by Daniel Kemp
I'm afraid that my department never picked him up early enough, it wasn't until the start of the war in '39 that he hit our radar by which time his main contact in America was a Joshua Ryan, a Canadian. One shipment of arms intended for Ireland was confiscated by the New York customs with only part of that consignment getting through. We managed to stop the rest at our end, but Malone was an imaginative organiser. I'm only too sorry to say that we missed most of the weaponry he sent across the Atlantic. He and Charlie met sometime in early 1930 and as I say, Charlie moved in. It was our reasoned belief that it was then that Charlie Reilly became active. Fortunately Malone died at a relatively young age but the finance kept coming and we put that down to Charlie arranging it. Seemed logical at the time! One thing that we can't be sure of, is just how much damage Reilly did while he practised his duplicity inside that government department, but if half of what we suspected him of being behind is true, then he was an 'A' class bastard with few equals.”
“Know much about that Joshua Ryan, Michael?”
“Not that much, Harry! Bad time for exchanging information then. We looked from our end and found that he had changed his name from Simmons in 1938 because his brother had fought in Spain. The Canadian government decreed those who volunteered to fight fascism were, not to mince words; traitors! Apt really in Joshua's brother's case. He, Douglas Simmons that is, did a Damascus turnaround, didn't find religion though, he swapped sides to the Nazi Waffen SS. Never found an end story on him, but assumed the Red Army must have shot him when they overran the part of Germany he was last recorded at! Strange times, Harry.”
“Where was that recorded sighting, Michael, do you recall that?”
“Offhand, Harry, I don't, but it is something I could discover by calling old friends still in employment at Ireland House. It's not as well staffed as in my day, all a bit quiet over there now. Would you like me to make some enquiries, knowing how delicate this all is?”
“Point taken, old friend. Think I'll sit on it for a while before making a decision on that one. Did you know a Lord Montague from those days, Michael?” I asked, hoping that he didn't.
“His name was one of many on my desk when I took over, Harry, but our hands were trussed up tighter than a turkey at Christmas. They still are, I believe, in his regards. Many vociferous mentions of the Official Secrets Act flying from the Home Office amongst higher places. I'd tread very warily in his direction if I were you. Did your family know him personally?” He threw daggers at me from his scowling narrow eyes.
Chapter Twelve: Farms And Islands
When Douglas Simmons heard of the treatment being dealt to fellow Canadians on their return home he decided to stay in Spain and fight on. Being principally a realist, and not letting ideals stand in the way of survival, he surrendered before Franco's final assault on the outgunned, outnumbered forces at Ciudad Real and was immediately handed over to a German unit under the command of Wilhelm Ritter von Thoma, commander of the ground element of the infamous Condor Legion.
Germany's withdrawal from Spain on Franco's victory was, in the main, swift, without fanfare or a bubbly cheerio, Franco quickly distancing Spain from her allies. The numerous aeroplanes of the Condor Legion, no longer wanted on Spanish soil, were the first to beat a hasty retreat. German soldiers followed soon after, laboriously packed as sardines inside as many an Auntie Ju, a Junkers transport model 52, as could be found. Captured prisoners being an overall encumbrance to the new Spanish regime, they too were as quickly repatriated. Douglas could have chosen Canada to go to, but instead chose Germany as his next port of call.
Between 1939 and when he was again a captive, in 1945, Simmons filled a succession of roles inside and outside of Germany. One internal role he filled was working besides Viktor Brack in the formation of the T4 program on euthanasia, leading to the development of the gas chambers used in the concentration camps. Another was on the development of neuromuscular blocking drugs, paralysing agents to you and me. A full year before the collapse of the Nazis, and Hitler's social Darwinism, Simmons was instrumental in forming the British Free Corps, convincing prisoners of war and conscientious objectors to turn against the common enemy; communism. He travelled throughout Europe and beyond to find volunteers, travelling to North America and Canada from the submarine yards at Liepāja, Latvia.
In Canada, in and around his home city of Ottawa, now that he was unrecognisable from his previous self, he constructed a trusted team of watching eyes that reported directly to him, via a radio network that the Germans provided. Their attention was primarily aimed at Royal Air Force training bases nearby, and slightly further afield; the submarine installations on Prince Edward Island. He was efficient in all his undertakings, so were his team. Unfortunately for British intelligence, and for most other countries' intelligence services, he did not die at the hands of the Red Army at the end of the Second World War, the contrary is true. He lived on, flourishing inside the Soviet Russian regime. One of the smaller islands within the Prince Edward Island group became, in time, an important NATO submarine monitoring station, tracking Russian underwater activity. Douglas recruited many like-minded anti-west, or plain communist sympathisers among the Irish inhabitants. There was one who objected to his about turn of loyalty. He would have jumped at the chance of serving the Soviet Union but couldn't then, because of family issues. His vows of allegiance came later, when assigned the code name of Lionel by his Soviet masters.
Simmons placed this advert in the local Royal Gazette, 'Ireland calling all disenchanted men of the bloodied Isle of Ireland. For more information contact The Appendia Corporation, 12 Calle 74 Este, Panama City, Panama. Please enclose an addressed envelope for our reply.'
When I eventually got my hands on all this information I did consider telephoning Jimmy Mercer, but as all American interest in that part of the world had long been confined to the history books, or biographies of past American presidents, I skipped on that protocol and trusted in luck.
The following afternoon I was disturbed by Joseph with news of an arrival. George, always referred to as Mr Northfleet at The Hall, was ushered into the estate office where I was busy catching up with home affairs. As he came through the doorway he appeared taller than I recalled, he must have grown an extra inch or two, or was he standing straighter?
“I have discovered something really important, Harry. I didn't trust the telephone so drove up as quickly as the speed limits allowed. I'm a bit bushed as you can see.”
“You look more sprightly than you have of late, old chap. Good to see you. Must be vital news to get you to drive all that distance. Have you eaten?” I was genuinely pleased to see him, especially as he was in such a buoyant mood.
“I did before I left and Mrs Squires packed a few thing for me to munch on during the journey. There were quite a few shortbread biscuits, my favourites, and a flask of tea. I do believe she thinks it's the world's end up here. But to business, Harry! I've discovered where Percy Crow was born. Well, to be absolutely correct, it was Mrs Squires who suggested where to start. She said that she'd spoken to her sister, you may recall the lady, Elsie is her name. Came to a tea party in Phillip's time. I think you were staying over in London while at Cambridge. Small lady, like Mrs Squires in stature, whitish hair and a bit on the sarcastic side. Kept on about the privileged in life, and how they should share the wealth around. Phillip was none too impressed. If you can recall the occasion she wore heavy rimmed glasses and spoke very deliberately. A bit of a sharp tongue! Anyway, if you can't remember, said that she used to be a regular visitor to Wales, and…”
I have never had that effervescence, or exuberance, with male members of our family as I do with my two sisters, nor had with my mother and aunts. With George it was no different. He was, as I've said, closer to me than my two natural brothers had ever been, but even so my intolerance of the banal chatter of men did not have the same endurance level as that from women. Women never spoke unimaginatively around me, I suppose that could have been it. Ge
orge, on the other hand, loved telling stories and was usually highly entertaining with the telling, it's just I wanted to reach the end before he did. He was obviously excited, maybe because he'd found that all-important role that he so desperately wanted since his mother had passed over and his father had abandoned him. I wasn't insensitive to his position, it was simply impatience. I was listening with one ear to his historical story and the other tuned in to the future with the end tantalisingly delayed.
“All very nice, George I'm sure, but what is it that you've discovered?” I thought he knew my quirkiness too well to be piqued. He carried on, quickly reaching the crux of the matter.
“Said it was a very beautiful part of the world, even wanted to buy a place there. Ah, sorry, Harry, I was rambling on a bit there, weren't I! To the point, George. To the very point! I started to look at that Lady Lamb Farm after she told me the complete story. Thought it might be providence.”
The smile had disappeared from his face as he passively stood there, looking cumbersome and discomforted. It was as if my stopping the completion of his story had indeed been offensive. I hoped it hadn't, as it was the furthest thing on my mind, but I do know my mannerisms can be upsetting at times. I rose and pulled the opposite chair nearer, inviting him to sit. Now outwardly more at ease, he began again.
“When the Kettleworths bought the place in 1912, it had stood empty for two years, but before that it was a tenanted farm rented from the Somerset family who owned Raglan Castle and the surrounding estate. Huge social changes going on at the start of the twentieth century of course, so I guess they could no longer afford the upkeep of the castle and all else. Must have been a very expensive and emotional time.” My patience was again wearing thin but I hid it well, smiling when I really wanted to shout.
“The tenants at that part of the Raglan farm were Percy's parents, Cecil and Mary. Percy was born there in 1902. He has a sister, Harry, name of Rachel. She was born a year after him, but I've made no enquiries into her; yet.” He sat back firmly, waiting for the applause. “Oh, I missed something out there, sorry. Both Percy's parents died that year. 1910 I mean.”
“Congratulations, George, what a piece of work. You're a master investigator and no mistake.” He was, and I meant every word. I shook his hand. A gesture I normally found contrived and false when from someone I knew. I hoped George accepted it as the tribute I intended it to be.
“Wait! There's more, Harry,” he was smiling and at full throttle. “You're in danger of doing something you warn others against. The jumping of fences before they're all in front of you!” He clasped my hand with his other and held on to it. I was touching his soul and it was crying out for love and attention.
“Go on, old chum, I'm all ears.” I stood before him, not drawing away.
“The photo of the building that looked like a disused railway station is just that, Harry, but not just any old rail station. It's the railway station at Llanbadoc. It would have been the nearest one to Lady Lamb Farm that was closed in 1964 as part of the redefining of the rail system. There are only four photos left now, but give us time and Mrs Squires and I will get the lot without a shadow of a doubt! How's all that, Harry? Hope it makes your day.”
It did! I gave him one of the biggest hugs I had ever given to anyone. It was then that the full ramifications of George's discoveries began to pound away in my brain. What was Maudlin telling me and what was the reason that compelled its reconstruction in such a complicated manner devoid of any written word? Percy Crow had obviously been abused as a child along with Charlie Reilly. Possibly Crow had gone on to abuse children himself, but he was involved with so many other things that it was nigh impossible to separate his tangled life. Like all warrens there's a way in as well as an exit. Lady Lamb Farm seemed to be our entrance into the labyrinthine life of someone whose exit needed infinite camouflage.
“See if you can trace an Ulster police officer who died at Newry police station in 1952 next, George. Tough task, I'm afraid. Name of John Williams, a very common name in those parts I imagine. I'll give you the name of a contact who could help, if he has a selective memory only remembering my good bits instead of the bad ones.” Smiling I regained my chair, praying that George may indeed find a fulfilling future.
1952 was the year of Percy's recruitment into the intelligence community, twenty-nine years before a party in Eton Square that placed him in the same room as Terry Row, a prolific sex offender and a contemptible user of privilege. What were the other hidden clues inside those intriguing remaining photographs, and was sex the connection?
“Joseph has the name of someone that in the past we have communicated with at The College of Arms, in London, tracing family lines and what have you. I'll get him to give you the full address before you leave. That could lead to an insight into the photos of those two grand-looking houses left on the list. At least it's somewhere to start. For now, my good friend, congratulate yourself heartily, you thoroughly deserve it. Thank Mrs Squires's sister Elsie, if you can of course, and Mrs Squires. She's done an equally superb job. I have to see Serena over something trivial, but you know her, as does poor Joseph. She's running him and Mrs Franks ragged, which I guess if anyone can understand, you can. Have a me time break, George. Use the pool with all the facilities down there and I'll catch up for pre-dinner drinks. Let's say seven o'clock in the drawing room? Come with a thirst, my old friend, you'll need it.”
Chapter Thirteen: What's For Dinner In Detroit?
Mrs Franks did not share Mrs Squires's acquired stoicism, being instinctively intolerant of the slightest interference in her kitchen. It was sacred ground to her, having been a part of her for over fifty years. She and Joseph were the longest serving members of the staff at The Hall, he outranking her by seven weeks. Both no longer lived in the parts of the house reserved for staff, living now in the houses on the eastern edge of the estate that were built specially for accommodating highly valued, long-serving household colleagues. They owned their homes that were first envisaged as places for retirement, but neither wanted to retire and I had no wish to replace either. I use the word colleague intentionally, as without any of those at The Hall, or those employed outside on the estate, nothing would function as well as it did. I was privileged to have such loyalty, and that respect was mutual. Serena was causing friction with them both. I found her in Mrs Franks's office, dictating the recipe for a Portuguese onion stew. Mrs Franks rose from her chair on my entrance.
“Good afternoon, your Lordship! I would appreciate your help in a domestic issue.”
Serena looked upset, almost on the verge of tears, but chose to remain silent. A choice she seldom opted for. I was concerned.
“Most certainly you may have my help, if I'm able, Mrs Franks. Need a hand or two peeling the spuds for dinner? None too sure my delectable Serena's nails would stand up to such, but you're welcome to my dashing bravado with a potato peeler. Hello, my love.” I bent and kissed Serena, but she turned her lips from me, her cheek was not as sweet.
“Miss Abenazo wishes me to change the menu for tonights dinner, my Lord, but as I'm trying to explain to her our vegetables have already been delivered. They always are the day before I need them. I simply have not the staff to spare to send any into town trying buy all her…” she paused, searching for the correct word. “Exotic ingredients! Can't be bought at the local Tesco's, my Lord, need a special deli for such things. I expect the fancy kind in London would stock them but not locally.”
“Well, that's easily sorted. Please, sit, Mrs Franks. There's no need to be so formal. I have dinner reservations in Bray, near Windsor tomorrow evening and plan to stay on down there for a race meeting at Ascot starting Tuesday, next week. Should be some interesting racing to look forward to, Serena.” I was interrupted before I was able to finish, but that gave me the extra time I urgently needed to come up with a plan that pacified both of them without favouring either. To add to the confusion we were nearing one of the busiest times in the estates diary.
/> “I never knew that. You never told me, Harry. Am I included in this?” chirpily Serena enquired.
“Of course you are, my sweet. You're included in the foreseeable future of everything that's mine!” I caught Mrs Franks in one of those looking to heaven for inspiration moments so beloved by Joseph. I smiled at the two most important women in my life.
“What we'll do, Serena, is pop into town and have a day exploring the delicatessens of London, then bring all those fine ingredients back here in good time for the grouse shoot on the twelfth. Perhaps Mrs Franks would consider serving your stew as a dish at one of her delectable sittings over those two days. We have, so I believe, forty guests to entertain that weekend, but I'm sure you know the exact number already, Mrs Franks? Whilst in London we could get some stylish cards printed displaying your name, my love, as the instigator of such a masterpiece. Or Tanta's if you prefer, alongside. Add his name as your creative wizard. How is the chap by the way, you haven't mentioned him since we left. That's by the by, for now how's my suggestion suit the two of you ladies? Does your stew have potatoes, Serena, as you know I simply adore how Mrs Franks cooks hers.”
Inwardly I heaved a sigh of relief, being delighted that my spontaneity had saved the day. Serena pouted petulantly, as I would have expected, but as the satisfied smiles on two contented face showed, the day was indeed mine.