‘He’s either wise to us, and out to give us a lesson; or he’s waiting for something; or he just likes it here.’
He saw Wood nod. They continued to wait – until almost four in the morning.
Then it came without warning. Straining his eyes constantly, Charles hardly stopped watching the small dark mound he knew was Sklave. Quite suddenly, the mound moved, and the waiter’s body became silhouetted against the sky – now the colour of sun-dried, tilled soil. Both Wood and Charles half rose, Charles realizing he was still clutching the Webley.
Sklave stood like a scented animal, head cocked to one side. Then he lifted his right arm, holding it stretched in front of him. Charles saw plainly that it was pointing towards the sea, raised at a rough forty-five degree angle. Then, the torch came on, like a blast of contained fire flying upwards from a magician’s fingers: on-off, on-off, on-off. Then darkness.
Not complete darkness, for Charles caught a tiny gleam, in the sky directly ahead of them – there and gone in a second. Then another; and, as he looked, Sklave lit the torch again, the beam pointed in the general direction of where he had seen the pinpoint glitters of light.
When the noise came, he found it difficult to identify – a flapping sound, like the wind slapping against sail. The noise grew louder, and then he saw it, almost at the moment when he recognized the sound – a flying machine, coming in low, without power. The pilot must have flown in high over the North Sea; then, navigating by the stars, cut his engine, to glide in towards the coast, finally lining up with Sklave’s signal light. It was no mean feat, and Charles wondered how many times the pilot had done it before – all these thoughts telescoped into a fraction of time.
The wind made a great humming noise in the rigging wires between the wings; while the slapping sound was air, banging against the fabric as the aeroplane fought to stay aloft in the final moments of its controlled glide. Then, with an audible bump and rumble, the thing was down – on the golf course – speed slowing as the tail slewed from side to side, and, finally, right round so that the craft faced back in the direction of its approach.
The machine itself seemed close enough to touch, now the sky was turning from dark grey to pearl, as the first signs of dawn streaked the horizon. A big black two-winged bird, square and ugly as a box, with great slabs sprouting to left and right, and a large snout-like beak ending in a propeller. An Aviatik BII, Austrian built, with a crew of two, speed of almost a shattering seventy miles an hour, and four hours’ endurance – just enough to make it over the dangerous waters of the North Sea and back. Charles understood, now, why Kell insisted on his officers studying and learning everything to do with Britain’s potential enemies – including how to immediately recognize German and Austrian aeroplanes, ships, uniforms, insignia and badges.
Now Sklave stood by the fuselage, helping someone from the rear cockpit – first some kind of suitcase, then a figure climbing down.
Sklave, and his new companion from the clouds, moved with the kind of precision you expect to see on a parade ground. Wood whispered urgently and a shade too loud. ‘Now sir? We get them now?’
Charles reached out a restraining hand, speaking low, ‘I’m not interested in getting the pilot. Give them some rope. Let them go. See where they lead us.’
One of the figures, it was impossible to tell which, had moved to the front of the aeroplane. You could clearly hear the breath come out of his lungs as he heaved twice on the propeller. Then, the engine fired with a roar which, Charles thought, must surely wake even the dead in Cromer cemetery.
Under cover of the noise, he drew closer to Wood. ‘Can you find Partridge?’
Wood nodded, his face clear in the half light.
‘Get to him, then. I want the visitor followed. Both of them followed. I need to know what they’re up to. Reports every half-hour or so. Tell Partridge to be prepared to follow them, on whatever transport they use.’
Wood nodded, ‘And you?’
‘I’ll be back at the station – police station. Arrest only if things get difficult.’
Wood nodded, moving away just as the aeroplane’s engine rose in a roar. The machine quivered, started to trundle forward, then bumped and rattled over the grass, until its tail lifted and the slim spoked wheels left the ground as it took to its natural element.
The noise died away as the machine grew smaller, tilting then climbing, setting course for home.
Charles was so fascinated by the thing that it took the sound of voices to bring him back to reality. Joost van Sklave and his companion trudged through the grass, coming almost directly towards him. He flattened against the ground, face so close to the earth that the scent of damp, dew-drenched grass filled his nostrils, reminding him of early mornings with Mildred, when they had first visited Redhill Manor as a newly wedded couple. Twice, during that wonderful time, they had crept from the house, out into the meadows on fine summer mornings, to make love at dawn in the long damp grass – naked, unrestrained, and as near to nature as they could imagine.
But that was long ago, and he was pulled back to the harsh reality of the present, as Sklave and the newcomer passed close to him – Sklave speaking in rapid German.
*
The police stations of England were noted for their tea. At half-past seven in the morning, after a night spent lying on the grass at Overstrand golf links, Charles Railton found the tea as refreshing and stimulating as he would normally have found bed, a superb meal, or a glass of good champagne.
But tea could not remove the anxiety.
Charles left the links only when he was certain that the others had melted off into the dawn – positioning themselves so that the two hurrying figures were covered from all angles, as they, unsuspecting, walked back along the Cromer road.
It was some time since he had risen from the grass to begin his return journey. Now, it seemed as though he had been waiting at the station for an eternity.
At eight-fifteen Brian Wood returned, his face breaking into a tired smile as he greeted the M05 officer. ‘You’ll never believe it…’ he began; then, seeing the duty sergeant, followed Charles into one of the charge rooms.
‘Cheeky buggers,’ he said, once the door was closed.
‘Come on,’ Charles tapped the back of his own hand impatiently.
‘Our visitor registered as a guest at the Hotel de Paris just after seven-fifteen. Sklave left him about a mile from town, and went off across the fields on his own. The German chummy just loitered around and ended up at the railway station. He waited until the milk train came in, then walked off, bold as brass, to the hotel.’
‘We checked the registration?’ Charles was unsurprised.
‘David Partridge’s going in about now.’ Wood hauled on his watch chain, pulling out a handsome half-hunter. ‘Says they’re used to him wandering into the hotels first thing in the mornings to check the registers. Knows most of the night staff. Nothing wrong at the Churchills’ place, by the way. I looked in on Dobbs.’
Partridge did not keep them waiting for long. ‘Big surprise,’ he announced. ‘The person who landed from the Boche aeroplane…’
‘Well?’ Charles sounded impatient.
‘You’d have sworn it was a man, wouldn’t you, sir? And you’d be wrong. Long coat, masculine sort of hat. We all assumed too much. The visitor’s a woman.’
‘Well I’ll be damned,’ Brian Wood shook his head. ‘But, I was there. I saw…’
‘With respect, you didn’t see. You heard. You heard PC Roberts give me a report that the suspect had gone into the Hotel de Paris. Young Roberts was acting as a sort of long stop. I had a man much closer: Findlator – very good at getting close. His uncle’s the best poacher in Norfolk. When I got to the hotel he gave me the whole thing.’
Findlator had been near enough to see the suspect cross the road and stand looking at the sea. She had then put down her suitcase, taken off the hat, unpinned and shaken out her hair. ‘Long, blonde hair, he said it was. He also described
her as a “corker”, if you follow that, sir.’
Charles gave a bleak smile. ‘Oh, even MO5 officers have been known to understand what a corker is, Mr Partridge.’
The girl was registered under the name of Miss Madeline Drew, of 35 Chelsea Mansions, London. ‘The Hotel de Paris has had her booking for over a month,’ Partridge told them. ‘She’s supposed to be a governess on holiday. I’ve got one of my fellows in the place now.’
Charles gave Wood a satisfied look, ‘Could do with Mr Partridge in the Branch, Brian.’
Wood nodded, ‘Have to see what can be done when we’ve finished with this. How’d y’like it, David?’
‘Very much.’ For a second, he sounded like a schoolboy being given an opportunity to be in the First Eleven. ‘Give anything for a chance, sir.’
‘Point is,’ Wood looked placidly out of the window, ‘what’s to be done now?’
Charles sighed. ‘As ever, we wait – and take orders from on high.’
Later in the day, Wood telephoned Basil Thomson, while Charles talked to Vernon Kell. Sklave and Drew were to be given as much rope as possible.
On the third day, there was a slight flurry of anxiety when the Drew woman called at the Churchills’ rented house.
‘There on the off-chance of a governess’ job,’ Partridge reported. ‘Mrs Churchill actually saw her, it appears…’
‘Even if no job is forthcoming, her face will be known to the household.’ To Charles, the whole thing looked to be professionally planned. Something would take place soon, he thought. Others were not as certain.
‘Best of the moon’s gone now,’ Wood mused. ‘You won’t get the greatest pilot in Germany to take on that night ride until some time next month.’
‘And the Churchills are to return to London at the end of next week,’ Charles reminded him. It’s my guess if anything’s going to happen it’ll be very soon. Maybe even tonight. I personally think we should risk taking Drew if she goes near the Churchills’ place again.’
Wood thought for a moment, ‘If she did manage to abduct Mrs Churchill, how would they get her away?’
‘Ever heard of the sea?’
Nothing happened that night. Nor the next. The alert came on the following afternoon. Partridge reported that Sklave had broken his routine. It was the waiter’s day off, and a fortnight since he had been to Norwich. Today he failed to make his usual visit. ‘Stayed in his room all day.’
Charles sat on the front, gazing out at the grey-blue water of the North Sea. In his bones, he felt as if the whole thing was about to blow up in his face.
By late afternoon he had talked to Kell; and further plans were laid. A section of infantry, training near Great Yarmouth, were to be brought up and bivouacked quietly on the other side of Overstrand. It was all done with care. The men were issued with live ammunition, the officer in charge told only what was essential. By six in the evening, a telephone call from London assured him that the troops were in position.
The next alert came at just before ten o’clock that night. Sklave was reported to be out and about – walking, aimlessly it seemed, in the general direction of Overstrand.
Just before eleven, Charles, on post near to the hotel, saw the young Drew woman come out and stroll along the seafront, towards the Churchills’ rented house.
Wood had been sent off to shadow Sklave, and Charles could plainly see Dobbs in his usual position. Walking quickly, on the other side of the road, Charles overtook the girl, getting to Dobbs before she could reach the house. ‘You have all the authority,’ he panted. ‘If she so much as puts a hand on the gate, you pull her in.’
He had hardly spoken, when they saw that she intended to enter the Churchills’ house, walking almost casually towards the iron gate leading to the steps up to the front door.
‘Go! Now, Dobbs! Now!’ and they were both away, dodging across the road to head her off.
Her hand was just touching the iron gate when she saw them, and looked around, her face suddenly alive with surprise. Incongruously, Charles realized for the first time what an attractive girl she was. Then, as they came near, she did the only thing possible – carried on opening the gate, unconcerned, obviously prepared to bluff it out.
Dobbs reached her just in time, placing himself between her and the steps leading to the door. ‘I’m sorry, Miss, but I can’t allow you to go any further.’ His attitude was deferential, almost avuncular.
‘I… I… But why ever not? What’s wrong? Who are you? Who are you to stop me?’
Charles came up quietly behind her, watching as she tried, surreptitiously, to dump a small purse into the flowers of the garden fronting the house.
‘I am a police officer, Miss…’ Dobbs continued.
‘But I have to visit this house. I…’
Charles retrieved the purse from among the roses, speaking for the first time, ‘I’m sorry, Miss Drew, but you have to come to the police station.’
She turned. The eyes were startling – a light hazel, almost green, while her hair was a pale gold, glittering and soft. ‘Come to the…?’ The laugh seemed, on the surface, to reflect the girl herself – musical, not a silly giggling tinkle, nor a bray, but more like the middle range notes of a cello.
‘And I suppose you’re a policeman also,’ the tone was almost haughty. ‘Well, you should know that I’ve come here to find a rather valuable brooch, which I think I lost when visiting Mrs Churchill the other day…’
‘We can discuss the brooch in private, at the police station, I think, Miss Drew.’
As he spoke, Charles studied the girl. Her English bore no trace of an accent; her clothes were stylish, an expensive-looking grey summer dress, with white lace trimming, and a short cape; her nose was slightly tilted; and she seemed to have a habit of pursing her lips, more a look of amusement than irritation. Unaccountably she reminded him of a girl he had met and bedded in Deauville years ago now, before his marriage. By a quirk of the mind, seeing Miss Drew had now blown away the mists, taking him back to the hotel room, the sweet smell among the rumpled sheets, and the long ago girl’s hair, straggled like fine golden cobwebs, on the pillow.
‘Well, I’ve always kept the law, and you appear to have the law on your side…’ She gave a small shrug. Her poise and confidence were remarkable, retaining an enviable dignity even after they reached the police station. Dobbs stayed with her, in one of the small interview rooms, while Charles went in search of a woman reservist.
Before returning to the interview room, he examined the purse. It contained a small bottle of chloroform and a number of cotton wool and gauze pads.
In the interview room, Dobbs stood by the door with the woman officer. Charles sat opposite the girl and began to talk.
‘I have to tell you that I am not a police officer. My name is Charles Rathbone, and I am a member of a department of Military Intelligence. However, while I do not have the right to bring any charges against you, I have the authority to question you and I warn you that eventually the police will charge you under the recent Defence of the Realm Act.’ This piece of legislation – known usually as DORA – had only become law four days after the outbreak of war.
The girl looked bemused. ‘But why should I be charged with anything?’ In other circumstances she would have been plausible. ‘I’m here on a short holiday. I was on my way to see if my brooch had been found at Mrs Churchill’s house. What’s the crime in that, Mr Rathbone?’
‘Your full name please.’
‘What’s the crime…?’
‘Your name please.’
After a moment’s pause she answered in a half-whisper, ‘Madeline Letitia Drew.’
‘Address?’
‘Bloomsbury. 35 Chelsea Mansions.’
‘You have an occupation?’
‘I’m a children’s governess. Governess to Mr and Mrs Hartney-Crawford’s son and daughter. Their London residence is 35 Chelsea Mansions.’
Charles supposed that she imagined the story would hold up for
a while. Brian Wood had checked the address. The Hartney-Crawfords lived at 35 Chelsea Mansions, and there was a governess called Drew.
Charles passed the paper across the table, telling Miss Drew that she had to sign it as a formal declaration that this was her true name, address and occupation. It looked most impressive, but she did not waver, signing with a steady hand.
He took the paper back, then, looking the young woman in the eyes, calmly tore it in two. Then, turning to Dobbs and the woman officer, he asked if they would leave the room.
It was only after the two officers had gone that Charles was certain of a slight change in the girl’s attitude – a worm of concern stirring in the eyes, and an uneasiness in the way she sat.
He leaned back in his chair, still looking her full in the eyes. ‘Miss Drew, I’ve destroyed your declaration in an attempt to help you. If I placed that document before the authorities, with the already existing proofs, there’s no doubt that, one morning quite soon, you would end up either on the scaffold or in front of a firing squad.’
He then gave her the facts: her observed arrival by air, the association with Sklave, the constant surveillance, their knowledge of a plot against Mrs Churchill, the things found in her purse, the fact that she was not the Miss Drew employed by the couple who lived at 35 Chelsea Mansions.
When he had completed the recitation her eyes did not meet his.
‘I imagine Sklave’s waiting for a submarine. Yes?’
She sat with head bowed and hands on her lap. Slowly, Charles counted to thirty before speaking again. ‘No matter,’ allowing his hands to rise a few inches from the table, then drop to his sides. ‘There are plenty of police officers, and troops, out there near him. He’s been under watch since before you were flown in. They’ll get him – alive or dead – before the night’s over. That’s why I’m offering you a way out. Believe me, we know it all, and, if you persist in saying that you are Miss Drew, and all the other nonsense, then there’s nothing I can do to help you. But, if you use your sense, and co-operate, then no harm will come to you. I mean it.’