Maura couldn't sleep.
There was no point in even trying.
She had called Jane. She had called Jane hundreds of times. But Jane had switched off her phone.
Harriet busied herself upstairs, but Maura had no idea what to say, and so she stayed put.
The living room was still a mess. First, Maura took care of the glass, making sure that every shard had been picked up and the floor was clear. Taking a look around the room, Maura set her eyes on the scattered paperwork and began to collect it. Arms piled high with research proposals, appendices and Rachel's thesis, Maura made her way over to the box in the corner and dropped them in. Pushing the armchairs to one side, she checked to make sure no more glass had somehow made its way under the paperwork and across the room.
A folded sheet of paper peeked out from underneath one of the armchairs. Picking it up carefully, Maura opened it and began to read, settling herself into one of the chairs as her eyes scanned the beautiful cursive script on the page.
March 4th, 1951
My darling Iris,
I had hoped that this letter was one I would never have to write. It pains me greatly that I am left to communicate with you in this way but, alas, I fear I must. My health is declining at a rapid pace and as you, my dearest wife, already know, I am not long for this world. By the time you are reading this, I will have passed on.
I am so lucky to have shared my time with you, my dear. I could not have imagined a better wife for myself than one with such wit and intelligence as you. As I leave you in this world, you must go on with the knowledge that I spent every day loving you with my whole heart.
Before I leave this Earth, I wish to share with you the secrets of my war. Our war. I know nothing of your life at Bletchley aside from the number of the hut you worked in, and I know that this is how Mr Churchill hoped it would be. A secret is a secret. But, alas, I love you far more than I love my country and I cannot go to the grave without asking you to protect my legacy. And so I leave you, my dearest Iris, with my Bletchley story.
In 1941, I was approached by one of Churchill's generals and ordered to begin work on a communications device to rival the Enigma. He called it Operation Mercurius. It was to be used by allied troops in order to send encrypted messages between camps and such. The operation was a success and my machine was taken by government officials for testing.
I had heard whispers that Mr Turing had made great leaps with his own machine. The war seemed to end rather quickly after that and I fear my machine was never replicated or used in the field.
When we were sent home, my workshop was cleared of all materials. I was allowed to keep my tools but, when I wrapped them in their holster, I hid my draft copy of the blueprint inside. Nobody ever checked, and so I brought them home.
When you thought I was out tinkering with my motorcycle in the garden shed, I was building my own version of the machine. Please don't think me selfish, but I wanted my legacy to be more material than just a blueprint.
Please, my darling wife, once I am gone, you must keep my secret safe. In the wrong hands, a machine such as this could be a very dangerous thing indeed.
I love you, Iris.
Henry.
Folding the letter neatly back in half, Maura leaned back in the armchair and closed her eyes. Mercurius was a machine. A machine that only Henry and Iris, Rachel and Maura knew existed.
A quick online search found Henry's obituary. He had only lived for three more days after the letter was dated.
Curious about Iris, Maura searched through Rachel's acknowledgements for a mention of her name. If she had known her, maybe that was how the letter had ended up in her possession.
Finding nothing, she tapped 'Iris Pickering' into a genealogy website. Iris had outlived her husband by some years. Marrying again, she had given birth to a son in the late 1950s. Feeling the exhaustion begin to weigh her down, Maura scribbled down his name and vowed to try and contact him in the morning.
Finding a blanket in the corner of the small sitting room, Maura threw it over herself, turned off the light and closed her eyes.
Her mind began to slow, her focus turning from Henry and Mercurius back to Jane. Back to the tearful face of her best friend staring out of a cab window as she drove away into the night.
There were so many things she needed to say to her, so many questions to ask. As Maura finally let her exhaustion consume her, she felt an odd sensation of comfort.
Whatever reason Jane had, she was there.
Jane was there for her.