by John Gardner
‘They always have.’ Maitland-Wood was working himself up into a rage. ‘They’re mentioned in the bloody history books. One of them was a go-between for Anthony Standen, Walsingham’s agent. Sixteenth-century stuff. It’s said that Walsingham himself was speaking of a Railton when he said, “If there were no knaves, honest men should hardly come by the truth of any enterprise against them.” Tubby, just see that they’re all quietly put on the restricted list. At some point I’ll want to talk with the woman we placed there as an extra pension. For now, get me Keene.’
‘He’s interrogating Naldo’s wife.’
‘Well, when he’s free I want to see him. He’ll have to go through every Railton in the country like a dose of salts. Oh, and get Paul Schillig over here. We’re cutting the Yanks in on this. They have their own problems with the bloody Farthings, who are so interconnected with Railtons that it makes one wonder where all this will end.’
It was at this moment the call came in from Cornwall to say BMW’s pair of lion tamers had Beckeleg under control, their words, and were heading back to London with him.
‘He’s kicking up one hell of a stink,’ the senior of the two men said, on the open and insecure line.
‘Subdue the bugger, then.’ Maitland-Wood had already passed into the uncharted world of a private and personal campaign against the Railtons. That it might do his career some good into the bargain did not once enter his conscious thoughts. Subconsciously, the hidden part of his mind must have been full of vaulting ambition. ‘They’re bringing that bastard sailing fellow, Beckeleg, to London.’ He turned to Fincher. ‘Let Keene know I’m even more anxious to see him. Oh, and open up one of the empty safe houses so that we can get Beckeleg interrogated outside the shop.’
Tubby hurried away, and Maitland-Wood returned to his journey through Caspar Railton’s secret diaries.
The very first two entries set the entire picture for what was to follow. He had already sent down to registry for the official log kept on Caspar’s movements as a matter of course. Even in the 1930s the firm was on good terms with the passport control people at the main ports and aerodromes. The diary began on Monday 5 August 1935. The log showed that on Tuesday the 6th, Caspar Railton had passed through Croydon aerodrome, booked on the Imperial Airways morning flight to Paris, Le Bourget. The two entries in the diaries for these dates showed such premeditation that Maitland-Wood almost shook with rage.
In the calm of the registry reading room, Carole Coles and Martin Brook were also startled by what they read, though this pair, surrounded by files going back to Caspar’s induction into the service in 1915, were shaken not so much by the treachery, but the blatant and wholly insecure manner in which this tough, experienced and careful spymaster had laid out the facts.
Later, Carole was to say to Gus Keene, ‘It’s almost as though the old bugger has marked a kind of Indian trail that he wants somebody to follow.’
‘Shouldn’t be surprised,’ Keene replied. ‘Give us a kiss.’
Carole complied, as they were in bed at the time, at the Regent Palace Hotel. Miss Coles then looked at Gus with a soft adoring in her large brown eyes. ‘Did anyone ever tell you that you look like a souped-up David Niven?’ She smiled.
‘No. At school they called me “Monkey” Keene which I always thought was a comment on my looks.’
‘Wrong, that’s your agility. If you didn’t have that leathery skin, and the plumpness around the jowls, you’d look just like a souped-up David Niven I’d say.’
‘I feel agility coming on.’ Keene raised himself on one elbow and Carole turned over on her back, opening her legs. ‘I shall think of England,’ she said. ‘England, and you of course.’
But in the now and present, the ferret in Augustus Claudius Keene (his father had been an obsessive scholar of the Roman Empire) was just starting to probe interesting new ground with Barbara Railton. As he was to put it later, ‘Suddenly I reached into her drawers and guess who popped out? Our old friend Philip Hornby.’
2
They had decided to use one of the small suites on the sixth floor, one down from the canteen, for Barbara’s initial official interrogation. It was better than opening up a safe house which meant a lot of paperwork, and the whole thing could be done with a certain amount of taste.
The arrangements with Barbara were made by telephone, and they sent a car for her. The car arrived not just with a driver, but a nanny: thirty-two years of age, ultra-chic, and as tough as old boots. Keene decided that Barbara would be impressed by this, and the way in which the nanny shepherded her up to the sixth floor, occasionally placing a steely hand on her elbow, just to guide her to the comfortable rooms.
The suite was designed for this kind of meeting. There were two rooms. A bedroom — ‘Just in case you have to stay overnight’ — and a sitting room which was comfortable without being too relaxed: a polished mahogany table with two chairs stood in the centre. The table was already set for luncheon. Apart from this furniture, there were two easy chairs, high backed, buttoned leather, with hard arms. They were the kind of thing that made you sit up properly.
Keene used the same type of chair at Warminster. He called them his lacrimae rerum chairs, and once, when asked by a particularly dense novice about this title, Gus had replied, ‘Means they can give you the shits, lad. On the hour, and every hour if the interlocutor is doing his job properly.’
The suite’s main room was kept at a slightly cool temperature and had one other feature, a large oil painting, very similar to one that Keene had in his ‘soft’ interrogation suite at Warminster. It depicted a graveyard by moonlight. You could only see a very small part of the church itself, but the canvas bulged with tombstones, some new, many very old, cracked, leaning askew and all lit by a gibbous moon which threw the graves into a strange, bizarre perspective. It was an early winter scene, for the trees behind the graveyard were bare, black and brooding in the moonlight.
It was rumoured that Gus Keene had several of these oil paintings, all executed by himself for his own arcane reasons. But there were many rumours about this skilful man: that he recited the Dies Irae before starting a particularly difficult interrogation. One officer claimed to have heard a conversation between Keene and a fellow interrogator who explained in detail the finer points of how prisoners in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were whipped from Newgate to Tyburn. According to this man, Keene had listened with deep interest, and when the story was done he had calmly asked, ‘Do you know what kind of whips they used?’
Some of the Gus Keene rumours were true. Others were a slander.
Gus had expected the interrogation of Mrs Railton to be a difficult, and possibly lengthy business. In the privacy of his own heart he also did not expect to get anything out of it. Her attitude on the previous night had convinced him that, whatever Naldo was up to, Barbara knew nothing, had no secrets and, therefore, was as blameless as a new-born lamb. He also knew that, given his sadistic way, Willis Maitland-Wood could even use her as a sacrificial lamb. It was Gus Keene’s job to keep her from that fate.
On her arrival, Keene bade Barbara sit down, asked if she would like coffee, sent the nanny away to get some and, when they were at last settled in the dreaded chairs, he even asked her permission to smoke his pipe. She seemed relieved and took out a packet of cigarettes. She was to smoke pretty well through the morning session.
‘Well, Mrs Railton, we have to get to the bottom of things, and you’re our only real key to what might have been going on in your husband’s mind.’
She said nothing. Her hand was steady as she picked up the coffee cup, and equally steady as she lit the first of many cigarettes. She took a long pull at the cigarette, drew in the smoke and then exhaled. ‘Yes. Yes, we do have to get to the bottom of it, Mr Kane. That’s right, isn’t it, Mr Kane?’
‘Keene.’ Gus felt an odd nervous twitch in his brain. Attack, one part of him said, but experience and sense told him to make a steady, even confiding, approach. ‘We talked
last night, Mrs Railton, of your husband’s long friendship with Arnold Farthing.’
‘Yes.’
He repeated what she had said about the two men. ‘At one time, anyway, they were very close. You said you thought Arnold might have been stirring things. Could you elaborate?’
‘Naldo talked a lot about Arnie before he left that night. He hadn’t mentioned him for some time. Hadn’t seen him for some time, come to that. It was odd.’
‘Then I think I have to let you into some highly classified information. You know, I presume, what Arnold’s job entailed?’
‘I know he works for the Agency, as they call it. He was stationed in Berlin. Naldo kept on about that as well.’
‘The Agency?’
‘Yes. The Agency and Arnie’s work.’
Keene nodded, and told her about Arnold Farthing going missing. ‘He was due back in Washington, but never arrived,’ he finished. ‘Nobody’s seen or heard from him since. Unless, of course, your husband heard from him on that last day.’ He left it hanging, not a straight query, but Barbara felt there was a large question mark drawn in the pipe smoke rising above Keene’s head.
‘I … I suppose he might have. It certainly stayed in my mind — Naldo’s talking about Arnie, that is. I mean he did go on about him.’ She looked up at Keene and made steady eye contact. ‘Where’s Arnie gone?’ There was some intensity about her question, as though she was attempting to take over the interrogation.
‘All the signs are that he’s gone East. To Moscow.’ Keene spoke without melodrama or exaggerated speech. The words came out sounding as though he was telling her that Arnold Farthing had gone to spend a weekend in Tunbridge Wells.
‘Arnie?’ Her face, and the tone of shocked surprise, were signs that she was either an actress of exceptional talent, or truly rattled. ‘Arnie in Moscow? Are you saying he’s gone over? Turned, or whatever damned fool word they use?’
‘That’s the feeling among his own people, and most of those who should know.’
‘I don’t believe it. Not Arnie. Christ, he was so bloody straight it hurt.’ She lit another cigarette from the butt of the one she had almost smoked. This time her hand trembled.
‘They all seem to be bloody straight, as you put it.’
‘Yes, but … well, Arnie was, what do the Yanks say? Gung-ho?’
Keene said that, had he been working for Moscow, it would have been good cover.
‘Was he under suspicion or anything?’
Keene paused, counting in his head and watching her eyes, then her hands. Six … seven … eight. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well, they don’t jump … they don’t run to Moscow, unless they think they’ve been blown, do they?’ She held his eyes steadily.
‘That’s the usual reason.’ Nine … ten … eleven … twelve. ‘I don’t know if he was suspected or not. But he was called back to Washington, and didn’t seem enthusiastic about returning. His wife’s vanished as well.’
‘Gloria? What about the children?’
‘They’re OK, but you should know that your husband’s disappearance is now being linked to Arnold.’
She laughed. Loudly and with no false notes, as though she was really amused. ‘That’s tommy-rot. Maitland-Wood hurtling to conclusions, I suppose?’
‘Him, and others like him. Why’s it tommy-rot, Barbara? You don’t mind my calling you Barbara?’
‘Because it is tommy-rot.’ She did not answer the second question. ‘Darling old Nald’s so true blue that he could hide in the sky on a clear day. Moscow’s nonsense.’
‘Then why’s he disappeared, Barbara?’
‘Heaven knows. Personally I don’t think he has disappeared. I think he’s up to some op on his own.’ She frowned, and Keene thought how attractive she looked when she puckered her brow.
‘What kind of operation?’
‘Oh, Lord knows. Maybe, if he knew about this ridiculous theory; Arnold going to Moscow and all that. Maybe he’s just gone to try and talk sense into the man. They are close, you know, and since Caspar’s death …’ She trailed off.
‘Yes?’ Keene sensed he was on a main road. ‘Since Caspar Railton’s death, what?’
She looked down at her hands. ‘Naldo missed Caspar. We all miss him. We knew he was a very sick man, but he … well, he seemed indestructible.’
‘Naldo was really cut up?’
‘We all were. It made a great difference. You could talk to Cas. He was always there. He’d listen and understand. Even our son, Arthur …’
‘Did you ever go to Caspar for advice?’
‘Sometimes. You could say things and know they wouldn’t be repeated.’
‘Such as?’
‘Oh, Christ, Mr Keene, you know what kind of things. When you thought your marriage was rocky, things like that.’
‘You talked to him about your marriage?’
‘Once. A few years ago I thought we were going downhill a bit. You must be aware of the strain in service marriages.’
‘And you were under strain and went to Caspar?’
‘Yes. He understood. Gave sound advice.’
‘What about the state of your marriage now?’ The question was not even on his mental list. It came full-blown like an incubus leaping into his mind. As he asked it he felt a sense of evil.
‘Fine. Great. Super. Marvellous.’ She paused after each word, an eyebrow tilted, as though she was mocking herself.
‘Do I detect a note of uncertainty?’
She stared at her hands again, and he leaned forward, his index finger gently touching the back of her left hand. She looked up at him, her expression one of determination, even arrogance, though her eyes were brimming. A tear slid from her left eye and rolled slowly down her cheek. One tear, he thought, could become a flood.
‘It can’t be that bad. Come on. Tell me.’
She bit her lip, looked down again and shook her head like a child.
‘That’s what my job’s about really,’ he told her. ‘I sit and listen. Then I ask some questions to see if I’m getting truth or fairy stories. If I can’t tell, then others analyse it for me.’
She still said nothing, head down again and shoulders shaking slightly. Was she going to break? he wondered. If so, what was there to break about? ‘We’re just anxious to get to the truth. Reach out to it, even if it’s messy, and put it back together. Barbara, we’re on your side. We’re on Naldo’s side. We just need to know if there’s anything you can tell us. You know? A candle to light the way.’
‘And a chopper to chop off my head?’ she asked solemnly.
To Gus Keene, Barbara was an unknown quantity. He had read the file, as he had read Naldo’s file. The army and service wife background made the woman, he thought. Why do tough women break down? Death of someone very close; treachery, mainly sexual treachery. Either way, Naldo or herself. ‘How’s your sex life?’ he suddenly said, asking aloud a question that had come into his mind only as a thought.
‘With Naldo?’ She was in control of herself now. The face, damp and pink-eyed, looked up defiantly again.
‘Yes.’ Where was this heading? ‘Yes, with Naldo.’
‘It’s always been terrific with Naldo, though I’m pretty certain he’s unfaithful as hell. That comes with the job, doesn’t it?’
Slowly, Gus Keene nodded. Sure it came with the job. The face of his own wife, Angela, crossed his mind. Can a man love two women? He certainly loved Angela. He also loved Carole. At least he thought he loved Carole. Aloud he said it certainly came with the job.
‘That’s his business,’ Barbara muttered bitterly. ‘He’s under more stress. I just thought I had standards for myself. No idea it could happen to me.’
Very slowly he asked, ‘What did you think couldn’t happen to you?’
‘If I was a Roman Catholic, I suppose I’d make my confession and that would be that.’
‘Pretend I’m your confessor, then. You know what the psychiatrists say about confession: the Catholic sacram
ental kind, or the Alcoholics Anonymous, or those religions where you stand up and beat your breast and proclaim to everyone in the mission hall exactly what you’ve done? They say there’s nothing mystical about it. Sharing it takes the weight off your conscience.’
There was a long pause. Barbara looked up at the oil painting. That was pretty crude and horrible, she thought. All those bloody tombstones in the moonlight. At last she said, ‘Bless me, father, for I have sinned.’
‘Go on,’ Keene whispered, and out it came, the man on the steps of the Connaught; then again in Harrods; the apartment in Hans Crescent; the adultery; her pleasure. ‘I really enjoyed it. I didn’t love him, or anything like that, but there was a day or two when I saw it as a kind of escape. I was aping Naldo’s secret life, I suppose. I seemed to think it could be a kind of hobby.’ She giggled. ‘That sounds terrible, a hobby.’
‘It’s how a lot of people view it. Only they’re not always so honest. They don’t own up to it like that.’ This was classic. They warned of it, had seminars on it. The wives of spies so often take their revenge on secrecy by building a secret life of their own. It happened all the time.
‘I thought it would add another dimension.’ She gave another little splutter. ‘It was a change.’
‘Can you tell me this man’s name?’ It was a standard question, though he did not expect to get anything spectacular. Once he had the name he would ask what the fellow did for a living. The seekers and burrowers would take a walk around his life. It was amazing what they could do, the right question to the right person and, bingo, you had a new perspective.
‘He’s called Hornby,’ she said. ‘Philip Hornby.’
Gus Keene’s eyes widened, and his throat went dry. ‘Jesus,’ he said without the word crossing his lips. He took a deep breath. ‘And this place you went to? Hans Crescent, you said?’ He could almost hear his own questions like words coming from a long way off, but her answers, the number of the block, the flat and the telephone number, stayed where they hit, deep into his brain.