‘I bet there aren’t any hotel rooms free in Tours,’ said Conrad.
‘Do we sleep in the car, then?’ said Veronica.
Conrad looked again at the map. A hamlet caught his eye: Blancou. He had stayed at the Abbaye de Blancou once with his parents when he was a boy. It was the family home of a French banker whom his father knew well. It was a fair bit south of Tours, but not too distant from the main road.
If his father couldn’t find anywhere to stay en route, then he may well have decided to try his luck there. Worth a shot. Even if Lord Oakford wasn’t there, Conrad and Veronica might be able to beg a room. Conrad resigned himself to sleeping with his wife that night.
Conrad explained his idea to Veronica, who agreed they should give it a try. The problem was that the broad River Loire, with its limited number of bridges, created bottlenecks.
It was nearly midnight when they crossed. They decided to sleep in the car in a wood for a few hours and get up at dawn to continue their journey.
Veronica curled up on the back seat under a travel blanket. Should Conrad trust his ex-wife? Frankly, he didn’t have much choice. Slumping in the front of the car, Conrad listened to her gentle breathing, a familiar sound from a much simpler time.
Northern Spain
Theo examined the woman sitting opposite him in the second-class carriage through one slightly open eye. She was very attractive, dark – Theo usually preferred blondes – slim, but with a full bust under her black dress. Mid twenties, he would guess. A small girl was asleep on her lap. A widow, no doubt; there were plenty of young widows in Spain.
It was dark in the carriage, but he was pretty sure he saw her open one eye and study him.
Theo shut his own eye and told himself not to be so stupid. What would she want with a Yugoslav businessman named Petar Šalić who was travelling to France in search of his own wife?
The train journey from Madrid had been interminable. He was involved in a slow-motion pursuit of Otto Langebrück, who was travelling in a similar train under the name of Georges Braun, a Frenchman from Mulhouse in Alsace. Both Otto and Theo had brought false identities with them to Spain in case they were needed to travel to France. Otto spoke fluent French and could mimic a convincing Alsatian accent. Theo’s cover was much less secure. Theo’s French was not nearly good enough to pass as a native of any description, so he had used a Yugoslav passport. But he spoke no Serbo-Croat; he was sunk if by chance he came across a French official who did.
He was nervous about entering France in wartime. It was rare for German officers in the Abwehr, or any other agency for that matter, to operate on enemy territory. That’s what neutral countries and neutral agents were for. But France was in chaos, and Ribbentrop had decided that it was imperative that someone approach the Duke of Windsor immediately. Otto Langebrück was the man he had in mind. Theo had tried to insist that he travel with Otto, since at least he had training in espionage, but their covers were not compatible, and it was felt, rightly, that Otto would arouse less suspicion if he travelled alone. What clinched it was the news that the Duke of Windsor had left Paris for Biarritz, only a few kilometres over the Spanish border with France.
Theo’s bosses in the Abwehr were unhappy at the idea of the Duke of Windsor being persuaded to return to England, so Theo had been dispatched two hours after Otto, with instructions to dissuade him from talking to the duke. The hope was that if Otto and Theo could get to Biarritz before the duke, then Theo might be able to tell Otto he had been sent to warn him that the duke was travelling to his house at Antibes instead. If the Spanish trains had followed their timetables, that might have been possible, but it was becoming clear that Spanish trains never followed their timetables.
In which case Theo would have to think of another way of stopping Otto Langebrück.
Which would be a pity. Theo was growing to like the Rhinelander.
51
Extract from Lieutenant Dieter von Hertenberg’s Diary
24 May
Direct order from the Supreme Command. Halt. ‘Dunkirk to be left to the Luftwaffe. Should the capture of Calais prove difficult, this too should be left to the Luftwaffe.’ The order comes from Hitler himself and there is no explanation. When I handed the order to Guderian he couldn’t believe it. He wants to argue, but since there is no explanation, there is no logic to argue against. It makes no sense! The British Army are trapped and demoralized; we could capture the whole lot of them if only the Führer would let us.
I have seen Guderian’s Achtung Panzer! doctrine in action over the last couple of weeks. Keep moving, keep the enemy off balance. Well, the British are well and truly off balance, and now we are staying put and giving them time to regroup and reorganize!
At least it means some rest for some of us, although there is still fighting in Boulogne.
The Loire Valley, 24 May
The first bird woke Conrad. It was still dark, with just a glimmer of grey peeking through the trees to the east. He stretched and nudged Veronica, curled up on the back seat of the Cadillac. It was cold.
They shared some bread, cheese and Evian water for breakfast and were soon on their way. They made reasonable speed along the main road south of Tours. There were plenty of cars pulled over on to the verges for the night, and as dawn came, more and more of them started back on the road. But Conrad and Veronica were definitely making better progress than they had the day before.
‘Maybe we should keep going,’ said Veronica, who was driving. ‘Perhaps we could make Biarritz by tonight after all.’
‘Let’s check Blancou first,’ said Conrad. ‘It’s not too far out of our way.’
So they turned off the main road, but it took them half an hour of tiny country lanes before they came to a sign to the hamlet.
They turned left and descended into a wooded valley. Ahead of them, they could see the house, which was actually a small stone medieval abbey, clad in thick green ivy. A number of semi-ruined buildings lined one side of a dark fast-flowing stream. An ancient footbridge crossed the water to a lush green meadow dotted with a dozen or so cows. It was difficult to believe that this particular corner of France was at war.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Veronica. ‘You came here as a boy?’
‘Just once when I was about twelve,’ said Conrad. ‘There are supposed to be wild boar in those woods. Father’s banker friend used to hunt them. Very exciting.’
‘Someone’s there,’ said Veronica. ‘And they are awake. There’s smoke coming out of that chimney.’
It was just after six. Early. Conrad’s hopes rose. If Lord Oakford was staying there, he would no doubt want an early start.
The road plunged down the side of the valley and they lost sight of the house. Five minutes later they came to a pair of ancient stone gateposts with no gate, and drove along a track past a lodge, which seemed to be inhabited. They turned a corner and there was the abbey. A large American car was parked in front of it, and in an open courtyard off to one side, by an open door, stood a table covered with a white tablecloth, around which three people were having breakfast.
They turned to stare at the approaching car. There was an old lady in a high-necked black dress and a shawl, whom Conrad didn’t recognize. There was his father. And there was Constance.
Conrad remembered that the concierge at the Meurice had mentioned a woman was present with the American picking up his father. That must be her.
‘What do we do?’ asked Veronica.
‘Just park the car and follow me,’ said Conrad.
Veronica pulled up next to the Packard, and they both got out. Conrad approached the table with a smile. In the quiet courtyard so early in the morning, the birdsong was extraordinary, like a welcoming overture. ‘Good morning, Father. Constance.’
‘What the devil are you doing here?’ Lord Oakford barked.
Conrad approached the old lady. ‘Madame de Salignac, I presume,’ he said in French. ‘We met many years ago, when I came to stay with you as a boy
. I’m Conrad de Lancey, Lord Oakford’s son. And this is my wife, Veronica.’ For once, Conrad was not eager to disown Veronica as his ex-wife.
‘Delighted to see you again,’ said the lady, who was very old, very wrinkled, but had clear blue eyes. ‘Forgive me if I don’t get up.’ She indicated a walking stick. ‘But please join us. Cécile!’
A woman, just as old as her mistress but quite a bit fatter, shuffled out of the house, breathing heavily. ‘Please fetch these people some coffee.’
Lord Oakford glared at his son, his manners just getting the better of his desire to shout at him. ‘I thought you were in England,’ he said, in French.
Conrad continued the introductions, this time in English. ‘Veronica, this is Constance Scott-Dunton. Mrs Scott-Dunton murdered my sister last November.’
Constance, who had been playing along with the polite charade and had held her hand out towards Veronica, froze at this.
‘Don’t be absurd!’ snapped Oakford.
‘Excuse me for speaking English, Madame,’ said Conrad in French to his hostess. ‘But my wife doesn’t speak French.’
The old lady looked at Conrad sharply; her bright eyes seemed to be staring right into his soul. Conrad held her gaze. She nodded slightly.
‘That is absolute rot!’ said Oakford. ‘Your German friend Theo von Hertenberg killed Millie. You know that, you are just unwilling to accept it!’
Conrad sat down at the table, as did Veronica. ‘That’s not what Constance says,’ said Conrad.
Constance glared at Conrad. ‘I don’t what you mean.’
‘You told Anneliese Rosen that you had been to Holland on an errand for your lover, Sir Henry Alston. And you told her that you had killed someone there. That someone was my sister, Millie.’
‘Your Anneliese?’ said Oakford.
‘She’s certainly not my Anneliese,’ said Veronica.
‘You also told Anneliese about Alston’s plan to form a new government to discuss peace with the Germans. And that my father was on his way to France to fetch the Duke of Windsor.’
The maid arrived with some coffee. She could sense the tension around the table. Everyone was silent as she poured two cups for Conrad and Veronica.
‘Apparently, Constance was a little drunk at the time. She and Anneliese had been sticking up anti-Jewish posters in Mayfair.’
Oakford glanced at his young companion, who sat silent and grim-faced, two pink circles of colour emerging on her pale cheeks. Anger rather than shame, Conrad thought.
‘Anneliese was exaggerating,’ said Oakford. ‘It’s true that Henry and I are trying to bring about a sensible settlement with Germany and I am on my way to discuss how the duke can help. But the rest is the result of Anneliese’s overwrought imagination. Or yours.’
Everyone around the table was looking at Conrad.
‘Don’t go, Father,’ Conrad said quietly. ‘I know you hate war. I know you have always wanted peace with honour, and I know that’s what you think you are seeking now. But that’s not what this is. This is peace with dishonour. Alston effectively wants Britain to surrender to Germany. He wants Britain to become a vassal state, a neo-Nazi protectorate. I know that’s not what you want. But that’s what you are helping him to do.’
‘How do you know what Henry wants?’ said Lord Oakford. ‘Don’t you see that the sooner we negotiate peace with Hitler, the less we will have to give up? We are losing this war. Let’s call it off before we have lost it.’
‘Is there nothing you wouldn’t do for peace, Father? Is no price too high?’
‘One life is priceless,’ said Oakford. ‘Fifteen million people died in the last war. That’s fifteen million times priceless. So no, Conrad, no price is too high.’
Conrad understood his father. The war hero with the Victoria Cross and the missing arm had devoted his life to preventing another war. He believed in peace at any cost. In Henry Alston he saw the means that justified that end. He was blind, wilfully blind, to Alston’s motives for bringing peace. He didn’t care as long as an armistice was declared.
‘You know Constance did kill Millie, Father?’ said Conrad, trying another tack.
‘I’m not listening to you any more,’ said Oakford. ‘In fact, Constance and I are leaving now.’ He got to his feet. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Madame de Salignac,’ he said in French. ‘I am afraid we must leave. I apologize for the suddenness of our departure.’
‘I won’t let you go,’ said Conrad, also standing.
‘One moment,’ said the old lady, in French. ‘I have something inside for you.’
She climbed to her feet, took her stick and hobbled inside. Her four guests waited.
Conrad knew he could never persuade his father to abandon his mission. He hated seeing Constance, Millie’s murderer, at his father’s side. He would have to stop him somehow.
The old lady reappeared. ‘Here, you might need this,’ she said in English. She had put her stick to one side and was limping out into the courtyard. In her hands was a shotgun. She handed it to Conrad. ‘I was ten in 1870 when the Prussians arrived in Paris. I saw how they behaved then. Two of my three sons died in the war of 1914. I hate the Boche, Lord Oakford. The French people will never surrender to them again, and neither should the British.’
Her blue eyes were blazing with anger. ‘You should listen to your son, Lord Oakford.’
Conrad took the shotgun, and slowly pointed it at his father.
‘What are you going to do with that, Conrad?’ said Oakford. ‘Shoot me?’
‘I will if I have to,’ said Conrad. Would he? He didn’t know.
‘I think you might,’ said Lord Oakford. ‘But I don’t care. I told you once about that afternoon at Passchendaele when I took that machine-gun post, didn’t I? How, after I turned the German machine gun on those young German boys and mowed them down, I walked unarmed towards their line. How I expected them to shoot me – I wanted them to shoot me. I was sick with myself for killing so many. I vowed then that I would never kill another man, that peace was more important than my life.’
Conrad remembered that story well.
‘Come on, Constance,’ said Oakford. He began to move towards the Packard.
‘You can’t let him go, Conrad,’ said Veronica. ‘You must pull the trigger!’
Conrad knew she was right. If Conrad was prepared to sacrifice his own life for what he believed was right, and he knew he was, then he should be willing to sacrifice his father.
Whatever he decided, he knew he would have to live with it for the rest of his life.
He couldn’t do it. Logic might tell him to pull the trigger, but he couldn’t do it.
His father had his back to him and had almost reached the car. Conrad took several rapid paces towards him. Lord Oakford’s shoulders stiffened as he sensed Conrad’s approach, but he didn’t turn round. Conrad raised the shotgun and brought the stock down hard on his father’s skull.
There was sickening crack, and Lord Oakford crumpled to the ground.
‘Take this,’ said Conrad, handing the shotgun to Veronica.
He bent down over his father. He had had no idea how hard to hit him. Lord Oakford was fit, wiry and not yet sixty. Conrad’s intention had been to knock him out, without doing him permanent damage, but he feared he had hit him too hard. It was impossible to judge the weight of a blow like that.
Oakford was lying face down on flagstones, blood seeping from a cut on the back of his head. His eyes were shut and he was motionless. Conrad couldn’t tell whether he was breathing. He put his fingers on his father’s neck hoping to find a pulse.
He heard movement behind him, and turned to see Constance lunge at Veronica, who was staring at Conrad and Oakford, holding the shotgun loosely in front of her. Veronica was a bigger woman than Constance, but was taken by surprise. Constance grabbed the barrel of the shotgun with both hands and yanked. Veronica let go.
Constance skipped backwards a few paces and turned the gun on Veronica. ‘Ke
ep still, or I’ll blow your head off!’
52
The Loire Valley, 24 May
Veronica kept still.
‘Get back!’ Constance ordered.
Veronica hesitated and then retreated. It was clear that Constance had never fired a shotgun before. She was holding the gun awkwardly in front of her. But it was pointed directly at Veronica, Constance’s finger was on the trigger and Conrad could see that the safety was off. All she had to do was squeeze and Veronica would be dead.
‘Further back,’ said Constance. Veronica took two steps back. She was now standing next to Conrad and a few paces away from Constance.
‘Is he all right?’ Constance asked Conrad.
‘I don’t know,’ said Conrad.
‘Well, check!’
Conrad bent over his father again and searched for the artery in his neck. At first he felt nothing. He forced himself to take it slow. He moved his fingers and felt something. A pulse! ‘He’s alive,’ he said. ‘But he’s out cold.’
‘All right,’ said Constance. She was clearly thinking through what she would do next. Conrad tried to guess her next move. Shoot him; that was the obvious answer. It was a double-barrelled shotgun, presumably with a cartridge in each barrel. So she could afford to loose off one at him and keep the other to cover Veronica and Madame de Salignac.
In which case, maybe Conrad should rush her first, in the hope that somehow she missed him. The odds didn’t look good, but the odds of doing nothing looked worse.
Then his father groaned. His eyes flicked open.
‘Leave him!’ said Constance.
Get her talking, thought Conrad. Distract her. Play for time.
‘You did kill Millie, didn’t you, Constance?’ Conrad was hoping for an admission that his father might hear.
‘Yes,’ said Constance. ‘I had to. I liked your sister, she had good intentions, but in the end she was going to blow the whistle on the whole plan. Your friend Theo told her that the Duke of Windsor had been passing secrets to the Germans. That he was a traitor. At that stage I didn’t know the details of what Henry was planning, but I knew I had to shut her up. There was only one way of doing that.’
Shadows of War Page 36