by C. J. Sansom
Muncaster sat on his chair, gripping its wooden arms hard, chest rising and falling rapidly. It was, Gunther thought, as though he were in Gestapo headquarters already. He noticed Muncaster’s right hand was deformed. He nodded to him, and Muncaster smiled back, a horrible grimace. Syme took a notebook from his pocket, looked at it, then said in a disarming, friendly tone, ‘Like the doctor said, I’ve just been transferred up here from London and I’ve taken over the case of your brother’s fall. I see he didn’t want to prosecute. But the files are still open, you see. I just want to go over a few things. It was quite a serious assault, Frank, wasn’t it? Is it all right if I call you Frank?’
Muncaster nodded. ‘I – I know it was serious, but it was an accident really.’ Gunther noticed that the large brown eyes were watchful; there was something more than fear, something calculating in them as he looked between Gunther and Syme.
‘Well, it’s down as an assault, you see. You did push him out of that window. If you were charged it could mean prison. We don’t want that, of course,’ Syme added reassuringly, then he smiled. ‘Now if he provoked you, that would be a defence. We might even decide not to bring the case.’ Syme had folded one leg over the other and was jiggling his foot. Gunther wished he could keep still.
‘Come on now,’ Syme said. ‘Tell us what happened that night. I know you weren’t in any condition to give a proper statement then but you’re better now, eh?’
Muncaster looked at the floor. ‘Our mother died,’ he said quietly. ‘Edgar came over for the funeral. He and I never got on very well and Edgar – he was, well, hitting the bottle. We had a row, he started it, and I pushed him. He stumbled and went through the window. It was an accident. He was drunk, he couldn’t keep his balance, the window frame was rotten.’
It’s like a recital, Gunther thought.
Syme leaned forward. ‘But what did your brother do to make you lose your rag with him? Must’ve been something serious, you don’t look an aggressive chap and you’ve no police record, I know that.’
‘It was a family matter,’ Muncaster answered quickly. ‘Personal.’ He gave that strange grin again.
Syme looked at his notebook. ‘Your brother lives in California, doesn’t he? Ever been there to see him?’
‘No.’ Muncaster glanced down at his bad hand.
‘What happened there, with your hand?’ Syme asked.
‘It was an accident, at school. I fell onto the spikes of my running shoes.’ He looked away as he spoke and Gunther thought, that’s a lie.
Syme said, ‘Do you think it’s because you don’t get on that your brother won’t reply to Dr Wilson? I hear he can’t get hold of him. Maybe it’s because he knows he provoked you?’
Muncaster picked up the point eagerly. ‘Yes, yes, I think that must be it.’
‘I understand your brother’s a scientist, like you.’
Muncaster clenched his good hand into a fist. ‘No. He’s not like me.’
‘A physics professor. That sounds impressive. Not that I know anything about it.’
‘I don’t know what Edgar does,’ Muncaster said quickly. ‘I hadn’t seen him for years till Mother died.’
Syme pressed him. ‘I would’ve thought you spoke about your work, two scientists.’
‘I’m only a research associate.’ That strange grin again. ‘He didn’t think I was worth talking to.’
Syme considered Frank’s reply, then looked at Gunther. ‘It seems there must have been an element of provocation here, Sergeant.’
‘Yes,’ Gunther agreed. He saw hope flash in Muncaster’s eyes. He had seen that look often during interrogations; desperate people would jump at any prospect you held out that they might not, after all, be prosecuted. He felt sorry for this pathetic little man, as he had for the family in Berlin who’d sheltered those Jews. He asked Syme, careful to make his accent imperceptible, ‘Will Mr Muncaster be released if he is cured?’
‘Perhaps.’ Syme looked at Muncaster. ‘What would you do if you were let out, Frank?’
Muncaster shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know if they’d have me back at the university.’
‘Any other family, anyone who could take you in?’
‘No.’ There was a momentary hesitation, then Muncaster said, ‘I don’t know if anything can be done for me.’
‘Well, we’ll have to have another look at this case. You’ll be staying here for now,’ Syme said casually. ‘With so much trouble in the world, all this industrial unrest and everything, you’re probably better off in here, eh?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Apparently, after what happened with your brother, you were shouting about the end of the world. So your police file says.’
‘I can’t remember what I said.’ Muncaster’s large eyes narrowed. Syme glanced at Gunther, who nodded, and the two of them stood up. Syme said, sympathetically, ‘Well, I can see you’ve been having a bad time.’ He looked at Gunther. ‘I think we should get on, Sergeant. We’ve put this poor man under enough strain.’ Gunther nodded agreement. He turned back to Muncaster. ‘We might want to talk to you again, but don’t worry, it’ll all get sorted out.’
Syme went to the door and called the attendant. He waited as Muncaster was taken away. Then in the doorway Frank turned and met Gunther’s gaze for a second. Again Gunther noted how watchful his look was; as though someone intelligent and calculating was looking out through the crippling fear. The attendant said Dr Wilson would be back shortly. Gunther sat in the chair, thinking.
‘Seen enough?’ Syme asked.
‘Enough to see that man was hiding something.’
‘I thought so, too. But he doesn’t look like he’s got it in him to be anything to do with the Resistance. Wilson was right there, he acted like he’d be afraid of his own shadow.’
‘He may not be political, but he could be protecting people who are.’
‘What about the brother? He wasn’t telling the whole story there, was he?’
Gunther didn’t answer directly. ‘His flat in Birmingham. Has anyone been round there since the police were called?’
‘Not according to the file. The freeholder was going to make the window secure.’
Gunther rested his chin on his hands. ‘I think I would like to take a look at the flat now. Can we get that locksmith you mentioned?’
Syme said, ‘The Birmingham Special Branch has a list of locksmiths ready to get doors open with no questions asked.’ He tapped the file. ‘We’ll go and see the superintendent at local HQ who’s been liaising with me. He’s a good Fascist. Though he’ll have a lot on today, with the Jews.’
Gunther nodded. ‘Thank you. Let’s do that. Cast our net upon the waters.’
‘Our what?’
‘It’s from the Bible. I was brought up a Lutheran.’
‘My dad never had any time for religion.’
Gunther shrugged. ‘The Bible is good literature, at least.’
Syme gave him a keen look. ‘What next? After you’ve been to the flat?’
‘I think we need to force Muncaster to tell us the things he is keeping back. And that will be easier done away from here. I will recommend we get him moved to Senate House.’
‘You’re going to give him the full Gestapo works?’
Gunther inclined his head. ‘I think just being taken there would be enough.’
‘That Dr Wilson won’t like you treading on his turf. And he’s got the law on his side.’
Gunther gave him a serious look. ‘Dr Wilson will not know of any German involvement. If my people agree with me the embassy will talk to the Home Office again, and they can put pressure on him.’
Syme looked at him hard. ‘Just what’s going on here?’
Gunther smiled. ‘I can only tell you again that we are very grateful for your help. You are showing yourself to be a true friend.’ He looked at Syme meaningfully. ‘Our gratitude might smooth your path to this transfer you want.’ He became brisk. ‘Now, Dr Wilson will be back s
oon. Please ask him to tell his patient we were quite happy with what he said.’ He looked out of the window. The snow had stopped but a grey fog had descended, obscuring the grounds. ‘Look at that,’ he said. ‘We must get on to Birmingham.’
Syme laughed. ‘You should see the fogs we get in London. This is nothing.’
Chapter Seventeen
SARAH LEFT THE HOUSE AN HOUR after David. There was a special meeting of the Christmas Toys Committee at twelve. It was a nuisance having to go into town on a Sunday, but an important committee member, who was on the board of a major toy manufacturer, was unable to attend during the week. She walked briskly up to Kenton tube station. She thought of David, driving north. She couldn’t prevent the niggling thought that perhaps it hadn’t been Uncle Ted phoning, but that woman from his office. She told herself she was being stupid, she had heard the tail end of his conversation and he had looked worried and anxious for the rest of the day.
On the way into the station she saw a poster by the newspaper kiosk: Mosley to Address Nation on TV Tonight. She bought a copy of the Sunday Times, another Beaverbrook paper now. It told her the Prime Minister, back from Germany, and the Home Secretary were to broadcast at seven; there was no further detail. A colour supplement inside the newspaper advertised the latest Paris fashion for men, tight-fitting dark suits with short lapels, like military uniforms. ‘SS kitsch’, she had heard people call it.
There were fewer trains on Sundays but Sarah had to wait an unusually long time, over half an hour in the open. She was cold, she was glad she had put on a thick jumper and her new grey winter coat, though the fashionably wide sleeves left her wrists bare. The few other people on the platform looked at their watches and tutted. Sometimes on these journeys to committee meetings Mrs Templeman got on at Wembley. At least, Sarah thought, if there were problems with the trains she might be less likely to run into her and have to listen to her talking nineteen to the dozen all the way to Euston. When the train arrived at last she got into the nearest carriage, even though it was a smoker. An old man in cap and muffler sat across from her, a labourer in heavy hobnailed boots. He was smoking a pipe, surrounded by a cloud of aromatic blue smoke. Sarah’s father had always enjoyed his pipe, and she didn’t mind the smell.
Her luck was out; when the train came into Wembley she saw Mrs Templeman’s tall, stout figure on the platform, swathed in her heavy coat, a round fur hat over her permed curls and the fox-fur stole round her neck. She saw Sarah, waved a plump hand, and headed for her carriage. She sat down heavily opposite her. ‘Hello, dear. Goodness, I had to wait ages.’
‘So did I. It was jolly cold on the platform.’
‘They say it’s the coldest November for years. Let’s hope we don’t get another winter like ’47. All our pipes froze.’ As ever Mrs Templeman spoke loudly, in a rush. She adjusted her stole, the fox’s eyes staring glassily at Sarah. ‘All shipshape for the committee, dear?’
‘Yes. I’ve got the costings here.’ Sarah tapped her bag. ‘If everything gets approved today I can start placing the orders tomorrow.’
‘I do wish we hadn’t had to come in on Sunday. It’s all such a rush, after church.’
‘It’s a nuisance, but I suppose we have to keep Mr Hamilton sweet.’
‘He is generous. Goodness, it’s a bit of a fug in here, isn’t it?’ Mrs Templeman looked disapprovingly at the man with the pipe. He gave a little smile and turned to face the window, blowing out a fresh cloud of smoke.
‘It’s a smoking carriage,’ Sarah said mildly.
‘Yes, of course. I do like a cigarette myself in the evening, but my husband—’ She broke off as the train juddered to a halt, jerking them violently in their seats. ‘Oh, dear, what now? We shall be late—’
‘There must be a problem on the line.’ Sarah looked out of the window, thinking that no trains had passed them on the ‘up’ line. They hadn’t entered the tunnels yet, they were on a stone bridge looking down on rows of back-to-back houses of soot-stained yellow London brick. Grey smoke rose from chimneys, washing was hung out to dry in the backyards. A big poster had been put on a wall: Buy National Bonds. Save For All Our Futures. Being Sunday the streets were almost empty. A rag-and-bone man led a thin brown horse along the cobbles, discarded furniture and a pile of rags in his cart. Sarah remembered the man who had visited their street when she was little; her mother would give her a penny to take to him in return for letting her stroke his horse. Nowadays it was salesmen in suits who called at the house in Kenton, selling vacuum cleaners and refrigerators on the new hire-purchase schemes, raising their hats with cheerful, sometimes slightly desperate smiles. She remembered the jingling bells on the horse’s harness of her childhood, and thought, Charlie would have loved that.
‘In a brown study, dear?’ Mrs Templeman smiled at her enquiringly.
‘Sorry. I was just thinking about my little boy.’
‘Left him at home with hubby, have you?’
‘No. He died in an accident at home, two years ago.’
‘I’m so sorry, dear.’ Mrs Templeman looked shocked, genuinely concerned. She spoke softly: ‘That must have been terrible for you.’
‘He fell down the stairs.’
‘I still think of my Fred,’ Mrs Templeman said quietly. ‘He died in the war, at Dunkirk. He would have been forty this year.’ She paused, then added, ‘I find my faith a great help. I don’t know how I’d cope without it.’ Sarah didn’t answer. ‘I believe He leads us all, though often we can’t see the path clearly. But we know He wants us to help those in need. That’s why I’m on the committee.’
‘I sometimes wonder if it’s any use,’ Sarah answered bleakly. ‘Whether anything is.’
Mrs Templeman changed the subject, talking about her brother who had just retired from the Indian Civil Service and was living with them till he found a house; he had had a bad time, in the thick of the Calcutta riots last year. Sarah asked if Mrs Templeman had heard the news about Mosley’s address but she shook her head, saying she avoided reading the papers these days, it was all so depressing.
The meeting at Friends House went well. Nobody could deny Mrs Templeman was a good chairwoman, moving business quickly along. Afterwards coffee was served. Sarah had a headache and couldn’t face the thought of the long journey back in Mrs Templeman’s company. She decided to tell a white lie. ‘I’m not going back to Euston,’ she said. ‘My husband’s meeting me at Tottenham Court Road tube.’
‘I’ll walk that way with you, dear, if I may. I need a breath of air after the meeting. It’s a nice walk through the squares. I can get the tube at Tottenham Court Road and then change.’
‘Oh, all right. Yes.’ Sarah supposed that when they got there she would have to pretend her husband hadn’t arrived, that she would have to wait for him. Well, that was where lies got you.
‘I’ll go and put my face on.’ Mrs Templeman walked off to the ladies, and Sarah went over to stand by the door. A couple of committee members called goodbyes as they passed her, huddling into their coats as they stepped outside. Sarah noticed there wasn’t a policeman at the entrance today. Probably off having a cigarette somewhere.
Mrs Templeman returned, face freshly powdered. ‘Right, dear,’ she said, adjusting the hideous fox fur. ‘Let’s face the cold.’
They turned into the network of Georgian squares behind Euston Road, wide streets with gardens in the middle, full of expensive flats, little hotels and university departments displaced when the German embassy took over Senate House. They walked along quickly; it really was cold, the sky a leaden grey. There was hardly anyone around.
‘Thank you for all your work, Mrs Fitzgerald.’ Mrs Templeman smiled. ‘I know phoning round shops isn’t the most exciting job in the world.’
‘It’s all right. It gives me something to do during the day.’
‘Your husband works in the Civil Service, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes. The Dominions Office.’
‘My sister lives in the Dominions. In Cana
da. Vancouver.’ She laughed. ‘Family scattered all over the Empire, you see. I keep pestering my husband to go out and visit – ’ She broke off. ‘Good God, what’s going on?’
They were turning into Tottenham Court Road. It was almost as quiet as the squares had been. The shops were closed, although behind a plate-glass window in one department store opposite an assistant could be seen putting up Christmas decorations. The few pedestrians, though, had all stopped in their tracks, watching the extraordinary procession coming down the road towards them. Perhaps a hundred frightened-looking people were trudging along, men and women and children, some in coats and hats and carrying suitcases, others wearing only jackets and cardigans. They were escorted by a dozen greatcoated Auxiliary Police in their black caps, pistols at their hips. At the front two regular policemen in blue helmets were mounted on big brown horses. For a second Sarah was reminded of the crocodile of children she had helped escort to the station for evacuation in 1939. Unlike them, though, this procession was silent. Apart from the clop of the horses’ hooves and the tramp of feet the only sound was a shrill, persistent squeak from the wheels of a pram a young woman was pushing along. As they drew close Sarah saw flashes of yellow in people’s lapels.
‘They’re Jews,’ Mrs Templeman said quietly. ‘Something’s happening to the Jews.’
Most of the passers-by walked quickly on or disappeared into side-streets. Others, though, stood watching. The two mounted policemen at the head of the group rode past. One was an older man with a sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve; the other was young, with a wispy pencil moustache. He seemed to be having trouble keeping his horse steady. One of the passers-by, a young woman holding the hand of a little girl, nodded with satisfaction and spat into the gutter. Someone else called out, ‘Shame!’ One of the Auxiliary Police, a tall, thin man with a Mosley moustache, smiled at the watchers, then looked back to the marching prisoners – for that was what they must be – and said, with mocking cheerfulness, ‘Come on, pick those feet up. Let’s have a song, give us “A Long Way to Tipperary”.’