By Lynn Philip Hodgson, Canadian Editor, Eye Spy Magazine

In 1979, my late father, George Hodgson, informed me that he and my mother would be vacationing that year in England.  As he was now retired, Dad could take as much time as he liked and would have no problem in finding a place to stay given all his relatives who still lived there.

As one who was born in England and enjoys studying his history, my father would certainly be taking in many museums and sightseeing spots.  I asked him if he would do me a favour while he was there.  Would he please look up a Mr. Boxshall of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office and deliver a parcel to him for me, saving me a lot of time writing back and forth to England.  Mr. Boxshall was my contact for confirmation of data that I had obtained regarding Camp-X.

I gave my father a list of questions for Mr. Boxshall, some photographs, and some documents that would indicate to him that I was a credible researcher.  Dad put all of the things that I gave him into a plastic bag from a local supermarket and put them in his luggage.  The next day my parents sailed for England.  When they returned to Canada about twelve weeks later, Dad had a fantastic story to tell.

 It started with a phone call to Mr. Boxshall.  Dad asked for an appointment and he was told to come the next day at 10:00 a.m.  Mr. Boxshall asked my father if he knew where to find him and he answered, “ The Imperial War Museum isn’t it?”
 Mr. Boxshall replied, “Yes, just check in with the lady at reception.”

 The next morning, Dad was there on time and checked in as requested. The receptionist said, “Just walk down the hall and you will see a ‘lift’ on the right hand side.  Press the button and go to the second floor.”

 Dad walked to the elevator and pressed the button.  He heard a noise and could tell that it was the elevator coming down to the first floor.  As the door opened, my father was thinking to himself, “How could anyone get into this elevator. It’s so small!”  He told me later that he hardly fit.  The elevator went to the second floor, the gate opened and Dad stepped out into a huge room about half the size of a football field and with a ceiling perhaps thirty feet high. (Somewhat exaggerated I’m sure.)

 As he looked around, he saw only a man seated behind a desk and two empty chairs in front of the desk, all situated in the middle of the room.  The man gestured for my father to come over.
“Please sit down, Sir,” said the man.  As my father did so, the man behind the desk introduced himself as Mr. Boxshall.  He told my dad that, although he had never met me personally, he knew me very well from our years of correspondence regarding Camp-X.

 He then said something to Dad that he would remember for the rest of his life.  Mr. Boxshall asked my father, “Do you know where you are, Sir?”
 Dad replied, “Yes, of course.  The Imperial War Museum.”
 Mr. Boxshall replied, “Yes, sir, you are technically correct.  But this very room that you are in is also the original Bedlam.”  As my father looked around the room, he noticed the bare brick walls with the metal bars still imbedded in them.  This was the Bedlam lunatic asylum where, in the year of 1247, hundreds of insane people were confined and shackled in this one room.  One can only imagine the chaos and the noise; hence the phrase, “It’s Bedlam in there!”
 
 

After the initial shock of discovering where he was, Dad was able to settle down for an interesting chat with Mr. Boxshall who said, “I am going to send you to see another gentleman, a ‘Mr. X’, if you do not mind.  Here is his address.  He lives out in the country and you should arrive in time for tea this coming Saturday.  Would that be alright?”  My father said of course, that would be perfectly fine with him.  He thanked Mr. Boxshall and, as he walked toward the “lift”, he was still in awe as he looked around the huge room.   Dad was one of few people to see Bedlam, as it is not open to the public. (At that time it was not.)

 Dad arrived at the appointed time that Saturday.  He drove up the laneway of the old country estate, so beautiful with its English country gardens and flowerbeds and the tall trees lining the driveway.  He parked the car, walked up to the front door, and rang the chimes.  A butler came to the door, escorted him into the den and asked if he could bring him something.  Dad replied, “Yes, please, a cup of tea would be great.”  The butler said that he would return shortly with the tea and that the man of the house would be with Dad directly.

 The butler brought the tea and Dad waited for about another ten minutes. A distinguished looking gentleman walked into the room and said, by way of introduction, “I am sorry that I cannot tell you my name, but nonetheless I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”  My father, not being used to this “Cloak and Dagger” scenario, just went along with the flow.
 The man said, “I understand that you have brought some things to show me.”

 “Yes, my son is investigating Camp-X in Canada and wanted me to show you these items.”
 “Where are you staying, Mr. Hodgson?” the man asked.
 “At the Savoy Hotel for a couple of nights, and then with some relatives of mine,” my father replied.
 “Did you know that many of our agents during the war stayed at the Savoy while they were awaiting debriefing from their missions?” Mr. X asked.
 “No, I didn’t. I’m afraid I’m not up to speed on this entire subject, Sir,” replied my father.
 Dad pulled out the plastic grocery bag, opened it, and, one by one, began to show the gentleman the items that were in it.  Mr. X studied them carefully and silently for some time, and then he slowly raised his head.  “Do you mean to tell me that you have been walking the streets of London with ‘top secret’ documents in a plastic shopping bag?”

 Dad did not know what to say.  He quickly determined that he could be staying a lot longer in England than anticipated if he could not explain himself.  He pleaded ignorance, explaining that he was merely a courier and that the man would have to direct any questions to his son.  The man told my father that, in his country, these things were considered ‘top secret’ and were deemed to be so for life.  He could not and would not comment on the items.  My father thanked him for his time, departed quickly, and returned to London.

 Dad never did find out the man’s identity, but he did have a vacation, which he would never forget!