by J. R. Trtek
“The matter of Germany suggesting to Austria that it allow its socialists to go to Stockholm, and the claim that the Kaiser sent a telegram to the Czar agreeing with Russia’s suggestion that Austria negotiate for peace with Serbia in 1914,” I recited from memory.
“Yes.”
“And what if neither subject is ever mentioned?”
“Keep reading The Critic, the paper for which Letchford writes,” Holmes told me, as if I had not asked my question. “You may find an interesting letter appearing from an old friend in the next few weeks. In addition,” he said, “I have received word from Bullivant that by then you may receive another visitor, though one you cannot acknowledge.”
I looked enquiringly at Holmes.
“Hannay has been ordered back to England,” he said quickly. “He was pulled out of the Arras campaign at Bullivant’s request, and the fellow is joining our campaign against the reinvigorated Black Stone.”
“That is perhaps no surprise, and also reassuring in its way.”
“Yes, I quite agree. My understanding is that he will be settled somewhere in Biggleswick under an alias, perhaps as early as next month.”
“And I am not to acknowledge him,” I said.
“Correct, old fellow—unless Hannay himself should approach you in either his real persona or the alias. In the meanwhile, keep your eyes open and relay anything of importance through Miss Lamington.”
As the calendar slipped from April to May, I heard nothing more from Holmes while I stayed at the helm of Isham hospital. Following the instruction my friend had left me, I began to attend the public lectures at Moot Hall religiously, and it seemed appropriate that I usually heard the distant, incessant call of cuckoos as I walked to the red-brick building, where I suffered twice weekly through presentations on subjects ranging from the benefits of a purely vegetable diet to the healing power of quartz crystals, in addition to the prospects for peace between Germany and Russia.
Letchford and Ivery took turns chairing the sessions, which were visited regularly by Wake and Aronson, as well as, on occasion, Miss Lamington and Vespera Cochrane, whom I now saw every day at Isham as well. At no time, however, did I hear anything relevant to the fictitious story about a German message to the Czar or the Austrian socialists visiting Stockholm. Though Ivery attempted to coax comments from me following the lectures or, in one instance, tried to persuade me to present my own views concerning medical advances spurred on by war, I remained merely a passive observer.
During the village’s May Day festivities, I was dragooned into playing the role of Jack-in-the-Green and had the opportunity to pardon Letchford’s son Joseph, who was again hauled before a playful court on the charge of stealing sweets. Mary Lamington at last did bake a blueberry tart for me, and Miss Cochrane and I shared a long twilight walk to the Haven Stones and beyond.
It was the beginning of a very satisfying month as hospital head, as I saw the changes I had begun at the facility take root in earnest, and I spent the first week of June looking forward to even more improvements throughout the summer.
It was then, while making my rounds, that I entered the west garden and saw Blaikie lounging with a visitor in civilian clothes. All at once, a bird flew from a bush, causing the Rhodesian to sit up straight and clasp himself. I realised he was exerting great force to refrain from screaming, and so quickly strode toward him.
His friend, meanwhile, put a hand to his shoulder and began to stroke Blaikie as one might try to calm a frightened horse. When the companion turned to face him, I saw that it was Richard Hannay.
“Colonel!” said Hannay with mild surprise upon noticing me. He started to rise, but I gestured for him to remain seated and continue comforting Blaikie. He glanced round to make certain we three were alone in the garden before adding, “I apologise for the awkwardness—and the breach of protocol—but I absolutely had to see good old Blaikie here.”
“Of course,” I replied as I pulled up a chair. “I have, of course, been instructed not to acknowledge you should our paths cross.”
“And I you, but I have no objection to discreetly breaking the rules if you have none. I am Cornelius Brand now, by the way,” Hannay added quietly.
Blaikie seemed to be paying little attention to us, and Hannay continued. “My persona is that of a South African pacifist. I trust I am not risking myself to exposure by coming here—or perhaps endangering your position as well.”
“If we keep our meeting brief, I believe all will be well. I am glad you came here, I must say, for it is a joy to see you again. We last met in France, did we not? Just about the time of the Somme, when I was on the Continent as an observer.”
“Yes,” said Hannay, lifting a hand to his forehead. “I came out of that fracas with a crack in the head, you know.”
“And a DSO,” I was told.170
“Yes, I suppose I did,” he replied, turning toward the other man.
“Halloa, Blaikie,” I said to the patient. “Do you recognise your friend here, then?”
“Africa originally,” the convalescing officer said deliberately, somewhat in the manner of a drunken man attempting to sound under control.
“We were friends in Rhodesia years ago,” Hannay explained. “Then he wound up in a Fusilier battalion that was part of my brigade at Arras. I suppose you know his story from there?”
“Indeed, I do.”
“First time I have seen you today, Doctor,” said Blaikie with deliberate slowness. “Do you know yet how long the damn thing will last?”
“I just told you, Blaikie boy,” Hannay said in a comforting voice, once more grasping the man’s shoulder. “The war will be over soon. At any rate, you don’t have to worry about it anymore. No more fighting for you at all. And, well, I suspect there will be precious little for me as well. The Boche is done in, all right.”171
“But I want to know how long it will last,” Blaikie insisted as Mary Lamington, in her VAD uniform, approached with a tea tray.
Hannay glanced at me with concern, but I discreetly gestured for him to not worry and continue.
“My lad,” said Hannay to Blaikie in the gentlest of tones, “all you need to worry about is sleeping fourteen hours out of twenty-four without stop and then spending half the rest catching trout. We’ll meet some of the old gang this autumn and set our sights for grouse, eh?”
Just then, Miss Lamington set the tray upon a table. Hannay looked up, and I saw his gaze linger upon her, though she appeared to cast her eyes only in my direction and nodded before turning to leave.
“Who on earth was that?” Hannay asked a moment later.
“One of the sisters,” Blaikie mumbled listlessly. “Squads of them are roaming around. Can’t tell one from another.”
Hannay looked at me.
“That was Miss Lamington,” I said. “One of the VADs, as you could no doubt tell.”
“Lamington,” Hannay repeated as he watched her vanish round the shrubbery. “Well,” he said, breaking free of his contemplation of the young woman. “Look here, Blaikie, she’s brought some tea for you. Would you like some?”
Hannay rose and poured a cup, which Blaikie accepted. Then, intent on sipping the warm beverage, the patient paid no heed as I rose to join Hannay several paces away.
“You are on your way to Biggleswick, then?” I asked. “To stay for a time?”
“Yes,” Hannay told me. “According to Mr. Bullivant, I’m supposed to be met by a contact of some sort. I take it that person is not you. Have you any idea who it will be?”
“No,” I replied. Thinking of Mary Lamington, I said truthfully, “I am not your contact person, and I am in no position to inform you who that might be.”
Hannay nodded. “I hope I have not risked exposure for either of us by coming here to Isham,” he repeated. “I knew Blaikie was here, however, and I had to see the fellow.”
“Of course. You’ve not spoken with anyone else?”
“No, other than the nurse whom I asked about Blaik
ie when trying to find him.”
“I am quite certain, General, that you need not fear—your identity has not been compromised.”
“I am Cornelius Brand,” the man reminded me softly.
“Yes. My apologies. Where will you be boarding?”
“I’ll be living with a couple named the Jimsons.”
“Ah,” I interjected, “you are the one they are taking on.”
“You know them?”
“They are my neighbours,” I replied. “You will be living next door to me. Do you recall Sergeant Scaife?”
“From Broadgate? Of course.”
“As Corporal Scaife, he has been my batman these past months. I’ve already informed him of your imminent arrival in the village. Should he or I cross paths with you, neither of us will acknowledge you, of course, as anyone other Mr. Brand the pacifist.”
“Thank you. Well, I’ll spend a bit more time with Blaikie here before leaving,” Hannay said. “This evening, before moving in with the Jimsons, I will be staying at a placed called Fosse Manor.”
“Ah, the Wymondham sisters.”
“You know them as well?”
“I do.”
“I am hoping that I might meet my contact person there, perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” I said, once more thinking of Miss Lamington.
“And, with luck, I will cross paths with you again.”
“When this is over,” I said quietly, so that Blaikie might not hear. “If not before.”
“Yes,” Hannay replied with resignation. “Then, if not before. And pass along my best wishes to Mr. Holmes.”
“I will.”
I took the opportunity to gently place my hands upon Blaikie’s shoulders as he sipped his tea. After uttering what few additional words of comfort I could muster, I took my leave of the two men and wandered back into the hospital. As I entered my office, Mary Lamington espied me from down the corridor, and we both discreetly motioned to one another. Moments later, she stood before my desk, the door behind her closed.
“That man with Blaikie,” she said at once. “Who is he?”
I smiled. “That, Miss Lamington, is General Richard Hannay. He will be staying in Biggleswick,” I said as the young woman began to blush slightly, “under the assumed name of Cornelius Brand.”
“Ah,” she said, as her normal colour returned. “I will be seeing him later this evening, then.”
“At Fosse Manor, yes. He told me he would be staying there before moving into Biggleswick proper. I assume you will be his contact, as you have been as mine.”
Miss Lamington nodded. “Yes. And in that regard, Colonel, Sir Walter Bullivant tells me that I am to direct you to make certain to read the Critic regularly.”
“Did he indicate any reason?”
“No,” the young woman replied. “He said simply that you should be alert to encountering a familiar name within the next month.”
I said nothing in reply and merely sat back in my chair, realising that this was the second time I had received that same advice.
* * *
164 Holmes appears to quote from a poem that appears in Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass, “The Walrus and the Carpenter”: “‘The time has come,’ the Walrus said, ‘To talk of many things: Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—Of cabbages—and kings—And why the sea is boiling hot—And whether pigs have wings.’” See footnote 87.
165 The Women’s Land Army was a civilian organization whose purpose was to use female laborers to replace male agricultural workers who had gone to war. These women were sometimes called Land Girls.
166 In this era, the word “lover” did not imply sexual intimacy.
167 Begun on April 9, 1917, the Battle of Arras was yet another attempt to break the stalemate on the Western Front. British, Canadian, South African, New Zealand, Newfoundland, and Australian troops attacked German lines, making significant gains during the first two days before the offensive faltered. Both sides suffered casualties totaling just short of three hundred thousand.
168 “Crump” was war slang for a shell burst.
169 In 1915, Canadian Lt. Colonel John McCrae wrote “In Flanders Fields,” which became one of the most popular and quoted poems from the First World War. Its first line alludes to the fields of bright red poppies which sprouted on the scarred battlefield after the first winter of conflict. The work became a propaganda tool for those who supported the war effort—especially in Canada, where the government used it during an especially bitter election in late 1917. The wearing of poppies in remembrance of dead soldiers did not begin until 1918, and then at the instigation of American Moina Michael. Shaw’s personal practice of wearing a poppy in support of his still-living soldier son appears to have been a variant forerunner of the practice initiated by Michael.
170 The Distinguished Service Order is an order of military merit founded in 1886.
171 A derisive term used by the French and picked up by the British, “boche” is a shortened form of alboche, which is a slang combination of Allemand or “German” in French and caboche, which means “head” or “cabbage” in that same language.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: TO GAIN & TO LOSE
On the first Monday of July, I spent the afternoon preparing myself for yet another interminable discussion at Moot Hall. To inform myself of recent events, I opened the latest edition of The Critic, skipping over Letchford’s tiresome review of a young American expatriate’s book of modern poetry to turn directly to letters.
One of those was a tirade against the reinstitution of Summer Time,172 while another protested the banning of bonfires. A third letter also caught my eye with its strong invective against American involvement in the war. New World republicanism should not pick up the vices of European aristocracy, declared the writer, who prophesied a great awakening in the United States when the public there finally understood in full its government’s policies. The end of the letter made me sit up with greater interest, however, for the diatribe was signed “John S. Blenkiron.”
This, I now realised, was what Bullivant and Holmes had told me to be on guard for. It was obvious that the American agent was adopting a public pose as a pacifist, but I did not understand the purpose of the ruse. The answer became more than clear that evening at Moot Hall, however, when Moxon Ivery—as chair of the night’s proceedings—disclosed that one of the speakers would be Blenkiron, who emerged from a group standing to one side of the platform and took a seat beside the chairman.
“Well,” said Letchford, who sat with me in the company of Aronson. “This should be interesting.”
Others in the hall seemed to be of similar opinion, for there was a mild commotion at the announcement. I turned round to survey the audience and saw Richard Hannay slip into the room to take a place on the back benches as the evening’s agenda got underway.
Turning once more toward the lectern, I briefly wondered if Hannay had been expecting Blenkiron’s appearance, but my attention quickly fixed upon the American himself, whom Ivery introduced at great length as a fearless and indefatigable friend from across the Atlantic.
“Let us see how the fellow performs,” murmured Letchford, and Aronson chimed in with enthusiasm.
Blenkiron took to the stage in splendid fashion, and I appreciated with greater force how his recent medical treatments had made him leaner and yet more imposing than before. He stood there, much as I imagined Abraham Lincoln must have appeared more than a half century earlier: tall and thin, with prominent cheekbones and jaw. Every movement had the suppleness of an athlete.
Then, as he surveyed the crowd and his eyes found mine without any betrayal of recognition, I grew tense, realising that he and I—as well as Hannay—were all in the same room together, playing the big game.
Blenkiron’s presentation was an odd speech, filled with extravagant vehemence but not well argued. Indeed, as he wandered from one half-demonstrated point to another, I found that his oration reminded me of Sir Harry Christey’s meanderin
g Brattleburn declamation in its enthusiastic but often empty bluster.
“Germany is in fine democratic fettle,” he claimed, “and it is up to us to help foster that spirit, for we ought to remember that she was forced into this war by the violence and plots of her enemies.”
“Is that true?” asked Aronson of Letchford, but the critic only sneered at his younger friend.
Blenkiron went on, employing a number of homely, humorous metaphors drawn from American culture, comparisons which drew their share of laughter from an audience already inclined to his point of view. As I listened, it occurred to me that the man was deliberately shaping his pose as that of an honest, well-meaning naif, and inwardly I smiled at the success he seemed to be having.
At length, he reached the end of his argument, closing with great emphasis on a completely unrelated piece of news: the trip to the Stockholm Peace Conference by Austrian socialists, a journey made with the assent of their government. It was a reference that immediately grasped my attention, for this had been one of items buried in the false newspaper report seen by Abel Gresson.
“They call Austria-Hungary an autocracy too,” Blenkiron declared, “and yet that alleged autocracy allows its dissenters to attend the peace conference, while at the same time, the so-called democracies keep their own domestic opposition trapped within their borders. Now I don’t have any watertight proof,” the American said, “but I will bet my bottom dollar that it was Germany herself that convinced the Austrian government to let those socialists go abroad. Germany, the land that the Allied leaders scorn as intolerant and militaristic.”
“That’s a bit of news, isn’t it?” said Aronson.
“Yes, I suppose,” whispered Letchford. “Rather uninteresting news, though, if you ask me.”
Blenkiron then quickly ended and sat down to great applause, though it was evident that many in the hall thought his praise of Berlin a bit too excessive, even from their pacifist perspective. But for most, it apparently was enough to prove Britain wrong, and it was that criticism that earned the American’s oratory the strong approval it received. Even Letchford and Aronson rose to their feet to applaud, while I remained seated and outwardly unmoved.