Dark Days Of Summer (Innocents At War Series, Book 4)

by Andrew Wareham

  Lord Moncur was disturbed to hear the story, said that off hand, he did not know what to do, but would Sir Charles mind if he brought his brother James into the room.

  James entered and was acquainted with the problem.

  “Heard a whisper a few days back – one of the reasons why I came down on a visit. Glad to have confirmation, Sir Charles. It can be dealt with, one way or another. For the while, my boy, keep mum! Say nothing for a week.”

  Sir Charles drank his whisky and accepted another before saying that he really should join his wife – she had come to see her mother and tell her that she rather suspected she was in the family way again.

  “Another boy, I hope, Tommy. I expect you are trying again – hoping to get it right this time!”

  Monkton left the room before Tommy could assemble a suitable reply, to the relief of his father-in-law and uncle by marriage.

  “What a little shit that man is, Tommy!”

  “A very large one, I thought, sir. If he continues to pile on the pounds he will soon eat himself into his grave. There must be twenty stone of him now, and him no more than five feet six tall!”

  James took over the conversation.

  “Rounder than he is high, I must imagine. I wanted you to hear that, Tommy. Known about it for a week now. Greedy swine of a half-brother of yours – if he is a brother at all, which I doubt – is jeopardising the supply of very necessary materials of war. We had a meeting yesterday, in fact, talked with C about it.”

  “’C’, sir?”

  “Yes. Head of the Secret Service – not that that is its name, but it is how we must refer to the department when we mention it to outsiders, which we never do. I am not talking to you now. He is obviously disturbed by the man’s actions. He proposes to deal with him, but was interested to know whether you thought you could influence him to behave himself. You could be on a very fast ship across the Atlantic tomorrow, if you thought that meeting him would be of any service.”

  Tommy shook his head.

  “I cannot imagine that he would even speak to me, sir. I can think of nothing I could do that would be of any use at all. I am not certain I wish to do anything that may save him from his just deserts.”

  “That’s what I said to C, but we had to make quite certain that was what you thought. We did not want to leave you suddenly upset with us. Additionally, if possible, we do not like to undertake more vigorous sorts of action in the States – the Americans are not stupid and can put two and two together. Mr Joseph Stark annoys his government; Mr Joseph Stark disappears from view and turns up as a corpse a day or two later. They might think the events were less than a coincidence.”

  “He is to be killed, sir?”

  “We cannot do without the supplies of copper and zinc from the American mines. That is an absolute fact, Tommy. He is putting our whole war effort at risk.”

  Tommy finished his whisky, shuddered as it hit his belly.

  “Nasty man, revolting solution. You must do it, sir. There is no choice. It is no different to shooting down a Jerry who has photographed our artillery – it must be done. Just don’t ask me to like it, sir!”

  “I shall not, Tommy. Well done. I won’t sell you a lot of guff about the ends justifying the means, but we cannot solve this particular problem quickly in any other way. We want it to be achieved quietly, as well. The newspapers will not carry any reports of the business, of course, but we did not want you to ask questions, either, and much preferred not to threaten you after the event.”

  “I presume that Sir Charles can be encouraged to say nothing. For me, I shall be silent, sir. As silent as the grave, in fact.”

  Dark Days Of Summer

  Chapter Four

  “When does David come to stay, Tommy?”

  The young pilot had chosen to go into Yorkshire for a few days, in the hope of achieving some sort of reconciliation with his father, and to discover news of the rest of his family. He’d mentioned that he had a younger brother and sister, but couldn’t remember their faces. His mother had been unwell so played little part in the family for years before he had left; he did not know if she still lived.

  “I don’t know, love. I agreed with him that he could arrive any time from tomorrow – expecting to be back from Long Benchley today.”

  They had driven home that morning, the party breaking up with the return of James to London.

  “What happened on Sunday, Tommy? I would not ask when were still there – it was obvious my father had pledged you to silence – but you can tell me now.”

  He explained, in full. He did not beg her to maintain secrecy – it went without saying that she would.

  She was not entirely certain that she understood, or approved.

  “Mr Joseph Stark is to be killed – assassinated, one might say.”

  “That is correct, Monkey. He has made himself an enemy of his country, has put his own greedy self-interest before any patriotic consideration. Was he to be brought back to this country, under arrest, then he would stand trial in a closed courtroom and undoubtedly would hang. Being located in the States, he cannot be put under arrest – there are no treaties to permit his extradition – and he probably has committed no significant crime under American law, so Uncle James explained when we discussed the business more fully. American judges come cheap as well – he could buy his release for a very few thousands of dollars and disappear while the lawyers were arguing. That, of course, is where British justice is so much superior – one cannot buy a High Court judge for less than one hundred thousand, or a pledge from the government of a peerage and appointment to a plush Royal Commission!”

  “That may be so, Tommy – probably is – but you must never say so in public. They would break you for daring to criticise!”

  “Fear not, my lady – I may be the intrepid knight of the air, but I know better than to tread on the toes of the Judiciary!”

  “Don’t forget it, Tommy – judges must never be exposed to public opprobrium, however much it may be deserved. Now, where were we? An out of hand killing of a man accused, but not convicted, of treason – it is war, you tell me, and the rules no longer apply.”

  Tommy was no longer convinced that the rules had ever existed; he much suspected they had only ever been a sham, a polite veneer hiding the realities of power from the ruling classes. Men like Asquith gave cynical orders, but liked to believe themselves to be pure and took a willing part in lying to themselves. There was no great gain in saying this to Monkey, and he was not at all sure that he could express his thoughts clearly; she saved him the bother of trying to clarify his mind.

  “In reality, Tommy, it is war – and who are we to quibble about the death of a professed villain? Who is this man, when we come to it?”

  “My brother, soon so sadly to be missed! I am far more concerned for poor young David. I will lay you long odds that he will arrive on an early train from Salisbury tomorrow. I hope he may not, but much suspect that his family will have had little to say to him. Despite his poverty, his father could have done something to raise a train fare at least once in five years.”

  She agreed – the sum involved was not tiny, but even putting away tuppence a week for three years would have purchased a third-class return ticket.

  “Too much intelligence for his father to handle, I would say. A bright boy of twelve or so who has learned perception but not tact can be unpleasant company for a father who is distinguished primarily by failure. The mother was not well enough to stand between them, I suspect. Speculation, of course, I shall not ask the boy. It was obvious that he expected little when he sent the bulk of his kit to us to hold for him.”

  The psychological analysis was rather deep for Tommy; he was relieved when Monkey returned to domestic matters.

  “Mrs Rudge has hung his tunics up in his wardrobe, and sponged them down as well, and laundered all of his shirts and underclothes. She was not very much impressed by his servant in the squadron! The garden boy has polished up his boots and
shoes – again, not very well kept up!”

  Tommy could understand this problem, and solve it.

  “I shall have a word with Jim – officers’ servants have the easiest of lives – even for the lieutenants where they are one between two, they are not overworked. A man who cannot, or will not, do the job properly can go back to general duties and see if he likes chasing a broom about the hangars and standing guard one night in every three! Probably David neglected to tip his man and received poor service in exchange; I shall have a word with him as well, explain how he must go on.”

  David arrived as predicted, on an early train; he admitted to having arrived in Salisbury two days previously and taken a hotel room.

  His tale was very much as they had feared.

  “To save a few pennies – in case I needed them in Yorkshire - I took an overnight train north, sir – the last one out of London, leaving after midnight, sleeping in the seat to save on a hotel room. Then it was a local and a bus, getting to the village by mid-morning. I enquired of the family and discovered them to have left the village soon after the war broke out. There was no need for a church organist in wartime, it seemed, but my father had been found a place teaching music in a school near Whitby, on the coast. I retraced my steps as far as York and made the trek to Whitby on the following day. I took a room in a hotel there – the town was very popular as a holiday place before the war, there were several hotels and none half-full, though a few had been taken over by the Army. I enquired about the school, found it to be ten minutes out of town and walked out in early afternoon, made my enquiries at the lodge gate. It transpired that my father was there on his own, nothing known of any wife or children. I saw him - for five minutes. He had no family, it seemed. My mother had gone back to her parents before the war, with his blessing, and he knew nothing of her since, and was not interested; I could go to her, and the sooner the better.”

  Monkey came into the room with a tea-tray, made to retire, was told that the conversation was in no way private.

  “He at least gave me my mother’s address, near St Albans, just north of London. I called there, of course, found I was a year too late. She had died. My brother and sister were still living with my grandparents – neither boy nor girl remembered me, or indeed was aware of my existence, but they are much younger. My grandparents are well-off, could look after them with no hardship, were glad to see me and bade me keep in touch – I must write regularly. They wished me good luck in the RFC, but could not imagine why I had taken up so hazardous an occupation; surely I could have found a place in an office in England. I did not stay with them, sir.”

  “Tell Jim, David. At least they can be your next of kin. For the rest – you know now, at least. We are to have dinner with some of the village over the next few nights, and will take a couple of trips into Salisbury – you will come with us of course. Do you ride?”

  Winchester had made riding lessons available; David was within reason competent, he thought.

  “Good. There is some attractive country hereabouts. A quiet week, but that will not be a bad idea before we go to France.”

  “Do you know where we shall be located, Tommy?”

  “Close to the battlefield. The Big Push is to be on the Somme. We shall do our possible for the men on the ground, God help them!”

  “It will not be so very bad, I am sure, Tommy. They are fine men, this New Army.”

  “They are indeed, David. If any can make a breakthrough, it will be them. What do you say to a stroll around the village, this morning? We can show you off to the neighbourhood, let them see a young pilot for the ladies to drool over!”

  David seemed rather nervous at that prospect.

  “There is a shortage of young men, David – and we pilots are the elite, you know. People who read the newspapers, and are so foolish as to believe them, know that we are the last of the chevaliers, the Knights of the Air, Cavaliers destroying the German Roundheads – that sort of nonsense! If they saw a Mess of an evening – half the men blind drunk and in a state of collapse, the rest shouting and yelling in a riotous mob – they might change their minds; even more so if they saw us of a morning, sour with hangovers. Not to worry – the Truth does not mix with warfare, never has, they tell me – look at this Charge of the Light Brigade, have you ever heard of such a bunch of bloody fools? Got the orders confused and the general led them the wrong way and that made them heroes!”

  David was intelligent – never a desirable faculty in a soldier; it seemed very likely to him that the newspapers were dishonest.

  “Thinking on it, Tommy, if a paper told its readers things they did not wish to read, they would stop buying it, and go for a different one. So, if the truth is unpalatable, it won’t appear in the columns of the press.”

  “Precisely, dear boy! Newspapers exist to make a profit by selling advertising, or so I am told, and they can only sell space if they keep their readership – so they must tell them only what they wish to know. Truth is an irrelevance – which is fortunate, perhaps – too much truth is bad for people and worse for politicians. Better far that the sheep should continue to bleat and that our masters should go their own way untrammelled.”

  “So, Tommy – we are the heroes of today, irrespective of our own virtues. Could be entertaining – free beer in the local pub!”

  “Exactly so – and young ladies in hot pursuit, and that can be amusing, provided you do not allow more than one to catch you at a time.”

  Living in a school during his adolescence, David had hardly even spoken to a young woman. He thought it might be an overdue experience, although he was unsure what it might involve or lead to.

  They walked towards the centre of the village.

  “The Carpet Factory, David, is to our left.”

  Tommy pointed to the buildings, almost hidden behind a high wall.

  “What are they producing now, Tommy?”

  “Carpets, of course! There are offices by the tens of thousands, most of them inhabited by generals and admirals and such, and all far too important to suffer a bare floor!”

  “I should have realised. There must be a sense of priority. They could not, for example, produce waterproof matting for the dugouts in the Trenches.”

  “Quite unnecessary – a little of hardship does the soldiers good. It toughens them up, you know.”

  “I understand. They said much the same thing at Winchester. Are we being descended upon, Tommy?”

  A large lady, tall and buxom and with a tail of offspring, was clearly aiming in their direction.

  “It is holiday time, I believe, Tommy – the mid-term break.”

  “Mrs Colonel Protheroe – her husband in the Wiltshires and on active service, has been since the beginning. He is a very good sort of fellow – she is ordinary County, and not very bright with it.”

  “Seven children? Enthusiastic, is it not?”

  “Nine. The two eldest are in the regiment, one already in France.”

  Tommy smiled and gave a half-bow.

  “How are you today, Mrs Protheroe?”

  “Well indeed, Major Stark.”

  She paused, expectantly.

  “Lieutenant David Irvine, who is one of my pilots, ma’am.”

  “A pleasure, Lieutenant Irvine. My son Michael is to join within three months, as soon as he is eighteen. Would you recommend him to choose the RFC?”

  “It does me very well, ma’am. I am very lucky in my squadron, as you will appreciate. If Michael truly wishes to fly, then, of course, he must take to the air. Otherwise, he should not, ma’am.”

  This was not the answer she wanted, seeing no reason why Michael’s preferences should have any part in the matter.

  “I am sure you will say that Michael must become one of yours, Major Stark.”

  Tommy shook his head, glanced across at the silent youth, a perfectly ordinary, instantly forgettable young gentleman, and said that the RFC was no more than a collection of individuals, for pilots were always alone in their
seats.

  “The wish of the man must always be paramount, ma’am, for the pilot gives himself his orders, and makes his own decisions.”

  “Not a proper way to run a war, Major Stark. However, I do not doubt you know what you are talking about. Sarah, are the younger ones behaving themselves?”

  Sarah, a sixteen-year-old giving promise of matching her mother for build, a positive cornucopia of fresh curves, was forced into prominence, rather against her will.

  “Yes, Mama. They are all being good.”

  She smiled politely at the two young men and stepped backwards into obscurity, not entirely to her mother’s wish.

  They parted and were a good hundred yards distant before either man commented.

  “My word, Tommy, there was… what shall I say… an awful lot of that young lady, was there not?”

  “Release the corset-strings and duck, I fear, David!”

  “Oh! Well, I do not think I would say that, quite!”

  “Certainly not where her mother might hear you, David!”

  They passed the Pembroke Arms.

  “We could take a pint if you wished, David, but the Lounge Bar will be empty and the Public too full of well-wishers for my taste.”

  “I don’t drink much at midday, Tommy. Can’t handle booze in the daytime.”

  “Nor me. Bad habit to get into for a pilot. The Earl of Pembroke, by the way, lives at Wilton House, just outside the village. It’s a Welsh name, but they have lived in Wiltshire for centuries – why, I know not. We have made no attempt to be introduced. I suppose we could, with Monkey being Lord Moncur’s daughter, but it ain’t my idea of fun. No reason to meet them – the Earl is too old to serve and his children are too young, so we don’t come into contact.”