From Fitzroy's Private Diary (Extract 58)

It must have been in the middle of the Great War that I had managed to snatch a little peace and quiet for myself in what was then my favourite club. I was enjoying a fine brandy and resting in a comfortable chair by the fire. All I wanted, after several hard weeks in the field, was a little rest and relaxation before I set off once more into the fray (the very next day, as it turned out). Then, this blighter of a cad has the audacity to drag his chair across the room, positioning it to sit opposite me. I closed my eyes in the vain hope he might think I hadn’t seen him and would promptly go away. I recognised him as a fellow member of the service, whom I didn’t particularly like. I had nothing against him, he was most acute at performing his duties, but he was ever such a wretched bore.

He had the damnable nerve to actually poke my knee. My eyes flew open, and for a moment I wondered if expulsion from the club was worth throwing him into the open fire. However, the chair I was in was ever so comfortable, and I was extremely tired. I asked him what he wanted, in as civil a tone as I could muster, and imagine my surprise when he said he wanted to know how I found working with women. I asked him to clarify slightly. After all, women often assist me with information, and such things, while being completely unaware that they are doing so. I have also used women as assets, where they fully understand that they are acting for King and Country, and then there are, admittedly more rarely, female agents.

The chap scratched his head and said he hadn’t thought about it like that. He opined that it was always easier to deal with other gentlemen, who knew how the game should be played. At this point I mentally labelled him as an idiot, who obviously did ‘fieldwork’ in clubs and aristocratic parties. He’d probably never got his hands dirty in his life - except for when he ate lobster.

I explained, baldly, that it was my preference to make love to the wives and daughters of ambassadors and foreign dignitaries, in order to extract information, rather than than their respective husbands and fathers. I noted that while, among the aristocracy, and the civil service, there was a certain degree of same sex relationships, it was not a club I desired to enter. I, personally, had no problem with any man who preferred his own sex, but I preferred the softness of a female bosom upon which to lay my head.

He stammered and went bright red, and enjoying his unease, I continued. I explained that female assets were loyal - at least utterly loyal to me - incisive, quick witted and far less likely to be thought of as informants, as a great many men were under the erroneous impression that females were good for little more than being fashionable and serving tea. While they couldn’t gain access to certain corridors of power, or establishments like the one we were sitting in, men generally had no idea about the amount of gossip their wives, lovers, and daughters shared about them over seemingly innocent tea parties. There is no other place where a man’s dignity, character and ambition can be so finely, and disparagingly, dissected than among a gathering of women. In groups, I stressed, the so-called weaker sex can be quite terrifying, or should be, to the adult male. A combination of sisterly feelings, and the shared woes of marriage, lead to a sharing of intimate confidences. Among married women, scandalous gossip about affairs and bedchamber reputations are fair game. I have even come to learn of the affliction of various sexually transmitted diseases on some important, and married, people, and I have been able to use such knowledge to great effect.

Gentleman who have secrets, I am sorry to say, are far less likely to be careful with their speech and actions in the company of women. Generally, they assume the poor things will be quite unable to understand what’s going on, when, in actual fact, a woman’s intellect is often far sharper than is ever given credit. Women, I told him, have learned to mask their intelligence in order to protect themselves. Of the two sexes, women are by far the most natural operatives when it comes to the art of espionage.

I strongly suspected he wanted to know about Alice, and so I was determined to tell him as little as I possibly could. Female agents, I continued, of which I have worked alongside several (a revelation which made him start, despite me omitting to mention that a great many of them were not British Intelligence operatives) rely much more on subtlety and stamina than brute strength, which men frequently do. They are also less swayed by ego, avoiding the male trap of needing to establish dominance, being far more inclined to focus on their duty.

Furthermore, I said, I found that women I have worked with tend to smell nicer, swear far less, be far more amiable companions, and feel their work is both a point of pride and a privilege. They are more compassionate, empathic and just as able to defend themselves as well as any man, if taught correctly. At this point he made a suggestion that the biggest advantage of working with a female agent would be having sex with her, to keep her in line of course.

Whereupon I finally rose from my seat, grabbed him by his lapels, and hurled him into the open fire, thus bringing about the termination of my membership of the club. Sadly, several other fellows pulled him out very quickly, and as the only lasting damage he sustained was to his dignity and his clothing, I had to content myself with the fact he had been wearing a very expensive suit.