The More Deceived (9 page)

There was a pause. Churchill broke it by saying, ‘I apologize, Lord Edward. I am on what my wife calls my hobby-horse. May I offer you a drink?’

He ambled slowly across the room looking every bit of his sixty-two years of age. Edward thought that here was a defeated man, bowed down by his fears for the future of his country. But, when he turned round, he saw the energy in those eyes and the expression on that face, reminiscent of a bad-tempered baby, and changed his mind. This was a man who burned with determination and was fuelled by an inextinguishable sense of purpose.

‘Mr Churchill, you confirm my worst fears but why tell me all this? There is nothing I can do.’

‘Have you not been charged with disrupting my line of supply? I mean my sources of information.’

Edward opened his mouth to speak.

‘Do not deny it, Lord Edward. Let me tell you, these men who provide me with facts with which to chivy the government are patriots not traitors. I do not solicit information. I do not suborn hard-working civil servants to bring me the truth about our weaknesses. These men come to me of their own volition because they believe that I will listen when the government will not, preferring to bury its collective head in the proverbial sand. These patriots come to me from every department of state, from the armed forces, from industry and elsewhere. You cannot have any effect on this but it is very wrong of you to try.’

To be reprimanded in this way was a shock and Edward felt the blood leave his face. ‘I . . . I have no wish to . . .’ he stumbled.

Suddenly the formidable man who confronted him smiled and it was as if the storm clouds had parted and the sun had been revealed. ‘I do not doubt it, young man. I ask you to go away and find out the real traitors in government – and they do exist. That is how you should serve your country and you can tell Sir Robert I said so.’

They lunched in the airy dining-room, part of the new wing, just the two of them at a round table which might have sat eight or ten. They drank champagne – a bottle and a half – but the meal was simple enough – vegetable soup followed by roast chicken. The conversation – or rather Churchill’s conversation – was, however, rich. Almost as if he were talking to himself but not unaware of the effect he was having on his guest, he ranged over many topics from gardening to world politics. He was gloriously indiscreet and told stories about the Prime Minister and his colleagues which both horrified and amused. He told Edward that Baldwin was ‘on his last legs’ and that Mr Chamberlain would soon be at the head of a ‘National Coalition Government’ of which it was obvious he very much wanted to be a part.

They talked about the nature of patriotism and Churchill said that England’s ruling class was sound morally and, like Edward’s elder brother, prepared to die for their country but he complained that, though they could not be accused of treachery, they could be condemned for their stupidity. ‘They read
Blackwood’s Magazine
and thank God they’re not “brainy”,’ he said derisively. He shocked Edward by saying the ruling class was not totally wrong to think that Fascism was on its side. ‘Unless he is a Jew, the rich man has much less to fear from Fascism than Communism,’ he opined.

‘At least our rich are not bandits like the American millionaires,’ Edward offered and Churchill chuckled.

‘But will the next war be
lost
on the playing fields of Eton?’ he asked gravely. ‘If, by some miracle, we win the coming war it will be despite our ruling class not because of it. My complaint against Mr Baldwin is not that he is a bad man, because he is not a bad man. My complaint is that he has shown no leadership. He has chosen to represent the people and that is not sufficient.’

‘You mean that, because most people prefer to know nothing about what is happening in foreign countries, he should have made them aware of the threat Germany presents, whether they like it or not?’

‘Indeed. These good men are leading us to perdition because they have been terrified by the Nazis, like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car. They won’t accept that the Nazis have torn up the rule book. Vansittart knows this and he will tell you so. Those of us who fought in the war are not as frightened of having to fight again as those who did not. War is terrible but it is not the worst thing.’

After lunch they strolled down to the lake and Churchill took him to inspect a wall he was building in the kitchen garden and the Wendy house he was making for his daughter. He seemed prouder of his brick-laying skills than his writing.

Abruptly, Edward asked Churchill if he knew Charles Westmacott.

‘You mean is he one of my “sources”?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Churchill looked at him shrewdly. ‘You know I cannot comment on my sources, my boy.’

Edward took this as an admission that he did know Westmacott. ‘You see, sir, he works in the Foreign Office on matters connected with armaments. Or rather I should say he worked. He disappeared a week ago.’

‘I am sorry to hear that.’ Churchill paused and then said, ‘I don’t think I can tell you anything which would help but, if I do remember anything or hear anything, you have my word that I will tell you and I would be grateful if you would let me know when he reappears.’

Edward knew this was as much as he would get out of the old man but at least Churchill had not shut the door on him. His invitation to pass on to him any news of Westmacott was a useful hint that he might stay in touch.

They walked slowly back to the house and Edward felt happier than he had for a long time. He had been profoundly impressed by Churchill. Here was a man whom he could follow whatever his faults and, thereafter, he refused to hear him criticized or derided. As he drove back through the leafy lanes of Kent, Churchill’s parting words to him echoed in his head. ‘The bright day is done and we are for the dark.’

He went over in his mind what Churchill had told him about Britain’s unpreparedness to fight a war. Could Britain really be devastated from the air? Could London be turned into a blazing ruin within ten days? It was a nightmare but Edward was inclined to believe it was a nightmare that could become a reality. He remembered standing in Lord Weaver’s office at the top of the
New Gazette
building in Fleet Street gazing at the city below. Weaver, too, had spoken of a burning city. What should he do? Churchill had warned him not to interfere and even Ferguson had sounded doubtful about his mission. It came to him that he had no wish to harass Foreign Office officials passing information to Churchill. It would be different if secrets concerning Britain’s defences – or lack of them – were being sold to a foreign power but how could it harm the country to be roused from its apathy and face the terrible fate which was in store? It was not even as though the Foreign Office was Churchill’s sole or even principal source. Civil servants, members of the armed forces, trade unionists all saw him as the only major political figure who could sound the wake-up call.

By the time Edward reached Piccadilly and drew up outside Albany, he had decided he would concentrate on trying to locate Charles Westmacott. It was something tangible he could ‘get his teeth into’. Westmacott’s disappearance was causing his wife and family anguish. He had the image of the little girl in his mind. She was doing her best not to show what she was feeling but for a father to disappear . . . that was not easy to bear. Better to know the worst than to be left in some terrible limbo. He would not immediately tell Major Ferguson of his decision because, if he said he was no longer looking for leaks in the Foreign Office plumbing, he might not be allowed to pursue his search for Westmacott. He needed to talk to this man Lyall, Westmacott’s boss. He
must
know something.

The following morning at ten o’clock he was shown into a much less grand office than Vansittart’s on the third floor of the Foreign Office building. This room had no expansive views of St James’s Park and was by no means luxuriously furnished. There was a rank of filing cabinets in battleship grey, a depressed-looking aspidistra on the windowsill and two upright chairs of a Dickensian age and character forlornly standing in front of a battered-looking desk. The surface of the desk was hardly visible beneath files heaped high in metal trays, a cigarette box, two telephones and several photographs in frames. The etiolated, grey-faced man who now rose from behind the desk was long in the chin, with drooping eyelids which made it difficult to see the colour of his eyes. He had long tapering fingers, yellowed with nicotine, bare except for a signet ring. Edward noticed the ring bore the design of a fish or possibly a dolphin.

‘Cigarette, Lord Edward?’ Lyall said when they had shaken hands and sat down. ‘They are Turkish – Murad.’ Edward shook his head. ‘Oh well, I’ll have one. My wife used to say I smoked too much but . . . it was she who . . . who . . . but never mind.’ He peered at him. ‘Am I mistaken or have you a black eye?’

Edward explained the circumstances in which he had got his wound. Lyall barked a laugh and predictably suggested applying a raw steak to it. He had the distinct impression that Lyall was making a great effort to appear amiable. He supposed he must suspect that any man authorized by Sir Robert Vansittart to investigate his section was dangerous and had to be conciliated.

Edward asked bluntly why he thought Westmacott might have disappeared.

‘I wish I could help but your superior, Major Ferguson, has already asked me the same question. I told him all I knew, which is to say nothing at all.’

‘Yes, I have read Major Ferguson’s report but he thought you might perhaps have remembered something, as one does sometimes after the initial shock has passed. You must constantly be turning over in your mind where he might be. You must be very concerned.’

Lyall looked doubtful. Either he was not concerned or he knew perfectly well where Westmacott was. Edward could not decide.

‘No, I can’t think of anything . . . I’m sorry . . .’

Edward tried again. ‘What sort of man is Westmacott? He doesn’t sound the sort of chap who would disappear without leaving word.’

‘No, he was . . . is a sound man,’ Lyall admitted. ‘Very regular in his habits, very reliable.’

‘You said “was”. Do you have reason to believe he is dead?’

‘Did I say “was”? A slip of the tongue. I suppose I do think something . . . fairly serious must have happened to him.’

‘He was not suicidal?’

‘I have no idea. I do not know him well. He is a private man, you understand, and I am not inclined to socialize with junior staff.’

‘How junior is he? I am afraid I am rather in the dark about what this department is responsible for. Sir Robert said industrial intelligence but I am not sure I know what that means.’

Lyall hesitated, as if considering how much it was necessary to tell his inquisitor.

‘This section was set up three years ago to analyse and, if possible, control arms dealing in this country and find out as much as possible about the armaments trade in Europe. We have no legal powers to prevent arms dealers based in this country supplying “unfriendly” governments. We sell arms ourselves, as you well know, but we will only use intermediaries who play ball with us. We keep tabs on the more reputable dealers and they keep tabs on their rivals but there’s not much we can do except watch and make notes.’

‘I see. So much of your work is hush-hush? How dangerous is it for Westmacott? Might he have been abducted?’

‘It’s a possibility – a most alarming one – but it seems farfetched. He is privy to secrets, certainly, but I doubt he would have been worth . . . abducting, as you put it.’

Edward changed tack. ‘How much industrial espionage is there? I mean do companies like Vickers, say, have security problems?’

‘We try to warn British companies in the arms industry to keep their secrets secure. Espionage is rampant and I have no doubt the German government knows precisely what we are up to – which aircraft are being manufactured and at what rate and what engines are in development. As I say, we have a watching brief . . . that’s all.’

‘So you do not indulge in any spying yourself?’ Edward inquired genially.

Lyall looked at him with distaste. ‘Certainly not.’

‘Could Mr Westmacott have got hold of something that worried him about either our rearmament or Germany’s and tried to do something about it?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Lyall said stiffly. ‘If Westmacott had a problem, he would have come to me with it.’

Edward wondered what else he could ask. He was getting nowhere.

‘How big is this section, Mr Lyall? Had he any close friends in the department I ought to speak to?’

‘There are two other men in this section with different responsibilities, Mr McCloud and Mr Younger. You could certainly talk to them. Major Ferguson has already done so but concluded there was nothing that either of them could tell him. Of course, you may have better luck.’

The disdain in his voice was palpable but Edward ignored it. ‘And secretaries?’

‘There are two. Miss Williams and Miss Hawkins. I trust you will not upset them.’

‘Surely they must be upset already at Mr Westmacott’s disappearance?’

‘Indeed.’ Lyall stubbed out a half-smoked cigarette as if he wished he was stubbing out Edward. ‘If there is nothing else I can do for you . . . ? I have an inter-departmental meeting in ten minutes. Miss Hawkins will take you round the section.’

‘Thank you. One final thing – did Westmacott take out of the office the night he disappeared any files or letters he ought not to have done?’

‘He took two files, as I informed Major Ferguson, both on foreign arms dealers. You will have the details in his report.’

Edward felt rebuked. He nodded his head. ‘Neither very important, I gather?’

‘The press might have made a story out of them but, from the point of view of national security, the files contain nothing of great interest.’

‘You are sure those were the only files he took with him?’

Lyall looked irritated. ‘Miss Hawkins keeps a meticulous record of who has what file and nothing marked Secret may be taken out of the building without my express permission in writing.’