by C. J. Sansom
Geoff looked at him. ‘So have I.’
They walked up Whitehall, moving slowly along with the crowd. David thought of the Jews, all those trapped, frightened people, crammed together somewhere while London commuters went home as usual. In the distance the chimes of Big Ben sounded.
In Trafalgar Square the traffic was almost at a standstill. A newsvendor on the corner called out, ‘Evening Standard! Railwaymen threaten new strike.’
Geoff said, ‘Let’s see if we can get across into the square. It’s a bit quieter there.’ An old man passed them, hunched over, coughing in the sharp tang of the fog: a dreadful hacking noise.
They crossed the road with care, choosing a point where the traffic had come to a halt. They passed in front of a stationary bus, the engine rattling. Passengers stared wearily out of the condensation-smeared windows. A small boy in a school cap stuck his tongue out at them cheekily.
There were few people on the big concrete island in the centre of Trafalgar Square. Nelson’s Column was virtually invisible. They began walking round the broad circle of pavement, beside the crawling traffic. Geoff said, ‘There’s some bad news from Ben Hall at the mental hospital.’
‘About Frank?’
‘Yes. We had word this afternoon that – well, he’s tried to hang himself.’
David stopped. ‘Oh, God.’
‘He didn’t succeed. He tried to use a picture hook in a wall, but it wouldn’t take his weight.’ Geoff sighed. ‘Let’s keep walking. Frank’s been taken to a room where he can’t harm himself. A padded cell and a straitjacket, I’m afraid.’ Geoff’s face twisted with distaste.
‘Poor bloody Frank.’ David took a deep breath. ‘What happens now?’
‘Frank’s going to have to be got out. They want us both involved. They’re looking at the practicalities. It could mean another trip to Birmingham, David, at very short notice.’
‘Jesus.’ David looked at his friend. ‘Listen, I’ve a problem.’ He told Geoff about the paper he had misfiled. ‘Hubbold’s going to have to set an investigation in train.’
‘Is there anything to lead them directly to you?’
‘No. Several people have had the file. But we’ll all be questioned. When they don’t get an answer they’ll bring the security people in. Hubbold doesn’t want that, but they’re bound to do it before too long.’
Geoff halted. His pipe had gone out. He chewed on the stem. They were beside the plinth where one of the colossal bronze lions stood guarding Nelson’s Column. It reared up, a wall of sooty wet granite. On the other side of the pavement the traffic was moving slowly again. Geoff said, with a tight smile, ‘It’s getting pretty difficult, isn’t it?’
David nodded.
‘Well, we always knew it might.’
‘That’s not all. Sarah found herself in the middle of a riot yesterday. The police were leading a group of Jews away, and a few people sat down in the street in front of them. Sarah did, too. Some Jive Boys joined in and it got out of control.’
Geoff nodded. ‘Our people have heard the deportations hadn’t gone smoothly everywhere.’
‘It was worse than that. People were killed. Including a woman Sarah knew.’
‘Good God! Was she arrested?’
‘No. Some of the Jews escaped, and a couple of them helped her get away. Students. But she’s pretty shaken up. Her friend who was killed – her husband’s been told she had a heart attack in the street, they’re hushing it up. But they won’t let it drop. The trail might lead to Sarah.’ He paused, then said, ‘I’m a risk now, Geoff.’ The wild thought had come to David, maybe the Resistance could help Sarah and him to disappear, maybe get them out of the country with Frank. Before his deepest secret, that he was a half-Jew, was discovered.
‘It’s not your fault,’ Geoff said.
‘Some of it is,’ he answered bleakly. ‘Misfiling that paper.’
Geoff stopped and took his arm. ‘Stop blaming yourself for everything. That’s your biggest weakness, you know that, it always has been.’
‘What the hell are we going to do?’
Geoff’s face set doggedly. ‘Find a telephone box. And tell Jackson.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
EARLY ON TUESDAY MORNING Gunther was woken by a telephone call from Gessler’s office, ordering him to present himself there in person at eight. As he dressed he hoped they could move forward now, get Muncaster safely to Senate House.
He had a few minutes to spare, and he switched on the television for the news. There had been no further announcements about the Jews since Sunday. An item about the Russian war was showing; a British reporter broadcasting from a V3 base somewhere on the North Volga; one of the enormous rockets stood on a launching pad a little way off. There was a countdown in German and then the V3, belching fire from its base, shot into the sky with a low, deep rumbling. The camera followed the rocket, as it became a dot and vanished. The reporter said, ‘This rocket is headed for a Russian town somewhere in Western Siberia. Faced with such a sight, one has to ask, how can a race even as obstinate and fanatical as the Russians survive such a continual onslaught?’
Gunther grimaced. He knew that however much damage the rocket might do to some Siberian city, the Russians had dispersed their war production over dozens of sites scattered across the immensity of the Siberian forests, many beyond even V3 range. He crossed to the window and looked out. The fog had cleared overnight. On the opposite side of the street was a newsagent. Outside the door there stood a wooden figure of a little beggar boy with polio, both legs in calipers, his painted face sad. He held up a sign saying, Please Give. There was a slot in the top of his head for people’s donations. Gunther had seen polio victims, dragging themselves painfully along the London streets. Far better, he thought, to end such a child’s suffering with a quick, painless injection.
At Senate House Gessler was in his office. He looked angry today, spots of red in his cheeks. He glared at Gunther, then said brusquely, ‘That lunatic Muncaster tried to hang himself last night.’
‘Why would he try to kill himself now? I thought he had been very quiet all the time he was there. Was it because we came? Or the other visitors perhaps?’
‘Who knows why lunatics do anything?’ Gessler’s brow creased with fury. ‘Apparently he’s refusing to talk at all now. Not a word. Won’t even confirm the names of his visitors. I’d get it out of him soon enough. But we’ve got a problem with that Dr Wilson. He’s become obstinate; our friends at the Home Office have asked him to turn Muncaster over to us but he won’t, says he can’t just transfer someone so ill for interrogation. If he is to be questioned he wants it to be under hospital supervision.’
Gunther frowned. ‘Why is he doing this?’
‘British obstinacy and self-assertion, I think.’
‘Yes. That still rears its head from time to time.’
‘The problem is that Wilson has gone to this cousin who works for the junior Minister of Health, Church. He spoke to him yesterday and he’s backing Wilson.’
‘I thought the Health Department was full of eugenicists now. Isn’t Marie Stopes advising them on sterilizing lunatics?’
‘Yes, and the Duke of Westminster’s in charge of the Ministry. Beaverbrook put him in to show social issues aren’t a priority for this government, but though he’s one of us, he’s stupid and old. And that Department’s still full of pre-war do-gooding types. Berlin are working on it, but they’ve told me they’re going to have to be careful. It may take some days. If what we want gets Mosley’s Home Office and the Health Department involved in a Whitehall turf war, the British government are going to get curious about why we want Muncaster.’
‘And time is something we don’t have.’
Gessler banged his fist on the desk in temper, making the pens and inkstand jump. Gunther noticed the papers on his desk were piled untidily now. Gessler was losing control of himself. ‘I know that, damn it! But they won’t listen. And they won’t tell me why Muncaster is so importan
t, they won’t say what this damned secret is that he has. Can’t I be trusted after all these years?’ He glared at Gunther as though it were his fault. Gunther wondered if it was the frustrations of the case that were making his superior so anxious, or whether it was the worrying news from Germany he had spoken of yesterday.
Gessler leaned back, bringing himself back under control. He waved a hand impatiently. ‘We must just carry on as best we can.’
‘Have we learned any more about Muncaster’s other visitors?’
‘We’ve got identities and descriptions, but the names are false. The nurse who took them in to Muncaster says he was given the same false names. He just took them to Muncaster and left them. Apparently he told Wilson, “You don’t question that class of people.” The porter confirmed they had what he called “posh” accents.’
Gunther shook his head wearily. He felt a spasm of contempt for Gessler’s inability to keep his temper like an adult.
‘Wilson says Muncaster is to stay locked up securely under his personal supervision. He doesn’t realize what we could do to him if he goes on fooling about with us,’ Gessler added viciously.
But Gunther also knew how the British jealously guarded what was left of their independence. This wasn’t Poland. Gessler had turned to stare out of the window, his face full of surly anger. He changed the subject abruptly. ‘Goebbels is to make a big speech today, thanking Britain for taking the steps it has with the Jewish problem. He’ll say he hopes for closer links with Britain, new developments in foreign policy.’
‘He’s getting Britain on his side for the succession.’
‘I know. New developments on foreign policy, what can that mean? Talks with the Americans? The Russians?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ Gunther said worriedly. ‘I wish I did.’
Gessler was silent for a moment. Then he asked, ‘How did it go with Syme last night?’
‘Oh, I think he is in our pocket.’
‘Good.’
‘He said his superintendent has told him to go on working with us. He knows there will be rewards.’
‘That inducement came from me.’ Gessler squared his shoulders, back in control again. ‘Right, I want you to send Syme to Oxford today, get the names of the people in that photograph. We’ve got a car ready for him. He’ll have to go alone, it has to be a wholly Special Branch enquiry. He’s waiting downstairs, brief him before he leaves.’
‘Yes, sir. And afterwards,’ Gunther added, ‘it might be a good idea to have Muncaster’s colleagues at Birmingham University questioned again. I know the police didn’t come up with anything when they were interviewed after the accident, but perhaps Syme could dig deeper, see what he can turn up. Perhaps his Birmingham Special Branch colleagues could help.’
‘I’d want you to be in on that, keep an eye on it. Oh, and Muncaster’s mother’s house in Esher. The local paper says it is on the market.’
‘Then perhaps I could go and look at it. Pretend to be a buyer.’
Gessler looked doubtful. ‘A German buyer?’
Gunther smiled. ‘I can pretend to be Swedish. Useful that we left them unoccupied.’
Syme was waiting on a leather-covered bench in the Senate House vestibule, tapping a foot on the marble floor, watching the busy comings and goings with a keen, happy interest. He had on another new suit and wore a plain tiepin, not the one with the BUF flash. As Gunther approached he stood up, extending a hand.
‘What’s happening?’
Gunther handed him Muncaster’s university photograph and told him he wanted him to get the names of the students in it. Syme seemed pleased at the prospect. ‘I’ll enjoy questioning some of those snobby academic types.’
‘Soft-soap them if you can. Tell them you’re looking for Muncaster’s friends to see if someone can act as his trustee.’
‘All right.’ Syme looked at the giant bust of Hitler, the huge swastika flag hanging from the high ceiling. ‘So this is where it all happens. I always wondered what it was like in here. It’s like a different world. Clean, light, modern.’
‘Yes,’ Gunther agreed, though he thought of the faction fights, the endless power struggles between the SS and the army.
‘I hear there are going to be some big celebrations at Senate House in January, for the Führer’s twenty years.’
‘Only two months away now.’
Syme smiled and raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m told there’s also going to be a reception for the BUF. Sir Oswald will be here.’
‘Yes.’ Gunther smiled softly. ‘Would you like to see if I can get you an invitation?’
‘That would be good.’
‘I am sure something can be arranged. Now, you should go, you have a driver waiting.’
Six hours later Gunther walked up a long street of detached Victorian villas in Esher, the key to Mrs Muncaster’s house in his pocket. Yesterday’s fog had gone but it was a cold, dank afternoon. He had phoned the estate agent that morning, saying he represented a Swedish company interested in entering the English property market, renovating old houses. The agent had been very keen, and when Gunther arrived in his office had been delighted to give him the keys so he could go and look round for himself. ‘You’re wise to get into the housing market now,’ the agent had said with a sort of cheerful desperation. ‘Everyone says it will go up next year. The house does need a lot of work, an old lady lived there alone for years. It’s ideal for a developer. The solicitor for her estate hasn’t got probate yet, so I’m afraid we haven’t been able to clear out the house.’ Good, Gunther thought. ‘The beneficiary who instructed the solicitor and us lives in America,’ the agent continued. ‘It’s holding things up. But if we got an offer in I’m sure we could move things along.’
When he reached it Gunther saw the agent was right; the house was noticeably run down, paint flaking off the windowsills and door, the gate half-rotten and the front garden rank with weeds. It was big for an old woman living alone. When he opened the front door his nostrils were filled with a smell of damp and old dust. The house was dim and gloomy and the electricity had been switched off. Something in the atmosphere reminded Gunther of Muncaster’s flat.
He wandered from room to room, looking into drawers and desks. The house hadn’t been painted inside for years. In the kitchen he saw some plates and cups left to dry on the draining board. Two people had been here, not that long ago; Muncaster and the brother probably. A big room at the front was a doctor’s consulting room, with equipment that looked forty years old. Mrs Muncaster must have left it as it was after her husband died. Stupid woman, Gunther thought, she should have sold up and moved somewhere smaller. He opened the drawers of the doctor’s desk but they were empty. In a bureau in the lounge he found a drawerful of household accounts and some old photographs, which again looked as though they came from before the Great War. This was disappointing. He coughed; the dust and damp were getting to his nose and throat.
Gunther fared no better upstairs; there were a couple of bedrooms with single beds, maps and pictures of trains on the walls, small boys’ rooms. A large bedroom must have been Mrs Muncaster’s; there was a wardrobe full of dark clothes, already starting to smell musty. On the wall was a photograph of a solidly built, good-looking young man in academic cap and gown; it must be Edgar, the brother. Gunther had seen no photographs of Frank anywhere.
Gunther felt thwarted now; there was nothing here, no information about either brother. Another brick wall. It was getting dark, becoming hard to see properly. He opened another door, the last. It was another small bedroom. Another single bed, a Victorian chest of drawers. But there was a table by the window as well, and on it he saw something unexpected and strange: a large photograph of a woman, in a big silver frame covered in black crêpe. In front of the photograph a candle stood in a silver candle-holder; there were spent matches in the bowl. Gunther went over and picked up the photograph, the crêpe falling off it. The woman was middle-aged, with short, tight curls, a rope of pearls round her neck
. Her face was striking: big fleshy features and sharp-looking eyes. Not a trustworthy face, his policeman’s instinct told him. In the right-hand corner of the photograph was a signature: Ethel Baker, 1928, and the words ‘The spirits are with us’.
Gunther put the photograph back on the desk. The room looked like some sort of shrine; it made him feel uneasy. Gunther believed in reason, order, the clear light of historical destiny. He had no truck with fancies and imaginings, but standing in the room the sadness of the house appeared to thicken and a horrible, seeping darkness seemed to gather. He had a strange mental picture of desperate broken-backed creatures crawling towards him over the dusty carpet. Suddenly he felt the whole world was full of them and soon there would be nothing and nobody else left. He shook himself angrily, went out and left the house, slamming the door shut. He had found nothing there, nothing at all.
Chapter Twenty-Six
THAT EVENING, AFTER WORK, David went to Soho again. He had had a message from Geoff; Jackson wanted to meet them tonight. David had telephoned Sarah, saying he had to work late once more. She had asked, angrily, whether he really had to. He knew she was still shocked by what had happened on Sunday. He was apologetic, reassuring and promised to be back as soon as he could.
A day had passed since Hubbold had spoken to him about the missing file. Nobody had mentioned it further, but he guessed Hubbold was speaking to others and that he had told them, like David, to keep the matter confidential. When he went up the corridor to the lift to go to lunch he had seen Carol sitting smoking at her desk, a blank, vacant look in her eyes. For once, she did not even see him. She must have been questioned, too.
It was a cold, raw evening. The exotic Soho grocery shops were closing, assistants in brown overalls packing away stock and pulling down shutters. A couple of young men in trilby hats and coats with wide shoulders passed him, talking Italian. Under one of the tall, glass-panelled streetlamps a man in his forties, dressed like David in a dark coat and bowler hat, stood looking round him nervously. David guessed he had come to find a prostitute. The street girls wouldn’t be out until later. The man met his eye and looked away quickly. David turned into the alley beside the coffee bar.