The Quest

by Christopher Nicole

  Frederika blew him a kiss.

  “What do you reckon?” Lockwood asked, as they emerged into the fresh air.

  “As I said, I’m damned glad we’re going home. Let’s get back to the hotel. Although,” he remarked, as they walked along the pavement, past other diners at outside tables – it was amazing, he thought, how for a nation supposed to be bankrupt everyone appeared to have a great of money to spend on enjoying themselves – “I suppose Frederika has a point in that this is a result of having been defeated, utterly.”

  “Oh, quite,” Lockwood agreed. “Aren’t you glad we’re British?”

  “Amen,” Berkeley said. “What’s that noise?”

  “Some kind of a riot, down that street.”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  “Do we really want to get involved?” Lockwood asked, without much optimism. He was too well aware of his employer’s innate romanticism.

  “We are supposed to be observing everything there is to observe, about post-war Germany,” Berkeley pointed out, and turned down the street from which the noise was emanating, then stopped, to take in the situation.

  After a hundred yards away there was quite a crowd, who seemed to be attacking a couple of people in their centre, while shouting obscenities against the Jews.

  “Those people are taking a beating,” Lockwood commented.

  Sticks were being waved, and used.

  “Do you reckon they’re Communists?”

  “They’re more likely to be Nazis, or their ilk. We can’t let his happen, Harry.”

  Lockwood sighed. “Twenty to two, sir.”

  “The odds have been longer. Those are mere bullies.”

  Berkeley advanced down the street. “Halt, there!” he shouted.

  The assailants stopped to turn and look at him; the two people they had been beating were on their hands and knees.

  “Get off!” Berkeley shouted. “Leave those people alone.”

  With a joint snarl, several of the young men turned towards the two Englishmen.

  “With me, Harry,” Berkeley said, and drew his revolver, not to fire into the air, but into the cobbles at the feet of the advancing men. Sparks flew, and there was a shout of pain; Berkeley did not know whether the injury had been caused by flying stone or richochetting bullet. But the men fell back.

  “Clear off,” Berkeley said, advancing behind his gun.

  The crowd continued to fall back.

  “You will die for this,” someone shouted.

  “You’re first in the firing line,” Berkeley told him, continuing to advance, conscious always that Lockwood was at his shoulder.

  Someone threw a stone, and it was Lockwood who this time replied, firing over their heads. The mob broke and ran.

  Berkeley stood above the two people. They were a young couple, a man and a woman. Both were bleeding from various wounds to their heads and shoulders, and their clothes were torn and disarrayed.

  “They were going to kill us,” the woman gasped.

  “Now they will kill you,” the man said.

  “I hope not, on either count,” Berkeley said, and listened to a police whistle. “Better late than never, I suppose.”

  “But they will be on the side of the mob,” the man said.

  “We’ll work it out.”

  “We must go,” the man said.

  The woman hesitated.

  “He’s probably right,” Berkeley said.

  “Will you be all right?”

  “Certainly.”

  Still she hesitated, while the man tugged at her sleeve.

  “We are forever grateful,” she said.

  He peered at her, all dark hair and eyes in the gloom; he thought she might be quite attractive, with the blood and the fear cleaned away.

  “Tell me your name.”

  “Judith Cohn. This is my husband, David.”

  “It’s been a pleasure.”

  “Judith!” David Cohn’s voice was urgent. “We must get away.”

  The whistles were closer, and there were helmeted policemen at the top of the street.

  “And leave these gallant gentlemen?”

  “I assure you, we’ll cope,” Berkeley told her.

  A last hesitation, then she threw both arms round his neck and kissed him on the cheek. “We will be forever grateful. If there is anything we can ever do to help you . . .”

  “I’ll remember. Now go off.”

  The Cohns ran into the darkness, and Berkeley and Lockwood turned to face the advancing policemen, hands held high.

  “Our good deed for the day, Harry,” Berkeley said.

  Lockwood gave another of his sighs.

  *

  “Well, really,” General Gorman commented. “I sent you to Germany to make a report on current conditions there. Not to be deported for taking on the Berlin police.”

  “With respect, sir, we did not take on the Berlin police,” Berkeley pointed out. “We surrendered upon arrest.”

  “But you were arrested. And deported.”

  “I think the judge was on their side.”

  “I imagine he was on the side of law and order. The Globe is furious. You were supposed to be their correspondents.”

  “You’re not going to tell me that none of their correspondents have ever been deported before.”

  Another snort. “At least no one knows that you were working for the Government.”

  “I’m afraid quite a few people do,” Berkeley said.

  Gorman raised his shaggy eyebrows.

  Berkeley told him about Frederika, and her knowledge of his true identity.

  “Good God!” Gorman commented. “Didn’t you deny it?”

  “I didn’t think that would serve any useful purpose. Anyway, the knowledge was confined to her immediate group. Have you ever heard of the National Socialist German Workers Party?”

  “What a mouthful. Why can’t these foreigners use simple names, like Tories or Liberals?”

  “This lot actually do shorten their title to Nazi.”

  “Which doesn’t mean a lot. No, I have never heard of anything called Nazi. You say it is a political party? Where?”

  “At present it’s situated in Bavaria. But I suspect it hopes to grow.”

  “And how did you get involved?”

  Berkeley told him.

  “Hm,” Gorman commented. “This woman Lipschuetz seems to be a right wildfire. I will have to have a chat with Leighton and find out some more about her.”

  John Leighton was editor of the Globe.

  “However,” Gorman went on, “this fringe party would not appear to me to have a great deal of relevance.”

  “Even if this Hitler chap is quite open about provoking a war with Russia as soon as it is practical?”

  “I don’t think it’s likely to be practical in our lifetimes, Berkeley. And if it did, I imagine we’d stand on the sidelines and cheer.”

  “So you’d be prepared to support him.”

  “Eh?”

  “That’s what he wants. British support. It’s not a matter of either men or money, at the moment. He wants, supposing he mounts his coup and brings it off, successfully, international recognition for an independent state of Bavaria.”

  “The man’s mad.”

  “So a lot of people feel. However, supposing he did. I mean, create an independent state of Bavaria, would you go along with that?”

  “My dear Berkeley, you do keep dealing in hypotheticals. When he has done this, if he can do this, we will look at the situation. Now off you go and write up your report. Be as detailed as you can.”

  Berkeley nodded and stood up. “I’d like to be sure I am going to be able to spend Christmas at home.”

  “Oh, certainly. We won’t be needing you again until next year. Oh, by the way, there is a telegram for you. Ask Bright for it.”

  Berkeley hurried. The War Office was the only address his family had for him when he was on a job, as all of his jobs were necessarily secret. But a tel
egram . . .

  Major Bright waited in the outer office. “Came two days ago, sir.”

  Berkeley slit the envelope, scanned the words, his heart giving a sudden enormous lurch: Can you return at once? Anna has disappeared. Townsend.

  Part Two

  Pursuit

  ‘Now of that long pursuit

  Comes on at hand the bruit

  That Voice is round me like a bursting sea:

  “And is thy earth so marred,

  Shattered in shard on shard?

  Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me!”’

  Francis Thompson

  The Trap

  This was not a matter in which Berkeley felt like involving the War Office, at least at this stage: there could be several reasons for what had happened, even if he liked the idea of none of them.

  He collected Lockwood, and they caught the next train north. Lockwood studied the telegram. “Kidnap?”

  “It looks like it. Eleven-year-old girls don’t as a rule elope.”

  “No. But if she was unhappy at school . . . eleven-year-old girls do run away.”

  “Yes,” Berkeley said thoughtfully. It was quite likely that Anna had been unhappy at Corby Abbey, for all their attempts at encouragement. In that case . . . she should be quite easy to find. But he didn’t think that was the truth of the matter. The fear of what might have happened was like a physical pain. But he was Berkeley Townsend, a man with nerves of steel. He had at least to act the part.

  An anxious John Townsend met them at the station, Berkeley having telephoned from London.

  “Where have you been?” his father asked. “We wired you three days ago.”

  Three days before Berkeley had been under a German police escort, on his way to board a ship in Hamburg.

  “I was tied up,” he said. “I only got back to England this morning.”

  “Well . . . Miss Plumb is distraught. We all are.”

  “Let’s get over there,” Berkeley said.

  Corby Abbey was just breaking up for the Christmas holidays. Groups of girls stood around muttering and whispering as John Townsend drove into the quadrangle, where an anxious housemistress waited for them.

  “Oh, Colonel Townsend,” she said. “We are so worried.”

  “Yes,” Berkeley said, and was shown up the stairs to Miss Plumb’s office.

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am that something like this should have happened,” Miss Plumb said.

  She looked genuinely distressed, but Berkeley could not help but feel her anxiety was more for the reputation of her school than for the well-being of his daughter.

  “What did happen?” he asked.

  She gestured the three men to chairs, while the housemistress fluttered. Miss Plumb sat behind her desk.

  “Anna went for a walk, one afternoon, and did not return.”

  “When was this?”

  “Four days ago.”

  “Who was with her?”

  “Why, no one.”

  “My daughter went for a walk, outside the school grounds, by herself? An eleven-year-old girl? Is this usual?”

  “Well . . .” Miss Plumb flushed. “It is, for Anna.” She looked at the housemistress for support. “Miss Blake?”

  “She does this quite regularly,” Miss Blake said. “She’s a strange girl. Very introverted. She likes to be alone.”

  “And so you let her wander around the countryside by herself,” Berkeley said.

  “Well . . .” it was Miss Blake’s turn to flush. “It’s not as if there’s any danger . . .”

  “Miss Blake, my daughter has disappeared.”

  “Yes, well . . . we did . . . are expecting her to come back. Girls sometimes run away when they are unhappy . . . but they always come back.”

  “After four days? Why was she unhappy?”

  “Well, as I said, she didn’t make friends . . . and there was a certain amount of ragging . . . you know what schoolgirls are like.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” Berkeley said. “Very well. My daughter has, in your opinion, run away. Four days ago. What have you done about it?”

  “Well . . . we notified Mr and Mrs Townsend, of course . . .” she glanced at John Townsend.

  “When?”

  “The next morning, When it was realised Anna hadn’t come back.”

  “You didn’t notify the police.”

  “Well, you see . . . the scandal . . .”

  “I notified the police,” John Townsend said. “The following day.”

  “Thank you,” Berkeley said. “By then Anna had been missing for two days. And what did the police come up with?”

  “They made inquiries,” John Townsend said. “Anna is a striking child. Anyone seeing her would have remembered it. But . . . there have been no sightings.”

  “She’s just disappeared,” Miss Plumb said gloomily.

  “And I take it there has been an extensive search of the country around the school?”

  “The police carried out a search, yes, and they were assisted by local volunteers. My senior girls took part. Without success. We just cannot think what has happened to her.”

  “Well, thank you, Miss Plumb.” Berkeley stood up.

  So did Miss Plumb. “May I say that you are taking this very well, Colonel.”

  “That’s my business,” Berkeley told her.

  “So, may we hope, well . . .”

  “That I won’t change my mind about sending Alicia here? As you said about Anna’s Confirmation . . . we have time to think about that.”

  “What are you going to do?” John Townsend asked as they got into the car, still watched by the curious schoolgirls. “I feel so terribly guilty. Your mother . . .”

  “Neither of you have anything to feel guilty about,” Berkeley told him. “Anna was in the care of the school. And at least you acted positively, while they worried about the possible scandal.”

  “Shall we go home now? I know your mother is anxious to see you. So are the children. We’ve kept them home from school, since it happened.”

  “We’ll go home as soon as I’ve been to the police station.”

  Berkeley and Inspector Watt were old acquaintances. Principally because . . . “Uncanny, isn’t it, Colonel Townsend,” the inspector remarked. “Just like your wife.”

  “When my wife ran off, as you are recalling,” Berkeley said, “she was nineteen years old, she was accompanied by a man, and you traced her movements without difficulty, at least as far as London.”

  “Yes, sir,” Watt said gloomily. He was a generally gloomy man, with a long face and a nervous twitch.

  “I take it you attempted to trace my daughter’s movements?”

  “We did, sir, but I must ask you to remember that we were not notified of the, ah, incident for more than twenty-four hours after it happened.”

  “I am still sure that my daughter would have been remembered at the railway station.”

  “Indeed, sir. Especially a young girl travelling alone. But there is no record of it. Anyway, would she have had the money to buy a ticket?”

  “Not by herself.”

  “You think she has been kidnapped, by a man? Has there been a ransom demand?”

  “Not to my knowledge. But beautiful little girls like Anna are not always kidnapped for ransom, Inspector.”

  “You don’t think . . . oh dear.” Watt looked ready to burst into tears. “But that would be terrible.”

  “Yes,” Berkeley agreed. He wondered, if Anna had been raped and murdered, what the reaction of a British jury would be if he found the man and killed him. He would certainly do that. “Have you made a house-to-house search of Northampton?”

  “Well, sir, you must understand that simply isn’t possible. This is a big town, and my force has other duties to consider.”

  Berkeley knew he was right. “If I supply you with a photograph, can you put it up in various public places, and ask if anyone has seen her?”

  “Of course, sir.”

>   Berkeley and his father and Lockwood went home, to a tearful greeting from Alicia. Like her husband, she could not help but feel guilty, despite the fact that they could not be held responsible for something that had happened at school.

  “We’ll find her,” Berkeley promised, taking the photograph from the mantelpiece. It was a formal studio portrait, of himself and the three children, taken just before he had returned to Serbia the previous summer. As such, Anna was only one of four faces, but presumably she could be cut out and enlarged. The problem was that it was in black-and-white, and while Anna was a strikingly beautiful little girl even in monochrome, her real distinction lay in her rich auburn hair . . . which merely looked dark in the picture. Nevertheless, he took the print into Northampton, to the photographer who had taken the shot, and had it cut and then blown up. He gave several prints to Watt, kept several more for himself, then went home to the growing realisation that his daughter had indeed vanished into thin air . . . and that he might never see her again.

  To imagine what might have happened to her, and which must have ended with her being dismembered and buried in some remote area, or even in someone’s cellar, he supposed, recalling the Crippen case, meant sleepless, tormented nights.

  So was being with the other children, who his parents did not feel could be told the truth. So they believed their sister had ‘gone away’ for a while, and naturally they continually wondered when she would be coming back. Now Berkeley understood for the first time what his mother had meant when she had told him Anna had been the dominating member of the young family – without her, John junior and little Alicia seemed lost.

  *

  “Julia Braddock is here,” Alicia said, hesitantly.

  Berkeley looked up from the report he was compiling; work was the only solace he had. “What does she want?”

  “I imagine she wishes to offer you her condolences. There is really no need to be quite so hostile.”

  Berkeley sighed. “I suppose not. I’ll come down.”

  Julia waited in the drawing room. She had ridden over, wore jodhpurs and a silk shirt, a blue jacket and carried her hard hat in her hand.

  “I am so terribly sorry.”