The Scandal At Bletchley (Hilary Manningham-Butler Book 1) Read online

  The room fell silent as the Colonel escorted me into position. I seated myself next to Professor Singh, but Sir Vincent remained standing and began to address the company. If this was a court of enquiry, then the Colonel was definitely one of the barristers, though whether he was acting for the prosecution or the defence I couldn’t yet tell. It was obvious, however, which side the jury was on.

  Mrs Smith sat with pursed lips directly opposite me, her disapproval evident without a word being spoken. The vicar of St Mary’s had chosen this particular Sunday to deliver a sermon on the subject of the Ten Commandments, and there was an evangelical gleam in the woman’s cold, pretty eyes.

  Goodness knows how many Commandments I had broken in the last twenty-four hours.

  John Smith was seated next to his wife, his attention flicking between me and his insufferable home counties bride. The two had clearly had words about the diamonds, but it looked as if the Yorkshire man had been forgiven. I doubted Mary Smith would feel quite as charitable towards me.

  A public confession of guilt is the purest form of agony it is possible to inflict upon a man. Or a woman, come to that. I don’t like making speeches at the best of times, but the audience here was far from friendly. Few of the guests wanted to meet my eye. Even Lettie Young was gazing into her lap, biting her lip sadly as I recounted the circumstances of my fateful encounter with Anthony Sinclair.

  John Smith wanted clarification of the nature of the argument between us. Harry was altogether too forthcoming. ‘So you’re a bloody pervert as well as a murderer,’ Mr Smith concluded.

  Doctor Lefranc could have spoken up at this point and revealed the whole truth. He knew far more about me than anyone else and he must have guessed the rest of it by now. A woman masquerading as a man had killed another man to protect her secret. Everything else had come out, why not reveal that too? The doctor held his tongue, however – though I was past caring – and did not contradict the official story. Being a sodomite was accusation enough, a terrible crime by the standards of the day, though I haven’t the foggiest idea why. More fuel for Mrs Smith’s disapproval. I swear the damn woman took pleasure in being offended.

  Doctor Lefranc corroborated some parts of my story and freely admitted drawing the wrong conclusions about Harry Latimer. ‘I am very sorry, Monsieur,’ he said, addressing the American directly. ‘It appears I have misjudged you.’

  Harry shrugged. ‘It happens, old man, it happens.’

  He had also been mistaken about the Colonel, of course, and here the doctor was profuse in his apologies. Luckily, Sir Vincent was not a man to bear a grudge.

  ‘Don’t give it another thought, old chap.’

  I too had got the wrong end of the stick, if not about the Colonel then at least about Harry. How many years had I known him? Ten? Fifteen? Yet I had happily believed him to be a murderer. I had even pulled a gun on him. Lord, what had I been thinking?

  When at last my account drew to a close – repeating once again everything Townsend had told me about the murder of Dorothy Kilbride – Mr Smith immediately poured scorn on the whole story. ‘I’m not going to take the word of a sodomite and a self-confessed murderer,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘It wasn’t murder!’ Lettie Young spoke up suddenly. ‘Don’t you bleedin’ well listen? It was an accident. An argument that got out of hand!’ The young woman met my eyes at last, the whisper of a smile on her ruby red lips. She had accepted what I said and was coming to my defence. ‘You stupid pillock,’ she added, for good measure.

  ‘Don’t you speak like that to my husband!’ Mrs Smith snarled.

  ‘I’ll speak how I bleedin’ well like, you toffee nosed cow.’

  ‘Jonathan. You’re not going to let this music hall trollop speak to me like that?’ Mrs Smith rose to her feet.

  ‘Ladies, please!’ the Colonel implored.

  A throat was cleared at the far end of the table. All eyes turned abruptly to Lady Fanny Leon. The authority of the woman was absolute. It might as well have been the Queen Mother sitting there. ‘You are all guests in my house. I would ask you to behave with the appropriate respect.’

  That silenced even Mary Smith. Lady Fanny was a woman of few words, but when she spoke everybody listened. Mrs Smith returned to her seat and her husband placed a reassuring hand on her arm.

  ‘We have heard Sir Hilary’s account of events,’ Lady Fanny continued. ‘Sir Vincent, do you have anything to add?’

  The Colonel nodded. ‘Thank you, Lady Fanny. Just one thing. I believe Butler has told us the truth. My man Townsend was responsible for the murder of Dorothy Kilbride. He was also responsible for the death of Butler’s valet.’

  Doctor Lefranc was in full agreement.

  ‘As for Townsend’s demise, that was his own damned fault.’ The Colonel had little sympathy. ‘As far as I’m concerned, Butler here can only be blamed for the death of Anthony Sinclair.’

  ‘Make’s no difference,’ said Mr Smith. ‘Even if it’s just one person, he’s still a murderer.’

  ‘That may well be true. But there are bigger issues at stake.’

  Harry Latimer knew just what the Colonel was driving at. ‘It was your valet who murdered your secretary.’

  ‘Quite right,’ the man admitted. ‘Which doesn’t reflect very well on me. As head of the Security Service, I should have known what was going on. Rather poor judgement on my part. No two ways about it.’

  That was something Mrs Smith could agree with ‘An honourable man would resign,’ she suggested acidly.

  ‘You’re quite right my dear. And in ordinary circumstances, that is exactly what I would do. I’d be more than happy to retire and pass on the reins. But now isn’t the time for a change in leadership. If I stepped down, especially if there was some kind of scandal, the current administration would use it as an excuse to wind up the Security Service altogether. They’d transfer everything over to Special Branch or merge it all under one roof with the SIS.’

  ‘That would not be wise,’ Doctor Lefranc thought.

  Professor Singh nodded his agreement.

  ‘No, it wouldn’t,’ the Colonel said. ‘I happen to believe MI5 serves a vital role in the smooth running of this country. We keep people safe in their beds. But to be brutally frank, ladies, gentlemen: if I go, the institution goes with me. That’s not idle boasting. It’s my own damned fault – taking on too much, becoming indivisible with the whole show. Britain needs MI5. But if this gets out, the Security Service is finished. We’ll be a laughing stock. And before we know it, the wolves will pounce.’

  ‘So it is necessary for everything to be kept secret.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it, Lefranc. No one can ever know what happened here this weekend. Not one word can be allowed to get out. And everyone here has to agree to keep that secret.’

  Felicity Mandeville Jones was frowning. ‘It will be frightfully difficult, Sir Vincent. Four people have been killed.’

  ‘I realise that, my dear. But we’re professionals here. We’ve all signed the Official Secrets Act. If anyone can keep this quiet, we can.’

  ‘What about the servants?’ the girl asked.

  Lady Fanny had no concerns there. ‘I will see to that, Miss Jones. No one in my employ will breathe a word of this to anyone.’

  That I could well believe. Nobody in their right mind would risk provoking the wrath of Lady Fanny Leon.

  Mr Smith remained sceptical. ‘How are you going to cover up the death of Anthony Sinclair? He was on the phone to his office. They know he was here. And I was on the phone to my Mr Butterworth just this morning’

  ‘I did ask everyone not to use the telephone,’ the Colonel said testily. ‘We’ll transfer Sinclair back to London this afternoon. He came here for the weekend at the invitation of Lady Fanny, but was taken ill and died on the way back to London.’

  ‘There’ll have to be an inquest though,’ said Mr Smith.

  ‘I have a couple of tame coroners in London who will rubber stamp anything th
at needs rubber stamping, if they believe it is a matter of national security.’

  ‘What about Miss Kilbride? And your valet?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll say Townsend has gone to visit his sister in Ireland. He can stay there to nurse her. Dottie...well, she can die somewhere else in a few days time. Don’t worry, gentlemen, ladies. I’ll make sure she gets a decent send off. It’s the least she deserves. And we’ll have a proper turn out from the office. But there’ll be no connection with Bletchley Park.’

  ‘Did Dorothy have any relatives?’ Felicity Mandeville Jones enquired.

  ‘A mother in Stoke, I believe. I’ll break the news as sensitively as I can. As for your man Hargreaves. Butler, do you have any special requests?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not really. Just a proper Christian burial. I’ll meet the expenses, of course. I suppose you ought to inform his aunt. Not that she’ll remember who he is. She’s in a nursing home now.’

  The valet, Samuel Jenkins, was standing over by the window. He had turned away from us for a moment to look out across the lawn. ‘They’re moving Mr Sinclair from the cottage,’ he observed, by way of explanation. Two officers, Hollis and MacLean, were carrying the stretcher across the gravel. The body was loaded carefully into the back of the Austin 12.

  ‘We’re going to take all the bodies up to London,’ the Colonel said. ‘Get them cleaned up. We’ll put the word out about Sinclair later this afternoon. After we’ve informed his wife, of course. Don’t want her hearing it from anyone else, do we Jenkins?’

  ‘No, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘You’ve got it all worked out,’ Mr Smith observed, sounding less than impressed. ‘There’s just one thing you haven’t mentioned, Colonel.’ He nodded his head towards me. ‘What are we going to do about him?’ His eyes mirrored the righteous fury of his priggish little wife. Perhaps they weren’t such a bad match after all.

  ‘He can’t be allowed to get away with murder,’ Mrs Smith asserted bluntly.

  It was left to Professor Singh to inject a quiet note of subversion. ‘Let him who is without sin...’ he whispered.

  Mr Smith glared at the academic. ‘Hey, I’m no bloody saint, I know that. I lied to my wife and tried to cover things up. But she’s forgiven me.’

  Mary Smith smiled tightly. ‘I take my marriage vows very seriously.’ She clasped her husband’s hand on top of the table. ‘I took an oath before God. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health.’

  ‘But neither of us caved anybody’s head in with an iron poker. And I don’t reckon murder should ever go unpunished. Leastways, not in a civilised society.’

  ‘Hey, it wasn’t exactly murder,’ said Harry, leaping to my defence. ‘Just a little fight that got out of hand.’

  ‘I don’t call hitting someone over the head with an iron poker “a little fight”.’

  ‘But it was not a premeditated act, Monsieur.’ Doctor Lefranc was rather better versed in the law than Mr Smith. ‘That means it is manslaughter rather than murder.’

  ‘Aye, well, you can put what label you like on it, it’s still murder in my book. And he has to pay the price.’

  ‘You can’t just decide he’s guilty,’ Lettie Young declared forcefully. ‘We ain’t bleedin’ savages. There has to be a trial. Even I know that. Judge and jury.’

  John Smith shook his head. ‘We don’t need a trial, love. He’s already admitted his guilt. All we need to do is pass sentence.’

  The Colonel cleared his throat. ‘There are some practical considerations here. We can’t exactly throw him in jail.’

  Mr Smith met his gaze. ‘We don’t need a jail, Colonel.’

  ‘Now hang on just one bleedin’ minute...’ It was all too obvious what Mr Smith was suggesting. Lettie Young was horrified.

  I wasn’t too happy about it either. My God, I thought, swallowing hard. They want to string me up.

  The clock out in the lounge hall began to chime the quarter hour. The Colonel raised a hand for silence. ‘A few more opinions might be in order, Smith, before we rush in to anything. What do you think, Miss Jones?’

  Felicity Mandeville Jones considered carefully before answering. ‘It was an awful thing to do,’ she said at last. ‘Anthony was a bit of an ogre, but he didn’t deserve to die like that.’ There were a few nods of agreement.

  ‘Miss Young?’

  ‘Hilary ain’t a bad bloke,’ Lettie said. ‘We all make mistakes.’ She gave me a reassuring smile. ‘I think we should let him go.’

  Harry agreed with her. ‘I guess that goes for me too.’

  ‘You would bloody well say that,’ Mr Smith muttered.

  The Colonel raised a hand to forestall any arguments. ‘Professor Singh? What do you think?’

  The professor cleared his throat. There was a collective groan around the table as the academic leaned forward to speak. ‘The purpose of a judicial system, it seems to me, is to protect society from an individual whose behaviour poses a threat to the well being of others within that community. If possible, it seeks to reform the individual, and in certain circumstances it seeks to punish them, as a deterrent for others who may be considering a similar course of action. It seems unlikely to me that the circumstances of this particular crime will ever arise again. Sir Hilary poses no threat to society and, since he acknowledges his guilt and has expressed regret for his actions, he is not in need of reform. Some form of public retribution might be appropriate in ordinary circumstances, but since any action we take will not be witnessed beyond these four walls, it cannot conceivably act as a deterrent to others. I believe therefore that there would be no benefit in punishing Sir Hilary any further for his crimes. His own guilt will serve to punish him and, I hope, will serve to guide his future actions.’ The professor sat back in his chair with some satisfaction.

  As always, when he finished speaking, there was a moment of confused silence, though Doctor Lefranc was already nodding his head vigorously. He at least seemed to understand what the fellow was going on about. Another one on my side, it appeared.

  ‘Mrs Smith?’ the Colonel asked, anxious to move on.

  Her opinion barely needed stating. ‘An eye for an eye, Sir Vincent. Nothing less will do.’

  ‘Mr Smith?’

  ‘The wife and I are of the same mind.’

  ‘Very well.’ The Colonel looked to the head of the table. ‘Lady Fanny? You have the casting vote.’

  The great matriarch took a moment to consider the matter. ‘I do appreciate the need for secrecy, Sir Vincent. But a crime has been committed and justice must be served.’

  The Colonel nodded. ‘Very well. That settles it. I’m sorry, Butler, but there has to be a reckoning. Menzies, will you escort him back to the library?’ The MI5 officer stepped forward from the doorway. ‘We need a few moments in private to determine the appropriate sentence.’

  ‘Now, hang on a minute...’ I said, rising to my feet.

  ‘I’m sorry, Butler,’ the Colonel told me firmly. ‘We won’t keep you long. But this has to be done properly.’

  ‘If you’ll come this way, sir,’ the officer prompted.

  I looked around the table one last time. Few of the guests would meet my eye. Lettie was struggling to maintain her composure. Harry gave me a sad smile. But it was obvious now what was going to happen.

  The library was as quiet as a funeral parlour. Menzies stood impassively in the doorway, a virtual automaton in a dark suit, though like the Mona Lisa his eyes followed me whenever I moved around.

  The book Professor Singh had been reading lay abandoned on a table near the fireplace. I picked it up. Crime and Punishment indeed. I flung the damn thing onto the fire. The hearth was unlit, but that was beside the point.

  I moved across to the window. I could feel the eyes of the MI5 man watching me as I gazed forlornly across the lawn. The sky was cloudy now and a few spots of rain were beginning to fall. The steeple of St Mary’s Church was barely visible in the middle distance. There were too many trees in the way
to see it properly from this angle. It was too late for redemption in any case.

  I couldn’t blame Mr and Mrs Smith. If Harry had bludgeoned someone to death, would I have defended him? Probably not. I wondered if he would miss me when I was gone. I hoped so. We had had some good times together. The smooth talking rogue.

  A copy of the Sunday Times was lying discarded on the floor. I had fallen asleep having barely glanced at the headlines earlier on. I grabbed hold of the paper now and sat down, flicking through the over-sized pages. Wall Street was still the main topic of conversation. The Yanks had been lucky to survive the week, they said. But I couldn’t really bring myself to care.

  Occasional sounds filtered into the library from the rest of the house, but whenever I looked up I was greeted with that same expressionless face. Where did the Colonel find these men? They could have been waxworks, they were so immobile. Or Beefeaters. I wondered idly if the Crown Jewels were lying unprotected in the Tower Of London this afternoon.

  Half an hour went by with excruciating slowness.

  And then at last, the familiar figure of the Colonel popped his head around the door and quietly entered the room. He was carrying a small briefcase. His face was every bit as sombre as that of the automaton standing to his left. He gestured Menzies away and closed the door quietly behind him.

  I did my best to smile. ‘What’s the verdict?’ I asked.

  ‘Not good, I’m afraid.’ The Colonel came across and sat opposite me. ‘You have to understand, Butler, there are bigger considerations here. If it was up to me, I’d let you go. You did a terrible thing, but you’re not a bad chap.’ He took a deep breath. ‘But others feel, understandably, that a price has to be paid.’ He reached down and opened the briefcase. ‘We couldn’t put you in prison. The Smiths wanted to hang you from the chandeliers. But I managed to persuade them to give you another option.’ He pulled Harry’s revolver out of the briefcase. ‘I’m very sorry, old chap.’ He placed the Newton down on the table in front of me. ‘But you’re going to have to die.’