Page 113 of The Words Beneath the Noise

My hand went to the pocket involuntarily. “Personal notes. Nothing classified.”

“Then you won't mind if I examine it.”

“It's private.”

“Mr Pembroke.” Finch's voice was patient, almost kind, which somehow made it worse. “I've just told you that the last person I trusted cost a hundred and seventeen lives. I've shown you more of myself than I've shown anyone in twenty years. The least you can do is show me what you're hiding.”

“I'm not hiding anything relevant to the leak.”

“Then let me verify that and we can both move on.”

The request was reasonable. That was the terrible thing. He wasn't being cruel or arbitrary. He was doing his job, the same job that had broken him once before, trying to protect people from threats he couldn't afford to overlook.

But the notebook contained everything. Every coded confession about Tom. Every encrypted admission of feelings that could destroy us both.

“Sir, please.” My voice cracked. “It's not what you think. It's just... it helps me cope. Writing things down. Processing the pressure. The entries are encoded because they're personal, not because they're classified.”

Finch leaned forward. “Here's my problem, Mr Pembroke. Someone on this estate is passing intelligence to the enemy. That someone has access to sensitive materials, irregular behaviour patterns, and reasons to hide what they're doing. You meet allthree criteria.” He held out his hand. “I don't want to believe it's you. Your work has been exceptional. Your dedication is obvious. But I can't eliminate you as a suspect without examining that notebook.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I have to treat your refusal as confirmation of guilt.” His voice was heavy with something that might have been regret. “You'll be suspended. Confined. Investigated thoroughly. And eventually, the notebook will be confiscated anyway, but under circumstances far less pleasant than this conversation.”

The room felt too small. The air too thin. My chest tightened with the familiar precursor to panic, the sensation of walls closing in.

“The entries are in cipher,” I said, grasping at straws. “Personal codes. They won't make sense to anyone else.”

“We have cryptanalysts.”

“They're not about the war. Not about intelligence. They're about...” I stopped. Couldn't finish. Couldn't say feelings and fears and falling in love with someone I shouldn't.

Finch watched me struggle. Something in his expression shifted, became almost gentle.

“Mr Pembroke. Arthur.” The use of my first name startled me. “I've been doing this work for a very long time. I've learned to read people, to see what they're hiding even when they don't say it out loud. And I can see that whatever's in that notebook, it terrifies you. Not because it's treason. The fear in your eyes isn't the fear of a traitor caught. It's something else entirely.”

My throat closed up. Couldn't speak. Couldn't deny.

“I'm going to take the notebook,” he continued quietly. “I don't have a choice. The investigation requires it. But I want you to understand something.” He leaned forward, holding my gaze. “I'm not your enemy. I'm a man trying to do an impossible job in impossible circumstances. If what's in that notebook is what Isuspect it is, rather than evidence of espionage, then we can have a different conversation about how to proceed.”

“What do you suspect?”

He didn't answer directly. Just held out his hand, palm up, waiting.

My fingers pulled the notebook from my pocket. Held it for a moment, feeling the familiar weight, the worn leather cover, Bea's stitched initials on the inside. Three years of secrets. Three years of carefully encoded heart.

Placed it in his hand.

Finch took it with surprising gentleness. Didn't open it immediately. Just held it, looking at me with an expression I couldn't decipher.

“I'm going to have this analysed,” he said. “By someone I trust to be discreet. If the contents are personal rather than security-related, I'll return it to you and we'll speak no more of it. If they're evidence of espionage...” He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.

“And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime, you're suspended from active cryptanalysis. Confined to your billet except for meals. It's not punishment. It's procedure. Everyone under investigation faces the same restrictions.”

“Tom. What about Tom?”

“Sergeant Hale will be questioned. Separately. If he's involved in whatever you're hiding, I'll find out. If he's not, he has nothing to fear.” Finch's gaze was steady. “I don't destroy people for sport, Mr Pembroke. I destroy people who threaten this operation. There's a difference.”