Dominion

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘Yes,’ Syme answered abruptly. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Bill. I live on the second floor. I saw your locksmith waiting about outside and let him into Dr Muncaster’s place. What about the Jews, eh?’ he asked excitedly.

  ‘Yeah,’ Syme answered non-committally.

  The old man led them upstairs and into a shabby flat. Through the open door of the kitchen Gunther could see smashed crockery and dented tins. In the lounge a grey-haired man in a long brown coat sat in an armchair, nursing a cup of tea the old man must have brought him. Gunther surveyed the chaos. Strange to think of that frightened-looking man, Muncaster, doing this.

  ‘Looks like you won’t be needed,’ Syme said curtly to the locksmith. ‘You can get off.’

  The man rose. ‘Right-oh. But I’ll still charge for the callout.’

  ‘He’s been telling me he’s been securing some of the Jews’ houses,’ the old man said. ‘Gor, I bet there’s some valuable stuff in there.’ He accompanied the locksmith to the door, chattering away happily. ‘You still see a few blackies around. Get them next.’

  ‘Britain for the British,’ the locksmith agreed. He left, but the old man, Bill, stayed, hovering. ‘Where’ve you taken ’em?’ he asked Syme. ‘The Yids?’

  ‘Watch the TV later. Mosley’s broadcasting.’

  ‘What do the police want here, eh?’ Bill pressed; he seemed unembarrassable. ‘Dr Muncaster wasn’t a Jew, was he?’

  ‘None of your business, mate.’

  ‘Suit yourselves. Only it’s funny, nobody comes to this flat for weeks and then two lots of visitors in one day.’

  Gunther turned, giving Bill a look that made him step back a pace. ‘Two lots? Who were the others?’ he asked sharply.

  Bill happily told them about the earlier visitors, the two men who had known Dr Muncaster at school and the foreign woman. Syme became suddenly friendly, complimenting the old fellow on his memory and his patriotism in helping them. Gunther added a few questions. Realizing he was German, Bill looked at him with a fascinated, half-fearful awe. He told him how he’d heard Muncaster shout out, ‘Why did you tell me?’ at his brother, and something about the Germans. He looked at Gunther with narrowed eyes and said, ‘It sounded like “they mustn’t know”.’

  ‘Know what exactly?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ Bill replied. He had become respectful. ‘I didn’t tell those other visitors that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Didn’t like them. Hoity-toity, they were. Posh voices. You could see they weren’t pleased when I told ’em about the Jews.’

  Gunther smiled. ‘That was wise.’

  ‘Don’t tell secrets to people you don’t trust,’ Bill said. ‘It’s a good rule.’

  At the end Gunther thanked him courteously for his help, and asked him to contact Syme at once if anyone else called. Syme nodded agreement.

  Bill asked, ‘Is this about the brother? Was he injured worse than I were told? He hasn’t died, has he?’

  ‘Let’s just say he’s not very well. Now, I’d like you to let me have the key to the flat.’

  Bill looked disappointed. ‘It’s the freeholder’s.’ Gunther wondered if Bill was planning to have a nose round when they were gone. Syme held out a hand and, reluctantly, the old man retrieved the key from his cardigan pocket and handed it over.

  Syme led Bill out; the old man turned in the doorway for a last curious look, then left. Gunther went over to examine the photographs of Muncaster’s father and the university group. He looked up at Syme. ‘We’d probably have bumped into them if we hadn’t been waiting at the HQ.’ He smiled grimly. ‘And I wonder what might have happened then. Some excitement, perhaps. So, these visitors had a key. Now where did they get that?’ He studied the college photograph. ‘I spent a year at Oxford, you know. Over twenty years ago.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I hated it.’ Gunther looked at the row of faces. ‘Born to rule.’ Then he frowned. ‘Someone’s picked this up and looked at it. See those fingerprints?’

  ‘The old man?’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Gunther considered. ‘School friends coming to visit. Nearly twenty years after they all left.’ He shook his head. ‘University friends, though, whose picture you kept . . .’

  ‘You think that’s who they might have been?’

  ‘Possibly. The old man said they were the same age as Muncaster.’

  ‘But why lie?’ Syme asked. ‘If they’re Resistance, Special Branch need to be involved.’

  ‘I don’t know who and what they are yet.’ Gunther studied the photograph carefully. ‘There he is, that’s Muncaster. Look at that grin. Easy enough to contact the college and find the names of all these other people.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’ll have to talk to my superior and he’ll get in touch with yours.’

  ‘Why am I getting uneasy about this?’ Syme asked. ‘The brother is an American scientist. What did he tell his brother that the Germans shouldn’t know about?’

  ‘I don’t know. I promise you, if there is a Resistance angle to this your people won’t be kept in the dark. Now, I am going to have a look round this flat and then we’re going to see the old man again and ask if he handled the picture, or recognizes either of the men who came here in it.’

  ‘Want some help?’

  Gunther hesitated, then said, ‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’

  They did a methodical search together. They found nothing except the dirty magazines under the bed, but Gunther soon saw that the flat had already been searched; there were fingermarks in the dust everywhere, the signs of busy hands looking for something. When they had finished they stood in the lounge together. Syme looked up at a cobweb. ‘Miserable place, ain’t it?’

  ‘Let’s talk to the old man, show him the photograph. Then get back to London, see what they make of all this at the embassy.’

  He went over and took the two photographs, Muncaster’s father as well as the university group, slipping them under his arm as they left the flat. Then Gunther switched off the light, plunging the room with its blocked window into total darkness again.

  The old man’s flat was almost as messy and decrepit as Frank’s. However, he had a large new television set, which was showing a police serial, square-jawed officers trapped by American spies in a cellar filling with water. Gunther showed him the photograph and asked if he had touched it.

  He shook his head. ‘No, why would I?’

  ‘No reason,’ he answered reassuringly. ‘Perhaps it was these visitors. I know they said they were old school friends, but could you look at the photograph, see if you recognize either of the men here?’

  ‘All right.’ The old man answered cheerfully, clearly pleased at the prospect of helping. He fetched a pair of glasses and peered at the photo. ‘Gor, it’s a grainy old thing, innit? And they’re all much younger.’ He pointed at one of the students. ‘That one, the fair one, that could have been one of them. Yes, yes, I think it was.’ He scanned the photographs again, then pointed at a dark-haired, good-looking boy in the back row. ‘The other one could’ve been him. But I’m not sure.’ He looked up apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t have my specs on when I saw them.’

  ‘That’s all right. You’ve been very helpful,’ Gunther said, and smiled.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  SARAH MADE THE JOURNEY HOME in a state of numb shock. Alone in the tube carriage, huddled in Ruth’s duffel coat, she began shivering uncontrollably. She thought, I must get home, I mustn’t draw attention to myself. She hugged her bag close and looked out of the window. It was the same quiet, unremarkable Sunday scene as it had been on the way in with Mrs Templeman, what seemed like an age ago.

  A young couple got into the carriage and began arguing irritably about whose family they would be spending Christmas with. Sarah carried on staring out of the window, trying to control her trembling. When the train stopped at Wembley she thought of Mrs Templeman’
s husband, at home probably, awaiting her return, and had to put a clenched fist to her mouth to prevent herself crying out.

  When Sarah got back to the house she took off Ruth’s duffel coat, laid it on the sofa and stood looking at it. David wouldn’t be back for hours. She thought in sudden panic, I should get rid of it, if they come after me it could incriminate me. She tried to remember if anyone at Friends House had seen her leave with Mrs Templeman. She didn’t think so, but she wasn’t sure. She was in danger, they might be looking for her, David and her family could be caught up in it all. Her heart started pounding wildly and she took deep breaths to try to calm herself. Then the image of Mrs Templeman falling back onto the road returned to her and she cried out, ‘She’s dead, she’s dead!’ She put her hands over her face and sobbed convulsively in a way she hadn’t since Charlie died.

  After a while the telephone rang, the shrill sound making her jump. She went into the hall; it could be the police. Hesitantly, she picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, dear.’ It was Irene. ‘Have you both been out? I tried phoning earlier.’

  Sarah gasped with relief. ‘David’s had to go to Northampton, his uncle’s in hospital. I’ve been – I’ve been out at a committee meeting—’

  ‘Are you all right, dear?’ Irene’s voice was suddenly anxious. ‘You sound odd.’

  ‘No – no. I think I’ve a cold coming, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s not to do with David, is it? Have you spoken to him about that woman at his office yet?’

  ‘No. No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Did you see anything happening in town today?’

  ‘No.’ A jump of the heart. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard the news? Apparently they moved all the Jews out of the cities today. To some sort of camps. Mosley’s going to broadcast this evening.’

  ‘I – I hadn’t heard.’ So it had been publicly announced now.

  ‘Steve thinks it’s about time. But I hope they’re not being mistreated. We wouldn’t do that, would we?’ Irene’s voice was for once uncertain.

  ‘I don’t know. Irene, darling, I have to go, David’ll be back soon, I’ve got something cooking—’

  ‘Oh, all right, dear.’ Irene sounded surprised by her abruptness. ‘Tell David I hope his uncle’s better soon.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I will.’ Sarah put down the receiver and stood in the hall. It was starting to get dark; she switched on the light. She would have liked to telephone her father, but she mustn’t tell any of the family. But what about David? She thought, When I stepped out on that pavement I was abandoning him, abandoning them all. She looked through the frosted glass of the front door at the darkening afternoon, thought of uniformed men standing there and felt a desperate need to see David, hear his voice.

  She went back into the lounge and sat down. She picked up Ruth’s duffel coat, holding it to her tightly. She wondered where she was, whether she and Joe had made it. She heard the crack of shots in her head again and flinched. She began crying again, not anguished sobbing any more but with a slow, relentless misery.

  It was nearly seven when she heard David’s key in the front door. She had been sitting for hours, holding the duffel coat; she hadn’t bothered to light the fire or put the lights on, she was too shocked and exhausted. When David turned the lights on she blinked. At once he came across the room to her, grasping her by the arms.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked urgently, ‘Sarah, what’s happened?’

  She said, ‘They’ve taken the Jews away.’

  ‘I know. I heard.’

  She saw that his own face was pale, bleak with anxiety. ‘I saw it. In the Tottenham Court Road. There was a protest, people were shot. Mrs Templeman’s dead, she’s dead . . .’ Sarah gasped and began crying again. He sat beside her and held her close in a way he hadn’t for ages. His strength gave her a feeling of safety, refuge. She told him the whole story. At the end he said, ‘It’s part of some new deal with Germany. It has to be. The bastards.’

  ‘Where did you hear? At the hospital?’

  ‘Yes – yes, they were talking about it there. Just that people were being moved.’

  ‘How’s Uncle Ted?’

  ‘Better now, they’re going to discharge him next week. He’s grumpy as ever.’ He gave a brief, twitchy smile and looked away from her and something in his tone told her he was lying. Her heart sank again and she thought, I can’t cope, I can’t cope with that, too.

  David said, quietly, ‘Do you think they’ll be looking for you?’

  ‘I don’t know. They never found out who I was, but they saw me. They’ll have found Mrs Templeman’s identity card, they’ll be enquiring at Friends House, questioning her poor husband. She lost a son too, you know, in 1940.’ She frowned. ‘I keep calling her Mrs Templeman but her first name was Jane, I should call her Jane.’

  David shook her shoulders, made her turn and look at him. ‘Sarah,’ he said urgently. ‘That duffel coat, it’s evidence. We should get rid of it. I’ll put it in the bin, the dustmen are coming tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘Yes, all right.’

  ‘I’ll light the fire. Look, darling, you’re frozen. Have you been sitting in the dark all this time?’

  ‘Yes. I – I couldn’t think what to do.’

  ‘Sit here and get warm.’

  She said, ‘I’m sorry, David, I’m sorry, I’ve put you all in danger—’

  His mouth worked, and she could see he was close to tears himself. He said, ‘You did a brave thing, a good thing.’

  ‘What should we do?’

  ‘If we get rid of that duffel coat there’s no evidence it was you. We just have to sit tight.’

  She could see from his face, though, that he was worried. ‘What if they pick up Joe and Ruth and question them?’

  ‘Did you tell them your name?’

  ‘No. Will you stand by me?’ she added quietly.

  He grasped her hands, looking at her with pain and, she thought, guilt. He said, ‘Of course I will.’ He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘It’s ten to seven. We ought to watch the news.’

  She nodded wearily.

  When David turned on the television Songs of Praise was on, people standing in a big church, singing lustily, all the women in large hats, a normal Sunday evening service. Then the credits rolled and a voice announced, in serious tones, that a broadcast from the Home Secretary, Sir Oswald Mosley, would follow. And there he was, sitting in a big office, hands folded on his desk. He looked firm and avuncular, beautifully dressed as usual, his Blackshirt badge prominent on his lapel. He began, in his deep, rich voice:

  ‘Tonight I want to tell you that, after much consideration, the government has decided to move all British Jews into special areas which have been set aside for them outside our major cities. For the present they are being housed in temporary camps, warm and comfortable. More permanent arrangements will be made later. Most were moved earlier today. We believe this step to be necessary because of evidence that terrorists from the so-called Resistance movement have been receiving support from subversive elements within the Jewish population. Keeping them in separate areas will protect us, and also protect the Jews themselves, from trouble and disturbance from these outsiders.’ Mosley smiled reassuringly. ‘Today’s exercise was carried out with typical British efficiency and good nature, proceeding smoothly and quietly throughout the country. Any Jews who have not yet been transferred are required to attend immediately at their nearest police station, bringing whatever hand luggage they wish to take and, of course, their identity cards.’

  His voice became stern. ‘This measure is necessary for Britain’s security. The threat from Resistance terrorism is, alas, ever-present. Everyone must be vigilant, for their own sakes and for the country’s. These are trying times, at home and in the Empire.’ He smiled in a fatherly way, his grey moustache twitching. He went on, his tone lighter, ‘However, I can also tell you that follo
wing the discussions the Prime Minister had with our German allies last week, as well as the new increase in British forces available for India, which Mr Powell announced earlier today, new economic agreements have also been reached which will allow British firms to trade much more fully with Europe—’

  He went on for several more minutes, talking of new joint ventures between British arms firms and Krupps to supply heavy artillery for the war in Russia, and joint commercial projects between ICI and IG Farben. He concluded his broadcast gravely. ‘Together the British people can defeat anarchy and communism. God Save the Queen.’ As the National Anthem sounded Mosley stood, chest held out proudly. David switched off the television. He and Sarah sat looking at the blank screen.

  ‘Nothing about the people that were killed today,’ Sarah said quietly. ‘Nothing. What else has been happening up and down the country?’

  ‘I suppose they chose a Sunday morning because there’d only be a few people around, and not much traffic.’ He looked at her intently, his blue eyes hard. ‘They must be going to hush up what happened in Tottenham Court Road, maybe in other places too. To avoid any sort of big official enquiry.’

  She stood up suddenly, still clutching the duffel coat.

  David said, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Do you have to be so – so clinical? So like a bloody civil servant? I saw people shot this morning, young students running for their lives, a woman I know killed . . .’

  He stood too, took her by the shoulders. ‘I’m not clinical about it, Sarah. Dear God, I’m not.’ He took a deep breath. ‘This is how I cope.’ She sat down again. He put his hand over hers. He said, ‘I feel it all as much as you. More, perhaps.’

  ‘More?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’ He shook his head. ‘It’s not easy, always, at work. I see those people, Mosley and the other Fascists and their friends going in and out of Downing Street. I hate it as much as you do. I’m sorry, darling.’