London, May 16th 2010

 

Thrift sat before the desk of Sir Blenheim Finch, who was beaming in an avuncular manner as he read through her report. She was back in proper British attire, a high-necked, floor length dress with underskirts, a complete set of full cut underwear in respectable white cotton, silk and lace, a corset that reached from her neck to just above her ankles, all of which felt reassuringly restrictive.

‘He threatened to do what!?’ Sir Blenheim suddenly exclaimed. ‘With a pear?’

‘It is made of metal,’ Thrift explained, ‘and opens up inside you as the screw is tightened. I believe it was originally a medieval torture device. That was when they were trying to make me turn double agent, by playing Mr Nice and Mr Nasty with me, the Vice-President himself and a man I only heard called Odenas, who threatened to use the pear on me. Of course I recognised the game.’

‘So I should think. Rank amateurs, these fellows, and I must say that you managed to bluff them very nicely. Hot work though, I’d imagine, especially towards the end.’

‘It was rather trying at times,’ Thrift admitted.

‘Damn Frogs!’ Sir Blenheim snorted. ‘Still, all’s well that ends well, eh? You do look a bit peaky though, I must say, and you’ve lost weight.’

‘The French food didn’t really agree with me, sir.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ he grunted, ‘all that cheese and garlic with everything, and snails! I mean to say, who on Earth would want to eat snails? A good big portion of British beef, that’s what you need, my girl, followed by a king-sized helping of spotted dick.’

He’d said it without the slightest hint of a double meaning, making Thrift smile as he went back to reading her report. Presently his eyebrows rose and he gave a grunt of astonishment before speaking once more.

‘You feel you were betrayed? Can you prove this?’

‘I believe so,’ Thrift answered him. ‘The men at the Bureau knew many of the details of my mission in advance, including how I was to enter France. Very few people had that information, really only my father and yourself...’

‘I do hope you’re not suggesting that I...,’ he began.

‘No, sir, not at all,’ Thrift cut in to reassure him. ‘Other people were privy to the facts, or at least sufficient facts to pass on to Quigley, who could no doubt alert the French Bureau. All the traitor really needed to know was that I was going to France. That would include several people, Mr Warburton for example, but I have been down to Records and discovered that one of them was at school with Godfrey Quigley, at Bucklebury College.’

‘Bucklebury, eh? Rotten place. They have girls in the sixth form, you know. I expect that’s what turned Quigley.’

‘What’s more, at Bucklebury he was Quigley’s fag, a junior boy who acts as a sort of servant to a senior...’

‘I know what a fag is, my girl,’ Sir Blenheim interrupted, ‘and you’re right, it damns him with devil a shade of a doubt, in my eyes, but you’ll need proof for the Department.’

‘I should be able to provide that,’ Thrift answered.