“And who is that man?”
“The portly little fellow with his cigar out there. Oh, they always cast the prophets aside. ‘Go forth into the wilderness and into the barren desert, get out of our sight so we can pretend everything in our garden is rosy.’ But what they don’t know is that he’s not waiting for them. Mark my words, his time will come, but in the meantime, he is not a man to twiddle his thumbs until permission to act is sent down from on high.” Otterburn waved his whiskey glass towards the door. He was not drunk, Maisie could see that, but he was on fire. “And so help me, I will do everything in my power to provide whatever he needs to do the job before him.”
“Tell me what you mean, John.” Maisie leaned forward, towards Otterburn.
He shook his head, as if not believing what he was about to say. “For a start, Herr Hitler, darling of too many of our so-called aristocracy, is a warmonger. I—we—Churchill and a few others—believe that his intention is to move into Europe and across the Channel. He is a man with a hunger for power and for revenge; it’s so deep it has eaten his soul. Yet we are a country in no mood for another conflict. The war seemed to take our spirit, along with a generation of young men. We may have been the victors, but we are still half comatose in our corner; we’re spent, unable to summon the will for another fight. Just two months ago, the Oxford Union carried the debate ‘That this House will in no circumstances fight for its King and Country.’ Everyone just wants to get on with their lives; they take what they have—what little they have, in most cases—and they are just going on from day to day. And they think their politicians will save them. But they won’t, because they have limited vision. So, we have to change the national mood. We have to inspire the people to take pride in their country, to have something here.” He pressed his hand to his chest. “They have to believe there is something worth protecting, worth fighting for. And they have to understand that there is a true and genuine foe on the horizon.”
Maisie was on the edge of her seat. “And you’re doing that through your newspapers, aren’t you? Those articles about Britain, about our historical greatness. About the Empire—Canada, especially, I’ve noticed.”
“Very good, Miss Dobbs. But that’s just the beginning. Novels, poems, travel guides, books of recipes—we can get people thinking again through all sorts of reading matter. And not overtly; it doesn’t have to be a story of us and them, of the Hun and the brave Tommy. No, we approach it with more subtlety, with the very best of our authors penning work that will first touch the spirit of the nation, then the ego. We have to inspire every man, woman, and child, or we will have those same Storm Troopers throwing their weight around on our high streets, marching us into the ground.”
Maisie felt the bile rise in her throat, but forced herself to speak. “And what about the aircraft? I don’t quite understa—”
“The prophet can see far into the future, Maisie. War will come to Britain’s shores, but mark my words, it will also come in the air. We were bombed in the last war, and we’ll be bombed again. Under the terms of the peace treaty, Germany is restricted with regard to the expansion of its airpower, but we have information to suggest that there are a number of flying schools being founded to promote taking to the air as a sort of recreation for young men. Do you know what that means? It means that at the snap of a finger there will be an air force ready to go into action. They don’t need to be in uniform, they just need to know how to fly. And while our government, in its wisdom, is being pressed to increase our bombing capability by our Prime Minister, there is a wide-open loophole in what will one day be seen as a crucial prong of defense—the ability to take on the enemy in the air, before he reaches our shores. We saw it in the last war, and we will see it again. But at this moment, Britain has almost nothing, and Britain will have nothing unless plans are on the table for powerful, nimble, and, above all, deadly aircraft, ready to go into production. So my point is—why wait? I am a man of connections, I can get the machine going, and Winston and I, if we have people like James Compton—” He stopped speaking, his lips trembling, as if there were much, much more to say. “But never mind,” he added. “I daresay you can now see the bigger picture.”
“Yes, I can,” she answered, her voice barely above a whisper. “And I confess, though it causes me great pain, Mr. Otterburn, I can see how events might well unfold as you have described, but I hope to God they don’t.”
“And so do I. In heaven’s name, so do I.”
Chapter Fifteen
Such was the chatter when Maisie joined the other guests in the drawing room that only one person noticed her entrance or her drawn expression. James excused himself from a conversation and, taking her by the elbow, led her to a quiet place by the grand piano that graced a corner of the room.
“Is everything all right, Maisie?” He kept his voice low.
She looked at him. “You know what’s been happening, don’t you? About Otterburn’s plans?”
He shrugged. “Not as much as you might think. I know about the aircraft designs because John asked me to look at them early on. I flew in the war, Maisie, but since that day I told you about, being taken up over the prairie, I’ve been up a few times on my own, and I’ve taken an interest in aircraft design, and the way the business is growing—I’ve even invested in a couple of companies. Otterburn knew this, and took me into his confidence. I should have told you.”
“No, you shouldn’t. You’ve no obligation to tell me about your business, any more than I have an obligation to tell you about mine. But I want to know if you had any idea, while I was working on the Eddie Pettit case, that it was Otterburn’s word that led to the deaths of two men.”
James looked around, to see if anyone was within earshot of their conversation. “No, I didn’t. I promise you. In fact, from information I’ve since gleaned, those men were never meant to die, but simply warned.”
“Simply? Simply warned? And what sort of violence would be used in the simple warning—eh, James? I don’t know how you can use the word simply as if you were talking about bumping your motor car into another. ‘I simply came round the corner, he was simply there, and I simply didn’t mean to bump him, honestly, constable.’ James, we’re talking about human beings.”
James sighed. “I know. I chose the wrong words. Seems to be my stock-in-trade. Look, I can’t condone what happened. But I can understand the need to keep this aircraft business under wraps, though of course I can’t support taking such violent steps to do so.” He sighed. “As you might have gathered, I’ve asked a few of my own questions in the past several days, and in John’s defense, his instruction was to ensure the men kept quiet—for a start, the newspaperman was a troublemaker, Maisie. I’ve since read his articles. They were very well written, but his intention seemed to be to upset the applecart at every opportunity. As a writer he was something of an anarchist.” He glanced around again to ensure that no one could hear them. His voice was just above a whisper. “And he had his sights on John ever since he’d been sacked from one of the newspapers, mainly due to his underhanded methods of reporting—and John has so many businesses to run, he didn’t even know him.” He took a deep breath. “Maisie, I am not aware of the ways in which John Otterburn keeps knowledge of his work secure, but it’s clear the information this reporter gathered simply could not be allowed to reach a wider audience. The ability of our country to be impenetrable to invasion depends upon the highest levels of secrecy.” He paused. “In any case, regarding Pettit, perhaps you should ask why the man whose hand is stained with blood went so far.”
“He’s dead. An apparent suicide.”
“That should tell you everything you need to know, shouldn’t it?”
“But it doesn’t, James. It doesn’t. Which means I’m going to have to use my imagination.” She ran her fingers across the piano keys, the light touch barely sounding a note. “You know you said you wanted to go to Canada to be a farmer. That wasn’t quite the truth, was it?”
James c
olored. “No, not quite. Well, it is—was—but it’s moved on from there. Very recently, in fact.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
He looked around the room. “Yes. But not here.” He put his arm around her. “Do you want to stay, Maisie?”
She shook her head. “Let’s leave tomorrow morning, first thing. Let’s go down to Chelstone and stay at The Dower House. If we stop on the way tomorrow, I can telephone Mrs. Bromley to let her know we’ll be there for a couple of days. I suppose eyebrows will be raised all around, but I am past caring. You can go for a hack out on your stallion in the afternoon.”
“Will you ride with me?”
“You know, I might. Let’s see.” She pulled away and took his hand. “But I must know the truth, James. I’ve not yet decided whether those two men—Otterburn and his so-called prophet, Mr. Churchill—are truly the visionaries they think they are, or if they’re men who would bring war to our shores simply by being ready for it. It’s like a boxer putting on his gloves long before the fight, and punching the air. Someone might walk in unexpectedly, end up with a black eye, and just have to hit back.”
They lingered for a while longer, moving back into the room to speak to a businessman and his wife, who were known to James. They were joined by other guests and were soon able to draw away from the party. Before they left, they informed their hostess that they would be departing after breakfast the following morning. They gave no reason, and no reason was sought, though regrets at the early end to the sojourn were voiced by both parties.
Maisie felt lighter as they approached Chelstone. They had come down to the dining room before other guests appeared and, wanting to be on their way as soon as possible, had taken only a cup of tea before departing Box Hill. The sky seemed almost transparent in its morning newness, and the green undulating landscape bore the sheen of nighttime dew. They had stopped at a telephone kiosk in Sevenoaks, where Maisie placed a call to The Dower House, and informed Mrs. Bromley that they would be arriving soon, probably within the hour.
Maisie was relieved, at last, to enter the house, with shafts of sunlight beaming through the windows.
“Oh, I am so glad to be here,” said Maisie.
“And so am I,” said James.
“May we have some coffee, Mrs. Bromley? We’ll be in the conservatory.” She turned to James. “I know why it was Maurice’s favorite place—one feels so much calmer looking out across the land.”
James followed Maisie into the conservatory, which was already warm. She sat down in an armchair and kicked off her shoes; James took the chair next to hers. They sat in comfortable silence; there was no need to speak, yet. Maisie wanted to sit with her recollections of the previous evening, and she wanted to weigh up what she now knew with what she might learn from James. While she had not been surprised by anything revealed by John Otterburn, she had been sickened while listening to him outline his predictions. She might have already felt Europe beginning to slide, as if it were a heavy lorry caught in ice on a hill, but it was different when she heard Otterburn lay out what he—and clearly many others—predicted would be an inevitable conflict. It was as if in outlining what might come to pass, he was lifting the lid on Pandora’s box. And she was numb with fear.
Mrs. Bromley bustled in, bearing a tray with coffee and croissants.
“I know you’ve probably had breakfast, but I thought you’d like a bite to eat. I learned to make these on account of Dr. Blanche—loved his morning croissant, he did, and I must say, I miss making them. I must have known you’d come today, because as soon as I got up this morning, early, I set to making the pastry and letting it rise. I think even a Frenchman might be fooled after eating my croissants. There’s homemade jam there, too.”
“Oh, smashing, Mrs. Bromley. If you’re not careful, I will have to steal you, simply to get my hands on a plate of these every day.” James picked up a croissant, smeared a thick layer of strawberry jam across the pastry, and dipped it in his coffee before taking a bite. “This is as good as anything I’ve ever had in Paris,” he said, wiping crumbs from the side of his mouth.
Mrs. Bromley blushed. “There’s more where they came from, if you’re that hungry.”
“We might well polish off the lot—thank you, Mrs. Bromley, that was so thoughtful of you.” Maisie tore half a croissant and dipped it in her coffee.
The housekeeper left the room, leaving Maisie and James alone once more. After a few moments had passed, Maisie spoke again.
“James, it’s time to talk. Tell me what Otterburn has asked of you.”
James did not answer immediately, instead gazing out towards woodland where he had played as a boy. Then he began.
“I’ve come to know John Otterburn quite well over the past months. I suppose I didn’t let on how well, because I was still thinking about the way he very quickly seemed to get the measure of me—or of someone he believes me to be, I suppose. It was as if, once he’d made a decision about who I was, he went into action, and that came in the form of a proposition. No, that’s not right—it was rather like being in the flying corps; you’re given the opportunity to take on an exciting assignment, but one that comes with higher risks. Even though you’re asked if you want to do it, you know you’re not at liberty to turn it down; the request is really a command. That’s how it felt.”
A woolen wrap had been left across the back of Maisie’s chair, and she pulled it around her.
“He took me into his confidence, and he showed me the plans,” said James. “Churchill had been in the room at one point, but left with two other men; I’ve since felt he left at that point so that he wouldn’t be implicated in the conversation that was to follow. Anyway, I looked at the plans, and asked how they were ever going to build such aircraft, and test them, all without word getting out. I was told that the parts would be built in different locations to very tight specifications. They would then be shipped to Canada, again separately, at staggered intervals, and through several ports of entry in both the United States and Canada. They would be assembled there, and then testing would begin. There’s a lot of wide-open space in places like Alberta and Saskatchewan, Maisie, where you never see a soul, and you could conduct flying trials with little risk of being discovered.”
She looked at him, burning to ask a question, but he saw her eyes, and answered without her having to say a word.
“Yes, I would be doing a lot of the flying. I know it’s a gamble—it’s a new design. But there are two other younger aviators—Otterburn’s son and, believe it or not, his daughter. They’re eighteen and twenty, respectively. They’re the ideal people to test the aircraft, and they would never tell a soul, given who their father is. I’ve met them both, informally, at the house, and frankly, I’ve heard that the daughter, Elaine, is the better aviator of the two.” He stopped, as if gathering his thoughts. “They have all the reflexes of youth on their side, and to be perfectly honest, they’re the right age—it’s the younger men who will fly those planes if there’s war, not older chaps like me.”
“Oh my God.” Maisie rested her head in her hands.
James came to her, knelt down alongside her chair and put his arms around her. “I know. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I lied.”
She shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s just the thought of it happening again. I can’t get it all out of my head. I just can’t get rid of it, and now there you all are, making these plans for when war comes—not even if, but when. Otterburn is planning for when. I know he’s to be lauded for his foresight, and that he’s taking steps to ensure our country is not left standing on the wrong foot if the worst happens, though I can’t help but feel we’re all just pawns in a game.”
“War’s like that, Maisie, as we both know only too well.”
They sat together in this way for some time, with James holding Maisie in his arms. Then James spoke once more.
“And I have to tell you, too, that there’s something else Otterburn wants of me, though I pray that time wil
l never come.”
Maisie looked at him; she was becoming settled, yet her eyes betrayed her sadness.
“He believes that if another war is waged in Europe, our success will depend upon an alliance with America. The average man and woman over there would be as against war as most of Britain, and John has predicted that no president of the United States will allow his country to be dragged into another scuffle on the other side of the Atlantic. If at any point war seems inevitable—and I mean in the very near future, which, thank God, doesn’t seem so at the moment—he intends to begin his system of under-the-wire propaganda in America, and he has asked me if I would go there, perhaps take up temporary residence, along with a few other British subjects of his choosing. Our remit would be to socialize, to do business with Americans in the centers of influence—Washington, New York, places like that. It would be a job of persuasion, of pulling public opinion in our direction, from the top down. And we would in turn provide information to Otterburn—his idea is that we would be mixing with politicians, an ideal position in which to garner intelligence informally. You’d be surprised what people will tell you if they like you, and they’ve had a drink. The whole plan would make the leap smoother for the power brokers over there—from looking on while Europe burns, to helping Britain, should Herr Hitler’s reach grow unchecked. Maisie, I don’t know if John Otterburn told you this, but there’s already evidence to suggest Germany is building munitions again at an alarming rate. If the unthinkable happens, with Otterburn’s plan we stand a good chance of having our American cousins on our side sooner rather than later, along with their military might.”