Chapter 6 The Second Suspect

Margaret returned to Bletchley the following morning, her mind consumed by the letter she had found and the suspicion she had confirmed. She knew now that Dr. William Hayes was the traitor, that he had killed Thomas Webb to protect his secret, and that he was now coming for her. But she had no concrete evidence, no proof that would hold up in court or that would convince Commander Wright to take action. She needed more. She needed to find the proof that would expose Hayes and protect herself. She began by searching the park for any connection between Hayes and the Germans, any evidence that would confirm her suspicions. She looked through personnel files, financial records, correspondence, anything that might reveal a relationship between Hayes and a foreign power. But she found nothing. Hayes was meticulous, careful, and thorough in his operations. He had left no trace, no evidence, no link that could be used against him. Margaret was frustrated and fearful. She had the suspicion, but she did not have the proof. And without proof, she was vulnerable. She was a woman alone, facing a man who had the resources and the power to destroy her. She needed help. She needed someone she could trust. And she needed someone who could help her find the evidence she needed. She went to Dorothy. Dorothy was waiting for her in the small garden behind Hut 8, a secluded spot where the codebreakers sometimes came to smoke and think. She was sitting on a bench, her hands clasped around a cup of tea, her face pale and drawn. I need your help, Margaret said without preamble. I know who the traitor is. Dorothy's eyes widened. Who? William Hayes. He killed Thomas Webb. He sent the messages. He is the one who has been feeding information to the Germans. Dorothy was silent for a long moment. Then she said, I know. You know? I suspected. I have been watching him for months. I saw the way he looked at Thomas after he died. I saw the way he avoided my eyes when I asked about the notebook. I knew something was wrong, but I did not know what. Not until you told me. Margaret sat down beside her. Then you can help me. We need to find the proof. We need to find the evidence that will expose him. Dorothy nodded. I can help. But I need to know what you plan to do. Margaret told her everything—the message, the prediction, the letter, the investigation, the suspicion. Dorothy listened in silence, her expression growing darker with each word. When Margaret had finished, Dorothy said, We need to be careful. Hayes is dangerous. He will not stop until he has eliminated you. And he will not stop until he has eliminated me as well. I know. But we have to try. We cannot let him win. Dorothy took a deep breath. Then I will help you. But we need a plan. A real plan. Not just guesses and suspicions. We need evidence. We need proof. Margaret nodded. I know. And I think I know where to find it. Dorothy turned her teacup slowly on its saucer, aligning the handle with the bench slats as though precision could steady thought. The threats to you came on the fourth of January, the eleventh, and the second of this month, she said. All three went out between midnight and two. The park's main transmitters are cold by eleven, and every legitimate frequency is accounted for in the night logs. Whoever sent them used a portable set and an unregistered frequency, which means power, aerial, and a schedule. Margaret saw the shape of it at once. Three messages meant three nights on which someone had carried equipment across open ground, strung an aerial, and sent forty characters or fewer without one fumbled group. Amateurs fumble; this person practised. Dorothy nodded when she said as much, then added the detail that mattered most: the outer Enigma layer of each threat had used the daily naval key correctly, hours before Hut 8 officially held it. Only a handful of people saw the key sheet before nine each morning, and every one of those hands had a name attached. They built the plan in fragments, never twice in the same room, never in the same company twice. Margaret would draw the key-distribution register under the pretence of auditing delays for Commander Wright, who wanted precisely that audit for reasons of his own and asked no questions about method. Dorothy would take the wireless watch rosters and mark every operator off-duty during the transmission windows. Between them they would narrow a list that presently ran to forty names into something a person could carry in her head. If the two lists intersected cleanly, the intersection would be small enough to investigate. If they contradicted each other, that too would be information, bought at the usual price. The key register gave up its secret on the second evening. On all three dates the daily sheet had left the safe at seven sharp under the duty officer's signature and returned an hour later countersigned by Dr. W. Hayes, routine as breakfast. Margaret copied the entries in her neatest administrative hand and felt the floor tilt gently beneath her certainty. Here at last was proof that Hayes touched the keys early—but not proof that he transmitted, and not proof that he had set a fire in a bedroom in May of 1942. It would convince no magistrate. In her darker moments it barely convinced her. Dorothy's list was shorter and uglier. Nine men had been off-duty during at least one transmission window, and four of the nine had signals training. Two belonged to other stations entirely. One had passed the relevant night, by his mates' account, drunk in Wolverton. The last was Sergeant Frank Miller, whose transcript had timed the first intercept to the minute, and whose limp matched the stride of whoever had left prints below the fence line at the edge of the receiving field. Margaret wrote both names at the top of a fresh page—Hayes above Miller—and stared at the small vertical order she had given them. Motive against opportunity. Which do we search first, she asked. Dorothy was silent for a long moment. Hayes, she said finally. Whatever we find in his rooms will tell us whether Miller is a partner or only a pair of hands. The garden light failed as they spoke, and neither of them rose to mend it. ---