Goodman hesitated before saying, “Five twelve is an all-female organization.”
“My goodness. Why?”
“Because we are excluded from male-dominated organizations. Women are unseen and underestimated. Nothing is expected of us, so we try harder.”
Churchill wanted to say something, perhaps make a small protest, but could find no adequate response and stayed silent.
“Our work involves uncovering spies and saboteurs within the country.”
“All right.” Churchill sat back, picked up the telephone, and ordered tea. He put down the receiver and said, “We have a member from each of your organizations working in Operation Cat. What do you know about it?”
“Very little,” Goodman said. “Just that you wanted our best operative.”
Gryffe-Reynolds nodded in agreement. “Ours too.”
“And it will remain that way. Operation Cat involved the transfer of the Crown Jewels from the Tower of London to Scotland and then by a Royal Navy submarine to Canada, where they would be safe. Masquerading as a married couple, Lord Marlton and Caitrin Colline were to drive the Jewels, hidden inside a horse box, to Greenock.”
He searched their faces, but both were professionally blank. “Sounds far-fetched, I know, but to be successful it was essential the operation be inconspicuous.”
“You said were to drive,” Goodman said.
“They left the Tower with the Jewels, but several days later the horse box, empty, was discovered in a cemetery in Greenock. The Jewels, Lord Marlton, and Miss Colline have vanished into thin air.”
“Was it a robbery?” Gryffe-Reynolds said.
“There were no signs of a struggle, both motorcar and horse box were seemingly abandoned. And the mystery is, why were they in a cemetery at night, just a few miles from their final destination at the docks?”
“You believe one or both of them might be involved?” Goodman said.
Churchill rolled a cigar across his mouth. Bethany Goodman was, like Caitrin, already steps ahead in the conversation. If all the women in 512 were of the same caliber, it needed to be put to greater work. He faced the brigadier. “Gryffe-Reynolds, what are your thoughts?”
“It’s possible, of course, but highly unlikely. Lord Marlton is, well, he comes from a well-respected family that goes back centuries, and—”
“Caitrin Colline does too,” Goodman interrupted. “She just doesn’t have an estate filled with moldering portraits of her fine and ancient ancestors.”
“She is an avowed socialist, though,” Churchill said. “Who stated to me she would like to see the Royal Family working for a living.”
“Let’s be honest, would it hurt them? We all have to be a benefit, not a drain, to our society, don’t we?” Goodman said. “The pertinent question is, what are we going to do?”
“What is Lord Marlton’s role in SOE?” Churchill asked Gryffe-Reynolds.
“He’s a scallywag.”
“Explain that for Miss Goodman.”
“Mrs. Goodman.”
“Scallywags are small groups of men who will form a resistance if the Germans invade. There are hidden bases and arms caches all over the southern counties.”
“Brave patriotic men who practice the arts of subterfuge and concealment,” Churchill said.
“Which might also be ideal training for a smash and grab,” Bethany Goodman said.
Gryffe-Reynolds looked mortally wounded. “Madam, you forget he is a British lord—”
“So is the Right Honorable Lord Arthur Nall-Cain, Second Baron Brockett, who did nothing but be lucky enough to be born into a wealthy English family and is a well-known Nazi sympathizer,” she replied. “I believe he attended Hitler’s fiftieth birthday celebration in Berlin last year. Took time off from evicting his Scottish crofters from his sixty-two-thousand-acre estate to do so, because he preferred shooting game to caring about their livelihood. That kind of lord, you mean?”
Gryffe-Reynolds struggled to find the right words, but Bethany Goodman had no such problem. “I will vouch for the loyalty of all my staff, because I interviewed each woman, researched her background, and then trained her. Can you say you did the same for yours?”
“Yes, I suppose, not individually, but . . .” Gryffe-Reynolds spluttered to an end.
“Operation Cat,” Goodman said with an amused little head turn. “Who would ever imagine the Crown Jewels being spirited away in a humble horse box?”
“Precisely,” Churchill said, feeling a little smug about his ingenuity and grateful he was not dealing with both Bethany Goodman and Caitrin Colline at the same time.
She sighed, like some weary schoolmistress dealing with an especially dense pupil. “Before this operation got underway, I suppose no one bothered to point out that it would be odd to have a horse box at the Tower of London?”
“Why so?”
“Because although the Tower of London once had a menagerie, it has no stables or horses.”
Churchill could not remember the last time he felt intellectually bested. Perhaps it was the first time he met Caitrin Colline. The thinking behind creating 512 was becoming clearer, and it promised to be a formidable force.
“Prime Minister, I am sure you are concerned that losing the Crown Jewels would have a demoralizing effect on the nation,” Goodman said. “I am equally concerned about the health and safety of my agent, Caitrin Colline.”
* * *
Caitrin was not well. For hours the lorry ground uphill, and the serpentine road made it constantly sway. The night had grown much colder, and through gaps in the canvas she glimpsed the outlines of steep, snow-covered hills in the darkness. From what little she could see it was desolate, treeless country. Finally the lorry began a long downhill haul, the driver keeping his foot on the brake, which made the ride even more jarring. She retched, waved Captain Murray’s help away, and croaked to Hector, “Help me.”
