“Thank you so much. In exchange might I be permitted to buy you a drink?”
“Well,” Sarah Jane went through the, by now, practised routine of doubt, surprise. “That would be very kind. Thank you.”
“Colonel George,” the gentleman said producing a card which he handed to her. “Late of the Tenth Hussars.” Sarah Jane studied the card. Just a name, expensively embossed, no address.
“Colonel A.C. George MC.” She raised her eyes waving the card across her face as if it were a fan. He was tall, over six feet, with sleeked back iron-grey hair, tanned, rather leathery skin as if he’d spent a long time in the colonies, and piercing blue eyes. He had a clipped moustache and a decided military bearing. His grey pin-striped suit was double breasted and he wore a blue striped shirt and some sort of military or club tie.
He seemed to her the real McCoy. No doubt about it. She moved along the sofa.
“How do you do, Colonel George?” Sarah Jane raised her hand and politely shook his. “Sarah Jane Palmer. Mrs Sarah Jane Palmer.”
“How do you do Mrs Palmer?” The Colonel carefully creased his trousers and perched gingerly on the sofa next to her. “Do I take it you’re waiting for your husband?”
“Not today,” Sarah Jane said. “As a matter of fact, he’s away on business. He frequently is.”
The Colonel shook his head and said with a roguish smile,
“Silly man, leaving a lovely young woman like you.”
The waiter appeared, took a fresh order for drinks and when he returned the colonel raised his glass towards her. “Chin chin, Mrs Palmer.”
“Chin chin, Colonel,” Sarah Jane replied gaily, raising hers. “Happy days.”
Chapter Twelve
March 1936
Bart Sadler, Alexander thought, had every reason to be a very happy man. He had a young, beautiful wife, two handsome, flourishing children, a fine home and a business, it was said, that had made him into a millionaire many times over.
Yet in this relatively modest building on the outskirts of Wenham, to which Bart had mysteriously invited him, it was difficult to see where his fortune came from. It was an old stately home that had fallen into disuse and disrepair. He had bought it for a song and Solomon had transformed it into offices in the guise of a gentleman’s country house. In many ways it seemed like the strange whim of an already rich man. There was a short drive leading up to the discreet double-fronted door beyond which was a large hall with a parquet floor. Reception rooms and domestic offices opened off it.
Upstairs Bart’s own office ran the width of the building. Walls had been pulled down to create enough space and light to satisfy the most inflated ego and Bart’s, certainly, was of a considerable size. It had a vast mahogany desk on the top of which was a single blotter, an inkstand and writing implements, and two telephones. The floor was carpeted in thick soft woollen pile, probably woven at Wilton or Axminster. There was a long table around which were several upright chairs, and scattered about the room were comfortable armchairs and a sofa facing the garden with a view of Ham Hill rising above the trees. On the walls were original paintings, mostly of foreign scenes where Bart might have gone on his travels. It was very different from Alexander’s office in London which, although comfortable, had nothing of the opulence and luxuriousness of this.
Alexander, one arm flung over the back of his chair, looked curiously across at Bart who had gone to a safe by the side of his desk and was in the process of extracting a bulky lever-arch file from it. When he had checked that the contents were what he wanted he carefully locked the safe again. He placed the file, with care, as though it were an object of great fragility, on a small table in front of the chair occupied by Alexander.
“This,” he said in reverential tones, his hands still on the file as if he were touching the Bible, “is worth millions.”
“Really?” Alexander, looking amused, put his chin in his hands and regarded Bart as he opened the file and leafed carefully through the contents.
“Now, Alexander.” Bart looked earnestly up at his young companion. “I know you’re a businessman through and through.”
“Well ...” Alexander gave him a deprecating smile.
“Pieter Heering told me you would be chairman by the time you’re thirty. He can’t get over the grasp you have developed for the business. He feels it is as though you really were the scion of a Heering and not a Woodville, few of whom ever showed much talent for making money.”
“Except my father,” Alexander interrupted him. “He has restored the family fortunes by his own hard work.”
“Well, that’s as maybe.” Bart assumed an expression of wisdom. “Connie was a very rich woman.”
“Connie had nothing to do with it.” Alexander became heated. “My father insisted that her money was kept separate.”
“Well, we shan’t argue. I certainly have a great respect and admiration for Carson, and I certainly don’t wish to offend you. The point I am making is that Pieter Heering tells me he will be quite happy to retire early and leave the organisation in your hands.”
“He said that, did he?”
“Oh, yes. And I can believe it. There is something about you Alexander, young as you are, that inspires confidence and trust which is why I have invited you over to see me today.” He glanced nervously towards the door. “I must emphasise that what I have to say must not go beyond these four walls.”
“You have my promise.” Alexander, intrigued despite his distrust of Bart’s cloak-and-dagger procedure, nodded.
Bart returned to his chair and folded his hands, his brows knotted, his expression grave.
“I am aware of what you feel about Germany, Alexander.”
“Ah, this is about Germany.” Alexander began to understand and sat up. He knew now that it was very important for him to pay careful attention. Bart Sadler would not have invited him here in conditions of such secrecy for nothing. With his reputation for intrigue, it was hard not to smell a rat where Bart was concerned.
“I can assure you I am not anti-Semitic. I have nothing against the Jews. I do business with them here and, although you might not believe it, in Germany.”
“Really?” Alexander looked surprised.
“Oh yes. Despite all Hitler’s laws against them there are many still operating quietly, and the field in which they are operating might amaze you,” Bart leaned forward, “armaments.” He finished dramatically.
“I do find that hard to believe.’’
“Nevertheless, it is true.” Bart flicked open the file again. “Rosenberg, Cohen, Grutzberg, Feinstein ... all Jewish, all importing armaments.”
He handed Alexander a sheaf of bills which, although they were all in German, enabled Alexander to verify that the signatories did, indeed, appear to have Jewish surnames.
“Of course I don’t only sell arms. I export all kinds of goods. They’re very partial, as we know, to Scotch whisky, woollen goods, fine leathers.”
“All Jews?” Alexander looked incredulous.
Bart shook his head. “Oh no, by no means all Jews. There are a few Jews, as I have indicated to you, but the majority of my customers are gentiles and doing very nicely too, I can tell you. You see, contrary to what you hear, Hitler has done much to improve the German state, to restore to a defeated and downtrodden people a sense of identity. Look, let’s face it, the Jews in many ways have only themselves to blame. They control the law, the banks, the medical profession. People resent them. Whether you like it or not, that is the truth. Hitler may have gone too far, and I personally think he has, but he has also completely rid the country of the menace of communism.” Bart threw his hands in the air. “Who can do business with communists? They don’t believe in it. My enterprises in Spain have crashed to the ground in the short time that the left-wing government has been in power. No my money is on Herr Hitler and ...
Alexander held up a hand.
“Bart I don’t know what this is about, exactly, but I cannot agree with you abo
ut a man who has just marched into the Rhineland in strict contravention of the Treaties of Versailles and Locarno.”
“But my dear man the Rhineland is part of Germany. It is Hitler’s own back yard. He is only restoring to the fatherland what belongs to it. The people there have greeted him with rapture. Moreover has he not proposed a treaty to the western powers to guarantee peace for twenty-five years? Expansionist he may be, ruthless, yes, but you must be assured of his good intentions. I am.”
“Well, I quite firmly am not.” Alexander stood up. “And if you are trying to interest us in your business, and I imagine that is your aim in inviting me here today, I’m afraid it’s out of the question. Pieter Heering is fanatically anti-German. He did a lot of business with Germany in the past before Hitler came to power and he will not hear of it now.”
“He doesn’t need to hear of it,” Bart said silkily. “I shan’t tell him. But I assure you, Alexander, if you were to entertain the proposition I am offering you, you would become an enormously wealthy man. Now, I am aware that you are not exactly poor. But I can tell you in the past two years my profits have expanded tenfold. And who can say ‘no’ to money so easily come by? Only a fool, and I know you are not one. There is an enormous amount of money to be made in the export of small arms not only to Germany but all over the world. Believe me, this left-wing government in Spain will have trouble on its hands, and as for Italy ...” Once more Bart threw his hands in the air in an expression of disbelief.
Alexander, who had been standing by the window looking out, turned. “And what do you need from me, Bart? I’m sure you’re not undercapitalised.”
Bart shook his head. “On the contrary. There is no shortage of money, but I am hampered by shortage of transport. I can’t get enough ships or lorries to transport my goods, and I know you have a world-wide network whose reputation is above reproach. No one would question anything carried by the Martyn-Heering organisation, whereas some of the dubious transporters I am forced to employ ...” He shrugged his shoulders. “You know the transport of arms is not illegal. It is just, well, shall we say, not as simple as other kinds of produce. There is so much red tape. It can also lead to theft and crime if the goods are not secure.”
“Nevertheless, it is in contravention of the peace treaties. Pieter would simply not tolerate it.”
“But if I said ...”
Bart stopped as he saw Alexander shaking his head vigorously.
“Bart, I am very sorry. Even if I was interested in your scheme, which I am not, I could not authorise anything without the concurrence of Pieter.”
“Then don’t tell him the purpose. Just lease me the ships.” Alexander shook his head again.
“I can’t. I won’t. It is against my principles. But thank you Bart for thinking of me.” He held out his hand. “I appreciate it. Now,” he looked at his watch, “Lally is expecting company for dinner. I promised not to be late.”
Bart’s expression of hope gave place to one of resignation and, rising, he put his hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “No hard feelings?”
“None at all. I assure you.”
“And you will keep this confidential? I can rely on you, as a member of the family!”
“What family?”
“Why, the Woodville family. In some way or another are we not all connected? Your father is a Woodville and I am married to one. We are all Woodvilles, to a man.” He slapped Alexander on the back again. “I like you, Alexander. You’re honest and straight. One day I hope we can do business together. I’m sure we shall. In the meantime how’s the little girl?”
“Wonderful.”
“No problems coping?”
“Oh, none at all. Lally is a devoted grandmother, as you might imagine. Catherine has given her a new lease of life and I could not wish for a better nursemaid than Massie. All I have to do is play the part of loving father, and that’s not difficult. Catherine – we call her Kate – is an angel.”
“I’m delighted to hear it. I, too, am most fortunate in my family.” Momentarily Bart looked solemn. “And I can tell you Alexander. These days that is no small blessing.”
June 1936
Colonel George was now known familiarly as Arnold. He was a perfect gentleman. They didn’t meet every day, or even every week, but it was a relationship that grew closer, more intimate with the passage of time. Sarah Jane could almost say he was her regular beau. She was sure he would have been jealous if he saw her with another man.
From time to time Arnold went away. He said he had a daughter in Bristol, another in the south of France, and he would visit them each for several weeks at a time. But withal, he was a mysterious man, gave little of himself and never made any suggestion that was the least improper. Anyway, like her, he relied a good deal on drink, and she suspected he began the day, as she did, with a nip or two of brandy or maybe whisky, in his case, as he was very fond of it.
Sometimes she felt she would be better off with Arnold than Solomon, but he never brought up the subject of marriage. She thought it was a question of money because, though not mean, he was careful. He always paid for lunch if they had it, but usually at one of the cheaper hotels. She would often insist on paying, at least for some of their drinks, and he would accept. Arnold always saw her home, sometimes by taxi if she was a little the worse for wear. He never attempted to cross the threshold and she never asked him in.
Sarah Jane, therefore, reacted with some surprise, almost shock, when, one day after they’d been seeing each other more or less regularly for over six months – the pattern the same, never varying – Arnold said, “I wondered if you’d like to have lunch at my place today, my dear? I’ve asked my man to prepare something for us.”
“Your man?” she asked looking surprised, her glass half raised to her lips.
“My servant.”
“I didn’t know you had a servant.” Sarah Jane had somehow imagined that this solitary man lived alone, or perhaps in a boarding house. The question of his domicile had never arisen.
She had a woman to clean but not to live in. She didn’t want anyone keeping an eye on her all day.
“He used to be my batman in the war. Good chap.”
Sarah Jane felt a bit confused. When you were used to a routine it felt a bit odd to have it disturbed.
But perhaps she wanted it disturbed? She looked at Arnold who was stubbing his cigarette out in an ashtray. She had already had four large brandies and he had had an equivalent amount of whisky. She hadn’t seen him for some time because he’d been with the Bristol daughter. She’d missed him.
“Well, Arnold,” she said after a while, “I suppose it’s all right.”
“Of course it’s all right, my dear.” His hand closed over hers. “My man’s a first-class cook and from the balcony of my flat there is the most beautiful view of the sea.”
“Sounds lovely,” Sarah Jane said, draining her glass, aware of a surge of pleasure and anticipation running through her. After all, with the servant there nothing could possibly happen, unless, of course, one wanted it to.
It was dawn. Time to get up. Solomon lay for some time gazing towards the curtained window, aware of the glimmer of light beyond. He could have done with another two hours’ sleep but he had to get up before the servants started to move round the house. Of course, they knew. He was sure they knew. Debbie’s maid certainly knew, and he thought Helen and James’s nursemaids knew, because one night there had been an emergency – one of the children had started to choke – and they’d opened the bedroom door without knocking. After that Deborah had locked the door but, nevertheless, Solomon was sure they knew.
He felt a hand touch his arm.
“Penny for them?”
“I was thinking about the servants, if they knew.”
“What does it matter?”
“You know it matters.” He felt a momentary sense of irritation. “Bart would fire me, and God knows what would happen to you if he found out.”
“We could go away a
nd get married,” she said.
“I’m married already.” He was annoyed by her casualness. It was so irresponsible.
Solomon threw back the bedclothes and sat on the side of the bed. He felt out of sorts, uneasy, and this was unusual after a night of love with Deborah. He normally felt elated, youthful, invigorated.
“Solomon?”
“Darling?” He looked around at her.
“Do you love me?”
“You know I love you.” He leaned back on the bed and began to caress her. She settled into the crook of his arm.
“It’s just that you seem so afraid of Bart.”
“My darling, it’s not that I’m afraid, but until I am independent – and that time seems a very long way off – I have to be very careful of Bart. He is talking of making me managing director.”
“You mean you won’t be the architect any more?”
“Well, I can still go on designing houses, but his business is expanding so much. All these trips to the continent means he wants someone in charge.”
It was true. Bart was away almost half the year and it had enabled the lovers to resume their affair with, they thought, impunity.
To Sarah Jane, Solomon pleaded business saying that he stayed at the office which, indeed, had a bedroom with a bathroom en suite for emergencies. He imagined that Sarah Jane didn’t care very much. Half the time she probably wouldn’t be aware if he was there or not. He thought her drinking was getting heavier. She’d end up in a home.
Solomon kissed Debbie’s breasts, the little cleavage between them, her neck, her cheeks. His mouth lingered on her lips. Suddenly he let her go and gazed earnestly into her eyes. “I must go before the servants get up.”
He rose rapidly, dressed quickly and was standing in front of the dressing table doing his tie when she said, “Do you think we shall ever be able to live together? You know, all the time?”
Solomon shrugged on his jacket, ran his hands through his hair. He perched on the bed and took her hand.
A Time of Hope (Part Five of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 18