James Maxted 03 The Ends of the Earth

by Robert Goddard

  Appleby had been tempted to respond by pointing out that Foreign Office people closely resembling Brigham had led Britain into a war that had claimed millions of lives, including his own son’s. But he had refrained, reminding Brigham instead that Max’s safety depended on them continuing to work together. And Brigham had conceded the point through gritted teeth: ‘Very well, God damn it.’

  So, here they were, in Dulière’s office, with time – though not much of it – to spare before word of Eugen’s death could reach his school and be transmitted to the man who sat before them, who could be relied upon to notify Lemmer at once – unless they could dissuade him.

  ‘What can I do for you, messieurs?’ Dulière asked suspiciously, drawing on a cigarette. He waved them towards a couple of chairs.

  ‘We’ll come straight to the point,’ said Appleby.

  ‘Un moment, monsieur. Which of you is Mr Brown and which is Mr Green?’ Dulière smiled awkwardly.

  ‘I’m Brown,’ said Appleby. He did not suppose Dulière believed the names they had given to be genuine for a moment. ‘You act for the father of a pupil at Institut Le Rosey called Eugen Hanckel. Is that right?’

  ‘How did you come by this … information?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s true, isn’t it?’

  Dulière shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘He went missing two days ago.’

  ‘We know the school will have told you,’ said Brigham.

  ‘And we know you’ll have told his father,’ said Appleby.

  Dulière released a sigh of exasperation and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Even if this was true, I could not discuss the matter with … deux étrangers.’

  ‘You’re going to have to. We know who the father is, maître. A German spy, sought by every government in Europe.’

  ‘Not every government,’ objected Dulière, with a hint of self-satisfaction.

  ‘Swiss neutrality won’t protect you from the sort of people who’ll come calling here, maître,’ said Appleby. ‘I promise you that.’

  ‘And they won’t be as polite as us,’ said Brigham.

  ‘You’re going to hear some news of Eugen later today,’ Appleby continued. ‘It won’t be good.’

  Dulière looked alarmed. ‘Non?’

  ‘We don’t want you to pass it on to his father. Do nothing. Tell no one. You understand?’

  ‘I cannot do that.’

  ‘You can. If you do, we’ll keep your name out of it. There’ll be no … impolite callers. You’ll be able to carry on with your life, quietly and normally. Isn’t that what you want to do?’

  Dulière’s glance flickered between them. ‘What happened to the boy?’

  ‘You have a son of your own, don’t you? Marcel junior. And a nice house in Avenue de Cour. With a nice wife waiting for you there.’

  Dulière’s face lost much of its colour. ‘Are you … threatening my family?’

  ‘You should certainly put their interests first.’

  ‘Mr Brown’s giving you good advice, maître,’ said Brigham. ‘You should take it.’

  ‘If you do, you’ll never hear from us again,’ said Appleby. ‘And that would suit us just as well as I imagine it would suit you.’ He smiled cautiously. ‘So, can we rely on you?’

  Dulière said nothing. His hand trembled as he took out another cigarette and lit it. He gave a nod that he may have intended to serve as a sign of agreement. But it was not enough.

  ‘Can we?’ Appleby pressed.

  Another nod, more emphatic than the first, was followed by the word they needed to hear. ‘Oui.’

  There was no cable waiting for Max at the Station Hotel in Tokyo. He was disappointed. Word from Appleby would have been welcome. But it could not be helped. Max knew Appleby would be in touch as soon as practicably possible.

  With the list already despatched to C, Max felt free to reclaim the original from the hotel safe. It was a token of the defeat he had inflicted on Lemmer, of which, he hoped, Lemmer was still unaware. A mother’s love was stronger than a father’s, it seemed. Anna Schmidt’s loyalty to Lemmer had surpassed everything except her attachment to her son. That had been Lemmer’s undoing.

  Max opened the window of his room to let in as much cool air as the evening could supply and turned on the fan. He lay on his bed and smoked a cigarette and tried to find a calm segment of his thoughts to dwell in. The great secret was what he really wanted. He knew that now. Destroying Lemmer’s spy ring was his patriotic duty. Avenging his father was his destiny.

  ‘I think that did the trick,’ said Appleby as he and Brigham stepped out of Dulière’s offices into the bright sunshine of mid-morning Ouchy.

  ‘In which case, I take it you’ve no more use for me,’ said Brigham, with a bitter edge to his voice. ‘If it’s all the same to you, Appleby, I’d like to go back to Geneva now and try to put this appalling business behind me. I should never have allowed you to talk me into helping you in the first place.’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend Geneva.’

  ‘Why the devil not?’

  ‘If the Swiss authorities ever find out what we did on their territory, they’ll be mightily displeased. France is the place for you, Brigham.’

  ‘But what about my League of Nations post?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait and see what happens.’

  ‘Wait and see? I—’

  ‘Hold on, isn’t that Veronica?’

  It was Veronica, waving to them from the other side of the road. She was holding a piece of paper in her hand. And she was smiling broadly.

  ‘You were not born in Tokyo.’ Max’s thoughts returned again and again to Lemmer’s tantalizing remark. What did he mean by it? What did he know? ‘You were not born in Tokyo.’ If not, then where? Why should his parents have lied to him about such a thing? What was the importance of his place of birth? ‘You were not born in Tokyo.’

  Max pictured his parents as they were in the photograph on Hodgson’s wall – young, hopeful, happy for all he knew. New Year’s Eve, 1889. Before he was even born. Wherever he was born.

  He rose from the bed, suddenly in need of any breeze there was to be had by the window. Something slid off his lap on to the floor as he sat up. It was the list of Lemmer’s spies, written out by Anna Schmidt on Imperial Hotel notepaper. Max bent down to retrieve it. And then—

  And then he saw.

  APPLEBY HAD TO give Veronica the grim news of Eugen’s drowning in return for the glad tidings contained in Max’s cable. She was shocked and appalled and he did not blame her. He had never considered the boy’s death even as a remote possibility and clearly neither had she.

  ‘What are we to do now?’ she asked numbly.

  ‘Warn Max what’s happened. Confirm C has the list. Start back for London.’ He looked at his watch. ‘The sooner the better.’

  ‘Won’t Lemmer be expecting to hear from you?’

  ‘Yes. And when he doesn’t, he’ll be suspicious. Silencing Dulière has only delayed the moment Lemmer learns Eugen is dead. We shouldn’t be here when he does. And Max shouldn’t be in Tokyo.’

  Appleby cabled Max from the post office in Ouchy before he and Veronica boarded the next boat back to Evian-les-Bains.

  WELL DONE. MUCH REGRET SUBJECT DROWNED. RECOMMEND YOU LEAVE ASAP. BROWN

  Max had left the Tokyo Station Hotel by the time the cable was delivered. It was late on a sultry night, the revellers and wanderers of Ginza moving as in a dream, heat and darkness fused in the shadows beyond the glare of the lamps.

  Hodgson was clearly surprised to see him at Uchida Apartments. He waved his wife away and ushered Max towards his study, but Max took the lead and went into the drawing-room, where he immediately noticed a change had been made to the pictures on display.

  ‘I didn’t expect to hear from you until tomorrow,’ said Hodgson. ‘Will you have a drink? Whisky, isn’t it?’

  ‘Something occurred to me that I wanted to discuss with you. And no, nothing to drink, thanks.’
>
  ‘I reported to H.E. He’ll be content if he hears from London in the morning, as you predicted. Of course, technically he’s not H.E. We’re between ambassadors at present, so our Head of Chancery—’

  ‘Where’s the photograph?’

  Hodgson started back. ‘Photograph?’

  ‘New Year’s Eve, 1889. It was hanging on your wall when I came here on Tuesday evening. Just where that framed map of China is now.’

  Max already knew where the photograph was. He could see the picture had been slipped behind the cabinet to his right. But he was interested to see just how evasive his host would be.

  ‘I’m not sure. My wife, er, moves things around a good deal.’

  ‘Shall we ask her where it is?’

  ‘I, er …’ Hodgson looked more than flustered. He looked frightened. And Max knew what he was frightened of.

  ‘Come on, Cyril. Show me the photograph.’

  A slump of Hodgson’s shoulders signalled defeat. He stepped over to the cabinet and pulled out the framed photograph.

  ‘Put it back on the wall. Where it belongs.’

  Hodgson took down the map of China and replaced it with the picture Max had seen there on Tuesday evening: the British Embassy staff, adorned in party finery, assembled in the ballroom of the Imperial Hotel on the last night of 1889 – according to Hodgson.

  ‘The list Anna Schmidt gave me is written on Imperial Hotel notepaper,’ said Max. ‘I have it with me. Here. Take a look.’ He pulled the sheets of paper from his jacket and waved them under Hodgson’s nose.

  ‘I’ve already seen it,’ said Hodgson in an undertone.

  ‘Really? Did you notice what’s printed at the top of each sheet, smartly embossed in gold?’

  ‘I … don’t think so.’

  ‘Read it.’ Max flattened the sheets out. ‘Read what it says.’

  Hodgson adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. ‘Er, “Imperial Hotel, Tokyo”.’

  ‘And under that?’

  ‘“Established … 1890”.’

  ‘Exactly. 1890. Interesting, wouldn’t you say? It seems the Imperial Hotel opened its doors to the public for the first time in the year 1890. Not 1889. So, the photograph of the embassy’s New Year’s Eve party there can’t date from 1889, can it?’

  ‘Um …’ Hodgson gave a pained frown. ‘I suppose not. I must have been mistaken.’

  ‘Since my parents only spent two Decembers in Japan, it follows the photograph must be of the party held on New Year’s Eve, 1890. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  Hodgson’s answer barely rose above a whisper. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was born on the fifth of May, 1891.’

  ‘You were?’

  ‘So, at the end of December, 1890, my mother would have been about five months pregnant.

  ‘I … suppose she would.’

  ‘But she wasn’t, was she? It’s quite obvious. Just look at the photograph. That’s why you ante-dated it by a year when I asked about it. Because you knew what I’d notice if you gave me the correct date.’

  Hodgson sighed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured.

  ‘She isn’t my mother, is she? I wasn’t born in Tokyo. And I wasn’t born to her at all. Poor old Brigham’s barking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Never mind. You know the truth, Cyril. You were here at the time. And your subterfuge with the photograph proves it.’

  ‘Come to my study. There’s something you should see.’

  ‘Something else?’

  ‘Yes. Something else.’

  Hodgson walked slowly out into the hall and crossed to his study. Max followed. Along the hall he saw Mrs Hodgson watching them anxiously round the edge of a door.

  Hodgson lowered himself into the chair behind the desk and signalled for Max to close the door. The study was book-lined and cosy, though uncomfortably hot. A bust of Disraeli spectated from the mantelpiece. An English landscape in the style of Gainsborough hung above it. They could have been in a gentleman’s retreat in the Home Counties.

  Hodgson pulled open a drawer, took something out and slid it across the desk. Max sat down and picked it up. It was a telegram, tucked inside its ripped-open envelope.

  ‘I cabled your mother two days ago asking her how much of the truth I should tell you,’ said Hodgson. ‘That’s her reply.’

  Max took out the telegram and read it.

  TELL HIM EVERYTHING IF YOU JUDGE YOU NEED TO. WINIFRED MAXTED

  ‘The way things seemed to be working out,’ said Hodgson, ‘I didn’t think the need was going to arise.’

  Max stared at him. ‘Oh, it’s arisen.’

  ‘Yes.’ Hodgson nodded. ‘I see that.’

  ‘I’D BE GRATEFUL if you allowed me to set out the facts without interruption, Max,’ said Hodgson, sipping at a whisky he had poured for himself. ‘You should know at the outset your father and mother did what they thought was best for you at every stage. It’s hard to see how they could have behaved better, in fact, given the circumstances. Of course, those circumstances were partly of their own making, certainly of Henry’s. But perhaps our characters are never more sternly tested than by how we cope with the consequences of our own mistakes.

  ‘Tokyo was a smaller, more Japanese city thirty years ago. It was still at its heart Edo, the city of the Shoguns. Henry’s previous postings had been Vienna and Budapest. Nothing can have prepared him or Winifred for the scale of Japan’s foreignness. The ways of the people, as you’ve seen for yourself – their dress, their customs, their codes of honour and behaviour – are utterly different from those encountered in any European country you care to name.

  ‘I was a relative newcomer myself when they arrived and we saw a good deal of each other. Henry and I worked together as well of course, and became friends. The English-speaking community was small and closely knit. One met the same people at every social engagement. There was much mixing with the members and spouses of the other foreign legations as well – American, French, German, Russian, Italian, Dutch. The Japanese we met were mostly of the upper and government classes. Unless you count the courtesans, of course.

  ‘I have a Japanese wife. Naturally, I’m biased in an assessment of Japanese women. Some Western men find them supremely attractive. And there’s never been the shame attached to … the needs of the flesh … in this culture. The Japanese are remarkably honest about such things. If you go to the local bath-house, you’ll find men and women bathing together, quite unselfconsciously. It’s truly a different world.

  ‘Not surprisingly, many Western men took Japanese lovers, sometimes with the benefit of sham marriages. The French were particularly noted for marrying local girls they’d rapidly tire of before going home to France and contracting what they regarded as a genuine marriage to a well-born Frenchwoman. This was before Puccini turned such stories into grand opera, of course. But Madame Butterfly certainly existed.

  ‘I mean to give no offence, but I imagine Winifred would have been prepared to turn a blind eye to a few discreet dalliances on Henry’s part. She was – and clearly still is – a pragmatist. Ironically, Henry never required a blind eye to be turned. He wasn’t a man who bestowed his affections casually.

  ‘His work in the chancery section required him to meet Japanese politicians, both formally and informally. Baron Tomura Iwazu was one such, a rising star of sorts, though even then it was unclear what his affiliations were. He was unusual in many ways. He was known to have a variety of business interests, for instance, some of them allegedly shady. Also, he had an English wife: Matilda, daughter of Claude Farngold, a Yokohama tea merchant. Henry and Winifred entertained the Tomuras at their home and were entertained in turn at Tomura’s residence here in Tokyo. They were soon on friendly terms. Winifred and Matilda met for tea. Tomura enrolled Henry in the Kojunsha Club. They were seen together often.

  ‘I asked Henry once, quite early in our acquaintance – it was more of a warning, really – whether he thought he was in danger of growing too
close to Tomura. As I recall, he told me not to be an old woman; Tomura was a rising force who’d repay study. Well, it was convincing enough, if you believed dispassionate scrutiny of the thought processes of a young Japanese politician was what Henry was about. The chief, Fraser, was evidently convinced. But he was a new boy himself, of course. He hadn’t quite got the lie of the land.

  ‘Then things started to happen, though it was only later that the shape of events became apparent. There was the assassination attempt against the Foreign Minister, Count Okuma, followed shortly by the death of Claude Farngold. Then there was a change of government. Under the new prime minister, Yamagata, Viscount Aoki became Foreign Minister. And one of Aoki’s juniors was … Baron Tomura.

  ‘Aoki had a foreign wife himself. She was German. It’s probably no coincidence Japanese policy took a turn in favour of Germany around then. Fritz Lemmer popped up at the German legation to encourage the process. He was soon on friendly terms with Tomura himself. Rumours began to circulate that Lemmer exercised a sinister influence on Tomura, and through him on Aoki and other ministers.

  ‘Political life here tends to close down in late July. Everyone heads for the hills. The heat in Tokyo, as you’ve discovered, can be stifling. Winifred had found her first summer well nigh unbearable. So, Henry took pity on her and sent her to spend the summer of 1890 with friends in Kashmir. As it happened, Tomura was out of the country as well, despatched to China by Aoki on some hush-hush mission: probably to assess how weak the Chinese government was. He was away for a couple of months or more. So was Winifred.

  ‘I was unaware of the growing attachment between Henry and Matilda Tomura. I was out of town rather a lot myself. It’s not so surprising it happened. Henry was alone, with time on his hands. Matilda was alone as well, still mourning her father and perhaps harbouring suspicions about her husband’s role in his death. She and Henry became lovers. That much is clear. For how long they remained so … I don’t know. Presumably, when Winifred returned from Kashmir and Tomura from China, or shortly thereafter … it ended. Well, it must have done, I think. To have continued would have been madly reckless. Although love, as you may not yet be aware, can inspire madness in the sanest people.