The Scarlet Nightingale

by Alan Titchmarsh

  Her boss spoke levelly: ‘Every hour of every day, and most especially right now. But if it were not us, then it would be some other poor soul and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s the age, you know.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The age of those we send out there – often to their deaths. How can we do it, Doris? Tell me that. How can two old folk like us – you are younger than me, I know – but how can we send men and women … boys and girls, really … off to die in a foreign country when they’ve never had what amounts to a life?’

  Doris tried to force a smile. ‘It’s not always the case. Some of them achieve great things and return safely.’

  ‘Great things, eh? Like blowing up factories?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sordid, I call it. Not great.’

  ‘But if they didn’t, wouldn’t the results be even more … sordid, as you put it?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ He turned once more to the window, as if looking for some kind of sign. ‘I’ve fought too many wars, Doris, and that’s the truth. I’ve no appetite for it. No appetite at all. Talking of which, I have to see Venetia Reeves tonight.’

  ‘One of her suppers?’

  ‘No. A visit to the theatre.’

  ‘Something nice?’ She blanched at the triteness of her question.

  Lord Belgate turned back from the window. ‘It couldn’t be more inappropriate.’ He winced and then said, ‘Blithe Spirit, at the Piccadilly.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes. Anything remotely like “blithe” my spirit could not possibly be.’

  Doris turned to leave, but paused a few feet from the door.

  Charles Belgate noticed her hesitation. ‘What is it?’ he asked as she turned to face him.

  ‘I don’t know whether I should say this. I don’t know whether you will want to hear it, or whether you will think I have acted irresponsibly.’

  Charles Belgate’s expression remained impassive. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’ve sent a message to Hawksmoor.’

  Chapter 27

  PICCADILLY THEATRE, LONDON

  NOVEMBER 1941

  ‘It’s discouraging to think how many people are shocked by honesty and how few by deceit.’

  Noel Coward, Blithe Spirit, 1941

  ‘Charles! How lovely to see you! Come in, come in!’

  Venetia Reeves was standing just inside the open door of her box at the Piccadilly Theatre, her shoulders swathed in fur and her ample bosom shimmering with sequins. In her hand was a crystal flute half filled with champagne. She was having a reviver – the sort of evening she needed to get her through the misery of war. All too often now she found herself enveloped in gloom – a state of affairs not helped by the fact that her niece was no longer present to jolly her along, and Mrs Heffer’s capacity for scintillating badinage was somewhat slender.

  Charles Belgate smiled bravely. He would have to choose his moment carefully. This was not the most appropriate environment in which to break bad news, if, indeed, he were to find what amounted to an appropriate opportunity.

  ‘Champagne! Goodness!’ he offered valiantly.

  ‘Of course. We need to take our mind off things, don’t we?’

  It was a statement which he found difficult to dispute.

  ‘You know the Flynns …’ she gestured in the direction of the fellow occupants of the box, who nodded and smiled a greeting. Charles looked over the edge of the box at the packed stalls below. ‘Quite a house,’ he mused.

  ‘Yes. And Mr Coward’s in. With … oh, what’s the name of that strange woman? The one with the short, dark hair. Funny.’

  Charles Belgate looked in the direction of Venetia’s gaze. ‘Beatrice Lillie?’

  ‘That’s her. And look who’s next to her.’

  ‘Mmm?’ he asked absently.

  ‘Look who’s sitting next to Beatrice Lillie.’ She nodded again in the direction of the star of stage and screen.

  ‘The Mountbattens,’ he murmured. ‘And the Duff Coopers.’

  ‘And Pamela Churchill. Look! Right next to them! Well … when it comes to social climbing, that woman has a very long ladder.’

  Charles Belgate could not help but smile. The worries of the war may well have dented Venetia’s customary insouciance but not her appetite for gossip, and at moments like this she proved that it was alive and well and living deep inside, just waiting for an excuse to slip out.

  ‘Venetia, really!’ he admonished her.

  ‘Well, Charles, I’m all for a bit of colour in life, and I do enjoy the trappings of an advantageous marriage myself, but Pamela Churchill leaves me standing. You know she’s packed it in with Randolph and is now angling for that Harriman fellow from America. Shameless! Quite shameless!’

  Charles Belgate was unsure as to the seriousness of Venetia’s remark until she winked at him and added, ‘Isn’t it wonderful!’

  He laughed a little. It was a long time since he had done so, but deep in his heart he felt deceitful, as though keeping the news of her niece’s welfare from her was somehow dishonest. He would tell her when the time was right, and that moment, he had to admit, might well not come tonight. If only his wife were here; she would jolly him along. Her own ‘war effort’ had taken her to some church in the city, helping the homeless. But then Lady Belgate was not privy to a fraction of her husband’s knowledge; that was the nature of the game. His game. His wretched game. He endeavoured to put the discomfort out of his mind for the duration of the play at least.

  The curtain rose on the scene of an English drawing room with French windows open to the garden and a log fire burning in the grate. A maid entered with a drinks tray, and for a while at least, Lord Belgate would attempt to escape the sordid world in which he lived and disappear into that Arcadian image of English country life …

  ‘Wasn’t she good?’ asked Venetia, applauding gently as the cast took their curtain calls.

  ‘Which one?’ asked Charles.

  ‘Kay Hammond. So pretty. So elegant.’

  He noticed that her face bore a trace of sadness, in spite of the fact that she was complimenting the actress. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes. It’s just that … well … she reminded me a little of Rosamund. She has the same hair; the same spirit of mischief about her. The same sort of sparkle.’

  ‘But she was a ghost,’ offered Charles, and then he could have bitten off his tongue at his insensitivity.

  ‘Yes. There is that, too.’ The audience was still clapping enthusiastically as Venetia turned to face him. ‘Do you think we will ever see her again, Charles?’

  She raised her voice to get over the sound of the applause.

  ‘I hope so, Venetia. I do hope so. I am doing all I can to get her home safely, I promise.’

  He had given up hope of coming clean, and the fact that he had to speak over applause made it easier, rather than more difficult. It was as if the edge was taken off it. To talk of something so serious at a moment of wild elation on the part of an audience gave him more courage than if he had had to talk softly in a silent room. He could see, too, that since their last conversation about her niece, Venetia had somehow steeled herself for what she perhaps considered the inevitable: that Rosamund might not return. Charles knew that beneath the often frivolous exterior, there beat the heart of a realist. Venetia was, in spite of outward appearances, a resilient soul. She would, on occasion, find the ground snatched from under her, and wobble a little, but she would refuse to be downcast for long.

  The applause had died down now, to be replaced with a merry buzz of conversation as the audience began to leave the theatre.

  ‘Marvellous,’ said Sir Basil, congratulating his hostess and kissing her on the cheek before he and Lady Flynn took their leave. ‘Really took us out of ourselves.’

  Venetia picked up her fur wrap and handed it to Charles, who draped it around her shoulders before picking up his own overcoat and Homburg.
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  ‘We were talking, you know, just before she left, and I said that I thought older people should fight – do you remember me telling you that? I offered to man a Lewis gun, but she just laughed.’

  Charles looked at her sympathetically.

  ‘When did we grow old, Charles?’ asked Venetia as they descended the stairs. ‘When was the turning point?’

  ‘I don’t think there is a particular point, Venetia. Not really. It creeps up on us gradually and we only notice it after the event. One day we are … well … blithe spirits, without a care, the world stretching out in front of us, and the next we are over the hill and past it. Except that you and I know that we are not; that we are simply older and maybe just a little wiser.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Not always, no. Sometimes I wonder if I have learned anything on this bumpy journey. But I am certain of one thing …’

  They had reached the pavement now, and Charles shepherded Venetia to her waiting car, with only a fleeting thought about a petrol allowance and how lucky his hostess was in that respect. Lucky, and careful, for he knew she used it only rarely, to cheer herself up, she said, and to show resilience in the face of adversity. He continued his conversation through the open door as his hostess settled herself into the deep leather of the Daimler.

  ‘I will not rest, Venetia, until I have sorted out this bloody mess. There are many young people risking their lives out there, and I am concerned for them all. But there is one in particular for whom I feel a personal responsibility. I’ll do my best to get her home in one piece, and that’s a promise.’

  He closed the car door, raised his hat and smiled as the car purred away from the pavement. He knew in his heart that he had made a promise he would find extraordinarily difficult to keep.

  Chapter 28

  GESTAPO HEADQUARTERS, MONTBÉLIARD

  EARLY DECEMBER 1941

  ‘Sweet is revenge – especially to women.’

  Lord Byron, ‘Don Juan’, 1818-24

  Obersturmführer Schneider and Unterstürmfuhrers Koch and Neumann had transported their captives to the imposing pillared building that had become their headquarters in this part of occupied eastern France. The two had been photographed, had their fingerprints taken, been stripped of their clothing and given grey canvas pyjama-like suits, and locked in separate cells, each equipped with nothing more than an iron bed with a thin ticking-covered mattress and a rough blanket, and in one corner a bucket. There they were left for three days and fed only meagre rations. They had ample time to contemplate their fate while Schneider awaited the man charged with their interrogation. His arrival was not met with any jubilation on the part of Obersturmführer Schneider. Quite the reverse.

  Otto Koenig listened attentively, his brow furrowed, his eyes barely blinking. ‘And you think they were responsible for blowing up the Peugeot factory?’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  The conversation took place in German, but Koenig would be able to question them in French and also in English; he spoke all three languages fluently.

  ‘And you have questioned Robert Peugeot?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Schneider. ‘He denies all knowledge of their true identity, and we can’t really pursue the matter further on that front. If we arrest him, we will likely have a mutiny on our hands. We need to keep the factory in production. As it is, it will be several weeks before the damaged machinery can be repaired.’

  As usual, an uneasy atmosphere surrounded the two men – Schneider, in a smart Gestapo uniform, Koenig in a nondescript grey suit and tie. Schneider, blond, angular and Aryan, was not a fan of Koenig, who was tall, dark and lean, his face – despite his relatively young age – etched with the woes of the world and overlaid with the sort of inscrutable expression that made it clear he would never give anything away. Perhaps that’s why he was considered so good at his job. As far as Obersturmführer Schneider was concerned, Otto Koenig was a necessary evil. He would have preferred to do the interrogating himself, but conceded that the other man’s linguistic skills far surpassed his own.

  ‘You questioned Henri Dubois this morning,’ Scheider stated. ‘It seems our three friends had been staying with him before moving on to the house where we arrested them, and that, too, is owned by a member of his family. What did we learn from him?’

  ‘Nothing very much until his wife turned up,’ replied Koenig.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘A little more.’

  ‘She came in of her own accord. Why?’

  ‘To save her husband.’

  ‘How could she do that? If he is a member of the Resistance, he must pay the price.’ There was no hint of compromise in the Obersturmführer’s voice.

  ‘She offered us additional information. More important information.’

  ‘On the two prisoners?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘In the hope that we would release her husband in exchange for them.’

  Schneider sneered. ‘She is obviously under a delusion. Where is Dubois now?’

  ‘In a cell.’

  ‘And his wife?’

  ‘In another cell.’

  Schneider smiled. ‘So we have all four of them.’

  ‘Yes.’ There was little expression in Koenig’s voice.

  Schneider seated himself on the throne-like chair behind the imposing carved mahogany desk, silhouetted like some deadly spider against the large scarlet flag with the swastika at its centre which hung on the wall. Schneider enjoyed the grandeur of his position, from the uniform itself to the trappings of rank – the desk, the office, the insignia and the respect which he imagined these accoutrements accorded him in the eyes of his subordinates. He motioned Koenig to sit opposite him in a smaller and less imposing chair. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked.

  ‘You know why I am here, Herr Obersturmführer.’

  ‘I know we value your languages, Herr Koenig, but you are not always here. You appear only on certain occasions. I am curious to know why.’

  Koenig looked impassive. ‘I come here when I am requested to do so by your superiors.’

  The remark was not lost on Schneider, but he ignored the intended slight and pursued the line of their original conversation. ‘What happened to the third member of the party? The wireless operator.’

  ‘We assume he got away. He may not get far. We have lookouts posted at railway stations. But he has his papers so …’

  ‘He may give us the slip?’

  Koenig shrugged non-committally.

  ‘And the wireless itself?’

  ‘Damaged beyond repair.’

  ‘We cannot learn anything from it?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. It suffered rather badly on its journey from the top floor to the ground.’

  Schneider disregarded the modest attempt at humour, rose from his chair and tapped the desk. ‘So why did Madame Dubois come to the aid of her husband? This is very unusual. It is unlike members of the Resistance movement to give each other away, and they know we do not bargain.’ He paced the floor, his hands behind his back, tapping one against the other as he tried to understand the motives of the husband and wife.

  Koenig explained, ‘It seems she had been talking to the wireless operator. Asking him about his wartime experiences.’

  ‘And he was forthcoming?’ There was a note of incredulity in Schneider’s voice.

  ‘Madame Dubois seems to have a secret supply of Scotch whisky …’

  ‘Does she? I wish I did,’ responded Schneider drily. ‘Even I find that hard to come by.’

  ‘She managed to discover that he was in the British navy, and that he was deployed on Operation Catapult in the Mediterranean.’

  Schneider stopped pacing and turned to face Koenig. ‘He told her that?’

  Koenig shrugged. ‘I suspect he was lulled into a false sense of security. He had been flown into France to work with the Resistance; he would have regarded her as a colleague. She was hospitable. Plie
d him with whisky. He may not have told her very much, but that was enough for her.’

  ‘Enough for what?’

  ‘Madame Dubois had a brother in the French navy.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘When France was occupied by German forces, the bulk of the French navy was assembled at Mers-el-Kébir in Algeria. Admiral Darlan assured Churchill that he would never hand over French ships to the Germans, but Churchill felt that he could not risk the safety of his country on the word of the French Admiral. On the third of July 1940, he ordered the British navy to open fire on the French fleet. Operation Catapult. The French ships were either irreparably damaged or sunk and more than a thousand French soldiers and sailors were killed.’

  ‘What has this to do with our prisoners?’

  ‘Madame Dubois’s brother was one of those killed. She felt that the man who has escaped – so far – was one of those responsible.’

  ‘An eye for an eye?’

  ‘So to speak, yes.’

  ‘So she betrayed all three?’

  ‘It would appear so. She sent her daughter to the safe house with a bottle of whisky. She had put some sleeping powders in it so that, having enjoyed her hospitality by way of celebrating their triumph, they would still be in the house when you and your officers turned up. She knew they had planned to leave early and so saw that as a way of delaying them until you arrived.’

  ‘And all because …’

  ‘She was very close to her brother; she feels his loss keenly and cannot forgive the British navy for being responsible for his death.’ Koenig remained silent for a moment and then said, ‘Will you release Madame Dubois and her husband?’

  Schneider looked incredulous. ‘And let them go back to their old ways – sabotaging factories and harbouring the enemy?’

  ‘You have a reason.’

  Schneider laughed. ‘What possible reason could I have for releasing two people who are self-confessed members of the Resistance? I would be a laughing stock.’

  ‘Not if you did so for tactical reasons.’