‘I thought you were a poacher, Mater. And I didn’t know about the servants.’
‘They’re out of prison. Grant and Huxtable. They’ve been watching you, boy. Time is getting short and I had to take a chance to see you whilst we were both still around.’
‘I entered the forbidden room, Mater.’
‘I know. I’m proud of you. It had to happen to you eventually, as it did for me. And as you’ve found, once you’ve entered the forbidden room you embark upon a trail that is long and difficult.’
‘I found your Lanvin wrapper. And the message behind the Dalí books.’
‘Took your bloody time, boy.’
‘I know. Sorry. Been busy.’
‘What rot.’
He looked to see if she had said that with a smile, and reckoned he could just about detect a hint of forgiveness in her face. It wasn’t as if he needed forgiving, anyway. She was the one who had walked out. Finally, he would get the opportunity to find out why.
‘What did you find in the room in 1975?’
‘I didn’t want to go in. But the bloody servants were starting to worry me. Never trust a lackey, boy.’
‘Well quite. But why?’
‘I sensed a conspiracy. I was afraid for us all, but I didn’t know why. Down in the cellars I found a box of rusty keys. One night I tried them all until one of them fitted the locked bedroom. Like you, I found the room empty. Well, empty apart from one item.’
‘A bar of chocolate?’
‘What rot. Of course not. It was a photograph taken by my motherin-law in 1937. Would you like to see it?’
She reached into her pocket and produced a copy of the wrinkled sepia image. In the foreground was Salvador Dalí, grinning and tweaking his moustache for the camera. He was standing on the ruins of a castle. A wide vista opened out behind him, hills and valleys and something that looked as if it was the sea. But the sky above his shoulder was not empty. The word “Keo” appeared there, in a typeface that resembled that of a digital clock even though such things did not exist in the Thirties.
‘Your grandmother wasn’t the only person to see it, of course. The locals thought it was skywriting, which was all the rage back then, but Her Ladyship knew differently. She sensed it had a meaning far deeper than she could ever consciously understand. Would you like to know the full bloody story?’
‘Golly, yes.’
At that moment, the kitchen door opened and Ruby and the Patient entered.
‘That’s not who I think it is, Ratty?’ asked Ruby. She stared in disbelief at the mature lady in the kitchen.
‘Who is Ratty?’
Ratty held the hand of the old woman and grinned. Lady Ballashiels kissed him on the forehead. The Patient raised his eyebrows and observed, ‘Mothers are fonder than fathers of their children because they are more certain they are their own. I think we all can accept the familial bond in this instance.’
‘Lady Ballashiels,’ the old woman said. ‘How do you do?’
‘Patient. Pleased to meet you.’ The Patient held out his hand.
‘I’m sure you are on both counts, but what’s your name?’
‘He’s just called the Patient, Mater. It’s a long story.’
‘I’m Ruby Towers. Friend of Ratty’s.’
Lady Ballashiels looked disapprovingly at her. ‘Who’s this Ratty character to whom you keep referring, girl?’ the old lady asked.
‘Sorry. Justin. We were at Cambridge together. You’d have been ever so proud at his graduation. I’ve always called him “Ratty”.’
‘What a ghastly name. Please don’t use it in the house.’
‘Mater, everyone calls me “Ratty” these days. You’ll get used to it.’
‘What rot.’
‘Would the two of you like some private time?’ offered the Patient. ‘Ruby and I can go for a walk.’
‘No. Sit,’ said Lady Ballashiels. ‘Time is short. There is much I need to say and you might as well all hear it. I expect you’re all harbouring a certain curiosity regarding my story.’
‘I cannot deny a desire to learn the facts,’ said the Patient.
Lady Ballashiels looked at everyone in turn and took a deep breath. ‘So Her Ladyship was trotting along with Dalí –’ she began.
‘On horseback?’ asked her son.
‘No. It doesn’t matter. No more interruptions, boy. What was I saying?’
‘Granny. Dalí.’
‘Right. 1937. A summer perambulation through France prior to visiting her chum Unity in Germany. Then that damn word appeared from nowhere. “Keo”. Hanging in the sky above Périllos. Impossible. Impressive. Impecunious.’
‘Do you really mean “impecunious”, Mater? Doesn’t make sense.’
‘Hang the sense of it. I like the sound of it. Shush.’
‘Sorry.’
‘So, that word in the sky business affected your grandmother deeply,’ she continued. ‘It was like a religious experience, witnessing the word of God in the sky. Even though it made no sense to her, she nevertheless could think about nothing else. For a day or two she felt she might have imagined it, but when she developed the photograph at Dalí’s house in Port Lligat she knew it was all real. And by then it was too late.’
‘Too late for what?’ asked Ruby.
‘To save the world. And don’t interrupt, girl.’
‘I’m not a girl,’ objected Ruby. ‘I have a doctorate in Archaeology.’
‘Hush. I’m losing my thread. Now, where was I? Yes, the motherin-law was too late to save the world. She had already failed to take the train from Perpignan. Her original plan was to travel with Dalí to southern France, then take the train from Perpignan station to Paris and then on to Munich.’
‘To visit Unity Mitford,’ confirmed the Patient.
‘Please stop interrupting, children. Yes, Unity Mitford. Alois’s mother. Yes. Although the bastard wasn’t born yet, of course. Unity and Her Ladyship had been corresponding about Unity’s affair with Hitler. It was going badly, and Unity had written of her intention to attempt, you know, a final solution. It was a cry for help, hoping that if she survived it Hitler would fall for her completely. The motherin-law saw through that naïvety. She couldn’t bear to see the effect Hitler was having on her friend. She also didn’t care too much for his politics, and was waiting for Unity to grow out of her fascist infatuation. But things got worse. Unity was on the edge of madness, and the motherin-law grew increasingly resentful of the way Hitler treated her. Total rotter. She intended to take the train to Germany and persuade Unity not to shoot herself. Instead, she had a far more daring plan. She was going to get Unity to shoot Hitler, but of course she couldn’t put that in a letter to Unity. It had to be said in person in order to avoid any recriminations coming her way. So she was all set to travel to Germany and change Unity’s life for the better.’
‘But then along comes Keo and she changes her plan?’ asked Ruby.
‘Do you, or do you not, wish to hear this story?’
‘I don’t know what your mother’s been doing these past thirty odd years,’ whispered Ruby to Ratty, but at a volume sufficient to be sure that Lady Ballashiels could overhear, ‘but she’s not learned how to be patient.’
‘Quiet, girl. There isn’t time to be patient. We may have just a few days left on this earth, and I certainly don’t want to spend them being interrupted by your kind.’
‘My kind? Archaeologists?’
‘Lower middle class comprehensive school waifs. And don’t deny it. Stands out a mile.’
Before Ruby could get on her high horse about social snobbery, Ratty gently placed a finger across her mouth and calmed her with a wink. ‘Let the old matriarch have her say,’ he said. ‘She’s waited a frightfully long time.’
Lady Ballashiels shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I pop out of the country for a while and everything goes to pot. Once again, where was I? Motherin-law. Right. So she was set to go to Germany but didn’t because of the word Keo in the sky. U
nity never learned of your grandmother’s plan for killing Hitler. In fact, the poor girl never heard from Her Ladyship again. So, instead of shooting Hitler, she ended up shooting herself in her silly head with a little pearl pistol. Stupid girl. The bullet lodged in her skull and didn’t kill her. She was brought back to England on a stretcher and placed in hiding, since her fondness for Nazis had made her rather unpopular, even in these parts. So, you see, it can be argued that it was your grandmother who was responsible for the Second World War.’
‘I say, that’s a rather strong accusation, Mater,’ objected Ratty. ‘Granny was into art and photography and wotnot.’
‘That, in itself, is no defence,’ said the Patient. ‘Do not forget Hitler’s artistic bent.’
‘Well perhaps, but I don’t believe Granny ever invaded Poland.’
‘History is more subtle and elegant than invading armies and legions of tanks, boy,’ said Lady Ballashiels. ‘The smallest action or thought can lead to the most horrendous consequences. Your grandmother simply changed her mind. Decided not to visit her friend. She merely changed her travel plans. And that choice, that naïve, tiny decision, was indirectly responsible for starting the most destructive war in history because it allowed Hitler to go off and invade Poland and drag the globe into conflict. She didn’t know it at the time, but she blew her one chance to prevent war. So, you see, from the skewed perspective of someone like Alois Mitford, the Ballashiels family has a lot to answer for. My motherin-law’s decision not to go to Germany cost millions of lives and changed the world forever. And all because of one word. Keo. Obviously by the time she realised the impact of that moment on the French hill with Dalí, it was too late. Unity was no longer part of Hitler’s life and the motherin-law had no inroads to stop him. Total bloody mess.’
‘And that miserable Mitford chap was born,’ added Ratty.
‘Born some months after Unity arrived back in England,’ his mother replied. ‘Born into a world that shouldn’t have happened. Born with the inherited guilt of genocide, of ethnic cleansing, of indiscriminate bombing. The truth is, he shouldn’t have been born at all. Hitler should have been shot by Unity before she ever became pregnant. Mitford always felt that the mere fact of his birth was inextricably linked to the moment the world took a wrong turning and tumbled headlong into hell. If the word Keo had never appeared in the sky, the world would have been spared all the pain Hitler instigated. Millions of destiny’s children never had a chance of being born because their fathers were killed in the fighting. Thanks to your grandmother, we are living in a post-war world that was never intended to be.’
‘Do you think that Hitler fellow had an inkling that Granny may have come close to giving him what for?’
‘I suppose we’ll never know, boy.’
‘It may just be coincidence,’ said the Patient, ‘but long after the war someone found Hitler’s invasion maps of Britain. He had circled the location of his personal headquarters, the place from where he could oversee the administration of his new conquered territories.’
‘Where did he choose?’ asked Ruby, conscious that if Lady Ballashiels had failed to snap at the Patient for making a comment, she would be able to make a contribution too without fear of retribution.
‘Bridgnorth,’ replied the Patient.
‘Bridgnorth?’ echoed Ratty. ‘That’s less than ten miles from here.’
‘It was customary to sequester the nearest available stately home in those times,’ the Patient continued. ‘I have studied the local maps. The most significant house in the area is this one.’
‘Hitler planned to base himself here at Stiperstones?’ asked Ruby, chilled at the thought. ‘How could he have known about it?’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing sinister, girl,’ said Lady Ballashiels. ‘Unity was corresponding with Her Ladyship, don’t forget. Hitler may have seen letters coming from here. And Unity may have described the house to him in glowing terms from her visits here in the early Thirties.’
‘The Mitford guy we met in Spain never met his, er, father,’ said Ruby. She was uncomfortable attributing the word ‘father’ to a genocidal maniac, and swallowed the word self-consciously as she uttered it. ‘So how did he find out about what nearly happened with Unity and Ratty’s – sorry, Justin’s – grandmother?’
‘His mother’s papers, of course, girl,’ replied Lady Ballashiels. ‘His mother died when he was young. Complications from carrying a bullet around in her brain. Mitford found a letter from my motherin-law saying that she was going to come to Germany after her travels with Dalí and help her solve everything. Obviously, the letter didn’t mention the idea of getting Unity to shoot Hitler, as I’ve already explained, because such a written admission would have been too dangerous if Hitler had found it. But Mitford was intrigued by the concept that Her Ladyship had a way to solve Unity’s problematic relationship with the Führer, and in the early Seventies he went to Catalonia to meet with Dalí and ask if he had any insight into the matter.’
‘His diaries?’ asked Ratty.
‘Dalí had reams of unpublished pages from his diaries, and he allowed Mitford access to all of it. The diaries explained in detail what the motherin-law was planning to do to Hitler, since she spoke of little else on her journey through France. According to the diaries, she said that even if she couldn’t persuade Unity to turn her pistol on Hitler then she would bloody well do it herself. There was no way she was going to let Hitler live. And then the bloody Keo thing happened, Her Ladyship’s world was turned upside-down, and the rest of the world was plunged into war. In 1973 Mitford managed to persuade Dalí to let him become his personal archivist, a prelude to the Centre for Dalínian Studies that he would later establish, but he was only getting one side of the story from Dalí’s diaries. The Ballashiels side of things was unclear to him, and his dissatisfaction with the world into which he had been born was growing stronger by the day. He desperately resented his own birth because to him it symbolised the destruction and the deaths of millions. But he would never contemplate suicide. That was, to him, the easy way out. He wanted a way to fix things. He wanted to undo the damage his father had done. He dedicated his life and his wealth to gaining a better understanding of that moment in time when the fate of the world twisted in the wrong direction, to understanding how the word Keo could have caused it all, and to researching whether anything could have been done to prevent it.’
‘Where do you enter this story, Lady Ballashiels?’ asked the Patient.
‘I’m coming to that, boy. In 1974, Mitford attracted a small number of followers. They were misfits, hippies, twisted individuals, probably all from comprehensive schools.’ She glanced at Ruby to see if her dig had triggered a reaction, but Ruby refused to give her the satisfaction. ‘These were the kind of people who were easy to lure into cultish behaviour. Mitford never really established anything as big as a cult, and he always had the means to pay whoever shared, or pretended to share, his beliefs. I suppose he lacked the confidence to think that ideology alone would suffice for his followers, so he trained them as domestic servants, bribed the staffing agency, and one by one they were all planted as employees here at Stiperstones. I was a young mother, not really paying attention to the type of staff we were being supplied, and at first I had no idea that anything was wrong. But their behaviour became increasingly odd, and I started to sense that the rotters were watching us all far too closely. I felt that we were at the centre of a grand conspiracy.’
‘And then you opened the room sealed by your motherin-law in the Thirties?’ asked Ruby, giving in to her urge to be provocative by chipping in to the conversation.
Lady Ballashiels gave her a cold stare before continuing. ‘That’s when I found the photograph she had taken of Dalí and the word Keo. And, like Mitford, I wanted to know more. But Her Ladyship was long dead by then. I was frightened of the servants. I suspected they were connected to the Keo thing and I didn’t want them to know I was looking into it. Their actions had been getting i
ncreasingly disturbing, so I needed to leave a message as to my intended journey, but do so in such a way that they would not notice. Hence the Lanvin wrapper and the clues behind the Dalí books. With that little insurance policy in place, I kissed Justin goodnight and slipped away into the darkness, intending to visit Dalí in person and shed some light on the incident my motherin-law had experienced in France. It was never meant to be a permanent thing. If the servants didn’t find me, I expected to be back in a few days.’
She saw Ratty’s lips begin to wobble as the memory of the first days of her disappearance returned. He realised he was once more succumbing to emotion and slapped himself on the cheek.
‘Sorry, Mother. Grown man now and all that twaddle.’
‘Good boy. I know I let you down and that nothing can ever replace those years, but perhaps when I’ve explained everything you will begin to understand. You see, Dalí was most welcoming. He remembered your grandmother very fondly. He talked about his own interpretation of the writing in the sky, which he considered to be a portal to the future. He showed me a painting he had done inside a cave, where he had tried to express his emotions and fears regarding Keo. But in spending so much time with Dalí I had walked into the centre of the spider’s web. Mitford was watching me. Even though I had evaded the eyes of his planted servants, I had simply handed myself to him without realising. I was a fool. He was fascinated by my existence, by my ignorance. I symbolised to him the world that should never have been. I was, like him, the progeny of Keo. He regarded the two of us as the centre of a parallel universe. The wrong bloody universe. He wouldn’t let me leave. When his brainwashing attempts failed, he just locked me up. Of course, the mind control attempts continued for years, and sometimes I would pretend to go along with it in the hope that it might trigger my freedom, and there were moments when I even started to believe his rants. But he never had a clear vision of what he could do to right the wrongs of the world. It was vague, a cloudy obsession that never relented for a second. He just couldn’t let me go. I missed you so badly, Justin, that I just wanted to go insane. I couldn’t handle the loss. One day he came and told me I was legally dead and no one was looking for me any longer. I gave up all hope that day.’
The Dali Diaries (The Ballashiels Mysteries Book 2) Page 23