It was stifling in the theatre and the three little maids were wilting in the heat. Mary slipped in and out of the first Act. With a supreme effort she dragged herself back for the second, ramrod straight, eyes fixed on the stage. Tears of make-up were rolling down poor Nanky Poo’s cheeks. The large man in the seat to her left smelt like a wet dog and she could feel the perspiration on her own face and neck. Her dress was clinging uncomfortably to her back and thighs. On her right, James Henderson was drumming his fingers and tapping his feet with something very like girlish glee. He had insisted on taking Mary out for the evening. Rationing was making a good dinner in London almost impossible, he said, and he had proposed The Mikado at the Savoy Theatre instead. Anxious to avoid anything but the most casual conversation, she had agreed. It was months since she had spent any time in her brother’s company or wanted to, but tonight he was on his best behaviour. During the interval they spoke of the land girls on their father’s farm and of a nurse James was chasing who had coal-black hair and a winsome smile, of Rommel in the Western Desert and the bloody, inexorable advance eastwards into Russia. He did not mention Lindsay and she was careful not to present him with an opportunity to do so.
At the final curtain they emptied gratefully into the Strand, breathing drunken lungfuls of evening air. James took Mary’s arm and marched her without ceremony across the road towards Covent Garden. Supper at a quiet club, he explained, and a chance to talk properly. Resistance was useless because there was plainly something he was burning to tell her: Mary was sure it was going to be something unpleasant. It came in the end with coffee. The club was almost empty but James bent his head a little closer. A choking cloud of his cigar smoke swirled about the table.
‘You know I saw Fleming yesterday and he mentioned your visit to Hatchett’s. He learnt of it from a letter, I think?’
Mary raised her eyebrows in a show of surprise.
‘Please don’t deny it. You were there with a German prisoner.’
‘I have no intention of denying it,’ she said coolly.
He leant even closer, an angry frown on his face: ‘Don’t you understand the risk you were taking? A woman in your position at the Citadel. Special Branch have spoken to me about you and Lindsay. Special Branch. You should show a little more loyalty, you know.’
‘Loyalty?’
‘To the Division, to Winn, to me. I helped you into that job.’ His voice was full of hushed resentment.
For a moment Mary could think of nothing to say. She stared at him, her mouth open in astonishment. Then with cold fury: ‘You pompous idiot.’
She dumped her napkin on the table and got quickly to her feet.
‘I don’t blame you, I blame your bloody boyfriend,’ James stuttered. ‘I got into a devil of a lot of trouble over that note the prisoner gave me for him. Should have gone to Security. You see, he doesn’t understand…’
His last words were lost in a shower of water. Mary had picked up a glass and emptied its contents over him. She heard with satisfaction his sharp intake of breath and the hiss of his cigar.
‘Leave Douglas alone. Do you hear? Leave us both alone.’
Then she turned her back on him and without glancing at the astonished faces to left and right, she walked swiftly from the club. She did not stop walking until she reached Lord North Street. Fumbling for her keys, she could not help smiling at the recollection of her brother goldfishing, a wet strand of hair across his forehead and a dark green patch on his shirt and uniform shoulders. She would feel guilty and apologise in time, in a few weeks or perhaps months.
But it was with more than a little trepidation that she settled at her desk in Room 41 the following morning. She did not expect it to be the last she would hear of Hatchett’s. Winn was going to have his say too. At the top of her in-tray, as always, were the urgent strips torn from the teleprinter run by the secret ladies, the traffic from Station X with its snapshot of U-boats in the Atlantic, the intelligence picture ever clearer.
And in these flimsy decrypts the fear of a change for the worse with a new coded number each week as yet another U-boat finished its work-up and set out on war patrol for the first time. The talk at the Tracking Room plot table was of a doubling of Donitz’s fleet within months, a hundred U-boats operational by Christmas.
It was a little after ten when Geoff Childs touched her shoulder lightly.
‘Rodger would like to see you.’
She glanced past him towards Winn’s glass box. He was staring at her intently and she looked away and up into the thin brown face of Childs who frowned by way of a discreet warning.
‘Sit down, Mary.’
Winn was polishing his round spectacles with his handkerchief. He sounded friendly but businesslike, his jaw set, his lips tight with purpose. The nervous strain of the Atlantic battle was always written deeply in his face. His desk was covered in flimsy signal papers and well-ordered files but Mary knew it would be empty by the end of the day whenever that proved to be.
‘I want you to run a special check on the route of a ship outward bound to Freetown and from there to Egypt. They want me to authorise her detachment from the convoy.’
The ship was the Imperial Star and she was travelling in a well-protected convoy with aircraft parts and carrying some specialist fitters. But she was an old White Star liner capable of more than fifteen knots and the convoy was travelling at half that speed. The Ministry of Shipping was anxious to give her her head, to let her break free and sail alone, unescorted.
‘This is the fourth time they’ve asked me,’ he said, waving a blue message paper at her, ‘four times in four days. But I don’t feel comfortable about it. The hunting has been good for them in African waters and two of the larger Type IX U-boats sailed from Lorient a fortnight ago. They may be somewhere close to Freetown. I want you to check. Go through what we have. Go through it very carefully.’
Winn leant forward to pick up his cigarettes, took one and lit it with a frustrated snap of his lighter.
‘And one thing more.’ His voice was no longer businesslike but severe.
A slow anxious charge tingled down Mary’s spine.
‘What on earth did you think you were playing at? I was this close to having you transferred,’ he said and there was only an inch between his thumb and forefinger.
‘I… I left at once,’ she stammered.
Winn stared at her for a moment, cool, unblinking, appraising. And then with his eyes steady upon her face: ‘Does he know?’
‘Does who know what?’
‘Don’t play games with me, Dr Henderson,’ he said coldly.
‘I am not, Commander Winn. I want to hear you ask me properly.’ And her voice was hard and defiant.
‘Does Lieutenant Lindsay know we’re reading the enemy’s signals? Have you told him?’
‘You know he’s working for the Director, Admiral Godfrey. He’s back in the fold.’
‘Have you told him?’
‘No.’ And Mary shook her head crossly. ‘No, of course not.’
Winn studied her face carefully for a few seconds more, then lifted his cigarette to his lips: ‘Good.’
Later, as she leant over the plot table with her notepad, she wondered at her own cool mendacity. It was wrong, the Bible said so, and yet with alacrity she was becoming a hardened and practised liar. Was it Lindsay or was it the secret world they both inhabited, with its half truths and deceits, that was scratching at her old certainties? She was not a natural rule-breaker and she felt uncomfortable lying to Winn but it had been shockingly easy and it was shocking, too, that it pricked her conscience only a little. But she would need to be careful, very careful.
There was nothing on the Atlantic plot to indicate an immediate threat to the Imperial Star. Homebound SL 76 was attacked on 29 and 30 June by at least two submarines and ships were lost. The U-123 sank another off the African coast four days later. But there had been almost no recorded activity or signals traffic for a fortnight. The black U-boat pinheads were concentrated in the North Atlantic. Mary checked the files for reports of sailings from the French coast and examined the special intelligence for anything that might indicate an imminent threat. The Imperial Star did not appear to be in danger. It was impossible to be entirely sure, even with the benefit of the Germans’ own signals, but perhaps this time Winn was being a little too cautious. It was the middle of the afternoon before she was ready to tell him so. He stomped out of his office to stand at the edge of the plot and she slipped out from behind her desk to join him.
‘And you’ve checked everything?’ he asked.
‘I could ring the Naval Section at Bletchley Park — with your permission, of course. They may have something more on the two larger U-boats that sailed a fortnight ago.’
‘No. That’s fine. We’ve done enough already. I’ll tell Admiral Godfrey I have no objections. The Ministry can release the Imperial Star from the convoy and route her separately.’
Winn turned away from her to lean over the plot: ‘And I hope to God we’re right.’
She spent the rest of the day bent over the latest batch of signals, weather reports from outbound U-boats, convoy sightings, damage reports, a constant flow of small pieces, some to be discarded, some to be fitted into the picture of the battle. At a little before seven Commander Hall from the Trade Division was back to confer at the plot table, then at eight the Director and his entourage. Was Donitz moving his U-boats westwards? Was he supplying them at sea? And what size of fleet would attack convoys to Russia? Godfrey wanted answers to all these questions and more.
But by ten the smoke was beginning to settle beneath the drop lamps once more. Mary was clearing her desk mechanically, her eyes stinging and wet with fatigue. The plotters would be busy with signal bearings throughout the night and the secret ladies would ghost in and out with their pieces of teleprinter paper. In the morning a fine layer of smoke would still be hanging there like mist on the sea’s face in winter. A day that never seemed to end would begin again. For now, the bridge was the night duty officer’s. Freddie Wilmot was in Winn’s office with someone from anti-submarine warfare. Mary could hear their laughter and Wilmot’s excited voice. A moment later he came out clutching a teleprinter signal.
‘We’ve bagged the U-330,’ and he shook the paper at Mary. ‘Donitz has been trying to make contact for days and now Berlin has confirmed it.’
‘Good. When and where?’
‘An aircraft from Coastal Command caught the boat on the surface and managed to depth-charge her as she was crash-diving. The pilot reported oil and debris but this is confirmation. No survivors.’
Wilmot walked over to the U-boat file index by the plot table and took out the 330 ’s card.
‘Rodger wants to check its history. Berlin called it “the lion boat”, claims it sank fourteen ships.’
Mary nodded politely. The loss of an enemy vessel in the Atlantic was always good news but not the sort she wanted to celebrate. Some of the boys took a different view, especially when the boat had a history. Wilmot took his card back to Winn and Mary picked up her bag and walked over to the coat rail by the door. She was struggling into her mac when Winn’s office door opened again.
‘Rodger would like to see you before you go,’ said Wilmot breezily.
Winn was perched on the edge of his desk, the U-boat file card on his knee, a cigarette burning between his fingers.
‘Wilmot told you about the 330?’
‘Yes. Good news.’
‘Yes.’
Winn flicked ash off his cigarette then squeezed it into an ashtray. ‘It was a successful boat, an experienced commander.’
He slipped to his feet and walked round the desk to his chair but remained standing.
‘Do you know the name of the 330 ’s commander?’ he asked.
‘No, but I can check.’
‘No need. I have it here,’ and he lifted the file card. ‘Schultze.’
The name rang a distant uneasy bell but Mary was not able to say why. ‘You can tell Lieutenant Lindsay,’ said Winn coolly.
A cold shudder passed through her body. The penny had dropped and how foolish not to remember. Schultze was Lindsay’s cousin ‘Martin’. She looked down for a moment, confused and a lump formed in her throat. She felt strangely guilty.
‘Thank you, Rodger.’
‘Tell him I’m sorry.’
‘Yes. Yes, I will.’
She turned slowly to leave but at the door stopped and looked back at him: ‘Is this news we’re supposed to celebrate?’
He lifted his eyes from his desk and stared at her, his gaze intense and unblinking as ever.
‘Yes, we should celebrate.’