‘A Blighty, sir?’ Sister Price asked the doctor who examined him later in the evening.
He shook his head, ‘No. No, we don’t even know whether he’s one of ours or theirs. Best keep him here for a day or two. The lad’s terrified, and it could be more damaging to move him.’ It was the kind of compassion none of them could really afford, but the doctor, a RAMC major, had spoken.
When the casualty clearing station was moved back, and the staff sent to No. 6 General Hospital, Rouen, Otter was still with them – nameless, unidentified, without rank, number or nationality. He was in his mid twenties, tall, fair and good-looking, and constantly trying to please. He would run errands, help the nurses and doctors with the heavy lifting, bring tea into the wards, smile at everyone and say, ‘Ott… Ott… Ott’ like some tame domestic pet. Even his eyes had the pleading look of a stray dog in need of love, and his normal gait appeared to be an oddly uncoordinated half run, taking little steps instead of the firm strides his long legs were obviously capable of making.
At Rouen, nobody questioned him. It was as though Otter had been demoted from the human race for the sole purpose of becoming a helpful mascot for doctors and nurses alike. Nobody shouted at him or gave him harsh orders. But he was quick, and soon even picked up rudimentary first aid.
The staff who had worked together at the Casualty Clearing Station remained together as a team at the General Hospital, and Otter was always with them.
‘He’ll either get his memory back, or some silly devil’ll suddenly take him away and put him through hell,’ the Major told Sister Price. ‘But, for the time being, he’s walking wounded. And he’s our walking wounded.’
Otter had a special regard for Mary Anne as she had been the first to take pity on him. Often he would follow her around like a loyal terrier, and he never had any difficulty understanding what she required of him.
One morning, three weeks after they got to Rouen, Mary Anne was dressing a wound, when they brought several stretcher cases into the ward. Orderlies helped the men into bed, and presently the Major came, with Sister Price, to make his observations. Mary Anne went on dressing a wound – a great gash where shrapnel had taken a bite from a young corporal’s right thigh – aware the Major had reached the bed next to her patient.
‘Shrapnel wounds, left shoulder. Lacerations left cheek,’ Sister Price intoned.
‘Mmm.’ The Major bent over the wounded man.
‘Blighty, sir?’ Sister asked.
‘No. Sorry, old chap, not this time. You’ll be up and walking in a few days. We’ll see in a week.’
‘Name, rank, number, next of kin,’ Sister Price snapped. ‘Hunter. Jack. Corporal. Two-five-four-oh-one-oh. No next of kin, Ma’am.’
Mary Anne looked up sharply. The name and voice stirred something from childhood. She peered at the man on the bed. Later she went to him, ‘Your name’s Corporal Hunter?’
‘Aye.’
‘Jack Hunter?’
‘Yes,’ wary.
‘Didn’t you once work for my grandfather, General Sir William Railton?’
‘I might have done. Your Grandpa, eh. And who are you? No, let me guess. Your Mr Charles’ little girl.’
‘Yes. It is you, isn’t it? Mr Hunter? You were Grandpa’s estate manager, weren’t you?’
He nodded, and she thought there was pleasure in his eyes at seeing one of the family again after so long.
But it wasn’t pleasure in any normal sense. Jack Hunter had prayed for a time like this. Ever since that stuck-up bitch Mr John’s wife had seen him run off the estate he had prayed. One day, he thought, a Railton would be alone, and at his mercy.
*
James went out every other day. Nobody appeared to bother with Frau Dimpling, and he explained matters to her in simple terms, even though she was a woman of above average intelligence.
She was twenty-eight years of age, and had met Wolfgang while he was on holiday in Eastbourne where her father was a local bank manager.
Wolfgang, with his degree in engineering, was finishing his education as a student engineer at a motor car engine factory near Croydon. His parents – who were both to die in a tragic fire in 1912 – were also well-to-do and tradespeople. Hetty Fairchild and Wolfgang Dimpling took one look at each other and fell in love. Herr Dimpling senior visited her father a month later, and the forthcoming marriage was announced.
Since the news of her husband’s presumed death, the lonely Frau Dimpling, fearing for her safety, had dared not write to her parents in case the letters were intercepted, yet, with that odd illogicality of the English, she had written to the Foreign Office in London. James’ arrival had been an answer to her prayer.
James, of course, gave her only minimal information. She must speak to nobody about his presence in the house; if asked, he was Herr Gustav Franke, the son of an old friend of the Dimpling family, recently returned from Switzerland.
Quickly, he discovered that she was a young woman who needed a great deal of physical attention. It was, he reasoned, his duty to keep her happy, yet at night he often found himself wakened by the soft sound of a piano. The music worried him.
On the third day he went out, travelling by bus and tram to Courbierrestrasse. He then spent an afternoon in the area, lingering as long as possible near Number 8.
There was nothing to see.
He left any further contact with Herr Major Stoerkel for a week. Then he telephoned the home number. A servant answered. The Herr Major was at home, who wished to speak with him? James said it was the Baron Hellinger.
‘Herr Baron, it’s good to hear you. I wondered when you would get in touch again.’ Major Stoerkel came on the line.
‘I shall always be in touch, Joseph. Any news from the Alexander-Platz?’
‘I was going to leave a message for you.’
‘Well?’
‘The lady you so admire…’
‘Yes?’
‘I have an address. She is at Number 36 Wilhelmstrasse, almost next door to the Hospiz St Michael, near the Anhaltstrasse. She lives in apartment 23, and it appears to be her custom to go out between the hours of eleven and noon; and again between four and five in the afternoon.’
‘Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘Oh, I can be of more assistance. When can we meet?’
‘Soon,’ James said, and closed the line.
That night, he rehearsed Hetty Dimpling in what she was to do. ‘You must appear very natural. Find a shop window to examine. Even go inside if necessary, but make sure that you can see the entrance to Number 36 clearly. I will be near, but not in the street itself. Remember, there are two things to look for – the woman I shall describe, and anything suspicious: people watching.’
In minute detail he coached her in the ways the house could be watched. ‘Watchers will not wear uniforms, or badges of rank. Anyone loitering, women standing where they can view the whole section of the street – gossiping; men repairing things, painting signs, passing the time of day. Be casual. See if they’re watching you. If they are, then don’t look back, just go about some kind of business.’
He told her to try to show no fear, and, if someone approached, she must get away without too much rush and hurry. James then gave her the description of Marie, repeating it several times, and making her go over it until she was eye perfect.
In the morning, he saw her off, following at a safe distance, going to a nearby street.
The café where he waited began to fill up, and the waitress kept coming back to see if he had finished his coffee. He told her he was waiting for a friend.
Hetty, wearing a flattering sky blue dress, with a slightly darker blue street-coat and a saucy veiled hat, came in at a little after half-past twelve. Her eyes sparkled, telling it all.
At home, he made her repeat the story three times. There had been nothing at all suspicious. Nobody working, or lounging in the streets. Yes, for the hundredth time, she was certain about the woman – just as he had describe
d. She was with a tall, very handsome officer, in uniform. They walked to the end of the street, then the officer hailed a cab, so Hetty could follow no further.
‘Did the cab appear suddenly, or did it look as though it was waiting for them?’
‘Come to think of it, darling, yes.’
‘Yes what?’
‘Yes, it looked as though it was waiting, near the building.’
His senses asked why? Did Marie, provided it was Marie, want to be seen? There was only one way to find out. ‘Gustav, darling,’ Hetty called, having vanished into the bedroom, ‘will you come and love me – please.’
Later she said that Gustav was better than Wolfgang. ‘How better?’ he laughed.
‘Bigger,’ she giggled. ‘Bigger and stronger. Wolfgang was like a baby carrot.’
‘Oh yes?’ Did they plan to trap him, by making it easy for him to see her? Should he go in the afternoon? View from a distance?
‘While you,’ Hetty giggled, ‘you are like a large parsnip’
He turned to her, knowing he had to free his mind in order to make a decision. ‘Butter my parsnip, then.’
*
It was Charlotte’s turn to spend time at Redhill helping Sara with the farm organization. Andrew had a few days leave due, and he had come down with her – to rest, he said.
They were at the house, about to sit down to luncheon, when the cablegram arrived.
Sara tore it open and gave a squeal of joy. ‘Richard Farthing, she said, a shade loudly. ‘He’s coming back to England. Look,’ handing the cablegram to Andrew.
‘That’ll be nice for you, dear. Do I detect the sound of wedding bells?’
‘No,’ Sara’s voice, while happy, was quite firm. ‘Definitely not. Not yet, anyway.’
‘Oh no!’ said Andrew. They both looked at him, for there was despair in his voice.
‘What is it?’ Charlotte asked.
Andrew swallowed, looked down at the cablegram again, and said it was nothing. ‘Nothing at all.’ Then he went to the sideboard and poured himself another gin.
He glanced at the cablegram once more. It read:
SAILING NEW YORK MAY FIRST ON SS LUSITANIA STOP DUE ARRIVE LIVERPOOL SEVENTH STOP SEE YOU VERY SOON STOP ALL LOVE DICK STOP
Though his mind was cloudy, Andrew, with his own knowledge of intrigue, vividly recalled the conversation he had overheard.
Ten days previously, he had been waiting in the DNI’s anteroom. The main office door was slightly ajar, and Andrew was surprised to hear the voices of both Lord Fisher and Winston Churchill, the First Lord, speaking with the DNI.
‘You’re certain the Germans know the ship is carrying ammunition?’ Fisher asked.
‘I’d be surprised if they did not. They certainly know how short of ammunition we have been in France, particularly since the Ypres fiasco.’
‘So, the chances are they know Lusitania’s carrying ammunition?’ Fisher again.
‘I’m ninety per cent certain.’
‘And you are sure, Reggie, that the German U-boats are sneaking their way through?’
‘They’ve issued warnings, sir. And our own wireless interceptions show U-boats operating off Irish waters.’
‘Well, that settles it.’ Fisher raised his voice. ‘Let her come in by the normal route. Withdraw our own ships to a safe distance during the final twenty four hours, and the chances are they’ll have a go. What think ye, Winston?’
‘I am horrified by the possible loss of innocent life.’
‘It’ll take more than one torpedo to sink her, and I wager if they try it’ll be a nervy hit-and-run kind of thing. Our ships will quickly close in and pick up survivors. My honest opinion is there will be very little loss of life.’
‘I suppose,’ Churchill again, ‘that everything else outweighs loss of life. A German action such as this will bring condemnation from all four corners of the globe.’
‘With luck – if it happens at all – it will convince President Wilson, and the rest of America, that this must join the fray against the common enemy.’ From Fisher. ‘I’m told there are a lot of Americans already on the passenger list.’
‘Yes, you’re right of course,’ said the First Lord. ‘Lusitania must be put at risk. If she is torpedoed, and the Americans are brought in, then this whole wretched business will be over that much sooner. Give the orders, Jacky.’
‘Aye, aye, Winston,’ a laugh. ‘But I’m committing nothing to paper…’
The DNI interrupted, ‘Leave it all to me, sir. I’ll chart her position and call off the escort, make certain she’s in the most dangerous place at the right time.’
The words echoed through Andrew’s head. Dear God, he thought, the concept was understandable – to bring the United States into the war – but he liked Sara, and knew she was fond of this young American. She had lost one husband. Now, it was possible she would lose the man who could bring her a second chance of happiness.
*
When the late John Railton MP pensioned off Jack Hunter, his estate manager, in the Spring of 1910, everyone in Haversage, and at Redhill Manor, knew Hunter had virtually been dismissed. They knew also that Sara Railton was responsible, and that Hunter only got the cottage and annuity because of John’s knowledge of The General’s wishes.
In 1910, Hunter was only thirty years of age. He had worked at Redhill Manor since he was fourteen – The General’s man; but, said the gossips, The General had strange tastes as well, though not young boys and very young girls, like Hunter. Live and let live, that was The General.
Hunter had liked The General. They understood one another, and the old man kept out of his private life. He had taught Hunter many things, and one of them was a certain dignity. Many feared him, and, at the time of his going, Vera Bolton’s mother had said, ‘An That Jack ’Unter be a man of vengeance. His kind’ll wait for half a century for revenge.’
But, around Haversage and Redhill, nothing more was heard of the man. Hunter took possession of the cottage near Stanton St John, drank a bit, dug his small garden; but within him, the iron entered his soul, and Jack Hunter could do nothing about it. His existence was lonely enough and he had time to ponder. The only Railton he had ever liked was The General, the rest were a steaming midden as far as he was concerned, especially the women. Digging his garden, in the springtime of 1911, he cursed them all, and swore his own vengeance. Jack Hunter was now low as a slow-worm, and that because of Railton women.
He did not plot or plan, for he knew the day would dawn when one of the Railtons would put him-or herself in his power.
Some of the locals knew about Hunter. Those with sense warned their children to stay clear of him; others did not worry; strange things happened in isolated communities; few spoke of these matters; and rarely did anyone write about them, unless it was some scandalized vicar. It wasn’t a thing you talked about – leastways, not until something very bad happened. As it did in the late summer of 1914, when they found young Emma Gittins, from the nearby hamlet of Forest Hill, not quite twelve years of age, half naked in a ditch with blood all over her thighs and the blue marks where she had been strangled.
The police came all the way from Oxford, and spent days asking questions. They had Hunter in three times, but went away in the end. It frightened Hunter, though he could not remember things that clearly.
Then, one night, just before Christmas, he woke in the dark. He was screaming, and he knew. There was some idea in his head that a little girl who tried to fight him was a Railton and should be done away with. He saw the picture clearly.
The next morning he went off and took the King’s shilling. In April 1915, helping to reinforce the new line of trenches along the perimeter of Polygon Wood, four miles or so from Ypres, he had taken the shrapnel in his left shoulder and cheek.
At the clearing station they told him it was a ‘Blighty’ for sure, but now, at the General Hospital in Rouen, the doctors changed their minds. He would be there for about a month, they said. On his feet in a f
ew days. ‘You can be a great help in the ward,’ the frigid Sister told him. And Jack Harold Hunter rejoiced, for there, tending him, was a Railton woman. She was older than he liked them, but he would make an exception for Nurse Mary Bloody Anne Fucking Railton. She would squeal when he split her thighs.
So, Corporal Hunter was respectful, pleasant, always thanking her and calling her ‘Miss’. The time would come, sure as eggs were eggs.
*
Few passengers took the notice seriously as they boarded the SS Lusitania. They had seen it in the newspapers, and there it was again, beside the official list of departures at the dock side. Dick stopped for a moment to scan it.
NOTICE!
TRAVELLERS intending to embark on the Atlantic voyage are reminded that a state of war exists between Germany and her allies and Great Britain and her allies; that the zone of war includes the waters adjacent to the British Isles; that, in accordance with formal notice given by the Imperial German Government, vessels flying the flag of Great Britain, or any of her allies, are liable to destruction in those waters and that travellers sailing in the war zone on ships of Great Britain or her allies do so at their own risk.
IMPERIAL GERMAN GOVERNMENT.
Much of the talk was of the possible U-boat threat, but most people – including the officers – were sure that no harm could come to a vessel like Lusitania. ‘What would be the point?’ said the young officer at whose table Dick Farthing dined on their first night at sea. ‘The German Navy’re only interested in merchantmen, not passenger liners like this.’
The others, gathered around the table, at ease, having eaten well, and drunk even better, nodded sage agreement.
‘And why are you travelling to Europe, Mr Farthing?’ The man on Dick’s left also had an American accent.
‘To see friends. Indeed, the lady I hope to marry is English. I’m an aviator and I’m going over to fight the Germans.’
‘Well done, sir,’ applauded the young officer.
‘Stout fellow,’ remarked a military-looking man.