The Scandal At Bletchley (Hilary Manningham-Butler Book 1) Page 24

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I pride myself I am not a coward, but imminent death is a difficult concept to grasp with equanimity. I swallowed hard and tried not to grip my hands together too tightly. ‘I understand,’ I said, keeping my voice as level as I could. But the blood was draining from my face. ‘Better for me to do it. It wouldn’t be fair to ask anyone else.’

  ‘Smith volunteered, but I wasn’t having that,’ the Colonel said grimly. ‘Two bullets left in there. Should do the job nicely.’ He leaned in. ‘But listen, Butler.’ His eyes glistened mischievously. ‘I’m not really expecting you to blow your own brains out.’

  ‘I...don’t understand.’

  ‘There may be a way out of this. But it’s not going to be easy.’

  I didn’t know what to say. ‘I’m listening.’

  The Colonel kept his voice low. ‘I had a quick discussion with Lefranc and my man Hollis. It’s obvious that the Smiths won’t be satisfied unless justice is seen to be done. So justice is exactly what we’re going to give them.’ He gestured to the revolver on the table. ‘I’m going to leave the room in a minute. When I’ve gone, I want you to pick up the gun, fire a shot into the air and then lie down on the floor over there. We’ll leave it a few seconds, then Lefranc and I will come into the room. The doctor will examine you and confirm that you’re dead. Then we’ll get a stretcher, cover you over with a sheet and my men can carry you out to the van and put you in with the other bodies. Couldn’t be simpler!’

  I was speechless. ‘You would do that, for me?’

  The Colonel nodded. ‘It’s not an ideal solution, Butler. It won’t be easy for you. You can never go back to your wife or see any of your friends. You’ll have to start everything over again from scratch.’

  I shrugged. ‘Better than the alternative, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, quite. My men will drive you down to London. We can put you on a train for Dover. Lefranc has kindly given up his ticket to Calais this evening. The ferry leaves at eight o’clock sharp and we can have you in France by half past nine.

  I was overwhelmed. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Don’t say anything. You’ll need a disguise, though, and a fake passport. Don’t want anyone recognising you on the train! Lefranc suggested we put you in a frock. A wig and some glasses, should do the trick.’

  I almost choked. I didn’t realise Doctor Lefranc had such a well developed sense of humour. ‘I don’t think I’d make a convincing woman,’ I said, managing to keep a straight face.

  The Colonel eyed me critically. ‘Neither do I. But it’s only for a day or two. With a bit of make up on, you’ll pass well enough. Lefranc will come back with me to London later this afternoon, when we’ve finished up here. We’ll get some proper documents sorted out then and the doctor can bring them across the Channel and meet up with you later in the week. We’ll give you a whole new identity, a clean slate. Do you have any preference for a name?’

  I shrugged. I couldn’t think of anything, off the top of my head. ‘Just something bland. Nothing ostentatious.’

  ‘Righty-ho. How are you for cash?’

  ‘I can probably get by for a day or two.’

  ‘Capital! That’s settled then. We’ll have to announce your death, of course. Arrange the funeral etc.’

  ‘Ah. Right.’ I didn’t like the sound of that.

  ‘Has to be done, Butler. We’ll need a decent cover story, too. Did you tell anyone you were coming up here this weekend?’

  ‘I told my wife. But I just said Buckinghamshire. And I think my maid Jenny saw the invitation, but not the address.’

  ‘Good. We’ll find a hotel somewhere and say you stayed there for the weekend. Don’t want you dying in Bletchley Park at the same time as Sinclair. Let’s say Wolverton, shall we? I’ve heard that’s quite pleasant. I’ll get someone to drive your car over there and you can die peacefully in your sleep this evening.’

  ‘Lord.’ This really was going to happen. ‘What will you tell my wife?’

  The Colonel didn’t blink. ‘Undiagnosed heart condition. Could have happened to anyone. We’ll think of something.’

  ‘I don’t think she’ll be too upset, as long as there’s no scandal.’ I chuckled briefly, imagining her reaction. ‘She’ll probably make quite a merry widow.’ Society, for some reason, had a greater tolerance of widows than it did of married women. ‘Do you really think you’ll be able to keep all of this quiet?’

  ‘No choice, Butler. Everyone knows the form. And I’ve covered up bigger secrets than this before now.’ That I could believe. ‘Once you’re safely dead, Mr and Mrs Smith will keep mum. They’ve given me their word. They may not be the most charitable of people, Butler, but they know their duty. As do we all.’

  I nodded. ‘One question I do have, Colonel. If it’s not a little impertinent.’ There was one loose end I was dying to tie up.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘What did Harry do for you, to get you to rescue him like that from the French police?’

  The Colonel smiled apologetically. ‘Need to know, I’m afraid. Can’t go into details, old chap. You know how it is. But an enormous service, during the War. And no matter what he’s done since then, we owed him a debt of gratitude.’

  ‘I’m going to owe you a favour, after all this.’

  ‘I may well hold you to that.’ The Colonel rose to his feet. ‘Well, better get on with it, eh? Try not to breathe too much when we carry you out. The Smiths will be watching.’

  I stood up and shook the old devil by the hand. ‘I can’t believe you would do all this. For me.’

  ‘You’re family, Butler. We look after our own. And you deserve a second chance.’ He moved towards the door. ‘Oh, try not to damage the light fittings when you pull that trigger. Lady Fanny would never forgive me.’ He was on the verge of barking out that familiar laugh, but restrained himself at the last moment. Now was not the time. He closed the door quietly behind him and I was left all alone.

  I picked up the revolver from the table and cradled it in my hand for a moment. If only I had left the damn thing back in London. It was my own greed that had got me here. I should have told Harry what to do with his fifty quid. Ah well. Life was like that. Elizabeth would not miss me. But I would miss her. And I would miss Harry too.

  There was no point dwelling on the past, however. A new life beckoned. Not the light fittings, the Colonel had said.

  I aimed the Newton at the top of one of the armchairs and squeezed the trigger. A bullet tore through the leather and smacked into the bookcase behind, obliterating a first edition of Boswell’s Life of Johnson. I almost fired a second shot as a reflex action, but I managed to stop myself in time. One bullet was probably sufficient.

  My life was over. I was dead at long last.

  A cool breeze wafted in through the glass doors of the Café Rohan. An elderly customer shambled through the entrance and took up his regular place at a table opposite the main till. I could feel the chill on my legs as the cold air circulated across the room. The sooner I could get back into a decent pair of trousers the better. After a lifetime living as a man, I couldn’t get used to wearing a skirt. My legs felt so exposed. And as for the shoes...

  I gazed out across the square. The Palais Rohan stood opposite the café, an imposing Romanesque edifice competing for attention with the rather more gothic Cathédrale Saint-André across the way. I tapped my fingers irritably. I had received a telephone call the previous evening at the Hotel de Ville. Doctor Lefranc had arrived in Paris and was calling to tell me he was on his way with the new documents at long last. We’d arranged to meet up at Friday lunchtime on the Place Pey-Berland – the square I could see through the café window now – but the doctor was running late.

  A surly French waiter came over and pointedly removed my empty cup. I had no choice but to order another coffee. It was foul stuff, but marginally more attractive than the tea. I like to be broad minded, but the Frogs just don’t know how to brew tea proper
ly. My French was limited to a few words and, as none of the locals could be bothered to learn English, there was no point trying to describe the correct procedure. Easier just to drink their foul coffee instead.

  It had taken a couple of days to get to Bordeaux from London. That had been the easy part of the journey. The first hundred yards between the library at Bletchley Park and the back of that large green Austin 12 had been by far the hardest.

  Doctor Lefranc had rushed into the library after I had fired my shot. The Colonel and a couple of his men followed him in, making sure the door was quickly locked behind them, so nobody would notice the absence of a large hole in my forehead. I laid myself decorously across the floor and kept my eyes closed, for form’s sake. After a few minutes, a stretcher was brought into the room. I was loaded onto it and covered over with the ubiquitous white sheet.

  Doctor Lefranc leaned in closely to me as the stretcher was being lifted. ‘I will see you again, Madame,’ he whispered mischievously.

  The journey through the hallway to the van was the longest of my life. I had to stop myself from holding my breath, for fear that I might suddenly let it all out in one tremendous burst. Instead, I concentrated on trying to keep my stomach level. I could picture in my mind all the guests standing outside, immobile like the griffins, or perhaps like the MI5 officers, gazing solemnly at the Colonel’s men as they loaded me into the back of the Austin with all the other corpses. I fancied I heard a woman crying, but perhaps that was just my vanity. None of the house guests at Bletchley Park could feel any more wretched and humiliated than I did at that moment.

  Sharing a rather cramped green van with four dead bodies was a picnic in comparison, even if one of them was my own dead valet. Poor old Hargreaves, I thought. It was hardly the ending he deserved.

  We made good time to London. Once there, I was smuggled into an apartment block and some clothes were provided. A photograph was taken for the passport. The Colonel’s men had a good laugh when they caught sight of me in my wig and skirt. ‘I don’t fancy yours much,’ one said to the other. There were a few mocking whistles. One of them passed me the doctored passport. I shuddered when I saw the name on the front of it: Miss D A Kilbride. We were in Dottie’s flat. A drab, spartan set of rooms in an unfashionable district of London.

  The clothes I had borrowed from the deceased were equally drab. But the point was not to draw attention to myself and that I seemed to manage with little effort.

  The officers dropped me off at Waterloo Station and from there I caught a train to Dover. By eight o’clock, I was on the ferry to Calais.

  That had been five days ago.

  I took out my pocket watch again. The Colonel had promised me my new documents in a couple of days but so far they had not arrived. Now I was running out of money. I didn’t even have enough cash to pay for the coffees, let alone my hotel bill. Doctor Lefranc was my last hope.

  And there the little man was, limping slightly but hurrying across the square, his short, plump frame a welcome sight in the drab November afternoon. He caught sight of me in the window and waved a friendly hand. I was surprised he recognised me. But then, of course, he had seen me dressed as a woman once before.

  The waiter plonked down another cup of coffee as Lefranc pushed through the glass doors and another gust of wind assaulted my nether regions. I will never get used to wearing a skirt.

  ‘Sir Hilary,’ Lefranc gushed, extending his hands and coming forward. ‘It is good to see you. I am sorry I am late. The trains were delayed.’ He gazed down at my drab feminine clothes. ‘You are looking delightful, Madame.’

  ‘Don’t you start,’ I growled, gesturing for him to take a seat.

  ‘They suit you very well.’ His eyes flashed in amusement. ‘You have worn women’s clothes before, have you not?’

  ‘Yes, when I was pregnant. But that was just a smock. You can get away with dressing like a country bumpkin when you’re blown up like a weather balloon. But this...’

  Lefranc frowned. ‘A “bumpkin”?’

  ‘Never mind.’ I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. It was difficult to believe these clothes were actually designed for someone of my shape. They were ridiculously uncomfortable. It was the stockings that were the killer. The fastenings were so damn fiddly. And I couldn’t get used to dressing myself. ‘The sooner I get shot of these bloody clothes, the better. I need to find myself a new valet.’

  ‘Or a ladies maid,’ Lefranc teased.

  ‘A valet,’ I insisted. ‘I’d have offered that fellow Jenkins a job, if circumstances were different.’

  ‘I believe the Colonel is planning to take him on. Subject to the appropriate enquiries, of course. He will want to be very careful this time.’ A new valet would have to be thoroughly vetted. They didn’t want another murderer running loose, after all.

  The waiter was standing over us. He had taken note of the new arrival and stood poised with his notepad.

  I growled. ‘Un café, sivousplate.’

  The waiter shuffled away. ‘You are learning the language.’

  ‘Barely. How did things go at Bletchley? Did the Colonel manage to keep on top of everything?’

  ‘I believe so. People will not talk. They know how important it is to keep everything quiet.’

  ‘Didn’t see anything about it in the papers. Not that you can get English papers out here.’

  ‘There were a few obituaries for Mr Sinclair. One for you as well, so I understand. But nobody asked any awkward questions. I believe the press have bigger concerns this week.’

  ‘I’ll say.’ The stock market in America had finally come crashing down on Tuesday 29th October and the papers were having a field day. Even I had been able to translate the horrified headline on the front page of Le Figaro. Any hopes Mr Smith had of saving his business were in tatters. But Mary Smith, I had no doubt, would stand by her husband. More fool her.

  The waiter returned with the doctor’s coffee. Lefranc took a sip and winced. ‘Mr Sinclair was buried yesterday afternoon. Your own funeral is scheduled for ten o’clock this morning.’ The doctor glanced at his wrist watch. ‘It will probably be over by now.’

  I frowned. I didn’t like to think about that. ‘Whose body will they use?’ The undertakers had to put somebody in the coffin. ‘Not my man Hargreaves, surely?’

  Lefranc shook his head. ‘No. Your valet will be buried separately. And not for some days yet, I am afraid.’

  ‘Oh?’ That was a little strange. ‘Why the delay?’

  ‘The Colonel thought it might seem odd if the two of you died at the same time. But a cover story has been prepared. Officially Mr Hargreaves is still alive.’ The doctor smiled sadly. ‘But he suffered a stroke after discovering your body at the hotel in Wolverton. He will thus be unable to attend your funeral. And, of course, he is not expected to recover.’

  I nodded. ‘What about the coffin?’

  ‘As I understand it, Mr Townsend’s body will be used, in place of your own.’

  That sounded sensible. ‘So how did Elizabeth take the news? About me, I mean.’

  Lefranc shrugged. ‘As well as can be expected, Monsieur. The Colonel says there will be a good turn out at the church. Even Miss Young will be there, paying her respects. Sir Vincent was not happy about that, but the young woman insisted.’

  ‘That was kind of her.’ I smiled. ‘Lord, I wonder what Elizabeth will think, having some East End girl turning up to my funeral?’ My wife was even more of a snob than I was. I grinned at the thought. Good old Lettie.

  ‘She will not draw any undue attention. As far as the press is concerned, she is simply there as a companion of the Colonel. His niece, in fact.’

  I sighed wistfully. ‘I wonder if I’ll ever bump into her again.’

  ‘It is unlikely, Monsieur, but perhaps not impossible. Monsieur. Madame.’ Lefranc smiled. ‘You confuse even me. I think you make a better woman than you would like to admit.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ The fellow was deranged. ‘As soon
as I have the new documents it’s back to normal. Life as an ageing flapper is too damn complicated. You do have the new documents?’

  ‘But of course.’ Lefranc reached into his jacket and produced a small brown envelope. ‘The Colonel has also provided a little currency to tide you over.’

  ‘That was thoughtful of him.’ Now that I was separated from Elizabeth I would have no regular income. It was a horrifying thought, but I might actually have to find a job.

  I took the envelope and saw with gratitude that there was quite a hefty wad of French Francs in there. All with MI5 serial codes, no doubt. ‘You’ve done me proud, Doctor Lefranc,’ I said, flipping the currency through my fingers. ‘Not just this. Everything. For keeping quiet about...well.’ I gestured to my clothes. ‘All of this. You could have blabbed to the Colonel. Especially when you discovered I’d killed Anthony Sinclair.’

  ‘It was not my business, Monsieur.’

  ‘Even so, I’m grateful.’ I sat back in my chair. ‘You know, now that Hargreaves is dead, you’re the only person in the whole world who knows the truth.’

  Lefranc’s moustache twitched slightly. ‘Perhaps not the only one.’

  I frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I could be wrong, Monsieur but I have the strangest feeling Sir Vincent Kelly also knows.’ He raised his hands. ‘Oh, I have not said a word. But I think he knows. I think he has always known.’

  ‘Good lord.’ The thought had never occurred to me. My father had got me the job at MI5. Perhaps he had tipped Sir Vincent the wink, all those years ago. Could that be the reason the Colonel had let me go? He had always been rather protective of the ladies.

  Lefranc took another sip of coffee. ‘I could be wrong, of course. It does happen occasionally.’