Chapter Two

Early the next afternoon, lugging two heavy suitcases, I left the train at Bletchley station and found a middle-aged man in brown trousers and a tweed jacket on the platform. “Mrs. Redmond?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“We’re waiting for one more, and then we’ll walk up the hill. I’m—oh, here we are.”

A young man about my age with two suitcases of his own walked up to us. He wore a heavy gray coat over navy blue trousers.

“Mr. Townsend?”

“Yes.” Townsend smiled and I immediately guessed he was a heartbreaker. He had a square face and twinkling blue eyes that made him appear pleased with all that he saw. All I saw was a grimy railroad station with a tall barbed-wire fence running along the tracks on the opposite side from us.

“I’m Captain Wellesley,” the man in the tweed jacket said. “Ready? Let’s head up the hill.” He started off on a pace I couldn’t keep up with. Mr. Townsend was managing, just barely, to stay with our guide. The captain seemed to forget that both of us were weighed down with luggage.

I finally reached the gate in the forbidding wire fence placed alongside the road to find the two men standing in wait as if they’d been there all day. They looked relaxed, while I felt sweaty and disheveled. Two guards in army uniforms stood inside the gate, grinning.

“Ready, Mrs. Redmond? Good. Go through here.”

We walked down what felt as if it was an impossibly long path around a pond and past some flimsy-looking, squat wooden buildings. Finally, we entered a Victorian manor house that displayed several architectural styles smashed into each other and were led into a small room just inside the main door. Winded, I walked in, dropped my suitcases, and collapsed into a seat. My arms ached from the distance I’d lugged all that weight.

Captain Wellesley gave us a lecture about how revealing anything that we would see, hear, or learn here would put us in jail for thirty years, if we weren’t shot. Everything here was a secret that we had to take to our graves.

I had already been threatened with evil consequences by Sir Malcolm, who was truly frightening. With this man, I wanted to say, “I understand. Now, may I please have a cup of tea?”

Mr. Townsend looked startled at my lack of response.

I noticed neither of us were handed the Official Secrets Act to sign. I wondered when Townsend signed his.

That done, we went to the administration office and received our passes, filled out piles of paperwork, and were told to leave our cases there while we went to tea in the canteen.

Mr. Townsend asked me to join him. We went into a large room, possibly the large drawing room in earlier days, where most of the tables were empty since lunchtime was over. We both chose tea and pasties.

“I’m Simon,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Olivia.” We shook hands.

“Where are you from?”

“London. And you?”

“Cambridge. Jesus College.”

“Did you just graduate?”

“Five years ago. I’ve been doing post-graduate work on mathematical theory since then and lecturing.”

“I was in Newnham College, and I’ve been working for a London daily for the past two years.” My goodness, had it been that long? More than two years, really, since Reggie was murdered and I had to get a job. I took a sip of tea to cover my feelings of sadness.

His face lit up. “That sounds as if it’s an exciting place to work. Which paper?”

“The Daily Premier.”

“I read that. Have I read any of your articles?”

I couldn’t resist deflating him a little. “Do you read the women’s section or the society pages?”

He shook his head, looking a little embarrassed. “Were you an English major?”

“Modern languages. And you studied mathematics?”

“And lecture in it now.”

That made sense, since we were at the Government Code and Cypher School. Math would be a handy thing to study if you wanted to break codes. I gave him a small smile. “Where are they billeting you?”

“With my aunt and uncle. He’s the vicar at St. Stephen’s in Little Rowanwood. And you?”

“In the servants’ quarters at Bloomington Grove.”

“My. You fell into a pot of honey.”

“I doubt the servants’ quarters are a pot of honey.” But they should tell me a great deal about the murder victim.

We soon ran out of neutral topics, finished eating, and headed back to the administration offices. Captain Wellesley reappeared and led us outside. “That is Hut Six, where you both will report tomorrow morning. Now get your cases and we’ll go down to the gate. Your ride should be here in a moment.”

Our ride was an estate car, probably once a shooting brake at some estate, driven by a young woman in uniform who whizzed down lanes much faster than I would have thought wise. It was already growing dark by midafternoon this late in the year and shadows hid the road in places.

This was earlier than Sarah Wycott had been dropped off when she disappeared. Why had she walked off in the dark along an empty lane? I wouldn’t without a good reason. What reason would she have had?

We dropped off Simon Townsend in the center of Little Rowanwood and continued on. The driver stopped at a crossroads a few minutes later. “This is where the bus will pick you up in the morning. The house is just over there.” She pointed down a dark lane to the right.

I climbed out with my cases and she zoomed off.

I hoped she was right about the location of my billet, because I couldn’t see any sign of life in this gloom.

Again, I had a long walk with my suitcases. It was a good thing no one tried to attack me in the darkness, because I was tired and sore and annoyed. I would have killed them.

Finally, I turned a corner in the lane and saw a huge house with lights on ahead of me up the drive. It was almost curfew time. I hoped I arrived before all the lights were blacked out.

As it turned out, I reached the main door shortly after all the blackout curtains had been lowered and any outside lights had been extinguished. The person who answered the door, a young sergeant in army uniform, gave me directions to the servants’ entrance and quickly shut the door. Now I had to get down the stairs and around the side of the house while carrying my cases. In the dark. Without twisting an ankle or tripping over anything.

Somehow, I managed to do it successfully, only to stand at the door in the cold for two minutes. The door was finally answered by a heavy-set woman in a maid’s uniform.

“I’m Mrs. Redmond and I understand I am to be billeted here.”

“Taking Miss Wycott’s room?”

“Yes.”

She opened the door fully so I could get in with my cases. “Down the hall there, third on the left. Facilities are first two doors on the right.”

That sounded as if this would be modern living at least. Until then, I hadn’t thought of the possibility of outdoor facilities. Relieved, I gave the middle-aged woman a smile.

“When you’re ready, we’ll have the kettle on in the kitchen.”

“That sounds wonderful.” I meant it, and my gratitude came out in my tone.

When I walked into the room that had been Sarah Wycott’s and now was mine, I discovered it held a narrow bed, a wooden chair, a small table with a lamp, and a wardrobe. The window was covered with a heavy blackout curtain. I set down my cases and looked in the wardrobe. Nothing had been left. Pulling the chair over, I found there was nothing left on top of the wardrobe but an even coating of dust. Nothing was hidden under the thin mattress.

Not a single clue as to what happened to Sarah Wycott.

I walked down to the servants’ hall and found there was a long farm table and a dozen chairs. I could see a huge kitchen through a doorway. “Is there a chance of a cup of tea?” I asked the two heavy-set women in maids’ uniforms seated at the table.

“Of course. Sit down. The countess says we need to take good care of you girls. Not the way we treat that lot in the main part of the house.”

I saw now the woman who answered the door and had spoken was the younger of the two. She went into the kitchen to pour a cup of tea while the older rose stiffly and went to work at the stove, stirring something that smelled delicious.

“Where is the countess living these days?” I stood in the doorway watching them. I was curious, even if the knowledge wouldn’t help me solve this murder.

“Upstairs. The family, and the two of us, now occupy the first and second floors in this wing. And you’d better believe they moved over the best of the furniture away from those army boys,” the maid said. I had to step back so she could move past me to set a cup of tea at a place at the table.

“I’m glad we haven’t entirely kicked them out of their home. Their dinner certainly smells good,” I added as I sat to drink my tea.

“This?” the cook called out. “Oh, no, this is for you girls and for Betty and me. They won’t eat stew. I’ll roast them a chop and some vegetables later on.”

“If it tastes as good as it smells, they don’t know what they’re missing,” I told her.

The cook smiled at me. “What’s your name? I’m Elsie, and she’s Betty.”

“Mrs. Redmond. Livvy,” I added.

“Your hubby been called up?” the younger one, Betty, asked, sitting down with her knitting. A khaki sock.

“He joined a few years ago. He’s a captain in the army.”

“So, you must be knitting, too. This is for my nephew. He got his call-up papers last month.”

I shook my head. “I never learned.”

“Your mother has a lot to answer for.”

“She died when I was six. It was just my father and me, and a string of housekeepers who didn’t have time to teach me anything like that.”

“Poor mite. Get yourself some khaki wool and needles, and we’ll be glad to teach you.”

“What should I start with?” Everyone was knitting these days for servicemen, either for their own family members or to be delivered by the Women’s Institute.

“Try a scarf first.”

“Hasn’t done Miss Carter any good,” the cook said. “She’s on her third or fourth scarf, and still has mistakes all over it.”

“Just as warm, even if it’s not as good looking. Miss Carter, next room down the hallway from you, has been doggedly trying to learn to knit. With no one in her family to knit for, she turns hers in to the WI.”

“Is it hard to learn?” I’d never tried this before.

“No, but I’ve been knitting since I was a child.”

“Things are always easier to learn as a child.” Maybe I’d try to learn, but I didn’t expect anything.

When our conversation faded out, I asked, “Was Miss Wycott a knitter?”

“Yes. She turned hers into the WI, too. The same as Miss Carter and the Allen twins.”

“The who?”

“You’ve not met your housemates?” the cook asked.

“No.”

“You’ll like the Allen girls. Talk nonstop, but real helpful. Marianne is a year older than Maryellen, but they look the same as twins. Sound identical, too. They’ll make sure you get where you’re going in the morning.”

By the time I finished unpacking and explored my new living quarters, there were several young women talking, laughing, and rushing up and down the hall. I followed the noise to the servants’ hall and found them sitting down at the long farm table. Betty was setting out ten flat bowls of stew with cups of tea and a bread basket. Then she and the cook sat down at one end of the table.

I took an empty seat about halfway down the table and nodded to everyone.

“This is Mrs. Redmond, come to take Miss Wycott’s place,” Betty said. After a redhead glared us all into bowing our heads for prayers, I received several greetings before everyone began to eat the hot stew. It smelled heavenly. It was hot and flavorful, although it was mostly potatoes and cabbage with a few shreds of pork. I found I was famished.

We all complimented the cook, who two different housemates informed me was called Elsie. There wasn’t a break in the conversation for me to tell them I’d already learned her name.

“Is this the time we get back and have dinner every night?” I finally asked.

One of the two identical blondes sitting on the other side of the table said, “Pretty much, yes. Unless you have extra work to finish. Oh, I’m Maryellen Allen.”

Her mirror image sitting next to her farther down the table added, “That’s why we didn’t think it strange Sarah was missing the night she died. She had some work to complete and would have come in after we finished dinner. I’m Marianne Allen.” She looked at her sister and said, “We’re not twins.”

“The bus picks us up promptly at seven-thirty. Breakfast is at seven, so be ready to leave immediately after,” Maryellen said.

“The queue for the wash-room starts at five-thirty,” Marianne said.

“So we knew by seven the next morning something was wrong,” Maryellen said.

“Sarah would never have stayed out all night,” Marianne added. “She was a well-brought-up girl. Her family was chapel.”

Then what was she doing down a country lane, alone, in the dark?