wasn't in cipher. It wasn't even in Morse. It was a human voice. A man. Repeating this one word: Akelei'
'Akelei,' murmured Jericho. 'Akelei . . . That's a flower, isn't it?'
'Ha!' Logie clapped his hands. 'You are a bloody marvel, Tom. See how much we miss you? We had to go and ask one of the German swots on Z-watch what it meant. Akelei: a five-petalled flower of the buttercup family, from the Latin Aquilegia. We vulgarians call it columbine.'
'Akelei? repeated Jericho. 'This is a prearranged signal of some sort, presumably?'
'It is.'
'And it means?'
'It means trouble, is what it means, old love. We found out just how much trouble at midnight yesterday.' Logie leaned forwards. The humour had left his voice. His face was lined and grave. 'Akelei means: “Change the Short Weather Code Book.” They've gone over to a new one and we haven't a bloody clue what to do about it. They've closed off our way into Shark, Tom. They've blacked us out again.'
It didn't take Jericho long to pack. He'd bought nothing since he arrived in Cambridge except a daily newspaper, so he took out exactly what he'd carried in three weeks earlier: a pair of suitcases filled with clothes, a few books, a fountain pen, a slide rule and pencils, a portable chess set and a pair of walking boots. He laid his cases on the bed and moved slowly about the room collecting his possessions while Logie watched him from the doorway.
Running round and round in his head, unbidden from some hidden depth in his subconscious, was a nursery rhyme: 'For want of a nail, the horse was lost; for want of a horse, the rider was lost; for want of a rider, the battle was lost; for want of a battle, the kingdom was lost; and all for the want of a horseshoe nail . . .'
He folded a shirt and laid it on top of his books.
For want of a Short Weather Code Book they might lose the Battle of the Atlantic. So many men, so much material, threatened by so small a thing as a change in weather codes. It was absurd.
'You can always tell a boarding-school boy,' said Logie, 'they travel light. All those endless train journeys, I suppose.'
'I prefer it.'
He stuffed a pair of socks down the side of the case. He was going back. They wanted him back. He couldn't decide whether he was elated or terrified.
'You don't have much stuff in Bletchley, either, do you?'
Jericho swung round to look at him. 'How do you know that?'
'Ah.' Logie winced with embarrassment. 'I'm afraid we had to pack up your room, and, ah, give it to someone else. Pressure of space and all that.'
'You didn't think I'd be coming back?'
'Well, let's say we didn't know we'd need you back so soon. Anyway, there's fresh digs for you in town, so at least it'll be more convenient. No more long cycle rides late at night.'
'I rather like long cycle rides late at night. They clear the mind.' Jericho closed the lids on the suitcases and snapped the locks.
'I say, you are up to this, old love? Nobody wants to force you into anything.'
'I'm a damn sight fitter than you are, by the look of you.'
'Only I'd hate you to feel pressured . . .'
'Oh do shut up, Guy.'
'Right-ho. I suppose we haven't left you with much choice, have we? Can I help you with those?'
'If I'm well enough to go back to Bletchley, I'm well enough to manage a couple of suitcases.'
He carried them to the door and turned off the light. In the sitting room he extinguished the gas fire and took a last look around. The overstuffed sofa. The scratched chairs. The bare mantelpiece. This was his life, he thought, a succession of cheaply furnished rooms provided by English institutions: school, college, government. He wondered what the next room would be like. Logie opened the doors and Jericho turned off the desk light.
The staircase was in darkness. The bulb had long since died. Logie got them down the stone steps by striking a series of matches. At the bottom, they could just make out the shape of Leveret, standing guard, his silhouette framed against the
'Akelei,' murmured Jericho. 'Akelei . . . That's a flower, isn't it?'
'Ha!' Logie clapped his hands. 'You are a bloody marvel, Tom. See how much we miss you? We had to go and ask one of the German swots on Z-watch what it meant. Akelei: a five-petalled flower of the buttercup family, from the Latin Aquilegia. We vulgarians call it columbine.'
'Akelei? repeated Jericho. 'This is a prearranged signal of some sort, presumably?'
'It is.'
'And it means?'
'It means trouble, is what it means, old love. We found out just how much trouble at midnight yesterday.' Logie leaned forwards. The humour had left his voice. His face was lined and grave. 'Akelei means: “Change the Short Weather Code Book.” They've gone over to a new one and we haven't a bloody clue what to do about it. They've closed off our way into Shark, Tom. They've blacked us out again.'
It didn't take Jericho long to pack. He'd bought nothing since he arrived in Cambridge except a daily newspaper, so he took out exactly what he'd carried in three weeks earlier: a pair of suitcases filled with clothes, a few books, a fountain pen, a slide rule and pencils, a portable chess set and a pair of walking boots. He laid his cases on the bed and moved slowly about the room collecting his possessions while Logie watched him from the doorway.
Running round and round in his head, unbidden from some hidden depth in his subconscious, was a nursery rhyme: 'For want of a nail, the horse was lost; for want of a horse, the rider was lost; for want of a rider, the battle was lost; for want of a battle, the kingdom was lost; and all for the want of a horseshoe nail . . .'
He folded a shirt and laid it on top of his books.
For want of a Short Weather Code Book they might lose the Battle of the Atlantic. So many men, so much material, threatened by so small a thing as a change in weather codes. It was absurd.
'You can always tell a boarding-school boy,' said Logie, 'they travel light. All those endless train journeys, I suppose.'
'I prefer it.'
He stuffed a pair of socks down the side of the case. He was going back. They wanted him back. He couldn't decide whether he was elated or terrified.
'You don't have much stuff in Bletchley, either, do you?'
Jericho swung round to look at him. 'How do you know that?'
'Ah.' Logie winced with embarrassment. 'I'm afraid we had to pack up your room, and, ah, give it to someone else. Pressure of space and all that.'
'You didn't think I'd be coming back?'
'Well, let's say we didn't know we'd need you back so soon. Anyway, there's fresh digs for you in town, so at least it'll be more convenient. No more long cycle rides late at night.'
'I rather like long cycle rides late at night. They clear the mind.' Jericho closed the lids on the suitcases and snapped the locks.
'I say, you are up to this, old love? Nobody wants to force you into anything.'
'I'm a damn sight fitter than you are, by the look of you.'
'Only I'd hate you to feel pressured . . .'
'Oh do shut up, Guy.'
'Right-ho. I suppose we haven't left you with much choice, have we? Can I help you with those?'
'If I'm well enough to go back to Bletchley, I'm well enough to manage a couple of suitcases.'
He carried them to the door and turned off the light. In the sitting room he extinguished the gas fire and took a last look around. The overstuffed sofa. The scratched chairs. The bare mantelpiece. This was his life, he thought, a succession of cheaply furnished rooms provided by English institutions: school, college, government. He wondered what the next room would be like. Logie opened the doors and Jericho turned off the desk light.
The staircase was in darkness. The bulb had long since died. Logie got them down the stone steps by striking a series of matches. At the bottom, they could just make out the shape of Leveret, standing guard, his silhouette framed against the
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