Wig Betrayed (4 page)

Life, especially at weekends, was definitely improving now that Andrea was with me and Boswell had joined the family. We began to visit various places in the area and were able to eat out in restaurants as well, always accompanied by our beloved dog. The Germans never took exception to this practice, perhaps because their dogs were always so well behaved. Unfortunately Boswell certainly wasn't to begin with, having a tendency to bark at all and sundry until we managed to cure him of this bad habit.

We travelled to picturesque Monschau in the hilly Eifel area which lies west of the Rhine, in a valley through which a vigorous river runs and superb mountain walks surround the town. We visited Duisburg zoo where Boswell was entranced by the cavorting sea lions, who barked rather like he did whilst they frolicked in their watery enclosure. We visited the Wolfram Talsperre, a celebrated dam which the allies bombed in the Second World War, and its accompanying park. The dam divides a large lake into two: one half lapping only a few feet beneath a wall, whilst the other falls away hundreds of feet down the sheer face of the structure. We also tramped round Xanten, an ancient Roman settlement where the ruins have been ‘added to' by modern archaeologists restoring the atmosphere of a town of that period.

Moreover, living on the mainland of Europe made travel across national borders so easy and it was not long before we journeyed to Maastricht to visit their famous flea market on a Sunday. Only just across the border, this town was an hour away from Brockendorf and after locating the market we decided to explore it separately. I soon headed for those stalls containing old books which I could never resist. On the way, I espied a stall selling medals of all descriptions and, although not really a collector myself, I wandered over to see what was on offer.

As expected, there were an abundance of war medals from all European countries, including Britain. Standard service medals, priced collectively, were housed in separate boxes from different countries and didn't appear expensive but more individual medals were stuck up on a board and were priced per item. It was while I was looking at a row of Iron Crosses that I first noticed the British Military Cross. Surprised to see such a valuable item on sale, I examined it closely. Each of the silver arms bore an embossed crown at the end, with the royal cipher ‘GRI' appearing in the middle. I turned it over and what I saw then gave me a considerable shock.

At the back of the vertical bar, an inscription had been engraved:

*

“You are interested, yes?”

An old man with whiskery sideburns, clearly the owner of the stall, loomed. I glanced up at the sign above and his identity became clear:

*

“Just looking,” I muttered, “but may I enquire where you purchased this?”

“All Schafer's sales are legal, my friend. That is all you need to know.”

I nodded.

“Of course, but I still would like to know the location.”

“Medals usually come from other markets but sometimes I call at private houses to ask if there are such things for sale. Where, I will not tell you but it is unusual to find a British gallantry medal.”

I also noticed that no price had been marked up for this item and I guessed that this might have been done deliberately. Victoria Crosses, I knew, were virtually priceless and Military Crosses, although more common, would still be dear.

“How much?” I asked.

“Bravery medals are much more expensive than the others. Such a British medal to a German collector would be very valuable, but to you I can sell it for 300 marks or 400 guilders.”

My grip on the medal tightened. Horrendously expensive it might be, but I knew I just had to buy it.

“200 marks.”

“250?”

“220, absolutely no more.”

“You have a deal, my friend.”

Walking away I inspected my new purchase, admiring the way the ribbon with its vertical bars contrasted with the silver cross.

I didn't say anything to Andrea at the time whilst I decided what to do next. What I had suspected all the time turned out to be true. Gafford
had
been in the British Army and, judging by the medal, had distinguished himself too. So why had he sold it? I didn't think for a moment that Schafer had stolen it. The real problem was that it was none of my business.

Perhaps my instincts as a one-time defence lawyer had been aroused. The whole thing smacked of an injustice. Why should a former English officer be so reticent about his military past and dispose of the medal? Quite how I was going to restore the medal to Gafford without causing embarrassment all round needed more reflection on my part, but then an event occurred which drove the whole thing from my mind. When I went into the office the next day, Margery was waiting for me with a message.

“His secretary has just rung, Mr Courtley. JAG wants you to fly to London as soon as you can. He wants to see you about an important matter – something which he'll only discuss in person.”

My first reaction was had I done something wrong? But nothing came to mind – after all, I'd only held office for a short time. Whatever, it meant a quick trip to London – a welcome break after the tedium of life on the garrison and my club class fare would be met by expenses.

“So you'll take me with you, Charlie. I can visit Fortnum and Mason and buy a few of their choice groceries.”

Andrea was delighted when I told her the news. She was especially fond of the famous store's range of condiments – particularly the fruit chutney, and as these items are much cheaper than designer clothes I could not really complain even though I had to meet the cost of her ticket myself.

“Naturally, darling girl – although it'll only be for a few days.”

I had already booked a double room at the Wanderers, the London club which I had recently joined so I could stay in town whenever I wished. I expected to meet Peascod at the office but before I arrived there, whilst still at the club, I received a phone call from his secretary. Judith was a small, wizened lady of an indeterminate age who, despite her size, possessed a deep sexy voice redolent of Greta Garbo and Marilyn Monroe combined.

“Oh, Mr Courtley,” she informed me breathlessly, “Sir Binden wishes to treat you to lunch today.”

This was announced in a tone of amazement, probably because such an arrangement was so rare. Binden Peascod was renowned for being extraordinarily mean.

“Please would you meet him at the Parthenon at 12.30 sharp.”

That figured. Peascod
would
be a member of what was reputedly London's gloomiest club: frequented by senior clergymen, academics in the obscurest subjects and dry-as-dust Chancery lawyers. I had never been inside but sometimes walked past the club's building (named and modelled on the famous monument in Athens) perched on a corner of St James's Square.

At the appointed time, I announced my arrival to the doorman, a semi-comatose octogenarian, who escorted me to a club room where Peascod was waiting.

“My dear chap, we'll have lunch straightaway followed by a chat. A fellow member will be joining us later.”

The dining room was high-ceilinged, chilly, and ran three quarters of the length of the ground floor.

No menus were displayed on the members' tables and when a waiter approached bearing one, my host simply muttered, “Club Lunch for two.”

That didn't sound very enticing, nor did it turn out to be. Brown Windsor soup was followed by ‘Club Steak and Kidney Pie' (most of which I didn't touch, not being able to eat offal), followed by a stodgy treacle pudding covered in thin custard. Peascod offered me sherry from a decanter on the sideboard and proceeded to pour a minuscule measure. He took none himself and the rest of the meal was accompanied by plain tap water.

After sampling the indifferent fare, I wondered whether he might suggest we retreat to the smoking room where, at least, I could light up my pipe, but then I remembered that he didn't smoke. When coffee was served, he began to speak.

“Courtley, there's been a development in the office. Veejag, regrettably, is unable to sit on the Merse trial. He put his foot in a rabbit hole whilst beagling last week and twisted his ankle. I had hoped that Smither would undertake the case but regrettably he isn't prepared to give up the retirement leave he's owed. The only other full-time member of staff is, of course,
you
...”

I nodded. There were part-time time judge advocates, of course, one or two of whom were also circuit judges but it made sense that I should do the case if available.

But why was Peascod making such a drama of the whole thing?

“I must impress upon you that this is a most significant case; pilfering with a difference.”

“What difference? Theft is just that, theft – surely?”

“Well, not
just
theft as between one soldier from another. This is
far
more serious, stealing from a
full general
who commands Her Majesty's British Army of the Rhine.”

“Worse than stealing from an
empty
general then?”

I could not help being flippant. Peascod looked pained.

“This is not a joking matter, Courtley. The trial may well arouse press interest.”

“Well, pinching the General's golf club is straightforward enough from a legal point of view.”

“True, but you realize how important it is for you to conduct yourself with especial care. The eyes of the high command will be upon you!”

“I'm sure I can handle the pressure.”

I took a large swig of water, wishing it were wine. So this was Peascod's fatuous reason for inviting me to lunch! He pursed his lips in disapproval and was on the point of rebuking me when a bellow emanated from the end of the room.

“Peascod, there you are!”

A burly figure strode across to our table. Peasod shot to his feet and was standing virtually to attention.

“Sir Frederick, so good to see you. Let me introduce you to one of my assistant judges, Charles Courtley.”

It was the belly that jogged my memory: that tyre-like paunch jutting from the man resembling a ship's prow. It was indeed Sir Fred Borler QC, who I described once as resembling an ancient baby and who had once led me in an exceedingly tedious fraud trial years before. His bulging eyes contained no spark of recognition, however.

“So you're the chap that's doing the golf club case. Binden wanted us to be introduced. I'm prosecuting, you see.”

“Indeed so,” Peascod chipped in, “the Army Prosecuting Authority felt that for such an important case, a Queen's Counsel was merited. Sir Frederick is not only a very senior lawyer but also once solicitor general as well as being a former member of the Territorial Army.”

“Loved every minute of it, Binden. All those summer exercises and campfire jollifications in the evenings.”

So this was the real reason for the lunch. Peascod wanted me to meet Borler, presumably to remind me of the great responsibility which lay upon my shoulders.

“Your task as the judge,” Peascod continued, “will be much assisted by having Sir Fred there, Courtley. I'm sure he will allow you to draw on his vast experience of legal practice.”

This was too much to stomach. I allowed sarcasm to get the better of me.

“Oh, no doubt, although I have to say that when Sir Fred led me in a fraud, I learnt very little from him. My recollection is that he asked no questions at all during the entire six weeks of the trial.”

Peascod looked confused; it seemed that he had missed the barb altogether, whilst Borler frowned.

“However, when one is a
judge
, silence is golden, isn't it? So his example helps me there, no doubt,” I continued recklessly.

Before either of them could respond, I decided I had had enough.

“Now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I must rush. I'm due to meet my wife in Fortnum and Mason shortly.”

I left without waiting for a reply.

As a result of the commotion over the Merse case, I had forgotten all about the medal which I had placed for safekeeping in a desk drawer in which I kept personal papers. Only on the day that Andrea and I were flying to Berlin did I come across it again whilst looking for our passports. Turning the object over in my hand, I reminded myself that I needed to make a decision. What if Gafford had not given the medal away at all and it
had
been stolen initially, although legitimately acquired by the dealer? I cursed myself for not asking Schafer more questions about its source at the time. If Gafford had sold it, however, then why should he want it back? The fact remained that the object had cost me a great deal of money, so what was I going to do with it?

Eventually, I concluded that I should ring the Gaffords and ask. Quite what I was going to say I had not decided, but somehow assuming that Frau Gafford would answer the phone I felt that I could deal with the situation tactfully enough. Consequently, when her husband answered I was taken aback for a moment.

“Oh, Herr…er, Mr Gafford. You may not remember me but my wife and I bought a puppy from you some weeks back...”

“Are you the English couple from the garrison?”

“That's right. Well, an odd thing has happened since then. We were shopping in Maastricht and I came across a medal. Now, it just happened to have your name inscribed on it.” I stumbled on despite the silence. “And I bought it. A friend of mine collects medals, you see…”

I was beginning to gabble.

“Why are you phoning me?”

“Well, I suppose I wondered whether the medal might be stolen when I saw your name on it.”

“That is not the case. By the way, aren't you the man who was asking my wife whether I'd been in the military?”

“I may have asked her in passing, yes.”

“I'd be grateful if you minded your own business. I got rid of the medal for reasons which are nothing to do with you.”

With that, he slammed down the phone. Andrea was standing at the door, having overheard the conversation. Reluctantly, I had told her about the medal, suspecting that she would not approve. Nor did she.

“I bet he felt you were being a busybody, Charlie. Why on earth you bought the medal in the first place, I'll never understand. Anyway, you might as well sell it now.”

“You're probably right. I'll take it to a dealer when we're next in London.”

I slipped the medal back into the drawer.

* * *

My thoughts returned to Berlin – so different from any of the garrison towns in the rest of the country. Germany's revitalized capital had been chosen as the venue of the Merse court martial because it lay outside the jurisdiction of General Hudibrass, the General Officer Commanding BAOR. Berlin possessed its own GOC, dating back to the first days after the Second World War. Isherwood's city of the 1930s came to mind, with its decadent night clubs, the ruined buildings after the bombing and the forbidding presence of the Wall erected by the communists.

Andrea interrupted my reverie, “Darling, what am I expected to wear? It's so hot at the moment that I intend to take light summer clothes only but will we be expected to attend any official functions?”

I pondered for a moment.

“I doubt it. As the judge in the case, I'm not supposed to socialize with the military authorities there. However, I'm told that we automatically become members of the Officers' Club for the duration so we can use their facilities and there's a standing invitation for the dinner dance at the end of the week. Fancy going?”

Andrea grimaced.

“Well, if you feel we really
must.
”

“As the case will probably be finished by that time it would be rather churlish to refuse, in the circumstances.”

She grinned.

“I expect that I'll have done enough shopping by that time anyway.”

She was keen to visit the Kurfurstendamm, Berlin's principal shopping street, and drop-in at the
KaDeWe,
the city's main department store. Shortly afterwards, we arrived in Berlin to find that it was hotter even than Brockendorf. The last time we had been to the city was before the wall fell in 1989 when we stayed at the Gasthof Brandenburg Tor, a hotel
situated near the famous Brandenburg Gate, marooned in solitary splendour just within the Russian sector of the city. Now that place
had been replaced by a much larger and luxurious hotel but for old time's sake that was where we decided to stay.

This time our room was not only bigger but far more comfortable than before with a balcony giving us a panoramic view of the city. It was not much better than before, however. Instead of the wall's grim watchtowers and the stark, floodlit emptiness of no-man's-land, the area was comprised of one vast building site instead. The eastern part of the city was in the process of being rebuilt.

The next day, a cheery corporal (Berlin, after all, was a popular posting) picked me up and we travelled through the city to British Army Headquarters, established after the war in Hitler's 1936 Olympic building. On the way, my driver indicated points of interest.

“Most of the wall's been demolished, sir, except for those parts preserved as relics for the visitors to gawp at. Checkpoint Charlie's completely disappeared with a new road running right through where it used to stand, but the wall museum's still there.”

He pointed out a small building which I recalled housed the artefacts of escape from the eastern sector, and which was now dwarfed by brand new office buildings either side. On arrival at the headquarters which had once been the Nazi's Olympic Stadium, I recalled the previous court martial I had attended, held in the old fencing court constructed for the 1936 games. This time, however, a lift whisked me and an escort to another area entirely – a suite of rooms situated right at the top of the stadium itself. There we were met by the court orderly, a sergeant- major, carrying a brass-knobbed staff.

“Perhaps you would care to see the courtroom first, sir, and then I'll show you where the judge advocate's room is situated.”

I nodded. Opening a set of double doors, he ushered me into a large room fronted by French windows which offered a panoramic view of the original sports ground below. Tables and chairs had been arranged in such a way that the room now formed a makeshift, but perfectly adequate, courtroom.

“This will certainly do – plenty of space for everyone,” I said, “but what's happened to the old fencing court?”

“Being renovated, sir. Now that the army are pulling out of Berlin altogether, the facilities are all being returned to their original purpose. There's a bit of history attached to this room as well – it used to be part of Hitler's VIP suite.”

He told me that Hitler had once occupied this part of the building, for the use of himself and his guests only. The court orderly opened the French windows and ushered me outside, revealing an exclusive part of the auditorium separated from the rest by a barrier.

Following me, he pointed up to a balcony which overhung the doors.

“That's where Hitler used to stand taking the salute when he came to the games, sir.”

Fascinated, I studied the balcony; no doubt specifically designed so that the Fuhrer would be the focus of everyone's attention whenever he visited – and received quite a shock! For a moment, I thought I was seeing a ghost. A broad figure strutted out and stood at the edge, looking out over the scene. However, instead of possessing the tell-tale toothbrush moustache and limp flop of hair of the dictator, this person merely wore a khaki pullover and peaked cap covered in gold laurel leaves. It was General Hudibrass taking the air.

Seeing me, he called down cheerily, “It's Courtley, isn't it? The JAG chappy I met the other night. Colonel Kayward told me that you were now officiating in the case. I hope this whole damned thing will be over today. I'm supposed to be playing in a golf tournament tomorrow and I need my club back!”

Jag chappy indeed
!

I was furious but, not being able to think of the right riposte, replied pompously instead, “Judges aren't permitted to talk to witnesses,” before hastily retreating indoors.

I was still feeling prickly when the court orderly told me that the president of the board wanted to have a word and I was not prepared to allow my dignity to be compromised further.

“I'll see him together with the others when I'm ready,” I snapped.

“It's a
she
, sir – and a very determined lady who's quite insistent she...”

At which point, a formidable-looking woman bustled in.

“Brigadier Joella Drubb, sir. My normal job is the Matron General of the Army Nursing Corps. I need to talk to you about certain procedures in advance.”

Well, you could not argue with a
matron
general, I felt, particularly this one who looked as if she would not stand any nonsense from anyone – be it another general or indeed a judge. After all, to anyone in the nursing profession, we all look the same under hospital bed sheets.

Dutifully, I outlined our respective duties.

* * *

Half an hour later, we were due to begin. But before the court opened with its full complement, I was asked to sit alone. As I already knew, Cyril Clibbery was representing the accused but to my surprise there was no sign of Sir Fred Borler. Instead, a lanky figure sprung to his feet.

“Major Rashleigh at your service, sir – junior counsel for the prosecution and,” he waved a languid hand in his opponent's direction, “my learned friend, Mr Clibbery, defends Private Merse.”

After saluting smartly Major Rashleigh removed his cap with a flourish, revealing a mane of black hair which seemed overlong by military standards. What was most striking though were his eyebrows: arched and seemingly etched with black pencil. His other hand, I could not help noticing, rested on one hip in a distinctively camp fashion.

“My learned leader, Sir Frederick Borler, is regrettably unwell this morning. The prosecution apologizes on his behalf but feels it has
no
alternative,” he wiggled his midriff a little, “but to request an adjournment until tomorrow morning.”

I was not going to accept this at face value.

“I'm very sorry about Sir Fred's condition, but perhaps you would be good enough to supply me with more detail. What's actually wrong with him?”

“Regrettably, my leader, whilst waiting for his flight last night, was taken ill in the VIP lounge at Heathrow Airport. He was unable to continue his journey but I'm reliably informed that he is sleeping it off...I mean recovering in an airport hotel and will be catching a flight this afternoon.”

Too much free booze,
I suspected but as both counsel still had many things to discuss before the trial could actually start the time was not really wasted and I reluctantly agreed to the request.