The guilt rose, bile in his throat. He stayed silent, thanking God he did not have to look her straight in the eyes.
‘Isn’t that what you want, Charles?’
‘Of course.’ But he knew there was no conviction in his voice. He was this girl’s slave, but would never dream of leaving Mildred.
There was a long silence among the dark shrouded furnishings and shadows around the bed.
‘Your real name’s Railton, isn’t it? Charles Railton, not Charles Rathbone,’ she said at last.
He agreed. She was not supposed to know. ‘It was my superior’s error, using my real name the other day.’
He saw her head nod against the white pillow. ‘It’s only that I’ve heard the name before.’
‘Oh?’
Her hand moved to his thigh as she asked if he had a sister, or cousin, ‘…A relation, married to a Frenchman, called Greenot, or Graneau?’
‘Why?’ Suddenly her hand, which usually resurrected him quickly after a sexual encounter, did nothing, as though he had become emasculated by her words.
‘Tell me. Have you some relation like that?’
‘Yes.’ He told her, ‘Marie, my cousin. Why?’
‘It may be of value. I don’t know. But that’s where I heard the name Railton before. In connection with your cousin, Marie… was it Grenot?’
He nodded. How? Where?
‘Major Nicolai, and others, gave me some of my training: specialist things like inks and ciphers, at a house they have in Courbierrestrasse – Number Eight. They also called the house simply Number Eight. Courbierrestrasse is in the western part of the city; I’ve already told you about the place.’
He remembered.
‘The other day, when your Mr Vernon – though I don’t suppose that’s his real name either – called you Railton, I became worried. I’d heard it before and knew it was connected with something very unpleasant, but I couldn’t remember what. Then last night it all came back. Isn’t it funny how the brain holds everything, like a book only you have to search for the right page?’
He waited silently for her to continue. From outside there was the sound of traffic in the streets below.
‘There was a man called Steinhauer working at Number Eight.’
‘What about Steinhauer?’ All gentleness now gone from his voice, his brain alert to memories of the name Steinhauer, which he knew so well because of its connections with the barber shop ‘post office’ in the Caledonian Road.
He heard her take a deep breath. ‘I remember being at Number Eight one afternoon. We were working on maps, then Major Nicolai came in. He was in a very good mood. When the lesson finished, he asked me if I would dine with him. I accepted; and he said we would go straight from the house.
‘We were just leaving, when Steinhauer came in through the main door. He must have been quite important, because the duty officer stood to attention; clicked his heels and all that kind of thing. You know how they go on; they’re worse than our people.’
‘Just tell me.’ He felt as though a thunder cloud was about to break in his head.
‘Well, Steinhauer said he must speak with the Major, urgently. He was smiling. Triumphant.’
‘Yes.’
‘They asked me to sit in the little hallway, outside the room Nicolai used as his office. Only they left the door open and I could hear every word. Charles, it’s strange, the conversation meant nothing to me at the time, but when it came back, I remembered it quite clearly. Every word.’
He asked what all this had to do with his cousin, Marie.
‘Steinhauer said he had just received great news. Hirsch, the assistant to the Military Attaché in Paris, had been in touch again. He was now certain that, if it came to it, Madame Marie Grenot – I know it was that name now – would leave the country with him, and go to Berlin.
‘Nicolai made some remark about Klaus being able to seduce a nun if he set his mind to it; and Steinhauer said the Grenot woman was obviously in love with Klaus Hirsch…’
‘Klaus von Hirsch,’ Charles muttered.
Madeline did not pause. ‘He used a vulgar word – bumpsen – meaning that Madame Grenot and this man Hirsch had been – you know… doing it. Doing it regularly.’
The anxiety and apprehension crystallized. Charles’ sadness deepened – not now for his parting from Madeline – but for his cousin, Marie, and what had happened: the great family scandal.
Since he could remember her, Charles had been fond of Marie. He recalled her quick Gallic temper inherited from her French mother, the rather mannish way she would stride into a room, paradoxically at odds with her normal walk – hips swinging, breasts thrust forward. She was almost two years his junior; and Charles had constant memories of the time when he was seventeen. His first fumblings of desire had been with Marie – so often the case with cousins. He could see her now, feeding grapes to him, laughing, with her head flung back as they lay under the great oak – now gone – at Redhill; one of his hands running across her breast, hard under the thin material of a summer dress. He had always found grapes an erotic fruit, and knew why. ‘Go on,’ he told Madeline, shocked at his private brand of hypocrisy.
‘Well, it was then that the name came up. Nicolai said that this was great news. His next words I know by heart. “You realize, my dear Steinhauer, that Madame Grenot is a Railton, so you know where that can lead us. Their Secret Service.” Steinhauer said something about having to handle her properly, and Nicolai replied, “Oh, she will be handled properly. I’ll handle her myself, if necessary.” Then they both laughed.’
Fear, foreboding and hope commingled within Charles. Madeline tried to soothe him, sensing in the darkness that in some way her story had alarmed and upset him.
Only on his way home did he fully face the dilemma. By rights the information should be taken straight to Vernon Kell. Such action would bring cross-examination, and, in his state of mind, Charles was uncertain of how he would stand up to Kell’s probing. There was really only one choice. A family choice. He should confide in Marie’s father, his uncle, Giles Railton. Even so, he allowed forty-eight hours to pass before seeing Uncle Giles.
*
On the evening of 29 September Giles Railton visited his grandson, Caspar, at the Middlesex Hospital. His mind was not wholly on the task, as the day had been long, and with more than one surprise.
A routine meeting of the Committee of Imperial Defence had been attended by Lord Kitchener himself, together with the First Lord of the Admiralty – both representing the Cabinet.
Winston Churchill had suggested that, for many reasons, including the sinking of Aboukir, Hogue, and Cressy, Prince Louis Battenburg should be replaced as First Sea Lord. He, not Churchill, had made an error regarding orders to the ships.
After this, Kitchener gave as clear an account as was possible of the military situation – difficult, as he was the first to admit that matters changed by the hour if not the minute.
Through September the German armies had been in steady retreat, but today Kitchener had to report that this flight was now halted. The Germans were now holding a line behind the Aisne river, where they had rallied, dug in, and were causing havoc with their artillery.
Giles knew that, while Kitchener reeled off the strategic moves and counter-moves, talking of armies, corps and divisions, his words in no way described the actualities of war. The sombre, dispassionate men seated around the table could have been thinking of the whole business as a game of chess; yet the chess game itself was being won and lost by those thousands of pawns: young men caught in fire, burned, rent apart, desperate and choked with blood and smoke – brave, terrified, cowardly and courageous – in the fields of Flanders, or the villages of the Aisne valley.
Walking back to his office thinking of the visit planned to Caspar that evening, Giles was not to know he had already lost a grandson. Young Paul, son of Marie and Marcel Grenot – brother to Denise – had died two weeks previously, fighting with Lanrezac’s Fifth Army, near
Sambre.
Arriving at the Foreign Office, Giles found his nephew, Charles, waiting to see him. ‘I’m sorry, I just couldn’t turn him away,’ Ramillies apologized. Giles merely nodded.
Charles came to the point at once. ‘It’s about Marie,’ he began, and Giles turned his cold eyes blankly onto his nephew.
When Charles left – the information having been passed, and received with a curt ‘Thank you’ – Giles sat staring at the wall for a long time. Decisions must not be made in haste. Something had to be done. The shrewd old man suspected his nephew of more dangerous and devious games – why else had he not simply taken the intelligence straight to Vernon Kell, who would have passed it to Smith-Cumming? Charles’ tale about it being ‘a family matter’ just did not wash. His nephew was hiding something. His informant perhaps? On Charles’ part there had been a stout refusal to reveal the source of his intelligence, except that it was ‘sound’. Giles had not probed. Perhaps it was a woman. Giles knew of many cases where intelligence officers had fallen into all kinds of traps set by women. But, at this moment, Giles Railton was jumping at every shadow, suspecting even the most normal action. There were plots in which he was embroiled, plans laid, which could, he knew all too well, bring a bright future; golden glory or dusty death.
After almost an hour Giles wrote a single name on his note pad, looked at it for a while, then took it across the room, tore off the sheet and dropped it into the crackling fire, watching the words James Railton being quickly consumed. He would speak with Smith-Cumming in a day or two.
So, it was with much on his mind that Giles arrived at the small private room in which Caspar lay.
The boy looked terribly young, pale even, against the sheets, dark shadows around his eyes, the legacy of drugs and the marks of pain engraved on his face.
‘Well, Grandfather, this is a pickle, isn’t it?’ The smile was genuine enough to cause the ruthless old man to swallow hard.
‘Pickle indeed, Caspar.’ He took a deep breath. ‘So what are you going to do about it, my boy?’
‘Get myself a peg-leg, I suppose. There’s little they can do for the arm. I won’t play cricket again, that’s for sure.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well… peg-leg and one arm…’
‘Just because nobody’s played cricket with one arm and one leg before this, doesn’t mean to say they never will. You could be the first.’
Caspar blinked. His grandfather was a gruff, tough old bastard, he knew, but there was some truth in what he said.
‘No,’ Giles went on, ‘I really mean it. What do you plan for yourself?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest.’ Caspar shook his head, and asked for a cigarette which Giles lit for him. ‘I mean, whatever you say, life isn’t going to be exactly active from now on, is it?’
‘Don’t see why not, lad. You know what I do for a living, do you?’
Caspar did have an idea, but there was an unspoken family rule that it should never be admitted. He shook his head. ‘Something rather grand in the Foreign Office, isn’t it?’
Giles made a noise which came as near to a chuckle as he could ever manage. ‘Not very grand. I coordinate certain matters – intelligence matters. Act as a watchdog to those who deal with espionage.’
‘The Secret Service?’ Caspar lowered his already tired voice.
‘That’s about it. You can always be of use there. The Service has employed a lot of odd birds in its history. When you’re fit again, come and see me. I’m sure we can find something fairly active. A one-armed, one-legged man could be still of great use. Never think of yourself as a cripple. Will you come and see me when they let you out?’
‘Of course, Grandfather.’ There seemed to be a new light in the young man’s eyes.
As he was leaving, Giles bumped into Andrew, who was on his way to see his son. ‘Charlotte’s joining me here. About the only time we get to see one another these days.’
Giles gave his customary curt nod.
‘Lot of re-thinking going on,’ Andrew said. ‘Battenburg’s on his way out, and there’s talk of old Fisher coming back. The man’s seventy-four years old, but he’s like a damned hurricane – always popping in and out of the Admiralty. Won’t rest until he’s back in harness. What’s more, he’s got Winston behind him.’
‘Good lad, Caspar.’ Giles changed the subject disconcertingly. ‘He’ll do well, Andrew. He’ll do very well.’
‘Plenty of pluck.’ Andrew took a pace back.
‘And how’s the Admiralty Old Building?’ Giles asked. ‘Room Forty got enough action in it for you?’
‘You amaze me Father.’ Andrew had the grace to smile. ‘How do you know about Room Forty?’
Giles Railton laid one finger alongside his nose. ‘They’re a mite jealous in the War House.’ He smiled, crookedly. ‘They like to think they know everything about codes and ciphers.’
*
Andrew Railton, who had, only a few years ago, reckoned himself as one of the world’s most contented men, was coming through a depressed crisis in his life. The blow of Caspar’s injuries brought a black mood of disenchantment; though he was too busy at the Admiralty – as indeed he had been almost up to the end of August – to become outwardly edgy.
Since childhood he had loved the sea and all things concerned with it; and often truthfully maintained that his early years in the Royal Navy – particularly once he went to sea – were the happiest of his life.
The prolonged tour ashore at the Admiralty had now become irksome, and, in the months immediately prior to the outbreak of war, he had constantly approached the Director of Intelligence – badgering him for a transfer back to sea duty.
But the bearded severe-looking Admiral bade him wait. ‘Just get on with this job of gathering information about codes, ciphers and wireless telegraphy, Railton. You’ll be back at sea when their Lordships see fit to send you.’
Andrew obeyed orders, wrote his reports, and got on with his life. But, the fact that nothing appeared to be done about the many pages he wrote, infuriated him. He became irritable at home, and, to make things worse, following the declaration of war, the paperwork seemed to grow on his desk, multiplying like some terrible weed. The result was that it often kept him from his own bed, causing him to stay overnight at the Admiralty. Andrew really felt that he had been left behind. His experience was more suited to the sea than a desk. Life had become dull and frustrating – an eternal round of forms, letters and reports.
Then, like a sea-change, life became full and interesting again.
Suddenly, the W/T interception station at Stockton began to show a vast increase in the picking up of German signal traffic; and Stockton was now joined in this by the radio stations of the Post Office, the Marconi Company, and even private individuals. The bulk of these messages were coded, and he immediately drew the matter to the attention of his superiors.
The DID was more than usually interested, and, a week or so after the declaration of war – around three o’clock one Wednesday afternoon – an Admiralty messenger had summoned him to his superior’s office.
There he found his chief deep in conversation with a grey-haired, astute-looking man, dressed in an almost dandified manner – a grey suit with a white pique stripe in the waistcoat, mauve shirt, and a white butterfly collar holding a dark blue bow tie, white-spotted, and neatly in place.
‘Commander Railton,’ the DID greeted him. ‘I want you to meet the Director of Naval Education, Sir Alfred Ewing. Alfred, this is the officer I told you about.’
‘Glad to meet you, Railton.’ The voice betrayed Scottish origins, and Andrew had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being sized up by an intellectual of considerable authority. For a second or two, the smell of chalk and damp serge came back, a memory reaching into the nostrils, recalling classrooms and the dog days at school, all those years before.
‘Understand you’ve been investigating the business of secret writing – codes and ciphers.’ Alfred Ewing smiled.
br /> ‘Sir. With particular reference to military and naval messages, sent via wireless telegraphy.’
The DNE nodded. ‘Tell me all about it.’
Andrew launched into what could have been the basis for a lecture on the history of codes and ciphers: the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics, eleventh century Chinese codes; mentioning, in passing, the wu-ching tsung-yau (‘Essentials of Military Classics’) with its method of using code words within poems or letters.
‘Then,’ getting into his stride, ‘there are the Biblical ciphers, sir…’
‘Yes, yes.’ Ewing flapped a hand. ‘I know all about those. What about modern codes and ciphers? Do you know the source material? Can you lead me to it?’
Andrew told him yes. There was enough material in the British Museum to keep an intelligent man occupied for years, not to mention the collections at Lloyds, and the GPO. ‘They have a great deal – a lot of commercial ciphers. The War Office still uses the Playfair cipher, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Ewing spoke firmly. ‘You see, Railton.’ the Scottish accent became more pronounced, ‘Admiral Oliver, here, feels, as I do, that there will be little call for Naval Education if the war goes on for more than a few months. I’ve always been interested in codes, ciphers, secret writing and all that kind of thing, so…’
‘So,’ the DID chimed in, ‘Sir Alfred has kindly offered to organize a department, here at the Admiralty, dedicated to decoding and deciphering enemy W/T intercepts – the very things that seem to have been bothering you so much, Railton. Now, this has to be kept quiet, but I’d like you to show Sir Alfred where the information’s buried. You will be the direct link between this new department and myself.’
For the next days and weeks, Andrew found himself spending more and more time with Sir Alfred Ewing who admitted, more than once, that – in spite of his knowledge – he was lamentably ill-equipped to lead any department dealing with the clear reading of ciphered or coded messages.
Together, they mulled over dusty books in the British Museum; went through pages of commercial ciphers at Lloyds, and the GPO; and examined recent cipher illustrations with the Marconi Company.