*
‘The Professor’ still visited James’ cell daily and carried on the strange interrogation, supplying the answers to his own questions.
They became quite friendly, and spoke often of music, between questions.
Then, towards the end of January, when the cold had become so intense that James wondered if there would be any end to the winter, ‘The Professor’ announced that he would be leaving soon.
‘Where are they sending you?’ James had started to regard their relationship as a friendship.
‘They are not sending me anywhere.’ ‘The Professor’ raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s you they’ve decided to move.’
James laughed, he had expected something of the kind for several weeks. Common sense told him they would not keep hammering away at him. It had to end, and James was well resigned to what the ending would be.
‘Am I at last to get a trial, then?’
‘The Professor’ shook his head. ‘I’ve already told you, nobody’s interested in a trial.’
‘I shall disappear then…’
‘You’ve already disappeared. In London they’ve given you up for dead.’
‘My fate, then? A quiet bullet? An unmarked grave?’
Again he shook his head. ‘You must realize, that nobody wishes to see you dead. There are reasons. You have a special protection. Go in peace.’ He sounded like a priest.
*
Giles was in the Hide, with the lamps turned down, and no maps on his table. He often just sat and thought these days, like a contemplative monk. But the religion upon which he meditated was one of political ideologies, of society, and the vagaries of birth. It was also of intrigues, treachery, betrayal, and where true loyalty should lie if a man’s conscience would be clear.
Vaguely, in the distance, he heard a hammering and clanging. He wondered if it was another Zeppelin raid.
Then, his man Robertson began to knock on his door, shouting loudly, ‘Sir! Sir! Come quickly, sir!’
It took a minute for him to realize that there was some kind of emergency. Then he crossed to the door, unlocked it and went into the passage.
Looking from the top of the stairs he did not recognize the figure who stood, dirty, unkempt and ragged, in the hall. Only when he reached the penultimate step did Giles see that the tramp-like figure was his son Malcolm.
‘Home is the hunter.’ Malcolm’s voice sounded full of bitterness.
‘Home from the chase.’ Giles was unruffled.
Exactly one week later, as the thaw set in, on 21 February, the huge German artillery barrage began around Verdun, smashing all the badly-conceived Allied battle-plans to shreds. The dreadful killing season had begun, and no intelligence collected by C, or any other Service, would stop it.
*
The thaw spread over the United Kingdom also, and with it came the news Richard Farthing had been waiting for.
He had hoped to be assigned to a squadron in France almost straight after reporting for duty, but the powers who ruled the lives of pilots in the RFC failed to post him. Much of his time had been spent at Farnborough, and when he flew it was usually in a flimsy DH-2, which did not please him.
Sara, though, was only too pleased to know that Richard was still in England, flying in comparative safety. Their marriage of only a few months had again altered her life more than she had dared hope. With Richard Farthing as her husband, Sara basked in that balmy sense of true security. She regularly thanked God for the day when James had first met Dick and brought him back to Haversage.
She saw him most week-ends, and found that there was now an emotional stability in her life, centred solely around her new husband. Richard was so different from the Railton men, and without a trace of guile, or secrecy, in his make-up. His generosity, coupled with what she saw as an incredible knowledge of practically any subject – from engines to the most modern composers, artists and writers – made him unique in her eyes. Indeed, this was the key, she felt, to marriage: partners who saw a uniqueness in each other. It was what James and Margaret Mary had experienced, she now knew; though she doubted if any of the other Railton men and women had even touched the surface of the emotion, with the exception of Caspar, possibly, though Sara had yet to really fathom ‘Old Phoeb’. The line of thought always led back to James, and she sometimes had a quiet weep about his death, for she was sure they would never see him again, and marvelled at Margaret Mary and her unshakeable confidence in his return.
Pondering on this always brought her mind to the tiny permanent worry. The one black spot in Sara’s life was the constant cloud, no bigger than a man’s hand, which seemed to hover in the back of her mind – that, one day, Dick would be snatched from her.
Their happiness together was apparent to all who saw them. ‘You can tell as how them two has a good time in bed,’ Natter croaked to Vera Bolton as they watched the couple ride out of the stable yard one morning.
‘Oooh, Ted, you watch what you’re saying! You’ve got a one track mind you have!’ squeaked Vera.
‘Ah, and you’m not far behind me, young Vera. I seen you with Billy Crook last time ’ee were on leave, and him so young.’
Vera turned scarlet, leaving the yard and snapping at him, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ted Natter. You got a nasty mind.’
‘Daft cat!’ Natter responded.
Vera, in fact, knew very well what he was talking about. Certainly there was a matter of some years difference between her and Billy Crook, but Billy had become forceful and dominating since his medal, and promotion. Vera was so much under the eagle eye of her mother, at the Manor, that she had not sampled the delights of womanhood until Billy’s leave at Christmas.
The first time was after the wedding; and they crept into the hay loft above the stables practically every day of Billy’s leave after that. Now he wrote to her regularly from the Front, while she had just started to become worried. Usually she was never late. But she had missed her period altogether that January.
As for Sara, she would have given anything to miss, and heaven knew it was not for want of trying, for Dick was by turns tender, passionate, dominating, demanding and altogether the answer to her every sexual fantasy.
His one blind spot was her personal worry about his safety. He was such a good and confident pilot that she knew death in the air rarely crossed his mind. ‘It’s only as safe as you make it,’ was his watchword, ‘which means, you have to make it safe.’
When his orders finally came, he was bouncing with joy, but he grumbled about the fact he would be flying the DH-2 in France. ‘The German aeroplanes are streets ahead,’ he said on the day his posting came through. ‘Their Albatros is particularly good. The DH-2’s a sturdy little thing, nippy in the climb, and very stable in a dive; she’s light, stands punishment, but is no match for an Albatros.’
Sara’s heart sank, and she urged him to take care. ‘Don’t worry about that, my darling,’ he grinned. ‘The Farthings are known for their own particular sturdiness. We can take a lot of punishment, and we’re also very nippy on the turn and in a climb, or hadn’t you noticed?’
‘I’ve noticed you’ve only got one forward-firing gun, thank heaven,’ Sara grinned back wickedly.
‘Want to test it out in London?’ He put an arm around her. ‘I guess I should buy some of the new warm flying gear before I go to decimate the Hun flyers. We can do that, take in a show or two, have a grand time. Then you can come over to Hendon and see me off, eh?’
They did it all, saw Hetty King at the Hippodrome, ate more than was good for them, went to Gamages’ Aviation Department, where Dick bought a fur cuirass, and a new leather aviator’s coat, and made love with a concentrated passion whenever they could.
On the morning Dick left, Sara, with one other RFC wife, stood by the edge of the field at Hendon and saw him raise a gloved hand as the little DH-2 buzzed into the sky. To her, it looked very flimsy, but she stayed, with her eyes glued to the two aeroplanes, until he disappeared from sight.
&
nbsp; By the time Sara got back to Haversage it was the first week in March, and the rain had set in. All she wanted was to hide in her room and cry, but there were things to be done, and one met her the moment she got into the hall.
Vera Bolton stood waiting for her, asking for a word.
Sara sighed, and took her into The General’s study, asking her to sit down – she did not hold with this business of servants standing through interviews, and had a premonition this was not going to be easy. Like as not, Vera wanted to leave. Already many girls from local houses were going off to be with the men, riding motor cycles, driving ambulances: Dick even told her there were women tinkering with the aeroplanes at Hendon and Farnborough.
‘Well, Vera…?’ she began, then saw the maid was in tears. ‘What is it? Oh Vera, what’s wrong, my dear.’
Between sobs, it came out. ‘I can’t face me Mum, M’m. I just can’t face her. I’m in the family way.’
Then Sara had to forget her own grief and heartache. She had to be kind, considerate and sensible. The father was, undoubtedly, Billy Crook. ‘Does he love you, Vera?’
‘He said so, at the time M’m, but I gather they all do. He was my first ever. He said so every time; said how he loved me.’
‘And do you love him? that’s really more important.’
In a surprising gush of almost poetic speech, Vera said she loved him dearly, that Billy was her meat and drink, her sun and moon, the cobwebs on spring trees in the morning, and the shine on fresh apples. Sara had to bow her head to hide her smile, and reminded Vera that she was older than Billy.
‘I don’t see how that comes into it, not if you love someone.’
‘Well,’ Sara knew it was wrong to suggest it, but it might be necessary – ‘Have you seen Mrs Crook yet?’
‘No! Oh, my God, M’m. If I can’t face me own Ma, how d’you think I’d face Billy’s mum?’
‘I didn’t mean about telling her she would be a grandmother.’ Sara paused long enough for it to sink in.
Vera’s mouth opened into an elongated ‘O’. ‘Oooh! Oh no, M’m. No, I couldn’t do that!’
‘You want to have the baby, then. Very well. I’ll do my best to see if we can get Billy’s reaction. It won’t be easy, but I’ll try.’
‘If he’ll marry me, M’m.’
‘Billy’s an honourable boy. Yes, there’s a difference in ages, but I personally think you’d make a fine wife. I think he has to do the decent thing.’ As she said it, Sara realized how like a Railton she had become. Dick would have laughed to hear her say something like ‘do the decent thing’.
She saw Mrs Bolton first. It was the deft way in which Sara broke the news, and the plans she laid for Vera and Billy, that softened any blow.
‘Well, she’s been a wicked girl, no doubt, Lady Sara. I should tan her bottom for her…’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t do that. I mean she’s a grown woman, and in her condition…’
‘It’s only her condition that stops me, M’m. Spare the rod and spoil the child.’ Then she softened. ‘Our Vera? Who’d have thought it?’… and Mrs Bolton finally went off, smiling and ready to cluck, rather than tut, over her daughter.
She tried telephoning Giles, but Robertson said that Mrs Giles would not be home until later. So she sent for Martha Crook. She was much more calm, and less inclined to be shocked. ‘She’s a good girl, and I think Billy’d be a fool not to take her, if he’s spared. I’ll talk to her, and, if need be, look after her until the baby comes.’ She smiled to herself. ‘Well, I can’t really blame Billy. There was a letter from him today. He’s resting, out of the line, at the moment.’
Later in the evening, Sara telephoned Giles again. They exchanged courtesies, and she immediately sought his help in getting one of his War Office contacts to arrange some leave for Billy.
‘Even a week’ll do.’
‘I’ll try, my dear, but every man’s needed there at the moment. Things aren’t particularly bonny. If he’s out of the line, there’s a chance.’
As they were saying goodbye, Giles said he was sorry not to have been in earlier. ‘I had to be out with Malcolm.’
‘Malcolm? Malcolm’s with you?’
‘Nobody told you? You hadn’t heard? I’m sorry, Sara. Yes, he’s been in London with me for a month now. He’s better, but it’s been a tragic loss to him.’
‘What?… What’s been…?’
Again Giles apologized. ‘I can’t think why nobody’s told you. It’s Bridget. Malcolm’s come back to England. Bridget died in a terrible accident. A fire in their farmhouse. Razed to the ground, I fear. He’s been hard hit.’
Only much later did Sara discover that nobody had been told either of Bridget’s death, or Malcolm’s return, until that very day.
*
On the night Malcolm returned to Eccleston Square, the first cheery greeting quickly evaporated. Within a very short time, he was sitting in the Hide weeping over the horror at Glen Devil Farm, and the loss of his wife.
His father excelled himself in the role of comforter, giving orders for a bed to be warmed and broth to be made, and sending for a discreet doctor.
Only later was Malcolm able to tell him the full story of that night at Glen Devil, and his subsequent attempt to get to Dublin Castle which had failed, as he had spotted men he knew to be in the Brotherhood, set at vantage points.
He lived rough for a few days, allowing his appearance to become that of a tramp. Finally, he stowed away on the Kingstown boat. But by the time he had slipped off at Holyhead, his condition was that of a man who could trust nobody. He had walked, and hidden in railway freight vans, to get to London.
Giles was proud of him. It was exactly what he would have done.
The doctor said the young man was in a state of shock; needed rest, and building up. He should be treated gently. As it was, Malcolm slept for forty-eight hours. Then, his father sat on the edge of his bed, like he had done when Malcolm was a child, and talked to him, showing only kindness and concern.
‘I’m slowly disengaging myself from official activities,’ Giles said. ‘We can’t all live for ever…’
‘Oh, come, Papa, you’ve got a good few years left to you yet.’ So Giles hoped. With great luck he might even manage another twenty, into a very ripe old age. There were things he had to do, which could take him a long time. He had, first and foremost, to make his peace with the world, and for Giles making peace was not something that could be done easily. To make peace, he had to make guile.
He told his son that he would be safe in Eccleston Square, ‘Until you’re sufficiently recovered to talk to others. I’m going to give the servants their orders. Not a word about your return must get out yet. Nobody but your nephew, Ramillies, comes here, and he only keeps specific appointments. Until you’re ready, nobody else need know.’
And nobody did know, until much later.
When Malcolm was fully himself again, it was Giles who invited people to the house to speak to him – Vernon Kell was the first, because Giles knew Malcolm could, if he continued to work, end up under Kell’s jurisdiction. Then he had ‘Blinker’ Hall to dinner, springing Malcolm on him as a surprise.
Last, Basil Thomson was given a similar invitation, and, among them, all Malcolm’s knowledge was passed on. But, with collective information, they were all agreed ‘The Fisherman’ was still at large. Probably back in England.
As for an Irish uprising, it was Malcolm’s opinion that it would be put down with exceptional speed once the balloon went up.
*
Charles knew nothing of Malcolm’s return, even though he still worked close to Basil Thomson. It was one of Giles’ stipulations that no immediate family were to know until he was ready. So Charles went on as before, reporting to Kell, and doing as good a job as he could with Thomson.
It was not easy, for, as the weeks passed, it became more and more apparent that Mildred was a very sick woman. Her changes in mood were now more sudden, and even violent. In her lucid moments, M
ildred became concerned about herself, for the flashes of memory had returned with a vengeance. They usually came when she was in need of more laudanum. She was afraid of them, for they had become more than mere ‘flashes’, they were things she definitely recalled as having taken place.
As yet she could not fit the entire jigsaw into the chronology of her life. Yet, deep down, Mildred knew something had happened, at some unspecified time – something so loathsome that she did not really want to know about it.
The result was that she began to take more and more of the drug in order to forget, and push the ‘flashes’ deeper out of sight. Dr Fisher was delighted to supply her with measured quantities – at a price.
And Charles anguished at the situation to the extent that he finally told Kell at one of their regular meetings.
Vernon Kell was his usual good self, and suggested a doctor whom Charles could use. ‘I’ll make the introduction, and perhaps you can arrange something – an invitation to dinner, possibly. He’s an excellent man. In fact, I believe your uncle, Giles Railton, has used him.’
But before such a meeting could take place, Charles received another of the odd messages. This time it lay with the rest of the day’s post, on the silver tray.
It had been posted in London, and even the address was printed in the same manner as the previous message. In précis, the note reminded him of his child by Hanna Haas, and told him there were things he would very soon be required to do if the child was to remain alive, and if he wanted the whole business to remain confidential. On no account should he go to the authorities. There followed an address and time. He was to go to this place, following an exact formula, including the method of transport, and the route he should take. There, he would meet a contact called Brenner. He might recognize the contact, but he was not to show surprise, and he must use the name ‘Brenner’ at all times.
The time appointed was six-thirty the following evening. It was now the last week of March.
The place turned out to be a nondescript room in a part of London which Charles did not know well. Ladies of easy virtue approached him – and, if he was honest, tempted him – in the street near the house. He had a feeling, built from his now not inconsiderable experience, that people had watched him throughout the entire journey.