Across the city could be heard the sound of muffled explosions, both to the east and south, and the clatter of machine-guns from the anti-aircraft units directed stream after stream of tracer upwards into the darkened skies. The noise of aero-engines was a constant counterpoint to the explosions and crack of guns, causing a terrible cacophonic orchestration to the night.
There was a sudden string of rapid explosions somewhere to the north-east. They saw the flash of explosions.
“That’s Finsbury, sir,” volunteered someone. “Somewhere around Finsbury Park, I think.”
Churchill’s mouth was severe as new flames rose into the night sky across the rooftops of London.
“Sir,” it was an anxious aide. “I think we should go down now, sir. There’s a report of more enemy aircraft coming in.”
The burly form of the Prime Minister lowered his glasses reluctantly, hesitating as his oddly bright eyes gazed a final time across the rooftops towards the flames that were rising from the City and East End. Then he nodded. He said nothing as his group of aides guided him from Admiralty Arch. He ignored the waiting car parked below and set out at a brisk pace along Horse Guards
Parade back towards Downing Street. He needed to think and walking helped his thinking. He used a rapid pace so that many in the party had to trot to keep up with him.
It had been a dispiriting day. A lull in Luftwaffe attacks which had started three days before, had ended soon after breakfast that Saturday morning when dense formations of bombers, Dornier 17s and Junkers 88s, escorted by Messerschmidt Bf 109 fighter aircraft, started crossing the south coast. Throughout the day, wave after wave of enemy aircraft had swept the south-east of the country. Major attacks on the RAF fighter base at Manston in Kent were soon followed by concerted attacks on Hornchurch and North Weald to the north of London. The attacks continued through the day. With fires raging, especially at Hornchurch and North Weald, which had been badly hit, the cloudless summer day had turned grey and shadowy. By afternoon the sky for many towns in the south had darkened prematurely.
That afternoon reports came in to the Prime Minister’s office that Portsmouth had suffered the highest toll of casualties in any single raid. Over one hundred civilians and fifty naval personnel were killed and about two hundred and fifty people, all civilians, were injured. Junkers had managed to infiltrate the air defences of the famous naval city, dropping more than two hundred 250 kilo bombs in less than four minutes. Considerable damage had been done and a fuel store had received a direct hit which would burn for nearly two days.
The fierceness of the attacks had confirmed to Churchill that the German invasion might now be imminent: the strength of the attacks were surely a softening-up process. Earlier that evening, Air Chief Marshal Hugh Dowding had come to Downing Street to discuss the matter. He, too, had seen the renewed attacks as significant, believing Goring was starting his concerted attacks on the air defence system as a preparation. Did this mean that the invasion was already underway? Dowding felt that all defences should be alerted against the immediate prospect of an invasion attempt. Churchill was inclined to wait and see. The Premier could not tell Dowding that he expected the invasion to begin only when it was reported that the Nazis had the Duke of Windsor in their custody.
However, the raids continued. The Luftwaffe were certainly changing their previous tactics. Just after his evening meal, at 22.00 hours, a report came in to Churchill’s office that one hundred bombers were being tracked in over Kent, Sussex and Surrey, heading for London. In fact, the bombers made their way almost unopposed to the capital. The RAF had already lost 32 aircraft from its fighter bases around London that day. The rest of the pilots were under physical strain and fatigue, many having witnessed the horrors of violent death and suffered the anguish of seeing their friends and comrades spinning down to earth in flames. Fatigue was the enemy as pilots simply collapsed from want of sleep and aircrews laboured through the night to repair damaged aircraft. With the continuous air battles of the day there were hardly any pilots with the ability to take off to meet the night raids.
Then came the moment Churchill had been awaiting with some dread. A flight of German bombers, identified by the local Observer Corps as Heinkel Ills, unleashed their bombs over the City of London and in neighbouring Bethnal Green, East Ham, Stepney and Finsbury. Rows of terraced houses and tenement blocks were torn apart by high explosives. Eleven major fires were blazing out of control while a further 65 fires were being contained. The reports coming into the Prime Minister’s office were depressing. For the first time, in spite of the oft-repeated assurance given out by German propaganda radio that the Luftwaffe would only strike at military targets, the civilians of London had taken the brunt of the enemy bombing.
By the time Churchill had returned from his observations on Admiralty Arch, he had already decided that a retaliatory attack on Berlin should be the answer. He returned to his office, snapping orders to his secretary to convene a special meeting of the War Cabinet as soon as possible to discuss the implications of this new departure of German war plans. Lord Skenfrith was waiting for him and the Prime Minister gestured for him to follow into his study.
“Bad business,” Skenfrith opened as he accepted Churchill’s motion to be seated. “HM sent me over to convey his personal concern. He wants to visit the bombed areas of London tomorrow.”
Churchill nodded his agreement. It would put heart into the people to see the King there, sharing their dangers with them.
Skenfrith was hesitating. The Prime Minister grimaced impatiently.
“You have something else on your mind, my lord?”
“HM has asked me to raise the matter of His Royal Highness…his brother.”
Churchill chewed on his cigar. His expression did not alter but his bright eyes stared at the intelligence officer. Inwardly he groaned. He had just received a report from Lord Lloyd at the Colonial Office which consisted of a six page letter of protest from the Duke of Windsor at the lack of courtesy with which he considered officials were treating his Duchess. Privately. Churchill was sympathetic to the Duke’s argument. The title of Royal Highness was not one which was conferred personally by the sovereign and the Duke’s wife was entitled to bear it under common law as much as Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon had been when she married the Duke of York in 1923. It was a mean and spiteful act to deprive the Duke of Windsor’s wife that simple courtesy.
“And?”
“HM is not entirely happy with the situation.”
Churchill uttered a grunting sound, a cross between annoyance and derision.
“His Majesty is not alone in that. Are you implying that he is having second thoughts about the matter of his brother?”
Skenfrith shrugged.
“It is hard to sanction your own brother’s death, especially when one has been brought up in the shadow of that brother, taught to look on him as King. At the moment it seems to be causing HM a great deal of worry. Her Majesty is the stronger of the two and is advising, consoling and coercing him in turn.”
The Prime Minister sniffed.
“Perhaps I should have another word with him?” Skenfrith nodded.
“It might be wise, sir. And 1 would be grateful if you would advise HM on security.”
The Prime Minister raised a quizzical eyebrow. “There’s an officer from MI5 who HM seems to have taken a shine to. Invited him to Windsor Castle to examine the paintings in the private collection there. The man has obtained HM’s permission to catalogue the collection of Nicolas Poussin paintings. Trouble is, I think HM is being a little too indiscreet with him, if you see what I mean. Too talkative about things.”
Churchill looked bewildered for a moment.
“What is this officer’s function? How does it come about that he is pursuing art studies in the middle of a war?” Skenfrith grinned. “Well, he is a former lecturer in art from Cambridge, sir. Very well connected, of course. Currently, I believe he is on the German desk of MI5. Oh, the fellow has an impeccable
background. Good family, father was chaplain to the British Embassy in Paris during the Great War. Chap was educated at Marlborough and Cambridge. Had a Trinity Fellowship for some years. Quite an art expert. When the war broke out he volunteered for service, being a lieutenant on the Reserve.
He did a five week intelligence course at Minley Manor, in Camberwell, and went to France in the Intelligence Corps as a field security officer. He was evacuated from Dunkirk and on his arrival here he was recommended for work with MI5.”
Churchill stared at Skenfrith.
“Are you saying that he is not to be trusted? What’s the man’s name, by the way?”
“Blunt, sir. Anthony Blunt. And I’m not saying he is a security risk. He was highly recommended and shares rooms off Welbeck Street with other MI5 operatives who have known him from university days. No, where I am concerned is in the fact that HM has become quite chummy with him. Given him an open house invitation to the private art collections at Windsor Castle. Has him in for cosy chats. My worry is that they might be too cosy. I have tried to caution HM about speaking too freely on the matter of his brother but…”
He ended with an eloquent shrug.
“So you would prefer it if I gave His Majesty a gentle slap on the wrist?” inquired the Prime Minister blandly.
“Just so, sir,” agreed Skenfrith.
CHAPTER XV
Sunday, August 25, 1940
“You are really hitting the Nassau high life,” Harry Adams observed sardonically as Conroy was dressing for Serafini’s party the next evening. “Two tuxedo affairs in as many days.”
“Except that I haven’t been invited to this one,” Conroy pointed out.
There had been a tension between Adams and himself since the previous evening. Both men sought to ignore it yet their studied politeness to one another made it obvious. Jessie, with her easy going character, tried to keep the relationship smooth but it was clear that Adams had a growing tendency to identify Conroy with the white society in Nassau which he despised. Perhaps it was Conroy’s fault. He wished he could relieve the tension for he did feel a sympathy for Adams. But Conroy was a prisoner of his background, of his family associations, his English public school, university and its attitudes. Well, so long as Adams did his part of the job, that was all he should expect.
“So how are you going to get on board?” Adams asked. “Serafini’s security is going to be a little tighter than normal Government House security for obvious reasons.”
“It’s a problem that I’ll have to deal with once I get there,” Conroy replied as he struggled to fix his tie. “Did you discover anything more about Roger Albright?”
“Not a great deal,” admitted Adams. Soon after they had arrived back in Nassau, he had gone ashore to make some enquiries among the hotels. “I discovered that he was staying at the Royal Victoria hotel on East Street. I had a word with one of the bell boys there. All he could tell me was that Albright arrived on the noonday Pan Am flight from Miami on August 17…”
“Two days after the Windsors got here,” interposed Conroy.
“That’s right. The bell boy told me that he is a quiet sort of guy. Keeps pretty much to himself. The only interesting thing is that he has made several long distance calls.”
“Does your bell boy know to where?”
“That he does not, I’m afraid. But he did come up with one significant piece of information…our man Albright wears a shoulder holster. Albright was a little too late getting his jacket on once when the boy entered his room and he had a glimpse of a weapon.”
“How significant is that? Don’t a lot of Americans wear guns?” asked Conroy. “Something about a Constitutional right to bear arms?”
“Except that this is a British Colony. We might be less than a hundred miles off the coast of the US of A but the gun-toting right doesn’t extend here.”
Conroy finished dressing.
“It seems that what we know about Roger Albright does fit in with his being Rudi Olbricht. We’ll have to keep a close watch on him.”
“Well, he’s going to be among the society folk tonight, where you can watch him. And while you are living the good life. I’ll see if I can have a word with the telephone operator at the Victoria Hotel and find out where Albright has been telephoning.”
The Lupo di Mare was moored alongside Prince George’s Wharf. It was an impressive motor yacht whose sleek lines spoke of speed. It was a large, ocean-going vessel. The trim lines, polished brass, teak wood and bright paintwork told of wealth and luxury.
Conroy had his cab halt in the shadows of the Anglican Cathedral so that he could look down the hillside and survey the harbour front. The quayside had also been appropriated for the party and a band, beating out popular dance music, was situated on a specially constructed platform. Dancing seemed confined to the jetty while the food and drinks were apparently being served on the yacht itself. There were already a few hundred people milling over the area. The evening dresses were interspersed by uniforms of several nationalities. It was a colourful and well-attended party.
Conroy’s eyes narrowed as he saw that the area was cordoned off by fencing, with only one entrance to allow guests in and out. Bahamian police in their distinctive white jackets, blue trousers and white pith helmets, patrolled the area. Inside the fencing, Conroy saw the private security. There were several men standing about looking uncomfortably out of place in ill-fitting tuxedos. As private security men they were so obvious. At the gate itself, two men were examining printed invitations which the guests were offering for inspection before being allowed in.
Conroy let out a long sigh.
There was no way he could sneak into the area without going through the main gate. And there was no way he could go through the main gate without a printed invitation.
He chewed his lip as he thought the problem over.
There was one possibility, the only possibility, but it was so slim a chance that he did not have much faith in it. He could present himself at the gate, pretend that he had lost his invitation and try to brazen it out with the security guards. A long shot but worth a try.
He paid off his cab and lit a cigarette, strolling nonchalantly down the hill to where several limousines were parked near the entrance to the quay. With each step he took he realised the futility of his bluff.
“Mister Carson!”
A deep, resonating contralto voice echoed across the parking lot.
The ample figure of Mrs Kedgeworth was spilling out of a car.
He stifled his initial groan as a new possibility suddenly occurred to him. Forcing a smile, he went over to her.
“Why, delighted to see you again, Mrs Kedgeworth. Are you going to the party?”
She beamed on him from behind a formidable array of sparkling jewellery.
“Isn’t everyone?”
He nodded slightly and offered her his arm, gesturing to the entrance where some guests were being passed through.
“I think you, have to have your invitation card ready.”
“It’s in my bag…” Mrs Kedgeworth halted and began to rummage in her evening bag. “Yes, here it is.” She displayed the card with a smile.
“Allow me,” Conroy smiled, reaching forward and taking it from her fingers. “I’ll pass it through with mine.”
He reached into his inside pocket and frowned, as if just discovering that his card was missing.
“Oh, I must have left it in my car.” he turned with a vague gesture to the farthest corner of the parking lot. “Would you excuse me a moment? I’ll just get it.”
Hoping that she would raise no objection nor suggest she follow him to his imaginary vehicle, Conroy moved off rapidly. He made his way to a group of parked cars in the far shadows of the parking lot and peered at the invitation in the semi-gloom. It asked for the pleasure of the company of “Mrs Kedgeworth” in hurriedly written capitals in an ordinary fountain pen. The name had been written close to the left-hand edge of the card. He reached for his own fount
ain pen. His first idea was to really chance it and stick “Mr &” before the “Mrs” but there was no room for the insertion. He swiftly added “& guest” at the end and breathed rapidly against the ink to dry it.
Then he turned, forcing nonchalance, and made his way back to where Mrs Kedgeworth was waiting.
He waved her card with an apology.
“Sorry about that,” he smiled. “I’ll be forgetting my own name next.”
She replied with some witticism and they joined the line entering the gate.
Conroy steered Mrs Kedgeworth through first, so that she would not see that he presented only one card — her card, and handed the invitation to the wooden-faced security man. He examined it. Behind him, a little in the background stood a tall, muscular black. He was dressed in a gaudy Hawaiian shirt and white trousers. He had an ugly face and his gimlet eyes were staring unblinking at those entering the gate. Conroy knew he had seen the man before but could not remember where.
“Mrs Kedgeworth and…?”
Conroy realised that the security man holding the invitation card was beginning to read it.
“And my name is Carson,” interposed Conroy hurriedly.
Mrs Kedgeworth had turned back at the sound of her name.
The security guard frowned, still holding the card.
“I recognise you, Mrs Kedgeworth,” he said apologetically. “But can you confirm that you know this man?”
“Of course,” she replied haughtily. “Mister Oscar Carson.”
The man waved them on.
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