To Love a Traitor (4 page)

Chapter Four

It being a Saturday, the summons was to Sir Arthur’s town house in Belgravia. The wind was brisk, but pale winter sunlight gleamed off the frontage of the white, stuccoed terrace as Roger strolled along to number twenty-two. Upon knocking, he was admitted by a manservant of the correct but nondescript variety and shown into a pleasant drawing room that looked out onto the square.

He was somewhat surprised to find Miss Pendleton sitting in an armchair by the window, wearing a pale grey woollen dress and reading a novel by D.H. Lawrence. She looked up and smiled at his entrance. “Mr. Cottingham, excellent. How is the new job going?”

“Ah—very well, thank you. I trust you’re well, Miss Pendleton?”

“Never better. Sir Arthur’s in his study, which is through the far door. You can go straight in.” She looked back down at her book, effectively ending the conversation. It was probably just as well—Roger had been about to blurt out some comment about her employer’s unreasonable demands on her time. If, however, as Roger was beginning to suspect, she were here in a purely personal capacity, it might have seemed rather impertinent.

He therefore just nodded to the top of her head and went through to the study.

Roger supposed he had expected a miniature of Sir Arthur’s weekday office, but in fact the study was in marked contrast to the opulence he’d seen at the bank. The furniture was clearly of good quality—and just as clearly had received a great deal of use. The desk showed old and new scratches through layers of diligently applied polish, and the books on the shelf were arranged without thought for appearance, merely convenience. Or at least, so Roger conjectured from the fact that the ones whose spines were in worst repair were those closest to where Sir Arthur sat.

There was a photograph of Lady Walmesley, and another of their son, standing on the desk, a poignant reminder of what the war had cost Sir Arthur. The largish window, however, gave the study a more cheerful aspect as, like that of the drawing room, it looked onto the square. All in all, the place gave the impression of being intended to remind the occupant that when one was at home, there were more important things than work.

“You’re probably aware there was no suspicion of foul play at the time,” Sir Arthur said, getting straight down to business after they’d exchanged greetings. “It was all just put down to the luck of the draw. The report of the incident just gives the bald facts. Although there was one interesting thing about it. Which I imagine you already know about, hm?”

Roger flushed under the force of that single-eyed gaze. “I didn’t want to prejudice your views by telling you things that were, well, just hearsay. After all this time, memories can be faulty—Lord knows the men were half-dead at the time from the constant shelling and lack of sleep. One can forgive them for getting a few details mixed up.” God, he sounded pompous, patronising men who were far braver than he. “But you mean the men who went on that last patrol with Hugh, don’t you?”

“I do indeed. Tell me what you heard from your young lady friend, and I’ll tell you if it fits what I’ve found out.”

“Well, according to Mabel, some of the reports were contradictory, but there was talk of one man—a Lieutenant Matthew Connaught—who had had a stroke of luck not being caught up in it all. He’d been supposed to be going with them—no one seemed to know why—but the night before, he got a bullet in the leg. It was put down to enemy fire, but, well, I find that a little hard to believe.” Roger shrugged. “Granted I was never in the trenches, but it seems to me the angle’s all wrong. Perhaps if he’d poked his head above the parapet and a sniper had taken an ear off, but a leg?”

“You think it sounds fishy, don’t you?” Sir Arthur’s good eye had the disconcerting quality of seeming to see right through Roger, while giving away in return no more than did his glass one. “Sort of thing a man might do to himself if he fancied sitting that one out, hm? After all, it was only a minor injury. Didn’t put him out of active service for long—just long enough to avoid the patrol. And of course, after that one ended in disaster, daytime patrols were rather discouraged. No point simply throwing men away. Not until one has to.”

That was as close as Sir Arthur ever came to criticising the way the war had been run in the field.

“Yes—you see, sir?” Roger asked eagerly. “It’s just the sort of thing a man might do if he
knew
the fellows who went on that patrol were going to be gunned down.”

Sir Arthur huffed. “I don’t like it, though. Not as proof he was a traitor. Man might just have got himself into a blue funk about the whole thing. Then again, I suppose, if the injury was self-inflicted, why not go the whole hog and give himself a Blighty one?”

Roger nodded, pleased to find Sir Arthur seemed to share his views on the matter. “Because if he
was
passing information to the enemy, he’d want to stay out there at the Front.”

“Or, of course, it may be that it was simply an accident, and he was covering for one of the men—wounding a superior officer, even by accident, is a damned serious matter.”

Oh. Perhaps Sir Arthur wasn’t as convinced as Roger had thought. Roger’s face must have fallen at the thought, because Sir Arthur looked at him and gave a dry, wheezy chuckle.

“Don’t mind me. I’m just playing Devil’s advocate. No, as it happens, I did think Matthew Connaught’s interestingly timed wound warranted further investigation. So I had a look at the war diaries of your brother’s battalion for the period in question.” He huffed. “Well, to be perfectly honest I had Miss Pendleton take a look at them, but she’s got a damn good eye, and she came up with something all right. If it
is
something.” Sir Arthur paused, and scowled. “Damned if I know if I should tell you this or not, might just be putting the wind up you for nothing, but, well… For what it’s worth, there was one—and
only
one—entry that might just possibly have been suggestive. Have a read of this.”

He handed Roger a single sheet of paper, upon which a single paragraph had been neatly typed:

25th February 1917. Lt. Connaught has made friends with a dog that wandered into Summer Trench yesterday and keeps returning. No censure to be applied as it appears to be beneficial to the men’s morale to have a mascot
.

Roger read it through once more, not quite following. “That’s it? I’m sorry, sir. I don’t… Oh.” Realisation came with blinding force, and he cursed himself for an idiot. Of
course
. “You mean to say Fritz was using dogs to carry messages across the lines?”

He’d heard, of course, that dogs had been used
behind
the lines in some cases. But across no-man’s-land, under machine gun fire and shelling? Could an animal really be trained to risk its life like that?

“We don’t know for certain. Miss Pendleton tells me there was a case in ’15 where it was suspected, and again in ’17, in Arras. Never any proof positive. But in combination with Connaught’s very expediently timed injury… Well. Suggestive, wouldn’t you say?”

Roger nodded. “Do you know what happened to Connaught? Did he survive the war? I suppose he’ll have gone to ground in any case.”

“Matthew Connaught did indeed survive the war, although he lost an arm at Passchendaele. And far from going to ground, he proved remarkably easy to locate. In fact, he works not a mile distant from here. In an advertising agency, of all places.”

“What, here? In London?” To think he might even have passed the man on the street without knowing it!

“Indeed. And lodging in Hampstead, quite conveniently for the Underground, I might add.”

“And?” Roger asked impatiently, his head whirling. “What happens now? Will Connaught be investigated?”

Sir Arthur sighed and didn’t answer for a long moment during which Roger’s spirits sank to the carpet. “You’re a good man, Cottingham, and I’m deeply sorry for the loss to your family. But the fact remains there’s no direct evidence of any foul play—and if Connaught was ever a danger to the nation, he’s most unlikely to be one now. My best advice would be to forget all about him.”

“No. Sir, I can’t accept that.
Something
has to be done.”

Far from annoyance at Roger’s intransigence, Sir Arthur’s expression showed only satisfaction. “I rather thought that would be your answer. You wouldn’t have been the man I took on in ’17 if it hadn’t been.”

Roger hesitated, then decided to hell with it. “Why
did
you take me on? I’ve always wondered. In fact, to be honest, I’ve always wondered how you even knew I existed, rotting away in that gaol with the other C.O.s.” He hadn’t liked to ask at the time, too fearful that if questioned, Sir Arthur would discover he’d made a dreadful mistake and send him back to quod.

Sir Arthur raised an eyebrow. As it was the one above his glass eye, the effect was more macabre than quizzical. “Always thought you knew. Chappie called Wharton recommended you.”

“Wharton?” Roger asked blankly. “You mean—not Pip Wharton?” He’d been one of Hugh’s closest friends, growing up, which meant that Roger had seen him a lot but knew him not at all.

“That’s the fellow. Went on to lose both his legs in Dover Strait—lucky to get out alive, but the damn fool would insist on going to sea and
doing his bit
. As if he wasn’t doing a perfectly good job at the Admiralty. At any rate, he wrote to me back before all that happened. Early that year, I believe it was. Said he knew of a man with excellent German, if I was able to use such a thing. And, as it happened, I was.” Sir Arthur paused. “He said you were the brother of a good friend, and he could vouch for you being a good man despite your principles.”

Roger stared. “But… Pip Wharton and I hardly spoke two words to each other in our lives. Why on earth would he seek to do me a good turn? I can’t understand it.”

“Can’t you?” Sir Arthur’s good eye pierced Roger with its gaze. “I always supposed your brother put him up to it. By the way, you’ll be taking Miss Pendleton to lunch. I’d recommend the Salisbury, just down the road. She’s rather partial to their Dover Sole. No need for her to hurry back.” He looked down at the papers on his desk, a clear dismissal.

In something of a daze as he left Sir Arthur’s office, Roger walked straight past Miss Pendleton, still seated by the window, and had to be recalled to his duty with an amused “Mr. Cottingham?”

Roger wheeled. “Ah. Dreadfully sorry. Sir Arthur mentioned we’d be taking lunch together?” Although why, he couldn’t imagine. He knew he was being ungrateful, but he couldn’t help feeling a little resentful. He wanted to get back to Buckinghamshire and talk things over with Mabel. Surely there would be
something
they could still do?

“He did mention something of the sort, yes. Let me get my hat and gloves. We can walk from here; no need to take a cab.”

Twenty minutes later, Roger was seated opposite her at a secluded corner table in the Salisbury. It was a small, unpretentious restaurant that appeared to have changed little during the war years. One reached the dining room via a flight of stairs that led down from the street, and the consequent need for artificial lighting even in the middle of the day lent the place a curiously timeless atmosphere. It had, upon first glance, appeared packed, but apparently a table could be found for Miss Pendleton and her guest.

Roger was handed a menu; Miss Pendleton was merely shown one and allowed to dismiss it with an inclination of her head. Roger felt like a fish out of water and began to wonder if he was about to be expertly filleted and served up to Miss Pendleton on a bed of spinach. On the one hand, it was a relief to find the menu wasn’t couched in impenetrable culinary terms that, whilst technically in French and therefore within the scope of his Modern Languages degree, would nonetheless leave him in total ignorance as to what he’d ordered. On the other hand, he should most definitely have preferred it to have included the prices.

“I take it you’re quite a frequent visitor here, Miss Pendleton?” he asked politely, having ordered the rack of lamb and accepted the waiter’s suggestion of wine to accompany it.

“Oh, please, call me Sheila. Lord knows I get enough
Miss
-ing at work. I may call you Roger, mayn’t I?” She smiled.

“Of course,” Roger agreed hurriedly. Was this some put-up job of Sir Arthur’s to help Miss Pendleton—Sheila—to dispense with the hated honorific by exchanging it for a
Mrs.
? If so, he was going to have a damned awkward time explaining she was barking up the wrong tree.

“Excellent. Now I’m sure you’ve gathered why we’re here.”

Roger gave her a sharp look. Her expression was outwardly cool, but her eyes were dancing with mischief. “Because you enjoy making men feel out of their depth?”

Sheila laughed aloud, drawing one or two curious and/or disapproving glances from their fellow diners. “Oh, I
do
like you. No, we’re to talk about what you’re going to do next. In the Connaught matter, that is.”

“I thought… Sir Arthur said there was nothing to be done.”

“Are you sure he didn’t simply say there was nothing
he
could do? Now, there may not be an official investigation, but there’s nothing to stop a free British subject from engaging another in conversation. Perhaps befriending him; even exchanging such confidences about the war as aren’t covered by the Official Secrets Act.”

“You mean… I’m to do this myself?”

“Who better? By a lucky coincidence,” she went on in the sort of tone that implied coincidence had absolutely nothing to do with it, “you’ll find there’s a vacancy just opened up in young Mr. Connaught’s lodging house. If I were you, I should get round there tonight. I think you’ll find the room quite suitable. Of course, you’ll need to take on an assumed name, or the game will be up before it starts. Any ideas?”

Roger blinked at her, trying to wrestle his wild thoughts into submission. He’d thought the investigation stalled; now it seemed to be hurtling along like a runaway train and carrying him with it. “Perhaps… George Johnson? George is my middle name, and, well…”