The Scarlet Nightingale

by Alan Titchmarsh

  Rosamund looked at Diana meaningfully and said, ‘I know.’

  Diana was about to launch off again and then noticed the expression on her friend’s face. She sat perfectly still for a moment. ‘Oh my God!’ There was a pause, before she added, ‘You’ve been there, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Again, Diana reached across and clasped Rosamund’s hand. ‘I am so sorry. I had no idea. Was it hell?’

  ‘I wasn’t tortured, if that’s what you mean.’ She thought of Harry’s hands around her neck and shuddered. ‘At least not much. I escaped before they got round to that. But, yes, it was as close to hell as I’ve been, if you discount losing my parents and Celine.’

  ‘I feel so crass. So stupid. Ros, I am so sorry, I never really thought …’

  ‘It doesn’t matter; really it doesn’t.’

  Diana lowered her voice and spoke in a whisper. ‘But Harry. Are you saying he’s a double agent?’

  Rosamund looked down at the table. ‘You know I can’t say that.’

  ‘Yes, I know you can’t say it. But I know that you could think it.’

  Chapter 33

  LONDON

  CHRISTMAS 1941

  ‘We have to distrust each other. It’s our only defense against betrayal.’

  Tennessee Williams, Camino Real, 1953

  She could not recall ever seeing Lord Belgate look so happy – like a favourite uncle who is the life and soul of the Christmas party. His face had lost its customary pallor and he was enjoying a particularly fine glass of Taylor’s vintage port at the end of the meal, which, by Mrs Heffer’s standards, was exceptionally gastronomic – roast chicken and roast potatoes followed by apple pie and cream.

  They had retired to the drawing room, and Rosamund was sitting on the sofa next to the man responsible for her wartime travels as Lady Belgate and Aunt Venetia were discussing the latest news on the domestic front, in particular the lack of decorative Christmas wrapping – prohibited thanks to attempts by His Majesty’s Government to save paper.

  ‘I’m giving National Savings Certificates to all my friends in the hope that they will take the hint,’ said Lady Belgate.

  ‘Very patriotic,’ commented Aunt Venetia.

  Charles Belgate glanced at his wife and smiled. ‘She does her bit,’ he confided in Rosamund. ‘Though not quite as well as you have done yours.’

  ‘You know then?’

  Charles Belgate nodded. ‘I know everything. Now.’

  ‘But you won’t tell Aunt Venetia? The details, I mean.’

  He looked at her sideways and said, ‘In our business we don’t tell anybody anything, do we?’

  ‘No. Of course not. Silly of me; only I don’t want her to worry about me, that’s all.’

  ‘I think you’re a little late for that, Rosamund.’ He patted her hand. ‘We all worried about you.’ Then, anxious that his tactility should not be misinterpreted, he added, ‘Some of us felt particularly responsible.’

  Rosamund smiled and took a sip of her wine. ‘You weren’t really responsible, you know. I am my own person. I can make my own decisions.’

  ‘Yes, but it was I who encouraged you in that direction.’

  ‘You opened my eyes to what I could do. Yes, it was dangerous, but if I hadn’t gone, then I would have stayed here feeling powerless and guilty at letting others take the risks, and that’s no way to endure a war.’

  ‘They also serve who only stand and wait. That’s what Milton said.’

  ‘Yes. But Milton was blind and I am not blind to everything that goes on around me.’

  Charles Belgate could feel the conversation begin to take an uncomfortable turn. ‘Well, there you are. You’re back safely, that’s the most important thing – for your Aunt Venetia in particular. And for me.’ He smiled at her and she could see the genuine relief in his face.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ she enquired.

  ‘Of course. Anything you like.’

  ‘Hawksmoor.’

  Charles Belgate’s eyebrows rose, and then he said, very slowly, ‘Yes?’

  ‘He is what I think he is, isn’t he?’

  The old man frowned. ‘Now what am I supposed to say to that?’

  ‘I need to know, that’s all. I need to know that he is not …’

  ‘A traitor?’

  Rosamund nodded.

  Charles Belgate put down his glass and said, ‘Shall we go for a stroll to the window? I don’t suppose we shall see much but we’ll be out of earshot over there …’

  The two of them rose and crossed the room to the tall, wide windows that by day offered a view over the war-battered countenance of Eaton Square. Lord Belgate eased the curtains apart slightly and gazed out over the darkened scene, devoid of street lights, and said, ‘The essence of our operations is secrecy; you know that. The less each of us knows, the better for national security.’

  ‘But some of us know more than others,’ cut in Rosamund. ‘And, having hopefully proved our worth, we want to be sure we are not misinterpreting things.’

  ‘Just so. Point taken. Harry Napier – Hawksmoor – you should know, is not a traitor. He had perhaps the most difficult job in my department. I say “my department” without any claim to ownership, since I am retired, and as far as the rest of the world is concerned, I fill my days doing not very much. But I help where I can. Felpham is the front man and I am nothing more than a backroom boy, really.

  ‘Hawksmoor was asked to undertake the most dangerous of missions – to pass himself off as a disaffected British national with a fine grasp of languages who was prepared to work for the Abwehr – German intelligence – while in reality reporting back to us any information he managed to obtain. He did not have to accept the role – in fact, I did my best to discourage him. He’s a sound chap with a promising future in front of him. Felpham was adamant that because of his unimpeachable character and his linguistic facilities, he was the only man for the job and so I bowed to his wishes. Hawksmoor insisted that he was prepared to take the risk – not least to his reputation.’

  ‘Who knows what he has been doing?’ asked Rosamund.

  ‘Only those who need to. But I have to tell you that his previous boss is very impressed with him.’

  ‘You mean the man in charge of the royal stamp collection?’

  ‘No. I mean the man who owns the royal stamp collection. The King.’

  ‘Oh. I see …’

  ‘Now he’s back, of course, and it is unlikely he will be able to continue in the role, thanks to the nature of his escape.’

  ‘You mean, because he got me … us … out …?’

  ‘He felt that he could not carry on doing the job he was commissioned to do and see someone he … had feelings for … lose her life. Anyone who is captured and who they know to be guilty of sabotage rarely escapes death. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘So he blew his cover in order to save me?’

  ‘Couched in such dramatic colloquial terms, yes.’

  ‘And you don’t regard him as a traitor?’

  ‘My dear girl, I regard him as one of the bravest and most patriotic men I have ever met. A man who is prepared not only to risk his life for his country but also his reputation. Those who operate on both sides are generally considered to be of dubious probity and not especially trustworthy. Hawksmoor knew all this and yet, when it was explained to him what he could achieve – by passing false information to the enemy – he chose to put his own safety and honour on the line. A man who does that is either damned stupid or exceptionally brave. I don’t see Harry Napier – er, Hawksmoor – falling into the former category. Do you?’

  Rosamund shook her head. She stood silently for a moment, looking out of the window across the darkened square, then asked, ‘Is Sir Patrick Felpham annoyed?’

  ‘That one of his best agents pulled out of a valuable mission in order to save a single operative? Yes, he is a bit. But he also realises that someone who manages to do that sort of job and still ret
ain a degree of humanity towards the people around him deserves respect.’

  ‘What will he do now?’

  ‘Hawksmoor? Well, his days as a double agent are probably over. As you put it, his “cover is blown” – certainly in that neck of the woods. We can still use him in a desk job, of course, though I suspect that he will not be terribly happy at the prospect.’

  ‘So I’ve really rather scuppered his chances?’

  ‘You may have scuppered his chances of doing the job he did, but you are also probably the person who saved his life. In the same way that he saved yours. I’d say you were pretty even, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps. I’m not really sure.’

  ‘The hawk and the nightingale – always an uneasy relationship,’ murmured Lord Belgate.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘He is Hawksmoor and you are Christiane de Rossignol. Because of your penchant for red ink, I always referred to you as “The Scarlet Nightingale”. Silly, really. Blame it on an old man’s romantic nature.’ And with that he rose, kissed her on both cheeks, gathered up his wife and bade Rosamund and her aunt a fond farewell.

  Chapter 34

  LONDON

  APRIL 1942

  ‘For whatsoever from one place doth fall

  Is with the tide unto another brought.

  For there is nothing lost that may be found, if sought.’

  Edmund Spenser, ‘The Faerie Queene’, 1590

  Christmas came and went in rather an anticlimactic fashion, the initial elation of survival and the seasonal festivities gradually giving way to a feeling of settled resignation, though that resignation was not without its share of gratitude.

  Much to her aunt’s relief, Rosamund was offered a job translating documents in Baker Street, and while she originally would have baulked at such a pedestrian pursuit after the heightened atmosphere of the operation in Sochaux, she was happy to endure the quiet life – for the foreseeable future, at least.

  In her room at night as winter turned slowly and reluctantly into spring, she would play over the events of the previous few months, which had now begun to take on an air of unreality.

  She wondered what they were all doing now – like Thierry and Paulette, for instance. Were they together? Had they known each other for some time, or was their closeness something which had developed with unexpected rapidity? How could Thierry continue to operate in France now that he was known to the Gestapo? He would have a new identity, and new papers, of course – the Resistance were adept at arranging that – but he would have to change his appearance. She tried to imagine him with a beard, and then stopped herself from taking this futile exercise any further. She told herself to regard the whole event – including their night of passion – as an episode in her life that was now closed. It could be learned from, of course – it must be learned from – but in spite of its intensity, it was over and unlikely to be repeated.

  Then her thoughts would turn to Eric; dear, straightforward Eric, who had been too trusting for his own good. An honest-to-goodness Lancastrian whose idea of a good meal was a mug of sweet tea and a pork pie. Poor Eric, who had imagined, to his enduring credit, that everyone on the same side would have the same goals and a degree of loyalty to those with whom they served. She remembered laughing at his down-to-earth sentiments and being baffled by his ability to send the most complex messages by, as he would put it, ‘twiddling his knobs’. His communication skills had not let him down, but something else had – his openness and trusting nature. How dreadfully unfair.

  Frequently Rosamund would wake up in a cold sweat, having heard in her sleep the screams that emanated from the room at the end of the corridor in Montbéliard. She would be fighting for breath and her nightdress wringing wet, and the only way to banish the visions was to change her clothes, sit down at her dressing table and write something in her journal; something so divorced from war and conflict that it took her mind off the sordid realities of the past few months. The red ink, too, was brighter on the page than the black or blue-black variety and did its own bit to lift her spirits. Not so much a Scarlet Nightingale now, she thought, but a rather dowdy flightless bird with an uncertain future.

  As a nod to Celine and the future together they had been denied, she wrote short stories set in France. Not war-torn France, but a peaceful France where the sun shone and the sea glistened on the southern coast. In the France of her imagination, there was a villa with a garden that ran down to the Mediterranean sea – a rocky garden through which palm trees and aloes, oleanders and olives pushed their brave stems to bask in the summer sun. Crickets hummed their song in the warmth of midday, and above the baked earth the air was redolent of lavender and rosemary. There were parasols and awnings and leisurely meals in the company of handsome young men, most of whom were tall and dark and slender and … oh, how she missed him.

  She would frequently find her pen poised above the page, her eyes staring into the middle distance as she thought of Harry and wondered where he might be and what he was doing. Then she would get up and cross the room to her bed, slipping between the sheets and using the imagery of the man who had saved her life as a comforting distraction from the more disturbing products of a fevered imagination.

  She had not liked to ask where Harry was or what he was doing, and she doubted that anyone would tell her if she had. Lord Belgate never mentioned him again; never mentioned the events that had so dominated her life. It was as if the vow of silence had been renewed; hear all, see all and say nothing. All she could console herself with was the fact that Harry knew where she lived and would contact her when the time was right if, indeed, it ever was. But right for whom? For him? For her? She had hardly been encouraging on their journey back from France. In the back of that large black car she had made her feelings quite clear. How could he possibly assume that she would want to see him again? And then, one day in April, a letter arrived at 29, Eaton Square. Rosamund recognised the handwriting, and took the small envelope up to her room and laid it on the window seat. She stared at it for fully half an hour before opening it carefully with a paper knife, then unfolding and reading the single sheet it contained:

  My Dear Rosamund,

  You have probably forgotten about me after all this time. I gather you are now office bound. They wanted to do the same with me, but I am afraid I resisted and am about to be sent on another mission where I am hopeful of not being recognised. If you felt you could see me before I went, I would be so grateful. I know you thought so little of me on our return to Blighty after our last encounter, but I hope that time has healed the rift somewhat and that you realise that my motives were all for the best. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt you – either physically or emotionally. I worry that you may never understand that.

  If you can meet me in that little French restaurant at the end of Maiden Lane on Thursday evening – say at around 6.30 p.m. – we could have a quick catch-up before I depart.

  I expect nothing of you, but did not want to leave on bad terms and without saying goodbye.

  Yours, as ever,

  Harry

  She did not think twice about meeting him. She just hoped he had not given up on her. Walking to the restaurant, she could remember the last time she had felt so apprehensive, although that was for completely different reasons.

  He was already there when she arrived, sitting at a table in the corner. He was the same Harry, but his face was more careworn than she remembered; more tired and weary. And then when he saw her, his eyes lit up and he smiled, giving her hope that she was not alone in her sentiments and that, perhaps, he still harboured some warm feelings towards her.

  He stood up, leaned over the table and kissed her on the cheek. She handed her hat, coat and gloves to the waiter and sat down opposite him.

  For some moments neither of them spoke, each looking at the other as though in some kind of trance.

  Then he said, ‘I was not sure you would come.’

  ‘I was not sure you would ever as
k me to,’ replied Rosamund. ‘Not after the way I spoke to you when we came back from France.’

  ‘It was difficult,’ he offered. ‘You didn’t know what was going on. And when I had to hurt you … simply so that they did not suspect … I thought I would rather give up and just confess. But I knew that was not the way to survive – for either of us. I had to make sure that as far as you were concerned, I was Otto Koenig.’

  Rosamund did her best to lighten the moment. ‘Not a favourite name of mine: Otto. What made you choose it?’

  ‘It was chosen for me. Along with Koenig.’

  ‘Rather appropriate bearing in mind your former employer.’

  ‘Very quick of you. Yes. But I can’t say I felt like either an Otto or a King …’

  ‘Ours not to reason why …’ she murmured.

  ‘No.’

  The waiter arrived with two glasses of wine.

  ‘Goodness!’ said Rosamund.

  ‘I thought you wouldn’t mind,’ said Harry. ‘I twisted their arm and when they found out it was for you – well, a lady – they managed to find something half decent in their depleted cellar.’

  ‘It will set you back a bit,’ said Rosamund, thinking out loud.

  ‘Oh, you’re worth it.’ Harry grinned.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I know so.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to …’

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Whatever you want it to be.’

  They both took a sip of the wine and Harry remarked, ‘Not bad. Better than beer … or water.’

  ‘It’s very nice,’ said Rosamund. She was nervous of spoiling the moment, of saying the wrong thing. It was still not clear whether Harry was simply saying goodbye or … something more.

  ‘So you are going on another mission,’ she said softly.