“Oh, then you can tell me all the secrets of his past,” Mavis said.
Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I get it. You and she . . . you sly dog.”
“We’ve only just met,” Ben said. “But I did ask her out to the pictures.”
“Tell you what,” Jeremy said, “why don’t you bring her to my party on Wednesday?” He turned to Mavis. “I’ve just moved into my parents’ flat in Mayfair, and I’m going to celebrate my freedom with a flat-warming party.”
“Mayfair? How grand.” Mavis’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, Ben. I’d love that.”
“Can you get time off?”
“You bally well know I’m going to work it somehow. Even if I have to take awful shifts for a month.”
“Then let me write down the address for you,” Jeremy said. “We’ll have fun. The old man has a good cellar, and I plan to work my way through it.”
“Spiffing,” Mavis said. “I’m glad you have such interesting friends, Ben.”
“Interesting?” Jeremy gave a mock frown. “How about handsome, dashing, debonair?”
“Those too,” she said.
“Are the Sutton girls coming?” Ben asked, trying to sound casual.
“Just Dido and Pamma. Livvy is too old and stodgy, and Feebs is too young. It was quite a job persuading Lord Westerham to let Dido come up to town. They keep her on such a tight leash.”
“Probably with good reason,” Ben said, and Jeremy grinned.
“There are going to be titled people there?” Mavis asked, her eyes wide now. “Crickey. You’re not a lord or something, are you?” She turned to Ben.
“Just plain mister,” Ben said. “Jeremy’s father is a sir.”
“But I’m also just plain flight lieutenant,” Jeremy said. “And I haven’t even told you my name yet. Jeremy Prescott. And yours is?”
“Mavis,” she stammered it a little. “Mavis Pugh.”
“There you are, Jeremy. You’ve bowled the poor girl off her feet,” Ben said.
“So if you’re a flight lieutenant, why aren’t you flying?” she asked, sounding bolder now.
“I escaped from a stalag in Germany recently and managed to make my way back home. I was shot and in rather bad shape. I’m still supposed to be recovering, but I didn’t want to sit at home doing nothing, so they’re letting me work at the ministry.”
“I thought your face was familiar,” she said, her eyes glowing now. “I saw your picture in the papers. The girls here were talking about your escape.” She looked at Ben. “Were you also a flyer once?”
“He was in a plane crash caused by my bad piloting,” Jeremy said quickly. “I feel guilty about it every day of my life.” He paused, then added, “And the offer still stands to get you a job at the Air Ministry, old chap. You’d have legitimate cause to visit Mavis often.”
“As tempting as that sounds, I don’t think you’ll find it’s that easy to switch around in wartime,” Ben said. “And I am playing my part where I’m working right now.”
“Well, I’d best be getting back to town,” Jeremy said. “I’ll see you two at my party, then?”
He picked up the package, gave Mavis a wink, and strode out of the room.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Bletchley Park
Pamela and Froggy Bracewaite were back at the big house, studying transcripts.
“It’s interesting that they don’t always use the same pieces of music, don’t you think?” Froggy said. “I mean they always sign on with Beethoven, but then they have a selection of German composers between news and commentaries.”
“Probably only reminding the world how superior German culture is,” Pamela said.
“But I think we should identify and study each of the pieces chosen. Maybe the notes spell something out. Maybe it’s the fourth movement of the third symphony or something, and those numbers signify dates?”
“I think you’re chasing at straws,” Pamela said. “If they want to send messages to German sympathisers or agents in Britain, they would have to be brilliant to work out things like that.”
“Unless they have codebooks. Maybe Bach means one thing. Handel another.”
“But we don’t have their codebooks,” Pamela said. “I wonder if MI5 knows more about this. We’re shut out here, sworn to secrecy, and we have no idea what other ministries or departments know or don’t know. I think we should ask Commander Travis about this.”
“Maybe,” Froggy said doubtfully.
When Pamela went back to her room that night, she opened a drawer to put away the items she had taken with her while camping out, and she paused, frowning. Someone had been through her things. She distinctly remembered leaving her one good pair of nylon stockings wrapped in a handkerchief so that there was no chance they would catch on something and get a run in them. And her diary—she was sure that had been under her spare nightdress.
Trixie arrived while Pamela was sitting on her bed, considering this. “Oh, you’re back in the land of the living,” she said. “Are you finished with night shifts?”
“For the moment, I think,” Pamela said. “I say, Trixie, you didn’t borrow my stockings, did you? I wouldn’t be angry if you did, but it’s just that they aren’t where I put them.”
“I jolly well did not,” Trixie said. “You know me better than that, Pamma. If I want to borrow something of yours, I ask.”
“Then someone has been snooping in my drawer,” Pamma said.
“Mrs. Entwhistle, obviously,” Trixie said. “I always thought she looked like the type who was a snoop.”
“I don’t know what she hoped to find, unless she gets a thrill from reading other people’s diaries,” Pamma said.
“Why, is your diary full of juicy details?” Trixie grinned.
“Absolutely not. It’s about as boring as you can get. Yesterday we had cottage pie, and it was raining. That kind of thing. I never was the type to spill my innermost thoughts on paper.”
“Neither was I,” Trixie said. “Too many prying eyes in my house when I was growing up. With two younger sisters one had to be very careful.”
“The same with me,” Pamela said. “Well, I don’t suppose it mattered that Mrs. Entwhistle looked through my things. I have nothing worth stealing. But it does feel a little creepy, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe we could set a trap for her and catch her out,” Trixie suggested. “You know, a letter in German, or a photo of Adolf Hitler with the message ‘Meet me at midnight, mein Liebling.’”
Pamela laughed. “You are awful, Trixie.”
“Well, she’s a horrid cow. She steals our ration coupons and keeps the good food for herself. She deserves what she gets.”
Next morning, Pamela and Froggy discussed whether it made sense to repeat their actual listening out at the wireless receiving station. Neither wanted to admit defeat. “We could take it in turns,” Froggy said. “I could go out there for one day, and then you could. I don’t see any reason to stay overnight. I think I could bicycle six miles, and you could get one of the RAF guards to run you over there and back.”
“I suppose so,” Pamela agreed. “Anything’s worth a try at this stage, isn’t it?”
After Froggy had gone, she paced around the table, staring down at the transcripts and their notes. Music. And now messages home from our boys in Germany. Names. Addresses. Should she try to check that these were real prisoners of war with real addresses? She went to ask Commander Travis how they could look into this.
“That would be a job for MI5,” he said. “I’ll get on the telephone to them and have them send someone over. Worth following up on, I agree.”
Pamela went back to work, and that afternoon was informed that someone from MI5 was on his way up. Pamela smoothed back her hair and hastily applied some lipstick. There were rumours about the dashing chaps in the secret service. She knew that MI5 dealt with counterespionage, while MI6 sent out the spies abroad, but all the same, it must be dangerous dabbling in the grey world of spying. There was a tap on her door. In what she hoped was an efficient voice, she called, “Come in.” The door opened, and the last person she expected to see came into the room.