The Cavendon Luck

  “That doesn’t surprise me, and there is a secret service within the Vatican. We know that because we deal with it.”

  There was a moment of silence, before Tony said, “Anyway, that comment went out of my head, and I only just remembered it. I thought I ought to tell you.”

  “I’m glad you did. It doesn’t seem like an important comment from Canaris. But I think it is. He was telling us where we stand with Pope Pius XII … he’s a fellow traveler. Of ours, shall we say?”

  Tony smiled. “The pope will fight indirectly, but he will fight Hitler.”

  “That he will. He must if he’s going to win. The Nazis want to destroy his church all over the world. He will defend it with all his might, whatever it takes.”

  “I have a feeling the Holy See is a hotbed of intrigue,” Tony said. “But they certainly manage to be a good courier system for us.”

  “Indeed. Have you heard from Étoile? Did she get things right?”

  “Funnily enough, I had a call about an hour ago. She’s fully settled in Annecy, which is close enough to the border if she has to make a quick exit. All is A-okay with her.”

  * * *

  Diedre was pleased to know that Étoile, her asset in France, was now in Annecy near the Swiss border. On the other hand, she might have to move to the south, the way the war in France was going at this moment. She would give some thought to that situation over the weekend. The Wehrmacht were fighting the French in the Dunkirk area, and the British had left troops behind to assist their ally in the fight. Provence was more than likely a good location for Étoile.

  Émeraude, her other asset, had remained in Paris where he had family; she had no worries about him. At the moment.

  Unexpectedly, a totally different subject came into her head. Did Canaris actually know Pope Pius XII? Or had that remark he had made to Tony really just been an offhand comment? Earlier she had thought it was another message to her, that the pope was one of them in principle. But how would Canaris know that, if he was not personally acquainted with the pope?

  She had a good memory; it had always served her well, and now she looked back to last year, to the spring of 1939. Unless she was wrong, Cardinal Eugenio Pacelli had been consecrated as the new pope in Rome around March or April. He was a Roman, born and bred, that she knew. And when he was made pope he had been secretary of state of the Vatican.

  That was about the extent of her knowledge. She got up, went into Tony’s office next door, and asked, “Does Canaris know the pope personally?”

  “I don’t know. But I can find out. I can do a bit of digging,” Tony answered, and gestured to a chair.

  “Whose garden? We have to be careful,” she said, sitting down.

  “My cousin’s. On my father’s side. His mother is Catholic and he was brought up a Catholic, and, in fact, he’s a Catholic priest.”

  “And here I was thinking all the Welsh were off to chapel every Sunday, singing their hearts out, a bell in every tooth.”

  Tony had the good grace to laugh. “I can phone him if you like.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “What exactly do you want me to ask him? I can’t very well bring up Canaris’s name, now can I?”

  “No, that would be unwise. Tell him you have to write something for your boss about the pope and what does he know that you might not. Something unusual perhaps. Or unique, special. Even a tidbit or two, to give some verve to the piece. Go on, pick up the phone. Do it now,” Diedre said, sounding eager.

  His curiosity aroused at her interest in this matter, Tony did as she suggested. He telephoned his cousin, and a moment later he was saying, “Oh hello, Ivor. It’s Tony. How are you?”

  After a little chitchat, Tony got to the point. “Listen, I could use your help, which is why I phoned you, actually. I’ve got to write something for my boss. About your boss. By that I mean Pope Pius XII. I need some background stuff, something unique, some sort of anecdote maybe, to spice up the piece.”

  He listened to his cousin, then began to laugh, “Well, I know you wouldn’t know anything spicy about him. Perhaps unusual … a hobby? For instance, has he ever traveled abroad?”

  At the other end of the phone in Cardiff, Ivor exclaimed, “Of course, yes. He’s even been to America!”

  “America. My goodness, how interesting, and has the pope been to any other countries?”

  “To Germany, that I do know, because he was in positions there,” Ivor explained with a hint of pride.

  “Positions, where in Germany?” Tony asked, staring at Diedre.

  Ivor again responded immediately. “He was in Munich, and it was official, if I remember right. He was also nuncio in Berlin in the late twenties, but listen, I don’t know much else.”

  “Well, thanks, old chap. This is something to go on, and if you recollect anything else, give me a shout at home this weekend. And thanks again.”

  They said good-bye and hung up. Tony said, “When he was Cardinal Pacelli, the pope was nuncio in Berlin in the twenties. That’s what my cousin just told me, and that’s interesting, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, and perhaps that’s why he knows Valiant. From Berlin. From what I recall reading about him, I think Cardinal Pacelli was quite social earlier in his life, knew all kinds of fancy folk. You could do a bit more digging. With a very discreet spade.”

  “Can I ask why you’re so interested in this matter?” Tony lifted a brow.

  “I like to know about the relationships people have, who their friends are. It tells me a lot. Don’t forget, Canaris knows Franco and very well from what we’ve discerned. Our friend seems to think he has so much influence with Franco, he can keep Spain neutral.”

  “You don’t have to remind me. Now Valiant has the ear of El Caudillo and the pope…” He let the sentence slide away when there was a knock on the door. William Lawson walked in swiftly, and closed the door behind him.

  “How was the PM?” Diedre asked.

  “Fighting fit. He sends his thanks to my unit … that’s you two. I showed him the paper, explained our theory, and he seemed to agree.” William sat down in the chair next to Diedre.

  “Did he ask how you came by the information?” Tony fixed his eyes on William, his scrutiny intent.

  “Not exactly. He said, ‘A good source?’ and I answered, ‘Yes.’ I added it came from the Vatican, and he nodded … gave me a very pointed look, as if he knows all about Vatican spies. He wanted to know if he could pass it by C at MI6, and I obviously agreed.”

  “So did he call Menzies?” Tony said.

  “He did indeed. In front of me. He told C I was there with him and explained why. MI6 had no information about sea lions. So C apparently said. But he added he would look into it. At once. Before I left, the prime minister thanked me again for everything we do, then announced that in his opinion the Germans would invade us in approximately a month. When I asked him if that date was official, he shook his head, and told me it was his gut instinct, adding that Hitler had to deal with France before he could invade us.”

  “That sounds about right, Will, because usually Valiant gives us a month’s warning,” Diedre said softly.

  Fifty-one

  Daphne sat at her desk in the conservatory, going over a list of things she had to do today. It was a sunny June morning and, as the sun filtered in, she felt a little frisson of something … relief, that was it. A good feeling to be here in this room she had made her own years ago. Because it was normal, an everyday thing, now that she was helping to run Cavendon again, from the desk she had always called her command post. Being busy helped to make her worries go away if only for a short while …

  “Daphne!”

  Hugo’s voice startled her, made her jump, and she turned around in the chair. Her husband was hurrying across the floor and she stood up at once. He was as white as bleached bone and the shocked look on his face frightened her.

  “Whatever is it?” she cried, running to him. “What’s wrong? Oh my God! No, not Charlie
! He’s not dead, is he?” As she spoke the shaking began and she couldn’t hold a limb still.

  “No!” Hugo exclaimed. “No, not dead. But he’s badly wounded. We just received this letter from the army.” He showed her the envelope, and went on. “Charlie was rescued at Dunkirk, but he was shot in both legs. They were severely injured.” Pausing, Hugo swallowed and said in a quavering voice, “They had to amputate his left leg.”

  “Oh God, no! No, not Charlie. Oh my God. It’s ruined his life.”

  Hugo took hold of her, pulled her into his arms. “I know it’s horrendous. But he still has one leg which they say will heal well. It hasn’t ruined his life, I promise you. Knowing Charlie, he’ll meet the challenge.”

  “But what will he do? How will he walk? He’ll be on crutches, won’t he?” She gazed at him through a blur of tears.

  “Only at the beginning,” Hugo answered, endeavoring to calm her, even though he was extremely shaken up himself. “Once the good leg heals he will be fitted for an artificial leg, and seemingly they are very good.”

  At this moment their daughter Annabel came into the conservatory looking for Daphne, and when she saw that her parents were upset, she rushed over to them, clutching at her mother’s arm. “Is Charlie dead?” their youngest child asked tearfully, always expecting the worst in this war.

  Hugo and Daphne looked at each other aghast, and pulled themselves together at once, because Hugo knew he could say emphatically, “No! No, he’s not dead, Annabel, thank God. He’s badly wounded but he is alive, and that’s wonderful. He’s alive!”

  Hugo then explained to Annabel that his left leg had been amputated above the knee because gangrene had set in and it traveled fast. Fortunately the army surgeon had been able to save his right leg; he was recovering in a military hospital where he would have the proper medical care and attention.

  Annabel had listened attentively, and asked, “When will he be able to come home?”

  “Not for some months,” Hugo answered. “The amputated leg has to heal, and then he will be fitted for an artificial leg. I’ve heard they are excellent.”

  “Knowing Charlie, he’ll handle it well,” Annabel said, smiling at her father and then her mother. “Shall I go and ask Lane to make us some tea?”

  “Why not, darling,” Daphne said, having managed to calm herself. Turning to Hugo she continued, “Let’s go and sit on the sofa and talk about the future for Charlie. After all, he will be able to write, even work on a newspaper, perhaps, as he’s always wanted to do.”

  Hugo looked at his wife, and nodded, his pride in her enormous. Daphne could always cope, no matter what.

  * * *

  Since that day, at the beginning of June, Daphne had thanked God every night for protecting their eldest son, for letting him live. Charlie had finally written them a cheerful letter. In it he had explained that he would eventually be fitted with an artificial leg. These wonderfully made legs were lightweight, he had said, and he knew he would learn to walk properly, once it was strapped to him around his waist. He would be mobile again, he had promised them in his letter.

  She and Hugo knew that the loss of a limb was a most horrendous thing for a young man to bear. But it had happened and Charlie was accepting of his fate. She and Hugo knew it would not change his positive personality or slow him down. They were certain of that, as was the entire family.

  It was the middle of June and still they had not been invaded by the Nazis, but they would be soon. The country was well prepared. And so was Cavendon.

  Six months ago Harry Swann had received his papers, and although he was now forty-two, he had chosen to enlist in the Royal Air Force. He was not flying planes, but manning the all-important radar at an airfield in the south, alongside the WAAFs. The Women’s Auxiliary Air Force was not allowed to fly, although many of them wanted to be pilots. Too dangerous, they had been told by the top brass. And that was that.

  Miles was exempt because he was running an agricultural estate; most of the young men at Cavendon had gone to war, but they had been replaced by the lovely Land Army girls. These young women were helping Miles and working hard; the women from the three villages were doing their bit as usual, and the Women’s Institute was in full swing. They tended the allotments, bottled fruit and vegetables, made jam, knitted socks and balaclavas for the troops, and did their best to keep everyone cheerful.

  We’re lucky living in the country, Daphne suddenly thought. We have access to food more easily than people in the towns and cities what with the scarcities, ration books, and queues. The older men still working on the estate caught fish, shot birds and rabbits; others raised chickens. Mostly for the eggs and often for the pot. Her father had always insisted from the outset of the war that everyone in the three villages have their fair share of everything produced on their land, and it was distributed by Alice and Evelyne every week.

  Papa. She thought of him now, still marveling at the way he had suddenly become himself again. It had happened after Charlotte had broken her leg and he felt the need to look after her. She remembered how he had bucked up at once, taking charge. He had been particularly thrilled to see Diedre married to William, as well. Those two were coming up from London tonight; DeLacy and Dulcie were already at Cavendon, checking the paintings in storage, and James would arrive tomorrow from Catterick Camp, where he was shooting a propaganda film for the army.

  Daphne had been looking forward to this weekend. The sound of footsteps cut into her thoughts and she turned her head. Much to her pleasure she saw Mrs. Alice coming into the room, jumped up and went to greet her. They had been extremely close for years. Daphne would never forget that it was Alice Swann, Cecily’s mother, who had saved her life and her sanity when she was seventeen.

  After a warm embrace, Alice said, “I have wonderful news, Lady Daphne. Evelyne has just told me that Kenny is out of danger. The operation on his back was successful. I ran up here straightaway to tell you.”

  “This is wonderful news, Mrs. Alice, and I shall write to Charlie tonight. He’ll be thrilled to know Kenny’s going to get better. He’s been worried.”

  Alice said, “Give Mr. Charlie my love, m’lady.”

  Daphne nodded, went and sat at her desk. She motioned for Alice to sit in the chair, which she did, and said, “There are a couple of other things I’d like to mention, Lady Daphne. The first is Lady Gwendolyn. To be honest, I don’t think she likes the new housekeeper, Mrs. Raymond. That’s the impression she gives me. So I was wondering if Peggy Swift might be interested. Oh dear, I should’ve said Peggy Lane.”

  Daphne laughed. “I make the same mistake all the time. I can ask Peggy, perhaps she would like to help out. But I do think it would depend on Gordon. Now that he’s the head butler he might not want his wife to work.”

  “That’s what Walter said,” Alice confided. “But we can give it a try, can’t we? And by the way, I just saw Hanson. He asked me to tell you he would be honored to help out with tea tomorrow.” Alice smiled and shook her head. “He’s bored to death, I should think, and wants to keep his hand in anyway.”

  “Fortunately, Gordon Lane doesn’t mind. He loves Hanson. They’ve been working side by side for years and Hanson trained him.”

  “I keep an eye on Lady Gwendolyn, and she’s doing quite well, especially since the weather’s warm. But—” Alice broke off, hesitating.

  “But what?” Daphne asked swiftly, frowning. “Isn’t she all right?”

  “She’s pretty much the same, but I’ve noticed a change in her in the last week, m’lady. She does a lot of daydreaming, it seems to me. Sits in her chair, looking off into the distance … faraway, sort of. She really is old now.”

  “I know. And I appreciate that you go to see her every day. She told me how much she enjoys your visits.”

  “I want to tell you something else, Lady Daphne,” Alice began and stopped abruptly, as if seeking words.

  Daphne said, “Don’t break off again. Please tell me what’s wrong. I can see
from your face that there’s a problem.”

  “I’m not sure if it’s a problem. As you know, a couple of days ago I was asked to look after a new evacuee. The girl who’d been staying with us went back to Liverpool, to move to America with her parents. The new girl is sweet. Her name is Victoria; she’s shy, a bit tentative, rather quiet. Anyway, I saw her totally undressed for the first time last night, and I was shocked. She has a lot of fading bruises on her body. I think she’s been physically abused, my lady, where she was before.”

  Daphne sat upright in the chair, and exclaimed, “Did you say anything to her?”

  “No, I didn’t. She suddenly realized I’d seen the bruises and put a towel around herself, looked at me in a peculiar way. As if she were embarrassed. She’d been taking a bath.”

  Daphne said, “Don’t say anything to her, ignore it, and behave very normally. What you need to do is make her feel welcome and safe, put her at ease, and eventually she may confide in you. I honestly think that is the best thing. You mustn’t mention the bruises.”

  “No, I won’t,” Alice assured her.

  * * *

  The arrival of Lord Mowbray ended Daphne’s conversation with Mrs. Alice, who after wishing the earl good morning excused herself.

  “I’ll speak with you later, Mrs. Alice,” Daphne murmured, and rose, went to embrace her father.

  Standing away from him, a moment later, she said, “Good news, Papa. Kenny is going to be all right. The operation on his back was successful, and he will walk again. Eventually. Mrs. Alice just got the news from his mother.”

  “And good news it is indeed,” Charles Ingham replied, and took hold of her arm. “Let’s go for a walk. It’s such a lovely day.”

  “Yes, of course, Papa.” She looked at him surreptitiously, having detected an odd note in his voice. Sadness? Regret? Or disappointment? She wasn’t sure.

  Once they were outside, he said, “Let’s head for the lake, Daphne. I feel the need to stretch my legs and breathe in some fresh air. English air. To me the rest of the world has a foul smell today.”

  Glancing up at him, she asked swiftly, “What’s wrong? You sound disappointed, even a little … bitter.” When he made no response, she said quietly, “That’s not like you, Papa. ‘Bitterness’ is not a word I ever associate with you.”