‘Well, yes, but why not the pink room a little further along the landing, Vera? The blue is a bit obvious, and I gather Mr Caspar does not like to be pampered. He’s apparently learning to use his wooden leg very well, and his mother tells me he’s sensitive about being helped.’
Another knock, this time Porter, to say that ‘Young Rachel Calmer’ was at the back door with a note from Mr Berry. For some obscure reason, Porter disapproved of Bob Berry’s marriage to the butcher’s daughter, and, in spite of the fact that they now had two children, a boy and a girl, he refused to call Rachel Berry by her married name.
Sara completed the allocation of rooms for Christmas – almost the entire family would be at Redhill over the holiday – before asking Vera to show Mrs Berry in.
Rachel looked flushed, her clothes damp with the drizzle, but her complexion pink and pleasant, unlike the bovine scarlet face of her butcher father. Rachel, young as she was, appeared to have done Bob Berry a power of good. The man was always happy in his work; meticulous and full of ideas. The only factor which marred life with Bob Berry was his recently constant plea to be allowed to leave the estate for the remainder of the war, and join the army.
‘Bob asked me to bring this letter over to you, Miss Sara.’ She tugged a crumpled envelope from her coat pocket. Rachel showed little of the subservience so often apparent in the farm workers, trying to meet Sara’s eye almost as an equal. ‘He had to go down Haversage, on some errand, but says there’ll be an answer.’
Sara took the envelope, inviting Rachel to sit down, chatting on – asking about the children, and the farm – while she slid open the envelope with The General’s silver dagger which she used as a paperknife.
Sara scanned the few carefully written lines, and heard her own intake of breath. Her immediate reaction was a combination of shock and anger; then self-control, learned the hard way over the past months, took over.
She gazed at the paper in her hands, trying to marshal her thoughts; for Bob had done the unforgivable in asking her to break this news to his wife.
The letter read:
Dear Miss Sara,
You will undoubtedly be angry when you read this. But, for Rachel’s and the children’s sake, I beg you to bear with me.
I have asked you many times to allow me to leave, and join the army. It seems to me that the more able-bodied men who join now, the quicker it will be over for everybody.
I am an able-bodied man, and I know they are taking the unmarried men first. But now the special appeal has gone out to married men, I am more determined. Miss Sara, I know you will think me foolish, but I cannot live with myself, nor Rachel and the children, unless I can say I went and fought for my country.
There are plenty of men too old to go, as yet. You will find no difficulty in replacing me. I know that Rachel will help, and I ask that she be allowed to stay on and give what assistance she can. If you do not want me back, when the job is done and the Germans sent packing, then I shall return for my wife and children.
I fear I start this journey to war on a cowardly note, for I haven’t the gumption to tell Rachel. I am sorry, Miss Sara, forgive me, but I have always felt we understood one another, ever since the day you took that fall, many years ago now. I ask you, most humbly, to understand my motives, and to be as gentle as you can with Rachel.
Yr. Obt. Servant,
Robert Berry
Sara folded the letter and put it on the desk, her anger subsiding. Gently she reached out, taking Rachel’s hand. ‘My dear,’ she began, not really knowing how to continue. Then, again, ‘My dear. I’m afraid I have some very unpleasant news for you.’
She saw in Rachel’s eyes that the girl had guessed. The flushed complexion turned white. ‘Oh my Christ… I’m sorry ma’am… he done it. The bugger done it, he’s gone for a soldier.’
‘I’m afraid so, Rachel.’ Sara had been prepared for tears, wringing of hands, even hysterics. Instead, she saw a pretty she-devil, furious, and furnace-hot with anger. It crossed Sara’s mind that perhaps Bob Berry had gone for more than the simple desire of serving his country.
‘What’m I supposed to do now, then, Miss Sara? How’m I to look after the kiddies, and live, if Bob’s gone for a soldier? I never thought he’d have the nerve.’ A slyness crept into her eyes. ‘Is it possible they’ll not take him? I mean, if you had a word with…’
‘No,’ Sara cut in, hard. ‘No, I shall not have “a word” with anybody. They’ll take him, Rachel. Lord Kitchener wants more men all the time, and there’s been a special appeal for married men. You know he’s doing it for his country, and you and the children. He’s doing it for all of us. I refused to let him out, but he was determined. Maybe it’ll turn out for the best. In the meantime, Rachel, I shall help you run the farm. You’re farm manager now, and will be until Bob returns. If he felt so strongly about going, and was willing to risk his livelihood, then it’s up to us to support him. Tomorrow, I have to go to London. I shall seek some advice while I’m there, and when I get back, we’ll tackle the job together – the estate and the farm. If the men have the backbone to go and face the Germans in France, then we must show them what stuff we women are made of.’
Rachel stared at her, mouth gaping. ‘You mean I got to run the farm, do the books, get up at all hours, and look after the children? You don’t mean…’
‘I mean it,’ Sara spoke with a firmness The General would have admired. ‘I certainly mean it. We’ll give help with the children, Rachel. You’ll help me, and earn the same money as Bob. There are other women here who will lend a hand, you’ll see.’
*
Sara’s visit to London was a monthly chore, but one she enjoyed. By the terms of John Railton’s will, she had to make a brief report – in person – to the Railton family solicitors, King, Jackson and King. Old Mr King had retired, and his son, Jonathan, a thin slightly watery young man, given to long silences and the steepling of fingers, now saw Sara each month at the chambers in Gray’s Inn.
Young Mr King, who obviously had his own particular preferences as far as the ladies were concerned, treated Sara with great courtesy, but made it plain that the meeting was but a short ritual required by law, therefore binding; but something which could be dispensed with quickly.
Sara usually made sure the appointment was over by midday, and spent the remainder of her time shopping, and generally enjoying the city which, at one time, she had been reluctant to leave.
On this visit, she had arranged to see both Charlotte and Mildred, for the latest small drama at Redhill had given her the idea of possibly involving the other two Railton women – both so harassed by present events – in the running of the estate and farm. As she sat in the taxi on her way to the Carlton for luncheon following her Gray’s Inn meeting, Sara thoroughly rehearsed her plan. She would put it to Charlotte and Mildred that as the men were needed for the business of war, it was now up to the Railton women to see the most prized possession of the family was kept in good order. She would suggest that each of them should spend one week at Redhill every month, assisting with planning and work on the farm and estate. She thought it a good idea to put it to them now, giving the women until Christmas to think the matter out carefully, and talk it over with their husbands, if need be. If so many of the London society ladies could be nursing in France and Belgium, it was certainly not above the dignity of Railton women to nurse the land they owned and enjoyed.
As the taxi took her through the busy streets, Sara realized more than ever why Bob Berry had made his decision. The pressure to join up was becoming hard for men like Berry to resist.
Posters were everywhere. YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU screamed from almost every wall, and, as they reached the Carlton, Sara saw that the whole hotel had become a huge hoarding. ENGLAND EXPECTS THAT EVERY MAN THIS DAY WILL DO HIS DUTY *** NO PRICE CAN BE TOO HIGH WHEN HONOUR AND FREEDOM ARE AT STAKE *** YOUNG MEN YOUR KING AND YOUR COUNTRY NEED YOU TODAY.
It was as she was paying the cabbie in front of the hote
l that Sara saw Charles. For a second she made to get out and call to him, then realized he was not alone. Clinging to his arm, as he hailed another cab, was a young, very pretty blonde girl who looked up at him with adoring eyes.
Sara took time in paying off her cab, before walking slowly into the hotel, not knowing, now, how to greet Mildred later, or what to say.
Chapter Six
‘Vernon, I’m sorry, I’ve committed the worst sin in your book.’ So Charles Railton to Vernon Kell, in his office, now in the Old Admiralty Building.
That morning there had been a small ceremony, over at what was now exclusively known as the Admiralty. Lord Kitchener came across to pin the medal on Charles, and Winston Churchill wrung his hand, saying how very grateful he would always be for what Charles had done for his dearest Clementine.
The medal was then removed; and ‘Blinker’ Hall – very much in attendance – said that Charles must reveal nothing about the decoration until ‘…probably after the war.’
It was immediately after the ceremony that Giles took Charles off to an adjoining office and quizzed him closely about the information concerning Marie having been lured to Germany by von Hirsch. ‘Right under your hat, Charles,’ his eyes like old pennies, ‘but an operation is being mounted on the strength of this intelligence. I don’t want it to go off in our faces.’
In Charles’ mind the tumblers clicked into place. Once more he heard Madeline’s voice, and saw a picture of them together, making love on the floor of the Maida Vale house. ‘You want to interrogate the source yourself?’ he asked.
Giles allowed himself a smile. ‘Yes, I would like to speak with the source.’ The smile faded. ‘I hope you appreciate my coming to you, instead of going directly to your superior.’
Charles knew that now was the time to be at least partially honest. Giles already had suspicions.
‘There are problems about this?’ Giles raised an eyebrow.
‘I’m not certain. The source is highly active,’ Charles volleyed back, turning towards the window. It was the first week of December, and the streets were full, despite the war. A bus went by, packed to the running board. Pears Pure Solid Soap – Pears Most Economical it said on the side of the bus, with a little circle between the two slogans. The circle showed two unlikely pears on a branch. Wash away at least some of your sins. Charles thought. ‘The source is highly active,’ he repeated. Then: ‘I have a small confession to make.’
‘Confession…’ Giles started.
‘Is most economical,’ Charles smiled into his uncle’s blank face. ‘The information I passed to you seemed more like a family matter…’
Giles gave him a terrifying stare.
‘I was probably wrong. I did not pass it on in my own report to Vernon Kell.’
‘You’re a fool, Charles.’ It was said without malice. ‘This is not a family matter…’
‘It concerned my cousin, Marie. Your daughter. We’re all a mite sensitive about what happened. I felt you should know. Marie’s in Berlin. Foreign – not our pigeon, sir.’
‘But the source is in your deposit account, Charles. You should have told Kell. Learn some diplomacy, man. That piece of intelligence might have brought you something from the Kingdom of Heaven, as they say. It’s a Country matter. As far as your Service is concerned, that intelligence was money in the bank – a bargaining counter. My advice is that you inform Kell, before I come running to him with requests for the password to his magic cave.’
So, immediately after luncheon, Charles went to Kell, ready to pour out his expurgated version of the story.
‘The Drew interrogation.’ He watched Kell’s hands, then his eyes. One hand moved slightly.
‘What about it?’ friendly, but with a touch of reserve. Natural enough, for Madeline Drew was beginning to provide interesting facts.
‘During the interrogation something came up which concerned my family.’
‘Yes?’
‘You probably know, Vernon. We try to keep quiet about it, but my cousin…’
‘Marie Grenot? Yes. Most people who do know about it are very sorry. Drew mentioned Marie Grenot?’
Charles told him everything, except for his own impropriety with Miss Drew.
When he had completed his version, Charles said he hoped Kell would understand. ‘It seemed a family matter to me. At the time anyway. I’ve told Giles Railton that you knew nothing about it. Called me a fool – which I suppose I am.’
Kell thought for a long time, not looking at Charles when he finally spoke. ‘Strictly, I suppose you were foolish. It should have gone into the report. But you’re the only one who can put it right. When’s your next contact?’
‘Tomorrow. Unless we get a sudden hands off signal.’
‘In Coventry?’
‘Yes. The usual place.’
‘Right. Try to get her to London. I’ll see to Giles Railton. If he wants to enter the Seagull’s nest, he’ll have to dance to our music.’
Since Madeline Drew left for Coventry they had begun to use elaborate code names for her and everything connected with her. Mr Rathbone – Charles – was known as ANTON, because Madeline Drew had been coded SEAGULL. Charles had become obsessed by the works of Anton Chekov, having read the recent translations. He had even seen the production of The Seagull at the Little Theatre two years before. Hence the code names. There the connection ended, for the entire watching and collecting business was filed under the heading RAINBIRD. Information received became known as GOLD.
When Madeline went off to her aunt in Coventry, the designated watchers moved in, waiting for the signal that someone had made contact. Nothing happened for almost two weeks. Then, one morning when Charles was snowed under with other matters, a message took him quickly up to Coventry.
A hotel room had been booked for him, and Brian Wood was waiting. Wood had been chosen to stay well back from the team of watchers, his job being to liaise with Charles. ‘This morning,’ he said cryptically. ‘Good as her word. Came out around ten-thirty, dropped a glove by the gate, as she fiddled with her handbag. A definite signal as arranged.’
‘You’ve followed it up?’
‘You meet her tonight. Six o’clock. The place is near the cathedral. Bit of a tart’s parlour, I’m afraid, sir. Safer that way, and the woman who owns it’ll think it’s just another married man with his fancy woman.’
‘Safeguards?’
‘Everything taken care of. She has a route to follow. We’ve had a telephone installed.’ He rattled off the number. ‘If the window’s open at the bottom, it’s clear for her to come straight up. Closed, then it’s hands off. Fallback in one hour. If that’s no good, she shuts up shop, and we try tomorrow.’
Charles had never been in a common whore’s bedroom before, but this place was just as he had expected it to be. A fair amount of red plush, a fashionable fringe on the mantelpiece cover, a doll in a long white gown, wax-faced, with eyes that closed when you laid it on its back, a dressing table arrayed with ranks of bottles, and a sampler over the big brass bedstead saying Home Sweet Home, with a little cottage in the top left corner.
The place had the smell of being used regularly for one purpose, so it was a relief to open the window.
The gleaming new telephone – looking like some futuristic mechanical man holding a club in its one hooked claw – stood, almost accusingly, on the dressing table. It rang at exactly ten minutes to six.
‘She’s clear,’ Wood said at the distant end.
Charles sat back in an overstuffed armchair and waited. She arrived at exactly six o’clock. Berlin, he thought, had trained her well.
She came straight to him, her cheek cold against his, and her breath warm in his ear. He felt her body push against him, and she whispered, ‘Oh, Charles, it has seemed an age. I couldn’t bear it any longer.’ Then she pulled her head away and kissed him, expertly and full of physical need, her mouth opening, tongue licking around his teeth, as a small child will devour the last morsels of ice-cream fr
om a bowl.
She was like some terrible and beautiful flower, with Charles as an insect victim, unable to resist.
Gasping, they pulled apart, and he asked the most important question – if she had news for him. Petulantly she said that of course she did. Yes, she had been contacted by her people, but all the time she spoke she was undoing her coat, throwing her hat onto the chair, then her blouse and skirt and underskirt, then her bodice, finally revealing tantalizingly short pink drawers.
Charles had no choice in the matter. Like a man rushing to get into a much-needed bath, he fumbled with buttons and studs, then leaped, rather than climbed, onto the bed.
In the afterglow and released tension, Charles asked for her report. She smiled at him, dazzling in her satisfaction and pleasure. ‘Part of our bargain should be that you always make love to me at least three times before I tell you anything.’
‘It’s not safe for us to stay too long. The place is watched. You realized that, of course?’
‘That’s one thing we should talk about, Charles. The people who are doing the watching. They’re inept. Too easily seen. It worries me. If the friend I shall tell you about returns, he is sure to recognize one of them. They have a routine which never varies.’
‘All right.’ Charles held up a hand, palm facing her, as though to ward off some spell. ‘I’ll have a word.’ It worried him, though, and certainly would not have happened in Paddy Quinn’s day.
For a time, Madeline would not stop talking about it. ‘Seriously, darling, it is dangerous. These people have been well trained in Berlin.’
Gradually, he brought her to the important matters in hand, sitting opposite her on one of the stuffed chairs.
She spoke low, keeping to facts, painting in details, answering questions almost before they had time to form in Charles’ mind.
Two days before, a tall man, in a dark coat and hat – ‘It’s absurd, but he looked like all those drawings you see of spies’ – dropped a card through the door, and rapped on the knocker once. He did not wait.