Page 12 of Apt to be Suspicious
Mum nodded slowly. “There are people at the Academy?” She was working her way through the permutations. Pen had got her knack with maths from Mum’s side as well as Dad’s.
“There are. But Major Lefton hasn’t taken tutorials or apprentices for years. Not since before the war. He isn’t this year. I don’t think he’s been at the Academy often, even, but I wouldn’t know for sure about that. It’s easy to miss someone, and it’s not as if we have formal hall to see people eating.” She snorted. “Not that it’s easy with the men’s colleges right now. Some of them are taking it in shifts.”
The good side— for values of good— was that the women’s college had only taken the numbers they could house, feed in hall, and supervise properly. Pen more often chafed against the curfew and expectations there, but at least she didn’t have to scramble to sort out her own meals half the week.
Aunt Agnes nodded slowly. Mum asked more hesitantly, “Is there perhaps one of your connections that might help? You could ask. People know other people.”
“Which is how things so often work,” Aunt Agnes agreed.
“I couldn’t possibly, Mum. It’s not— it’s not something I can do. Just trust that I can’t, please?” Pen could feel the edge of the oath, the magical part of it, rising now.
Aunt Agnes immediately spotted it. “We won’t press.” Then she glanced at Mum. “How’s the personal? Anyone giving you any trouble? You know Papa worries.”
Pen’s grandfather had a long series of speeches about the way young men at Oxford behaved. Despite— or perhaps because— of his being a Balliol man in his time. He worried regularly about what Pen might get caught up in. Aunt Agnes was far more reasonable about it, because of course she’d been at Somerville too.
“No trouble. And no one like that. It’s not worth the bother of getting around curfew and figuring out where we could talk, even. And men in the maths lectures, well.” She shrugged. Most of them didn’t particularly want a wife who was better at the subject than they were, and she wasn’t interested in anything casual. For one thing, that was an easy way to step into some sort of trouble. And for another, it wasn’t as if she’d met anyone worth taking time from the maths.
Aunt Agnes snorted. “Now we can tell him we’ve checked properly, and with any luck he’ll leave it alone until your next hols. Now, what have you been working on you can tell us about? Even if it’s over my head, I’d love to try it. And you said in one of your letters, you were doing a fair bit of statistics. That’s something I could teach my girls. It’s a different way of thinking about the maths, isn’t it? Useful in all sorts of other areas of learning. Even just reading the newspapers.”
Statistics were, in fact, a topic Pen could talk about for hours, even on the simpler level. On the more complex levels, the idea of repeating letters was a key part of cryptography. Or it had been, until machines like the Enigma, that could jumble up which letter went to which encoded letter. However, there were plenty of other things to talk about.
Mum gamely followed along, especially after Pen went and pulled the family copy of Snakes and Ladders out from the cupboard downstairs. Pen and Aunt Agnes demonstrated the statistical chances with a pair of dice. It gave them all something fun to talk about, and it got away from a number of topics Pen didn’t really want to air.
Chapter 9
Monday, January 12th in London
Edmund let himself into the flat. He had permission, of course. He’d no more have dreamed of entering Major Manse’s flat without it than he’d have dreamed of entering Papa and Mama’s private library. That wasn’t just because the warding was first rate in both places. Edmund valued both his well-being and his dignity. More importantly, it was about understanding boundaries and permissions properly. Respecting them here made them easier to reinforce in his own life. It was only practical to do so.
Today, however, Major Manse had sent a note that he might run late. It wasn’t as if Edmund were unfamiliar with the flat. He’d certainly spent enough time here over the past few years. Major Manse had rooms in a private building in Pall Mall, close to the gentlemen’s clubs and a pleasant mile walk from the MI6 offices nearer St James.
The flat shared a cook and housekeeping with others in the building, and the building itself was entirely magical. That had meant better and more comfortable protection during the Blitz, with a properly fortified and warded basement and bomb shelter. Major Manse had said more than once that he appreciated the walk to and from as a chance to clear his head.
When Edmund had been working for MI6 himself, he’d had rooms up at the top of the building. It had been small, just a nook for a bed, a sitting room, and an en-suite bath, along with his own kettle and dumbwaiter for food. It had been terribly convenient, though he’d spent very little time there overall. For long stretches, day in and day out, it had only been enough to sleep. When he’d had time off, he’d often be elsewhere for the evening.
Major Manse had had his flat since the Great War, and thus had a beautiful view, two bedrooms, and a spacious sitting room. Edmund had, from time to time, stayed in the guest room, before he’d had the room upstairs. He’d never seen Major Manse’s bedroom. That too was exceptionally well warded, since it was where the confidential material was stored. The parlour was comfortable, with several plush and well-padded chairs and a writing desk. There was a small nook with a teakettle, keep-cold box, and a single burner for heating soup or something of the kind. The flats were designed for bachelors unlikely to cook for themselves.
Now, Edmund had taken it upon himself to slice up two apples and make a pot of tea. He’d brought his own, part of his ration. And because the package had come yesterday, two small maple sugar candies, for a pure extravagance. Partly because the sugar was so precious now, but also because Edmund knew it would make Major Manse smile.
With that done, everything properly waiting, Edmund settled down. He had not brought translation with him, that was delicate to set aside in a moment without forgetting what he had been thinking. But he had plenty of other necessary reading to do to prepare for Hilary Term and his upcoming Honour Mods. The various histories were rather more portable revision texts.
He’d been reading for perhaps forty-five minutes— until near half-five— when he heard the warding click and saw the doorknob turn. Of course, Edmund stood immediately, the bookmark slipped into the right page as he set the closed book aside. By the time Major Manse opened the door, he was at attention.
“Ah, sit, sit. We are informal today, Edmund. Just let me put my briefcase away and wash up. I’m sorry, Crofts caught me while I was on my way out the door, and you know how he goes on. With some purpose, at the moment, but the man can’t say in five hundred words what others would say in fifty.”
Edmund had to smile at that, because all of it was true. “No bother at all, sir, please take your time. I've got tea and apples ready, I’ll bring them out.”
Major Manse nodded once, then disappeared down the hallway to his bedroom. Edmund considered the man, not least because Mama had, privately, asked for a report. Major Manse and Papa were the same age— they’d been at Exeter together in their day. It meant Major Manse was coming up on sixty years and five.
Edmund brought out the tray with the apples, tea, and maple sugar, then set it on the table. Major Manse preferred one of the easy chairs, and Edmund took his own place on the near side of the sofa, sitting more comfortably.
When Major Manse reappeared, he had put on a smoking jacket rather than the pinstripe suit he’d been wearing, another indicator of the mode of tonight’s meeting. He considered the tray, then nodded once, approvingly. “I gather Alexander had a package from America?”
“Yes, sir.” There had been a chain of events related to a bit of espionage in 1935. Now it meant that Uncle Alexander got regular packages from someone in intelligence work in the United States.
That someone had the sort of mind that thought about what would be in short supply in the British Isles and therefore included sugar. Almost always the maple sugar candy, which came from where he’d grown up, more or less. Major Manse considered that, but reached for the apples first, letting Edmund pour the tea. Black, no cream or sugar. Rationing did not stretch so far.
Once Major Manse had his cup, he nodded. “So. How are things then?”
