Ring of Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  ‘I thought I had some notes relating to the group that gathered in the hotel in Pimlico – the one that invited Chapman-Collins to speak – but was damned if I could find them. However, the other night I finally managed to unearth something. Apparently the meetings seemed to be organised by a man called Fenton, initial L – he booked and paid for everything and the Italian waiter confirmed at the time that he appeared to be the organiser. I don’t think he was ever investigated: once Chapman-Collins was questioned, the group stopped meeting. That was an omission, but we were very busy and our resources limited. Had L. Fenton been a communist, I’ve little doubt we’d have looked into him.’

  ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘That, Mr Prince, is for you to find out, is it not?’

  Chapter 16

  London and Buckinghamshire, January 1945

  When the others left his basement flat later that evening, Richard Prince pulled the armchair closer to the gas fire and carefully read through the neatly typed biography. There was little doubt that George Nicholson was, in Hugh Harper’s words, an utter disgrace.

  Prince’s new persona had been born a year after him, in 1909. His birth date was the same as Prince’s father, to make it easy for him to remember, and like Prince himself he’d spent his early years in Nottinghamshire. Unlike Prince he’d left school at the earliest opportunity and had spent the next period of his life drifting around the East Midlands. It was an entirely unremarkable life, moving from job to job, town to town, with the occasional minor brush with the law. He’d been a supporter of Mosley’s fascists but never a formal member of the party. That was important, the document had emphasised: if he claimed to have been a member it would be possible to check that. The document gave the dates and venues of Mosley’s rallies he’d been to in Birmingham and Nottingham, but the biography emphasised that he should be vague about George Nicholson’s life and certainly not volunteer too much information about it.

  The key event, the one that would be the basis of his cover story and would establish his credibility, had taken place in 1941. George Nicholson had been conscripted in late 1940, joining the 12th Battalion of the Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire Regiment, which was known as the Sherwood Foresters, based at their main barracks in Derby. In 1942, the battalion had been sent to India, but Nicholson – who’d predictably never risen above the rank of private – was not with them. He had spent part of 1941 and the first half of 1942 in the Glasshouse, the notorious military prison in Aldershot. Attached to his biography was an extract from his file kept in the regimental headquarters.

  On Sunday 25 May 1941, Private George Nicholson reported late for guard duty at the Normanton Barracks, Derby. Upon being reprimanded, he was observed to spit in the direction of the sergeant and was then taken to the duty officer, Captain Marks. Private Nicholson refused to offer an explanation for his behaviour other than to say it was a Sunday and he intended it to be his day of rest. Captain Marks asked him if he’d been drinking and Nicholson’s response was that it was none of his business and anyway he didn’t see why a Jew should be giving him orders. He said he was a proud Englishman, ‘unlike that traitor Churchill’. Captain Marks ordered his immediate arrest, whereupon the private put up some resistance.

  At his subsequent court martial, Nicholson was found guilty of being drunk on duty and insubordination to superior officers and was sentenced to one year’s imprisonment. He was released from the Aldershot military prison on 7 June 1942 and instructed to report to his regimental barracks to attend a further disciplinary hearing, with a view to being given a dishonourable discharge. However, he failed to attend the barracks, since when he had been assumed to be absent without leave and a warrant had been issued for his arrest.

  The biography made clear that anyone checking the records at both the regimental headquarters and the military prison in Aldershot would find Nicholson’s service record and the account of his arrest and subsequent imprisonment. Lance King had pencilled a note at the bottom of a page: It is more than possible – indeed quite likely – that there are fascist sympathisers at either Derby or Aldershot or both and they may have ways of checking your records at those places. You’re also on police records as being AWOL and therefore liable to arrest and being handed over to the Military Police.

  Since his release from prison in June 1942 and subsequent disappearance, Nicholson had mostly done poorly paid labouring jobs – do remember to be vague about this, don’t commit to dates and places – and had been in London since early December.

  * * *

  Before leaving that night, Audrey had promised to stop by in the morning with more information. ‘It will be early, though,’ she warned.

  Despite this, he’d not expected the doorbell to ring just after six o’clock. He was still wearing his dressing gown when she marched in. She told him to get dressed. When he joined her in the sitting room, she was at the table, two cups of tea waiting and half a dozen sheets of paper neatly arranged.

  ‘Do come and sit next to me; I doubt you have the ability to read upside down. I didn’t put any sugar in your tea – the bowl’s there. Now then, Mr Arthur Chapman-Collins: not as much detail as I’d hoped. Lance tells me his main files have gone to Registry and probably to one of their storage places out of London. However, I do have here this sheet of paper that I think I must have typed up after he was allowed to resign from the Treasury – date of birth, date joined the civil service, that kind of basic information. This is his address in Gerrards Cross; have you heard of it?’

  ‘No, I can’t say I have.’

  ‘It’s a small town to the west of London, actually in Buckinghamshire. It’s very pleasant, with a decent train service into London. It’s his family home: he lived there with his mother until she died in 1937 and then remained there on his own. He never married.’

  ‘Was the house sold after he supposedly died?’

  ‘Lance did check that out and says apparently not.’

  ‘Is there any other family who may live there?’

  ‘We only know of a younger brother, but his registered address is an apartment in Kensington.’

  ‘I should go and see him then.’

  ‘Not without some considerable difficulty: he’s a prisoner of the Japanese.’

  ‘I did have a thought last night – about Chapman-Collins.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You said his solicitor wrote to say he’d died in Ireland and is buried in a village cemetery out there.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘What if we were to find the grave and—’

  ‘And disinter him?’

  ‘Well, ask a few questions certainly.’

  ‘I don’t think you realise quite how hostile the Irish authorities are to us. I believe it would be counter-productive were we to start enquiring about where he’s buried. We don’t want to alert people that we’re looking for him.’

  ‘Fair enough. You also mentioned this chap Fenton – the one who organised the dinner?’

  ‘I was about to come on to him – in fact the notes I have are more extensive than I thought. I’d forgotten that as well as Fenton’s name we also managed to obtain the names of the other diners. Have a look at this.’ She passed him a handwritten sheet of paper.

  Meeting at Abbey Hotel (St George’s Road, Pimlico, London SW1)

  Speaker: Arthur Chapman-Collins (Treasury?)

  Organiser: L. Fenton (Rotherhithe?)

  Other participants: Bannister; Spencer; Davies; Philips; Cummings; Carver; Kemp

  ‘Not too much in the way of clues, eh?’

  ‘No, there’s not. But I’m told that if anyone can make something of this, it’s you. Not for me to tell you your job, of course, but were this up to me I think I’d start in—’

  ‘Gerrards Cross?’

  ‘Indeed. I’m glad we’re of similar mind. Happy hunting: trains for Gerrards Cross leave from Marylebone station, by the way.’

  Before Prince left, he made one telephone call on the
line connecting him to the MI5 exchange, telling the operator it was George calling for Alf. Within moments he was speaking with Lance King. He explained what he wanted.

  ‘When would you like this information, Richard – and please don’t say within an hour or something unreasonable like that. With the local police we need to approach with caution: doesn’t do to make too much of a fuss.’

  Prince replied that the following morning would be fine. Meanwhile he was off to Buckinghamshire.

  * * *

  When Prince arrived in Gerrards Cross, he found a very agreeable town where everything was neat and in its place. In marked contrast to most other parts of the country, it didn’t seem to be unduly troubled or indeed changed by the war. It struck him it wasn’t the kind of place where George Nicholson would fit in.

  His first stop was the parish church of St James, an ornate building that reminded him of some of the churches he’d seen on the Continent. Inside he explained to a confused-looking verger that he was trying to find the grave of an old family friend.

  ‘Mrs Chapman-Collins, she died in 1937; she was at school with my grandmother.’

  The verger fussed around the dusty ledger for a good deal longer than Prince considered necessary, taking off his glasses then mislaying them before putting them on again. When Prince suggested that maybe he should look himself, the verger regarded him as if he’d suggested offering a prayer to Satan.

  ‘There is no record of a burial for a Mrs Chapman-Collins in 1937. You say you can’t remember her first name?’

  ‘It’s on the tip of my tongue, but—’

  of the burial of a Mrs Chapman that year. If you give me a moment, I can show you the grave.’

  Muriel Margaret Chapman

  3 May 1860–8 June 1937

  Dearly loved wife of the late William Chapman

  Much loved mother of

  Arthur Chapman-Collins and Charles Chapman

  The verger hung around, rubbing his hands together either in anticipation of something or to ward off the cold. Prince was unsure whether to tip him or not but decided against it. He told him he was terribly grateful but would appreciate a few minutes on his own.

  Early in his career he’d been taught the value of gravestones. ‘They tend to be the one place where people can be relied on to tell the truth,’ a colleague had told him, and over the years he’d learnt they could be sources of valuable information. This gravestone was no exception. Most importantly it told him that Arthur had no siblings other than Charles, and it also gave him the parents’ first names. The grave told him one further bit of information: Arthur had bestowed on himself a double-barrelled surname, one neither his parents nor his brother shared. It said something about the man that he felt the need to aggrandise himself in such a manner.

  From the church it was a pleasant walk to the Austenwood area in the north of the town. The address for Arthur Chapman-Collins was a turning just off Bull Lane, the kind of residential area found in every affluent English town: well-kept Edwardian houses spaced far enough apart from their neighbours to ensure maximum privacy, long driveways and immaculate front gardens looking as if they were in competition with the ones next door.

  Given that no one apparently had lived in the house for years, he was surprised it didn’t look more abandoned. There was no hint of dereliction. The garden was not as perfect as other ones he’d passed on his way there, but it was neat enough, certainly well tended.

  It was approaching 1.30 when he arrived, and for ten minutes he stood in the shadow of an enormous oak tree with a good view of the house from the other side of the road. During that time no vehicle or pedestrian passed him, and the only sounds were those of the countryside, the cries of birds and a tractor somewhere in the distance. The position he’d chosen also gave him a good view of the front of the house: it was a two-storey detached building, with the ground and first floors dominated by large bay windows with smaller windows on either side of them. The downstairs windows were all shuttered; the upstairs ones had curtains tightly drawn across them.

  He crossed the road and climbed over the padlocked driveway gate, allowing himself another minute or two with his back to a hedge, watching the house, alert to any sounds or clues that it might be inhabited. He felt his heart quicken, not through any exertion but because of the thrill of the chase; the same sense of exhilaration he’d experienced in Nazi Europe but now not mixed with the fear that wrapped its arms around his shoulders.

  He walked quickly down the gravel path, noting the absence of weeds, and crouched down to peer through the letter box, remaining mindful that the front of the house was quite open. The gate to the left was locked, but he was able to pick the lock quite easily and make his way along the side of the house. It was dark, but there was something about it, something he couldn’t put his finger on. It felt cold and empty, though not in a way he’d have expected it to be if no one lived there. There was a neatness and order about the place: the side door appeared to have been recently painted and the brass handle newly polished. He took out his lock picks again, but it was no use: the door was firmly bolted from the inside. He decided to go round and have a look at the back of the house: he glanced at his watch and reckoned he had an hour before it would begin to get dark.

  From towards the front of the house came the brief sound of falling glass. It was hard to describe, but it was as if the noise had ended early, before the glass had time to shatter – like a suppressed shout. He couldn’t be sure if it had come from the front of the house or beyond it. He couldn’t be sure what he’d heard.

  The lawn was covered in leaves and all the windows looking out onto it had their curtains drawn. He tried the lock on the French windows, but like the side door they were firmly bolted from the inside. He paused as he thought he heard a sound, maybe a slight creak, and at the same time the starlings in a nearby tree fled noisily. He was used to the silences outside a busy town or city, when small sounds become magnified. He crouched down on the terrace that ran the width of the house. It was free of debris and appeared to have been swept recently. He thought about sitting on the wooden bench and enjoying a cigarette. But time was pressing and he turned to go back to the side gate.

  ‘Who are you?’

  It took him a while to make out the person who’d spoken to him. She was standing at the end of the dark alley against the side gate, dressed in black, the same colour as the wood behind her. They were about twelve feet apart from each other.

  ‘I asked who you are, what are you doing trespassing here?’

  The woman stepped forward, some light now falling on a pretty face with an angry expression on it. Prince glanced behind him to check no one else was there and tried to peer beyond her to see if she was alone, even though the gate was almost shut. He was as good as trapped and knew he’d need to make a decent fist of talking himself out of it.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry; I’m an old friend of Arthur’s – Arthur Chapman-Collins. We worked together at the Treasury and were great chums and then I was posted to India in… what, ’36 it must have been. We kept in touch, exchanged Christmas cards as one does, and then of course the damn war started and we lost touch altogether.’ He paused to catch his breath, aware that he was rambling and probably sounded nervous, which was no bad thing. Bumbling fools didn’t appear sinister.

  ‘And what are you doing here now?’

  ‘I’m back home for the first time in many years and I thought I’d look dear Arthur up. I couldn’t find a telephone number for him and I’ve got all the time in the world, so I thought I’d come out to Gerrards Cross and see him.’

  ‘Did you not think of trying the Treasury?’

  ‘No, I rather had a falling-out with them, you see.’

  ‘So you came up here in the middle of the day, a weekday…’

  ‘I do realise that. I take it he’s not here?’

  ‘Arthur died a few years ago. I’m most surprised you didn’t know.’

  ‘Good heavens – poor Art
hur! Whatever happened?’ He held his hand to his forehead in shock.

  She’d moved a step closer to him, her arms crossed angrily in front of her, looking him up and down.

  ‘He passed away suddenly while on holiday in Ireland.’

  ‘Goodness gracious, that’s appalling. When was that?’

  ‘Five years ago. I can’t quite believe you hadn’t heard; you did say you were great chums.’ There was a sceptical tone to her voice.

  Prince shook his head. ‘I know, and I suppose it’s times like this that one so regrets not having kept in touch.’

  ‘What did you say your name is?’

  He paused for longer than he meant to. ‘George, George Nicholson.’ He held out his hand to shake hers but she took a step back. ‘Are you a neighbour, may I ask?’

  ‘I keep an eye on the house.’

  ‘Does anyone live here?’

  ‘His brother Charles, but he’s away in the forces now.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘This gate was locked, Mr Nicholson.’

  ‘I can assure you I found it open.’

  The woman had now opened the side gate and moved aside, indicating he should leave. Once they were on the gravel drive, he turned to face her. ‘I hope you don’t mind me mentioning this – one doesn’t want to be indiscreet – but I had heard Arthur had left the Treasury rather suddenly. I don’t know if you know anything about that?’

  ‘I really wouldn’t know.’

  Above him a tiny movement caught his eye. He glanced up at the house but saw nothing, though something didn’t seem right. A large crow had settled on the ridge of the roof and appeared to be staring at him. As he watched, another half-dozen crows landed on the ridge, all adopting the same inquisitive pose.

  ‘I think perhaps I’d better leave now…’