The Secret Generations (22 page)

There was a more disturbing aspect within the Grenot menage. Because of the rigid way in which Marcel ran their family life, a strange barrier of diffidence had grown between Marie and the two children – Paul and Denise.

The first oddity, reported
to Giles by Monique, was the announcement that Klaus von Hirsch had been retained for a second tour of duty at the German Embassy in Paris – an unusual circumstance in diplomatic and military circles.

Secondly, Marie continued to see the German officer long after the embargo on her work for the Intelligence Service: a fact known to Monique, and passed on to Giles, who was also aware that his daughter now saw the German under increasingly clandestine circumstances. He disregarded the signs. Danger to his beloved daughter was nothing compared to the prize of access to any German High Command moves concerning the Schlieffen War Plan. It is not likely that young von Hirsch had any inkling, at this time, that his mistress was passing information back to London, though the possibility can never be completely ruled out.

The realities of the situation were there from the start. True, she went to the first assignation in 1910 with eyes open, trying to regard it as duty for her country: the wound received on the field of battle. Yet no wound could have been more joyous or sweet than this, for Klaus injected new elements into lovemaking – things she had dreamed of, in feverish guilty moments.

He would recite poetry as they made love, bucking to the rhythm of the verses of comic songs; or take her suddenly, unexpectedly, against a wall, or across a table.

They would dress up to titillate each other; act out fantasies; and, most of all, they would laugh when performing the act – something quite alien to her previous experience.

During the first two years of their affair, and even later
– when she knew she was lost, and hopelessly in love – Marie stuck by her word with loyalty both to country and family; milking Klaus von Hirsch of all useful intelligence. Yet this in no way prohibited her enjoyment, or the eventual full flowering of her feelings.

By 1912, Marie was suffering agonies at the thought of her lover
’s imminent departure for Berlin; for it was in the spring of 1912 that von Hirsch was due to complete his tour of duty at the Embassy.

The couple had, by this time, become obsessively careful about their meetings; though they met two or three times a week, usually at an apartment which Klaus had rented under an assumed name, near the Tuileries Gardens.

So it turned out, on a bitterly cold afternoon in early March 1912, that Marie made her way, by a circuitous route, to the apartment. The freezing weather, combined with the bleakness of the trees against a muddy sky, seemed to reflect her private misery. This was to be their last meeting, and Marie, usually so resilient, seriously wondered if she would bear the parting.

On reaching their trysting-place, her hands were so cold that she had difficulty taking the key from her bag and turning it in the lock. Once inside the little set of three rooms, she leaned back against the door, immediately conscious of Klaus
’ presence. Invariably he arrived before her.

Seconds later, he appeared in
the doorway leading from the small sitting room to the bedroom. He was in his shirtsleeves, one shoulder propped against the jamb, a glass in his right hand which he raised, smiling at her over the rim.

‘
Welcome, Liebling.’ There was laughter in his voice. For a second, she was angry. How
could
he be happy on a day as sad and tearing as this?

‘
Klaus! It’s no time for laughter…’ her face crumpling.

He put down the glass, and walked to her.
‘Oh, but it is. It is a day for much laughter, and for love – even for champagne. A day for everything, my English Prude…’ He had called her ‘Prude’ since her reaction of sharp, mock-modesty to one of his more outrageous suggestions during their very first bout of lovemaking.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again as he enfolded her in a great bear hug.
‘I am
not
going,’ he whispered. ‘Not going back to Germany. Not going to Berlin. Not even on leave of absence. They have allowed me more time here in Paris. Another term of duty.’

At first she could hardly believe the reprieve. But he continued,
‘And I’ll tell you something else, Liebling. When I finally do go back to Berlin, I’m taking you with me.’

She protested the impossibility of this last suggestion; yet, by the end of the afternoon, Marie knew it would be just like that. When he left Paris, she was going to be with him. Nothing was more certain.

Later, Marie Grenot could recall at will everything that had happened during that March afternoon when her future was sealed. Often, in the weeks, months and years that followed, she saw again the rimed, clutching branches of the trees in the Tuileries Gardens glimpsed from the bedroom window. She would summon back the taste of the hot chestnuts, which Klaus went out to buy from a street vendor – their flavour rough and sweet against the dry champagne. She could almost bring back the particular feel of him, deep within her, as she lay on her side and he penetrated her from behind, his long hands cupped around her breasts, fingers and thumbs rolling hard on her nipples, stomach pressed against her buttocks as he recited some German nonsense about ‘the train going choo-choo-choo’ and ‘whistling in the tunnel’.

It was the detail of that day which she always remembered, especially later when the bad times came.

Before going home, Marie stood by the parlour windows, looking over the rooftops of Paris, the cold mist rising with chimney smoke, and the lights coming on across the city like a shower of sparks. The memory would stay with her until death.

*

During the next few weeks Marie Grenot battled with guilt, as she started to examine her father’s true motives for the first time. It began with the realization that it was her father who had manipulated her first meeting with Marcel Grenot. Together, her father and her uncle, The General, had overseen the flowering of that romance: guiding and manoeuvring them towards marriage. And why? The answer was clear now – so that she would be in Paris, and, therefore, of use to her father’s work. There had been no thought for her personal or lasting happiness. Together with Marcel Grenot, Marie was a chess piece in the secret diplomacy of nations.

Once she reached this conclusion, then the first germs of bitterness took root, flowering into plain malevolence. Her own father was responsible for what happened, and what would happen. Be it on his own head.

At home she became morose, biting and snapping at Marcel. Happiness could be found only with Klaus, whom she had also betrayed – using him as a source of intelligence. Marie’s confusion deepened. Yet the whole devious intrigue of a father using his daughter for diplomatic ends revolted her to the extent that, when the day of decision arrived, she had no qualms or second thoughts about going to Berlin with von Hirsch.

The day in question was hot. 31 July 1914.

Marie was well aware that the diplomatic attempts to avert war were losing ground, so was quite prepared to face what was to come. You could not live in the same house as Marcel without realizing the gravity of the situation. Also her father had been openly in touch from London. As Europe trudged inevitably towards doom, Marie faced her own prospects. Her son, Paul, was now – at the age of seventeen – an officer cadet, serving in the Fifth Army under General Lanrezac, an old friend of Marcel’s family. Denise, a year younger, was at home, school having finished for the summer. But Marie, now looking to her future, had long since kept a valise, packed with essentials, at the apartment near the Tuileries Gardens.

On that day, she was due to meet Klaus at three o
’clock in the afternoon, but the call came much earlier.

They used the safest possible method of contact
– personal notes, passed through a romantically inclined French housemaid working in the German Embassy. In turn, the girl gave them to her younger sister who always delivered them into Madame Grenot’s own hands, telling the servant who opened the door that the message was personal, and from Madame Grenot’s close friend, Madame Grise.

The housemaid
’s sister arrived on the Grenots’ doorstep just before ten in the morning. Marie left the house within the half-hour, going straight to the apartment.

There was little conversation.

‘Are you coming with me?’ Klaus asked.

‘
Of course – if that’s what you truly wish.’

‘
Yes, you know it’s what I wish. But Prude, you have to understand everything. It will not be easy in Berlin – particularly as we are not married, and your husband is who he is – let alone your father’s position in London. There will be war within a matter of days…’

‘
There is no hope?’

‘
I doubt it.’ He shook his head. She did not notice that, throughout this whole conversation, he never once looked her in the eyes. ‘There is to be an ultimatum to Belgium – to allow free passage of the Imperial Army, which can mean only one thing. At the Embassy the feeling is that Belgium will foolishly resist, and Great Britain will not stand idly by. You
must
understand what all this means.’

‘
I don’t care what it means, Klaus. I only want to be with you; to stay with you. When do we leave?’

‘
The Embassy has already begun to send staff back to Germany. I leave at noon: in an hour.’ There were two suitcases standing beside the door.

Marie walked straight to the bedroom to get her valise. In less than an hour they were at the Gare du Nord, which was stifling, crowded, and with the hint of calamity in the air. For a second, as they crossed the large concourse, Marie unaccountably thought of the
Titanic
disaster two years before, for in the babble and crush, there was despair.

Nobody questioned them as they boarded the noon express for Berlin. In turn, they did not notice the young woman who stood close as they reached the platform barrier
– close enough to see that they were both boarding the Berlin train.

As the engine gave its shrill, almost feminine, whistle, and pulled out of the station, Monique turned away, frowning as she hurried back to the rooms above the Bistro Abbeaux to get her message off to Giles Railton.

By the following morning, Marie was in Berlin, and the news had reached her husband who – hurt, angry and bitter –immediately forbade his children ever to speak of their mother again. This he did by telegram to Paul, and by word directly to a shaken and sobbing Denise, who – at Giles’ request – was being sent to London.

*

In the wider world events steamrollered towards Armageddon. As Klaus had predicted, Belgium failed to answer the German ultimatum, and on the morning of 4 August German troops entered Belgium.

The British Government responded with its own ultimatum
– that Germany should respect Belgian neutrality. This was due to expire at eleven that night – midnight in Berlin.

That afternoon Giles Railton was at the War Office, in a room he was allowed to use on a permanent basis, when he learned from the Royal Marine Captain, Maurice Hankey
– Secretary to the Committee of Imperial Defence – that the War Book had already been opened almost a week previously.

Before the day was out, Britain was at war, and Giles Railton did not return to Eccleston Square, to prepare for the journey to Dover to meet Denise Grenot, until the small hours of the morning.

Chapter Two

Barely ten days after the outbreak of war, a very tired Charles Railton looked out of a railway carriage window onto the flat, beautiful landscape of Norfolk.

Until that morning, Charles had no idea that he would be on the train to Norfolk. It wa
s the last place in which he expected to find himself. Yet nothing could have suited him better.

On the final day, when they all knew war to be inevitable, only hours away, Charles was called to Vernon Kell
’s office.

Kell had announced that it was time to take action, and, that very evening, Charles Railton was among the group of officers who visited the Caledonian Road shop to arrest a surprised Ernst.

As things turned out, Karl Ernst himself managed to persuade the Bow Street Magistrate to release him on what was a virtual technicality. But, by the time he stepped onto the street a free man, officers from the Branch had been at work sifting evidence from the shop. Ernst was immediately re-arrested, and was due to stand trial later in the year.

In the meantime, Charles spent much time with members of the Branch as they rounded up those people connected with the
‘Barber Shop Network’. Within the first twenty-four hours of war, twenty-one people were detained. Since then, both Railton and Kell had sat in on hours of interrogations.

Then, in the midst of this flurry of work, Charles was sent off to Norfolk.

He had gone into the office normally, having spent his first night at home for weeks, to find a message waiting for him. Vernon Kell wanted to see him urgently.

Kell
’s office was like a general’s tent in the midst of battle. ‘Odd and ticklish job for you,’ he began. ‘Probably nothing in it, but, as you’ll see, the request comes from a fairly important source.’ He unlocked a drawer and removed a piece of paper. ‘This is an edited copy, of course. One would not expect to get either the real, or the whole, thing. You haven’t even seen it, mind you – if you follow me. Mr Churchill came over late last night from the Admiralty. Now, this
has
to be treated in the strictest confidence.’

Charles
’ brow furrowed as he began to read. It was a letter from the young Mrs Churchill – a personal note to her husband, the First Lord.

Charles replaced the copy on the desk.
‘If I were Mr Churchill, I’d have had this round here almost before I’d finished reading it.’

Mrs Churchill was still on holiday with the two children, Diana and Randolph, at fashionable Cromer, on the Norfolk coast, and the note contained a serious warning. She had been told of a rumour, emanating from confidential sources, that a German plan was already in operation to kidnap her. The plot
– Kell said – had been revealed to Mrs Churchill by ‘a most trustworthy and well-informed person’.

‘
That’s what Winston told me; and I have to believe him. I pressed for more information, but he just repeated that the intelligence was almost one hundred per cent accurate, having come from this particular source…’

Charles reflected on the situation, thinking it all sounded a little like a William Le Queux novel. Then he asked Kell if he believed it to be a genuine threat to Mrs Churchill.

Kell grunted. ‘Let’s say that Winston believes it. He certainly did when he came to me last night.’

‘
And she believes it,’ Charles indicated the letter. ‘Believes it; has some details – kidnap by aeroplane: ransom being one of the Navy’s capital ships. And she is very brave.’ He quoted, verbatim, from part of the copy he had just read. ‘“I have no intention of allowing such villainy to succeed. You must not sacrifice the smallest or cheapest submarine, or even the oldest ship. If you gave in to the ransom I could never live with the unpopularity it would undoubtedly bring. If I die unransomed, then I shall die a heroine, and you will be hailed as a spartan…”’

‘
I think that’s the bit which rattled Winston, Kell gave a thin smile. ‘Anyway, he was quite clear. She is not to know that we’re keeping an eye on things. Thomson’s kindly put a couple of his lads down there, and I’m sending you, on a watching brief.’

‘
If you say so.’ Charles disguised his delight.

‘
I need someone I can trust. If we ignored this business, and something happened, there’d be the very devil to pay. I want you on the afternoon train to Cromer.’

Detective Inspector Brian Wood
– with whom Charles had already worked on the Ernst surveillance – was waiting at Cromer station.

‘
I somehow thought Mr Kell might send you, sir. I’ve only got DC Dobbs here, and we’ve been going it from the moment we arrived.’ He ushered Charles into a waiting cab, and indulged in small-talk until Charles had registered at the Queen’s Arms, an old and respectable public house with five bedrooms. At the southern tip of the town, on the Norwich road, overlooking the North Sea, it was an ideal headquarters, of which Charles approved.

‘
What d’you make of it?’ They were in Charles’ room, and Wood had opened the door, taking a seat where he could see along the passage, as a precaution against them being overheard.

Wood was a careful, well-trained officer, who seldom took chances, even with the simplest of jobs.
‘Hard to say. We arrived on the first train this morning, so we still need time. The Guv’nor got us out of bed at dawn. I’ve checked out the house where Mrs Churchill’s staying.
That’s
not an easy situation to start with: there’s three entrances to the place…’

‘
Just her and the children?’

Wood shook his head, ‘’
Fraid not. Mrs Churchill, the two children, her sister-in-law Lady Gwendeline Churchill – Lady Gwendeline Bertie as was – with her young lad John, two maids, a cook and a butler.’

Charles groaned,
‘And what’s the good news?’

‘
The staff are in the clear. The maids’re local, they go with the house, and have served the family before. The cook is Lady Gwendeline’s cook, and the butler’s another family retainer.’

‘
Local police?’

The DI grimaced.
‘Felt it best not to bother ’em yet, sir. Get settled in first.’

‘
Nothing suspicious, then?’

‘
I wouldn’t say that. No, sir. But I shouldn’t be surprised if we get ourselves arrested by the local law. There’s a positive spy mania going on hereabouts – or so they told me in the bar, with a lot of meaningful looks an’ all. We’re strangers, and strangers’re definitely treated with some caution. There are tales of lights flashing in the night, and the sound of aeroplanes low overhead.’

‘
Well, the terrain’s right for dropping in. Plenty of flat open spaces for landing near the town.’

Wood agreed, but seemed concerned as he said,
‘If this really is a problem, then you do realize we’re very shorthanded?’

‘
That’s nothing new. Your other man – Dobbs, is it? – has the Churchills under watch?’

Wood nodded, preoccupied. He was a tall, tough young man who looked as though he should be farming instead of being involved in police work
– a ruddy complexion and the hard hands of one who worked the land. ‘I wonder,’ almost to himself, ‘I wonder if we should talk to the local force? Have to get the Guv’nor’s say so, of course.’

‘
It’s essential to contain the knowledge. Heaven knows, this is a delicate one, but I think we should do something – without giving the facts, of course.’ It worried Charles that other people might have to be called in. You could never completely trust local police. They were good, efficient, knew the area in which they worked, yet this was sometimes a drawback in matters secret. Locals talked to locals. Inevitably the circle of confidence widened. ‘We’ll have to cook up some story, particularly if it becomes necessary to use them for surveillance.’

They agreed that nobody from outside should be brought in on watching the Churchill family itself.
‘That’s far too risky.’ Wood frowned. ‘Even if the three of us have to work around the clock. That part must be kept close as skin to flesh. I’ll telephone the Guv’nor and suggest a story. Knowing him, he’ll come up with something better.’

Within the hour, they were on the way to Cromer Police Station, with a concocted t
ale about anonymous letters concerning aeroplanes in the area, and lights seen signalling at night, leaving out any mention of a threat to the wife of the First Lord of the Admiralty.

Superintendent Dove
– a name which belied his nature – was already expecting them. ‘The Assistant Commissioner, Crime, telephoned me.’ He spoke of Basil Thomson whose duties included overseeing serious crime, naturalization, and the Convict Supervision Office, as well as the Branch. ‘Asked me to co-operate, which I shall if possible.’ He was a pompous, heavy man, with a walrus moustache and slightly protruding eyes. Now he glared at Charles, ‘Told you’re not one of us. An oddity, what?’

Charles coldly said that he did not follow the Superintendent.
‘Not in The Job. Not a police officer. An oddity, eh?’ Wood tried to come to Charles’ rescue. ‘Mr Rathbone holds a rank senior to your own, sir. But no, he’s not in The Job.’ – ‘The Job’ was the way most policemen spoke of their profession; Rathbone was Charles’ name ‘in the street’, as Vernon Kell would say.

‘
Like to know what I’ve got on my patch, actually.’ Dove’s eyes began to pop when Wood mentioned rank. ‘Don’t really hold with civilians messing around. Don’t know the ropes; unfamiliar with the form. Particularly important in a place like Cromer, where we entertain a large number of special people – foreign royalty; many titled folk. Have to take care, you understand.’

‘
I think you’ll find I’m
very
familiar with the form,’ Charles tried out the Railton charm.

‘
Have to see about that,’ Dove puffed. ‘I’ve got to co-operate, so I’d best know why you’re here.’

Charles took the lead.
‘The Branch, and my own department, work very closely…’ he began.

‘
Rather hear it from one of our own, I think.’

He could only presume that Dove did not really know how offensive he could be. Wood looked highly embarrassed.
‘Well sir,’ he took over, giving Charles a quick sideways look. ‘There is an emergency, and this is emergency business – wartime business…’

‘
Ah!’ Superintendent Dove gave a quick smile. ‘Don’t see why that should worry us too much. Whole thing’ll be over by Christmas. Had that from an unimpeachable authority.’

‘
With respect,’ Charles bit out the words one at a time, ‘whether this damned war is over by Christmas, or in twenty years’ time, is of little consequence. We are concerned, Superintendent Dove, with the possible nefarious activities of enemy aliens. Even the probable fact that German intelligence agents may well have already been landed on this part of the coast.’

Dove
’s eyes bulged to bursting point. ‘Here? On my coast? Most unlikely, I’d say.’

‘
We’ve had reports of signal lights flashing, and aeroplanes flying low at night, over this part of Norfolk.’ Charles turned and spotted a pair of stand chairs. Motioning to Wood, he spoke with all the command he could muster. ‘I think we’d better sit down, Superintendent, this could take time, and – having spoken to Basil Thomson already – I’m sure you must realize that we come here with a good deal of backing and authority.’

Once seated, he continued,
‘Now, Mr Dove, we need to know how many of these incidents have been reported to you, or your officers, since the declaration of war.’

‘
Well… well…’ Dove floundered. ‘I know there’ve been some, but it’s mostly rumour, or vivid imagination.’

‘
All reports
have
been followed up, I presume?’

‘
Lot of tittle-tattle goin’ on, of course. Lot of rumour. Spy mania and all that…’

‘
Spy mania or not,’ Charles raised his voice, ‘it is of national importance that all rumours and reports are checked. For every couple of hundred red herrings there may be one genuine article. If so, then the two hundred rumours have proved useful. Now, sir. All reports. All follow-ups.’

Dove muttered something about
‘…getting the officer concerned,’ rose from his desk, and stamped angrily to his office door.

Charles raised his eyebrows at Brian Wood, almost laughing aloud at this pompous comic opera policeman. They could hear him talking to the desk sergeant outside.
‘See if Detective Inspector Partridge is in and send him to me immediately. If not, locate him, and get him here double quick!’

‘
Doves? Partridges? Place is full of bloody birds,’ Charles whispered.

‘
Not of a feather I hope,’ Wood replied as Dove returned.

‘
Naturally you have my full co-operation,’ he was trying not to look concerned. ‘If any reports have not been followed up, I’ll want to know the reason why…’

‘
So will we.’ Charles maintained a gritty hostility. ‘And so will those whom we represent. As I’ve said…’ A tap on the door announced the arrival of Detective Inspector Partridge, a very different kind of man; whom Charles immediately recognized as professional, ambitious and careful. He proved to be a mine of information, and it soon became most apparent that Partridge got on with the work, filed the reports, and tried not to concern himself with the self-importance of his superior whom he, almost blatantly, regarded as a stupid and overbearing poltroon.