Certain pages were copied, and backed up with original photographs. The extracts were chosen with care, for they all proved Casement to be a sexual deviant – an acknowledged homosexual. The documents were sent, it is again said, on Hall’s and Thomson’s instructions, under plain envelope, by messenger. They went to the most influential of those who lobbied for the Irishman’s life: to people who could be frightened off by being seen to support a homosexual – still a grave and revolting sin at that time. So, by guile, ‘Blinker’ Hall and Basil Thomson brought their man to his destiny: or so some say.
Any sympathy for Casement quite suddenly evaporated, and the Appeal was dismissed. He was hung on 3 August, the day Charles had arranged for the second attempt at getting Mildred to meet Dr Harris, who came to Cheyne Walk as ‘a colleague’.
*
Mildred was embarrassingly wild and excited, even flirting with Harris. During the meal, and later, Charles listened, noting the odd question dropped into the conversation by the doctor. As the evening progressed Mildred began to slip into a darker, more nervous mood. Her confidence appeared to dwindle, and at about ten-thirty in the evening, she excused herself and went to bed.
Harris remained silent for a few minutes, sipping his brandy.
‘She needs to be in hospital, old chap,’ he said at last. ‘It doesn’t require an expert to see that she’s an addict, probably morphine, and in an advanced state. You can’t just commit her, and we can’t even appeal to the medical man from whom she’s getting the stuff.’
‘What happens if…?’
‘If we do nothing? Charles, I’m sorry. She’s far gone. It’ll take a long time, with concentrated medical care, to bring her back to normal. It could be impossible. If we do nothing she’ll be dead within three months.’
*
Denise Grenot, under the name of Jacqueline Baune, boarded the tram at her usual stop, in Lanaken. For some time she had been doing the run about twice a week; there was great need for information about German reinforcements as the great battles along the Western Front plunged to and fro, winning or losing a couple of hundred yards here or there.
The Frankignoul network had done more than its fair share to provide accurate and regular intelligence reports, and they followed what was considered to be a foolproof system.
Two members of the organization always made the tram journey into Holland together, one carrying the information in the sole of a shoe or sewn into clothing, or by some other ingenious method; the other was the lookout. Today, Denise was watching an old Belgian called Paul who carried the latest figures on munitions trains.
Her job was to make certain that Paul got into Holland safely, and made the rendezvous with their contact in Maastricht. She had to be sure the carrier was not followed, then check that she had not been watched. After an hour or so, she would return, with a full shopping bag, to Belgium.
They reached the frontier post, and the German police came on board. It was usually a perfunctory search, yet somehow, today Denise detected tension. The Germans hardly looked at anything, or anybody. They appeared to take no notice of Paul, who carried a shopping bag which seemed to have been made of a hundred pieces of differently dyed leather, patched together over long winter evenings. Paul was well over seventy years of age, and looked frail.
This was an asset to them. Who would imagine an old fool like Paul would have the wit to smuggle information into Holland for onward communication?
Denise became concerned. The police still did nothing, but they were definitely loitering. The tram driver called to them, asking in a mixture of French and German how much longer they were going to be? One of the policemen shrugged and pretended to look under the seats.
She heard the car before she actually saw it, an open motor with a long bonnet: four men packed into the seats. They wore German uniforms and exploded from the car like a team of comic acrobats, but there was nothing amusing about these men.
One carried a rifle, the others were armed with pistols, and they came straight onto the tram, making a bee-line for Paul. He did not even protest as they dragged him away.
Nobody took any notice: there was already enough trouble in their lives. Best not to fuss. Look the other way.
The bell clanged, and the tram rattled forward towards Holland, and the Dutch border guards. The last Denise saw of Paul was one of the soldiers punching him as they pushed the old man into the car. She thought she glimpsed blood on his face.
Chapter Six
They moved James to an old castle, high, among rocks and fir trees, the walls clad with barbed wire, like some pernicious ivy. ‘It is not going to be play here,’ the Commanding Officer said. ‘We make you work for your living.’ The Commanding Officer was an elderly man with many tales of his long and gallant service in the cavalry.
James reckoned he was now somewhere in the Rhineland; he appeared to be the only prisoner in this old draughty castle; and he was still treated with respect. It confused him. Normally all he could expect was interrogation followed by a firing squad.
The Professor’s words kept returning: You have a special protection. Marie? he wondered. Had she used her influence to make certain that her cousin was kept apart from other prisoners; a secret prisoner, held against the day when the war ended? What then?
All he could do was keep some kind of faith. He recited Shakespeare; flew, in his mind; listened to Margaret Mary playing her piano in their nice little house. There were moments when he even thought he heard the children romping and laughing.
But here, they did not leave him for too long at a stretch. At the end of the first week James found himself confronted by an English-speaking stonemason for whom he was forced to act as labourer.
Some of the castle’s inner walls were in need of repair, and the stonemason instructed him in menial tasks – hauling great slabs of masonry, setting up primitive blocks and tackle.
In the evenings, he would dine with the Commandant, who, between his stories of the cavalry, duels and codes of honour, allowed news of the war’s progress to slip out – between the fruit and cheese, like an extra course.
James took it all with the proverbial pinch of salt – tales of huge French losses around Verdun, the bitter fighting on the Somme, and the decimation of the British armies.
‘At Verdun, the fighting continues day and night,’ the Commandant told him. ‘We shall win before Christmas.’
It was much later that James Railton discovered the truth: the horrific casualties, the desperate conditions of battle, and the problems experienced by army commanders short of supplies and men.
The year moved on. At least James was conscious of time passing, and a change in the seasons. Then, one night, he thought towards the end of August, the Commandant dropped separate pieces of old news. Both worried James, one was certainly accurate he considered.
First, according to the Commandant, Lord Kitchener himself had been killed, drowned when the ship carrying him had gone down. Second, back in May there had been a great naval battle. The Commandant said it was now Germany who ruled the waves.
*
Even the men and women in the towns, villages and cities of Britain could have been excused for thinking that Germany ruled the waves following the Battle of Jutland, earlier in the year; for the official communiqué issued by the government appeared to be weighted almost in favour of the enemy.
At Redhill, reading the report, Sara was plunged into gloom, telephoning Charlotte immediately.
‘I don’t see all that much of Andrew,’ Charlotte said tartly. ‘But, yes, it isn’t good; though he tells me the business was not as bad as painted.’
‘Have we really lost six cruisers and eight destroyers?’
Charlotte replied flatly that this was so. ‘I understand over six thousand men died.’
Andrew now worked between Room 40 and the War Room at the Admiralty, and even he was not to know the full extent of courage, brilliance, and failure which had played a part in the one major nava
l action of the war.
Only much later did they winkle out the truth about the Battle of Jutland.
It was true that the British losses were great, displaying weaknesses in armour and armament; but, by the beginning of June, the German fleet were once more bottled up in their ports, unable to move – as they had been since 1914. The Grand Fleet, in spite of its losses, had been ready for action again within a few weeks. The German High Seas Fleet would never be the same again.
Like so many officers engaged in battle from the comparative safety of War Rooms, or cipher tables, Andrew only learned of the full impact during the following months. Seldom at King Street any more, Andrew could be found usually either at the Admiralty or at the fair Miss Greatorex’s Mayfair flat. That he was now more sober and fully attuned to his duties became obvious to his superiors. Yet, any who could get close detected a deep unhappiness in the man.
Andrew’s current despair stemmed from a disenchantment with his way of life, and, in particular, his relationship with Grizelda Greatorex.
In the beginning, the attraction had been intense and purely physical. Andrew discovered a resurgence of his own virility, which, through the blows suffered within the family, had become non-existent. The failure had not been his alone, for both Andrew and Charlotte had, in their separate ways, failed to be of true comfort to each other during those gloomy days early in the war; locked in their own private griefs, they had failed to share. So, when opportunity presented itself, Andrew quickly learned tricks which only a younger girl could teach.
But the honeymoon was over. Charlotte, now fully apprised of the affair, took no action. The relationship between Andrew and Grizelda drifted. Andrew felt torn in two, loath to leave the delights of Miss Greatorex’s bed, yet filled with need for the more mature conversation and contact he had so valued in Charlotte.
The matter was resolved by an odd incident, which could have cost Andrew his entire future in the Royal Navy.
One evening in June, he took Grizelda to dinner at the Savoy. As she prattled on about the terrible shortage of food, the standard of servants, and the abysmal quality of current fashions, Andrew’s mind and gaze began to wander. Across the restaurant he spotted ‘Blinker’ Hall dining, deep in conversation with a man in civilian dress, whom he recognized as having seen, once or twice, in the Admiralty corridors.
Half to himself, he muttered, ‘I wonder who the hell he is?’
‘Who, darling?’ Grizelda stopped chattering, quickly glancing in the direction Andrew had been looking.
‘Naval officer. Captain, over there…’
‘You should know him, if he’s RN…’
‘I do. Not him. I work for him.’
‘So, that’s the legendary “Blinker” Hall, is it?’
‘How did you…’ He frowned, and she patted his hand. ‘You talk in your sleep, silly. No, Daddy told me about him. Who is it you don’t know?’
‘Fellow he’s with. Fellow in mufti’
‘Oh, him. That’s easy. He’s an American. Met him at a party. Something to do with the Embassy. I’ll ask Daddy for you.’
Andrew had forgotten what a garrulous creature Miss Greatorex could be.
On the next evening, in the middle of a long, dreary, story of some girl friend who had been wounded while driving an ambulance in France, Grizelda suddenly stopped. ‘That chap you asked about. I found out from Daddy. Name of Bell. Eddie Bell. They call him Ned Bell. Second Secretary at the American Embassy. Thick as thieves with Reggie Hall, Daddy says…’
‘Yes, Grizzle, you told me that…’
At ten-thirty the next morning, Commander Andrew Railton found himself in the DNI’s office. ‘Blinker’ Hall looked flushed, and Andrew was not asked to sit down. Then, the DNI addressed him formally.
‘Commander Railton, you are on intimate terms with a Miss Grizelda Greatorex?’
Andrew, still puzzled at the summons, said he was.
‘You also appear to be more than unduly interested in my private life.’ He blinked furiously.
‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t follow you.’
‘Don’t you indeed? Did you not ask Miss Greatorex specifically to find out the name of the man with whom I was dining at the Savoy the night before last?’
‘Not quite like that, sir, no.’
‘Not quite? Then how, Commander?’
Andrew struggled to find the right words. He was dining with Miss Greatorex at the Savoy, where he saw the DNI. ‘I think I said something idle, like, I wonder who that fellow is…’
‘You said, that fellow dining with the Director of Naval Intelligence, did you?’
‘Certainly not, sir. I may be foolish about some things, but not about security.’
‘Indeed.’ Hall sounded unconvinced. ‘You know this woman Greatorex’s father?’
‘No, sir, I’ve never had the pleasure…’
‘No pleasure, Commander. No pleasure at all, I can tell you. The man’s an out and out profiteer. Into all kinds of schemes in the City, and outside it. Buying up half the decent land in Surrey and Sussex. Talks about putting up what he calls bijou residences. Says he’ll make what he refers to as “a killing” after the war. No, Commander, it’s no pleasure, but he happens, by some grievous error on the part of the committee, to belong to my club. I stay away from the blighter, but he struck up conversation with me last night. Said his daughter had been asking after me, and out came this story – that one of my officers had been enquiring the name of the man with whom I was dining. His version – Greatorex’s version – is that you had specifically invited his daughter to find out Eddie Bell’s name. You deny that?’
‘Emphatically, sir.’
Hall blinked violently. ‘I accept your denial, Railton. Accept it completely. Fellow’s a bounder. Sit down.’
Like the passing of a spring squall, ‘Blinker’ Hall’s manner changed to one of almost avuncular friendliness. ‘Railton, when I heard all this, I took the trouble to make certain enquiries. Having a rough time at home, are you?’
‘Things haven’t been good, sir. No.’
‘Not my business, Railton, but I feel I must give you some advice. Keep away from the Greatorex gel. The map says, “There be dragons”.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Inside, Andrew boiled with fury at the way Grizelda had distorted the whole affair.
‘Tell you what,’ the DNI smiled. ‘Take a couple of days leave. Sort yourself out.’
‘Aye-aye, sir!’ Andrew saluted and left. Within an hour he had been to Grizelda’s flat, put a curt note on the tiny hall table together with his key, collected what clothes he had left there, and was on his way to King Street.
Charlotte wasn’t at home, so he made himself comfortable in the familiar surroundings. When she returned, Charlotte gave him a cursory look and headed for the stairs. He called after her.
‘Charlotte, I need to talk… We need to talk.’
She paused, a foot raised to the next stair, then half-turned. ‘We? Who are we? The Greatorex strumpet and yourself, Andrew?’
‘Grizzle… Grizelda has nothing to do with this…’
‘You’re joking, of course. She has everything to do with it.’
‘She is nothing; she was never anything… Never anything that mattered, Charlotte. Please, come down and talk. I want…’
‘You want? You? I can believe it, dear Andrew, because it’s always been what you want. Not what I wanted, or poor Rupert, or Caspar, or even Ramillies who hardly speaks now, like a creeping Jesus around the house.’ But she had started to descend and come towards him.
‘I want to change that’ His voice remained steady. ‘I want us to try… To try and make amends…’
She laughed in his face, close to him, and they began to argue, shout, brawl, until it was done.
‘Of course, I always knew he’d come back,’ Charlotte confided, on the telephone, to Sara later that evening. ‘We’re off to the Ritz tomorrow night, and a show. Quite like old times.’
*
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Caspar was concerned. First, that afternoon a batch of signals had come in from the War Office. From their contents, it looked as though at least one of their networks – Frankignoul – had been penetrated by the Germans, while the most recent signals from Sacré Coeur had the hallmark of indecision. He waited for most of the day, while C sent for ‘technicians’ as he liked to call them: experts in a dozen different fields, some of them with very shady backgrounds.
It was September, and Phoebe’s time would soon be up. ‘You look like the side of a house – Buck House,’ he laughed, returning home that night.
‘Oh, if only it was as pleasant carrying and pupping as it is in the getting,’ Phoebe sighed. ‘I shall forswear fucking when this is over.’
‘Stop talking like an idiot barmaid, Phoeb. We both know you’ll be at it like a rattlesnake soon as the quack says it’s feasible. It’s me, I know. Too damned attractive by half.’
Phoebe saw his attention suddenly wander. He was staring at the fire. ‘Cas, what’s wrong?’
A hundred things, he volunteered – no, a million things, and all on the secret side. She pestered, and finally he gave way: it was his brother, Ramillies, who worried him most. ‘Never seen him at our end of the street before. He’s thick with Grandpa, and I’ve got a lot of time for that old bugger, but my wretched little brother gives me the creeps. He was coming out of C’s office this morning, just as I got in. “Hallo Ram,” I say, trying to be bright, and all he does is give that bloody smirk, and tiptoe past my desk…’ He stopped speaking as Phoebe, who had been leaning against the chair, suddenly doubled up with a cry. ‘Phoeb? What the hell is it, Phoeb?’
‘Oh Christ, no!’ she gasped. ‘No, the little blighter’s trying to get out. Cas, Christ, the waters…’
He managed to get her into hospital, and she produced a baby boy six hours later. They called him Giles after Caspar’s grandfather. It was the first week of September.