The American smiled and nodded, so Dick asked him why he chose to make the journey.
‘Fair question. My name’s Frohman. Charles Frohman…’ ‘The theatre!’ Dick exclaimed. ‘Charles Frohman, the impresario?’
‘Guilty.’
‘Why, you’re famous, you produced The Arcadians.’
‘Guilty again.’
Dick, like the others at the table, was fascinated to find they were in the presence of a celebrity.
‘And what takes you to Europe, Mr Frohman?’ one asked. ‘Some big new musical extravaganza?’
Frohman spread his hands, ‘Alas, the law brings me to Europe.’ He explained that he was in partnership with the English actor-manager, Sir Edward Seymour-Hicks. ‘We took a lease on The Globe Theatre in London. Unfortunately, I did the renovations and installed an elevator. The landlords have taken exception. It appears I should have gotten their permission. Seymour-Hicks cabled. They’re about to sue us, so I guessed I’d better go and get Edward off the hook.’
They laughed at his odd predicament. Lusitania was just clearing the Hudson; heading out into the Atlantic.
*
Three nights later, in Rouen, Mary Anne was doing her first spell of night duty. She was tired, and pleased to have somewhere to doze – the little office, usually Sister’s domain during the day.
Happily, the ward had no serious cases, otherwise she would have been obliged to sit at her desk in the ward itself all night. As it was, she could keep her conscience quiet by making an occasional visit around the beds. The night sister was predictable, arriving on the dot at half past the hour, every three hours.
So, for most of the night, Mary Anne could read, doze, or brew a cup of tea on the small stove.
It was four in the morning and she was half asleep, when she suddenly became alert. The door to the office opened, almost silently, and Jack Hunter slipped inside, using all the cunning he had practised so often in the woods and coverts of Redhill.
‘Corporal Hunter, you shouldn’t be in here, you know.’ She was relieved it was only this patient. She smiled. It was always best to humour difficult patients. ‘Now then, Corporal, if there’s something you want…’ Mary Anne stopped short, as he clicked the key in the lock and dropped it into his pocket.
‘Oh, aye, there’s something I want, Mary Anne Bloody Railton,’ he laughed, low and unpleasant.
‘Corporal!’ She had become used to being obeyed by patients. ‘Open that door, and we’ll go back into the ward.’
He shook his head, ‘No, Miss Railton.’
‘What is it you want?’ Her voice betrayed no fear.
‘What do I want, Miss Railton? First of all I want what I’m going to get, and it’s between your legs.’
He moved fast, and was on her before she had time to cry out or move. She felt one of his big hands across her mouth, while the other reached down. He was pushing her backwards across the desk and reaching for her long skirt.
She fought, thrashing out with her arms, fists balled, hitting him with all her strength, her mouth working as she tried to bite the hand. Her skirt was rucked up to her thighs now and she began to kick out with her legs. When he took his hand away from her mouth it was so unexpected that she did not cry out. A second later she was not able to do so, for he hit her, hard, across the side of her face, with the back of his hand, then again, swinging the other way, with his palm. When the hand was clamped over her mouth again, Mary Anne was only on the lip of consciousness.
She fought through a great wall of fog, yet knew what he was doing to her. This was the most terrifying thing, for all power to resist seemed to have ebbed away.
One hand was tearing at her drawers, and she was unable to stop him stepping between her thighs as he pushed her back down onto the desk, leaving her legs dangling.
The pain brought her to. It was like a great red hot poker jammed between her legs, a searing terrible agony as he thrust into her, ripping at flesh. She knew then that the wetness was blood, and the pain grew worse as he moved higher into her.
The anguish so wakened her that she was at last able to get her teeth onto his flesh and bite. For a second his hand moved and her scream overpowered his curse. He hit her again; and the world became this fearsome, jarring scalding between her legs, a floating darkness, and the knowledge that his hand was now not over her mouth, but around her neck; and that very soon there would be complete darkness. She was going to die.
The agony rose; he smelled horrible; and she heard him panting heavily through the mist. Then, over it all, came a tremendous crash and his weight was lifted from her body, so that she slid to the floor. Clearly she heard the words.
‘Ott… Ott… Ott… Ott…’ Rising, as though in rage.
The Otter was there, spinning Hunter around, a fist smashing into his stomach, a knee going hard into his exposed private parts, swollen and huge. She saw Hunter double up, but, before his knees buckled, the Otter’s fists locked together, and came down on the Corporal’s neck with a final cry of ‘Ott!… Ott!’
Hunter sprawled forward onto the small floor, and there was the sound of voices and footsteps. The Otter was bending over her, covering her nakedness and making shushing sounds.
Her mind cleared, and she heard him speaking, but it was in German, ‘Kapitän Ott… Ott… Kapitän Otto Buelow, Number Five Battery, Imperial Horse Artillery, at your service, Fraulein. I am your prisoner now, yes?’
She had time to mutter in schoolroom German, ‘No… No… You must pretend. You must just say Ott… Ott… Please pretend.’ Then Mary Anne felt the blood soaking her thighs, and lost contact with the world.
*
Andrew was in no position to understand that his very high consumption of gin was doing him harm. Never before had he suffered so many violent changes of mood or such depression. It was probably the strain, he considered. Certainly his duties at the Admiralty brought about the obsessions. The American, Richard Farthing, was a current obsession, and he hardly knew the fellow. Yet Sara knew him, and because of that, Andrew had been like a cat on hot bricks since Lusitania had sailed from New York.
On the morning of Friday 7 May, the concern lifted slightly. It was plain that the Commander of the Royal Navy’s base at Queenstown, Ireland – Sir Charles Coke – had been worried enough to send two signals. The first had gone on the previous day: Submarines active off south coast of Ireland. This very morning the Admiralty had received Admiral Coke’s latest signal: Submarines active in southern part of Irish Channel. Last heard of 20 miles south of Coningbeg Light. Make certain Lusitania gets this. Whatever possible intrigues were taking place within the Admiralty, those on the spot were doing their best to see the great liner through.
Lusitania had cleared Fastnet, and now turned towards land – taking a bearing on the Old Head of Kinsale.
Dick sat in the great first-class dining room with Charles Frohman. They had taken the second luncheon sitting on purpose. It had been a jittery few days, and during the previous evening, Captain Turner announced that they were now approaching dangerous waters. He had posted double lookouts, imposed a black-out, and had the lifeboats swung out. ‘A precaution only,’ he told the passengers. ‘On entering the war zone tomorrow, we shall be securely in the hands of the Royal Navy.’
‘Well, Dick, you can just see land up there – Ireland, I guess.’ Frohman paused to order the lamb cutlets. ‘I was on “B” Deck just now, and we seemed to be making a right turn to sail along the coast. What is that, port or starboard?’
‘Starboard,’ Dick grinned.
The orchestra began to play the Blue Danube Waltz, and Frohman moved a hand in time to the music. ‘I guess we’re safe now. You going straight to London?’
‘Not quite.’ Dick’s plan had been to travel to Haversage. He was about to speak again when the ship gave a tremor and there was the muffled sound of a bump, as though they had hit something. It was hardly an explosion, more of a shudder.
A few seconds before, Walther
Schweiger, Captain of the U-20 which had been shadowing the great four-funnelled liner since one p.m., had quietly given the order to fire one of his last three precious torpedoes. The time was just before ten-past two on a beautiful sunny afternoon.
‘What the hell was that?’ Frohman asked.
A second later there came a great rumbling noise; the whole dining room shuddered, and the deck under them lurched. ‘Something hit us.’ Dick was on his feet.
‘Guess we should forget the lamb cutlets.’
It took them less than three minutes to reach ‘B’ Deck; and all the time they could feel the deck sliding under their feet.
The great stately ship was listing heavily to starboard. Looking towards the bow, a great plume of smoke hung for’ard of the first smokestack; the massive vessel was still making way under its own momentum, though the bows were already skewing into the water, the angle of list increasing with alarming speed.
It was all happening very quickly. As they reached the starboard rail Dick, with Charles Frohman, could see that there were men and women in the water below. Worse, lifeboats were being dropped. They saw one take the long dive from its tilting davits, smashing into people in the sea below.
‘The other side!’ Dick caught Frohman’s arm, and they began to climb the angled deck.
But on the port side, things were worse. Because of the increasing angle of the ship, it was even more difficult to launch the boats. They reached one boat station, and were about to climb up and join other passengers, huddled in the frail craft, when the order came down that the Captain had forbidden further launching of the boats.
To his amazement, Dick saw a young ship’s officer draw a revolver and shout towards the crew, ‘To hell with the Captain! The first man to disobey my orders to launch the boat I shoot to kill.’
As he shouted, Dick was appalled to see a sailor knock out the retaining pin. The boat dropped, hit the angled side of the ship, and screeching its way down, crushed passengers already in the sea. Further aft the same thing happened.
Frohman shook his head, and they slithered back to the starboard side, where things there had become worse. Shouts and cries came from all around, the ship keeling over even further, its great funnels now looming over the struggling humans in the water.
Dick turned, scanning the deck. Women screamed, trying to grab at their children while some men helped them with life jackets; others ran back and forth, not knowing which way to go. Only the stricken ship appeared to know its destiny. The bows were well down in the water, and sinking.
Frohman put a hand on Dick’s arm. ‘Seems I can only think of one thing to say,’ he gave his familiar, almost mocking smile. ‘Peter Pan. J. M. Barrie. “To die will be an awfully big adventure”.’
Dick nodded. He felt very calm.
Chapter Eight
In Berlin, James worried over the problem. He had sent Hetty out twice more to the Wilhelmstrasse; once in the late afternoon, and once in the morning. She described Marie accurately. The woman had left Number 36 again, at the times Stoerkel had predicted. The same man had been with her, and the couple appeared to chat happily. But they went through exactly the same movements – walking up the street, and hailing a cab which awaited their signal. The routine did not seem right. James felt Marie was being put on show – a decoy. There was nothing to be done but make a personal identification.
So it was with some misgivings that James set out, early one morning in the second week of May, to look at the situation in the Wilhelmstrasse.
He arrived at about nine in the morning, walking the length of the broad, clean thoroughfare, hardly glancing at Number 36, but trying to pick out the best possible place for him to safely make an observation. On his second pass, coming back towards the Anhaltstrasse, he saw the small café, its window replete with pastries. Inside, middle-class ladies took coffee and a morning slice of Torte.
He disappeared into the Anhaltstrasse, walking with purpose, until about ten minutes to eleven. ‘Always move with confidence, as though you know where you’re going,’ they had told him. He was not being followed, and took a route that brought him back to the café. Looking into the window he saw that a table, with a good view of the street, was now vacant.
He entered, sat down, ordered coffee, and waited.
She came out of the building just before eleven fifteen, and he would have known her anywhere – the same confident stride, the tilt of the head. Strangely he felt a pang of anger as she took the officer’s arm. He noted the fashionable dress and well-groomed, sleek appearance. ‘If there is any problem, if she will not come out of Germany with you,’ both Giles and C had said, ‘then you must be sure she ceases to exist.’
Giles put it more plainly at their very last meeting. ‘You kill her,’ he said, without emotion.
The couple were definitely following a routine – the walk up the street, the sign, as the officer raised his hand, and the cab, waiting where James had earlier spotted it, almost outside the Hospiz, moving up to meet them.
He went back to the Zoo and sent another telegram to Switzerland. Then, that night, he made a telephone call to Major Stoerkel’s home.
‘Herr Baron Hellinger, I have been waiting for you to telephone.’ The Major sounded bluff and hearty. ‘I have the most urgent news for you.’
‘About…?’
‘There is a letter waiting as we arranged. It is of the utmost importance. You understand?’
James said he would collect the letter in the morning.
*
James used the reflection of the shop window to view the Alexander-Platz Post Office entrance. The glass was highly polished, and the display of books inside made it a perfectly natural place for him to browse. A passing tram cut off the view for a moment, then it cleared and he saw Hetty making her way up the steps. It was a calculated risk, but he firmly expected her to walk out of the Post Office, tucking the letter into her bag, which was their arranged signal.
She had a note, signed by Gustav Franke, giving her authority to collect anything left for him Post Restante.
The minutes ticked away. Another tramcar went by, people clicked past along the pavement, a staff car growled among the traffic. Then he saw Hetty coming out, putting a long white envelope into her bag, pausing on top of the steps.
She took two steps down as the car pulled up and four men detached themselves from the pedestrian crowd, while two more came out of the Post Office from behind her.
He knew she would crack very easily. Thank God he had told her only essentials. Rooted to the spot, James watched her being put into the car. He could not go back to her apartment, and there was only one more trusted address in Berlin. Stoerkel was out. James Railton, a stranger in a strange and enemy land, was almost on his own.
*
The sinking of the SS Lusitania sent a wave of shock throughout the world, and there were those at the Admiralty who waited anxiously to see if the fact that at least a hundred American passengers had perished would make any difference to President Wilson’s policy of neutrality.
The first Sara knew was a telephone message from Andrew.
He broke the news, then became emotional and unsteady. ‘I wanted… You should know before the newspapers…’ Sara felt a terrible numbness, and mouthed ‘Yes’, but it did not come out clearly.
‘You there, Sara?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just wanted you to know. Your chum. The American…’
‘Yes, thank you, Andrew.’ It was why she had made up her mind not to marry Richard yet – in case of something like this. Not marry him. No, and now it could be too late.’
‘Sara?’
‘Yes, I’m here, Andrew.’
‘First reports are that the casualties’re not heavy. Lots of boats got there chop-chop.’
‘Chop-chop,’ she said, automatically imitating him.
‘Let you know soon as I hear more.’
‘Thank you.’ She thought of Andrew’s boy, Rupert, reduced to a gi
ant baby by disaster at sea. God, not Richard, please not Richard. Replacing the receiver, Sara went off in search of Mildred, who was helping with the farm and estate during this particular week.
It was late afternoon, and Vera told her that Mrs Mildred – Railton wives were always called by their own Christian names, not those of their husbands – had gone over to the Glebe House to see Mrs Berry.
Sara asked Natter to saddle up her new grey, Boston. ‘Quick as you can manage, Ted.’ She even smiled at him. Martha Crook was coming along the field path from the cottage. She waved, but must have sensed something, for her smile faded as she got close.
‘’Afternoon, Miss Sara.’ A hand went out, resting lightly on Sara’s arm, as though trying to gain knowledge through touch. ‘What’s wrong, my dear?’
Even then, Sara did not cry. ‘The Lusitania’s been sunk.’
‘Oh, save us!’
‘You remember the young American who…?’
‘Mr Farthing, yes.’
‘He was on board. He was a passenger.’
Martha Crook moved closer, her hand wrapping itself round Sara’s lower arm. Very quietly she said, ‘And you love him very much, Miss Sara. Yes?’
She bit her lip. Behind Mrs Crook, Natter was leading Boston out. Martha Crook nodded. ‘He’s fine,’ she said softly, ‘Mr Richard Farthing’s alive and well. I promise you that.’ But Sara was past any belief.
In the west the sun dipped towards the horizon as Sara trotted off towards the Glebe House. Lazy in the last minutes of the day, the fields reflected gold from the blood-soaked sky. He saw that same sun this afternoon, Sara thought. Wherever he was when it happened, that was what he saw; and he can probably see it now.
She was exceptionally calm when she reached Glebe House. Mildred had turned out to be very good at helping Rachel organize their work force; while Rachel could manage even the most difficult man, and demanded a very high standard from all of them.
‘Had a letter from Bob today.’ Rachel looked sheepish.
‘Well?’
‘He’s got some leave coming. I think he’d like to see me, and come back here, but he darsn’t.’