Enigma

That's Leveret! Don't mind him.' He took out his pipe and called: 'Mr Leveret! Come and meet Mr Jericho. The famous Mr Jericho.'
    A small man with a thin face appeared at the entrance to the bedroom.
    'Good afternoon, sir.' Leveret wore a raincoat and trilby. His voice had a slight northern accent.
    'What the hell are you doing in there?'
    'He's just checking you're alone,' said Logie sweetly.
    'Of course I'm bloody well alone!'
    'And is the whole staircase empty, sir?' enquired Leveret. 'Nobody in the rooms above or below?'
    Jericho threw up his hands in exasperation. 'Guy, for God's sake!'
    'I think it's all clear,' said Leveret to Logie. 'I've already closed the blackout curtain in there.' He turned to Jericho. 'Mind if I do the same here, sir?' He didn't wait for permission. He crossed to the small leaded window, opened it, took off his hat and thrust his head out, peering up and down, left and right. A freezing mist was off the river and a blast of chill air filled the room. Satisfied, Leveret ducked back inside, closed the window and drew the curtains.
    There was a quarter of a minute's silence. Logie broke it by rubbing his hands and saying: 'Any chance of a fire, Tom? I'd forgotten what this place was like in winter. Worse than school. And tea? You mentioned tea? Would you like some tea, Mr Leveret?'
    'I would indeed, sir.'
    'And what about some toast? I noticed you had some bread, Tom, in the kitchen over there. Toast in front of a college fire? Wouldn't that take us back?'
    Jericho looked at him for a moment. He opened his mouth to protest then changed his mind. He took a box of matches from the mantelpiece, struck a light and held it to the gas fire. As usual the pressure was low and the match went out. He lit another and this time it caught. A worm of flame glowed blue and began to spread. He went across the landing to the little kitchen, filled the kettle and lit the gas ring. In the bread bin there was indeed a loaf—Mrs Saxmundham must have put it there earlier in the week—and he sawed off three grey slices. In the cupboard he found a pre-war pot of jam, surprisingly presentable after he had scraped the white fur of mould from its surface, and a smear of : margarine on a chipped plate. He arranged his delicacies on a tray and stared at the kettle.
    Perhaps he was having a dream? But when he looked back into his sitting room, there was Logie stretched out again on the sofa, and Leveret perched uneasily on the edge of one of the chairs, his hat in his hands, like an unreliable witness waiting to go into court with an under-rehearsed story.
    Of course they had brought bad news. What else ' could it be but bad news? The acting head of Hut 8 wouldn't travel fifty miles across country in the deputy director's precious bloody car just to pay a social call. They were going to sack him. 'Sorry, old thing, but we can't carry passengers. . .' Jericho felt suddenly very tired. He massaged his forehead with the heel of his hand. The familiar headache was beginning to return, spreading up from his sinuses to the back of his eyes.
    He had thought it was her. That was the joke. For about half a minute, running towards the lighted window, he had been happy. It was pitiful.
    The kettle was beginning to boil. He prised open the tea caddy to find age had reduced the tea leaves to dust.
    Nevertheless he spooned them into the pot and tipped in the hot water.
    Logie pronounced it nectar.
    Afterwards they sat in silence in the semi-darkness. The only illumination was provided by the faint gleam of the desk lamp behind them and the blue glow of the fire at their feet. The gas jet hissed. From beyond the blackout curtains came a faint flurry of splashes and the mournful quacking of a duck. Logie sat on the floor, his long legs outstretched, fiddling with his pipe. Jericho slouched in one of the two easy chairs, prodding the carpet absent-mindedly with the toasting fork. Leveret had been told to stand guard outside: 'Would you mind closing both doors, old thing? The inner door and the outer door, if you'd be so kind?'
    The warm aroma of toast hung over the room. Their plates had been pushed to one side.
    'This really is most companionable,' murmured Logie. He struck a match and the objects on the mantelpiece threw brief shadows on the damp wall. 'Although one appreciates that one is, in a sense, fortunate to be in a place like Bletchley, given where else one might be, one does start to get rather down with the sheer drabness