‘And the other?’ asked Canaris.
Even at the age of fifty-one, and a man of much experience, the admiral could still not hide his boyish enthusiasm for intrigue, but to smile at such an immediate success from Osier simply wouldn’t do with either of them, thought Burghardt. ‘To a pub, Admiral, in the Cornish town of Saint Ives, the Pilchard Arms. To an Ewen MacDonald. A bad connection, which caused Herr Ashby to break off the call after only a few words.’
Osier had made himself useful by tapping the hotel’s switchboard operator, thought Hoffmann, but said, ‘Saint Ives … When can this sleeper of yours get my granddaughter?’
Must the shit only get deeper? wondered Burghardt. ‘Soon, General, but first I need to know everything there is to know about her. Was she happy here? Did she have friends who will not be just missed but longed for?’
‘How dare you?’
Canaris knew he had best intercede. ‘Friedrich, please. Joachim does know what he’s doing.’
‘A bumboat captain.’
‘Ach, not at all. One of my most trusted men.’
Until consigned to retirement or worse, thought Burghardt, but asked, ‘How loyal was the girl to the Fatherland, General?’
Angrily Hoffmann started out of his chair. Canaris stood up. The general backed down.
‘Karen was very loyal. I made sure of that, but why do you ask?’
‘Because Osier may need that loyalty, and almost certainly her help.’
‘Doesn’t he have people he can call on?’ asked Hoffmann, Canaris watching them both.
‘A select few if necessary,’ said Burghardt warily, ‘but it would be best, would it not, to prepare for every eventuality?’
‘Talk to the kitchen help. Karen was very fond of Frau Haslinger, my cook.’
‘Did they spoil her?’ asked Burghardt.
‘Of course they did!’
‘But was she always obedient, General?’
‘Wilhelm, what is this? Must I … ? Yes, yes, damn it, the girl was obedient and very loyal to the party, the Fatherland and the Führer.’
‘Good. Now what about her feelings towards your daughter, General? Did the child resent Werner Beck’s taking her father’s place and being her mother’s current lover?’
‘Must I air the laundry, Wilhelm?’
Diffidently Canaris hesitated, then said, ‘Can you not simply answer him, Friedrich?’
‘Damn it, how could Karen possibly have known they were lovers?’ said Hoffmann. ‘The child was always here with me when those two … Ach, when my daughter and Herr Beck were … well, were together.’
Prudery in public still being a Prussian trait, Burghardt felt it best not to smile but quietly said, ‘All things are possible, General. If Osier is to safely take the child from wherever Captain Ashby has her, we must be fully aware of Fräulein Karen’s feelings towards her father, and since those encompass your daughter and her relationships with other men, it’s best we know beforehand exactly how the child views such lovers.’
‘My daughter is not a slut, Captain, but why not ask Herr Beck, since he is one of yours?’
‘Have you, Joachim?’ asked Canaris.
A nod would suffice.
‘Then you don’t need anything else,’ said Hoffmann.
Canaris urged caution. Gruffly Hoffmann said, ‘Then yes, the child deeply resented Herr Beck’s infatuation with my daughter.’
Telling himself to take a deep breath, Burghardt said, ‘More correctly, General, the child loves her father and her mother very dearly. Therefore, she has continually resented Herr Beck’s attentions to your daughter and that, General, is why the child came increasingly under your care.’
Did the man know everything? wondered Hoffmann. ‘It’s a big house. I’ve a full staff. Of course Karen was spoiled a little, and of course, as her grandfather, I delighted in spoiling her. Can’t generals dote upon their granddaughters, Kapitän?’
‘As long as it doesn’t lead others into trouble, General, and the Reich into losses it cannot afford, but rest assured, when the time comes, Osier will have all the help he needs. I have every confidence that your granddaughter will be returned to you without incident.’
There would be no killing, then, not by our people, thought Hoffmann.
Longing for a cheroot, Burghardt knew there was one more thing that needed saying. ‘Ashby mentioned a policeman, a Colonel Hacker.’
‘Of MI5,’ said Canaris. ‘Colonel Buntington Hacker, General, of the Watchers, who fortunately are so strapped for funds there are but few of them and they but poorly paid.’
‘The killer of that barmaid, Admiral?’ asked Hoffmann.
‘Perhaps, but that we really will not know for some time, or ever, will we, Joachim?’
Again it would be best to nod, thought Burghardt, and left it up to the admiral to tell him.
Canaris stubbed out his forgotten cigarette. ‘Clearly, Friedrich, your granddaughter will be used by MI5 in an attempt to take Osier and whatever others Agent 07392 may require.’
The news did not go down well, thought Burghardt, Hoffmann searching himself for an out and finally asking somewhat incredulously, ‘Has Ashby agreed to such a thing?’
Again Burghardt left it to the admiral. ‘Or else, Friedrich, Herr Ashby knows he may even have to face a charge of murdering that barmaid.’
Tuesday came and went at Grantley’s, felt Ruth, the rain still pissing from the eaves and making rivers out on the Common where the grass was now so very green. Close indoors and bloody damp, life here at the school was killing her. At 10.05 pm she went up to bed, and at 10.21, just as she was dragging the nightgown over her head, she heard the distant sound of Ash’s motor on the Old Coach Road. Up and down the hills it went, round the turns, the sound now falling off only to suddenly rise and fill the night, eager yet repulsive, everything in her heaving a sigh only to tense up again. What was she to say to him? How could she even begin to explain what had happened in that room of his last Friday afternoon? That Hamilton boy, Bill, was bound to say something and Ash would learn that long after Colonel Hacker had left her, she had sat on his bed, crying for what might have been. Hacker … Dear God, she hated the thought of him. The boy had timidly knocked and then, the others egging him on with urgent whispers from the corridor, had come into the room and after a few moments of utter shock at the sight of her, he having pissed himself, had said, ‘Mrs. Pearce, I … I really don’t think you should do that,’ and she had felt him taking the gun from her hand and giving her the gentlest of hugs.
As the MG swung in at the gates, she switched off the light. Ash had gotten the car fixed—well, sort of. Even from here she could see that, for the canvas top had been replaced. Taking the shortest way round the Common, he drew up in front of Todd House, switched off the headlamps and ignition, and never mind that no one was to drive a motorcar out there.
Bolting from the car and in under the lamps, he went up the steps, pivoting on that stiff leg. In anger, in fear, she pulled the curtains closed, but remained clinging to them lost in thought. Anthony had been acting strangely. First a call to London on that Friday, his trying to reach Ash with the news of Hacker’s visit, then deliberately going out so as not to be in when Ash returned the call. Late … he’d been out so late. His shoes and socks had been soaked through, and in the morning, as she had set them before the fire, he hadn’t said a word. Where had he gone, who had he met? A man … another man?
Hacker wouldn’t tell Ash what she had revealed in that room of his. It would be that Hamilton boy. Withdrawn in class, the boy would soon be noticed, Ash saying, ‘Bill, what’s been eating you?’
‘Nothing, sir. I … I just don’t feel well,’ for she had very nearly done it, pulled that trigger—killed herself with the gun Ash must have taken from Anthony’s room to keep that former comrade-in-arms of his from killing himself, her h
usband! Dear God, the scandal, though. HEADMASTER’S WIFE COMMITS SUICIDE. The press would have had a field day, her name linked to Ash’s and that of Daisy Belamy.
‘Ruth … ? Ruth, darling, are you all right?’
Cold now, she turned towards the door Anthony had opened without having knocked, but had he really met someone when he had been out walking late like that last Friday night and deliberately avoiding Ash’s return call? ‘Of course I’m all right. I’ve only just heard him drive in.’
Ruth did have her suspicions, thought Pearce. ‘You won’t say anything, will you? Ash has enough on his plate.’
And why shouldn’t she tell Ash about Hacker, wondered Ruth, especially as Anthony had been about to himself but had then dodged the issue and gone out for a walk? Or had it been just a walk? ‘I’m going to bed. I don’t really know what I shall say to him or do, not that it’s any concern of yours.’
As his steps receded, she closed the door, softly putting the lock on, and once in bed, lay staring emptily at the windows where the heavy brocade of the ages shut out the night but, as so often during that Great War, brought her the sound of guns she could not possibly have heard. ‘Ash,’ she managed. ‘Please forgive me. Hacker made me tell him everything and left me nothing for myself. I … I didn’t even know you had a wife.’
Picking at a floury scone whose Devonshire cream she would leave untouched, Christina added the barest minimum of sugar to her tea, no milk. It was now Wednesday, 1 June. AST-X Bremen would have had her report within five hours of Ash’s having left her room Friday night at the Dorchester. It was amazing how fast she had been able to bring the embassy into things. Straight to Croydon and onto Lufthansa Flight 801 by diplomatic pouch, but would Burghardt reveal the sleeper’s identity as she had requested and put her in touch with that one’s wireless operator? There was much she could tell this Agent 07392, this Osier. They would have to work together, and whether Burghardt liked it or not, that entailed their both having wireless contact with AST-X Bremen, the wireless’s location also being a place for them to meet and leave messages for each other.
The tea was lukewarm, the inn, the Rose and Thorn, so old its ceilings were low and stained with fireplace soot and tobacco smoke, the beams wide and dark, the walls crooked, the floors warped. ‘Miss … miss, come here,’ she said. ‘This tea … You failed to bring the kettle to a full and rolling boil. Surely you must know how to make tea in a place like this?’
Young and impressionable, the girl blushed crimson, curtseyed and said, ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, ma’am. I was told to hurry, and …’ She threw a glance towards the matron, a dour spinster of fifty in black whose rimless glasses did nothing to alleviate the severity.
Reaching out to the girl, Christina said, ‘Please, it is all right. Leave it. Ellen, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Ellen Fairfax.’ The German-sounding lady was ever so beautiful, thought Ellen, her clothes absolutely fabulous.
‘Ellen, they say there was a murder nearby, in the ruins of a chantry. Is this really true?’
‘Oh yes, ma’am. Terrible it was. Now everyone is afraid to go out after dark.’
‘But do they know who did it?’
Blanching, the girl hesitated at some thought, Christina saying, ‘Please don’t be afraid. My husband is British.’
‘Oh …’ Again the girl blushed, then stammered, ‘Forgive me, ma’am. It’s only talk, mind, but they say it’s all being hushed up and that there were two German spies who did it.’
‘Two spies?’
‘Yes, ma’am. That’s what Constable Farr said the Yard had told him. Real put out he was, too. Damned funny, he said, them going after a girl like Daisy, who couldn’t have known which end of a gun barrel to point.’
‘And what does this constable believe?’
‘That he wouldn’t say, ma’am,’ went on Ellen, throwing Miss Staples, the matron, a wary glance, ‘but he did tell me he’s been looking for man with a ginger moustache and would like to talk to him.’
‘Ellen … Ellen Fairfax,’ called out the matron, ‘attend to your duties and leave Mrs. Talbotte to her tea this instant.’
‘She was only asking if everything was satisfactory,’ said Christina.
‘And is it?’ asked Mildred Staples, but thinking, untouched Devonshire, the cloche and dove-grey suit beautifully tailored and very expensive, a German, but a barrister’s wife, and down from London for a few days ‘rest,’ or so the woman had claimed.
‘Yes, everything is fine,’ said Christina, ‘but would you see that the desk is notified I shall be wanting a bath before dinner?’
‘That’s impossible. You will have to wait until this evening.’
‘At about eleven, then?’
‘You’ll have to be quiet.’
‘Of course. Oh, by the way, will they be able to take the stains out of that skirt of mine and mend my shoes?’
Bog water, bracken and peat by the look, thought Mildred. One ruined pair of silk stockings with blood on laddered knees, and one lost heel from a brogue that had been soaking wet, though the tramping about must have been done a day or two ago, and Lord only knows where the woman had been. Certainly not in London. Abrasions on the hands as well. ‘I shall have to send them to Bridgwater, Mrs. Talbotte. It will take about a week. The hem of that skirt was badly torn.’
And I was out walking in the rain, wasn’t I? asked Christina silently. Was it in the pitch of night and a fearful storm in Cornwall, near an old engine house and a cottage too close to the cliffs?
Giving the woman the smile she reserved for servants who didn’t mind their own affairs, Christina curtly said, ‘That will be all.’ But if Kurt Meydel and Martin Lund hadn’t killed Ash’s barmaid, then had this Colonel Hacker?
‘Please, sir, it’s me, Bill.’
Ashby wondered if he had missed hearing the knock. The boy looked round the room, frightened by something and still holding on to the doorknob. ‘Sorry I didn’t hear you, Bill. Head’s in a rumble. What’s up?’
Bill studied his shoes and searched the floor, someone behind him whispering, ‘Crikey, shut the bloody door!’
Finch, thought Ashby. That was Finch. Something had happened while he’d been up in London, and everyone knew about it but himself or thought they did, but no one, least of all Tony, would tell him. Instead, even by this Wednesday, there had still been the whispered confidences, chance looks and quickly averted eyes and the forced jocularity of the masters’ common room. ‘Did you have your tea, Bill?’ he asked.
‘N-No, sir.’
The boys had had a meeting, then, a conference. ‘Mine’s cold but we could warm it up.’
‘It’s nearly bells, sir.’
‘Let ’em ring. Mr. Telford will dress us both down, but I’ll stand up for you, Bill.’
‘Thank you, sir. That’s frightfully good of you.’
The boy was pale, the tears coming readily enough as Ashby crossed the room to gently take him by the shoulder. ‘Hey there, what’s this? What’s happened?’
Out it all came. Hacker had done a job on Ruth and she’d been about to kill herself. Over tea and toast with jam, he got the boy to settle down. ‘Love’s a funny thing, Bill. There are all kinds of it, but the one thing that’s common is that we feel it deeply.’
‘She … she sat over there, sir, on your bed.’
‘Yes, I know, Bill. You’ve told me. It was good of you boys to have worried about me, good of you to have stopped her. Champion, I’d say. In times of war they’d have pinned a medal on you. Quick thinking, that. Reflexes. Pure instinct. Where do you suppose it came from?’
‘I … I don’t know, sir. I just did it. I … I wanted to run. I … I peed myself.’
‘And here I thought one of you boys was mad at me.’
‘We wouldn’t do a thing like that, sir. You’re the best. Jackie says we sho
uld all offer to help. If there’s anything we can do, you’ve only to ask.’
‘Good-oh, Bill, that’s my soldier. Now tell me about this copper man who said he was from the Yard.’
‘He was like death, sir. Finchie swears he must have been a soldier, but Spider Lawson says he must have been a prizefighter.’
‘And you, Bill, what do you think?’
‘That he was the meanest man I’d ever seen.’
‘Shook you up a bit, didn’t it, Bill, seeing a woman about to kill herself.’
It wasn’t a question. It was more of a statement of fact, of resignation, felt Bill, wiping his eyes again and watching Peachey withdraw into that shell of his as though losing himself in thought and memory.
‘Life’s pretty bad when a person would do a thing like that, Bill. Try to understand that this copper man drove Mrs. Pearce to it. Not intentionally, mind, but inadvertently.’
Intuitively Bill understood that the interview was over. It was such a relief, like getting Cheops off his back. Peachey was a bloody good duffer. The best!
Rejoining the other boys, he said, ‘He’s going to talk to us tonight. I know he is. He didn’t say so, not actually, but he will.’
‘Has he been sleeping with Mrs. Pearce—you know, have they been doing IT, for crikey’s sake?’ asked Jackie.
Bill knew he could ask them to do anything so long as he said what they wanted. ‘Peachey wouldn’t do a thing like that. Tics is his best friend. Besides, Peachey’s married and has a daughter.’
A wife and a daughter … Peachey!
That evening, when seen from the masters’ common room, the heights of the Quantocks were wrapped in purplish-pink and gold, felt Roger Banfield. Daisies and buttercups added an impressionistic touch that tended towards sentimentality but represented merely the benign thoughtlessness of the Benedictine who had felled the woods to scratch a living while they had built their abbey in the hills and said their prayers.
Sipping his tea and whisky, he watched as Mrs. Pearce and Captain David Douglas Ashby of the Blues found the path and disappeared momentarily under the overhanging boughs of a magnificent beech. He knew he ought to tell the others, but ought best to leave the two of them alone. ‘George, come here a moment, would you?’ he said, nudging the window wide to take in the balmy air. ‘The eve of summer is ever pleasant.’ He gave a nod towards the hills.
The Sleeper Page 11