His dear wife, Elizabeth, did not share his empathy with storms. As soon as rain blighted an English summer’s day she told him, ‘That is why we should holiday in France.’ Tonight he had little sympathy with such a point of view. Riviera sunshine was out of keeping with his mood. If he’d been in the National Gallery he’d have ignored the Impressionists and made straight for the Constables; especially the latter’s sketches of brooding English skies.
The prospect of another war with Germany made him so melancholy that, for the first time in many years, he did not dress for dinner. His wife, who considered herself an expert on his moods, told him, ‘It’s Freddy, phoning from London … I know it is. What will the servants think?’
After the fish course he confessed, ‘I’m not hungry. If you’ll excuse me, my dear, I’m off to the study. I have work to do. If it comes to war, we must be prepared.’
‘Have you measured the back of the Rolls to see if it will take a stretcher?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Do you want me to do it?’
‘No … but if, God forbid, it comes to total war you may have to go down a coal mine.’
‘To be safe from Hitler’s bombers?’
‘To be a coal miner.’
‘You are joking?’
‘I don’t know. If it comes to war anything is possible.’
‘Charles, I’m the daughter of a duke.’
‘Mike’s putting the Hitler Youth in the Meadow Field … a good place for us to keep an eye on them. Freddy’s men will be around as well.’
‘From the Vicarage?’
‘Yes.’
‘I wish you’d tell me what’s going on in there, you know I like to know. I am as discreet as anyone in Box One Hundred or whatever it is you boys call the organisation you work for.’
‘MI5’s its new name and as for what goes on in the Vicarage … that’s top secret … only those who need to know, know.’
‘Charles, sometimes you can be a real meanie … you could tell me if you wanted to, no one would know.’
‘Suppose, just suppose German paratroopers suddenly fell out of the sky and landed right on top of The Hall and you were taken prisoner. They put you up against a wall. “Vat is going on in zee Vicarage?” If you don’t know you can’t tell them.’
‘Don’t be silly, Germans don’t talk like that … they speak German. You have fluent German. They would speak to you in German. And what if they put you up against a brick wall?’
‘I’d shoot myself before I blabbed.’
‘Don’t be so dramatic … you know perfectly well you wouldn’t shoot yourself … I wouldn’t let you … if you weren’t here I’d have no one to boss.’
‘The servants?’
‘Not the same.’
‘By the way, I think it would be a good idea for you to tell Jack that the Hitler Youth are coming … prepare the ground, so to speak. I don’t want him thinking England’s been invaded. The poor chap’s already had too many shocks. These are the people who murdered his mother and father. It will be an unpleasant experience for him to come face to face with them again. Don’t of course tell him that we think they are here to spy … that information we keep to ourselves. Outwardly we must make these young Germans as welcome as possible. We must seem to welcome them as warmly as we are sincerely planning to welcome our American guests. That way we will not arouse their suspicions … hospitality, my dear, is a subtle weapon.’
4
On board the Nord, Marigold found the force eight exhilarating. She empathised with its violence. Unlike many of her fellow passengers, she did not suffer from sea sickness. Uppermost on her mind as she returned to her cabin was what to wear for dinner. A gown was out of the question. The Nord was not the Queen Mary. On the latter vessel the American colleagues she was scheduled to meet up with at Sir Charles’s residence in Northumberland would no doubt be whooping it up … champagne and caviar, paid for by the King of England, or something like that. She, on the other hand, had the dreary prospect of dining too close to that bumptious Englishman with one arm and the double-barrelled name.
She settled on a two-piece tweed suit. The jacket’s lapels would allow her to show off one of her favourite pieces of jewellery, a diamond brooch in the shape of a dollar sign. Its diamonds were large and real. To reduce the risk of losing it, she pinned it in place with its own pin and a hatpin.
She put on lipstick. She checked her seams. It was while twisting round to do this that she noticed an envelope sticking out from under the cabin’s door. Before she’d a chance to pick it up, it disappeared. What the prairie oyster was going on? To find out she opened the door.
The man holding the envelope was vomiting, otherwise he’d have been off.
‘That’s mine,’ she said, plucking it out of his hand.
She watched him stagger off. Mal de mer. Tut. Tut. Some guys just weren’t cut out to be sailors.
In the dining room she propped the envelope up against her clutch bag. Gunther came to take her order.
‘You look very smart,’ she complimented him.
‘Danke.’ He bowed. ‘It is my service silver uniform. It is, how do you say, made by the Fuhrer.’
‘Designed … by the Fuhrer?’
‘Ja, that is it … designed by the Fuhrer.’
‘I know Herr Hitler is an artist and a great leader, that the Third Reich is going to last for thousands of years but, forgive my ignorance, it’s the first time I’ve heard he’s a fashion designer. It seems to me that your boss man is a jack of all trades. He didn’t by any chance write Hamlet, did he?’
‘The Fuhrer can do anything.’
‘Who says so?’
‘Everyone says so … Herr Himmler, Herr Goering … everyone.’
‘But you believe it?’
‘Ja.’
‘Why?’
‘Warum?’
‘Yes, warum?’
He fluttered a napkin onto her lap. ‘It is best always to say only good things about the Fuhrer. The Englishman with one arm is Kaput.’
‘What did you say?’
He looked scared. How many times had she seen that look on the faces of black Americans in Alabama?
‘The Englishman with one arm is kaput. He swims with fishes. I have good ears. The men I hear talk said you were this man’s friend. Fraulein, you are in danger … I know … the halibut mousse … an excellent choice.’
Joining in the charade she pointed at the menu. ‘Do you not like the Nazis?’
‘Nein … there will be no bones in the mousse.’
‘Why?’
‘Wine?’ He picked up the wine list and, with a trembling finger, drew her attention to an expensive hock. ‘My grandmother is a Jew.’
Poor Gunther. Why did the Nazis so hate the Jews? And who was posting mail under her cabin door? To find out she opened the envelope.
Dear Miss Striker,
If I fail to appear for dinner this evening you must assume my death, murdered, more than likely, by an Irishman by the name of Doyle. He will have been aided and abetted by the Hitler Youth. I am being hunted by fanatical Nazis and by at least one fanatical Irishman. I don’t stand a chance. Or do I? By the way, Doyle is easy to recognise: sticking out from his left ear’s outer rim he has an abnormality – looks like a marble covered in skin. He often fiddles with it. He is dangerous – VERY.
Your sharp eyes noticed that I carry what you Americans, I believe, call a ‘piece’. If they attack me I will of course defend myself. However, there are many of them. I do not know where, when or how they will strike. The only thing I am certain of is that they will. You see, Miss Striker – I have taken the liberty of addressing you thus, as, during our little chat, I observed no wedding ring – I know too much. If I do join the angels – it’s fifty-fifty – I beg you, on docking, ring Westminster 397. It’
s an exclusive number. England’s enemies would give their right hand – no pun intended regarding my own disability – to know it is the private number of the head of the United Kingdom’s Secret Service; ask for Lord Frederick. You will be put straight through. Tell Freddy, that is, Lord Frederick, that Byker-Harrison has uncovered an unholy alliance between the Nazis and the Irish Republican Movement. What infernal schemes of mayhem this duo of fanatics may be concocting, I know not. It is my knowledge of their alliance that has put a price on my head.
Let me help you understand my predicament by giving you an example from your own culture. This is in no way meant to be patronising. I do it merely to drive home my point; to hit the nail on the head, to make you ‘feel’ the seriousness of my situation. If we were in the Wild West, instead of on a storm-tossed ship, my picture would now be nailed to every hitching post in every one-horse town with tumbleweed blowing down its main street. ‘Byker-Harrison Wanted Dead or Alive. And the ‘alive’ part would be window dressing. Do you understand?
I am painfully aware that in making you privy to this information I have, ipso facto, put your life in danger. For this, I apologise. My excuse is that England’s safety comes first. It is imperative that London knows of the alliance between the Nazis and the fanatics of Southern Ireland.
But, let us look on the bright side. I am not yet dead. I survived the Somme. At least most of me did. So, if I do appear in the dining room this evening, please acknowledge me – a little smile perhaps. We are in this together now. You will surmise from the jaunty tone of this epistle that I don’t really expect the blighters to get me. It’s just that, well, if they do, you are my insurance policy. The American eagle may have to fly sooner than it thinks to rescue the British lion.
Finally, my apologies for the gauche way I introduced myself in the lounge bar. I am not the loudmouth you must think me. My only purpose was to make myself known. The only way this old soldier could think of achieving that aim was to be rather loud and, dare I say it, to play the role of the worst kind of English chauvinist.
Will I or will I not see you in the dining room? I could spin a coin. Once again I apologise for making you my carrier pigeon. By the way, Gunther can be trusted. Over the last few months I’ve tipped him monstrous amounts for information. So, you see, I do know about tipping. In anticipation of your co-operation,
Yours sincerely,
Byker-Harrison
PS Do not try to warn London by telegram from the ship. The radio operator will smile, take your message but not send it. I’ve tried; that’s how I know I’ve been rumbled. The radio operator clicks his heels and shouts ‘Sieg Heil’, the man’s an automaton, a fanatic of the first water. Apart from Gunther, regard everyone on board as an enemy. And you were right; I’m not a policeman. I’m what the penny shockers call a secret agent.
The American embassy in Berlin had warned her to be on the look-out for Doyle. Rumours were circulating he had connections with one of the Americans she’d be meeting up with at The Hall.
‘You can’t miss this guy,’ she’d been told. ‘He has a funny ear. A word of warning, don’t give yourself away by going around looking at ears.’ (The advice desk operatives gave front line agents never ceased to amaze her.) ‘You don’t have to do anything. All we’re asking is you keep your eyes and ears open. Your cover is one hundred per cent. He has no reason to suspect an American is on to him.’
But, now, thanks to Byker-Harrison, he had. Why couldn’t the Brits fight their own wars?
Byker-Harrison did not appear in the dining room. And where was Gunther?
‘Excuse me,’ she asked a passing waiter, ‘where is Gunther?’
‘He has had a terrible accident. I do not think he will live.’
5
‘Master Jack, milady.’
‘Thank you, Bert.’
‘Jack, come and sit beside me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I have something to tell you.’
‘What?’
‘Shall I stay, milady?’
‘No, Bert, I do not need a chaperone. Now then, Jack, for once in your life do as you are told, come and sit beside your Aunt Elizabeth. I promise not to hug you.’
‘You are not my aunt.’
‘I am trying to make you feel part of the family.’
‘I am not.’
‘I want you to feel at home at The Hall … you do like being here, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, do come and sit down.’
‘I’m dirty.’
‘Yes, you are. Where did you sleep last night?’
‘In my den on the moors.’
‘Help yourself to a chocolate.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I hope you like the flavour; it is not to everyone’s taste. Well, if you won’t sit down you will have to hear my news standing up.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Soon, it is possible that members of the Hitler Youth will be camping in the Meadow Field. When you see them you are not to be scared. This is England, not Germany … they can do you no harm. England has policemen … Sir Charles is a force in the land.’
‘Bert said you wanted to see me in the drawing room. Why is it called a ‘drawing room’?’
‘You’ve not listened to a word I’ve said, have you?’
‘“The Germans are coming but I’ve not to be scared.” If it’s a drawing room where are the pencils and paper to draw on?’
‘It’s where Sir Charles and I like to take afternoon tea.’
‘You ‘take’ tea? I ‘drink’ tea. Which is right please?’ He took out his notebook.
She explained.
‘Why do you not call it the tea room?’
‘Because we don’t.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know why.’
‘You don’t know everything?’
‘No.’
‘Mike says you do. He says, “Lady Elizabeth knows everything”.’
‘He said that?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘Can’t remember.’
‘You think Mike was praising me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that why you told me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because you thought he was praising me?’
‘Was he not … how do you say in English, giving you a pat on the head?’
‘No.’
She could hear Mike saying – ‘She knows everything’. The tone of voice. The implied criticism. He needed to be reminded of his position, that he was a servant. How she would enjoy seeing him fall into a cesspit. To clear her head, she sniffed from a bottle of Sal volatile she’d taken to keeping within reach ever since Hitler had marched into Czechoslovakia.
‘Have I made you sniff your bottle? Mike makes faces like that when he has his first whisky.’
‘And what time would that be?’
‘Six o’clock.’
‘It is my opinion, Jack, that you are sorely in need of the company of boys of your own age. The day after tomorrow our grandson is coming to stay. He is called George. You and he are the same age … more or less. I’m sure you’ll like him. We all love him to bits. He’s the ‘apple’ of his grandfather’s eye … that’s one of our silly English expressions, it means … ‘
‘I know what it means … I’m the ‘apple’ of Phyllis’s eye.’
‘You are?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, don’t forget Cook is also fond of George. She’s known our grandson a lot longer than she’s known you. And the good thing about George coming is that he’ll be able to show you all the secret places on the estate my husband tells me you boys like to explore when you play Cowboys and Indians.’
‘There’s no secret places I don’t know. I’ll bet I know a place George does
n’t know. Even Uncle Mike didn’t know this place … it’s my den, until I showed him.’
‘Maybe that’s true and maybe it isn’t … and if dear, dear George doesn’t know the whereabouts of your den it’s because he’s not as agile as you are. We can’t all climb trees like monkeys, you know. George, you see, has problems.’
She explained their nature. What she told him made him think that this ‘apple’ of The Hall’s ‘eye’ was not going to be much of a rival.
‘Do you think Uncle Mike knew where my secret den was before I told him?’
‘He’s like me, he knows everything.’
‘He told me he didn’t.’
‘He might have been telling a white lie.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s when you tell a lie so as not to hurt someone’s feelings. Maybe Mike saw how proud you were of your secret den and did not want you to think it’s not as secret as you thought. You are not eating your chocolate … do you not like it?’
‘It is nice.’
‘But? I can tell there is a ‘but’. Are you perhaps not telling me the truth because you do not wish to hurt my feelings?’
‘It is nice, but ginger is not my favourite.’
‘Jack Field, what a fibber you are. You’ve told a white lie. I think you really, really hate ginger.’
He nodded. ‘Do you think Uncle Mike knew about the den?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Are there any other colours of lies in English?’
‘No, just white … all the rest we describe by size … big lies, little lies or the very tiny ones we call fibs.’
‘Hitler tells lies.’
‘He tells whoppers.’
‘Whoppers, are they big lies?’
‘Yes, the biggest there are.’
‘When are the Americans coming?’
‘How do you know about them?’
‘I want to go to America.’
‘I know you do. Believe me, Sir Charles and I are making every effort to trace your American relatives.’
‘You are leaving no stone unturned?’
Spies on Bikes Page 2