And Is There Honey Still For Tea?

by Peter Murphy

  * * *

  There is no way to describe the terror of waiting, day by day, for the knock on the door which will bring your life, as you know it, to an end. Everything seemed so clear to me that I could not easily imagine how the trail could fail to lead the authorities to me. In my mind, my links to Guy, Donald and Kim were obvious and compelling, and at first I did not comprehend why the police were not on my doorstep within hours of their disappearance. As I understand it now, even the Americans, for all Hoover’s bluster, were not fully convinced of the treachery until April 1954, when Vladimir Petrov, a Third Secretary at the Soviet Embassy in Canberra, defected and identified Guy and Donald as important Soviet agents. Apparently, he made no reference to me. But at the time, I was expecting to be exposed on a daily basis. I felt helpless.

  The feeling of imminent exposure is one which has never left me, and it is one almost too terrible to describe. The instant fluctuations in body temperature from sweltering to freezing; the knot in the pit of the stomach so tight that it is hardly possible to hold yourself upright; the nausea; the shaking hands; the insomnia; the waning of all enthusiasm for life; the distraction and inability to concentrate for more than a second or two on the most routine task. There are moments when you feel you have to end it, even if it means going to the police yourself and making a full confession.

  For me, exposure would mean, not only the possibility of a long term of imprisonment, but also the most profound and public humiliation before my peers: the Bar; the members of the Reform; the Service; those in the world of chess. Beyond that, it meant that I would have to face up to the possibility that I had betrayed Roger, not only in the material sense of disgracing the family and forfeiting the Baronetcy, but also in the sense that I might have behaved dishonourably, a vice of which I thought him incapable. It was only now, with the threat of exposure hanging over my head, that I asked myself what Roger would have thought, what he would have said, about what I had done. I had convinced myself that I was doing it, at least in part, for him; that I was serving the country which had stood alone to combat fascism in Spain and had tried to provide support to the forces for which he had fought and died. But Roger had fought fascism on the front line, openly and heroically. If he had killed, he had killed a known enemy by direct action in battle. I had, I assumed, killed also: but indirectly; by betrayal and subterfuge; by the transfer of information. I had killed others about whom I knew nothing at all; all without ever setting foot on a front line or seeing the consequences of my betrayal with my own eyes. In many ways, this was the most terrible of the nightmares which haunted me. Roger’s life had been about truth. My life as a spy has required me to lie routinely, and although I convinced myself early on that it was necessary to lie for a good cause, I have never quite been able to reconcile my life with Roger’s.

  I know that Bridget sensed that something was very wrong. On the face of it, we were a well-to-do couple leading a varied and interesting life. Practice had gone well. In 1955, I took Silk. As the man at the Ministry had promised, my application sailed through at the first time of asking, and I began to be instructed in more serious and complex cases. We could have moved to a bigger house, but our home in Chelsea remained all we wanted. We spent time at the Manor, particularly during the summers, and as the economy gradually recovered after the War, the estate regained much of what had been lost, and started to prosper. With each visit I paid to the Soviet championships, my stock in the chess world continued to grow. I was invited to contribute articles to the major chess magazines. I continued to do well in the British championship, though I have never won it, and I was invited to play in various tournaments in this country, and abroad. But even before the disappearance, I have to think that she sensed the stress I experienced each year when the time grew near for me to leave for the Soviet Union. Once Guy and Donald disappeared, she must have sensed my near panic, though she would not have known, or even suspected the reason for it. I have never spoken to her about my work for the Soviets.

  This was partly because of my desire to protect her. But there was a deeper reason. Despite our social ease, with each other and with others, and despite our easy sexual intimacy, which has never dissipated, there is between us an inexplicable barrier to a deeper level of emotional intimacy. I do not know why I have never been able to open up to her with full honesty about my support for socialism; about my feelings for Roger; or about my passion for chess. She is aware of all those things on an intellectual level, of course, but I have never allowed her to see into my soul, to know how much they really mean to me. I think it is connected to our inability to talk about the subject of children. Our lack of children had driven a wedge between us which neither of us wanted. I do not understand why we could not have spoken of it once the worst of the emotional distress had subsided. It was important to both of us, but it had become a taboo subject, and in due course the wedge blocked off other areas of ourselves also. Perhaps I feared that she might reject me, but I do not truly believe that to be true. I believe that, even if she knew everything I have done, Bridget would continue to support me as my partner and as my friend. That has always been the nature of our relationship. Yet I never found the courage to tell her. Instead I have allowed her to suffer, as I know she must have, knowing that something was terribly wrong with me, but unable to fathom what it could be. In many ways it might have been easier for both of us if the police had knocked on the door one morning; for then there would have been no further need for any pretence.

  45

  For obvious reasons of safety, once Guy and Donald had gone, I made no attempt to contact Anthony or Kim. But they sought me out one evening early in 1952, with elaborate security precautions, for the briefest of meetings. They tried, largely in vain, to reassure me that there was no immediate threat; that my security had not been compromised, and they were insistent that I should continue to travel to the Soviet Union each year for the championship. I had already made that decision. I knew that it could only look suspicious if I stopped my visits as soon as Guy and Donald vanished. They told me that information for me to pass on to Viktor would continue to be provided; by whom they did not say and I did not ask. I did not see them again, but I did assure them that I would continue for as long as I could.

  * * *

  And so I did. When 1960 arrived and I had still not been unmasked, I was finally beginning to relax to some extent. I was invited as usual to the Soviet championship in January; it was returning to Moscow for the first time in five years, and was won by Tigran Petrosian. But as soon as I saw Viktor at the Peking, just after I arrived, I knew that something was wrong. He seemed tense, and wanted to get our business meetings over with as quickly as possible. He said he was sorry that there was no time this year for me to give my usual simultaneous exhibition at the Academy. We had dinner regularly, but he seemed distracted and I could not draw him into any general conversation. One morning, as we were having coffee and waiting for a round of the championship to start, I could stand it no longer and I asked him directly what was wrong. After a prolonged silence, he told me, quietly and speaking very rapidly, that he was afraid for his safety. The chief of the Directorate who had engineered our partnership had been accused of pro-western sympathies and was now living quietly in a city a long way from Moscow. His successor felt under an obligation to put everything he had done under a microscope, and Viktor had already been interrogated twice, politely but intensely, about his activities during his many trips abroad. The new Comrade Director questioned the quality of the information he was receiving from me, and even suspected that London might be using me to plant disinformation. He had been told not to deal with me again, and he believed that my visa would be cancelled and that there would be no further invitations to the championship. He hoped that the Directorate would honour the promises which had been made to me. He was optimistic about that. Whatever its other failings, he said, Moscow Centre believed strongly in loyalty to its agents. As for himself, he
was not so sure. He did not know whether they suspected him of disloyalty; whether he would be allowed to travel abroad again; whether his fate, too, might soon be enforced residence in a city a long way from Moscow, or worse.

  We said our goodbyes as the prizes were being presented at the end of the tournament. I never saw Viktor again. In February 1963 I read that he was dead; a heart attack, they said; his body found by a friend, unnamed, in his flat in Moscow.

  I had returned to London extremely disturbed, but also, I must admit, relieved that I would no longer have to engage in espionage. I had had enough. I felt that I had done my part, though what exactly I had achieved by it all, I could not have said. I wondered whether anything any of us did – Anthony, Guy, Donald, Kim, Viktor, I myself – actually produced any tangible results at all. There was no obvious sign of a new awareness for social justice, or support for the arts in Britain. Life seemed to go on as ever, for all the espionage that went on. At that point, a quiet life at the Bar and on the estate, playing chess as much as I could, seemed an attractive prospect. But the anxiety never left me. In 1961 and 1962 there were further revelations. Gordon Lonsdale, a Canadian who had been working as a Soviet agent, was arrested and convicted of espionage. John Vassall was caught, more or less red-handed, passing Admiralty secrets to the Russians. And, most frightening of all, George Blake, an MI6 officer, was convicted of spying for the Soviets since the 1950s and sentenced to a term of forty-two years in prison. Every fear I had ever had relating to exposure returned with a vengeance. In January 1963, Kim vanished from Beirut after being interrogated by Nicholas Elliott, a former colleague in MI6. There were rumours that he had made a full confession. In due course he surfaced in Moscow, and the circumstances strongly suggested that someone had made the decision to give him ample time to escape. Apparently the Government had no stomach for another spy trial, or was afraid of what might be revealed as a result. The thought gave me a glimmer of hope. Anthony’s career seemed to be progressing unaffected. He became the Slade Professor of Art History at Oxford and was awarded an honorary doctorate at Durham. But there were rumours that he was being interrogated and, in 1964, that he had confessed. If so, nothing was said publicly, but he avoided all contact with me, and I did not pursue any contact with him.

  * * *

  And now here I am, faced with exposure by an American academic called Francis R Hollander. I have been obliged to sue him to defend what I tell my solicitors and counsel is my good name. The trial is about to start. If it goes wrong, it will be the end. Bridget says she is horrified and will stand by me through it all. She has never asked me whether there is any truth in what Hollander says. Whether that is because she assumes it to be false, or quietly knows it to be true, I do not know. I have met Hollander. I know nothing of his academic abilities, except that he speaks respectable Russian and writes competently enough about political science. He is a mediocre chess player who has insinuated himself into the chess establishment as a fixer for the Americans, and now, apparently, he wants to be a fixer on a larger stage. He has set out to destroy me. He is represented by prestigious counsel and solicitors. But he cannot justify his article. He has no real evidence.

  I am a QC. I know about evidence and about the lack of evidence. I fully expect to win my case. That will bring me relief, but it will not leave me with any feeling of satisfaction, much less pride. I do not believe it will even bring peace of mind. I may have forfeited any hope of that many years ago. But first things first. First I must win my case, and then, who knows?

  46

  Monday, 4 October

  Miles Overton had volunteered his chambers for the late morning meeting. In two days’ time they would be appearing on opposite sides before Mr Justice Melrose to discuss the arrangements for the trial of the case now known as Digby v Hollander, the Secretary of State for the Home Department Intervening. But today, the case was not on the agenda. Any professional rivalry was forgotten for the time being. Today, they were on the same side, with a common goal. After lunch, Overton and Bernard Wesley had an appointment with the Committee formed by the Benchers of Middle Temple to consider the cases of Ben Schroeder and Jess Farrar, and Ginny Castle and Michael Smart. The timing of the Committee’s hearing, as their preparations for the trial were entering their most intense phase, was not ideal. But they had not even considered asking for an adjournment. They were all agreed: the problem had to be confronted and dealt with now.

  Seated next to Wesley in front of Overton’s massive desk, Ben was aware of feelings he had confronted many times: that the Bar was not for men like him; that he was out of step with the legal establishment; that he was standing on the edge of an abyss, looking down, waiting for everything he had worked for to come crashing down about him and carry him with it into whatever horrors lay in the depths of the abyss. But, familiar as those feelings were, this situation was different. This time it was not about his origins as a Jewish boy from the East End of London. It was not about his insecurity at being part of a profession dominated by white, Anglo-Saxon, Oxbridge-educated males. He had proved himself at the Bar, and he knew that he no longer had any logical reason for doubting himself as a barrister. But now, it seemed, he faced an impossible choice between the profession he loved and the woman he loved. There had to be a way out. He had tried to reassure Jess, and himself, over dinner and in bed the evening before, but she seemed withdrawn and reluctant to talk about it. This worried him almost as much as the prospect of the Committee meeting. For Jess, engaging him and prodding him into talking about every conceivable aspect of their lives was as natural as breathing, and her silence filled him with dread. He had not slept, and he was beginning to wonder how much longer he could go on. When his eyes met Ginny’s he knew instantly that she was in the same place. He tried desperately to put his fears to one side.

  ‘The composition of the Committee could be better,’ Wesley began. As ever, he sounded calm and assured, as if, Ben thought, he was completely confident that nothing could go wrong while he was at the helm. ‘But, on the other hand, it could be a great deal worse.’

  He took his notebook from the edge of Miles Overton’s desk, where he had set it down.

  ‘The Committee consists of a chairman and four members. The chairman is Lord Justice Kenney, affectionately known to us all as the Eagle, because of his remarkable beak-like nose and sharp talons.’

  ‘And because of his natural predatory instincts,’ Overton added.

  ‘Yes, indeed. More to the point, he is what one might call a traditionalist when it comes to the Bar.’

  ‘He is what one might call narrow-minded and humourless,’ Overton muttered. ‘Incurably so, in my view.’

  Wesley nodded.

  ‘We could have hoped for better, I agree,’ he replied. ‘On the bench, he likes to be seen as very much in charge. So we can expect him to throw his weight around. But it does get better. The next two members are Silks, both of whom Miles and I know quite well, Andrew Figg and Raymond Stanislas, both quite reasonable fellows who should at least be open to argument. The fourth member is very interesting – Mr Justice Lancaster, who I don’t know all that well, but who you certainly know, Ben.’

  ‘He was the trial judge in my capital murder last year,’ Ben said. ‘I liked him. He seemed very fair-minded.’

  ‘More importantly,’ Wesley replied, ‘he watched you cross-examine the victim when your leader had drunk himself into too much of a stupor to drag himself to court. And you did it well. Judges don’t forget that kind of thing. I think we may get some sympathy from Lancaster if we play our cards right.’

  ‘But then,’ Miles Overton said, ‘we have to reckon with number five, the formidable Mary Faulks. I’m not sure we will get too much sympathy there.’

  Wesley sat back in his chair.

  ‘No,’ he said pensively. ‘I am sure they thought they had to have one woman on the Committee, to achieve some balance and ensure fair play.’r />
  Overton snorted. ‘To make it look like fair play, I think you mean.’

  Wesley smiled.

  ‘A woman ought to help us, in theory, surely?’ Ginny ventured, but her voice lacked confidence.

  ‘There are women who might help us,’ Overton replied. ‘I don’t think Mary Faulks is one of them.’

  ‘Why not?’ Ben asked.

  Overton shrugged. ‘It’s not malice,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think Mary has a malicious bone in her body. It’s just that, as a woman in the generation before Virginia, she has had to fight every inch of the way just to build a decent practice. She is very able. If she were a man she would have a very good practice, and would be in Silk by now. But she’s a woman, and she has a decent junior practice, and that’s as far as it will go.’

  ‘And to get that far,’ Wesley added, ‘she had to make her practice her sole mission in life. She feels that she has to look and act like a man as far as possible, black suits and no jewellery every day, and a haircut that Oliver Cromwell would have admired.’

  ‘I’ve been accused of that look myself,’ Ginny smiled, ‘though I do try to remain recognisably female.’

  Wesley shook his head. ‘You’re not even close to Mary Faulks’s standards,’ he replied. ‘You know what I mean, Ginny, you’ve seen it. I am sure that, as a woman at the Bar, you couldn’t help but notice her generation.’

  ‘Harriet Fisk and I talk about it all the time,’ Ginny said. ‘Harriet joined your chambers two or three years after I joined Miles, didn’t she? But we still find ourselves talking about our appearance. It is almost as if it is more important than our ability.’