Shadows of War (30 page)

That wasn’t so stupid. Other more obvious people that Freddie might have chosen to speak to could have been persuaded to keep quiet by Alston or his friends. But not Winston Churchill. After years out of office, he had been brought into Cabinet as First Lord of the Admiralty at the beginning of the war. He was by no means the most senior member of the government, but he was the noisiest and the most energetic. And the one least likely to be swayed by Alston.

‘Well?’ said Freddie.

‘Well what?’

‘Are you going to agree not to negotiate secretly with the German government? Will you rule out bringing in the Duke of Windsor as king?’

‘No, I bloody well won’t, Freddie. Don’t be such a damned idiot. This is much bigger than your scruples. This is history we are talking about.’

‘I know,’ said Freddie. ‘And that is why I shall speak to Winston tomorrow unless you give me the assurance I ask for.’

‘Bugger off, Freddie,’ Alston said, slamming his glass on the table. Usually good at controlling his temper, he was furious. He stormed out of the little library, grabbed his coat from the cloakroom and headed out into the night. Unusually, he had driven to Mayfair: he had dropped Constance off at her aunt’s house in Dulwich before meeting Freddie.

He sat behind the wheel and seethed. He couldn’t possibly abandon his whole strategy to please Freddie’s scruples. Alston told Freddie and everyone else that he wanted peace, but what he really wanted was an alliance with Germany. Germany represented the future: a modern, ordered, effective society whose citizens believed in their country and in its destiny. Britain too could be such a country, but only if radical changes were made to the British government, probably including the monarch. Ideally, Alston himself would have an important role in the new government. And this government would work with Nazi Germany, not against them. That meant talking to them. That meant the Duke of Windsor becoming king. It probably meant Lloyd George becoming Prime Minister. It meant speaking to people like Charles Bedaux, Otto Langebrück and Rib. Eventually even to Hitler. Freddie just didn’t understand that.

But Freddie wasn’t bluffing. He would go to see Churchill the following morning, and once he had done that it would all be over. Britain would be stuck in the war until it was finished, probably until the Germans invaded. And what was so damned patriotic about that?

Alston regretted not playing for time. He could have told Freddie he would think about it, given himself a week to work out what to do. Perhaps he should go back into the club and have another word.

There was a little light on the blacked-out London street from half a moon, enough to see a man step out of the club and walk along the lane thirty yards ahead of Alston’s car. Although Alston couldn’t see his face, he could recognize Freddie Copthorne’s thin frame and slightly stooped posture.

Now was his chance to jump out of the car and demand from Freddie a week to think about his ‘proposal’.

Or. Or he could do what Constance had done, what she would no doubt do at that very moment if she were the one sitting behind the wheel. Seize the initiative.

This was a war. The course of history was at stake. People were dying all over Europe for causes they believed were just.

Sir Henry Alston switched on the engine of his car and put his foot down hard on the accelerator, changing up into second gear ten yards before he hit Lord Copthorne from behind and sent him flying through the air into an unlit street lamp.

Kensington, London, 25 November

The family, or what was left of it, were at breakfast, and they were all well behaved. Charlotte’s presence was calming. She was two years younger than Conrad, married to a banker who had just joined the navy. She had brought her nine-month-old son Mattie with her, although he was asleep at that moment upstairs in the old nursery. Reggie seemed to have run out of idiotic opinions, at least temporarily, and Conrad resisted asking him why he wasn’t in uniform.

Conrad and his father were stiff and polite to each other. Conrad had repeated to him what he had told the rest of the family, that he was hopeful that the Dutch would release Millie’s body soon, but he couldn’t guarantee it, and that they didn’t know who had killed her. Conrad hadn’t yet had the opportunity to ask Oakford more about Constance, but he would wait until they could speak privately. Then he would be on his way back to Tidworth and soldiering.

In the middle of a general discussion about arrangements for Millie’s funeral, assuming they eventually got her body back, his father’s valet Williamson appeared with a letter addressed to Conrad. Conrad opened it. It was handwritten on Foreign Office notepaper and dated the day before. What he read shocked him.

Dear Mr de Lancey,

Major McCaigue has passed on to me the information you gave him this afternoon about your trip to Holland, and in particular the rumours you heard concerning the Duke of Windsor.

I urge you to return to your battalion forthwith and require you to desist from making any more enquiries on this subject. The matter is in hand.

Yours sincerely,

Robert Vansittart

No doubt Van was a busy man, but Conrad was offended by the abrupt tone. It was at least clear; Conrad was being told to shut up and look the other way. Which was all very well, but he had put his life at risk at Venlo for Van, and again in Leiden, although admittedly that was not at Van’s request. It was to serve his country, though.

McCaigue had clearly passed on what Conrad had told him, but, as the intelligence officer had expected, the reaction had been less than enthusiastic. When Van had said ‘The matter is in hand’, did that mean he was burying it? The tone of the note suggested he was.

‘What’s the matter, dear?’ enquired his mother anxiously. ‘Has someone else died?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Conrad. ‘It’s not that.’

‘Is it about Millie?’ Reggie asked.

‘It’s from Van, isn’t it?’ said Oakford.

Conrad glanced at his father and in an instant he could tell he knew what was in the letter.

‘Come into my study,’ Oakford said. ‘Would you excuse us?’

Conrad followed his father in silence up the stairs to the small room that served as Lord Oakford’s study. ‘Shut the door.’

Conrad shut the door.

‘Can I see it?’

Conrad handed the note to him. Oakford scanned it. ‘Well, that’s pretty clear, isn’t it?’

‘Theo told me that the Duke of Windsor is effectively spying for the Germans. That the Nazis want him to be king again. That’s what I told McCaigue and that’s what McCaigue told Van. Are they burying it?’

‘Van says here that they are going to look into it,’ said Oakford. ‘It’s a sensitive issue; I’m not surprised they don’t want you blundering around. And I doubt that they view Theo as a reliable source. Neither do I. He killed Millie, didn’t he?’

‘I don’t believe he did, Father,’ said Conrad. ‘And they are burying it. They don’t like what they are hearing and so they are ignoring it.’ He shook his head. ‘I would have thought better of Van.’

‘We had a visitor here a couple of days ago,’ said Lord Oakford. ‘A Captain Hobson-Hedges of the SIS. He asked me lots of questions about you. About your political beliefs. I told him honestly about your socialism, and your pacifism, but I said that you had never been a communist, as far as I was aware. They asked about poor Joachim, how close you were and whether we knew he was a Soviet spy. I told him you were cousins and you had been close, but I had no idea he was a spy. Was he?’

‘Probably,’ said Conrad. ‘At least according to the German secret service. Theo said so.’

‘You never told me that.’

‘I only found out after the Gestapo killed him. He was on leave from the German Embassy in Moscow, and he approached Theo last year just as I arrived in Berlin. Theo thinks that the reason he contacted him was to try to find out about the conspiracy against Hitler for the Russians. The Gestapo arrested him and he died in custody.’ Joachim had been a couple of years older than his cousin Conrad, and had introduced him to socialist ideas when he had stayed with the de Lanceys for a few months while Conrad was still at school. Conrad had liked his company. And listened to his political opinions.

Conrad remembered McCaigue’s warning about suspicions about him.

‘They think I’m a Russian spy?’

‘They suspect that.’

‘Who are “they”?’ asked Conrad. ‘Apart from being idiots.’

‘You never know who “they” are,’ said Lord Oakford. ‘The SIS. MI5. Special Branch. The important thing is they have almost persuaded Van. He telephoned me last night. I insisted you were no Russian spy, but I’m sure that is why he has warned you off.’

‘That’s ridiculous!’ said Conrad. ‘You know I’m not a spy, don’t you, Father? As far as I am concerned Stalin is almost as bad as Hitler. I told you how those Popular Army soldiers shot David and Harry in Spain. I’ve seen how Russian commissars corrupted the Republicans.’

‘I know,’ said Lord Oakford.

‘And even if I was a Russian spy, why would I make things up about the Duke of Windsor?’

Oakford shrugged.

‘What do you think I should do?’ Conrad asked his father.

‘Do as Van tells you,’ Oakford said. ‘And be grateful they haven’t arrested you.’

‘I almost wish they had,’ said Conrad. ‘Then I would be able to defend myself.’

‘This is wartime,’ said Oakford. ‘I wouldn’t count on your chances of a fair trial.’

‘All right,’ said Conrad. ‘But there is one other thing I learned in Holland that I should tell you.’ He explained van Gils’s doubts about Theo’s guilt, and what he had said about Constance and the knife that had killed Millie.

‘Who knows about Theo?’ Oakford said. ‘But you can forget about Constance. She is a young Englishwoman and a friend of a friend of mine. What would she have had against Millie? And you have seen how Holland is crawling with spies. My bet is that Millie was killed either by the Abwehr or the Gestapo. It’s the alternative that scares me most.’

‘What’s that?’

‘That it was the British,’ said Oakford.

Conrad remembered Theo’s speculation. ‘To put off unofficial peace talks?’

Oakford nodded. ‘I don’t
think
anyone in the British government would do that, but we can’t rule it out.’

Conrad closed his eyes. The idea of his own country killing his sister was too much to contemplate. He sighed. ‘You can’t trust spies, can you?’

Lord Oakford shook his head.

‘Well, I had better head back to my battalion,’ Conrad said. ‘Do what Sir Robert wants.’

He stood up. ‘Good luck,’ said Lord Oakford. ‘And – although it’s difficult in war – be careful.’

Thus spoke the man who had won a Victoria Cross and lost an arm in 1917 at Passchendaele while taking a German machine-gun post and turning the weapon on the enemy. He had not been careful then.

But it was the horror of that day that had turned Lord Oakford against war, and made him pledge that his own son would not have to repeat the experience.

‘Thank you,’ said Conrad. But he didn’t tell his father he was damned if he was going to be careful either.

Conrad headed to Waterloo for a train that was supposed to leave at 4.06 p.m. He had scribbled a quick note to Anneliese telling her he was going back to his battalion that day and asking her to keep him informed of anything she discovered about Constance. He warned her not to be too explicit in her letters and to assume his post would be read – with more attention than usual, he suspected.

At Waterloo Station he bumped into a face that was becoming too familiar. Major McCaigue.

‘What are you doing here?’ said Conrad. ‘Checking I actually get on the train?’

‘We need to have a little chat,’ said McCaigue.

‘It had better be quick then,’ said Conrad. ‘My train leaves in five minutes.’

‘Then you will have to get the next one. Come with me.’

Conrad wanted to tell him to sod off. For one thing he had no idea when the next train would be and how long it would take to make its way to Wiltshire. But he couldn’t just ignore McCaigue. He was curious what the spy had to say.

McCaigue led Conrad north towards the river, down a narrow alley between two warehouses. They emerged with a view of the Thames and the Houses of Parliament on the other side. The river was busy with boats, and a line of barrage balloons bobbed overhead. The long slender barrels of ack-ack guns could be seen along the banks, pointing skywards.

McCaigue leaned on some wooden railings overlooking the water. ‘I have two messages for you, an official one and an unofficial one. And it’s vital you remember which is which.’

‘All right,’ said Conrad, despite himself. It was strange how, for such a shady character, McCaigue’s rich warm voice, with its hint of Ulster, conveyed trustworthiness.

‘This is the official message I am required to give you,’ McCaigue said. ‘My employers have come to the conclusion that you are probably a spy for the Soviet Union. As a result they question the reliability of the information you provided me two days ago regarding the Duke of Windsor. We will attempt to verify it, but we remain sceptical. We suspect that it is a plot by Germany’s ally Russia to undermine the royal family.’

‘From what I can tell the royal family seems perfectly capable of undermining itself, or certainly the Duke of Windsor is. And I’m not a Soviet spy, Major McCaigue,’ said Conrad. ‘It’s absurd to think that I am. Do they believe Theo is a Russian spy as well?’

‘It’s a possibility they entertain,’ said McCaigue. ‘Both of you were socialists at Oxford. It would explain Hertenberg’s opposition to the Nazi regime. You both met your cousin Joachim Mühlendorf in Berlin last year.’

‘And what about Millie? Was she a Russian spy as well?’

‘It can’t be ruled out,’ said McCaigue.

‘Bollocks!’ said Conrad.

‘She was your sister,’ said McCaigue. ‘And you fought in Spain on the side of the communists. We have other evidence.’

‘What other evidence?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

‘So I am found guilty without even knowing the evidence against me?’