Chapter 59

Inside the Clock

It was only in the darkest, bleakest hour right before dawn that Beth could ever bring herself to contemplate the last name on her list for the position of Bletchley Park traitor.

Giles, a possibility. Peggy, another possibility. The rest of Dilly’s section, suspects every one.

And finally. . . Harry.

Beth squeezed her eyes shut in the blackness of night, pushing down a fit of coughing. Not Harry.

But he had worked Knox’s section from time to time, when they needed extra hands. She could even remember his arguing for greater aid to the Soviets, back in the days when they’d been losing millions to Hitler’s eastern advance.

Harry, a traitor.

It can’t have been Harry, Beth thought, defending him as she had a thousand times. It wasn’t just a cry of He wouldn’t do that to me. Harry had been in the Fleet Air Arm when the traitor wrecked Beth’s life.

But what if he hadn’t gone to the Fleet Air Arm? What if that had only been an excuse, and he’d gone. . . elsewhere? If he’d somehow monitored activity in ISK, or had someone monitoring it for him, when Beth finally cracked that fatal message of Dilly’s abandoned cipher?

Far-fetched. . . but in three and a half years, Harry had never come to Clockwell. When the war ended, she’d pinned her hopes on seeing him come striding through the iron gates. He might not have been able to leave his regiment during the fight, but when the war was over, Harry would have come for her. Even if they’d quarreled before he left, nothing would have kept him away if he’d learned she was here.

They’re going to perform surgery on me, Harry. Beth thought of her silent Go-playing partner, her one friend—taken away for surgery, not returned yet. A lobotomy, like Beth? Who knew? They’ll cut me open, and I don’t know what they’ll do after that. Come get me before. . .

But he’d never come.

So. . . on one extreme, he was dead and had never learned what happened to Beth. On the other extreme, he was the traitor, and he’d put her here, and he didn’t care if she died here.

Beth buried her head in her pillow and wept.

York

“Is this about my piece on Ascot hats? ” Osla cradled the telephone between ear and shoulder, hooking up her stockings. She hadn’t expected her boss from the Tatler to ring her here in York. “I winged it over your desk before I left London. ”

“Yes, I saw it—”

“Can I take a puck at turning it into a sort of upper-crust satire? It’ll be an absolute screamer—”

“No, keep it straightforward. But this isn’t about your piece, Miss Kendall. ”

Osla glanced at the time. If she was late checking out, she’d miss her morning train to Clockwell.

“You asked for a few days off. I think we’d better make your absence indefinite, until after the royal wedding. ”

She felt her jaw tightening. “Scandal rags still got the swithers? ”

“Ringing round the clock for you. Take time away until things die down. It’s not as if the world will fall apart if we don’t have articles on Ascot hats. ”

Osla breathed through her nose. “When can I come back? ”

“Well. . . you’re getting married soon, so—”

“What’s that got to do with it? ” No one ever seemed to believe Osla wanted to work. Maybe fluffy, funny pieces on Ascot hats weren’t exactly changing the world, but after translating so much tragedy at BP, Osla thought the world needed fluff and fun. She loved her job, damn it. “I have no intention of stopping after the wedding. ”

“Is your chap on board with that? ”

Who cares? Osla wondered, reaching for her shoes. I don’t make a fuss who he fizzes the sheets with behind my back; he won’t make a fuss about my job. She issued her boss a few reassurances, rang off, then telephoned her fiancé. No answer, and she put down the handset with a guilty twinge of relief that she wouldn’t have to talk to him, conjure up a story. . .

“You could do better, darling, ” her mother had told her upon meeting Osla’s future husband. “Really you could. ”

No, I can’t, Osla thought now, thumb running over her emerald ring. If Philip had taught her anything, it was not to trust passion. Far better to settle for reality: a job she loved and a friend she liked, even if he called her kitten and was probably gadding the weekend away with some tart from Whitstable.

Hauling her traveling case downstairs, Osla hailed the doorman. “If you’d be a lamb and call me a taxi—”

She stopped. Leaning against a well-maintained old Bentley parked opposite, looking smart in black trousers, enormous sunglasses, and a slouch-brimmed hat, was Mab.

Three Years Ago

May 1944

⇐ Предыдущая 56 57 58 59 606162 63 64 65 Следующая ⇒