by Mark Ellis
Swanton moved back to the drinks table and rang a small bell. “Let’s get on and order the grub. Then we can discuss what we’re here to discuss.”
The two men sat down. The choice was rabbit or sausages. Rumours were rife about the dreadful things going into sausages as the food shortages worsened. Although he suspected that the Reform Club’s sausages would have proper ingredients, Merlin plumped for the rabbit, as did Swanton.
“Glad to hear your personal life’s looking up, Frank. It was all so tragic about poor Alice.”
Merlin was taken aback and showed it.
“Oh yes, we keep a close eye on our most valued police officers, Chief Inspector. One of our jobs. Ensuring that the home front is protected and that all its key defenders are fit, healthy and uncompromised. Don’t worry, we haven’t got someone following you about. We just keep an eye open.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that, Harold.”
“Look, there are a hell of a lot of new foreigners milling around in the country and in London in particular. We are as vigilant as we have to be. You hook up with one of those foreigners. It doesn’t require much effort to check out that she’s a decent sort with no unfortunate friends, contacts or beliefs. Sonia seems a very nice lady. A beauty by all accounts, with a heroic brother as well. You’re a lucky man, Frank, as you deserve to be.”
Merlin smiled awkwardly and took a gulp of his drink.
“Apologies by the way for our Mr White. I’m sure he spoke rudely to your people. He’s a bit up himself, I’m afraid. I’m going to have to take him in hand. Ah, I see you’re getting low already, Frank.” Swanton took their glasses to the cabinet for replenishment.
When Swanton returned, Merlin leaned forward over the table. “Let’s talk about business, shall we, Harold, before I collapse from alcoholic poisoning or from embarrassment at MI5 knowing all about my private life.”
Swanton patted Merlin’s hand. “All right, Frank. Armand de Metz. You are investigating him on suspicion of his being an abortionist.”
An elderly waiter appeared with a basket of bread and a jug of water and took their orders. Merlin waited until he had disappeared. “We know he performed the abortion in question. A young Irish girl died.”
“Very sad. Shortly after this fatal abortion, de Metz was shot dead?”
“He was.”
“We at the service know nothing about the abortion or the shooting. What we do know is that de Metz attempted to contact someone at a government facility outside London.”
Merlin nodded. “We are aware that he travelled to Bletchley.”
“I see, but you’re probably not aware that Bletchley is a highly sensitive location. I’m afraid I can’t go into any detail. To be honest, I don’t even know what really goes on there myself. All I can say is that it is extremely hush-hush and we are on notice to be on the highest of alerts concerning breaches of security there.” Swanton paused and poured himself a glass of water. “So de Metz’s visit was reported to us.”
“Did he get in?”
“He did not. It turns out that he has a relative working there. One of his sisters married an Englishman. Their only son became a mathematics don at Cambridge and is working in some capacity at Bletchley.”
“Mathematics don?”
“As I say, we don’t know what goes on there.”
“De Metz was in a bad way. He was broke. Perhaps he just wanted to touch one of his few surviving relatives for a tenner? Did he try and contact his sister and brother-in-law as well?”
“That would not have been possible. They and their only daughter perished in the Blitz. Their house in Wandsworth was blown to smithereens last November.”
“Had he any other relatives in England?”
“Not so far as we are aware.”
“So de Metz hears that his nephew, possibly his only surviving relative, is working at Bletchley and tries to get to see him?”
“But fails and is reported to us.”
The elderly waiter returned with their lunch. Merlin was pleasantly surprised to see the meat and veg came in large helpings and were swimming in gravy. He loved rabbit gravy.
“Looks good, doesn’t it? Tuck in, Frank.”
Merlin did as he was told. The rabbit was delicious. “So what happened next?”
“We pulled him in. He was in a pretty sorry state, as you say. Dishevelled. Stinking of booze. We found it very hard to believe that, as he told us, he was a leading surgeon in Paris before the war. However, we investigated and we found he was telling the truth. The reasons he gave for trying to see his nephew were as you surmised.”
“Where did you take him?”
“Round the corner to our place in St James’s at first. Then while we were checking his story out, we took him to Blenheim.”
Merlin knew that MI5 had been based in Wormwood Scrubs at the beginning of the war but, after the prison had been bombed in September 1940, some operations had been moved to the Duke of Marlborough’s glorious palace at Blenheim, near Oxford. They had also retained a London office in St James’s Street, around the corner from the Reform Club. No doubt there were other locations he wasn’t aware of.
“We eventually decided he was completely legitimate. However, during the interrogation, he began hinting that he might have some important information of interest to us in another quarter. Something relative to security in de Gaulle’s London outfit.”
“And did he?”
“I think I can tell you that there are indeed security concerns about the Free French in London, but my colleagues who were handling the questioning didn’t think de Metz had any knowledge of such things. They took the view that he was so enjoying his new surroundings in Blenheim that he wanted to prolong the experience. The talk about having information was just a way of stringing out his stay and perhaps getting himself some money from us. They sent him packing. They gave him a number to call just in case. That’s what you found.”
“On Ritz notepaper?”
“Some of our chaps have expensive tastes.” Swanton ate the last slice of his rabbit then mopped up his gravy with some bread. “Sorry, Frank. I’m a working-class boy like you. Lovely gravy!”
Merlin followed suit. “You can take the boy out of the East End, but you can’t take the East End out of the boy, eh, Harold?”
Swanton wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gave a contented sigh. “So he was put on a train back to London and that’s the last we saw of him.”
Merlin drank a glass of water. The spirits he had consumed had already given him a slight headache, as was usually the case if he drank at lunchtime. “So I can cross your lot off my list of potential murderers?”
Swanton drank the last of his gin and tonic, leaned back in his chair and massaged his stomach. “Certainly, but I can’t answer for other services. Who knows? Perhaps MI6 or the SOE had dealings with him. Perhaps he did know something? I was told de Metz’s interesting parting words to my officers. You’ll forgive my pronunciation, Frank: Il y a un armée de viperes autour du general.”
“You’ll have to help me there, Harold. My French is a little rusty.”
“Something like: ‘The general is surrounded by an army of snakes’. I presume the general is de Gaulle.”
* * *
Colonel Aubertin and his two colleagues sat on a park bench in the private garden of Dorset Square. They were sheltered from the hot, early-afternoon sun by the thick canopy of beech foliage overhead.
Rougemont sat between his two superiors, pleased that for once the commandant appeared to have had an abstemious lunch. “Major Vane-Stewart was telling me the other day that this was once the site of the first important cricket ground in London, established by the same Thomas Lord who later built the famous ground that bears his name, a few miles to the north of us in St John’s Wood. There is a plaque recording this fact in that shed over there. In the middle of the square.”
“Cricket.” Angers spat out the words with disgust. “A stupid
game played by idiots. Only the English could invent such a boring game.”
Rougemont smiled tolerantly at the commandant. “You may not like cricket, sir, but the English have invented other rather good games – football, rugby, tennis, for example. They do seem to have a knack of inventing sports.”
“Didn’t we invent tennis?”
“I think the English invented it in its modern form, didn’t they, Colonel?
“I think one could have an argument about tennis but I take your point, Captain. Badminton, billiards, hockey as well – they have a knack for it, no doubt. I watched a few cricket matches myself on trips over here before the war. I found it incomprehensible but soothing.” The colonel looked around. The garden was almost deserted. The only people in sight were some toddlers and their nannies, who were picnicking at the far end. He stretched his long legs out in front of him.
“But to more serious matters, gentlemen. Vane-Stewart came to see me this morning. He gave me some disturbing news.” The colonel related what the major had told him about the arrest of the SOE agent in France.
“So there must have indeed been a spy, Colonel?”
“It seems so, yes, Captain. It’s just as likely in my view that he’s in the SOE but there is no doubt the pressure is on us to pursue our inquiries vigorously. On that score, I was wondering whether you have got any further with your investigation of Beaulieu and the others?”
“Would Beaulieu have known about Bouchard?”
“As you know, Captain, the joint SOE operations with us are documented. There is a limited distribution of such documentation but the general is, of course, on the list. The officers in his private office are cleared to see whatever he sees.”
“I see. So that would include Dumont and Meyer also, wouldn’t it?”
A flush of pink came to the colonel’s cheeks. “It would.”
“But as you say, sir, who is to say that there isn’t a leak from within SOE itself or MI6 for that matter?”
“Who indeed, Auguste? However, we have been entrusted with the task of checking our own people. I have been hoping all along that our own investigation would prove fruitless but with this new development…”
The three men paused for a moment with their thoughts. The toddlers had finished their picnic and were being shepherded through one of the garden gates.
“So, Captain, the Commandant tells me you have that Irishman carrying out surveillance. Has he seen anything of import?”
“Not really, sir. No suspicious activity. He has learned that the three men are friends or at least good acquaintances.”
“I am particularly interested in Beaulieu.”
“From my own experience, it is clear the man thinks a lot of himself.”
The commandant snorted. “He is an insufferable prig!”
“Insufferable prig or no, there is no evidence he is a spy.”
Colonel Aubertin rose awkwardly to his feet. “I’m afraid my back is playing me up again today. Please excuse me.” He walked off 20 yards or so then returned and resumed his seat. “And the other two?”
“Meyer seems like a nice enough fellow, Colonel. He has a Jewish background. I don’t know the exact circumstances but his family managed to get out of Germany in the 30s.”
“I’ve said it before but shouldn’t his German background cause us concern?” Angers’ eyes were following the last and prettiest of the nannies to leave the park as he spoke.
“A persecuted Jewish German? I doubt it, sir. He is a little unforthcoming about his past but I understand he was very thoroughly vetted when he entered the service a few years ago. If there were anything untoward, I am sure our people would have discovered it.”
“You say that, Captain, but my God, it is easy to make a mistake.”
Aubertin brushed a fly off his trousers. “Auguste tells me the men have been getting together with some South African fellow. Anything in that?”
“No, but we’ll be keeping an eye out, sir.”
“There are many Nazi sympathisers in South Africa, Captain.”
“So there are, Colonel. This man seems quite respectable. A lawyer of some sort.”
“Hmm. You are keeping the surveillance going over the weekend?”
Rougemont nodded.
“Anything else?”
“Meyer was interviewed about de Metz by those policemen. He told them he had met de Metz and heard his wild claims.”
“We know nothing of the man, do we, Auguste? Except that he was a drunk and a liar. I’m sure Meyer will have told him this and now, hopefully, the police will pursue more promising lines of inquiry elsewhere.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“Now, will you please excuse us, Captain. I just need a quick word with the Commandant.”
Rougemont rose, saluted and walked briskly away towards the park gate.
“I believe, Auguste, that we shall be in difficulties if we don’t produce a culprit in short order. I am sure that SOE are not going to come up with a culprit of their own and we are in danger of being cut out of the picture on their activities.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“We’d be better off finding someone. Even if the evidence is not overwhelming, circumstantial might be enough. Do you get my drift?”
The commandant edged closer to the colonel. “I think I do.”
“As to the best candidate, I think you know my choice?”
“Beaulieu?”
“Yes. Dumont is a good stick and a bright boy. We have just heard Rougemont’s good impression of Meyer. Also, you know I have a bit of a soft spot for Jews so I would prefer it if Meyer is in the clear.”
“Beaulieu has some powerful friends, sir. The general for one.”
“Yes, but he is far away from London at present, as are all the others. If he returns to find that a member of his private office has disgraced himself and been dealt with, he’ll get over it. He has greater things to occupy him.”
“And if we find real evidence that one of the others is guilty?”
The colonel got slowly to his feet. “Well, unlikely as it is, that would be another thing. But if that happened you would keep everything to yourself and do nothing before first discussing the situation with me.”
“Colonel.”
“And Auguste…”
“Yes, sir.”
“I was surprised and disappointed that you had recruited Rougemont and Devlin to the investigation without consulting me but there is no use crying over spilt milk. All I ask is that you keep them both under a tight leash. And I want to bring this to a conclusion, one way or another, within the week. If I haven’t yet made myself clear, tell the Irishman to concentrate alone on Beaulieu for the next few days. I am convinced something will turn up.”
The colonel glanced up at the sky, where he saw a plane emerging from behind a small fluffy cloud. “There’s a Spitfire going somewhere. Not another aircraft in sight. Strange how quickly we have become accustomed to the empty skies again.”
* * *
Peregrine Beecham set down the book he was reading and briefly closed his eyes. He was feeling relaxed and rested. He had passed a most enjoyable Friday so far. On this day, as usual, his head had hit the pillow at just after five in the morning. Capable of surviving on a minimum of sleep, he had dozed for three and a half hours before rising. Beecham washed, dressed and drank coffee on the balcony of his Arlington Street penthouse, appreciating as always the fine view of Green Park. The front page of his newspaper had reminded him that it was a Friday the thirteenth. Unlucky for some, no doubt, including inevitably several of his customers. It would not be unlucky for him, though. For Peregrine Beecham was a winner.
At nine-thirty, he’d walked the short distance to Pall Mall and the Royal Automobile Club, where he had swum his regular 100 lengths, followed by an hour in the steam room. Beecham had discussed the current state of the war and other matters with two other regular Turkish bathers. The older of the men, a tough and craggy Scottish Lord, who ha
d resisted his wife’s entreaties to withdraw to the safety of the glens for the duration of the war, had joined with Beecham in commending the committee’s work in putting the club back in order after the recent bomb damage. Later in the changing room, Beecham had politely declined the invitation of the other bather, an infamously promiscuous homosexual theatre critic, to join him that evening in Manchester for a pre-London performance of Noël Coward’s new play, Blithe Spirit.
When his companions had left and he found himself alone, Beecham had taken the time to admire himself in the large mirror opposite the lockers. He could quite see, of course, what had attracted the critic. His slightly unconventional rough good looks had often been compared by ladies of his acquaintance to those of Rex Harrison. He had once met the notoriously rude actor at a Café Royal party. Harrison had made a sneering comment about the likeness. Something about Madame Tussaud’s having knocked off an inferior copy of the original. In a different place Beecham would have decked him but he’d let it pass.
After his morning at the RAC, Beecham had returned to his apartment to review the business paperwork of the previous night. This was the work of a half-hour and was something he enjoyed. He was a meticulous man, as he had to be in his business, and kept his records in small, neat handwriting in leather-bound notebooks.
At noon, on hearing the chimes of the fine 18th-century grandfather clock in his hallway, Beecham had left the apartment again. He walked along Piccadilly, through Leicester Square and into Trafalgar Square. His destination was the National Gallery, where he regularly made time to listen to one of Myra Hess’s daily piano concerts. Chopin and Schubert were at the heart of this day’s programme and Beecham had thrilled to Hess’s delicate playing of Schubert’s Impromptus. After the concert, Beecham had enjoyed a meat pie at the Lyons’ Corner House in the Strand before making his way home.
Now, in the late afternoon, he sat in his favourite armchair, preparing himself for the evening’s work. The book in his lap was an Agatha Christie novel he had picked up in Hatchards the day before: Evil Under the Sun, the brand new Poirot story. He liked Hercule Poirot but was aware that the Belgian detective would be unlikely to return the compliment. Poirot would not like Beecham one little bit. For Peregrine Beecham was a criminal. An elegant, suave and intelligent one but a criminal nevertheless. Like Poirot, he was also a work of fiction. His own creation. His real name was not Peregrine Beecham and he had come a long way from his true origins. He savoured the thought as he began to read. To his irritation, one page on, there was a knock at the door.