Women of Courage (57 page)

Simon frowned. There’s a definite petulance in that face, Werner thought. But it’s so strong it’s frightening rather than contemptible. That poor fool Charles! Still, it serves him right.

‘It’s simple, as it always is. He cares more for his family than me. He went to visit his son and started to feel guilty, so he decided to cast me off. They never learn.’

They,
Werner thought. So there have been other victims before Charles, have there? ‘What happened to the ones before him?’

‘Accidents. One died in a fire, another fell off a ship at night. One went back to his wife but her hand had been caught in a mangle, like yours; and then he had an accident with a shotgun. They have accidents, you see. It must be unlucky to leave me.’

For the first time that evening, a smile crossed Simon’s face. Only briefly, but it fascinated and terrified Werner, more than anything that had gone before. There’s something missing in this boy’s mind, he thought. I’d be a fool to trust him. And yet . . .

‘Are you planning to kill Carson or just kidnap him?’

The waiter padded across the room smoothly on soft shoes, to clear their plates. Werner waited while he did it, then ordered biscuits and cheese and coffee. On the other hand, he thought, someone as clearly focused and maniacal as this might just be useful. And it would be poetic revenge on Charles, after all.

He made up his mind.

‘My purpose is to remove Carson, so that the UVF will believe he has been arrested by the British police or army. Then they will be bound to attack the army and police to get him back, particularly if a rumour spreads, as it will, that Carson is held in, say, Holywood Barracks.’

Simon frowned. ‘Why would a rumour spread about that?’

Werner shrugged. ‘I am a journalist, after all.’

‘So then there will be fighting, and that will benefit Germany in some way, is that it?’

‘Yes. You don’t need to know how.’

‘I don’t care.’ Simon thought for a moment. ‘So then you’ll have to kill Carson, won’t you, because if he was ever released he’d say it was all a German plot, and nothing to do with the British government at all?’

Werner nodded slightly. ‘You are very astute. Does that frighten you?’

‘Not at all.’ Again Simon smiled his unnerving, perfect smile. He poured himself some coffee. ‘So how will you do it?’

Werner patted the two sheets of paper on the tablecloth beside him. ‘That’s why I asked you for these. Until you walked into this hotel I didn’t even know for certain that Carson was coming to Ulster this weekend. But it seems to me that the most likely time is either over the weekend, at Mount Stewart, or on Sunday when he’s on the way there.’

‘In Charles Cavendish’s Lancia,’ said Simon softly. ‘Yes, why not? Do you have enough men to attack it?’

‘I do. Three, to be precise. I shall be waiting for him, somewhere along the road beside Strangford Lough. I suggest you make sure you are not in the car with them. Unless you really want to help, in which case you could be driving the car, to make sure it slows down . . .’

‘Perhaps,’ Simon said. ‘I often drive it. I could do that if you wanted, of course. But it’s dangerous, a difficult thing to attack a moving car successfully, when it’s full of armed men. There might be another way.’

He thought for a while. Werner lit a cigar and the smoke curled lazily up between them. An idea began to hatch in Simon’s mind and he smiled as it crawled from its shell.

‘Surely it would be better if Charles could be persuaded to help us.’

‘Help us? How?’ This is a waste of time, Werner thought. The boy’s afraid to be in the car and he’s trying to find a way out of it.

Simon’s teeth gleamed through the smoke and candlelight. ‘Oh, I think Charles could be persuaded to. He wouldn’t want to, of course — in fact it would hurt him like hell, but there’s no way he could possibly refuse. What you may not know about Charles, you see, is this . . .’

Deborah had sent a telegram to Charles from Liverpool, and to her relief, the Lancia was waiting on the docks in Belfast for their arrival. Charles’s chauffeur, Robinson, helped them into it with their bags.

‘Good to see you back, Mrs Cavendish,’ he said. Robinson was a lean, dour young man in his mid-twenties, with a passion for anything mechanical and an intense commitment to the Ulster Volunteers. He spoke hardly at all, so Deborah was touched by the unsolicited warmth of his greeting.

‘It’s good to be back,’ she said. ‘This lady is my sister, she is coming to stay.’

‘Ma’am.’ Robinson touched his cap, shut the back doors carefully behind them, climbed into the driving seat, and began to ease the long car smoothly through the tangle of carts and trolleys and passengers and suitcases at the dockside. Deborah had deliberately not mentioned Sarah’s surname, and if the chauffeur knew that she was the famous escaped suffragette — the female Houdini, as the
Daily Mail
had it — he gave no sign. Anyway she had no doubts about his loyalty, or that of any of her servants. So long as Charles agreed that Sarah was welcome in his house, not a word would be spoken.

As they drove through the soft green countryside, she could feel Sarah begin to relax, even as her own tension grew tighter. By the time they turned off the lough side road and cruised up the long gravel drive towards the house, with the large trees in the parkland to their left, and the woods and pheasant runs on their right, Sarah lay back in her seat, smiling, one hand held out beside the car to feel the breeze. Deborah sat upright beside her in her blue coat and feathered hat, staring intently ahead.

Charles was not there to meet them, but he arrived at midday. By that time the butler, Smythe, had installed Sarah in a large bedroom facing south-east across the lough, the housemaid had aired her bed and lit a blazing fire, and the cook, Mrs Hubert, had prepared a pheasant stew. Charles came into the dining room as they were about to sit down to it.

‘Ah, there you are, my dear,’ he said. Deborah stood up and smiled, although inside her stomach was fluttering terribly. He was wearing khaki, as usual, with polished Sam Browne belt and riding boots, but it was the lean, cold look on his face that concerned her. He did not smile or advance to kiss her.

‘Yes. I got your telegram. You said you were bringing a guest but you did not say who.’

He glanced at Sarah. As she had promised Deborah, she smiled winningly back. ‘There was a reason for that, Charles, you see. I am . . . in need of some privacy at the moment, and Debbie was kind enough to offer it to me. I hope you don’t object.’

Despite himself, Charles smiled faintly. The old, lopsided smile. It’s going to be all right, Deborah thought. At least about Sarah.

‘I see I am to be asked to harbour an escaped prisoner.’

‘Yes.’

Deborah said, quickly: ‘Charles, Sarah is my sister, we have to help her. She was forcibly fed in that prison and drugged with bromide. If she had not escaped she might be dead by now. I have promised her she will be safe here — and I cannot break my word.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Without asking me?’

‘There was no time, Charles. We had to move quickly. It was an emergency.’

‘But we are asking you now, Charles,’ Sarah said, still determinedly on her best behaviour. ‘I would very much appreciate it if you could extend your hospitality to me at Glenfee for a few days at least. If you feel you cannot, then of course I will go.’

‘Where to?’ Charles asked, sardonically.

‘Oh, there are suffragette groups in Ulster. I am sure I could find one willing to put me up, if I had to. But . . .’

‘Charles, please!’ Deborah stood directly in front of him, forcing him to look at her. ‘I don’t often ask things of you, but this is extremely important. If you had seen Sarah when she came out . . .’

‘I can see her now. Thin as a rake.’ He looked at his wife, and the odd, lopsided smile did not fade. To her surprise he actually seemed to be amused. ‘All right. Even if she is the black sheep of your family and behaves liked a crazed Hottentot, I suppose she is still part of it. You may stay on two conditions, madam.’

‘Yes?’

He looked at Sarah and his smile broadened in a way that Deborah had not seen for some time. ‘Firstly, Mrs Becket, there are a large number of old pictures in this house, some of them of my ancestors. I would appreciate it if they were left unscratched.’

Sarah flushed. ‘Why yes, of course. You don’t think . . .’

‘And secondly . . .’ He glanced towards the table, where wisps of steam were curling towards the ceiling from a shining silver tureen. ‘. . . that you make every effort while in this house to eat the food that is put in front of you, beginning with what Mrs Hubert has provided today.’

‘Well yes, of course, I agree.’

‘In that case, you are welcome.’

Sarah sat down in her chair, demurely, as she had promised, and Deborah picked up a plate and lifted the lid of the silver tureen.

28

T
HE SUN appeared briefly from behind grey, hurrying clouds as Simon turned off the road and began to nurse the car down the long, rutted track towards St Andrew’s Preparatory School. As he passed a wood the sunlight caught the building briefly, making the bricks of the old red house glow warmly amid the surrounding green fields. The windows flashed like mirrors, and the ivy on the walls shone brightly. It’s like a church, Simon thought, a holy place that I’m about to raid.

Then the sunlight passed and it was just an old dull house amid drab fields, waiting for the rain that was about to sweep in over Lough Neagh. Simon had driven most of the way with the canvas cover raised, ready for the downpour that was bound to start before long.

He turned the car in a circle on the gravel drive outside the school’s front door, so that it would be facing away, up the drive, when he left. Every little detail was important, he knew, on occasions like this. It was a pity about the car itself — Werner’s new Daimler, rather than Charles’s Lancia, which would have been more convincing, but that couldn’t be helped. Anyway, he had an explanation ready.

He got out of the car, tugged his already smooth uniform jacket straight, strode briskly up the main steps, and rang the bell. The immaculate uniform, the gleaming Sam Browne belt, the cap with the badge of the UVF, would impress the headmaster more than anything else, he hoped. He remembered how keen the man had been to talk to him last time, when he had come dressed like this with Mrs Cavendish to deliver the boy at the beginning of term.

The bell echoed away inside the school and there was no response. For an awful moment Simon thought there was no one there, that they had all gone away. Then the door opened slowly and a woman peered out.

‘Yes? Can I help you?’

‘My name is Simon Fletcher. I’ve come with an important message from Colonel Cavendish, about his son. Is Dr Duncan here?’

‘He’s taking prep at the moment. Can you wait half an hour?’

‘I’m afraid not. It is
very
urgent. I have to be back in a couple of hours.’

The woman sniffed. She was large and formidable, dressed in a long woollen skirt and cardigan. Dr Duncan’s wife, Simon supposed. She looked him up and down; then, seemingly impressed by the uniform and look of dutiful urgency on his face, nodded.

‘All right. Come in and sit down there. I’ll see if I can fetch him.’

Simon sat on a chair in the hall, staring silently for a moment at a moth-eaten tiger’s head above a row of photographs of past cricket and rugby teams. He heard the murmur of voices from far away. A distant door slammed and footsteps approached. Dr Duncan stood before him, in an old brown suit with a row of pens in the top pocket, and a shabby chalk-stained gown. The grey hair and side whiskers stood out more wildly than Simon remembered.

He stood up and held out his hand. The headmaster shook it brusquely.

‘Well, young man? You have an urgent message from young Cavendish’s father, I hear.’

‘Yes, sir. It’s . . . rather serious, I’m sorry to say.’

‘Step in here.’

Dr Duncan opened a wood panelled door to the right of the tiger’s head and ushered Simon in. There was a large desk, rows of books, several ancient chairs and sofas with cricket bats and pads piled on them, and a rack on the wall with a number of thin, pliable canes. Simon shivered, remembering a similar room in his own school days. Dr Duncan sat behind his desk, indicating a hard, upright chair in front of it.

‘Well, what is it? Serious, you say?’

‘Yes. It’s the boy’s mother, I’m afraid. She’s very ill.’

‘Mrs Cavendish? I’m sorry to hear it. She looked well enough when she came here.’

‘Yes. It was an accident. She, er, fell from her horse and hurt her head. The doctors are very concerned. Only a matter of time, they say.’

Dr Duncan sighed, pursed his lips, and pressed his fingertips together in front of his face. ‘Dear me, how very tragic! Such a pleasant young woman, too. Well, well. You want me to break the news to the boy, I suppose.’

‘Well, no sir, it’s not exactly that. Apparently she’s been asking to see him, and Colonel Cavendish has sent me to bring him home.’

Dr Duncan thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘I’m not sure that’s wise, young man. Serious injury and death can have a very traumatic effect on the minds of boys of young Cavendish’s age, you know. They don’t have the maturity to cope with it. In my opinion it might be best to keep him on at school, where he is surrounded by friends and has plenty of work to keep him busy. Take his mind off it, stop him brooding.’

Simon opened his mouth, closed it again, swallowed. He had thought he had anticipated everything but not this. He had forgotten the stubborn, bloody-minded, stiff-upper-lip attitude schoolmasters of the old style could adopt. He forced his face into a conciliatory smile.

‘You’re probably right, sir, of course. But it’s not for me to decide, I’m just here to obey orders. Colonel Cavendish’s express instructions were that I should bring the boy home to see his mother, tonight.’

Dr Duncan bristled. ‘It’s termtime, and I am
in loco parentis
. In the absence of the Colonel himself, it’s for me to decide.’