Ghosts of Engines Past (34 page)

I knew my visitor was important merely because he was my visitor. I was working in Bletchley Park, a place so secret that one could be shot just for knowing it existed. He was introduced to me as Lieutenant-Colonel Edwin, then we were left alone, unsupervised, in a secure hut. This surprised me even more. Nobody at Bletchley Park ever had unmonitored meetings with outsiders. He was in his thirties, dressed as a civilian, and was very well spoken.

“Madame, er, Professor Clermont, you're probably wondering why I'm here,” he began, but I waved him silent.

“You know who I am, and you got into Bletchley Park alive, so you must be very important,” I said. “You are probably a member of Prime Minister Churchill's War Cabinet.”

“Professor! How—”

“You are not here to ask about breaking German codes, because there are established channels for that. So, why
are
you here?”

He was a little taken aback, because even women like me were expected to show more deference to important men in those days.

“I was given your name by Dr R. V. Jones,” he said, but I cut him short again.

“Reginald, yes, he worked here in 1939. Lovely sense of humour and a very sharp mind. So, you are here about cryptography after all?”

“Er, no. You gave a guest lecture in Oxford, in 1931, and Dr Jones was in the audience. It was about the science of a German film,
The Woman in the Moon.
You did calculations to show that a real version of the cinema rocket could reach space.”

“I remember it well. Hermann Oberth and Willy Ley designed that rocket. It frightened the Nazis senseless because they thought German military secrets were being let out of the bag. They destroyed the model and withdrew the film, but it was too late by then. Suspicious behaviour, yes?”

“So really big rockets
are
possible?”

“Using liquid fuel motors, yes. Small models of such rockets have actually flown.”

“Small models. So they were only toys?”

“Toys, Colonel? Those toys were built in the 1920s and early 30s, and the Germans were doing some very advanced work back then. When the Nazis took over, all reports of rocket research in Germany ceased. Now it is 1943. What might they have done in ten years?”

“So they are probably ahead in rocketry?” he asked, frowning.

“A long way ahead.”

This appeared to be quite a shock for my visitor. He dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief, wrote something in his notebook, then looked up again.

“Who is the top British expert in rocketry?” he asked. “Where can I find him?”

“She
is sitting in front of you.”

“Oh. Well... what experiments have you done?”

“I have made several applications for funding, but all were refused. When some clown with
Sir
in front of his name suggested that I apply to Flash Gordon, I gave up.”

By now my visitor's face had lost all colour. In the field of rocketry, Britain had been caught with its collective trousers around its ankles.

“Professor Clermont, please accept my apologies,” he said, sounding very sincere. “Give me a week to speak to people. I'll get you a workshop, a team of engineers and scientists, and a very large budget to—”

Yet again I waved him silent.

“Colonel, I am developing electronic computational machines to break German military codes more quickly. That work is saving lives and winning battles as we speak. Do you really think Bletchley Park would let me go?”

My visitor had no answer to that. He was frowning as he made another note, and I suspected that a very important man with
Sir
in front of his name would be cleaning toilets and sweeping floors before the week was out.

“It seems I was lucky to be given even one hour of your time,” he said, resting his elbows on the table and rubbing his face in his hands. He glanced at his watch. “Well then, I had better put the remaining fifty-five minutes to good use. We have had intelligence reports that Germany is developing a very large missile. I ordered photo recognizance of the Baltic Coast, where the test flights were taking place. These photographs are the result.”

He handed me an envelope. The photographs were dated the twelfth and twenty-third of June, 1943, and upon both were circles drawn in black ink. I looked carefully at the blurred but sleek images within the circles.

“These are indeed rockets,” I said. “How big are they?”

“About forty feet long, and they are sitting on thirty ton trailers.”

I blinked in surprise. For me, the dimensions were astonishingly familiar.

“Then they can carry a ton of explosives about two hundred miles,” I replied at once.

The colonel gasped and stared at me with his mouth open. I smiled and nodded. He scribbled down my estimates.

“I was warned that your abilities with mental calculations are quite astonishing.”

“I calculated nothing.”

“Then how can you be so sure of the range and payload?”

“Because I have seen a similar
rocket.”

“What? You're joking! These photographs were taken at Peenemunde, one of Germany's most secret research stations.”

“The rocket I saw was in Yorkshire in 1899.”

Now the colonel smiled with relief and leaned back in his chair.

“So you really are joking,” he said.

“I was never more serious, Colonel. The rockets in these photographs are proven technology, and are very, very dangerous. You must bomb Peenemunde at once.”

His smile vanished, and he sat forward again.

“Peenemunde is six hundred miles across enemy territory, so we would have to use the whole of Bomber Command and destroy the place in a single surprise attack.”

“I know. Your losses could be enormous.”

“The evidence would have to be very convincing before I would recommend that.”

“I can give you detailed calculations and figures.”

“I have to convince the War Cabinet, Professor Clermont, so I'll need something simpler. You said such a rocket was built in Yorkshire, in 1899. Is there any evidence, like documents, plans, or equipment?”

“All of that is gone, Colonel, but I can tell you a story. My story should convince you, but it is highly personal. If you ever repeat it, I shall refuse to do any more work at Bletchley Park until you are put up against a wall and shot. My work here is valued very highly, especially by that nice Mr Churchill, so think carefully before answering. Have I made my terms clear?”

There was a very awkward silence during which we locked eyes. When it became evident that I was absolutely serious, he glanced down at his watch.

“I have fifty-two minutes left, Professor, and you have my pledge of absolute secrecy. Please begin.”

I am actually from Silesia, in Poland. My father was a socialist revolutionary, and believed in blowing up public monuments to make political statements to the German occupiers. The day that he managed to blow himself up with a shoddy bomb timer, I fled before the police came to investigate. I am very good at running away. After a few months of wandering through Europe I came to Britain, and forged myself some papers. I am also good with languages and accents, so I was quite convincing as Jane Smith, an unemployed schoolteacher.

For a time I worked in Oxford, privately tutoring boys with small brains and rich fathers, and I even dreamed of gaining a teaching position. Then I received a letter inviting me to a meeting at the local offices of Cripps and Costigan, a legal firm. At first I was frightened. Had the police tracked me down at last? Was I to be arrested as a dangerous revolutionary or illegal migrant? I had indeed been tracked down, but not by the police. The solicitors had been told to find a woman with a scientific background and a suspicious past. They found me. Then, as now, I was left alone with a strange man in a private room. He introduced himself as Lord Raslin, the owner of a railway engineering company, then he took a pistol from his pocket and placed it on the desk between us.

“Do not be alarmed Jane Smith, Marie Dobrinsky, or whoever else you call yourself,” he said calmly. “The gun will only be used if you ever repeat what I am about to tell you.”

“I understand threats and I am very good at keeping secrets,” I replied, and that was certainly true.

“Then down to business. My son Walter and I are not on the best of terms. He was in love with a beautiful commoner named Elizabeth, but I wanted him to marry a woman of our own class. He was very stubborn, but then it was discovered that Elizabeth was a thief. She had used her charms to get into our London house and steal jewelry. She was sent to prison, but she was a delicate little thing and she died there after a few months. Walter was devastated, but he agreed to marry Caroline, the girl I had chosen for him. All went well until the night of wedding reception. When his turn came to give a speech, he produced a letter from a solicitor and read it out. It contained proof that Elizabeth had been framed. A burglar had been shot and killed some days earlier. Jewelry stolen from my wife was found in his lodgings.”

“I can imagine the scene,” I said, trying to sound sympathetic.

“Whatever you can imagine, it was worse. Walter became quite hysterical, shouting his absolute and undying love for Elizabeth, and calling curses down upon those who had jailed her. Three of those at the reception were among the first dozen in line for the British throne, and the combined wealth of the rest could have bought Yorkshire. My family's reputation was now at stake, so once Walter had been restrained I stood up and used money to repair the damage to the dead girl's reputation, and impress everyone with my sorrow. I pledged to buy a country estate for her parents and siblings, had her reburied in our family mausoleum after a service in Westminster, and paid for full page obituaries in all the major newspapers.”

“Money always impresses me,” I said, “but then I have never had very much.”

“It did not impress Walter. He began to change for the worse, it was like watching that Stevenson novel about Dr Jeckyl and Mr Hyde come to life. From being a dreamy but brilliant scholar, Walter became violent, abrupt and very reckless. When he demanded the use of my steam engine factory in Yorkshire, I agreed, thinking that he wanted to distract himself with hard work. My condition was that he just do what was necessary to preserve the family name.”

“As in father a child?”

“That is putting indelicately, but yes. Walter is my only child, and my only chance for grandchildren. Instead he has embarked on some project to build a new type of steam train, and is working in absolute secrecy. It is costing vast amounts of money, and there has been a series of explosions that has taken five lives. I want you to find out what my son is doing. Is he just wasting my money, or is he building something real?”

At last I knew what I was wanted for, and I was somewhat pleased. Spies could make good money, even though the work was dangerous. Danger was nothing new for me, and money would be very welcome.

“Is he a difficult person to approach?” I asked.

“He is. I have sent several agents to Wallsford Downs disguised as workmen, but they were all unmasked, beaten, and put on the next train back to London. Now one of the housemaids has resigned, and you will be sent as her replacement. How familiar are you with steam engines?”

“The basic principle of most has not changed much in a hundred years. They still use pistons that are driven by steam pressure to turn wheels. A man named Parsons developed a steam turbine engine two years ago, and it is said to be vastly more efficient.”

“So, you are an even better choice than I thought. Walter has some scheme to mount a steam turbine in a locomotive. He claims it will deliver unbelievable power and efficiency, by burning paraffin with liquid air. Do you know of liquid air?”

“It is a popular term for liquid oxygen.”

“Walter has bought a factory in Doncaster with my money and is producing it there. He has split the production of his engine between the two factories, so that nobody can get an overview of what he is doing. Your task is to get that overview.”

“Nothing has been said about my payment,” I pointed out. “In my experience, a woman such as myself is often used for free then cast aside.”

Lord Raslin rang a bell, and one of the legal clerks came in with a green steel box. Within it were documents for an identity named Louise Clermont, a woman who I could have only been in my dreams. She was the daughter of a French schoolteacher, had won a series of scholarships, and had a degree from the Sorbonne. Some of the papers had been artificially aged, and had a grubby, dog-eared look. The stamps on them appeared to be real.

“You can be this woman,” said Lord Raslin.

“These papers, they are amazing.”

“You are the
only
woman who meets all my requirements, so I am willing to be generous. If you are foolish enough to be greedy, I shall destroy you.”

“You will also destroy me if I do not agree, I presume.”

Lord Raslin said nothing.

“Very well,” I sighed. “When do I start?”

“You leave for Wallsford Downs today. Have you ever worked as a cleaner?”

“Many times.”

“Good, so you know what to do and how to behave. I shall pay a visit to Wallsford Downs in a month, and you will tell me of what you have learned.”

“When can I have these papers?”

“When you have earned them.”

I arrived at Doncaster by train, but had to walk to Wallsford Downs. There was no regular train service, for the line to the manor and factory was private. The road followed the railway, and the line was as straight as a beam of light. I counted the sleepers as I walked, and found that it was precisely five miles from the Doncaster Liquid Air Works to the manor house. I was later told that the railway track continued for another ten miles, but went nowhere. Fifteen miles of absolutely straight, private track suggested that something very fast was being developed.

Walking to Wallsford Downs allowed me to get an impression of the place slowly. The manor house was Georgian Gothic Revival in style, and judging by the weathering it was about a century old. There was a scatter of cottages and a hostel for the workers beside the nearby factory, but I was given a small room in the manor house.