The Bletchley Riddle

1•Jakob
First things first: a riddle.
A traveler crosses a border into enemy territory. We’re talking ages ago—­ancient times, warring kingdoms, that sort of thing. The traveler is stopped by soldiers. It’s their job to make sure no one carries any secret messages. They search the man, strip him bare, run fingers through his hair.
The man is clean. He pulls on his clothes, goes on his way.
But he does have a hidden message.
Where? I’ve given you a clue.
No, it’s not in his brain. And not in his body, though that can work. It’s a classic spy trick. There’s this story from the American Revolution where a British spy is caught sneaking through American lines. The Yanks suspect him of carrying secrets. They force him to drink some horrid potion, and next thing you know the poor chap’s evacuating from both ends. Sure enough, out pops a silver bullet. This is no ordinary bullet—­it’s hollow and can be unscrewed. Inside is a tiny folded note.
But our traveler carries no such spy gadget. Our man continues his journey. He walks for hours. Finally, deep in the woods, at an agreed-­upon spot, he meets a rebel leader, an ally of his own king. The traveler asks for a very sharp knife. He lifts the blade to his head . . . and begins to shave off his hair.
The secret message is written on his scalp.
I’ll never forget telling my sister this one. Lizzie was six or seven, and for weeks she ordered every adult she saw to bend down so she could search their head for hidden writing. She informed Mr. Davies, our neighbor across the hall, that he could never, ever be a spy.
“Why not?” he wished to know.
She said, “Because you have no hair.”
Davies was terribly put out. Maybe he dreamed of becoming a spy. Maybe he was one. It’s possible—­a nice head of hair is not required these days. You see, people have come up with better ways to send secrets than writing them on each other’s heads.
Of course, the more cunningly the secrets are hidden, the harder people like me will work to find them.

2•Lizzie
Allow me to explain something.
I’m lying.
And surprisingly, I’m quite good at it. I never imagined that at the age of fourteen I’d excel at deception. But these days, many things surpass even my robust imagination. England on the brink of German invasion, for one thing. The sweaty man in front of me, for another.
“Apologies, Mr. Fleetwood. I didn’t realize I’d walked us so far today.”
That was one of the lies, of course. The walk was a death dash. A ploy to ensure he’d be positively exhausted when we boarded the ship and entered our cabin.
Fleetwood, my chaperone for the voyage, heaves his bloated and blistered trotters into a pan of water. Remarkably small feet for such a wide frame. He mops a line of sweat from his brow, his face so flush with pink, it resembles a glazed holiday ham.
“Oh, goodness. Gran made no mention of your foot ailment,” I tell him.
“I’ve no ailment. And you will report no such thing to your grandmother. I simply wasn’t prepared for a march around the whole of Liverpool.” He loosens his tie, settling in with a drink.
“Perhaps you can understand my melancholy,” I say, placing my suitcase where he’ll be certain to trip over it. “Today is the last I’ll see of England before we sail for America.”
“And whose fault is that?” he bellows, wagging a finger toward the ceiling of our cabin.
“Hitler’s fault.” I nod dutifully. “This war is Hitler’s fault. My displacement, Hitler’s fault. This gas mask I carry at all times”—­I raise my voice for full effect—­“Hitler’s fault!”
That’s the reply he wants.
Please note that I do not include the words “I think.” Because I do not think. I know.
Another benefit of the sage age of fourteen: There are many things you just know. Like the terrible truth that many British men who leave for the war will die in the war. Or the fact that Mr. Fleetwood enjoys one too many nips of Old Schenley. When I share things like that, people often say, “My, aren’t you precocious, Elizabeth.
”But let’s be honest, shall we? When adults tell a child or a teenager that they’re precocious, what they’re really saying is, “Please don’t say that aloud.”
But I say most things aloud.
I prefer being straightforward. My older brother, Jakob, used to be straightforward. Before Willa disappeared, that is. Willa is our mother. Killed in a bomb blast, they told us. A falsity I refuse to accept. I no longer refer to her asMother because she’s not currently here to “mother” me. So it’s easier, and hurts less, to call her by her first name.
Precocious? Probably.
Willa is American. From a posh place called Cleveland. Some say that explains why I’m so straightforward, because I’m half American. They say the word “American” as if it’s scandalous. I love that. Willa loved it too.
Of course, someday I’ll make it to America and meet genuinely scandalous girls. I imagine Cleveland to be a pond well stocked. But I’ve never been to America. As I grew up, Gran always came to London because Willa was constantly working. And now Gran thinks I’m rushing to join her in Cleveland. So does her estate steward, the yeasty-­footed Mr. Fleetwood.
But I’m not. Of course I’m not.
Willa is the only parent Jakob and I have left. I made a pledge to uncover the truth about her disappearance. I told my brother as much in my correspondence. But Jakob hasn’t responded to any of the letters that I’ve sent to the curious address he provided. I’ve heard nothing from him—­for over three months. First Willa disappears and now my brother. I refuse to leave England until I determine their whereabouts.
“Mr. Fleetwood, would you like to join me for a stroll on deck before we depart?”
“No, no,” he replies. “I’ve just poured a drink.”
“Yes, probably best to rest your legs. It’s a small ship, but so lovely of Gran to book such a large suite, don’t you think?” I continue to chatter, as I’ve learned it tires him. “Will you be able to endure the discomfort? I hesitate to leave you.” I place a hand to my chest. “Even for a moment.”
“I’m fine!” he insists. His footbath is now pinked by the weep of his blisters. Perfect.
“All right. I’d like to wave my hankie as we set sail. A transatlantic voyage to escape German invasion. It’s all so exciting!” I gush. “I’ll return and unpack my suitcase as soon as we depart.”
“Very good, Elizabeth.”
I exit the cabin. Turn the corner in the hallway. Pull a deep breath.
And then I run.
As fast as I possibly can, dodging a luggage steward, vaulting over suitcases, and picking up speed midair. I dash down one staircase, then another, taking the final five steps in a single airborne leap. I land, rump first, on what appears to be a gilded box owned by a pinch-­faced peacock of a woman.
“My hat!” she exclaims.
“I do apologize,” I say, removing my backside from the squash of her box. “But I’m in a terrible hurry.” And then I’m off again.
“Young lady!” bellows the peacock. “Young lady, what on earth are you doing?”
Her voice fades as I see my target exit.
What am I doing?
I’m lying. And escaping.
And honestly, I do feel a bit bad about it. It was much too easy. Poor “Feetwood,” as my brother calls him.
Clearly, he has no experience with teenagers.
Clearly, he has no idea what I’m about to accomplish.
Clearly, he is a very poor chaperone.
Because the steamship will sail for America.
But I’ll be racing back to London when it does.