“I say,” he remarked abruptly to Curtis. “I thought you were heading down south again, what?”
Curtis gave him a genial smile. “My rotten knee’s rather better today, thank heavens. I mustn’t be tempted by the long walks, but it’s very well up to a stroll. That said—may I use your telephone to call my specialist?” he asked Lady Armstrong, seizing the opportunity. “Just to be sure.”
“Of course. Whenever you like. The operator will be there till seven—you know we have our own operator for the system here?”
“I’d love to see how it works,” Fen put in. “Daddy’s firm built the system, you know, Archie. He’d be so disappointed if I didn’t examine it. May I go and see your exchange? I don’t understand a thing about wires, but I can tell him how wonderfully clever it looks.”
“Of course, my dear.” Lady Armstrong laughed at her, just a little, and the men all joined in. Fen smiled sweetly back.
They went down to the exchange after the interminable luncheon. Fen said, as they tramped the gravel paths, “I suppose you know lots of terribly rude words? From the army?”
“Er, some.” Curtis was rather taken aback.
“Do feel free, then. In confidence, Pat uses some dreadful language—she grew up with four brothers, you know—and after a meal with those people, I’m rather missing her turn of phrase. I could slap Lady Armstrong, honestly.” Fen looked ruffled and indignant. “For all they know Mr. da Silva is lying dead in a pit somewhere, and there she sits stuffing her face with cold chicken and rissoles. What a foul set they are.”
“I couldn’t agree more. What’s your scheme for the exchange?”
“It depends on the operator. Follow my lead.”
The telephone exchange was housed in an unobtrusive hut next to the generator, painted a dark green so as not to stand out from the woods that would one day surround it. A fast, narrow stream ran by the hut a little below them, turning a mill that provided part of the house’s electric power.
Fen knocked on the door and smiled blindingly at the small, balding man who answered.
“Good afternoon, I’m Carruth. Fenella Carruth. My father, Peter Carruth, built the system for Sir Hubert.”
The operator’s face didn’t change. He was apparently not a fanatic of the telephone. “Oh, aye, miss?”
“I’ve permission to see the exchange, you know. Sir Hubert so kindly said I could tell Daddy all about it.” She tripped in, and Curtis followed, looking around with incomprehension at the board of wires and sockets. “Tell me, did he use the Repton transformers here?”
“Couldn’t say, miss.”
Fen nodded. “Well, Archie, do let me show you. To connect the call, you see, one has to connect a telephone to the switchboard. These are the front keys, here, for the house telephones. One places it in the jack, and then the back key connects to the other telephone. Now, do remind me.” She radiated charm at the operator. “Which position connects the operator to the cord, and which is the ring generator?”
Curtis suspected that was the simplest question imaginable; it was certainly within the operator’s power to answer. He beamed, and set forth the principle in exhaustive detail, prompted by Fen’s artless questions, until just a few moments later she was seated at the desk, gurgling with laughter.
“So one simply connects this front key here, to this back key here, and then—now, Mr. Curtis, do give me the number of your medical specialist, and I shall be your operator!”
Curtis recited the number of his uncle’s office. Fen, giggling at herself, put the call through, and said musically, “Calling for Mr. Archibald Curtis!” as soon as the call was answered, then leapt up, hand to mouth, as she handed the receiver over. “Oh but how rude, we can’t eavesdrop on your medical matters.” She clasped the operator’s arm. “So you shall show me the generator, and we’ll leave Mr. Curtis to his call.”
The operator attempted a protest, but he had been taken by surprise, and there was, of course, nothing he could do unless he was to refuse a lady to her face. She hustled him out, and Curtis said into the receiver, to the questioning voice, “I must speak to Sir Maurice Vaizey. A matter of extreme urgency and national security. Get him now. A man’s life is at stake.”
Curtis came out of the hut a few moments later, and joined Fen and the operator in marvelling at the operation of the generator and the wonders of technological progress.
The operator looked awkward as they took their leave. “By rights, sir, miss, I oughtn’t have left the equipment alone even for a minute.”
“We’ve done no harm to it, I’m sure,” Fen assured him.
“No, miss, but it’s more than my job’s worth.”
“I dare say Sir Hubert would understand your courtesy,” Curtis put in. “But if you’d prefer we didn’t mention it to him…?”
“I’d be grateful, sir.”
“Then at least, may I…” Curtis tipped him generously and took Fen’s arm, and they strolled back to the house together in a mood of justified self-satisfaction.