Chapter Twenty-Seven

I couldn’t move, and I couldn’t turn my head enough to see who had trapped me in the dark and cold of the night. I stood in silence, hoping the killer didn’t think I was smarter than I was.

“It isn’t George. He’s not our man.” I recognized Simon’s voice near my ear.

“I knew that.” I reached up and shoved at his hand on my shoulder, unafraid now I knew it was him. He couldn’t be Aileen’s killer.

“How? He was the one broadcasting in Morse code on shortwave.”

“It was in English, wasn’t it? George doesn’t speak German. And he’s too relaxed. Too easygoing. Does that make sense?” I hoped I could explain it. His grip still hurt through my heavy coat. “You’d expect someone hiding something to be tense. Watchful.” The same as you, I wanted to add.

“Makes sense.” He released his grip and I turned to face him.

“Who was he sending messages to by shortwave?” I asked, although I suspected I knew.

“Some girl in northern England.” I could sense, rather than see, his shrug.

“Anthea. But why in Morse code?”

“He thinks it’s romantic. No one knows what they’re saying but the two of them.”

I laughed. “Or anyone listening in. Why don’t they just get married?” I knew, but I wanted to know if Simon did.

“Their parents don’t approve.”

“George told me about her aristocratic family and his religious family not getting along. But they’re both of age. Why not marry? Instead, they communicated in code over shortwave and nearly got him jailed. Idiots.” I shook my head.

“And made me look as if I were a fool.” Simon sounded furious.

“I told you it wasn’t George.”

“For absolutely no reason.”

“Now it’s been proven by the death of another woman.”

He gave me a hard stare. “Who are you calling?”

I remembered Adam’s words about Simon trying to steal the glory on his investigation, and how Simon went ahead and had George pulled in on very little evidence. I didn’t need him messing up my investigation and letting everyone escape. “No one. I’m waiting for Rosalie while she calls her husband.”

“He’s some kind of an invalid.”

“Yes.” Far be it from me to try to straighten out Simon. I knew I couldn’t trust him. I planned to get the evidence I needed and then pass it on to Sir Malcolm. Then I could be done with murderers, spies, and Simon.

Rosalie hung up and came out of the phone box. “Thanks for waiting,” she said to me.

“No problem. I’ll walk you back, shall I?” Simon said.

Rosalie caught something from my expression. “It’s really not necessary. With Livvy here, I’m sure we’ll both be quite safe.”

“With three you’ll be even safer.”

“It’s going to be a cold walk back,” I said. “And it’s pretty dark tonight. Who’s going to look out for you on the return journey?”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Then why do we need you?” Rosalie asked, using an innocent tone.

“Because another of your housemates just got murdered?” Simon said.

There was no answer for that. Rosalie and I discussed the weather the entire walk. The weather there, the weather in Lancaster, how different weather felt in London. Simon made a few comments on the weather, asked how her husband was—Rosalie said “Fine”—and then he gave up trying to speak to us.

We thanked him as he turned away near the bottom of the drive. Hurrying, we rang the bell in hopes that someone would quickly let us in. Betty opened the door almost immediately.

“Come in quick now, it’s cold out.”

We rushed in and shut the door behind us. “It is horribly cold, Betty,” Rosalie said. “Thank you for opening the door so quickly.”

“I’ve been keeping your dinners warm. Elsie went up a few minutes ago. And once I get you served, I can go up for the night and put my feet up.”

“We appreciate it,” I said before following Rosalie down the hall to hang up my outerwear. When I entered the servants’ hall, I found the rest of the women had finished dinner already and were now knitting and listening to the wireless. The BBC was reporting the news.

Fortunately, there wasn’t any news of interest. News to me would only mean the shooting war had begun.

Dinner, a thick soup of potatoes and odds and ends, was warm, and the bread was crusty. Stale, perhaps, but it was warm and passed for crusty. Rosalie and I ate quickly in silence.

“Are you going to work on your scarf tonight, Olivia?” Marianne asked.

“It’s finished. I’ll turn it in to the WI tomorrow night.” I didn’t mention Rosalie had knitted it for me.

“When do we get to see it?” Maryellen asked.

“Tomorrow night. You’ll be so proud of me.”

“Did you know Simon and George are back? No word of where they were,” Fiona said.

“Lucky things probably got a spot of vacation time or went to a conference in Cambridge,” Gwen said.

“Too short for a real vacation,” I said, “but I heard there was a conference in Cambridge.” There was always a conference in Cambridge. At least when I was a student there.

We’d all gone to Cambridge. Except Aileen who went to Edinburgh, and Fiona and Helen who didn’t go to university. And Gwen had attended the Royal College of Music. Did our university backgrounds mean anything?

Six of us had been vouched for by someone at our university, plus who knew who else. Who had vouched for Fiona and Helen? Fiona had said a commander suggested she apply, and Helen was known to someone in the government who’d used her family to help steal Nazi documents. How carefully were the two of them checked out?

“Was it snowing before you came in?” Helen asked.

I jumped as her words broke into my thoughts.

“No, but it felt cold enough,” Rosalie told her, taking her bowl and spoon to the scullery.

I finished and joined her before Rosalie dried her dishes. “Need anything else?” Rosalie asked in a murmur.

“Only a chance to examine Fiona’s scarf without her looking on. Thanks for not saying anything in front of Simon.”

“You don’t trust him, do you?”

“He goes chasing off after—ideas, and when they don’t lead where he thinks they should, he tries to force them to take him where they don’t want to go.” I tried to find words that wouldn’t say what I suspected we both knew, that Simon and I were in counterintelligence.

“He doesn’t follow scientific method and logic,” Rosalie said.

I gave her a smile. “Exactly.”

Rosalie stopped before she left the scullery. “George is in the clear?”

“Apparently.” I had to ask, “Rosalie, does it seem strange to work in the scullery? You’re a countess.”

“Here I’m just another decoder. Trying to do my bit for Britain.” She shrugged as she walked out of the room. I watched her go, hoping she really meant what she said. I wanted to have her as a friend. I wanted to trust her.

I did my washing up quickly and went back to the servants’ hall, where Rosalie was leaning over Fiona’s shoulder looking at her knitting. “This is really good. I like your pattern,” she said.

“A pattern is regular. That is all over the place,” Maryellen said, not looking up as she knitted.

“This pattern could be extremely long or spread out. A pattern doesn’t have to be every other row,” Rosalie observed.

“I just try it when I feel as if I want to,” Fiona said, sounding defensive. Maryellen had a talent for hurting people’s feelings.

I came over and asked, “What is that stitch called?”

“That’s a moss seed stitch,” Rosalie said before Fiona could answer, pointing at the navy blue scarf, “and that’s a double moss stitch.”

“Are they hard to learn?”

“No,” said Rosalie and Fiona together. “I’m just a beginner myself,” Fiona added, “and I’ve picked it up.”

“I’ll try that, too, on my next scarf,” I said, sounding brave. Sir Malcolm had said I’d be out of here in another day or two. There wouldn’t be another scarf.

I was sorry about that, but I wanted to go home. However not, I told myself, before I caught Sarah and Aileen’s killer.

The fancy stitches appeared every few rows. I looked at the end Fiona wasn’t working on. She’d tried five of the moss stitch the first time, and a few rows later, three double moss stitches.

If it was Morse code, and the smaller stitches were dots and the larger were dashes, then the first two letters would be F, O.

Then Fiona moved the scarf to fold under itself, and I couldn’t read anymore.

FO. Forget? Found? I needed to study that scarf more closely.

I couldn’t do it that evening, no matter how much I tried. I hung around, listening to the musical program Rosalie turned to on the radio while the other women in our billet gossiped about people in their hometowns.

Fiona sat there, saying little as her fingers flew. She must have had a great deal more practice than I had, because my hands moved slowly. She didn’t walk out of the room and leave her knitting behind at any time. She didn’t move until she rose to go to bed along with the rest of us.

I lingered in the servants’ hall while Rosalie and Gwen discussed the piano concerto that was performed last on the BBC program. When I saw Fiona go into the bathroom with her string bag of toiletries, I hurried up the hallway to her door. Looking around, I put my hand on the doorknob. Locked.

Just as I was going to put my key in the lock, I heard a throat clear behind me. I turned to find Maryellen behind me.

My pulse went skyward and my face heated. I forced a smile onto my face. “Good night, Maryellen.”

“That’s not your room.” The accusation of theft hung in the air.

“Of course it…” I glanced around. “Blast. I’m losing my mind.”

Shaking my head, I walked to the next door on that side of the hall and opened it with my key. Maryellen stood watching from the hallway, her arms crossed.

She hadn’t moved as I said, “Good night, Maryellen,” and walked into my room and shut the door.

I had less than twenty-four hours to find and read Fiona’s scarf, to learn whether it was innocent or traitorous, and nosy Maryellen was now alerted to my actions.

I wondered how she’d react if she had my suspicions about Fiona and her knitting. Probably with self-righteous indignation if she believed me. However, I doubted she would believe someone she now thought was against her wonderful Simon.

I wouldn’t believe my suspicions, except I couldn’t find anyone besides a fellow resident of our hall who would have been able to get Sarah to go outside, supposedly alone, on a cold, dark night. Or attack Aileen in our living quarters, since there wasn’t enough room between the building and the evergreens to strangle anyone.

Now that I knew the person who killed Sarah could have slipped back into our wing through the storeroom, in fact could come and go freely at any time, and had dumped Aileen’s body behind the evergreens to the side of the door, I was certain that person was also the traitor. Elsie and Betty weren’t aware of what we were doing at BP. The other women I’d slowly ruled out. The only one left was Fiona, and now I suspected how she passed on her messages and who received them next.

I just needed proof.

* * *

The next morning, in the chaos of seven women getting ready for work and racing to meet the bus on time, I had no chance to see Fiona’s scarf.

I could, however, catch a moment to talk to Rosalie out of hearing of the others. “I’ve got to get back here at lunch time, but it’s too far to walk and there are no taxis in Bletchley that I know of. Do you have any ideas?” I was nearly whispering.

“Leave it to me. But I’ll have to come with you.”

Sir Malcolm wouldn’t approve, but he wasn’t there. “Are you sure you can do this?”

“As Rosalie, no. But for the Countess of Briarcliffe, friend of the Earl and Countess of Haymarket, it should be a piece of cake. Now, go have your breakfast while I work my magic.”

I went to the servants’ hall to have porridge and coffee. A few moments later, Rosalie spoke quietly to Betty and slipped her a note. Betty gave an abbreviated curtsey. I don’t think anyone else noticed, not knowing Rosalie’s title.

Rosalie got extra honey on her porridge before Betty went upstairs. I think Marianne and Maryellen noticed that from the look they exchanged. Maryellen’s eyebrows went almost to her hairline.

I wondered how often they noticed Rosalie get extra or that Betty cleared up after her when she wouldn’t for the rest of us. Most of the time you could explain it away because Rosalie was the last one finished. Unless you knew Rosalie’s secret.

Once we were all ready and hurrying out to the stop to be picked up for our morning ride to BP, Rosalie fell into step next to me. “It’s all set for one o’clock. Marjory will pick us up.” Then she strode ahead.

I wondered who Marjory was.

Marianne looked at the sky with a countrywoman’s appraisal and said, “At least it will stay dry. But it’s going to get colder.”

“Colder than this?” Helen grumbled.

The bus arrived before we all had frozen fingers and toes. I climbed aboard, thinking I didn’t care if Britain turned into the arctic, as long as Marjory showed up with a way for us to get back to Bloomington Grove and return to BP without anyone noticing.