The More Deceived

by David Roberts

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well then, have you met Mr Churchill?’

  The question was so unexpected that Edward thought for a moment he had changed the subject but a glance at his face made it clear he had not. Through a cloud of smoke, Vansittart was peering at Edward and expecting a reply.

  ‘No, I never have.’

  ‘That’s good!’

  Edward looked puzzled. ‘I’m afraid I’m not following you, Sir Robert.’

  ‘No, of course you’re not. I just wanted to be sure you were not a friend of Mr Churchill’s because that would have made the investigation very difficult . . . if not impossible.’

  ‘I have never met Mr Churchill,’ Edward repeated.

  ‘You are, however, aware of his political opinions?’

  ‘On foreign affairs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I know from what he writes in the newspapers that he believes Germany is building up an army and air force which we would have difficulty in withstanding in the event of a war. And, I must say, I am sure he is right.’

  ‘He is right in that, if in nothing much else,’ Vansittart concurred. ‘You do not have to be Talleyrand to see that Germany is a threat to the British Empire. As Mirabeau is reported to have said, “La guerre est l’industrie nationale de la Prusse.” The question is what to do about it. The government is rearming. We are doubling our expenditure on the Royal Navy and the Royal Air Force in the next two years.’

  ‘I am no expert, Sir Robert, but surely one must respond, “too little, too late”?’

  ‘What more can we do? We are already deeply in debt to the Americans. The government wishes to postpone war, if indeed it is inevitable, by negotiating with Germany – satisfying her legitimate demands and giving her no excuse for further aggression.’

  ‘I understand. My friend, Lord Benyon, has explained to me how close we are to bankruptcy but, if we give ourselves more time to arm, surely that gives Germany time to do the same? A fellow passenger on my recent trip to the United States was a German Jewish aeronautical engineer. Fortunately for us the Nazis had been stupid enough to hound him out of his job.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘To work on the new jet engines which would make every fighter we have obsolete. However, if we allow Hitler the time, they will be built.’

  ‘We too have jet engines in development,’ Vansittart said, ‘but, of course, there is something in what you say. In any case, as you know, it is not my task to make policy but to implement it.’

  Edward was aware that this remark was disingenuous. Sir Robert was not a man to leave policy-making to the politicians.

  ‘But no doubt you would like me to get to the point. It’s a delicate matter. To put it bluntly, confidential information concerning our defences – particularly our air defences – is being passed to persons unauthorized to receive it.’

  ‘You mean to a foreign power?’

  ‘No! – at least not as far as we know. The information is being passed to Mr Churchill. The figures he quotes in his newspaper articles and in debates in the House of Commons are uncannily accurate.’

  ‘So you think someone in the Foreign Office is giving him the ammunition to attack the government? ‘

  ‘We’re not absolutely certain it is coming from the Foreign Office or perhaps not only from the Foreign Office. You will be shown the complete list of those government officials who are authorized to receive secret information relating to our rearmament programme. These documents are circulated to twenty or twenty-five ministers and top officials and presumably they show them to their senior people though they are not supposed to.’

  ‘I see. So, if I understand you, one or more of these people is passing secrets concerning our rearmament – facts and figures – to Mr Churchill so he can embarrass the government?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘But what would be that person’s motive? Money?’

  ‘Probably not. We do not believe that Mr Churchill has ever given any reward for information. I think it is more likely to be from a misguided idea that alarming the British public in this way is patriotic. Of course, nothing Mr Churchill can say or do can alter the situation. As I said to you, we are increasing our armed forces very rapidly – as rapidly as our financial position allows.’

  ‘And is Mr Churchill actuated by a patriotic desire to prepare Britain for the coming conflict or merely to promote himself?’

  ‘Ah, well! There’s the question. Personally, I think he is a genuine patriot but he does enjoy irritating his former colleagues. He had hoped to be taken back into government and he may be trying to make such a nuisance of himself that the PM prefers to have him on board rather than rocking the boat from outside. But that’s by the by. Whatever his motives, the situation cannot be allowed to continue.’

  ‘I have always admired his energy and determination but after Gallipoli . . .’

  ‘Quite! Though, it has to be said, that fiasco was not entirely Mr Churchill’s fault.’

  ‘But he bears the responsibility,’ Edward persisted.

  ‘He does,’ Sir Robert agreed, getting up from his chair. ‘And he did the honourable thing and resigned. Joined his regiment and fought at the front. I admire him for that. As for Gallipoli, he was impatient . . . too impatient. The war in France was bogged down in trench warfare. He was prepared to risk anything to find a short cut to victory. He was a young man with the world’s mightiest fleet at his disposal. He was a personal friend of Mr Asquith and could count on the unstinting support the British people always give their navy. He threw all these gifts away in sheer headstrong recklessness. He lost himself trying a short cut in unfamiliar territory and lost others with him. You know, Lord Edward, there is a broad gulf between the man of talent and the man of genius. One may perhaps feel that at the present time, when the empire is going through a most terrible economic crisis and faces the appalling prospect of another war, Mr Churchill’s recklessness may once again imperil us. His facile phrases and unbalanced enthusiams are the last thing we need.’

  Vansittart’s bitterness surprised Edward. He must be seriously worried to give vent to his feelings so unrestrainedly. Vansittart, perhaps sensing he had spoken too freely, ceased his pacing and sat down again opposite Edward.

  ‘Anyway, it is intolerable that top secret documents should be seen by unauthorized people, whatever their motive,’ he ended lamely.

  ‘I see. So you want me to go and see Mr Churchill and ask him who is giving him this information? I cannot believe I would be successful.’

  ‘You are a neutral figure – if I may put it that way, Lord Edward. I agree Mr Churchill is unlikely to reveal his sources of information but you can at least warn him that we are aware of what is happening and when we do find our weak link . . . but there is another way of tackling the problem. When you receive the full list of those who have legitimate access to the figures Mr Churchill quotes so authoritatively, you can interview each of them. There may be fewer than a score – thirty at the most.’

  ‘I will have to have some letter of authorization if I am to get anywhere.’

  ‘That goes without saying,’ Vansittart said with relief, making the assumption that Edward had agreed to undertake the investigation. ‘You will be sworn in as an officer in Special Branch. You will have all the authority you need, I can promise you. However, the investigation must be most discreet. No word of our anxiety must reach the newspapers or we shall be pilloried. You understand?’

  ‘I do, Sir Robert. And I report direct to you?’

  ‘Myself or Major Ferguson. The fewer people who have to know about this the better. And, by the way, commit nothing to paper. Any report you make should be verbal. We don’t want any memorandum from you being reprinted in one of Lord Weaver’s rags, do we?’

  That seemed to Edward to be a warning. Vansittart must know of his friendship with the owner of the New Gazette and other newspapers with little love for the government.

  ‘Th
ere is nothing else you can tell me? You have no suspicions yourself as to who may be talking to Mr Churchill? Presumably Major Ferguson must have made some preliminary investigation.’

  ‘That is true,’ Sir Robert said, rising to his feet to indicate the interview was at an end. ‘He had a hint that one of my people, Charles Westmacott, a junior employee in Desmond Lyall’s section, might have – how shall I put it? – a weakness for Mr Churchill. Major Ferguson made an appointment to see him.’

  Edward was on his feet too. ‘Which department is Mr Lyall’s?’

  Vansittart hesitated. Then he said, ‘I suppose you will have to know. Lyall is Director of of Industrial Intelligence. His job is to study arms deals amongst our European friends and possible enemies and gather and collate industrial intelligence from our people abroad. The department is most secret and must not be referred to outside this room.’

  ‘And what was the result of Major Ferguson’s meeting?’

  ‘It never took place. Westmacott disappeared the evening before Ferguson was to interview him.’

  ‘Disappeared? When was this?’

  ‘Exactly a week ago.’

  ‘And no one has any idea where he is?’

  ‘No. Westmacott left the Foreign Office about his usual time – five thirty or six, we believe – and has not been seen since. Ferguson will brief you but he’s in the dark along with the rest of us. Of course, this may have nothing to do with what we have been talking about but . . .’

  ‘Would his knowledge have been useful to the . . . to other countries? Does he have access to secret documents?’

  ‘Up to a point. Ferguson will give you all the gen.’ Sir Robert seemed anxious now to get rid of his guest. ‘He saw certain low-level secret documents . . . He was, as I say, relatively junior but Lyall trusted him. He might have seen more than he was supposed to. Ferguson will arrange for you to talk to Lyall. As you can imagine, Westmacott’s wife is distraught but at least we have kept the news of his disappearance out of the press – for the moment anyway. Lord Weaver and the other proprietors have been most understanding.’

  Always, Edward thought, there was this fear of the public knowing what was going on. Government kept control by not permitting the general public to know what was done in its name and what mistakes were made. However, perhaps in this instance there was some justification. As he said his farewell to Sir Robert, he realized he had never actually said he would take on the investigation. His agreement had been presumed. He sighed. No doubt in a few hours he would receive a telephone call from Major Ferguson and feel bound to respond positively. He could not deny that he was intrigued. Mr Churchill was a colourful character. He had seen him once in the House of Commons in full flood and been carried away by his oratory. His friend Marcus Fern admired him and Edward trusted his judgement. In fact, he had an idea that Fern was working for him in some capacity or other. But still, he thought, there was something of the charlatan about Churchill.

  2

  When Edward got back to Albany he found an irate Verity reading his correspondence and smoking furiously.

  ‘Oh, there you are. I suppose you forgot you are taking me to the exhibition and then a slap-up dinner before I return to the front line?’

  Edward tried to kiss her but she dodged him. ‘Fiddlesticks! Don’t think you can get round me with that sappy stuff. There’s a hundred places I could be, instead of waiting on you. Where have you been, anyway? ‘

  ‘Simmer down, old thing. I hadn’t forgotten our dinner engagement but I was called to an important meeting at the FO, don’t y’know.’ He spoke loftily but Verity was unimpressed.

  ‘Huh! I bet you were called in to polish a few boots!’

  ‘On the contrary, my dear Watson, Sir Robert Vansittart himself wished to consult me on a matter of international importance.’

  ‘Less of the Dr Watson. Well,’ she added grudgingly, ‘what was so important the FO wanted to talk to you about? Are you to be our next ambassador to Transylvania?’

  ‘Can’t tell you, I’m afraid. Sworn to silence. Sir Robert specifically warned me against talking to Communist journalists.’

  ‘Blast you, Edward! Stop teasing. Tell me all about it,’ she commanded him, stubbing out her cigarette in a potted palm.

  ‘Sorry, I mean it – no can do. You’ll have to get me drunk at Gennaro’s tonight and see if you can loosen my tongue. By the way, where are you staying? You can’t stay here, you know. The managers wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘I have no intention of staying here. If you want to know, I’m staying with Charlotte and Adrian.’

  Adrian Hassel was a painter and his wife a successful novelist. They were friends with whom Verity usually stayed when she was in London, no longer having a place of her own.

  Edward saw that she was on edge. She lived on her nerves, eating little and smoking too much, courting danger, choosing to live the uncomfortable and occasionally dangerous life of the war correspondent. He knew from experience that a few days before she went back to Spain, where civil war now raged, she would become nervous and irritable, only regaining her equilibrium when she was actually in the front line. The anticipation was much worse than the reality, she said, but Edward doubted this. She had been out of Spain for a couple of months and the respite had done her good. She had put on a little weight and the dark circles under her eyes had disappeared. She had been with him on the Queen Mary a few weeks before and, although the trip to the United States had not been without incident, she had benefited from sea air and good food. Then she had spent two weeks meeting influential Americans: union leaders, left-wing politicians and Communist Party sympathizers.

  There had been relatively few of these last, she had been disturbed to discover, and she had been dogged by FBI agents – at least she assumed they were FBI – who made it clear she was seen by the government as an undesirable. Edward and she had become lovers on the Queen Mary, or rather they had had one brief and interrupted night when, despite his having an injured leg which hurt whenever any pressure was put on it, they had managed to make love. It could hardly have been described as a night of passion but they had sealed some sort of emotional knot, though neither of them could have defined its nature. Verity was not the marrying kind. Most girls of her class were married by twenty-five with a baby or two and a husband at the office all day. She was racketing round the world doing a dirty job which, if it had to be done, most people would say should be left to men to do.

  The English knew about war. They had not too long ago survived a particularly bloody one but they had relatively little interest in foreign wars. The civil war in Spain was of crucial importance to Communists and those on the left in politics but these were few in number if vociferous. Most readers of the New Gazette wanted to read about the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, who were shortly to be married in France, and the imminent coronation of King George VI. Verity was resigned to seeing her reports from the front relegated to a few columns squeezed on to the inside pages though she had written a series of articles about ‘daily life’ in the United States which had proved popular. As Edward sniffed, she might as well turn them into a book and call it Inside America. Two weeks was surely ample time to get the measure of that great country.

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten we were dining but I have to admit I had forgotten we were going somewhere first. Give me five minutes to shower and put on a clean shirt. You can entertain me while I change. Remind me where we are going first of all. It might affect my choice of necktie. And, please, don’t tell me about all our Comrades in Spain without clean shirts or neckties. I really don’t want to know.’

  Just as he reached his dressing-room, he heard the sound of an épée falling on the floor.

  ‘Hey! Desist! Leave my weapons alone, woman.’

  ‘What on earth . . .? Don’t say you are taking up fencing? At your age . . . ! What are you trying to prove?’

  ‘I am not trying to prove anything. I was merely taking some exercise that would strengthen m
y leg and . . . Can you help me with this collar?’

  ‘You men!’ Bossily, sword still in hand, Verity bustled into the dressing-room.

  ‘Here, I say, dash it!’ Edward exclaimed as she tugged at the recalcitrant stud. ‘What are you trying to do? Cut off my . . . ? Ouch! Don’t do that!’ He had his trousers round his ankles and was therefore at a disadvantage.

  Verity laughed. ‘Men look such asses without their trousers.’

  ‘You’re such an expert on male attire? Hey! Stop prodding me with that sword. I mean it. Unhand me, girl!’ He drew her to him and relieved her of the sword. He kissed her on the lips and she made no protest except to say, her voice rather unsteady, ‘What about Fenton?’

  ‘I’ve just remembered, it’s his evening off.’ He hopped about, clinging to Verity with one hand while trying to remove the trousers round his ankles with the other.

  With a gurgle of laughter, she pushed him on to the chaise longue. ‘Why is it, whenever I kiss you, you fall over?’ she said when she could breathe again. She was referring to how, on the Queen Mary, Edward’s damaged knee had made him unsteady on his pins. ‘I begin to think it’s a sophisticated seduction technique.’

  Although she prided herself on being tough and certainly she instilled fear in both women and men over whom she did not consider it worth taking trouble, she was not half as hard-boiled as she pretended. She loved Edward but felt she would be at a disadvantage if she let him know how much. She was afraid she could never give him what he needed . . . what he deserved . . . and she had warned him that she could never be a wife to him. If he still loved her, as he said he did, that was fate and something she knew she could do nothing about.

  ‘Huh!’ he grunted. ‘Why are women’s undergarments more difficult to negotiate than a minefield?’

  ‘Ouch! You’re hurting. I suppose I had better do it myself.’ She got up and slipped out of her dress and then removed her brassiere and knickers with a grace and lack of embarrassment which made it all seem so natural. ‘I didn’t mean for this to happen,’ she said as she lay down beside him. ‘The trouble is that, when I get cross, I get . . . Golly, this bed thing’s narrow. There! You’re sure it’s Fenton’s evening off?’