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  Deadly Cypher

  Book Seven in the Deadly Series

  Kate Parker

  About

  Deadly Cypher

  Could a murder at Bletchley Park cost Britain the war?

  November, 1939. The British government has assembled a small group of intellectuals at an estate north of London as part of a top-secret codebreaking effort. Everything about it is clandestine. The facility is ringed in a veil of silence until one of the young female linguists is murdered.

  Britain’s counterintelligence spymaster tasks Olivia Redmond with finding the killer and the motive. Olivia is sent in alone, without clues or suspects.

  Did the murder victim uncover a mole? Could Britain’s program to break German enigma cyphers be compromised?

  If Olivia fails, it could mean the destruction of Britain.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual occurrences or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Historical events and personages are fictionalized.

  Deadly Cypher

  Copyright © 2021 by Kate Parker

  All rights reserved. With the exception of brief quotes used in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

  ISBN: 978-1-7332294-7-0 [print]

  ISBN: 978-1-7332294-6-3 [e-book]

  Published by JDPPress

  Cover Design by Lyndsey Lewellen of LLewellen Designs

  Formatting by Author E.M.S.

  Table of Contents

  DEADLY CYPHER

  About the Book

  Copyright

  Praise for Deadly Darkness

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Also from Kate Parker

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise for

  Deadly Darkness

  Overall, Parker has written a fun mystery, one that not only challenges us in our detective capabilities but also morally, questioning how our justice system isn’t always as equal as we like it to be. Deadly Darkness is a great mystery for any fan of the genre.

  Tierney for Novels Alive

  The historical details, such as blackout drills, add to the rising tension and intensity of the story as well as the inevitability of war. But with darkness there is also light, found here in the antics of the boys along with enough humor to alleviate the gloom. The characters bring the story to life and give it heart.

  Cozy Up with Kathy

  Historical fiction readers as well as mystery lovers will appreciate this incredible series. This book stands alone but will entice you to go back and read the series from the start. Prepare to sit a spell because you will be drawn in with danger on every page.

  Laura’s Interests

  I especially like how realistic the characters feel as the deal with the effects of an upcoming war looming on the horizon as Parker captures how it felt along with the charm of England. Makes for quite a fun read for fans of historical cozies.

  Books a Plenty Book Reviews

  Dedication

  For all lovers of good tales

  For my children

  For my parents who are cheering me on from above

  For John, Forever

  Chapter One

  Late November, 1939

  “Yesterday morning, a German linguist named Sarah Wycott was reported missing when she didn’t show up for work.” Sir Malcolm Freemantle, the ferocious British spymaster I neither trusted nor liked, glared at me from under his bushy eyebrows and added, “They found her last night. Along a country lane. Dead.”

  I continued to watch him, knowing I was the rabbit to his hawk, and waited for him to continue. We were at war, although no one was shooting at us yet. The declaration of war on the third of September meant tall, bulky Sir Malcolm owned me, and many others, for the duration.

  “Miss Wycott worked at a government facility in a railroad junction town fifty miles northwest of London. A Most Secret Facility. The Government Code and Cypher School.” Sir Malcolm seemed to speak in leading capital letters. “If her death was a random event, or due to a jilted lover or angry neighbor, then it is sad, but none of our affair.”

  When Sir Malcolm didn’t continue, I said, “And if it’s not?” The wooden chair across his desk from the spymaster hurt my rear, and I didn’t want to spend any more time there than necessary.

  “If it’s not, and we don’t find out who killed her, Mrs. Redmond, we may have already lost the war.”

  Oh, good grief. Sir Malcolm had a tendency to make pronouncements of massive weight, delivered in his bass voice. Unfortunately, I’d learned that he rarely overstated the case.

  I was curious despite myself. “If you want me to find her killer, you need to tell me as much as possible about Miss Wycott and why she’s at the center of our war effort.” Then the name sank in. “She attended my college, didn’t she?”

  “She was two years behind you, but yes, she went to Newnham College.”

  “I knew little about her then, and nothing since,” I told him.

  He opened a file on his desk. “She was a linguist at the Government Code and Cypher School at Bletchley Park and billeted at Bloomington Grove.”

  “I’ve heard of Bloomington Grove. I’ve never been invited to any of their parties,” I added wistfully. Bloomington Grove was the home of the Earl and Countess of Haymarket, who entertained lavishly and recklessly. In the process they burned through money. I’d heard their estate on the Buckinghamshire-Bedfordshire border was offered to the government shortly after war was declared. No doubt they needed the rent.

  I looked past Sir Malcolm out the window that overlooked rooftops and the nearly bare top branches of trees and wondered how living in a grand house would feel.

  “Your assignment is to take Sarah Wycott’s place at work and in her room.”

  I jerked my attention back to Sir Malcolm. “Am I supposed to take over a dead woman’s identity?” I didn’t see how that could succeed, since her colleagues there would know her.

  “No. Of course not, Olivia. You’re her replacement in both her work and her housing assignment. Everyone there knows others working there through family connections or university ties. Due to the need for absolute secrecy, recruitment has been limited so far on the basis of personal knowledge of the character of each person assigned to the Government Code and Cypher School at Bletchley Park.”

  “Why?” That sounded as if it were an odd requirement.

  “We have to be certain of everyone’s silence. You will keep your own identity as Olivia Redmond, who left her job as a newspaper reporter to work there. Especially since you’ve already demonstrated how good your knowledge of German is.”

  Last spring, he’d sent me on a Kindertransport mission due to my fluency. I’d been happy with the outcome, especially rescuing two young boys, sons of a German government employee working as a Britis
h spy. I hoped I’d be as successful this time.

  “Do I get the countess’s bedroom at Bloomington Grove?” I gave him an eager smile, not able to resist a little sarcasm.

  “No. Women are billeted on the ground floor of the servants’ quarters. The main part of the house has been taken over by the army for training recruits.” As my shoulders sagged in mock disappointment, he added, “The countess’s bedroom now houses a classroom.”

  I doubted a parlor maid had been housed in anything more than a dinky, cold little room. I was going to miss my modern flat in the middle of London. “And my work assignment?”

  “I’ll let you experience that the same way everyone else does. At least you’ve already signed the Official Secrets Act, so you understand the importance of strict silence about anything and everything that has to do with your work at this location.” He leaned forward. “Complete strict silence. Except to me, of course.”

  “There is nothing about this assignment that will be any use to Sir Henry.” Sir Henry Benton, publisher of the Daily Premier, was my employer and had “loaned” me to Sir Malcolm on occasion in exchange for the ability to write feature stories about places and people I encountered during my investigations.

  This time, he’d get nothing in trade.

  “You can’t even tell him where you’ve gone. You’ll have a Foreign Office box number where all correspondence will be sent.”

  “Who’s going to pay me?” The government didn’t pay women anything near as much as what Sir Henry paid me. I couldn’t afford to live on a government salary.

  “Sir Henry will pay you. We will reimburse him for your time away from your pressing duties at the newspaper.” He said this as if he found it humorous.

  I didn’t see anything to laugh at. It was my profession and my salary. And I didn’t trust him.

  I needed information from him if I had any hope of learning who killed this woman, so I asked, “What can you tell me about this woman and the circumstances surrounding her death?”

  “Monday night, Sarah Wycott returned to where the transport from Bletchley Park—shall we call it BP?—dropped her off after work. This was down the lane from the drive to the manor house, not overlooked by any dwellings. She was never again seen alive.

  “Yesterday—that is, Tuesday morning—she was reported missing by her supervisor, both to the local police and to us. We could get a great deal farther than the local bobbies when it came to BP. They can’t get past the gates.” Again, that cat smile.

  “However, her body was found late yesterday by a dog walker who reported his finding to the local police station, who told BP, who told us.”

  “How was she killed?”

  “Strangulation. We sent out one of our pathologists to take a look, and he says he believes someone with medium-sized hands, quite strong hands, killed her. Up close and personal.”

  Interesting. “The size of the hands means this could have been done by a man or a woman.”

  “I thought you’d notice that. This murderer could get close enough to reach out and strangle her. There were no signs of defensive injuries, as if she were taken by surprise. Either it was done by sneaking up behind her, or by someone she trusted.”

  To me, it sounded as if it were a silent attack used by Fleur Bettenard, the Nazi assassin I’d first met in London over a year ago. Wonderful. I had no idea if Fleur was still in the country, but if she was, I didn’t want to meet up with her again. On our previous encounters, I’d barely escaped with my life.

  “When did Sarah die?”

  Sir Malcolm consulted a file on his desk. “Monday night. Before she was reported missing. The body was shoved back in the hedgerow, and since the harvesting’s already been completed, no one was too close to the spot where she was found until the dog sniffed it out.”

  “Was this spot between Bloomington Grove manor house and the bus stop?”

  “Oddly enough, no. It was along the lane beyond the drive in the opposite direction. In terms you would understand, if this distance were in London, it would be several streets away.”

  “Was she robbed? Was she—assaulted?”

  “You mean sexually?” Sir Malcolm was blunt. “No. A bracelet she often wore was missing, and there was no money in her bag. Other than that, she had nothing worth stealing. It looks just barely as if it might have been a robbery.”

  “What do the police think?”

  Sir Malcolm looked as if he’d tasted the chicory coffee that was showing up in more and more places and found it unacceptable. “They think some personable young man sweet-talked her into walking along with him, and when she wouldn’t do what he wanted, he lost his head, killed her, grabbed any valuables, and hid the body.”

  “As I recall, it was too cold outside Monday night to think about sparking, let alone trying it on,” I told him. I doubted Sir Malcolm was that practical.

  “I doubt that has occurred to the police,” he replied drily.

  “Do they think it was someone she knew?”

  “They’ve questioned some young men at the army training facility known to frequent pubs in the area, but they were all alibied by their program. All of the young men she worked with were alibied by each other. They’ve run out of ideas and suspects, and with the call-up, the police don’t have the manpower to pursue this.” Sir Malcolm watched me closely.

  “You’re being called in, Olivia, because we have a greater need to find her killer than only to see justice done for Miss Wycott.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “You remember I mentioned the Government Code and Cypher School?”

  I nodded.

  “You must keep silent about this until your dying day. They are trying to break the German army, navy, and air force codes. Messages in codes we need to read to know what the enemy is planning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The codes are created on the Enigma machine. Most people, including the Germans, think they’re unbreakable. We’ve had brilliant minds working on this for the past year, and we’ve had help from the French and the Poles, who’ve received information from back channels.”

  “Stolen or sold.”

  He smiled. “If you prefer. Miss Wycott was a German linguist who finished at Cambridge two years ago. She’s been helping with these efforts.”

  “Why German linguists?”

  He laughed. “My dear Olivia. The messages are in German. These brilliant minds are looking at this as if it’s a chess match or a crossword puzzle. In English. Someone has to tell them if they actually get useful German from their solutions.”

  Sir Malcolm didn’t have much more to tell me about the murder. I was given a rail ticket to Bletchley for the midday train the next day and told someone would meet me at the station. My cover was I would be working a temporary slot at the Foreign Office and given a Foreign Office box number for an address.

  When I told Sir Henry, my boss and the publisher of the Daily Premier, about my new temporary position, his immediate reaction was, “Sir Malcolm is at it again. How long this time?”

  I should have known Sir Henry would immediately look at the practical issues. “I don’t know. But he did say this time he would reimburse you for my wages while I’m away.”

  Sir Henry laughed aloud. “That will be the day. Well, come back as soon as you can. And be careful. We’d like you back in one piece. Especially with many of our reporters getting their call-up papers, we can use your talents.”

  He must have meant my talents for sniffing out stories. My writing had not improved. But maybe, with male reporters being called up, I had a chance to do real reporting. Something more than fashion shows and wedding notices. But first I’d have to get back to London.

  I wrote my husband, Captain Adam Redmond, at the address I had for him as well as leaving him a note on our kitchen table in case he was able to get into London in the next few weeks. I didn’t know where he was except for an army box number. Now he wouldn’t know where I was, eithe
r.

  Finally, I needed to break the news of my leaving town to my father. At my request, we went out to a hotel dining room for dinner where they still did things to a prewar standard. I wore my blue evening gown with my silver earrings and bag, knowing I wouldn’t have a chance to wear them again for some time.

  Once we’d ordered, my father asked, “Have you heard from Adam?”

  “Not for at least a week. I’m sure the army is keeping him busy.”

  “From what we see in the Foreign Office, the army is keeping everyone busy.”

  I didn’t think it would be this easy to find an opening in our conversation. “I’ve been asked to take a temporary assignment for the Foreign Office.”

  “Really? Why you?”

  I would have left the table and gone home if I hadn’t known this would be the best meal I would have for weeks. “You seem to forget I have some talents and skills that have been used before.”

  My father shut his eyes and his mouth. Seen this way, in evening clothes, with his silver hair and lean build, he was quite attractive. Then he opened his mouth and his words ruined the image. “Is this one of Sir Malcolm’s plans? I told you a year ago not to get involved with that man.”