by Evelyn Weiss
look at each other. Did he just say that? Lord Buttermere looks around at every one of our shocked faces; despite his small stature and mild features, it is clear that he is the one truly in command here, and that he will brook no disagreement. He carries on. “One thing is vitally important. Inspector Trench’s two companions must, like all of us, be unarmed. Only moments ago when Mr Bride came to the door, they showed us that they can take a life in the blink of an eye. That might suit the streets of New York – for example, the unfortunate manner in which Lieutenant Bouchard acted at Chelsea Piers. But it does not suit British Secret Intelligence. It would be most regrettable if James Nolan, or any other enemy aboard this ship, were to die. Our ideal outcome from this business is for us to dock in Southampton with a prisoner that we can interrogate.”
“Our ideal outcome, Buttermere, is for us to dock in Southampton. Anything else is a bonus.” Chisholm’s voice never sounded stronger. He might be the subordinate, and Buttermere the commanding officer. But I sense approval for Chisholm’s words around the room, and Calvin speaks out.
“Here here. The man talks sense. When your enemy holds a lighted fuse, you’re better off shooting first. Let’s leave the delicate political questioning for when we’re safe on dry land again.”
The professor backs them up. “In the interests of humanity, Sir Chisholm must be right. There can be no sense in exposing over two thousand innocent passengers and crew to any risk that might be avoided. It makes sense for the two New York police officers to be armed. They are trained in dealing with dangerous criminals. We have the police officers: let’s make use of them if we need to.”
I’d add my own agreement to these voices – but I don’t. I’m too busy thinking. Something is going on in this room, something I don’t understand. I feel that Lord Buttermere has a different aim, a different agenda, that we have not yet grasped.
There’s a silence, now, as Lord Buttermere looks at the faces around the table. I sense anger behind that smooth face, as he speaks. “Despite everything I have said, ladies and gentlemen, you have not yet comprehended the gravity of this situation. I will make it perfectly clear for you. Captain Haddock, please read out the telegram you received.”
“Which one? The one from New York, or the one from London?”
“I think we all know the contents of the New York telegram. Read the one from London, please. Read the whole thing.”
I hear the captain’s voice, reading.
“Transmission to Captain H J Haddock of the RMS Olympic Stop from his Britannic Majesty King George Emperor of India Stop you have aboard a Lord Buttermere to whom is granted power of force majeure under British and international maritime law Stop full cooperation with Lord Buttermeres instructions is necessary Stop failure to cooperate in any way will be punished as High Treason Stop code four two seven one Stop five eight –”
“Shut up.”
Captain Haddock looks across at Lord Buttermere, who rasps harshly at him. “Don’t tell them the coding.”
The captain’s voice remains polite and controlled. “You asked me to read it all, sir. I was merely fulfilling your request.”
“I did say read it. But I didn’t mean read out the coding as well. Right now, in this room, we must act as a team – as if everyone around this table is on our side. But I must also reckon on the remote possibility that one or more persons in this room may in fact be the very enemy who has planned all this. So, Captain, you should not have read the coding.”
I can read the level, steady look in Captain Haddock’ eyes. I’m thinking what he’s thinking. Excepting force majeure, a captain’s word is law on his ship. The number of times in history that a captain has been told to shut up in his own cabin could probably be counted on the fingers of one hand.
Lord Buttermere continues. “I had not intended to say this – but, I will explain a little further, just in order that everyone here understands the extreme importance of capturing Nolan alive. Our belief is that someone high up in British Secret Intelligence had used his position to foster the explosives plot. We know now that it was in fact Viscount Spence who did that. But he did much more, too. The explosives are, in a sense, is a sideshow. The leader of the plot was known to the New York and Irish plotters as “Black Velvet”. That is an established fact. But we also suspect that he was also known as “BV” to a number of British secret agents. Agents whose identities we do not know, but about whom we know one thing: they are, in fact, working not for Britain, but for Germany.
We believe that the German penetration of British Secret Intelligence is so deep that, if war were to happen, all our preparations, all our plans, would be transmitted instantly to Berlin by these traitor agents. We do not know the names of any of these agents – only Spence knew that. But in order that the explosives would be transferred once they arrived in England, and that the German double agents could work with the Irish revolutionaries, we believe that Black Velvet, who we now know to be Spence, gave the names of all these traitors to Nolan. You can now understand the vital importance of questioning Nolan.”
Lord Buttermere looks around the room. Every person is quiet. Very slowly, he says one more thing.
“We must get the names of these German agents from Nolan. Because I believe that the German infiltration of British Secret Intelligence is now so complete that, were a European war to start tomorrow, Great Britain would be utterly defeated within days. Within two weeks, the Kaiser’s troops would occupy both Paris and London.”
Amid the stunned silence around the room, I find my voice. “Captain Haddock, perhaps you can advise me. It seems that we must all obey Lord Buttermere: we have no choice. But we are all alone here in the middle of the Atlantic, two thousand people whose lives now depend on the handful of individuals in this room. So when we receive such strange orders as this telegram, then we must ask about the telegram itself, and its authenticity. Who sent it, authorized it? You’re not telling me it was King George himself.”
The captain looks back at me, and although his mouth is stern, I again see that trace of a smile in his eyes. “You are correct, Miss Frocester. The coding, which Lord Buttermere rightly stopped me from reading out, confirms the authenticity of the message. I have checked it. When we receive a message with that coding, we know that the message is genuinely issued by British Secret Intelligence. The words at the beginning about King George and all that is a formal flourish; the key thing is the coding. With the coding, we can be sure it’s genuine and must be obeyed.”
“Unless – the coding has already fallen into someone else’s hands.”
As soon as I say that, Lord Buttermere looks at me as if I’ve already committed treason. So what, I think. I’m not even a British citizen. Nor are half the people in this room. Buttermere begins to speak to me, slowly, as if I’m stupid.
“Young lady. The coding – it is authenticated by secure processes, which I cannot divulge. The message was issued, as Captain Haddock has explained, by British Secret Intelligence.”
“Thank you for the clarification, Lord Buttermere. But, one more question, so we can all feel that we do actually trust what is going on here. Who is responsible for communications from British Secret Intelligence?”
“Arthur Compton, acting Chief of Communications at the Secret Intelligence Bureau. He will have personally authorized that message.”
I look round the room. Every pair of eyes looks the same: every single one of us is beginning to understand the situation. Each of us must deal with our own feelings about it.
All this time, Chisholm has been watching Buttermere’s eyes. Now, he rises to his feet, looking down on us all. He puts our worries into words, speaking slowly and firmly.
“Lord Buttermere, as Mr Gilmour has said, we all need to trust each other. We need to be fully open with each other about ourselves and this situation.”
“So?” I hear a dark tone in Buttermere’s voice.
“What you mean, Lord Buttermere, is that Arthur Compton is ‘acting’ Chief o
f Communications. He’s ‘acting’ because it’s not his usual job. He is standing in for a colleague who is absent, and he is following, in exact detail, the instructions given to him by that colleague.”
Lord Buttermere is looking daggers at Chisholm. “Well, what of it? Whether ‘acting’ or not, Arthur Compton still has authority.”
Chisholm refuses to be intimidated. “I’ll make it crystal clear, to you and to everyone here. You are British Secret Intelligence’s Chief of Communications. Arthur Compton is standing in for you. That telegram – effectively, you sent it yourself.”
27.Shame and jealousy
I’m climbing a staircase in the bowels of the Olympic. In my hands I clutch a piece of typed paper, signed by Captain Haddock. It says that I am a sanitary inspector and I have authority to ‘inspect’ cabins. ‘Passengers are to give Miss Frocester their full co-operation’. I’ve been assigned to search the cabins of the eight female passengers who are travelling alone, and I’ve already visited each of them. Each was very co-operative, and I saw in their eyes the same lonely courage that I had myself two years ago when I sailed to England to take up my job. Now I’m heading back up to the upper decks to search the ship’s First Class Reading and Writing Room. An unlikely hiding place, I