Winter Roses (11 page)

Miss Phoebe broody and doing nothing, Mrs Isabel doing well at the cinema. Who’d have thought that would happen? Good things as well as bad were coming out of this war. Miss Felicia nursing at the front, and Miss Caroline off again. How she missed her. The Rectory wasn’t the same without Miss Caroline, and that was a fact. She had said she was doing some new job, for the government. But it couldn’t be a very important one, because it wasn’t in London. It was in Folkestone. Margaret was mystified. What kind of war job could she have at the seaside?

Folkestone? Caroline felt as though she had just jumped through the Looking-Glass. This was a town she thought she had known all her life. On her family’s annual visit to Grandmother Buckford in Dover, they would occasionally drive out in stately fashion in Uncle Charles’s Daimler to take tea, or to listen to the band on the Leas. It had been a fashionable, restful resort, whose elegantly-clad visitors were indistinguishable from residents, and whose small harbour held fishing boats and ferries.

The town had been transformed, submerged by foreign accents and uniforms even more noticeably than in London. Thousands of khaki-clad Tommies on their way to France thronged the streets and seafront, and packed into rest camps set up in the centre of the town and on the outskirts. They poured out from the railway stations daily and she was already used to seeing the columns of troops marching
down the slope from the Leas on their way to the transport ships. Her office overlooked the seafront, and sometimes at night she watched the bright lights in the sky over the French coastline and heard the rumble of distant guns.

The enlarged harbour was now a busy military-led working place, though some commercial ferries were still running. Her new work involved the Folkestone–Flushing route, and naval ships were used for communications with GHQ in Montreuil. Each time she saw a ship leave for France, she had a thrill of pride, as though she herself were tucked inside it, en route for the war front.

Dover had always been England’s main exit to the continent, but it was obvious to her that Folkestone was rapidly overtaking it for troop transport. It too had received a huge influx of Belgian refugees, and many of them had remained in the town. They, the Canadians and Tommies numerically dwarfed the local population. The Belgian community had, however, settled into Folkestone life, and inaugurated their own clubs, restaurants, libraries and church services.

Although she had only been here a few days, Caroline already knew more about wartime Folkestone than its residents. They were aware only that various government agencies – not only British but also Belgian and French – were operating here, in houses donated by industries and private individuals or requisitioned hotels. The average Kentish civilian could have no idea what functions these agencies performed, but Caroline was daily coming to learn more.

Somehow she, Caroline Lilley, Rector’s daughter, had
become a member (even if a very insignificant member) of His Majesty’s Secret Services. Why Folkestone? she had asked at that all-important meeting, disappointed that she was not being sent to France or at least to remain in the centre of war planning in London.

‘War is everywhere, in the trenches, in Folkestone, in people’s minds,’ the captain had replied, and whether or not he had intended a snub, she had felt reproved.

It had all happened so quickly. When she had come to see him in London, Captain Rosier had remained silent for a few moments, as if summing up how serious her intention was. Apparently whatever he saw convinced him, for he took her into a private office in the Whitehall Court building, and talked to her for a while. He said nothing about the job, nor asked why she had come, but merely chatted about the tennis match day, life in London, life in Ashden, until she grew impatient and bewildered. At last he escorted her to the War Office, where she had walked at his side along uninteresting corridors, and her sense of being in Lewis Carroll’s confused Looking-Glass land had begun. Perhaps the Red Queen would pop up at the end of this trek?

It wasn’t the Red Queen, it was the Red King. When at last Captain Rosier knocked and entered one of the offices, Sir John Hunney rose to meet her.

Immediately, Caroline thought she understood the situation. After she had greeted Sir John, she turned to the captain. ‘So you had already been asked to approach me in June.’

He looked embarrassed, and Sir John quickly intervened. ‘It is true, Caroline, that I told Captain Rosier we needed extra staff and that if he found anyone suitable I should be glad to know. Captain Rosier is not part of our organisation, however, and I did not mention you by name.’

‘Then perhaps I should leave, Sir John,’ Caroline replied awkwardly. ‘You could hardly have expected
me
to arrive, and I would not want to put you in a difficult position.’ For all her brave words, she was conscious of deep disappointment. Boring these corridors might be, but behind those dull walls the war was being fought, and it was frustrating to be so close, only to be checkmated by fate in the form of the Hunneys once again.

‘There is no such difficult position, Caroline. Do please take a seat.’

‘Because Reggie is dead?’ she blurted out before she could stop herself.

‘No,’ Sir John answered quietly. ‘Both I and my wife have the highest regard for your capabilities, and as regards our past differences, circumstances in Ashden are entirely different from those here. If you would like to work for us, the Service could employ your talents.’

She wanted to, oh, how she wanted to, but she still wavered, aware how intensely both men were studying her reactions. Sir John was courteous and seemingly relaxed, while Captain Rosier looked at her with those piercing eyes, and an expression that like Sir John’s gave nothing away. Was Sir John being kind because Reggie had died? No, she dismissed this thought as unworthy of him. Of course he would not let private sympathy affect his professional
judgement. Both these men must believe she was capable of the job – whatever it was.

‘I would like to work for you very much, Sir John.’

‘Excellent,’ he replied. ‘I propose to explain briefly what is involved, and then you can make arrangements to leave. As soon as possible, if you please.’ The captain rose, about to depart, but Sir John stopped him. ‘If you can spare the time, Captain Rosier, you might wish to help Miss Lilley with lodgings and so forth.’

He hesitated, then replied, ‘I should be most pleased.’

She fancied there was little warmth in his acceptance, however, and tried to convince herself she was being unreasonable in her instant reaction of annoyance. His part was over. Why should he have to do more? She was well able to look after herself. Then she forgot Captain Rosier, who resumed his seat, as Sir John began to explain:

‘You must be aware that this country, like most others, has a secret intelligence service.’

Her wild guess had proved correct. Scenes from John Buchan’s
The Thirty-Nine Steps,
William le Queux’s novels, and E. Phillips Oppenheim flashed through her mind. They were based on fact after all, and she was now part of this clandestine world. She could have thrown her arms round Captain Rosier and kissed him, so thrilled was she that he had given her this chance. Not that he was looking very kissable; he was as shuttered away as ever behind that poker face. Closed up for the duration of the war, she decided.

‘The details of that particular organisation,’ Sir John Hunney continued, ‘need not concern you. Suffice to say it collects intelligence from agents all over the world. At
the turn of the century, the Army decided it needed more specific and concentrated intelligence, and set up its own department. Although at present the Secret Service is nominally under War Office control, it still pursues its own path. Army intelligence is therefore constantly expanding to meet the current crisis, and is operated from here and from GHQ Montreuil. What it desperately needs is continuous information from occupied Belgium, and northern France, as well as from neutral Holland and Switzerland. Its prime need is information on German troop movements, most of which are now by rail.

‘There is, you will appreciate, one major problem. We are not fighting this war alone. The British GHQ is at Montreuil, the French government at Le Havre, and King Albert of the Belgians is leading his army from La Panne near Dunkirk. Between them and the intelligence on which we all depend, lies the front line, through which information cannot travel. We have therefore to find other methods.’

He went on to describe briefly how, where and on what she would be working, and Caroline began to feel dizzy with excitement. She would be back in London again, and this time in the heart of the war effort. When Sir John finished, she turned jubilantly to the captain. His services would not be required. ‘There is no need to find me lodgings, Captain Rosier. I’m sure I can live in Lord Banning’s London home.’

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Caroline,’ Sir John had said briskly.

And no Secret Agent Caroline Lilley was actually here in Folkestone, working for the British section of the Allied
Intelligence Bureau in this seafront house. There was also a Belgian and a French section. Each controlled its own network of couriers and patriotic civilians in Belgium, and after sifting its reports and liaising with the other two bureaux to double-check and pool information, produced a digest to be forwarded to the GHQs. She was to be employed on transcribing reports, the digest, and perhaps helping to check it against those of the other two bureaux.

Captain Rosier had found her lodgings in Sandgate Road, quite close to the office, and seemed to know the town well. So whom did he work for? she wondered. She did not dare ask him – yet. Not only was there the Official Secrets Act, by which she was now bound, but she didn’t want one of Dame Dora’s officious taps on the shoulder. The Defence of the Realm Act seemed to govern everything now from accidental chinks of light to innocently sketching a harbour scene.

On the difficult journey down, on which he insisted on accompanying her, she had asked him, since they were alone in the first-class carriage, to tell her more about the work she would be doing. If he were merely doing his duty in escorting her, she would at least pump him for information in compensation.

‘It seems very cumbrous,’ she ventured to say, ‘getting intelligence reports smuggled from Belgium into Holland, then back to England, down to Folkestone and back to France again. It could get very out of date.’

She held her breath in case this prickly man took this as a criticism, but to her surprise he seemed prepared to discuss it with her.

‘This is true, but it takes several days to transport a whole division, and many more for enough new divisions for an offensive, so it is not as bad as it could be. But pigeons are quicker.’

‘
Pigeons?
’ She was so surprised she laughed.

He did not. ‘In Belgium and France pigeons have long played their part in war. Belgium has more carrier pigeons than any other nation, taking messages out and faithfully returning to their homes, and we tried smuggling baskets of birds in as well. But the Germans issued an edict forbidding carrier pigeons, and are shooting any they see.’

‘Could they not be dropped by aeroplane?’ Caroline suggested.

He looked at her in some surprise. ‘You should be at British GHQ, Miss Lilley. That’s exactly what they did, but now the Royal Flying Corps are all occupied in fighting German aeroplanes, so we are back to drugging the birds and smuggling them over the border.’

‘Which border?’

‘The Belgian frontier with neutral Holland.’ Captain Rosier paused. ‘Miss Edith Cavell was part of an organisation that took wounded and stranded Allied soldiers after Mons over the border, which at that time was guarded relatively lightly. It also took young Belgian men who wished to join the Belgian army. Now the Germans have doubled their barbed wire barricades and the number of guards. It grows more difficult.’

She had arrived for work on the following day, eager to plunge into the unknown. Readers of William le Queux would have been disappointed at the very ordinariness
of the offices. Papers everywhere, shabby desks, two typewriters, cupboards for storage, heavy blackout curtains at the windows now drawn back, and a few late and wilting chrysanthemums in a vase. Besides herself, there were six clerks: two girls in their twenties, as she was, and four young men, two or three disabled with war wounds. All the young men had been at Oxford or Cambridge, and the two girls had been teachers. The first day had been bewildering, which made the surprise on the second day even more pleasant.

Of Captain Cameron, the head of the British section, there was no sign, and she had been told to expect to see very little of him as he was usually closeted away on an upper floor, or at meetings with his French and Belgian counterparts. However, her immediate boss bore a familiar face.

‘Captain Dequessy,’ she cried in delight, ‘are you part of this too? Captain Rosier seems to have had quite a haul from our tennis party.’

He grinned. ‘You can’t blame him for landing you with me. I was highly envious of Daniel Hunney’s disappearing into the vaults of the government work, and thought what could be better? If you have to sit behind a desk in the Army, make it an interesting one, I say. I badgered Daniel, until to get rid of me he recommended me to Sir John. This is the next best thing to being at the front.’

Near Felicia, was her immediate thought, and he continued as though she had spoken it aloud. ‘Odd world, isn’t it? There’s Lissy out in the front line, and here’s me skulking at Folkestone.’

‘You’re not skulking,’ she declared. The home front was vital now. It was no longer just a question of keeping the home fires burning till the boys could come home, but of brandishing their own torch of defiance at the enemy.

The work made little sense to her at first but, subduing panic, she told herself this was natural at first. There had, she gathered, been a complete blackout in the last few months, with no information coming through at all from Belgium, after the steamer
Brussels
had been sunk, and secret service agents betrayed by compromising documents picked up by the enemy. Since for much longer than that none had been coming from occupied northern France either, the section had been quiet.

Now links had been re-established with Belgium at least, and there was a hotchpotch of reports for her attention. Many were written by mapping pen in Indian ink on tissue paper, which could be tucked into hatbands, or sewn into buttons to escape detection at the border. Some arrived by a variety of other means – old bus tickets with simply the date, time, reference number for the train watching post, and 1 v of, 10 w s, 3 w ch, etc, meaning one artillery unit of one passenger coach for officers, ten flat trucks for soldiers, three for horses, etc. If she was lucky, a translation was supplied by one of her colleagues. Those in code normally came to her already decoded. If not, she had to appeal to Luke. From one agent, the report came in the form of darned socks. Captain Dequessy gave it to her as a joke, for there was no transcription with it, and then explained it was a genuine agent’s report, and the message, in a code of different darning stitches, was of top importance;
one identification of a German division in Belgium could point the way to German intentions. In this case it most certainly did, for this particular crack division had been on the Verdun front and after recent French successes there, it suggested Ludendorff, the German Commander-in-Chief, had decided to halt his offensive there.