Flawed Banner

by John Harris

  ‘Did you go all the way to Harrogate?’

  ‘Yes.’ Darby filled a pipe and took his time lighting it. ‘The funeral was a shambles. A lot of people turned up at the cemetery and graves were trampled because nobody had thought to inform the police. The following day people came from all over Yorkshire – all over the country, in fact – and a whole battle array of bobbies was needed to keep them back. Mourners waited in a queue five deep to pass the graveside. There were so many wreaths the cemetery refused to take any more, so they piled up at the entrance until the street was blocked. It couldn’t happen nowadays, of course, but in those days things like that were a form of entertainment. By the time it all ended I loathed the sight and sound of Redmond’s name.’

  The Darbys managed to laugh, but beneath the laughter it wasn’t hard to see that for them the affair had been in the nature of a tragedy in the end.

  ‘The most extraordinary thing about it, of course,’ Darby said, ‘was that it wasn’t Redmond at all. They were seeing off someone they’d never heard of – a foreigner into the bargain. For all I know, a German. God, that weekend I wished France could sink under the ocean! Funny I should come back here to live. I swore at the time I never wanted to see the place again.’

  As the brandy and the syphon of soda went round again, they chatted about themselves. Daphne Darby had come from a wealthy family, but after her marriage had followed her husband everywhere he’d been posted, mostly – because of his lost leg – to dull commands and dreary rented houses.

  ‘I remember the affair well,’ she said in her high, strong voice. ‘It just about finished poor Frank’s career.’

  ‘There seemed to be a suspicion in higher circles,’ Darby explained, ‘that somehow I ought to have been aware of what was going on and stopped it. It all started again in 1914. Then again in 1917 when that chap, Pichurek, appeared. That’s why I’d begun to collect all the documents. Had a feeling they were trying to lay the blame on me. After 1917 I handed everything I’d collected over to Intelligence. That, of course, was after this happened.’ He tapped his stiff leg ‘I’d been given a battalion of Yorkshiremen in 1915. Miners every one of them. Superb chaps. And, my God, how they could dig! Very useful, the ability to dig in that war. Tragedy they were nearly all wiped out on the first day of the Somme. Which is where I got this.’ He indicated his artificial leg again. ‘Shell.’

  ‘Redmond,’ Woodyatt reminded him gently.

  ‘Yes, Redmond,’ Darby swallowed his drink. ‘He had everything. DSO. KCB. Aide to the Queen. Can’t imagine what he was up to, chasing that bloody Burmese. Forty years ago, that sort of thing was tantamount to the end.’

  He paused, deep in thought, trying to recall things as they were. ‘When you’re involved in a drama of that size, with someone of Redmond’s standing, you don’t easily forget. Paris, of course, was still the city of light and delight. Bit looked down on by the British but no end envied just the same.’ Darby’s eyes glowed at the memory. ‘I thought it was tremendous. Then this happened.’

  ‘Why did he go to Paris?’

  ‘They said it was to catch the train to Marseilles where he was booked on a ship to India. I think he went there to meet a German contact.’

  The brandy bottle was offered once more. Woodyatt refused but neither of the Darbys hesitated.

  ‘Did you see the body?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Darby said. ‘I saw it. I was the only man, I think, who did see it who had met him and known him. He was lying on the floor by the bed.’

  ‘Did you think it was Redmond?’

  ‘Yes. But, of course, a bullet through the head makes a mess, doesn’t it? People don’t realise. It pushes things around. Eyes weren’t in their proper places. Face was covered with blood. ‘Fraid I just assumed it was him. After all, the hotel register said it was. Maid who found him said it was. Examining magistrate said it was. Thinking about it later, I must admit I thought the chap on the floor looked younger than I’d imagined Redmond to be. And I noticed that the trousers he was wearing didn’t match the jacket, which was odd. In 1904 people always wore suits. And this was a suit jacket with trousers of a different colour and texture. In those days it would have been considered very infra dig. After that, I began to wonder if a body had been brought in – in one of those big laundry baskets they use in hotels for bed-linen.’

  ‘But nothing was proved?’

  ‘No. The whole thing was a bit hurried. One other curious thing: maids were on the landing below but they didn’t hear a shot. And the gun found alongside him wasn’t a British weapon. It was Italian – seven millimetres. Why use an Italian seven-millimetre when he already had a service revolver? It’s known he did have one with him.’

  Darby reached for the brandy bottle again. ‘I questioned the police,’ he said. ‘They were most obstructive. I wondered at the time, in fact, if money had changed hands – money from the German Embassy. I was certain it had. That’s why I started collecting everything into a file. Felt sure something wasn’t right.’

  He poured drinks all round once more and continued. ‘Then the rumours started,’ he went on. ‘It was said that he spent his last night in the company of the German military attaché. Might well have done. I knew the German, of course. Used to meet occasionally socially – Embassy dos, that sort of thing. Clever type. Well able to work the sort of thing they said he did.’

  Woodyatt produced the copies of Pullinger’s photographs. The first two just showing the face, then the two full-length pictures in profile.

  Darby nodded. ‘I’ve seen those. When they called me in to ask what I could add to it. Scared stiff they’d accuse me of something. They would have done if they could have, because they were all covering their rears like mad. It was a chap called Pullinger who was in charge.’

  ‘It still is.’

  Darby looked startled. ‘Surely not the same chap?’

  ‘His son.’

  ‘Good God! No wonder he’s keen.’ Darby was silent for a moment. ‘The original Pullinger seemed to me to be a bit obsessed with the affair.’

  ‘I think this one is, too.’

  ‘The defection took a bit of swallowing, of course. He should have been stopped in London. God, I spotted that something fishy was going on straightaway. Why didn’t they?’ Darby sighed and shifted in his chair as if to make his artificial leg more comfortable. ‘Wasn’t easy for me. People began to avoid me. Amazing how little loyalty there is when people think their own position’s threatened. Then the war came and Redmond’s name was forgotten and the public found new heroes: Haig. French. People like that.’

  ‘You’ll know the story that he became a general in the German army?’

  ‘Yes. Know that.’

  ‘Why did no one ask where he went after 1918? Why wasn’t he found by the Army of Occupation? Somebody must have looked.’

  ‘Somebody did. Me!’ Darby shrugged. ‘But strange things were happening at the time. Germany wasn’t allowed to have an army worth talking about and was forbidden aircraft, so they persuaded the Russians to allow them to train men on their side of the border. I got hold of photographs of some of the bastards. I’m sure he was one of them. Which makes him guilty of helping Germany to prepare the next round – this one – as long ago as 1922.’

  Woodyatt pushed across the last of Pullinger’s photographs. Darby stared at it then lifted his eyes to Woodyatt. ‘This him?’

  ‘Taken in Switzerland in 1937. He’s still alive.’

  Darby looked startled. ‘Is he, by God?’ He reached for the bottle hurriedly. ‘I wondered why you were digging him up again. Good God! Alive!’

  ‘We believe he’s here in France. He calls himself Georges Moutrouge.’

  ‘Is he going to be charged? He ought to be.’

  ‘The powers that be have decided the situation would be best served with a sort of pardon.’

  Darby looked disgusted. ‘Ought to be shot, not pardoned,’ he growled. ‘The man was guilty of giving information to th
e Germans.

  ‘It’s thought now he could be made to give information the other way. That’s why I’m here. I’ve been told to bring him back. You said in one of your letters that you’d known him.’

  ‘Yes, I did. During the Boer War. I had a job on the staff in Cape Town. Got to know him pretty well. Didn’t like him. Thought he was ruthless, devious, clever, self-interested. That’s why I was able to believe the story of him going over to the Germans. Once met one of his brothers. Can’t remember which. Bit of a shit.’

  As Darby rose to find a fresh soda syphon, Woodyatt noticed that Mrs Darby was looking thoughtful. ‘Did you ever meet Redmond?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Many times.’

  ‘What was your impression?’

  ‘He was a very handsome man.’

  ‘Did you think the same of him as your husband?’

  She considered the question for a while, then she laughed. ‘Not really,’ she admitted. ‘I was very young and I thought he was terrific. But it wasn’t me he was interested in.’

  Darby returned with the fresh syphon. He looked at Woodyatt. ‘Are you going to arrest him?’ he asked.

  ‘Something of the sort. Once I’m certain.’

  ‘Bring him here. I’ll identify him for you. I’d never forget him.’

  ‘I shall know pretty well who he is before I approach him, but I’d like a few details about him that would confirm it.’

  Darby thought deeply. ‘Hell of a long time ago,’ he said. ‘But – well, he had a nickname in the army: Gorgeous George.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Always spotless. Always well turned-out. Fetish with him, cleanliness. Insisted on his troops being clean, too. Even in the field when everybody else was scruffy. South Africa was hot, dusty and sweaty and, when it rained, muddy. Never seemed to affect him, though. Always smart. Came down like a ton of bricks on sloppiness.’

  ‘He’s pretty old now. About eighty. At that age, men drop food down their ties.’

  Darby grinned. ‘Yes. You want more than that. Well, he was a brave man. You have to admit that. And a dead shot. About the time of Omdurman one of the Fuzzy-Wuzzies sneaked into the camp. Redmond spotted him and shot him. At long range, too. And with a revolver, which takes some doing. Happened again in South Africa. Boer commando got among the British wagons and again it was Redmond who stopped it. Shot two of them and the rest bolted. Known as a sharp thinker and amazin’ quick to act. Oh, yes. There was one other thing. He loved B and S.’

  ‘B and S?’

  ‘What we’ve been drinking. Quite a fashionable drink in those days. So, if you see some chap swigging brandy and soda, it’s either me or Redmond. Bring him here. I’ll know him at once.’

  Three

  The Darbys provided Woodyatt with lunch and as they finished the wine the war situation was discussed.

  ‘What will you do if they attack in France?’ Woodyatt asked.

  ‘They’ll never come down here,’ Darby said stoutly.

  But after the goodbyes were said and the promises renewed to identify Redmond when he was found, he walked to the car with Woodyatt.

  ‘Look after yourself,’ he said quietly. ‘And don’t trust the bloody French. They’re not the French of the last war.’

  Woodyatt was thoughtful as he drove north. His job seemed difficult enough without the threat of a disaster hanging over his head.

  His first duty was to make himself known at British Headquarters, which were at Arras. He had been told of their whereabouts by Pullinger’s Hannah who said it was an official secret. But when he asked the way a French policeman told him without a moment’s hesitation. There was a great deal more official secrecy inside. Nobody would tell him where the British Expeditionary Force was, though he’d already learned from Darby that it was along the Franco-Belgian frontier and, contrary to what British newspapers suggested, a long way from the Germans. Everybody in the area was aware of the fact and he had no doubt the Germans were, too.

  However, Intelligence had been warned to expect him and he was seen by a brisk brigadier by the name of Douglas who produced documents to cover him in the event of an emergency.

  ‘Any problems,’ he was told, ‘Contact me. Just be careful, though. We’re hearing rumours that the Germans are on the move.’

  The weather was warm and the soldiers of the BEF seemed to be moving about like bees drugged with pollen: slowly, happily, but with no great urgency. There appeared to be a lot of digging going on and a great many concrete works under construction. As Woodyatt moved further north and east, he saw more and more soldiers, but the ratio between British and French was noticeable. For every British soldier there seemed to be twenty Frenchmen.

  It was something that appeared to bother the French, who clearly felt the British weren’t prosecuting the war as ardently as they might. While the French had mobilised 6,500,000 men, disrupting all their manufacture and social amenities, the British had less than a quarter of that number under arms and still a million and a half unemployed. The French had even sarcastically offered to equip a few of them.

  ‘They don’t seem to like us a lot,’ Brigadier Douglas admitted. ‘They accuse us of looting and lechery. On the other hand, have you seen their chaps?’

  Woodyatt had and, while many were smart, the reservists were often unshaven, with ungroomed horses, dirty vehicles and badly fitting clothes and saddlery. He’d also seen small incidents that indicated a great lack of discipline.

  ‘Too many years of bloody awful governments,’ Douglas said. ‘It’s made ’em a bit apathetic.’

  Certainly the French seemed excessively casual. Only the French African troops seemed alert and Woodyatt grew tired of being stopped by black Senegalese who brooked no argument. While French air force officers, seeing him in difficulties, shouted the password. ‘Le mot est “Duroc”! Passez! Passez!’ In the end, buying a large sheet of expensive paper, Indian ink and sealing wax, he made himself an impressive-looking document written in French. Signing it with the name of Winston Churchill, which he assumed was the only British name they would know, he placed a huge red seal of wax at the bottom, marked with the coat of arms off a key. It worked like magic.

  With the clear spring weather, everybody seemed to be looking over their shoulders and the atmosphere was one of nervousness. The German attack in Norway had come as a surprise and now that a few facts were emerging, people were aghast that it was ending in disaster. They all knew Hitler was coming and the British railed against French indifference.

  ‘Some of ’em would rather have Hitler than the Popular Front,’ an RASC officer told Woodyatt. ‘I’d like to drop a bomb or two on Paris to wake ’em up.’

  On the outskirts of Metz Woodyatt ran into an RAF squadron. They were confidently expecting something to happen at any moment. The armaments officer seemed a bit odd and had decided the area was full of spies and that they were there for a reason. RAF radio messages, he said, were being jammed by a woman with a large house nearby, who owned fierce dogs to keep intruders off her land. He also had his eye on a blind man who had been a professor at Nancy University. He ran down the stairs to watch he said, every time a car appeared.

  ‘How?’ he demanded. ‘If he’s blind.’

  Newly out from England, to Woodyatt his fears and suspicions seemed foolish but he remembered there had always been a strange air of mystery about Metz. He had known the place for years and its dark streets and mist-shrouded islands had always seemed secretive and gloomy.

  ‘People have been shot at,’ the armaments officer said. ‘And a couple of our despatch riders were found with their throats cut and their bikes and uniforms stolen. I should carry a gun if I were you.

  The news from Norway remained bad. But the air was mild and still and the French tricolours hung limply.

  It was possible to be reassured by the numbers of soldiers. They were everywhere: pilots of the French armée de l’air in their dark blue uniforms, some of them wearing decorations; tro
upes de forteresse from the Maginot Line in black berets and wearing badges inscribed ‘On ne passe pas’. There were one or two Poles and a few RAF men, and the dark red-stone streets were full of trucks and cars. A parade was being held near the great yellow cubes of military buildings.

  All the cafes were full and it was possible to hear a brass band somewhere in the vicinity. With its green roofs and red walls, and its dark squares full of the statues of ancient warriors, the city was like a disturbed anthill. The streets and waterways were strident with the sound of marching men and revving engines.

  Making his number with the local commander, Woodyatt headed for the library. Nicole Maury was almost the first person he saw. She was heading for the stairs as he entered, her arms full of books.

  Her mouth widened in a huge grin of delight. ‘Jimmee Woodyatt!’

  The books dropped in a shower as they embraced.

  ‘Nicole Maury!’

  ‘No, no! Not Nicole Maury now. Nicole Chainat. I am married.’

  Woodyatt felt a slight twinge of regret. He had always been a little in love with her. ‘And the lucky man?’

  ‘Claude. Claude Chainat. He was studying to be an architect but he was called up like everybody else. They made him a sous-lieutenant because he went to university. What are you doing here? You must come and have a meal.’

  ‘At the farm?’

  ‘No. My parents moved south to Hyères. I’m still here because I work as a librarian. I have an apartment.’

  He explained why he was there and, with her assistance, began to search through the street directories. There were several Montrouges, but none seemed to fit the man he was seeking. The telephone directory also gave several but the initials were always wrong, and there appeared to be nothing in the voters’ list that seemed to lead to the man he was seeking.