The Perils and the Prize

by Jim Crossley

  He could not possibly have seen that sinister, grey shape lurking close to the surface, its horns choked with weed and its decayed mooring chain streaming beneath it. Mines were supposed to deactivate themselves if they came adrift, but on this one the mechanism was defective and the deadly monster was floating, ready to pounce. Columba’s bow struck one of the horns fair and square. Made of lead, the horn crumpled, as it was designed to, and in a fraction of a second broke a glass tube within it, allowing acid to contact two electrodes and generate an electrical current, detonating the deadly weapon. The mine was powerful enough to destroy an armoured warship and the explosion was so violent that poor little wooden Columba was reduced to nothing more than splinters. Not a trace of her crew was left behind.

  Chapter 19

  It was 1957. Jimmy watched his car being loaded onto the ferry for The Hook of Holland. He was not looking forward to the next few days, but his wife had insisted they go, besides there were rumours of a legacy and he needed to get the close to the action. His fortunes had flourished since the war. He and Tuoy had set up their used car business in 1946, their first sale being William’s Lagonda which the executors had insisted should go to his faithful mechanic and his air gunner. Tuoy’s mechanical expertise and Jimmy’s salesmanship had become the foundation of a very successful enterprise, but a little unexpected legacy would not come amiss as the family now needed a larger house and soon there would be school fees to think about.

  It did not take them long to drive from The Hook to Munster, where the funeral was to take place. The “German Economic Miracle” had already restored much of the ravaged countryside which they drove through, and everywhere there was refurbishment, reconstruction and evidence of a buzzing industrial revival. Jimmy could not help marvelling that the country he had been trying to smash to pieces twelve years ago could have achieved such a thorough recovery. The couple had a quiet dinner in the hotel and an early night.

  At nine o’clock the next morning, they were summoned from their room to meet Dr Franz von Grubben. It was he who had alerted them to the fact that Albricht von Pilsen had died and suggested they might like to attend the funeral. Grubben had been the old man’s lawyer; he spoke perfect English and he set about explaining the provisions of his will. “You see,” he said, “the Countess, his wife, died in 1945, and he had only one son, Hans. You are entirely familiar with his sad fate and that of his cousin, William. That leaves no living relative of the count’s family. I discussed his affairs with him at great length and he eventually determined to leave the bulk of his assets, after expenses and taxes, to the lady his son was determined to marry. That Frau Hopson, I understand, is you. The Count kept a letter from Hans which must have been written only a day or so before his sad death.

  Angela was staggered. She knew Hans was fond of her and she herself had risked her life for him. But marriage…? She didn’t know what to with herself. Feeling dizzy and sick she fled from the room sobbing.

  The lawyer rounded off his report to Jimmy. The family castle and lands were in East Germany, there was no chance of retrieving them and there were heavy taxes to pay and exchange control regulations to be dealt with on the Count’s assets in Berlin, but the strange thing was that Albricht seemed to have been able to acquire a considerable fortune which was lodged in various Swiss banks. When the formalities were complete this would become the undisputed property of Frau Hopson – Angela. He believed the assets would be in total about $850,000. No sooner had he mentioned this staggering sum than Angela, recovered from her shock, re-entered the room. She still had fluent German and addressed the lawyer in his own language.

  “Sir, this affair is based on a misunderstanding. I liked and felt sorry for Hans, yes, but we never even thought of marriage. I was halfway to getting engaged to his cousin, William, before the accident. I cannot accept this money. It would be dishonest. I cannot do it.”

  “Allow me, dear lady, to explain the rules which will apply to this affair. The money is held in the bank’s accounts. It can only be released on production of certain documents which I possess and placed into your own hands when you provide proof of your identity. There is no other way. If these formalities are not completed the money will, after a number of years depending on local regulations and on the bank’s own rules, simply be added to their assets. Is that what you want?”

  “But I cannot accept money to which I have no moral entitlement.”

  “Madame, there is nothing here which says what you must do with the money when you have it. You could give it all to the Red Cross or some other charity if you wish. Surely there are more worthy homes for it than the pockets of Swiss bankers? May I suggest Madame that I accompany you and Herr Hopson to the Apostlekirche where the funeral service is to be held. I will then leave you and you can make your decision and perhaps you would be kind enough to visit my office in the morning. That would be convenient as there are some bulky and detailed documents to complete.”

  Angela’s relationship with Jimmy was an astonishing one. They had met a few times while William had been serving in the RAF but they seemed to have nothing whatever in common; Angela could hardly be expected to take much notice of a cheeky young NCO from an East End background. It was tragedy which brought the two together. Jimmy had rushed to Newcastle when the tragic news of William’s death reached him and had shown an unexpected, deep vein of sympathy and understanding. Also being the practical, savvy fellow he was, he set about making all the complicated arrangements about winding up William’s affairs and the disposal of Stonebeck House, standing no nonsense from lawyers, estate agents or other such parasites. Just as the end of this ordeal seemed to be in sight tragedy had struck the Hopson family also. The little family house in Camberwell was destroyed when a German land mine, which had been lying in the foundations of a wrecked building opposite, was detonated by some building work. Mr and Mrs Hopson and their youngest son, George, just demobbed from the Royal Army Service Corps, were killed outright, Jimmy’s two other brothers had gone down with the Hood in 1941. Angela, caring and kindly as ever, tried to repay to the some of the kindness she had received from Jimmy, doing hundreds of little time-consuming jobs while he worked hard to set up his business. The two had worked so well together, in defiance of social class or upbringing, that the friendship had gradually developed. Old Sir Felix and his son Rory could see that Jimmy made Angela happy and made no objection to the relationship. Lady Pointer tried hard to “talk sense” into her daughter but, not for the first time, Angela stuck to her guns and the marriage was celebrated quietly in the parish church. Jimmy had proved a kind and attentive husband and gradually even Her Ladyship began to understand that he was exactly the man her daughter needed to make her happy. He was practical, cheerful and unfailing kind and his Cockney sense of humour often had the whole family in stitches. Two years in an RAF officers’ mess had knocked some of the Cockney corners off him and his self-confidence and good nature made him acceptable in any company. Also, he knew exactly how to deal with Angela, forceful and headstrong though she was.

  Albricht’s funeral had been tedious and crowded with ancient pillars of various German regimes, some probably decent folk, many, doubtless, otherwise. Grubben, the lawyer made some introductions but conversations soon fizzled out and Angela could see that Jimmy was bored and uncomfortable. The two slipped off as soon as they could and drove out of Munster, wandering along minor roads until they came to a village with a little restaurant which looked promising. They ordered beer and omelettes and sat in the open air to discuss the legacy. At first Angela was adamant that she could not touch the money, but Jimmy had a brainwave.

  “Look, love,” he said, “there is sense in what the geezer said – you shouldn’t let it all go to some rotten Swiss banker.”

  “No, I see that but there must be some way I can get out of it. I don’t want to touch that money, most of it was probably stolen anyway, from Jews perhaps. William told me a bit about his uncle once, and my father, who had som
e dealings with him when you were in custody in Switzerland, said he didn’t trust him an inch.”

  “Yes, that’s what I was thinking, but wasn’t your William interested in some old charity in London – my part of the world actually. There was an old vicar fellow. Can’t remember his name. Saw him once in hospital just before he died.”

  “Oh yes! William often talked of him; he was his guardian, I think. Great friend of his father.”

  “Well, I think William would have liked any spare cash to go to something he was doing – I remember his name now, Flopsy wasn’t it? Let’s think about it.”

  It didn’t take much research back in London to learn about Flopsy’s work in the East End. Angela devoted all her drive and energy to the foundation of a children’s charity and boy’s clubs attached to what had been Flopsy’s parish. The place soon became famous for community development in one of the most deprived parts of London and enhanced the lives of thousands of young people. In a twist of irony, many of them were Jewish or descended from the “Untermensch” folk from whose ranks the money had been stolen by the Nazis. The project was appropriately named The William and Angela Foundation.