Charles looked away. ‘Mildred does not know. She’s ill, Vernon, and that’s not just an excuse for remaining silent. It’s like living with a dormant volcano. One just doesn’t know what’s going to happen next.’ He made a gesture of despair. Then, pulling himself together, he asked what his chief had in store for him.
‘Something rather special, as it happens. I’m putting you in to liaise with friend Thomson at the Branch.’
‘Doing what in particular?’
‘Sitting on his shoulder, listening to every word he says, watching every move he makes. Basil Thomson gets all the thunder – we’ve both known that for a long time, just as we’ve known he’s making inroads into our department. He’s asked for a senior officer to assist him, so now he’s getting one. You!’
Charles wondered if Commander Thomson knew of the impending appointment. He could not see the man taking kindly to his presence at the Yard.
That night, on arriving home, he embarked on yet another act of folly, which could endanger his career.
Mildred was already in bed, ‘With one of her headaches, sir,’ the little maid told him. He took a nightcap in the drawing room, and was crossing the hall on his way to his own room when he noticed the envelope lying just inside the door. It was plain white, and of good quality, as was the paper inside – a single sheet, with neatly printed writing.
HANNA HAAS GAVE BIRTH TO YOUR CHILD WHILE IN GERMANY. SHE IS SAFE BUT WILL NOT REMAIN SO UNLESS YOU DO AS WE ASK. YOU WILL SHOW THIS TO NOBODY. IF YOU DO YOUR DAUGHTER WILL DIE AND EVERYBODY WILL BE INFORMED. WE HAVE ALL NECESSARY EVIDENCE.
Charles went back into the drawing room and burned the letter. His hands shook so badly that he could hardly pour himself a large brandy. Oh Christ! he thought. The child in the photographs. His bastard child. No! his love-child, by poor, wretched Madeline. He could have wept for them all.
*
‘Giles, you know I cannot see them. You shouldn’t really be running private agents, even though they’ve been of immeasurable help.’
‘Just thought you should take them over.’ Giles looked annoyed. He had been trying to pass on his main Irish contacts – his son and daughter-in-law – to C.
‘Kell should have them, you know that.’
‘I trust you, C.’
‘Meaning you don’t trust Kell?’
‘’Course I trust him. I’d simply feel safer it you had them. They’re difficult to handle. Getting more difficult every day.’
‘Kell, Thomson, or even “Blinker” Hall,’ C sighed. ‘All three of them have their hands full with Ireland these days. If you ask me, the Emerald Isle will turn red before long: blood red.’
Giles shook his head. ‘Well, maybe Thomson. He’s got a lot of people out there, I know.’
‘It would be better.’
Later, when Giles had left, C called Caspar in to go through the latest material received from their train spotting networks. ‘Hate to say it, young Caspar,’ he coughed, ‘I fear your grandpapa’s getting too old for this kind of thing. Going a bit doolally-tap, if you ask me. Getting odd ideas. You’d think he was a bloody revolutionary the way he talks sometimes. Too old. Too old by far.’
Caspar doubted it. Any man who could send Denise, his own granddaughter, out to be a courier behind the lines, as Giles had done, was not too old. Ruthless, singleminded, maybe, but certainly not past it.
*
‘The Fisherman’ completed decoding the signal. It read:
GO STRAIGHT T0 DUBLIN AND CONTACT D2 WHO HAS WORK FOR YOU
It was signed with the familiar ST for Steinhauer.
*
‘Well, if Kell wants you to be with me, I’m most grateful. We’ve a lot on our plate.’ Basil Thomson managed a smile, and sounded pleased to see him.
‘I’m under your orders, sir. So, fire away.’
‘You know Brian Wood, I think.’
Charles said he knew Wood very well.
‘He’s still investigating this “Fisherman” business. Well, you started it all, uncovered it; so best that you see it through.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’
The head of the Branch waved away the thanks. ‘You won’t be on it all the time. Things appear to be hotting up across the Irish Sea. Rebellions, rumours of rebellions. We’re working hand in glove with the DNI on that one. Look, take this file out of the office and read it thoroughly. Get to know the fellow backwards, forwards and sideways. We’re both going to know him even better in the near future.’
He tossed the thick, buff file across the desk and Charles flipped it open. The name on the first page was Sir Roger Casement.
Chapter Three
On returning to Cheyne Walk with the Casement file, Charles found there were letters waiting in the little silver tray on the hall table.
One was from Mary Anne in France. She had written once already, and he had replied. Even Kell had not dared tell him she was also writing to the German, Otto Buelow, at a private Department address. The former Artillery Captain was performing good work for them among the prisoners of war.
Mary Anne’s letter was short, thanking her father for not putting any obstacles in her path regarding the confirmation of her posting back to the hospital. She painted a grim picture of the front line in this bitter winter. The daily routine of death and terrible wounds appeared to have been made worse, now, by many cases of frostbite and exposure. She ended by clearly indicating concern for her mother – CAN I YET WRITE TO HER? I REALLY DO WORRY BUT REALIZE SHE MUST BE ALLOWED TO TAKE ONE DAY AT A TIME.
He carefully folded the letter, placing it in his pocket, and giving the cloth a fond little pat. After helping himself to a whisky and soda, Charles settled in one of the leather armchairs, opening the file Thomson had given him. The front was specially flagged with warnings. THIS FILE IS SECRET. PASSING ANY OF THE CONTENTS TO AN UNAUTHORIZED PERSON CONSTITUTES A BREACH OF THE OFFICIAL SECRETS ACT. MUST BE KEPT UNDER LOCK AND KEY.
Then, in smaller, red, letters towards the bottom of the page, the line which always brought a smile to Charles’ face – Anybody finding this file must return it, without reading, to New Scotland Yard.
He had already been through the MI5 file on Sir Roger Casement, so presumed this would be similar, if not exactly the same.
Quickly he leafed through the pages – the usual stuff about the man’s birth in Dublin, education and early steps in the Consular Service, and the famous report on the Belgian Congo atrocities, which caused a major diplomatic uproar in Europe. Then, his further work involving the ill-treatment of British and other subjects in the Amazon.
This had gained Casement a knighthood, and he became a well-respected figure, not merely in the United Kingdom, but also in the United States. Then, in the Spring of 1912, he retired, because of ill health, to settle in his native Ireland.
Charles yawned, he already knew all this – Casement’s alliance with the militant Irish Nationalist movement and the Irish Volunteers. The world and his wife knew of his dislike of British politicians and where the man’s sympathies lay, at the beginning of the war.
At MI5, they had known Casement was spending more and more time in Berlin, planning to get the Germans to assist in raising an Irish Nationalist army aimed at driving out the English.
Charles started to fidget, then a paragraph caught his eye. He sat bolt upright, hardly crediting what he was now reading. The file handed to him by the Special Branch contained a whole mass of information, which to his knowledge, had never been passed on to MI5.
Certainly they knew that Casement’s name was on the ‘To be detained’ list, under DORA. But, even when Patrick Quinn was working closely with Kell, Special Branch had kept certain actions very close. The knowledge, for instance, that a search warrant had been granted for Casement’s London apartment. Nor had Kell, or any of the senior staff, seen what Paddy Quinn had produced from his search. Yet here it was, page after page of typescript, photograph after photograph of handwritten diaries, plus a copy of a signed stateme
nt from a handwriting expert. The diaries were indisputably in Sir Roger Casement’s own hand.
Nobody had hinted to MI5 that these diaries contained among other interesting, possibly treasonable, facts, indisputable evidence that Casement was a confirmed, practising homosexual.
It was also plain that, while Kell’s people had not been included within the magic circle of information regarding Casement, the DNI, and his department, were hand in glove with the Branch.
Charles was now wide awake, going through each entry in the file, committing certain parts to memory, ready to report matters to his chief.
There was minute detail of Casement’s visits to prison camps in Germany and meetings with Irish soldiers who had become prisoners of war. Notes on his conversations with these men had the feel of being direct transcripts; and there were pages of wireless intercepts and decoded telegrams – traffic passing through German diplomatic and naval channels. ‘Blinker’ Hall’s code-breakers were providing intelligence directly to Thomson: information which was being updated by the week, if not the day.
From what was already here, it seemed highly possible that Casement had arranged for arms to be delivered to the Sinn Feiners so that an insurrection could take place very soon.
The last entry in the file, to date, showed just how soon. It was a decode of a telegram from Count Bernstorff, German Ambassador in Washington. He had just cabled Berlin that an uprising was planned for 23 April – St George’s Day, and, that year, Easter Sunday. There was also a request for machine-guns, field guns and between twenty-five and fifty thousand rifles to be supplied to the so-called Nationalist Army.
Charles flicked back through the pages. In all, he considered there were over thirty intercepted, decoded messages between Berlin and their Embassy in Washington concerning assistance, in arms and money, to the Irish Nationalists. As far as MI5 was concerned, the file was a small bombshell. Between them, Hall, the Branch and, to some extent, C’s Service, had enough information to scuttle any plot within the borders of Ireland.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck eight, and Charles realized he had not even dressed for dinner. His head buzzed, and the natural inclination was to telephone Vernon Kell at his home; but the chief of MI5 had cautioned all officers regarding the use of that particular instrument when secret matters had to be discussed.
He left the file on the arm of his chair and hurried from the room. Unless there was a previous arrangement, they always dined at eight-thirty sharp, and he had not seen Mildred since the morning, so had no conception of today’s mood.
Ready for dinner, Charles returned to the drawing room. Mildred looked up from the chair he had so recently vacated. She was idly turning the pages of the Casement File.
Charles smiled, walked over, kissed her on the forehead and gently removed the heavy file from her knees. Mildred smiled back, her eyes bright. She was in good humour. If things were bad, her face took on a pinched, nervous look.
‘How’re tricks today, then, darling?’ He placed the file out of reach. ‘How’s Dr Harcourt?’
Her smile almost reflected her former sense of fun. ‘Oh that old bore. Didn’t I tell you? I’m going to someone else now. A woman in Harcourt’s waiting room put me on to him. A Dr Fisher. Just round the corner from Harcourt. Wimpole Street. Very good indeed, much better than Harcourt. He’s very careful about the patients he takes on. Runs a private clinic, and he’s no more expensive than Harcourt.’
Charles mentally noted to make enquiries about this Dr Fisher. At least his proximity to the Branch would be of help there.
They went in to dinner, with Charles clutching the Casement file which he put down carefully beside his chair. He felt that it was burning a hole in the carpet.
*
On the same day, Caspar – on C’s instructions – had read their Casement File. He did not know that the version kept in the fast-growing Registry was considerably slimmer than the one held by Special Branch. For one thing, a large number of the intercepted signals were not included, nor were the photographs and extracts from Casement’s diaries. Everything provided by C’s own people was there, of course. They were not to know that the file was, as the Admiralty Intelligence people would put it, degutted.
At the Admiralty, though, the file – a replica of that on the floor of Charles’ dining room – was, at this very moment, being updated by Andrew Railton: a very changed Andrew at that.
Just as Charles and Mildred were tackling their entrée, Andrew was dealing with the Casement File in his small office in the centre of what was now a veritable warren of rooms which were run under the general title of Room 40.
The decode he added had already been forwarded to all relevant parties, and it would eventually be regarded as an historic intercept: a telegram from the General Staff to Count Bernstorff saying the requested arms for Ireland would be sent in a small ship, which they named, together with a clutch of code words, including ciphers to be used when Casement sailed for Ireland, when the arms had left, if the mission had to be aborted, if it was delayed, and a dozen more pieces of information.
By now, Charlotte, who had forced herself to take on war work of her own, apart from assisting Sara at Redhill, noticed her husband appeared to be keeping unusually late hours at the Admiralty. Strangely, she had not associated this with the fact that Andrew had undergone subtle changes in the last weeks. He was more tired than drunk when he arrived home, and his appearance was slowly returning to its previous smartness. If anything, roles had been reversed, for Charlotte was letting herself slip more.
The cause for the change in Andrew was the appointment of Miss Grizelda Greatorex as his civilian secretary. Miss Greatorex was short, dark, pretty, a good eighteen years Andrew’s junior, and the possessor of two great attributes – a flat in Mayfair, provided by a rich and indulgent father, and a stunning figure.
Andrew, at forty-seven years of age, was still handsome, distinguished, and, as Miss Greatorex was the first to admit, exceptionally attractive to younger women.
So, Charles, Caspar, and Andrew carried a hundred confidences in their heads, the bulk of which were of value to the nation, though – as far as Charles and Andrew were concerned – they were the possessors of personal secrets which could affect both their private lives and the security of the country. Charles’ affair with the late Hanna Haas still contained a time bomb; while, though Andrew was hardly aware of it, Miss Grizelda Greatorex had an unfortunate tendency to be talkative. Unlike the Railton family, the Greatorexes – Banking and Commerce – were all careless with information.
*
‘The Professor’ still saw James every day. James remained cautious. It would be foolish to deny facts, and equally foolish to say anything further, so he settled for silence.
This did not appear to greatly concern ‘The Professor’. He questioned, got no answer, so supplied his own.
‘You are married?’
Silence.
‘Her name is Margaret Mary. You have one son, Donald, and a daughter named Sara Elizabeth. Sara after your stepmother, who has also remarried – an old friend of yours, what’s his name? Yes. Richard Farthing’ ‘The Professor’ did his vague, spectacles on the end of his nose, clowning: ‘That must be giving your uncle Giles Railton some sleepless nights – family property and all that, yes?’
A shrug.
‘Well, let’s say, “yes”, shall we? And what about your uncle Charles? Bit of a dark horse, Uncle Charles.’
‘What’s going to happen to me?’
‘Happen?’
‘Do I get a trial?’
‘Trial? Oh, my dear chap, you don’t want a trial.’
‘You’ll shoot me out of hand, then?’
‘What gives you that idea? Nobody wishes to shoot you. They have much more interesting things in store. Now, please, James Railton, what about your uncle Charles?’
Another shrug, so they began to try a new technique. ‘The Professor’ came each day and questioned for very long perio
ds. At night, though, they did not allow James to sleep. Instead, ‘Bullet Head’ came clattering into the cell every half hour, with two soldiers who clumped around, swore, made a great deal of noise and left. Nobody switched the lights off.
James tried to go on remembering Shakespeare, quoting aloud against Bullet Head’s noisy entrances. Sometimes in his mind he would fly an aeroplane; and, after a week of this, he managed to catnap between interruptions.
Some of the time, James tried logic. They had caught him, fairly and squarely. They could have no doubt that he was engaged in espionage in time of war. There was one punishment only – death; yet they seemed in no hurry to execute him, which meant they needed him.
He spent a great deal of his time thinking about the reason for this, and what they really wanted from him.
*
Charles used one of his Department’s most secure internal post boxes to get a message to Kell. Could they dine together on Sunday? The answer came back affirmative. The next day, though, he appeared to have been banished from the Casement business – for the time being at least.
‘Today you’re going back onto “The Fisherman” business again – with Chief Inspector Wood,’ Thomson told him. ‘“The Fisherman” and matters arising, such as the wilful murder of one Hanna Haas. That suit you?’
‘More than I can say.’
So, the morning was spent going through the evidence, all of which he knew, apart from the latest investigations on Mrs MacGregor’s death, which had yielded a second description –which matched the one Charles had picked up from Douthwaite’s assistant. A large, heavy, seafaring man with a limp.
Charles read through the details, including the new description. When he had heard the same words in Camberwell, the hair on the back of his neck had prickled. It did so again. He had seen the man, years ago: he could not doubt it now.
‘Walked with a strange limp,’ Wood said, casually.
Charles nodded. He knew the odd dragging limp.
‘A peg-leg, perhaps?’
‘Definitely.’ In his head, Charles saw blood, and the axe.