speak.
Matthew gestured with his left arm, the remainder of his right flapping oddly as it tried to follow suit. “I mean to say, we all had our bad experiences during that time, and I should have known better than to, well, spout on about things which are obviously painful for you. I shan’t do it again.” He paused. “I hope we can still be friends?”
“I—yes, of course.” As if in a dream, George grasped Matthew’s shoulder. Shaken, he nevertheless managed to dredge up a smile. “Of course we’ll be friends.”
Matthew’s pale, open face broke into a smile of sheer relief. “Good man! Now, how about coming down for a cup of tea? Marmaduke’s been pining for you,” he added hopefully.
George gave a shaky laugh, weak with profound relief. “The day that monstrous beast pines for anyone or anything except his dinner, I’ll eat my hat.”
That night, he wrote a letter.
Dear Mabel,
You’ll see from the head of this letter that I’ve moved into digs. What you won’t know, however, is that I’m sharing lodgings with Matthew Connaught. Sir Arthur came up trumps for us—even managed to fix it somehow that a room became free here. I’m sorry to tell you, though—
George paused, staring blankly at the wall for a moment, then continued.
I’m not at all sure I believe him guilty. He seems a very friendly, genuine young man. I’ll continue to dig, of course. I’ll write again when I have more news.
Yours affectionately,
Roger
P.S. Sir Arthur told me an odd thing yesterday. He said Pip Wharton had recommended me for work at the Admiralty, and suggested it might have been Hugh’s idea. Did you know?
P.P.S. If you write, address the letter to George Johnson or the game will be up!
Chapter Six
Mabel’s reply arrived a couple of mornings later. George opened it without thinking at the breakfast table and hastily stuffed it in his pocket upon seeing the salutation.
His subterfuge did not go unnoticed by Matthew. “Mrs. Mac, I do believe our friend George has received a letter from his young lady,” he teased. “We won’t ask you to read it aloud, but you must tell us all about her. Is she fair? Dark? Pretty, or more in the handsome line?”
“It’s simply a letter from a friend, that’s all,” George said a little shortly.
“But one that’s not suitable to be read in company? Say no more,” Matthew said, laying a finger aside of his nose in a ridiculously portentous fashion. “We shall be silent as the very grave about this pal of yours. Who, by the way, uses very pretty lavender notepaper, and is that the scent of lilacs I detect…?”
George managed to derail the conversation by threatening to throw a soft-boiled egg at his companion, at which point Mrs. Mac put a stern oar in and told them in no uncertain terms they’d be cooking their own food if there was any more nonsense at her table.
He didn’t have the opportunity to read Mabel’s letter until lunchtime, as he ate his sandwiches sitting on a bench in a chilly Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
Dearest Roger
(I may call you that inside my letters, mayn’t I? Do let me know if I should call you George!)
Your letter gave me quite a shock. Do you mean to say they expect you to investigate Connaught all by yourself? Surely your work in cryptography hasn’t prepared you for this. I’m very impressed with your courage in going right into the lion’s den, but I’m fearfully worried about you. Please do be careful. If this man was a traitor and he gets wind of what you’re up to, who knows what he might do? I can’t lose you too, Roger.
George swallowed. Not that he hadn’t taken Sheila’s warning seriously, but he hadn’t really thought through what it would do to Mabel if anything were to happen to him. Although God knew he’d been terrified of losing her, when she’d been struck down with the flu last year. But then again, in his defence, Sheila and Sir Arthur had, between them, given him very little time for
Matthew gestured with his left arm, the remainder of his right flapping oddly as it tried to follow suit. “I mean to say, we all had our bad experiences during that time, and I should have known better than to, well, spout on about things which are obviously painful for you. I shan’t do it again.” He paused. “I hope we can still be friends?”
“I—yes, of course.” As if in a dream, George grasped Matthew’s shoulder. Shaken, he nevertheless managed to dredge up a smile. “Of course we’ll be friends.”
Matthew’s pale, open face broke into a smile of sheer relief. “Good man! Now, how about coming down for a cup of tea? Marmaduke’s been pining for you,” he added hopefully.
George gave a shaky laugh, weak with profound relief. “The day that monstrous beast pines for anyone or anything except his dinner, I’ll eat my hat.”
That night, he wrote a letter.
Dear Mabel,
You’ll see from the head of this letter that I’ve moved into digs. What you won’t know, however, is that I’m sharing lodgings with Matthew Connaught. Sir Arthur came up trumps for us—even managed to fix it somehow that a room became free here. I’m sorry to tell you, though—
George paused, staring blankly at the wall for a moment, then continued.
I’m not at all sure I believe him guilty. He seems a very friendly, genuine young man. I’ll continue to dig, of course. I’ll write again when I have more news.
Yours affectionately,
Roger
P.S. Sir Arthur told me an odd thing yesterday. He said Pip Wharton had recommended me for work at the Admiralty, and suggested it might have been Hugh’s idea. Did you know?
P.P.S. If you write, address the letter to George Johnson or the game will be up!
Chapter Six
Mabel’s reply arrived a couple of mornings later. George opened it without thinking at the breakfast table and hastily stuffed it in his pocket upon seeing the salutation.
His subterfuge did not go unnoticed by Matthew. “Mrs. Mac, I do believe our friend George has received a letter from his young lady,” he teased. “We won’t ask you to read it aloud, but you must tell us all about her. Is she fair? Dark? Pretty, or more in the handsome line?”
“It’s simply a letter from a friend, that’s all,” George said a little shortly.
“But one that’s not suitable to be read in company? Say no more,” Matthew said, laying a finger aside of his nose in a ridiculously portentous fashion. “We shall be silent as the very grave about this pal of yours. Who, by the way, uses very pretty lavender notepaper, and is that the scent of lilacs I detect…?”
George managed to derail the conversation by threatening to throw a soft-boiled egg at his companion, at which point Mrs. Mac put a stern oar in and told them in no uncertain terms they’d be cooking their own food if there was any more nonsense at her table.
He didn’t have the opportunity to read Mabel’s letter until lunchtime, as he ate his sandwiches sitting on a bench in a chilly Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
Dearest Roger
(I may call you that inside my letters, mayn’t I? Do let me know if I should call you George!)
Your letter gave me quite a shock. Do you mean to say they expect you to investigate Connaught all by yourself? Surely your work in cryptography hasn’t prepared you for this. I’m very impressed with your courage in going right into the lion’s den, but I’m fearfully worried about you. Please do be careful. If this man was a traitor and he gets wind of what you’re up to, who knows what he might do? I can’t lose you too, Roger.
George swallowed. Not that he hadn’t taken Sheila’s warning seriously, but he hadn’t really thought through what it would do to Mabel if anything were to happen to him. Although God knew he’d been terrified of losing her, when she’d been struck down with the flu last year. But then again, in his defence, Sheila and Sir Arthur had, between them, given him very little time for
Similar Books
