Flawed Banner

by John Harris

  ‘Redmond had married her in 1882 and there was even a twenty-one-year-old son.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘Exactly. She hadn’t even known of the suicide until she read of it in the Yorkshire Post. I’ve looked it up.’ Pullinger’s hand moved. ‘It’s in the file here.’

  ‘She didn’t know about the charges against him?’

  ‘The only thing she knew about him was that she received a regular allowance from him for herself and her son. Through a solicitor. It was a private allowance. Redmond was always considered tight with money. But he would have to be, wouldn’t he, if he were supporting his family in style solely on his army pay.’

  ‘Why did he do that?’

  ‘Can only guess. Judging by the dates, it seems the boy was conceived out of wedlock and that the mother forced Redmond to marry her to make him legitimate. I imagine, in fact, the boy was the result of the one and only time Redmond and his wife found themselves together in the nest. Perhaps not the only time but, if his tastes were as they seem to have been, there couldn’t have been many other times. His name was never linked with a woman’s and his movements are pretty well known, and none of them ever led to Harrogate. Yet here he is with a wife and child.’ Pullinger shifted in his seat. His expression was unrelenting. ‘Still,’ he went on, ‘Oscar Wilde was a married man with two sons. Anyway, she seems to have read of the suicide and the funeral that was to take place in Paris in accordance with the wishes of the next of kin, and began to wonder who the devil were these kin. As his wife, she was his next of kin.’

  As Pullinger talked, Woodyatt sat silent, absorbed by this new twist.

  Pullinger continued. ‘Although she had never lived with him, she was still Lady Redmond and she was determined to have her little hour. It seems the son had often wondered about his father and when the story appeared he had just, at twenty-one, officially become an adult. She made up her mind to tell him and between them they decided it was time to claim the relationship.

  ‘You can imagine how it startled the relatives, three brothers, one a lawyer, one a JP, and two sisters, all married.’ Pullinger was silent for a moment, his face sombre, then he went on briskly. ‘Having been told the story, they doubtless welcomed the funeral in Paris and, to make it appear they had been close to their brother, two of them, the lawyer and the JP, arranged to cross the Channel. But by the time they set off it was becoming obvious that the people of Yorkshire were not only rejecting the allegations against their hero but were even demanding that he be brought home to be buried in style. In the end, Henry Howard Redmond decided to telegraph their objections to the War Office.’

  Pullinger gestured at the file. ‘It’s in there. “Yorkshire most anxious Sir George should be buried here. Postpone funeral arrangements until my arrival Paris.”’

  Pullinger pushed the whisky across again. He seemed curiously affected by the ancient scandal. ‘That evening,’ he went on, ‘a Yorkshire solicitor, a Mr Joseph Halcro, appeared at the War Office with a twenty-one year old who said his name was Geoffrey Surtees Redmond. They produced the young man’s birth certificate and indisputable evidence of his mother’s marriage to Redmond. On behalf of the widow, they claimed possession of the body with all effects. The funeral, the solicitor announced, would be in Harrogate.’

  Pullinger was silent again, frowning. ‘You can imagine the Adjutant-General’s face,’ he said. ‘He had personally known Redmond throughout his career and he’d never heard a murmur about any marriage. It had been kept a secret for twenty-one years.’ He fished among the papers on his desk and tossed across a faded letter. ‘From the Adjutant-General,’ he said. ‘To a friend.’

  Indignation blazed from the letter. ‘Just when we thought everything was sorted out,’ Woodyatt read, ‘this damn solicitor and the son appear! I did all I could to dissuade them from holding the funeral in England. We had this business only last year with MacDonald. But there’s nothing we can do because we have no claim whatsoever to the body now that the heir claims it on behalf of the widow. I have written to the Lord Lieutenant and expressed regret at the course insisted on. When I explained that in no case could a military funeral be allowed, I was informed – thank God! – that the funeral would be private. I have now wired the assistant military attaché in Paris to comply with their wishes but have informed Sir Harding Hereward, Commander of the Northern District, in Richmond, Yorkshire, that there must be no kind of patriotic demonstration. That we cannot be doing with. We must try to arrange it that the funeral takes place early in the morning. If we get it on the night train and have it met on arrival the body could be interred before anybody is about.’

  ‘He had to inform the Commander-in-Chief, of course,’ Pullinger said. ‘Roberts was in Manchester. There’s a reply from him insisting that there must be no hint of a scandal.’

  Woodyatt was frowning. ‘Why has all this been brought up now?’ he asked. ‘What’s so special about it that we’re going through it all again?’

  Pullinger’s eyebrows rose. ‘The fuss hasn’t really started yet,’ he snapped. ‘They were still hoping to persuade the family into a Paris funeral. But the Foreign Office, the War Office, the Embassy in Paris, the Lord Lieutenant, Members of Parliament for Yorkshire seats, and all the national and local newspapers were being deluged with demands for the military funeral to which Yorkshire thought it was entitled. The Prime Minister and the Foreign Office were dragged into the controversy. For Whitehall it must have been rather a wearing weekend.’

  Pullinger sighed and Woodyatt realised he looked tired. ‘When the solicitor and the son appeared,’ he continued, ‘they had to be made to understand thoroughly that, on taking possession of the body, they would become entirely responsible for all arrangements and expenses connected with its removal and interment. There were to be no gun-carriages, drums, flags on the coffin, last posts, or graveside firing parties.’

  Pullinger paused. ‘Not, I think, that the widow was all that bothered. The two brothers who’d intended to represent the family arrived in London to learn they were no longer the centre of attention. To save face, they pretended to know all about the widow and claimed she preferred to remain anonymous. Doubtless they went into a heavy huddle, wondering who the hell she was.’

  ‘Who was she, anyway?’

  ‘A Miss Mabel Pendle. Her family owned property in and around Sheffield. How she squared the arrival of her son to her family I don’t know. She acquired a house near York and lived quietly under her own name as a married woman, claiming nothing until the point when she obviously felt she wanted at last to be part of any glory that was going.’

  Woodyatt was still trying to work out what all this had to do with 1940 and why Pullinger considered it of such importance.

  Pullinger was watching him closely – almost too closely, it seemed to Woodyatt. ‘You’d better read the rest for yourself,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ Woodyatt asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you all in good time. But you need to know first what it’s all about.’

  Three

  As Pullinger vanished, Woodyatt huddled over the desk again. It was all there. In letters, press cuttings, photographs, telegrams.

  When Redmond’s brothers had reached Paris they had found that what was to have been a tidy solution to an awkward problem had descended into a macabre farce. The body had been taken to the Gare St Lazare by the French undertakers who had sealed the coffin in a plain deal crate with the dead man’s initials scrawled on it, with the destination, ‘Harrogate, England,’ written underneath. It was to travel as normal freight on the nine p.m. express to Dieppe. The solicitor and the son had left ahead of it, together, it seemed, with a discreet official observer. His instructions were attached. The War Office wasn’t going to have any more mistakes. An officer was instructed to attend the funeral but he was not to wear uniform. The orders had clearly come from Intelligence. The scrawled signature was unreadable but seemed curiously familiar. A last telegram had been sent to the Ad
jutant-General. There it was, now, in front of Woodyatt, signed by Darby. ‘Body leaves Paris tonight via Dieppe–Newhaven due London Bridge 7.30 Sunday morning. Stop. Arrangements made for transport to King’s Cross and from King’s Cross to Harrogate.’ It seemed there was nothing for Redmond’s brothers to do but accompany the body.

  The widow had been waiting at King’s Cross. She was accompanied by her son, the solicitor, Halcro, and the two brothers, who were still determined to have a share in the affair. As soon as it had dawned on the reporters who she was, her compartment had been besieged but she had refused to speak. All they could say of her was that she had seemed to be ‘a lady of noble appearance, her features lined with grief’. The son was not described. As the doors slammed and the whistles shrilled, the train eased out. According to one newspaperman a band had played ‘The Dead March in Saul’ and tears had streamed down the onlookers’ faces.

  The sentimental overwriting of the period was beginning to wear a little heavy on Woodyatt. But he pushed on, determined to get the rest of the story.

  Despite the fuss that had been made about a ceremonial burial, when the train had arrived in Harrogate the following morning there was nobody on the station. A closed hearse and three closed carriages were waiting but they contained no one in uniform. The officer commanding the area had apologised by wire for his absence, claiming that he wished to respect the widow’s privacy, an excuse that was clearly the result of explicit instructions from the War Office.

  It was at this point that the widow finally gave an interview. There had been a delay – obviously, it seemed to Woodyatt, to allow people to learn what was happening – before she had consented to talk to a reporter from the Yorkshire Post. She had given the impression that there had never been a separation between herself and Redmond, and that when she wasn’t visiting him in London he had met her at a secret rendezvous in Harrogate.

  ‘All rubbish!’ The comment on the side of the report was in Darby’s writing. ‘They never met again.’

  When the cortege moved off it was followed by a stream of unofficial mourners, and hats had tumbled as it had passed through the streets. The reporters were still there, of course. Short of facts, they went to town with descriptions of the weather. They also made great play of the widow’s beauty and her iron control of her emotions. She had commanded as much of the coverage as Redmond himself. She must, Woodyatt decided, have enjoyed her moment of glory.

  With the funeral out of the way, Woodyatt stretched, wondering what came next. The cuttings which followed were all about the nationwide storm of fury over the hurried interment. The protests and accusations raged over months, blaming everyone from the widow to the Prime Minister. They seemed to go on until the start of the Great War in 1914 which turned out to be big enough to sweep away all other concerns as it took centre stage. During the whole time the War Office did not make a single statement in answer to the requests for enlightenment.

  There was little left to read now. Redmond’s will left heirlooms to his son – mostly caskets containing the freedom of this city or that, a signed photograph of Queen Victoria, a sword presented by the officers of his regiment on his leaving for higher rank, and many other things. But there was little money. The widow died in 1915 and was buried close to the general. Her son, killed on the first day of the Somme in 1916, was buried near Thiepval in France.

  Closing the file, Woodyatt sat back, wondering what the hell it was all about and why Pullinger kept insisting there was more to come. What more could there be?

  He was still sitting there, smoking and staring thoughtfully at the pile of papers, when Pullinger returned. He sat down at the opposite side of the desk.

  ‘Finished?’

  ‘Yes. They made sure he was put away for certain, didn’t they? Darby even included the written instructions from Intelligence for the War Office observer. Why written instructions? Was it that important?’

  ‘They were anxious that it should be done properly,’ Pullinger said stiffly.

  ‘Who was he? – the type in charge.’

  Pullinger was silent for a moment then he drew a deep breath. ‘Major J D C Pullinger,’ he said harshly. ‘My father.’

  Woodyatt couldn’t think what to say. No wonder Pullinger was keen to sort out the mystery, whatever it was. No wonder the scrawled, almost illegible signature had seemed familiar.

  ‘He was in Intelligence at the time,’ Pullinger explained, speaking slowly as if every word hurt. ‘He went into it after he was wounded in South Africa. He caught the backlash for what happened.’

  ‘What did happen?’ Woodyatt was anxious to move away from talk of blame. It was obviously a very delicate subject for Pullinger. ‘I’m still baffled. What’s it all about? I’ve read everything. Every newspaper cutting. Every report. Every telegram. Somebody did a good job of collecting and copying it all. Who was it? Darby?’

  ‘Yes,’ Pullinger rapped. ‘He passed it over to the archivists in 1914.’

  ‘Why so long afterwards?’

  Pullinger leaned back in his chair. ‘In 1914 there was good reason.’

  Woodyatt began to lose patience. He could understand Pullinger’s dislike for the case but they were treading around it as if on eggshells. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what all this is about but if I’m to be involved with this bloody Redmond I think it’s about time you came clean and told me all there is to know.’

  Pullinger studied him for a moment then he nodded. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘It’s time. But you had to know everything that’s definite first.’

  ‘What do you mean – definite?’

  ‘Well, after the point when he was buried at Harrogate it all became a bit – well – indefinite.’

  Woodyatt still felt angry but somewhere beneath the story, he sensed there was a wound that pained Pullinger and he didn’t press the point too much.

  Pullinger gestured. ‘Reminds you of Crown Prince Rudolf, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘Heir to the throne of Austria. He shot his mistress in her bed at Mayerling in 1889 and then committed suicide. To conceal the fact that a girl was involved, she was dressed and walked out to a closed carriage by two of her uncles. She rode back to Vienna held upright between them as if she were alive. It was a bit like that.’

  He poured whisky and squirted soda into the glass.

  ‘The passing of a national hero,’ he said when he was seated again, ‘is always accepted with reluctance. You’ll remember what happened when Lawrence of Arabia killed himself on that motorbike of his five years back. National mourning. Usual service of remembrance. Everybody there. But, in spite of it all, people still insisted he wasn’t dead. They said he’d been withdrawn from circulation to take on a secret mission in the Middle East for the government. With Hitler beginning to grow stroppy, it had a grain of sense in it.’ Pullinger paused. ‘When Kitchener died in 1916, people insisted he’d also gone on a secret mission. It’s a reluctance to see a great name vanish from the scene, I suppose. Same with MacDonald. Same with Redmond a year later. North-Country people insisted he couldn’t have committed suicide, that he’d been withdrawn.’

  ‘What evidence could they have had?’

  ‘Plenty. They pointed out quite correctly that the only people who saw him after death were Doctor McVicar; the French police surgeon; a variety of French policemen of various ranks; the French undertakers; the solicitor the widow sent and her son. Not one of them had ever met him. Not one of them would have been able to identify him. Even the widow didn’t see the corpse, and no fingerprints were taken. Everybody just accepted the maid’s story that the dead man was Redmond.’

  ‘I’d have thought the Paris police would have demanded more than that.’

  ‘Ah!’ Pullinger frowned. ‘But that was a bad period for the Sûreté. They’d led the world up to the end of the nineteenth century with their crime detection. But unfortunately, at this time, while everybody else had gone over to fingerprints for identification they were still using a weird system inven
ted by a chap by the name of Alphonse Bertillon, who called himself an anthropometrist. It consisted of measuring parts of the human body – head, fingers, feet, forearms – which he claimed remained unchanged during the whole of a man’s adult life so that he could be identified by them years after they’d been recorded. Obviously it wasn’t much use for this kind of identification, and since Redmond was known to have occupied the room and to have been seen going there by the maid, the Paris police just accepted that it was Redmond. It was reasonable enough to do so.’

  Was it? Woodyatt wondered briefly why Pullinger’s father had not noticed the discrepancies which had already become clear to him. It seemed to have been an opportunity that had been missed.

  Pullinger was gesturing at the file again. ‘After all,’ he pointed out, ‘it was a pretty complicated affair and it was to be the cause of a lot of legends and a few damaged reputations – my father’s among them.’

  ‘Why?’ Woodyatt was still puzzled.

  Pullinger held up a hand. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said.

  ‘Redmond’s admirers were quick to notice there had been no inquest. Some even claimed the coffin was filled with stones. Others claimed to have met him as a general with the Russian army after the Russo-Japanese war, the same stories that followed the death of Fighting Mac – MacDonald. North-Country soldiers who had served under him and were taken prisoner in the last German push in 1918 swore they saw him wearing the uniform of a German officer.

  Woodyatt was becoming intrigued again and Pullinger waved a hand. ‘The most persistent theory suggested that Redmond had become a German general called Georg von Rothügel, that he’d been spirited away by the German High Command and substituted for an officer who’d died. It was claimed, in fact, when Kitchener was drowned on his way to Russia that he was heading for a meeting with Redmond who had contrived to join the German army as a British agent and was acting as an intermediary for the ending of the war. And, in a way, that made some sense because there had always been suggestions that Kitchener, who was a bachelor, had the same sort of tastes. Another version was that Kitchener was on his way to see MacDonald. That hadn’t the faintest glimmer of truth to it, but–’