by Mark Ellis
Merlin was at his office window, watching a couple of river barges slowly making their way up the river against the current. The German bombers were still holding off. No raids at all, in London at least, since the middle of May. The Blitz was still going on, however, elsewhere in Britain. In the past week, bombs had fallen on Liverpool, Manchester and Hull among others.
Merlin wondered how his friend Jack Stewart was getting on. A senior officer in the Auxiliary Fire Service, Stewart had been out on the streets of London pretty much every night of the Blitz, from its early days in September 1940 until its recent tailing off. At the end of May he had been transferred north to share the benefit of his experience with the AFS in Liverpool and Manchester and to take overall command of several units. Merlin and Stewart had enjoyed a lively farewell night in the Surprise pub in Chelsea, their favourite local. Stewart had only been gone a couple of weeks but already Merlin missed him. He had been a rock when Merlin had lost his wife. Stewart was a working-class Scot with the intelligence and learning of an Oxbridge don. He always provided useful insight into Merlin’s cases. Merlin wondered what he’d make of the latest two.
He went back to his desk, where Bridges and Goldberg were finishing off the tray of sandwiches Robinson had picked up at Tony’s Café. She had skipped lunch herself, claiming to have no appetite. Not so surprising, Merlin had thought, as she was still a novice with dead bodies. She had gone to find out who now represented the French community in London so inquiries could be made about Mr White. They had found no evidence of his real identity in the flat.
Merlin had grabbed a couple of the sandwiches but hadn’t got round to eating them yet. Spam was a new type of American processed meat that had just made its appearance in wartime London. It had been the advertised special at Tony’s and Robinson had thought her colleagues might like to try it. Bridges and Goldberg – the latter was presumably already familiar with the product – had bolted theirs down but the luncheon meat looked distinctly unappetising to Merlin. He moved his plate to one side. Mumbling something about eating it later, he popped a Fisherman’s Friend into his mouth and sipped at the now lukewarm cup of tea Bridges had made for him 10 minutes earlier.
“Venables just left a message downstairs with Sergeant Reeves to say he’d got nowhere with the neighbours. No-one saw anything. Not so surprising with an intruder that early in the morning but disappointing nevertheless. So let’s now see what we have from the flat. Oh, and when will we be getting the fingerprint report on these items and on the rooms, Sergeant?”
“Monday, sir.”
“Good. All right, put it all on the desk.” Bridges emptied out the cardboard box into which he’d put everything. Merlin set the notes and coins to one side, then started sifting the rest.
“One comb, a few strands of hair thereon that appear to match the sparse real hair of the deceased. One phone number on Ritz notepaper. One brown wallet, which I shall now empty.” He did so. “Two £5 notes and a 10-franc note in this small zipped side pocket.” He put the money together with the rest. “A used train ticket.” Merlin put on his reading glasses. “The destination is not clear – looks like there’s a B or an L – can’t make out the rest as it’s not all there and what remains is wet and the ink has blurred. And here’s another ticket, this time for a cinema show somewhere.”
Goldberg looked at it closely. “It doesn’t say which movie.”
“No, tickets here don’t, just the price, so I doubt it’s going to help us much. What else have we? A plain gold band ring. Some old-fashioned spectacles. Ah, yes, an old photograph. Hidden under our victim’s underwear. Two young men, one dark, one fairer, the latter wearing some type of uniform. And two young ladies. The sun is shining and they appear to be standing in front of a pleasant country house.” Merlin turned the photograph around for Bridges and Goldberg.
“Don’t recognise the uniform, sir. I used to collect cards of military uniforms when I was a nipper but, no, don’t know that one.”
“There’s a studio mark on the back – Studio Abel, Vichy. Not much use to us. It’s not as if we can pop over to France on the boat train and find Mr Abel, is it?”
“We could show it to the French authorities here.”
“We could, Sergeant. So we could.”
“How about this, Frank?” Goldberg picked up the newspaper advertisement cutting that had been found in the dead Frenchman’s chest of drawers.
“Now there, Detective, you have something that might be helpful. ‘Cromwell Medical Agency, 213 Putney High Street. Medical vacancies and placement. Telephone Putney 9476’. Of all these items, this seems the easiest to follow up at the outset. We’ll go through the other items again later. Sergeant, I believe a trip to balmy Putney awaits.”
“It might be closed on a Saturday, sir.”
“Still worth a shot, don’t you think?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can I go too, Frank?”
“Of course, Bernie. I hope you don’t mind but I’m going to leave it to you two. I made a promise for tonight that I have to keep.”
* * *
Buckinghamshire
They were driving at the head of a convoy of four cars. The prime minister was never the earliest of risers and a meeting with newspaper editors had started late and gone on longer than anticipated so they had not got under way until the late afternoon. The cars had made their way out of west London, carefully edging around several nasty bomb craters near Shepherd’s Bush, and were now almost halfway to their Oxfordshire destination. Instead of furiously dictating memos to his secretaries, as was his wont, Sir Winston Churchill had resolved to relax on this journey.
“When will we be there?” rumbled the distinctive voice from the back of the car.
“In about 50 minutes I should think, sir,” replied the driver. “We’ll be on the outskirts of Oxford in about 20.”
Several wisps of cigar smoke undulated their way through the car. “Oh, Winston. Can’t you leave off the cigar for just a while? We’ll choke to death any minute.”
Contritely, the PM stubbed out the seven-inch Romeo y Julieta in the ashtray positioned between him and his wife.
“Well done, Winston.”
Moments later, he withdrew a green flask from inside his jacket and took a swig. “Drop of whisky, my dear?”
He took the sullen glare he received from his wife as a no and helped himself to another mouthful. Churchill stared out at the still sodden countryside and sighed. Crete had been a complete disaster. It wasn’t poor Bernard Freyberg’s fault. The New Zealander was a brilliant and brave soldier. He was a VC after all. His superiors had let him down. Bad tactics, bad strategy, poor leadership. Increasingly he was coming to the view that Wavell was not up to it.
Things weren’t going particularly well in north Africa, either. After the successes earlier in the year against the Italians, things seemed to have got bogged down in Libya. Having captured Tobruk from the Italians once, the port was now being besieged by Rommel and his Afrika Korps. Churchill had encouraged Wavell and the others to be bold again but attempts at relief of Tobruk had been ineffective. If things went the Germans’ way in Libya, after the calamities of Greece and Crete, it would be a huge hammer-blow to the war effort. He leaned back in his seat and watched the damp green countryside fly by. The cogs of his wonderfully creative and flexible brain whirred. The minutes passed.
“Auchinleck.”
“What, Winston?”
“General Claude Auchinleck. He might be the man.”
“The man for what, dear?”
“For the Middle East Command, of course. I think Archie Wavell is a busted flush. He’s got one more chance with this Operation Battleaxe and if that fails, well… Alan Brooke won’t like it, of course. Nor will most of the others but it’ll have to be done.”
Clementine Churchill put down the volume of Trollope she was reading and gave her husband her full attention. “Remind me again, Winston, what is Operation Battleaxe?”
“Another attempt to relieve Tobruk. Planned for a week or so’s time.”
“I like Archie.”
“I like him, too, but that’s not the point. We need a fresh mind. Auchinleck could be the man.”
The car stopped at a traffic light. “Where the hell are we now, Jock?”
“Kidlington, sir. Won’t be long now.”
They were headed for Ditchley Park, a beautiful country estate belonging to the wealthy Anglo-American MP Ronald Tree and his charming wife, Nancy. For Churchill, Ditchley Park had become an attractive alternative weekend home to his own estate at Chartwell and the PM’s official residence at Chequers. The security forces were unhappy about Chartwell’s location to the south of London, where its exposed position in open country made it highly visible to German bombers returning from raids on the capital. There were other, similar, concerns about Chequers – especially, as Churchill put it, “When the moon is high.”
Ronald Tree was happy to make Ditchley available to Churchill whenever he liked. The prime minister knew the place from before the war and had become increasingly fond of it. Tree had always made a point of peopling it with interesting and entertaining figures from the worlds of politics, diplomacy, society and the arts.
“Do we know who’s going to be there this weekend, darling?”
“Brendan, no doubt, Winston. Clarissa said she thought she and Anthony would be able to get away. Mr Winant and others from the American Embassy, perhaps.”
“What about that actor chap, Niven? He’s a very entertaining fellow. A patriotic and brave man, too, to give up his Hollywood career and join the forces.”
“As he should have, dear.”
“Of course. Of course. As he should have, but there are plenty of British actors or artists staying in America and avoiding the war. Who was it we were talking about the other night? Oh yes, Wystan Auden. A fine poet but a shit of a man.”
“Winston, please.”
Churchill finished the remains of his flask and closed his eyes for a moment. Why had the Germans halted the Blitz? Had they just realised the pointlessness of it all – that the British people would never be ground down by the bombs, however many the Luftwaffe threw at them. No, the real story might be Russia. There was increasing intelligence of German military build-up and movements on the eastern borders of the Reich. Would Hitler really be mad enough to turn his forces against the Russian Bear? Of course, it would only serve Stalin right – after his craven treaty agreement with Germany the year before – if Hitler turned against him like the treacherous dog he was. A German attack on Russia would explain the suspension of the London Blitz – Hitler would need all the forces on land, sea and air he could muster. If this happened, how would the Russians fare against the Nazi blitzkrieg? There were many senior British officers in the general staff who doubted whether the Russians would be able to hold out for long. And what then?
Churchill was jolted out of these dark thoughts by the car’s arrival at their destination. The gates opened and the convoy made its way up the elegant driveway. On his right Churchill saw the beautiful lake and the immaculate lawns that swept down from the delightful Georgian mansion. The estate’s creator, the second Earl of Lichfield, and his architect, James Gibb, had done an excellent job.
The lead car pulled up to the entrance and the prime minister shuffled his ample posterior along the car seat to follow his wife out of the vehicle. He raised his hat as he greeted the welcoming party. “Ronald, my dear fellow, and Nancy. Thank you so much for deciding to put up with me and my gang yet again. Wonderful to be here. In the usual rooms are we? Any interesting company?”
* * *
London
Rougemont pulled up outside the general’s Carlton Gardens headquarters in a taxi. When he had made the appointment over the telephone earlier in the day, Lieutenant Beaulieu had initially been cold and abrupt. After the captain had explained that he was a member of the intelligence and security committee in Dorset Square and observed, furthermore, that he was the lieutenant’s superior, Beaulieu had thawed a little and agreed to meet.
Rougemont greeted the officer on duty at the reception desk. Around the walls hung paintings of French rural scenes, most of which the captain, a keen art lover, considered dull and undistinguished. From a large photograph over a doorway to the right, a serious-looking uniformed man with a small moustache stared down. The captain acknowledged the general with a tip of his hat.
The officer at the desk made a call and moments later a short young man in lieutenant’s uniform appeared. “Captain Rougemont?” Beaulieu was a Breton, like Rougemont, and his wavy red hair bore more obvious witness to his Celtic ancestry than did Rougemont’s mousy mop. Like the general, he affected a neat little moustache.
The men shook hands. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lieutenant. I am surprised we have not met before.”
“Forgive me, sir, but I have had little opportunity to socialise. I have hardly left this building since my arrival. The general has plunged me into a maelstrom of work. With all that is happening in the Middle East, not to mention the machinations of the Vichy government in France and north Africa…” Beaulieu smiled regretfully before turning to lead Rougemont down a long corridor. At the end, the two men entered a small but airy room overlooking a neatly manicured garden.
“A pleasant office you have, Lieutenant.”
Beaulieu gave a sniff of indifference. “It is convenient for the general’s office, which is over there.” He pointed over the corridor.
“I know, Lieutenant, I have had occasion to visit the general myself once or twice.”
Beaulieu gave the captain a condescending smile. “Of course you have.” The two men seated themselves on either side of Beaulieu’s neatly ordered desk. “I would offer you some refreshment but the kitchen is apparently understaffed today.”
“No matter, Lieutenant. I require nothing at the moment. The main point of my visit is to invite you to join Commandant Angers and myself tonight for drinks and perhaps some dinner. We had the Ritz in mind. The commandant and I like to make a point of getting to know our new recruits.”
“I have been here several months, Captain.”
“Of course you have. It has been an error on our part to have left things so long.”
Beaulieu smiled then took a small pair of scissors out of his top pocket. He glanced in the wall mirror to his left and snipped a few hairs from his moustache. Rougemont looked on in amusement. “Forgive me, Captain. I cannot bear personal untidiness for a second. Anyway, thank you. Yes, I would be delighted to join you and the Commandant tonight. I have heard some of the officers talking about him – a boulevardier of the first rank, I understand. I have not managed to enjoy any London nightlife since getting here. I shall do my best to clear this desk in the few hours remaining so I can properly relax and enjoy myself tonight. Logically, the workload should be a little easier with the general travelling but it doesn’t seem to be so.”
“Where is he today?”
Beaulieu straightened. “Sir, you should know better than to ask me that.”
“Goodness, Lieutenant. You must realise that I am fully aware that he is in the Middle East. I was just wondering in exactly which town, but no matter. I would not wish you to feel compromised in any way.”
Beaulieu acknowledged the captain’s sensitivity with the flick of an eyebrow.
“May I ask, Lieutenant, how you came to make your journey here earlier in the year? Assuming, of course, that information is not also confidential.”
Beaulieu was oblivious to Rougemont’s sarcasm. “It is no secret. I was at Admiral Darlan’s side for several months after the capitulation. I was very close to him. He is a man torn, as are many of our countrymen. On the one hand there are the pragmatists – ‘We are beaten, we cannot fight the Germans, we must reach the best compromise we can’. On the other there are, shall we call them the romantics? They devote themselves to what they see as the glory of France, the undying fire of o
ur patriotism that dictates defiance to the last.
“We debated these things many times. I pride myself that the admiral took such a keen interest in me. Some called me his protégé. In any event, over the months his views hardened into that of a pragmatist while I…” he smiled and smoothed his moustache, “I could not help but come down on the romantic side. Clearly, at some point I would have to commit myself to the cause.
“Thus I needed a route out. In January I was in Tangier with the admiral. I made contact with some other naval officers, whom I had come to know were of a similar mind. We found a fishing boat and some amenable fishermen, for the right price of course, and made our way to Gibraltar on a clear and calm night and thence, via Lisbon, to London.”
“Bravo, Lieutenant. A route similar to the ones many of us took. And was the admiral aware of your plan?”
“Certainly not. Had he been, I am sure he would have tried to stop me.” Beaulieu looked in the direction of de Gaulle’s office. “And, of course, as you know, the general here was aware of my abilities and was delighted to receive me into an important position by his side.”
Rougemont nodded. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Well, I’ll let you get on.” As he got to his feet, he reflected it was little wonder this preening man had acquired enemies during his short time in England. The night ahead looked like being a long one. “Shall we say seven-thirty then, Lieutenant? At the Ritz Rivoli Bar. That’s the upstairs one. The downstairs bar is probably a little rough-and-ready for a man of your obvious sensibilities.”
“As you wish, Captain. I’ll be there.”
“I look forward to it.” As Rougemont walked down the corridor, he could hear the sound of clipping scissors.
* * *
“You are later than I expected, Frank. I was getting worried.”
“Sorry, darling. Something came up.”
“Something is always coming up in your stupid job.” Sonia seldom lost her temper but today her patience had been tried. It was gone five o’clock and they would have to hurry to make it to the Palladium in time for the opening curtain.