, then I may be coming home again, maybe not, depending on my department head.”
Reverend Cresswell looked around. “Now I’m trying to remember what I came in here for. My mind is like a sieve these days. Oh, I know. Book on birds. There’s an owl’s nest in that big elm, and I rather think it’s a screech owl. I caught a glimpse of it at twilight, but I wanted to be sure.”
A brilliant idea came to Ben. Miss Gumble’s telescope. He could ask to borrow it for his father. Perfect. He packed an overnight suitcase ready for his trip, then cycled over to Farleigh. As he rode up the drive, he had to pull over to the side while a convoy of army lorries drove past, and the enforced wait brought back his doubts. If he asked Miss Gumble to borrow her telescope, she’d probably go and get it for him. She wouldn’t want him in her room, especially if she had something to hide. But if he went up to her room without her permission and was seen, she’d hear about it and there could be a fuss.
“Damn it,” he muttered. He wasn’t cut out to be a spy. He thought of those chaps who were being sent to rescue Margot Sutton from the hands of the Gestapo and how stupid he must have sounded volunteering for such a job. Margot must have nerves of steel to be receiving and delivering radio messages in occupied Paris. He remembered he’d always been a little in awe of her—she was several years older than Pamma and sophisticated and glamorous, even as a teenager. But surely it had always been Pamma who was the brave one, the one who climbed trees and accepted dares. He felt a great wave of relief that it wasn’t Pamma who was in Paris now, waiting to be rescued. Because the chance of a successful rescue from German headquarters in an occupied country must be pretty slim. It was likely that they’d all end up dead. He wondered if Lord and Lady Westerham could have any idea that their child was in such danger and how difficult it was that everybody had to keep secrets.
The last lorry in the convoy passed. Ben continued his ride up to the house. He saw that panels of plywood were being unloaded and carried up the steps. Presumably repairs for the roof. The place was busy with soldiers, which enabled him to slip past unnoticed and reach the stable yard. He went up the steps and tapped on her door, just in case she wasn’t at lessons with Phoebe. Then he tried the handle and pushed. The room seemed to be locked.
“Damn,” he muttered and put his shoulder to the door. It swung open, and he was in Miss Gumble’s room. His heart was beating fast as he looked around and saw the telescope lying on top of one of the piles. A radio. That’s what he was looking for. And any incriminating papers. The room was tiny, and he went through the piles of books and her few possessions quite quickly. But no sign of a radio.
He certainly hadn’t seen a radio among her things in the stable room. He wondered if he dared go up to her turret to see if there might be a radio hidden there somewhere. An excuse, that’s what he needed. He remembered that he’d been wearing his dinner jacket. Yes, that would work. He went back around to the front steps, into the house and up the two flights to the top floor. Nobody stopped him until he came to the spiral stair leading to Miss Gumble’s turret. Several soldiers were trying to manoeuvre a sheet of plywood up the narrow stair. One of them turned to see Ben.
“Can I help you with something, sir?” he asked. “As you can see, we’re rather occupied up here now, and I’d appreciate it if you went downstairs again.”
“It’s just that I was the one who rescued the lady from that turret room,” he said. “And I was wearing my dinner jacket, and I lost one of my gold cuff links. So I wondered if I might take a quick look. It has rather a sentimental value.”
The officer nodded. “Of course, sir. Hold up, men. Let the gentleman past.”
Ben hurried up the stair. The room was a sorry mess with plaster lying across the floor and blackened stains on the walls. It still smelled of smoke. Ben picked his way around, examining under the bed, the window seat, looking for any loose floorboards, but found nothing. He was forced to retreat. If she had a radio, either it was well hidden or she’d spirited it away.