3 May
Got in big trouble this morning. A group of us decided to take a couple of dinghies out on the river and paddle about. We hadn’t had the chance yesterday. After my ducking I thought it was important to overcome any fear and get back on the water, a bit like falling off a bicycle.
It was a peaceful, misty morning, and everything was quiet compared to the din of the exercise yesterday. The Moselle really is a beautiful river, at least on this stretch. But when we returned to shore, the chief was waiting for us. He was furious, and went into one of his highest gears of temper tantrums, which is pretty high. ‘Joyriding on the river is strictly forbidden!’ I think he overreacted, especially with me.
That bothered me afterwards, but Gustav said the chief was only angry with me because he had been so shaken by nearly losing me yesterday.
I wonder if that is true. I hope it is.
There is nothing I wouldn’t do for General Guderian.
35
Liverpool Street Station, London, 4 May 1940
Conrad lit yet another cigarette and watched the steam-smeared iron, steel and blackened brick jolt and judder past the train window. The train was just outside Liverpool Street Station and had been for a quarter of an hour. The journey from Ipswich had taken two hours longer than it should, with an hour spent stationary in Chelmsford, and Conrad had stood all the way.
If the soldiers of the British Army had been trained in one skill during the long phoney war, it was patience. But even with so much practice, Conrad found it hard to maintain his. He couldn’t wait to get to London. He hadn’t been to the capital since November – indeed he had scarcely been away on leave. A couple of days down to Somerset for Millie’s funeral in December, another three days at Christmas. Then nothing.
Part of the reason was that the battalion had been despatched to Galloway in January, shivering on a frozen hillside in one of the coldest winters on record.
The other reason was that Conrad’s CO, Colonel Rydal, had been told by ‘the powers that be’ not to let his lieutenant take leave in London. The colonel never spoke to Conrad about this directly, and Conrad didn’t ask him. Until, one afternoon at the beginning of April, when the colonel summoned Conrad to join him on a recce to plan an exercise for the following week.
They drove up into the hills and then Colonel Rydal consulted his map and set off at a rapid pace up a slope beside a burn, swollen with spring meltwater. There was sunshine, and the snow had almost disappeared from the hills. After half an hour’s strenuous climb, they reached the top of a crag, with a dramatic view to the north of moors and lochs and to the south of a patchwork of fields glistening in the spring sunlight, dotted with barrel-shaped sheep on the brink of giving birth, and the white-belted local cows.
The colonel sat down and pulled out his pipe. Conrad lit a cigarette, and began to examine his map for likely rallying points for the exercise.
‘Sod the exercise, Conrad. I already know what we are going to do.’
Conrad smiled. ‘Very good, sir.’
‘You are a damned good officer, Conrad.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘If I ask you something will you give me an honest answer?’
Conrad mulled over the colonel’s question before replying. One of the things he liked about his unit was the trust between the officers. And the men, for that matter. They were all very different – some of them didn’t even like each other – but they trusted one another. And they all trusted Colonel Rydal. He led by example.
‘I won’t give you a dishonest answer,’ said Conrad. ‘I might say I can’t answer the question. Depends what it is, obviously.’
Rydal frowned. ‘I suppose that will have to do.’ He puffed at his pipe. ‘Conrad, are you a Soviet spy?’
‘No, sir,’ said Conrad firmly. But he appreciated the directness of the question.
‘Thought not,’ said Rydal. ‘But there are some people who think you are. You clearly got yourself into some hot water when you were away on Sir Robert Vansittart’s business last autumn.’
‘I did. I discovered some things that some people with power would rather I hadn’t.’
‘I gathered something like that might be going on. Look here, it’s not right you’ve been stuck up here without any leave for so many months. If you give me your word not to cause trouble and ask difficult questions, I’ll grant you some leave. Will you give me your word?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.’
‘Why the devil not?’
Conrad explained. If Rydal trusted him, then he should trust Rydal. He told him about Millie’s murder and about Theo’s allegations that the Duke of Windsor had been indirectly providing information about the French deployment to the Germans.
Colonel Rydal listened, his frown deepening as Conrad’s story progressed. ‘Is this true, de Lancey?’
‘Absolutely true, sir.’
Rydal examined his lieutenant closely. ‘Well, I can see why they want to keep you stuck up here.’
‘So can I, sir.’
‘Leave it with me, de Lancey.’
Two days later Rydal told Conrad he could have seven days’ leave the following week, during which time he could ask all the questions he damn well wanted, but he should ask them as unobtrusively as possible.
But then Germany invaded Norway. All leave was cancelled, and the battalion loaded up on to their lorries and spent several days driving erratically around the north-east of England and Scotland. The general staff couldn’t seem to decide whether a motorized battalion was an asset or a liability in the Norwegian mountains. In the end half the battalion embarked on a ship at Newcastle without their vehicles, and steamed out into the North Sea. They were given maps of the countryside around the small town of Namsos. But they never made it. Within sight of the coast of Norway, the ship was given orders to turn around and steam back to England.
After a further week loitering in the Northumberland countryside, they were sent down to Suffolk to protect East Anglia from a German invasion, and Conrad was finally granted a weekend’s leave.
During his time in Scotland Anneliese had sent him perhaps half a dozen letters. They spoke obliquely about ‘their friends in Kensington’; although Anneliese didn’t mention the Russian Tea Rooms by name, she did mention Constance. It was clear that she was becoming friendly with the woman, but it didn’t sound as if she had learned much of interest. Conrad was very pleased to see her trying so hard to help him, especially dealing with such hateful people, although reading between the lines it was clear that Anneliese enjoyed the cloak-and-dagger aspect of her endeavour. He replied with carefully constructed letters, encouraging her, telling her he was thinking about her but not scaring her off with too much sentiment.
The truth was he was thinking about her. It would be odd if stuck in a frozen hut in Scotland with a group of fellow soldiers he hadn’t thought about the woman he had fallen in love with in Berlin: so spirited, so sensual, so enchanting. He wondered whether the month or so they had spent entwined with each other back then was all that there ever would be. In his more disheartened moments, when it was particularly dark and cold, and the boredom was reaching extremes, he feared that might be the case.
Was it just the old Anneliese he had been in love with? Had the Nazis changed her permanently with their callous brutality, their concentration camps, their murders? They had trampled on her soul, injured it perhaps beyond repair. He knew he could still love her. But could she love him? And if she couldn’t, shouldn’t he just let her go?
Then, just a few days after the invasion of Norway, he had received an excited letter from her saying she had learned some gossip from their Kensington friends that she simply must tell him in person. That was three weeks ago, and it was only now that he had managed to arrange to see her: she had promised to meet him at Liverpool Street Station that afternoon. Conrad hoped she would still be there, despite the lateness of his train. Knowing Anneliese, she wouldn’t give up unless she
had to, but then a shift at the hospital might force her.
He was eager to hear what she had to say. Millie’s death was still unresolved. Stuck away in darkest, coldest Scotland without hope of leave, there had been nothing Conrad could do about that, but he could think about it. He was sure that Theo wasn’t responsible, but he had no idea who was, and time did nothing to reduce his need to know. Something was going on, probably something involving Sir Henry Alston, Charles Bedaux and the Duke of Windsor. Conrad could hope that Major McCaigue had made some progress in finding out what, but even if he had, he probably wouldn’t tell Conrad. Conrad’s feelings towards his father were mixed: on the one hand he blamed him for letting Millie go to Holland on such a hare-brained scheme, on the other he felt desperately sorry for him for the loss of his daughter. And Conrad himself wasn’t free of blame. If he had only done what his father had asked and talked to Theo about peace, Millie would still be alive.
But Conrad’s father couldn’t help him find out about Millie’s death either. His only hope was Anneliese.
Conrad almost missed her in the crowd of men in uniform enthusiastic for their weekend leave, barging their way towards the station exits. She saw him first, and jumped up and down, waving to attract his attention. She was wearing her nurse’s uniform, and she was smiling as Conrad kissed her cheek.
‘Thanks for waiting,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry the train is so late.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Anneliese. ‘It’s hardly your fault. There is a café around the corner. Shall we go there? I have something I want to talk to you about.’
Anneliese led Conrad between the piles of sandbags at the station entrance, across Bishopsgate to Artillery Lane, and there they found a small café with a spare table. As they walked Anneliese chattered about her shift at the hospital, what her parents had been up to and a picture she had been to see with her mother: The Lambeth Walk.
‘Thanks for your letters,’ said Conrad as they finally sat down. ‘You’ve been busy.’
‘I have. They are such dreadful people, Conrad! Truly awful.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Conrad, amused by Anneliese’s improving grasp of English idiom. ‘So you don’t like Constance?’
‘I can’t stand her. But she loves me. I’m her pet German. As we thought, the Russian Tea Rooms is full of anti-Semites. They have formed some secret society, called “The Right Club”. Anna Wolkoff is the secretary, and the president is a Conservative MP, Captain Maule Ramsay.’
‘I spotted him when I met Constance there.’
‘Horrible man. Hates the Jews and doesn’t know the first thing about them! The others all love him.’
‘So who are the members of this “Right Club”?’
‘Not me. I did try, and Constance pushed for me to be let in, but they wouldn’t have me. I am pretty sure Anna Wolkoff doesn’t trust me.’ Anneliese sipped her tea. ‘There are lots of women. Most of the men have gone off to war, and it’s tricky for them, poor darlings. They hate the Jews and love the Nazis, but they are true patriots and want to fight for their country. There is a loyal band of regulars: Maule Ramsay, his wife, Constance, her friend Marjorie Copthorne, a pretty woman called Joan Miller – a model, I think. Then there is Anna Wolkoff and a suave friend of hers called Tyler Kent. He’s American, does something at their embassy in London, and seems to have been posted to Moscow before that. He speaks Russian.’
‘Not Alston?’
‘No. Constance says she tries to get him to come, but he refuses. He’s afraid of being seen there. I don’t blame him.’
‘So Constance is still in touch with Alston?’
Anneliese smiled. ‘Oh, very much so. In fact she is his mistress!’
‘Really?’ Conrad was surprised, although the idea that a Tory MP might have a little mistress to keep him entertained while he was in London and his wife was in the constituency shouldn’t have shocked him.
‘She’s desperately proud of it. She thinks the world of him. She thinks he’s going to be Prime Minister.’
‘He’s only been an MP a few years, hasn’t he?’ Conrad said.
‘Since 1935. But she is certain he will be. Soon. And what’s more interesting, he’s just as certain.’
‘That is interesting. How?’
‘He has a plan. I’m sure Constance knows what it is, but she won’t tell me.’
‘Is it a coup? Is he in touch with Oswald Mosley?’
‘Oh, no. He hates Mosley and therefore so does Constance.’
‘Has she mentioned the Duke of Windsor at all?’ Conrad asked.
‘Not in that context. We have spoken about him. She likes him, but I think that’s because he is good-looking and charming and she likes the romance of him giving up the throne for the woman he loved.’
‘Nothing about him and Alston?’
Anneliese shook her head. ‘No. But I’m sure there is something going on.’
‘That’s just what I’ve been thinking.’ What he wasn’t sure of was how he could find out what. ‘Any luck with Millie’s murder?’
‘Not directly. But I did learn something a couple of weeks ago that just might be connected. That’s why I wrote to you.’
‘Yes. Sorry I couldn’t come right away. They wouldn’t let me.’
‘Were you in Norway?’
‘Almost,’ said Conrad. ‘So what did you learn?’
‘I was talking to Marjorie, and Constance was there. For some reason we were discussing her Uncle Freddie. He was a close friend of Alston. He was killed in November last year, run over by a car in the blackout. Whoever did it didn’t stop. Anyway, Marjorie said that her aunt, Freddie’s wife, is convinced that it was Henry Alston who ran him down! They were having a drink together at Freddie’s club, and Alston left a couple of minutes before Freddie.’
‘Why would he want to kill Lord Copthorne?’
‘That’s what I asked. Apparently Lord Copthorne was worried about what Alston was up to, although it’s not clear what precisely that was.’
‘Did the police investigate?’
‘For a day. Then it all went quiet. Lady Copthorne thinks they are covering something up. Specifically that they are protecting Henry Alston.’
‘Good God!’
‘Constance was looking daggers at Marjorie as she said this. Marjorie said that her aunt was paranoid, and no one could possibly want to kill her sweet Uncle Freddie on purpose, especially his best friend. Then Constance said something rather interesting. Or at least I thought it was interesting.’
‘Which was?’
‘That Marjorie’s Aunt Polly – Lady Copthorne – was completely bats. Marjorie seemed a little put out by this and pointed out that Constance had never met her aunt. Constance said everyone knew it, and was furious with Marjorie.’
‘So you think Constance jumped in to shut Marjorie up?’
‘Yes. Because she knew she was right. Alston did run down Lord Copthorne.’
Conrad smiled. ‘Yes, that is interesting. But I suppose it is conceivable that Constance was defending Alston because she is dotty about him.’
‘It’s conceivable,’ said Anneliese. ‘But it seemed to me at the time that it was more than that. That she wanted Marjorie to shut up because her aunt was on to something.’
‘Could Lord Copthorne’s death have had something to do with why Millie was killed?’
Anneliese shrugged. ‘Maybe. It might all be just a coincidence. But it’s worth checking, don’t you think?’
‘I do,’ said Conrad. ‘I most certainly do.’
‘Did you know Lord Copthorne? Do you know anyone who knew him? Or his wife?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Conrad. ‘My father certainly did; in fact, I remember at Christmas he mentioned Freddie Copthorne had died. He might know Polly Copthorne. I can certainly ask him. I’m not sure he will give me a straight answer.’
‘How are you getting on with your father?’
‘I haven’t seen him since Christmas. We write to each other ev
ery now and then, but we don’t really say anything. I don’t know what to say. I mean, I still blame him for sending Millie to Holland, but he didn’t mean her to die, obviously. In fact, he asked me to go and I refused. And although I still profoundly disagree with him, I do understand that his motives for trying to stop the war are noble. He’s a noble man.’
‘And you haven’t told him any of this? In your letters?’
‘No,’ Conrad admitted.
Anneliese shook her head. ‘You English!’
‘I do write to my mother,’ Conrad said. ‘I tell her about how I feel.’
‘Except about your father,’ Anneliese said.
Conrad shrugged. Then a thought struck him. ‘Come to think of it, there is someone who definitely knows Polly Copthorne.’
‘Who is that?’
‘Veronica.’
‘Veronica! As in “Mrs de Lancey” Veronica?’
‘I think they are the same age – Polly is a lot younger than her husband. They came out together.’
‘Came out?’
‘Met the king. When they were eighteen. They were debutantes.’ Conrad saw Anneliese’s expression and laughed. ‘Don’t look so disapproving.’
‘Why not? Your ex-wife sounds like an awful woman. You told me all about her. You have such dreadful taste in women, Conrad.’
‘Veronica’s not so bad,’ said Conrad. ‘At least not now we are divorced. Are you jealous?’
‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Anneliese. But she looked guilty.
Conrad realized that she was jealous. ‘How are you feeling these days?’ he asked. ‘You seem, I don’t know, better.’
‘I feel a bit better. My New York plan fell through; usual story, we couldn’t get the right papers. My father still hasn’t got a job. But I am doing something useful at the hospital. And maybe time does heal after all. I never heard back from Wilfrid Israel or Captain Foley about working for the British government, but doing this for you has definitely helped.’
Shadows of War Page 25