The Secret Generations (46 page)

Dazed, and almost unconscious, he was propped in a chair and the interrogators began.

What was his name?

Franke.

Wrong, a clout around the head which sent him reeling to the floor.

What was he doing with the Dimpling woman?

Nothing.

Wrong. A fist in his face.

They went on for hours, and finally he was dragged back to the cell. No food came for twenty-four hours.

Time stopped, but he reckoned it was about a week later when they came and took him along curved stone corridors, up steps and into what appeared to be the guards
’ and executive quarters. Four private soldiers, armed with rifles, escorted him out to a covered van. Inside, it was dark and smelled of sweat. The soldiers got up beside him, someone closed the doors, and the van began to move.

In all, the journey took two days. They stopped to eat, relieve themselves, and sleep.

During the journey he tried to recite the whole of
Hamlet
, getting to the end then beginning at Act One, Scene One again. He managed it five or six times, before they arrived.

They were in a courtyard, and it was snowing hard; boots crunched and slipped, for the snow appeared to lie on cobbles. Above them, walls rose; and the windows were mainly Norman. James tried to think of the areas of Prussia or Austria most likey to contain Norman castles in good condition.

The cell was larger, and high up in the building. Again, the walls were of solid stone blocks, but there was a natural dividing line formed by a high arch. This division separated living quarters from a sleeping area, and now he had a more comfortable bed, complete with clean pillows and blankets.

In the living quarters, a table and two chairs were bolted to the floor. For the first time in weeks he sat at the table to eat a reasonable meal
– some kind of tasty stew made of rabbit, onions, cloves and potatoes. He also had wine, and half a loaf of bread.

The interrogation began at dawn on the next day.

The first inquisitor was a short man, almost a caricature of a German: square-headed, with cropped hair, a scar down the right cheek. He wore a grey civilian suit, though everything else about him was military. James thought of him as Bullet Head. They were over old ground – what was his name? Why had he been in Berlin? Why Hetty Dimpling? Why Pastor Bittrich?

James replied to the questions, giving the same answers as before. When it came to awkward things like Major Stoerkel he denied anything incriminating. It was the Herr Major
’s idea that they should communicate in a clandestine way. He was simply looking for an English lady called Miss Brown who had married a German officer when she had lived in Paris. She also had been a good friend of his father’s. No, he could not think why the Herr Major wanted to make a secret out of it.

Why, then, had Frau Dimpling collected a letter from the Alexander-Platz Post Office: a letter meant for him? He could only think it was some kind of mistake.

‘Frau Dimpling has been shot as a spy.’

James showed no emotion, but shrugged and repeated he did not know a Frau Dimpling.

‘Perhaps you will be shot as a spy.’

James shrugged again, looking unconcerned.
‘That would be unjust,’ he said. He was essentially a good German, even though his family had lived in Switzerland.

At dawn the next morning,
they marched him into the courtyard, stood him against the wall, gave him a cigarette, let a Roman Catholic priest ask if he wanted to make his confession, then brought out a firing squad, who loaded their rifles and waited for the final order.

James felt very composed.

*

In London, Margaret Mary was feeding baby Sara Elizabeth when she heard the Chopin Sonata. Later, she was to say that it was as though someone was playing it in the next room; so much so that she went to see. The piano stood silent; nobody else was in the house
– except, she thought, James, who was very close to her.

She continued to feed the baby
– she liked to do these things herself whenever possible. At Redhill, or with other members of the family, she was forced to let nanny do everything, but she preferred to spend as much time as she could with both Donald and Young Sara – as the family called the infant, to distinguish her from Sara Farthing.

The piano stopped, but James was close to her all day, even when she went over to see Charlotte
– something Margaret Mary did once a week, in an attempt to help her sister-in-law.

Charlotte was improving, responding to her visits to Redhill, which Sara had insisted were maintained on a strict rota, winter and summer. She also enjoyed the long talks when other members of the family called on her at home. She was happy when, towards the end of January, for instance, Caspar announced that Phoebe was going to make her a grandmother.

‘I don’t really look old enough to be a grandmother, I know,’ she giggled to Margaret Mary. ‘But good old Caspar. One arm and one leg, but everything else intact.’

‘
And how does Andrew like the idea of being a Grandpapa?’ Margaret Mary asked. She was concerned about Andrew. To her, he was the classic fallen idol, the clay of his feet coming to light under pressure.

Charlotte made an uncertain motion with both hands.
‘He blubbed,’ she said, as though Andrew had done something disgusting. ‘Like a baby. It’s not the first time. A month or so back he came in, sat in his chair, and sobbed for a good hour. I tried to comfort him; asked him what was the matter…’

‘
Was he drunk?’

‘
Not more than usual. He kept saying that Rupert need not have been as he is, that it was all terrible. He kept repeating “Too late, Charlotte!”’

Though he was often either elated or moody with drink, Andrew was still able to do his job, and the past year had seen many changes. With the advent of
‘Blinker’ Hall, things had become frantic in Room 40. He expanded operations, and Room 40 soon became several rooms, while numerous new faces – many of them academics – were seen in the Admiralty Old Building.

Following the
Lusitania
disaster, a new drive and determination was apparent among those who listened, read, analysed, tracked, and deciphered at the Admiralty. Naval Intelligence had a reputation, under its new chief, which was second to none.

*

‘The job,’ Giles complained to Smith-Cumming, ‘is to give the military and the politicos something to work with.’

‘
We
are
providing as much intelligence as we can; “Blinker” appears to have the edge on us because the work is more immediate. Our problem is getting people to act – we’ve discussed it a thousand times.’

Caspar listened as they droned on, and, not for the first time, wondered if he
– minus one arm and one leg – was the only stable male left in the great Railton clan. He had no worries, lived a full and happy life with Phoebe, and had begun to enjoy his work with C. But, if the rumours were true, his uncle Charles was in trouble; his grandfather had become obsessive about the world of secrets, and, by the sound of it, new and dangerous ideologies as well. His own father veered sharply between downright maudlin pessimism and a false elation; Marie was off with a German lover in Berlin; James was missing on some escapade; and Aunt Mildred seemed to have gone dotty.

He came out of the reverie to hear his grandfather say that he had another useful recruit, and did White Lady
– their very successful Belgian network – or
Sacré Coeur
, need another courier? C said the more the merrier. ‘Then I’ve just the girl for you.’ Caspar was stunned to hear Giles Railton put forward his own granddaughter, Denise Grenot, Caspar’s cousin, as a serious candidate.

*

‘Tell me, Mrs Railton, these daydreams – flashes, you call them – are they to do with your childhood?’

Mildred looked across the desk and could not meet Dr Harcourt
’s eyes. ‘I remember them best after I’ve had the medicine. If they’re important you should allow me to take some of the medicine home, so I would have it to hand.’

Harcourt felt a small stab of concern, for he knew what Mildred Railton
’s plea really meant. He was a conscientious medical practitioner, who now found himself coping, almost daily, with mental problems brought on by worry, grief and the stress of war. Mildred Railton’s case had become increasingly interesting after her husband had revealed the story concerning her childhood.

He talked to many other do
ctors, and had studied the standard works, so knew that if he could relax Mildred to a point where she would respond to careful questions, there was a chance that she might reveal to herself the hidden secret of her childhood. Once the mind unlocked that traumatic knowledge she might be successfully brought back to normality.

The main problem was getting the w
oman to relax sufficiently, and finally Harcourt had taken the step of using mild doses of laudanum – just a couple of drops, taken in water – before he saw her. The results had, so far, been good.

The subconscious was obviously working hard, revealing some of her childhood trauma
– she spoke of leaves, moss under her, the face of a young boy, and occasional pains in the genital area. He was loath to give up treatment now, yet Mildred’s suggestion that she be given laudanum to take at home was a clear indication of dependence.

They talked for a further half-hour. She was certainly a happier woman than the on
e who had first come to his consulting rooms, and as a doctor he knew he would be able to wean her off the drug once her mind was clear again.

At the end of the session,
Dr Harcourt gave her a prescription for one dose. It would take her through the following day, Thursday, and he would be seeing her again on Friday.

Chapter Two

They did not blindfold James,
but allowed him to stand, smoking a last cigarette. He centred his thoughts on Margaret Mary. He could hear her playing a
gigue
. Bach, he thought.

He noticed the soldiers looked frightened, and very young. The officer shook his hand and stepped back. James stood to attention. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the officer unsheath his sword. He heard the first order, then there was a scuffle and a runner came hurrying up to the officer. In seconds, the squad was marched away and James found himself being hustled back into the building.

They brought him coffee. Then the inquisitor came in. James thought of him, almost immediately, as ‘The Professor’. He wore a crumpled suit, needed a haircut, perched steel-rimmed spectacles on the end of his nose, and appeared unfamiliar with his duties.

‘
The Professor’ said his name was Einster, and insisted on shaking hands. He started to leaf through a heavy file, as though he could not find his place. When he finally spoke it was as if he was reading from the file, but he looked up at James, smiling happily.

‘
Yes. You’re James Railton. Your father and mother are deceased – I am sorry about that; I think I once met your father in London, some years ago. He married a second time. Now, what was her name? Anna? Hanna? …’

James shook his head. His name was Franke. It was all in the record.

But ‘The Professor’ raised his head, giving the same, pleasant smile. ‘Of course, her name’s Sara isn’t it? She has been married again, I gather, to an American. Now Lieutenant Railton, I’d like to talk about a number of things, and, if you play the game, you will not have to go through the somewhat harsh and final realities of which you had a preliminary taste this morning.’

They went on like this for almost two weeks, James denying he knew anyone called Railton, and
‘The Professor’ nodding, taking no notice as he recited a litany of Railtons, their follies, foibles, strengths and weaknesses.

He knew it all, down to Uncle Giles
’ real position at the Foreign Office. In the end, James just refused to comment, or corroborate.

*

Everyone tried to be helpful to Charles. ‘We understand about the strain, old chap, but it was a deuced silly thing to do,’ Kell said. Giles did not see him or speak to him again for some time, but he had several visits from Basil Thomson who wanted to know many things.

The bulk of their first conversations, which all took place in Thomson
’s office at Scotland Yard, was about ‘The Fisherman’, and the work Charles had already done on the case.

He was taken to the Yard by car, and always returned directly to Cheyne Walk. A plainclothes officer stayed outside the front of the house, another was stationed at the rear. These watchdogs remained in place around the clock.

After four days, Kell came to see him again. They wanted to keep it in the family, he repeated, by which he meant within a small circle of people at MI5 and the Branch. ‘There
will
have to be an enquiry, and I can’t promise anything. The worst will be dismissal, the best a severe reprimand. Personally I’d like to keep you on, Charles. I shall do my best. Get yourself well represented. And try not to give
everything
to Thomson.’

‘
Everything about what?’ Charles felt numb. He was not sleeping, and his mind roved around the reasons for him being so foolish. He knew the true motivation, but it all seemed so trivial. ‘Everything about what?’ he repeated.

‘This “Fisherman” business. Try to keep some of it back. I’d like us to have a crack at the rogue. Basil’s put Wood on it; friend of yours, isn’t he?’

‘
If Wood’s looking into the murders it won’t be worth while my trying to hide anything. Damned good man, Brian Wood; he’ll get all I found, and more besides.’

Kell looked downcast, then said Wood had already come up with something.

‘Oh?’

‘
The girl. Drew. Haas. Call her what you will…’

Charles waited.

‘Wood doesn’t think she was killed by the same person as the others. Something about the way the scarf was knotted.’

A tiny portion of the puzzle fell into place.
‘Is that why Thomson’s been questioning me, and going through my movements again and again? I’m a suspect?’

Vernon Kell appeared embarrassed,
‘Well, it has been mentioned – not seriously, of course. You really are in the clear, but you know what policemen are like.’

‘
It’s ludicrous.’

‘
Yes. Yes, I know.’

‘
What about the knot?’

Kell failed to meet his eyes.
‘Fiske, Douthwaite, and the MacGregor woman were all found with the scarf tied very professionally behind the left ear. I don’t know which particular knot was used…’

‘
Baden Powell will tell you, he knows the bloody knots backwards, always trying to teach them to his damned Scouts.’

‘
You wanted to know.’ Kell gave a humourless laugh. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘
The Drew girl… Well, the scarf was just pulled very tight at the back of her neck, and tied in what we used to call a Granny.’

After dinner, Mildred talked a lot, and none of it made much sense. She went on and on about her childhood, her father and mother, the future, and the course of the war. Mildred had not been told about the current trouble in which Charles found himself, and she did not appear to have noticed
the plainclothes men.

The next day they drove Charles to the Yard again, and went through everything. It took a long time, and, towards the day
’s end, Kell saw him alone to say that the Court of Enquiry was set for the following week.

‘
I can suggest a good man to represent you, and, of course, it’ll be a private matter, in camera, but do you want Mildred to be told?’

‘
I think not, why should she be bothered?’

‘
Just in case.’

‘
In case the Branch decide to take me off and do me for murder?’

‘
I really don’t think that’ll happen, but…’

‘
No’ Charles was firm. ‘No, I don’t want Mildred told, and I hope nobody else in the family – apart from my Uncle Giles – is going to get details of this.’

‘
Mary Anne?’ Kell raised an eyebrow.

‘
No!’ He had not thought much about Mary Anne since it all happened. That night, Charles found himself going over the night she had left Cheyne Walk. How had she managed? And how had she got herself back to Rouen?

*

When Mary Anne ran from Cheyne Walk, in tears, on that July evening in 1915, she had no idea where to go, or what to do. She took the old nut-brown Gladstone, filled only with essentials. There were six pounds and eighteen shillings in her purse, an inordinate amount of money, but she had been paid in cash only the week before. She did have her bank book to hand though, so was unlikely to go short.

She found a taxi cab in Beaufort Street and asked the cabbie to take her to King Street. Half way there, she changed her mind. It was foolish to run off to relations. Her answer was to get out of London quickly. She was angry with her mother, and sorry at the same time. Mama, she thought, must be somehow deranged. It was not surprising. The world had gone
crazy; the horror of what she had already seen and experienced had undoubtedly made her into a harder person; but her Mama had never undergone hardship, in spite of her favourite cliché, ‘Oh, Mary Anne, life is very hard.’

She told the cabbie to take her to Euston Railway Station. Dora Elliott should still be on leave, there had been a letter only the day before, wishing her luck
– late – for the Court Martial ordeal. Nobody else had seen it.

There were detachments of troops at the station, and the place was crowded with people. She bought a single ticket to Liverpool, and found she had two hours to wait.

There were more delays, and it was not until six the following morning that Mary Anne arrived, armed only with Dora’s address.

In the end her confidence, and heart, failed her. The cab driver gave her an odd look when she asked for the address, and when, near the docks, he began to slow down in the narrow street with the little terraced houses crowding in one on the other, doors opening straight out onto the pavement. Mary Anne told herself that she could not possibly impose upon Dora or her family.

Only then, with a shock, did Mary Anne remember Dora’s words on their first day at the Clearing Station.
I’ve never been a lady in my life… living in a Liverpool hovel with seven brothers and sisters… Papa… home drunk of a Saturday night… virtually rape your elder sister…

‘
Sorry, driver,’ she swallowed, ‘I’ve changed my mind. Could you take me back to Lime Street Station. The hotel.’

He shrugged, and the cab drew away.

She felt disgusted with herself. On reflection, Dora had become more than just an acquaintance during the last weeks in France. She was always bright, very intelligent and fun – treated as an equal by all men and women, including Mary Anne. Nobody ever thought of Dora’s background. Dora was simply Dora. As she registered at the hotel, under the name Edwards, out of caution, Mary Anne argued that it would not have been fair to bother Dora at this time in the morning.

At two o
’clock that afternoon, she took another cab, making the cabbie stop on the corner of the street so that she could walk the hundred yards or so to Dora’s drab front door. There were grubby children playing on the pavement and some of the doors were open, spilling an unpleasant odour of stale food and unwashed bodies into the close air. Women and men lounged in doorways. One man whistled at her, another made a clicking sound with his tongue.

The woman who answered her knock
– dressed in black, a tattered shawl around her shoulders – had the look of defeat in face and eyes, and the smell of flesh unused to soap and water.

She was thin, with a pointe
d nose and untidy, greasy, greying hair. The tired eyes were wary and loaded with suspicion.

They stood looking at one another for several seconds before Mary Anne asked to see Dora Elliott. Vaguely she was aware of a small child clinging to the woman
’s skirt, and of others in the dark bowels of the room behind the front door.

The woman did not reply, simply turning her head to shout, almost too loudly for her frail body,
‘Our Dora! There’s a lady to see yer.’

It was with a certain amount of relief that Mary Anne saw Dora
’s face come poking out of the gloom behind the woman’s shoulder.

‘
Railton!’ she gave a little gasp. ‘What the bloody hell’re you doing here?’

‘
Came to see you, Dora. I need help. I…’

‘
Oh Jesus, Joseph and Mary. You can’t come in here, it’s crawling with kids, and Da’ll be back soon. Wait,’ and she was gone, the woman still standing blocking the doorway, her eyes warning Mary Anne that she could not cross the threshold.

A few seconds later, Dora appeared in her coat, took Mary Anne
’s arm and propelled her away from the house and down the street, keeping up a running monologue. ‘You idiot, Railton, a girl like you coming down here. It’s safer on the Western Front. If you live here, you’re born to it, but a stranger, well, you could have been robbed, set upon, or… Oh, Christ, I was going to say or worse, but you’ve had “or worse”. This is about the roughest part of the city…’

‘
I’ve managed in rough places before…’

‘
Rough places? Yes, the Deux Bateaux in Rouen when the soldiers are a bit tiddly, that’s about the roughest you’ve seen, my girl. You haven’t been brought up to it, and if Da’ got back and took a fancy to you… Well, Railton, I’d have had to clobber him with a frying pan. I’ve spent the best part of my leave trying to get the place clean and hygienic. You’ve no idea; where’re you staying and what’s wrong?’

They went back to Mary Anne
’s hotel, and over tea she told the whole story to Dora who turned out to be completely unsympathetic. ‘Oh Lord, Railton, you upper crust people’ll be the death of me. You manage to get yourself almost murdered, but when your Ma behaves like a stupid cow all you do is run away. You’re pathetic. You honestly don’t know what life’s about, do you?’ She threw up her hands, almost knocking over the tea service and causing the waitresses to look down their noses.

‘
I can’t be responsible for the whole bloody world, Railton. Anyway, I’m off tomorrow – to stay with my Auntie in the country for the rest of my leave.’ She looked up, smiling. ‘You come as well. You’ll like my Auntie, lives in a little village near West Kirby. Cottage, roses round the door, the sea almost up to the front garden, and a husband who can’t be called to Kitchener’s New Army because he works the shrimp boats. Fresh eggs, butter and milk, fresh air, and only the dicky birds to wake you in the morning. You’ll feel better for a week there.’ She gave her cheekiest grin, ‘and there are some nice boys in the village – or there were. I ’spect they’re all in France by now. You be ready. Half past eight. Platform three. I’ll meet you.’