The Secret Generations (45 page)

Alexander Fiske, Charles learned, had been trained, after the normal manner of naval officers, at Dartmouth. There was no mention of his previous school on his record, though his service was without blemish.

Both parents were deceased, but the fact which interested Charles more than anything was the reason he was waiting for a new ship. His last had been
HMS
Bulwark
. Lieutenant Fiske had been lucky. He had gone on leave the morning of the explosion.

A shore patrol found his body, on 28 November 1914, half-hidden behind some oil drums. The scarf used to strangle him was his own.

The other information which Charles managed to cull in Portsmouth was that Fiske had few real friends. He also spoke German.

Charles was about to leave for Scotland when the message came through asking him to get in touch with his wife, and with a Mr Vernon.

Cautiously, over the telephone, Kell told him about Mary Anne. He also asked Charles if he would postpone his trip to Scotland. He should really see his wife before going further afield.

Mildred was oddly incoherent on the telephone. Her speech was slurred; and she seemed to flit from subject to subject like a gadfly. Obviously she was relieved that Mary Anne was safe,
but the conversation was interspersed with odd and jumpy questions. Where could she have been? Why had she gone back to Rouen? Last, and rather distressing, could Charles please bring home some of those nice acidic drops he sometimes bought? Mildred, it seemed, had a craving for the acidic drops and she went on about it at length, until the thread of her conversation became so tangled that she just stopped and laughed strangely. Alarmed, Charles took the first train back to London.

*

‘The Fisherman’ did not go out very much these days, but spent his time waiting for instructions. He already had the primary order – to find another target, and deal with it.

He had been involved in doing this up until the unfortunate affair at Invergordon. Fiske and Douthwaite had been bad enough, though he told himself they were both necessary. How else do you deal with people who had lost their nerve? Cecil Douthwaite did not have much nerve to start with. Alice MacGregor was different. He had been perfectly safe at her little boarding house. Nobody had asked questions, and he walked for miles, observing what vessels were anchored in Cromarty Firth. The right one would be there eventually, and he had all the papers, uniform, and other documents needed, together with the explosive, in a safe place.

Alice MacGregor had been lonely, and she liked him. She had proved that years ago. Safe as houses, he thought, until that night when everything went mad. Well, he could not return to Invergordon or Cromarty Firth for a while, so the only possible answer was to sit tight. If nothing happened by the end of March, he would go up North again.

The note came during the late afternoon, addressed to him, and marked, URGENT. BY HAND.

It was simple, and to the point. It said:

M6, WHO IS KNOWN TO YOU, IS LIKELY TO SPOIL ALL PRESENT ORDERS. SUGGEST YOU DEAL WITH
THE MATTER PERSONALLY. ST.

Appended to the letter was an address.
‘The Fisherman’ shaved, put on his heavy coat and hat, then took a white silk scarf from one of the drawers. He would purchase another tomorrow.

*

She thought the knock at the door could be Charles, so rushed to answer it.

‘
You?’ She smiled.

‘
You didn’t think I’d…’

‘
No. No, it’s not that. Walter said you might…’

‘
Time to talk seriously. Can I come in?’

‘
Of course.’ She opened the door for her visitor and then closed it.

Her back was turned for a moment, and that was when her
caller strangled her, there and then, in the hallway.

*

‘The Fisherman’ walked carefully round the building. He thought he smelled watchers, and he was right – two of them, concealed in the shadow of a doorway with a clear view of the entrance.

But there was nobody watching the tradesmen
’s door around the corner – not even from overlooking windows. ‘The Fisherman’ could always detect watchers, even hidden behind the darkest windows.

The only clues would be footprints in the heavy frost which sparkled on the pavements. They would be gone by morning.

Taking a small jemmy from his overcoat pocket he broke the lock on the tradesmen’s door. There were lights in the main hall, and the sound of conversation came from behind a door.

Quietly, he went up the stairs and knocked. Once. Nothing. He gave it a minute and knocked again. Still nothing. A third
time, before he slid the jemmy in. The door gave a sharp crack, like a rifle. He pushed gently, and the door stuck.

Then he saw her legs.

‘The Fisherman’ left quickly, quietly, knowing it was time to get out. Send a report and go up North again. Glasgow or Aberdeen perhaps.

*

Mildred looked strange around the eyes, but appeared to be better than he had seen her for some time.

They sat in the drawing room in Cheyne Walk, going through the scant information passed on via Vernon Kell and Giles.

‘I’m just relieved.’ It was the first sign that Mildred’s attitude had altered. ‘Will they allow her to stay in France?’

Charles said Mary Anne had asked for the posting to be ratified.
‘I gather she wrote a letter to the German, Buelow, at Christmas, telling him that she hoped to be posted back to Rouen and she’d let him know.’

Mildred gazed into the fire for a long time, and then changed the subject.
‘I’ll really have to see Dr Harcourt again. Tomorrow. I
must
see him tomorrow.’

Mildred appeared to be trembling. Then seemed to pull herself together.
‘Yes. Yes, I hope he can see me tomorrow.’

In the furthest corner
of her mind, Mildred was experiencing strange, vivid and disturbing pictures. They seemed very real to her, as though these were things that had happened only a few days ago. There were trees, and a very young boy. She lay on her back and could feel the boy’s breath on her lips. It was all she could do to stop herself crying out at the sudden pain between her thighs. Then she was back in the room hearing the knocking on the front door.

A maid came in to say that Major Kell and Mr Thomson wished to see Mr Railton.

‘I was just coming over to the office, Vernon,’ Charles began; then he saw the look on their faces.

They were surprisingly gentle about it.
‘We know, Charles,’ Basil Thomson told him. ‘Vernon didn’t know until an hour ago. But the Branch have been on to you from the moment you kept your first assignation with her. Technically I have to arrest you, under the Official Secrets Act, though I should imagine we’ll keep it in the family, eh, Vernon?’

Kell put a hand on his shoulder.
‘An enquiry, that’s all. We know you meant well but why didn’t you come to me, Charles?’

In some ways it was a relief. Charles expelled a deep breath.
‘Hasn’t she told you?’

He saw the flicker of mingled pain and embarrassment in Kell
’s eyes; but Basil Thomson answered, ‘She can’t tell us, old man. I’m sorry, but she’s dead. Strangled with a white silk scarf.’

*

On the first Wednesday of February, Monique, Giles’ special agent, now working closely with the
Sacré Coeur Ring
, was stopped, arrested, and questioned while passing through a patrol area from one part of Belgium to another.

The German officer insisted on a humiliating body search. They found nothing. Her papers were in order. There was no reason to hold her.

Monique had dreaded this possibility, and had therefore taken elementary precautions. She carried the information sewn carefully into the delicate embroidery of her silk open-legged French drawers.

Eventually, the embroidery was transferred onto paper, revealing a map which detailed the German defence system along the Somme area of their line. The map made it plain that already this was becoming an almost impregnable stretch within the five hundred miles of German fortifications. That fact made little difference to the planning and strategy of the generals.

*

They fed James three times a day. In the morning he would get two slices of bread with some kind of grease which passed for butter, and a cup of foul coffee. The middle meal never varied, except in texture
– a soup, sometimes watery, sometimes dotted with vegetables, one piece of bread, with a cup of water. In the evening it was usually a couple of potatoes still in their jackets. Occasionally there was a cabbage.

Once a week, they let him walk around a small courtyard. He saw nobody but the guards, and heard no other prisoners. The interrogation had stopped abruptly, and nobody appeared to be bothered with him. The cell was damp, smelling of mould, and the two blankets were no protection against the raw cold. James wondered if they were just going to shoot him out of hand. It was all too placid.

Just over two weeks passed before anything happened, and, even then, he did not realize how well they had lulled him. It began late one night after he had taken a more than usually thick bowl of soup. When he began to vomit James realized they had removed the bucket from his cell.

He shouted, and hammered on the door, but nobody came, and the vomiting grew worse. He did not, then, feel particularly unwell, just the unpleasant nausea, and finally the retching when his stomach was empty.

He hardly slept: the nausea swept over him in waves, while the tiny cell filled with the stench of vomit. At dawn he began to shout again, but the warders took no notice.

Breakfast was pushed through the flap in his door at the usual time. He cried out; but the sound of footsteps receded.

Weak, tired and hungry, now the vomiting had passed, James took a few sips of coffee, and began to eat the heel of bread. It tasted vaguely bitter. Half an hour later his bowel exploded in a scalding stream of diarrhoea. He was doubled up with the pain and wretched, for he had fouled himself.

The stench in the cell had become unbelievably vile, but there was still no sign of the guards. Food was pushed through regularly
– and left untouched.

Exhausted, still suffering from the liquidity of his bowels, James lay, helpless, on the bed.

By the next morning, he was convinced that he had been seriously ill, and, by some freak, his warders had not heard his cries.

‘
My God!’ The door had crashed open, the oath spluttering in German from a new face – a man who looked, and sounded, like a bullying drill sergeant. His hand was held over his mouth and nose. Behind him, two soldiers clutched handkerchiefs to their own noses.

‘
You foul, filthy pig!’ the drill sergeant screamed. ‘Your cell! I’ve never seen such disgusting behaviour. The Commandant will hear of this.’ And he was gone, the door clanging shut.

Half an hour later they were back, placing two buckets, a scrubbing brush, and a piece of rag just inside the door.
‘You will clean up this mess, and your clothes, prisoner. That is the Commandant’s order. Everything must be clean by six o’clock tonight.’

One bucket contained lukewarm water, the other a solution. Lysol, James thought. For his own protection against further disease he did the best with the inadequate materials, managing to get most of the excreta and vomit off the floor, but incapable of cleansing himself, his clothes caked with ordure.

The Commandant arrived, with the barking drill sergeant who screamed at James to get off the bed. He hardly had enough strength to move.

‘
It is not good enough,’ the Commandant declared. ‘See this prisoner is issued with clean clothes and given more materials to cleanse the cell. This is disgusting behaviour, even in a prisoner of such low morals as this man.’

They dragged James away. He was stripped and thrown into a scalding bath. Then two soldiers scrubbed him almost raw, using thick-bristled brushes and some kind of carbolic soap. When they returned him to the cell it had been well cleaned.

This time there was a bucket, and more food.

James was ravenous, and knew he must eat and drink to regain his strength. The night was uneventful, but the Commandant arrived the next morning.
‘It is better,’ he snapped. ‘But not yet quite right’ Turning to the drill sergeant he ordered that the prisoner should whitewash the cell.

His body was still raw from the scrubbing, and seemed touched by fire at every movement. They brought a bucket of whitewash and a brush. Slowly he set to work.

They fed him normally, and it took two days to complete the job. Then, life went on as before – for about a week.

Again, it began at night. Too late, he realized that the bucket had gone, and that the soup was thicker. Of course
– they were feeding him emetics and violent laxatives in the food.

The small hours were the worst, when he was violently sick again and again, his abdomen feeling as though steel nails were clawing within him.

This time the guards did not play games. He was too weak even to stand up when they came in and dragged him along the flagged passageway, throwing him into another bare, larger cell, where they systematically beat him.