by John Wilson
– I know. I know. That’s why it’s so silly.
– What do you think he’s going to do?
– Well, darling. Please be calm about this. I think he is going to try to divorce me over it.
– What!?
There were tears in Jenny’s eyes.
– Please don’t tell Daddy I told you this. I’m sure he is plucking up the courage to tell you himself. The silly man!
– You haven’t been having an affair with him, have you?
– Look me in the eyes, Jenny. Of course I haven’t. I love Daddy. It’s just that he misses your mother.
– I think you were the best thing that could have happened to Daddy after mummy died.
– I’ve tried so hard.
– I’m going to speak to him about it!
– Please don’t! Not unless he tells you he’s going to divorce me.
– I don’t want you and Daddy to separate. It’s so unfair!
Jenny was half sobbing but she pulled herself together and Julia’s heart went out to her. Agnes was gazing up from the discarded dresses with a puzzled look on her face. Before they could continue with their conversation there was a ring of the doorbell. Julia excused herself and went to the landing. Samuels shimmered over to the front door and opened it to Jackson.
– Good evening, Mr Jackson. Mr Pemberton is expecting you. I will show you up.
So Samuels was in on it as well. Was there no one she could trust? She fixed herself with a smile and went back into her dressing room.
****
Bateman was sweating. He was late and had been running for about twenty minutes. He’d reached the gates of the park. Or rather, he had reached the place where the gates used to be – they’d all been taken away and scrapped as part of the war effort. He had thought Jackson would never stop trailing him and so he had led him as far away from where he had intended to be as he could. Then, suddenly, he had seen Jackson look at his watch, turn around and lumber off in the opposite direction. Bateman lit a match to look at his own watch. He was very late. He hoped she had waited.
Victoria was in their usual place against the trunk of an old oak tree.
– I’m freezing!
– I’m sorry I’m late. That bloody snoop has been following me.
– Graham will be suspicious if I’m out much longer.
– I’ll be quick. We need to have our stories straight. I’m going to ask my solicitor to sort out another meeting with the barrister.
– Is it worth it, Arnold? Why don’t you give him some of the insurance money?
– I’ve got a good barrister. I think he can get us out of this.
– How much have you told him?
– No more than I have to. Odd bloke but very good. I’ll bet he’s working on the case as we speak.
****
– Kerthunk!
Novak lay back on his bed and looked down on his blue serge outfit. He wished they would stop practising.
– Kerthunk!
It had been going on since sunset. Almost an hour now. Tomorrow was New Year’s Eve. Why execute someone on such a day? He heard the warders lifting the sack back into place.
– Kerthunk!
So someone was going to drop through the trapdoor tomorrow at 6 a.m. Someone was not going to see 1941. Someone was going to die without a death certificate – one of the smaller indignities of execution as a spy. He thought it was probably the Pole. No one liked him. A bad day to go, but then again was there ever a good day? Would he be next? His trial had been set for Monday 3rd March – nine weeks away. He was lucky. It was further away than he had been told it would be. They had to talk with Katya. She was his only hope. He missed her so! He thought of his barrister. A bit weak. Gullible. But sincere. He was probably working on his case as he, Novak, lay there in his bunk.
– Kerthunk!
Chapter Twenty-seven
(Monday 30th December 1940)
Storman had pulled down the blackout shades and lit the oil lamp. It threw his elongated shadow along the walls as he paced up and down. He looked, for the umpteenth time, at his watch. It was well past six. The air raid sirens had begun sounding over twenty minutes ago and already he could hear the throbbing of aeroplanes above to the east and to the west of him. A third-floor flat in the Temple wasn’t a clever place to be. Margaret would be worrying about him. He had been out for over nine hours. Adam was sleeping fitfully again, curled like a baby. There were still traces of blood on the blanket and sheets, but thankfully he had lapsed into silence and then dozed off. Cordelia was balled up at the end of the bed.
Before pulling down the shutters he had taken one last look from the window. As night advanced the flickering of still burning fires around the Temple – and in the wider city – had become brighter. They were sitting ducks. If Goering chose to attack again as he had done the night before there would be little they could do to stop him. The flames of last night’s bombings made the targets stand out like beacons and they were running out of water. If only Adam had a wireless. Where was Barry? Perhaps he should wake Adam and pull him down into one of the shelters? He looked at the vulnerable figure and decided against it. Barry would never find them if they moved on and Adam clearly needed urgent medical attention.
He needed to ring Margaret. Checking that Adam was still sleeping, he went over to the door and let himself out silently so as not to wake him. He would go down to Stirrup Court and try and use one of the telephones there. He felt his way down the unfamiliar stairs. Reaching the ground floor, he fought off the temptation to go one floor further down into the shelter and stay there for the night. It was little more than twenty-four hours since the incendiary strike. Emerging into the cold night air, Storman caught the smell of burning; the whiff of cordite. There was brick-dust still, floating in the air around him. No one was about. He inched his way down Inner Temple Lane towards Cloisters. The sky was dull above him and no stars shone. A barrage balloon drifted high over the Thames. The sound of planes was getting louder. Ack-Ack guns were firing into the sky, and not far off he could hear the crump of falling bombs. So far none were landing on the Temple. He wanted to get back home. He edged down towards Cloisters, resisting the growing temptations of the shelters under Hare Court and in the church.
And then he heard voices and hurrying footsteps – he saw two shadows moving quickly through the white columns of Cloisters. Barry was running at a crouch, dragging a small man holding a briefcase along with him.
– Barry! Over here!
– Mr Storman, sir. This is Doctor Hodgson. I found him over near Ludgate Circus. He was patching somebody up. It’s a right bloody mess out there. There’s fires everywhere. It’s all been flattened, so far as I can work out, between Cannon Street and Moorgate. He’s been doing running repairs for people all the way over. I’m done in. He is as well.
Both men looked exhausted. There were purple circles under Barry’s eyes and a fresh accumulation of grime on both of them. As they got closer Storman was able to get a better look at the doctor. He was a slight man. His smart gabardine was creased and soiled. His eyes were glinting behind round wire spectacles and he was breathing heavily.
– I’m just going off to Stirrup Court. I need to ring my wife. Then I’ll take you up to Falling.
The doctor gave out a large sigh.
– Have you any idea of the devastation out there? I haven’t rested all day. I’m very tired, Mr Storman. I want to get home to my own family. Can we make this quick? We will go and see your friend now or not at all.
Reluctantly, Storman turned and led the men back up Inner Temple Lane.
****
– Shall we wake him?
– Not yet. Barry has told me the circumstances of his collapse. It sounds to me as though he has been haemorrhaging. But what is he doing here?
– I’m not sure. I think he may be having marital problems.
Storman kept his voice as neutral as he could.
– I see there is some
blood still on his blankets.
– We’ve cleaned him up as best we can.
– Put handkerchiefs across your mouths.
Doctor Hodgson took off his coat and picked up the oil lamp. He went over and, taking out a magnifying glass, looked more closely at the traces of blood on the counterpane. He took a spatula from his briefcase and began probing the blood stains.
– As I suspected.
– What?
– There is the brick dust but this … this was what I thought I might find.
Doctor Hodgson held up his spatula. Barry and Storman closed in to examine it.
– What?
– Can’t you see? Look more closely.
Some small white specks …
– What are we looking at?
– Necrotic tissue. If I am not mistaken these are the granulomas of tuberculosis.
– Necrotic tissue?
– These are the remains of dead cells from your friend’s lungs.
– What are you saying?
Doctor Hodgson stepped backwards and his shadow leapt in the lamplight across the walls. He put his handkerchief across his mouth.
– Mr Falling has a tubercular infection. It is probable that he has had it for some time.
– How long? How?
– Bad diet. Cold housing. Your friend does not look after himself. They used to call it consumption. The illness that consumes from within. That is why he is so thin. I must examine him. Make him ready.
Storman woke him and, gently, he and Barry lifted him into a sitting position and opened his shirt. Hodgson reached into his case and pulled out a stethoscope, breathing on it to warm it up.
– Jack? Are you still with me?
– You’re all right, Adam.
Hodgson was probing his chest. In the distance the sound of bombs could still be heard and, across the shutters, the metronomic sweep of searchlights.
– Mr Falling. How long have you had problems with your chest?
– I don’t know. There isn’t much wrong with me. A bad cough. That’s all.
– Barry tells me that you vomited blood earlier today. Has this happened before?
– From time to time. If I don’t think about it, it goes away. It’s nothing. Really. It’s nothing.
Hodgson used his handkerchief to wipe away the sweat on Adam’s forehead.
– You are married?
– My wife and my daughter are in Suffolk.
– Why are you here?
– Jack? Jack? Were you able to find me any cigarettes? I need a cigarette.
– Mr Falling. You must sleep. Cigarettes are not what you need now.
The doctor turned to Barry and Jack.
– He has a tubercular infection. He is lucky that it has not advanced to the full-blown disease. If it did, his chances of survival would be less than fifty per cent.
– What should we do?
– Mr Falling. Mr Storman has told me that perhaps you have some marital difficulties. Can you tell me about these?
– Jack!? … Mr Storman has it wrong. My wife and I are very happy. It’s just the war. Jack?
– Calm down, Adam. We should get you into a shelter.
Adam’s eyes were clear and blue.
– I don’t want to go down to any shelter. I’m happy where I am. You can go if you wish.
Barry had been sitting quietly in the armchair in the corner.
– Mr Storman, sir. I’m sorry. But I haven’t slept for over twenty-four hours, and if last night was anything to go by I won’t get much sleep tonight. Do you mind if I leave you?
– Yes. I’m sorry. Yes. Of course. Thank you Barry. And good night.
Barry hauled himself upright and headed for the door.
– Good night, Mr Storman … Jack … Doctor Hodgson.
And he was gone.
– Thank you, Doctor. I do appreciate everything you’ve done. I should let you go home now.
– Your friend is in a bad way. I’m not sure he should be left on his own.
Adam stirred.
– Go home, Jack. I’ll still be here in the morning.
Cordelia stretched and began to move across the bed towards Falling. Storman picked her up and began to stroke her.
– You must go home, Doctor. What must we do to help Adam?
– He needs plenty of food and more warmth. An extra fire would help. He is a heavy smoker. I do not think that is helping. The brick dust and ash in his lungs probably precipitated his current problems. He is also under other pressures. Try and get him to talk about them. I am not a psychiatrist, but whatever the burden he is carrying it would be easier if it were shared.
– Thank you, Doctor. Send your invoice to me at Stirrup Court. It will be met.
– I’ll write him a prescription. Morphine may assist. If any can be found.
Storman watched as the doctor packed up his things and then made for the door.
– It would not be a bad thing, Mr Storman, if your friend did not go the shelter tonight. He may well be infectious. We would not be thanked for allowing such an infection to spread.
– I will speak with him.
****
It was getting on for eight in the evening. Storman calculated that he could just get the last train home.
– Adam. Come home with me. We can look after you for a few days.
– Have you told anyone I’m here?
– What’s going on?
– Have you told anyone where I am?
– Why aren’t you in Suffolk?
– Don’t tell anyone where I am, Jack.
– People will find out soon enough. But no, I won’t tell anyone. If you won’t confide in me though, I can’t help you.
– You know more than you’re letting on to me.
– I must go. I’m going to miss the last train.
– Come and see me tomorrow, Jack.
– It will be New Year’s Eve. It will be difficult.
– Thank you, Jack. Whatever happens. Thank you.
Chapter Twenty-eight
(Tuesday 31st December 1940)
Samuels balanced the tea tray in his right hand and carefully made his way down the stairs into the cellars, using his left hand to steady himself as he descended. Reaching the bottom, he threw a switch and light flooded out before him creating stark shadows and pools of darkness amongst the wine racks. The space below the Pembertons’ house was deceptively deep and spacious. Pemberton had not been exaggerating when he said that he had filled the cellar with wine and champagne. Like the bookcases in a library the wine racks rose up to the ceilings all around the butler as he made his way through the labyrinth. The arc lamp behind him threw his distorted shadow against the brickwork and it danced ahead of him.
When the air raids started to gain in intensity Pemberton had given orders for beds to be made up in the cellars. Makeshift rooms were arranged, with sheets and blankets being used to create walls. He had arranged for the load-bearing walls to be reinforced with steel girders. Those members of staff who lived in – namely Samuels himself and the housekeeper, Annie – were also granted space down there. To that extent, in Eaton Square, the war had brought the classes down to the same level. It was dry but cold and so a network of electric extension cables had been laid down and electric fires would be lit on those afternoons when it was anticipated that the cellars would be used. In a way that seemed to Samuels uncanny: Pemberton always seem to know when there was likely to be a big raid. On the night of the 29th December, for example, he had arranged for the whole family to camp in the cellars even though there had been relative calm over the Christmas period. Samuels thought it was probably something to do with Preston, who frequently telephoned the house.
There were no toilets in the cellars, of course, but that was an inconvenience the Pembertons had to put up with for the sake of the war effort. Samuels had been surprised, before he knew more, when Pemberton had asked that two separate single beds be installed for him and his wife. Un
doubtedly this was an easier task than it would have been to dismantle and reassemble a double bed, and for that he was grateful. But it was unlike Jeremy Pemberton KC to give any particular regard to the convenience of his servants.
A large space had been curtained off amidst the racks of champagne for Mr and Mrs Pemberton. Samuels knocked on adjacent wood before moving the large blanket to one side. The Pembertons’ beds had been moving gradually further apart in recent weeks and he noted that there was perhaps two feet of space between them now. He laid the tray down on a side table. They were both awake.
– Good morning, sir. Your newspaper. The “all clear” sounded an hour and a half ago.
– Thank you, Samuels.
The butler turned to leave.
– Samuels.
– Yes, sir.
– I would be very grateful if you would ensure that Mrs Pemberton and I are not disturbed. We have some important business to discuss.
– Very good, sir.
And he pulled the blanket into place behind him and went back upstairs.
****
Julia had been lying on her side with her head cushioned against the pillow. But with Jeremy’s last words to the butler she hauled herself into a seated position and fixed her husband with a stare. She was wearing a blue nightdress that set off her blonde curls but her hair was awry and her face, without make-up, was washed out. There was sleep in the corners of her eyes.
– Jeremy! What’s going on?
– My dear, I think you know only too well what we need to talk about.
– I think you’re going mad. You’ve been acting so strangely over the last … I don’t know … few months.