The Bee's Kiss(58)

He added, in a brisker tone, ‘Look, Joe, now you’ve got this report off your hands, why don’t you take a few days’ leave? You’ll need to make an appearance for the funeral – that would be appreciated, I know – but why don’t you take the rest of the week off? Come back on Monday? And why don’t you give similar instructions to your staff, the ones who’ve been involved with all this? Tell them to go off to the country or the seaside – reward for zeal and effort – you can think of something, I’m sure.’

‘Put myself out of the way – is that what you mean, sir?’

‘Of course that’s what I mean! Your ugly mug is not unfamiliar to the lads of the press. All too recognizable! Don’t want them hounding you with their magnesium flashes or whatever those infernal devices are. Not suggesting you flee to Paris or Scotland – just lie low for a bit, eh? Them’s orders!’

‘I have a sister conveniently in Surrey. She’s always saying she doesn’t see enough of me . . .’

‘Capital! Capital! Leave your telephone number down there with my secretary, will you, Joe? And I don’t, I suppose, need to say how much I . . . er . . . appreciate your co-operation?’

His smile faded as Joe closed the door behind him and he remained seated, bushy white eyebrows knitting together in unwelcome thought. His hand reached for the buzzer on his desk and his secretary entered.

‘Miss Holland, one or two memoranda to shoot off, if you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Of course, Sir Nevil.’ She sat down and her shorthand pad appeared miraculously on her lap, a sharpened pencil poised for the first word.

He glanced with slight irritation at the slim, upright figure over the desk. She was always a few seconds ahead of him and he found it disconcerting. ‘How did she do that?’ he wondered. Whenever she entered or left the room he had the clear impression that she had saluted. Must be the training. He recollected that Miss Holland was an ex-Wren. When the service had been disbanded after the war many of these girls, hand-picked for their intelligence and capacity for hard work, had been snapped up by husbands and one or two by men like Sir Nevil who appreciated their skills and their discretion.

The ‘new shore service’ as it was billed had been founded in 1917, late in the war, under Dame Katharine Furse, ex-VAD who’d already put in three years of service in France. She and a committee of formidably effective and experienced women had to cope with a flood of seven thousand girls who flocked to the white ensign to enlist. It was a wonder they’d had time to kit the recruits out in a uniform before it was all over and they found themselves turned loose with a week’s pay. But in the short year of their existence, the Wrens had impressed and won over the men of the navy from the lowest rating to the highest admiral.

Sir Nevil had witnessed a quite extraordinary scene a year after the war’s end in July 1919. He had attended the Great Peace March through London and, standing in Hyde Park at the finale, he had watched Dame Katharine herself leading the Wrens’ contingent. Stepping proudly in impeccable formation, the girls in blue entered the park and, as they drew level with the Achilles statue, they were greeted by an unrehearsed burst of applause from the admirals who had been leading the main contingent. Sir Nevil’s frosty old eye had moistened. He thought it a graceful tribute to the Wrens’ devotion.

If the highest authorities in the land were prepared to lean on him and pull out all the stops to prevent the good name of the service being besmirched by this . . . this . . . rotten apple – well, so be it! Should he have taken Joe into his confidence? No. Better to play by the rules. Anyway, the chap was sharp enough to have worked it out for himself. And tactful enough not to have made a song and dance about it. What had he said in a meaning way? ‘. . . find the files well worth reading . . .’ Sir Nevil groaned. If Sandilands had done his work thoroughly, he didn’t doubt it. Contents more than likely to stand your hair on end! Good thing he’d asked for the files. Would be dynamite in the wrong hands.

A slight cough from the other side of the desk reclaimed his attention to the job in hand.

‘I’ll address and deliver this myself, Miss Holland. Just type, “Top Secret”, would you? To keep everybody happy. They like that sort of nonsense. And say, under today’s date and time: “Action taken in accordance with suggestions made this day. Closing case. No problems envisaged.” That’s all on that one. Oh, before we move on – there’s a little florist . . . on Jermyn Street, I think it is . . . I want you to order me a wreath for Thursday.’