by Anna Reader
SEVEN
To their credit, Flora and Bertie did spend the rest of the evening trying to work out whether Antal’s peculiar assortment of English words could be attempting to lead them somewhere. However as they suspected would be the case, it was either an impenetrable code or had absolutely nothing to do with Flora’s visit.
“I’m completely done in, Bertie,” Flora declared after two hours of putting every cryptic crossword methodology to the test. “I vote that we should go to bed, and come at this with fresh eyes tomorrow morning.”
“Lord, what a relief to hear you say so,” Bertie said, knocking back the last of his whisky. “I’ve gone cross-eyed, and never want to have to think about marzipan again.”
The pair said their farewells on the landing, Bertie having decided that he could sleep in his own room now that the secret passage had been blocked. Flora settled into bed, and tried valiantly to make it through another chapter of Anthony Trollope before accepting defeat and falling back into her soft pillows.
She awoke some time later to find the castle silent and the room in darkness. After tossing and turning for half an hour she finally realised she wasn’t going to go back to sleep for the time being. Clambering out of bed she stood there dressed in one of her uncle’s shirts and his thick socks, feeling irritatingly alert. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they had left the front door open, and that the wounded German was making his way across the bridge to the moat at that very moment. Logic told her that Magda had been locking that door every day for the past four decades and that was no reason that she would have forgotten to do so on this of all nights. As is so often the way, however, Flora’s fears were amplified by the lateness of the hour and she couldn’t calm her over-active brain. Sighing in frustration, she seized the torch which Bertie had lent her, retrieved the gun which she had returned to her satchel, and padded across to the door.
Flora had never been a person who enjoyed total silence, and the quietness of the castle unsettled her. It was therefore with some trepidation that she poked her head out of her room and checked the corridor for signs of movement. The castle was bathed in the grey light of the moon which cast long shadows across the carpet, but nothing stirred. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway was the only sound, like the steady beating of the building’s heart. Edging forwards, Flora held both the torch and the gun in front of her and made her way towards the top of the staircase, fervently wishing that she was fast asleep and dreaming. Without either the comfort of a fire or the nest of blankets on her bed, she shivered as she moved along the corridor; the ancient castle seeming to have the same ability as every boarding house she had ever lived in to harvest the cold.
As she was creeping past Bertie’s bedroom, Flora froze. She could hear the faint murmur of someone talking, and not from downstairs – it was coming from behind his closed door. As quietly as she could, she pressed her ear against the door and tried to make out who was speaking, and what was being said; the castle doors were all thick oaken affairs, however, and whoever was talking was doing so sotte voce. The most she could determine was that the speaker was male. “Was he talking in his sleep?” she wondered, as the voice continued. With her heart in her mouth she turned the handle and pushed the door open a crack - thank God Antal had kept the hinges well oiled, she thought to herself, as the door slid soundlessly ajar.
“Nothing further to report, sir,” she heard Bertie say. “I haven’t been able to find the list yet – I’m beginning to doubt that it’s even here.”
Silence.
“No, sir, she doesn’t appear to know what she’s looking for.” Another pause. “Not in my opinion, sir – she poses no threat whatsoever….Understood, sir. Out.”
Flora felt distinctly sick, and for a moment didn’t know quite what she should do. Evidently Bertie was a lying scoundrel; what was not clear, however, was who he was working for. “Doesn’t know what she’s looking for,” she thought bitterly, “no threat whatsoever.” Remembering that she had the revolver in her hand, Flora decided that there was no time like the present to confront the snake in the grass. Pushing the door open still further, she turned the torch off and edged into the room with the gun raised.
Bertie was crouched by the window, his unreasonably chiselled jaw and tousled hair illuminated by the light of the moon. He had drawn the curtain back and appeared to be tinkering with something in his picnic hamper. “Timeo Danaos,” she observed in disgust, prompting Bertie to spin around and stare at her in alarm.
“Don’t move. Bertie – if that is even your real name,” she said coldly, the gun trained on his heart. “You’ve seen me use this before, so you know I’m quite serious.”
“Flora!” he said, hands raised in the air, “this isn’t….”
“I don’t give a damn,” Flora replied, trying to keep her voice steady. “It’s perfectly obvious that you’ve lied to me. You pretended to be a friend. And yet here you are, skulking around in my family home with some kind of bloody wireless.”
“Put the gun down, Flora, and I’ll explain everything.”
“I don’t think that you’re in a position to be issuing commands, Bertie,” Flora observed, slowly cocking the gun. “Sit down over there.” She gestured to a rocking chair next to the window, suitably far away from any of his bags or the rest of the furniture.
Bertie edged across to the chair, hands still raised. His usually animated demeanour had been replaced by something harder.
“Flora…” he tried again.
“Who do you work for?” she asked curtly, keeping the gun aimed at his chest. “A rival German faction? A private enterprise?”
“Good God, no,” Bertie replied in disgust, lowering his hands in surprise. “I work for the British Government, Flor- we’re on the same side.”
“Your superiors seem to doubt that,” she said dryly. “Poses no threat whatsoever? The perils of having a Hungarian father, I suppose.”
“Of course I don’t doubt you,” he said, grimacing slightly when he realised what she must have overheard. “It’s just protocol, Flora - Europe is on the brink of another war, and the fact is that last time round your father was on the other side.”
“My father was a Hungarian naval officer,” she said coldly. “Rather a different proposition to the Third Reich, I’m sure you’d agree.”
Bertie sighed. “Of course it is, Flor - but you can’t blame them for asking the question.”
“Who precisely is it that I’m not blaming?” she inquired. “Or can’t you tell me?”
“Not really,” Bertie confessed, looking across at her. “An agency in London.”
“How comforting,” she said, moving across the room without taking her eyes off her captive to pinch one of the cigarettes sitting on his bed-side table. “And are you at liberty to tell me why you have been at such pains to insinuate yourself into my homecoming? Or is that confidential too?”
“Might I have one?” he asked, looking at the cigarette in her hand.
“Not until you’ve explained yourself,” she replied curtly, using his lighter and pushing the rest of the packet into her shirt pocket.
He sighed. “I think you ought to know what we’re dealing with here, Flora – I had hoped to keep you out of it as far as was possible, but those two Germans rather dropped you in at the deep end. Besides, your uncle obviously wanted you to be involved – for which he would have had his reasons.”
Flora said nothing to this, but perched on the edge of the bed opposite Bertie, her face half hidden in darkness and the gun still raised in readiness.
“Your uncle was a very brave man, Flora. For the past three years he has been collating a list of…moles, if you like, Nazi sympathisers embedded in some of the most influential posts in Europe. Politicians; socialites; bankers; journalists; even some royals – they’ve all pledged their support to Hitler whilst continuing to live their normal lives amongst their countrymen. At present this does little more than demonstra
te a shocking lack of judgment in some of our leading lights. If we go to war with Germany, however, which seems increasingly inevitable, this network of supporters could prove to be absolutely vital to Hitler’s chances of success.”
Bertie crossed his legs, and looked across at Flora who slowly began to lower her weapon. “Your uncle has essentially been posing as a Nazi sympathiser for the past three years, in a bid to collate this information. He told my superiors that this was his intention in the summer of ‘34, but in a bid to keep his cover as secure as possible said that he didn’t want to communicate with us until his list was complete. We finally received word from him seven days ago.”
“Shortly before I got his telegram,” Flora said.
“Yes. We think that his position must have been compromised at the last minute, although we don’t know how yet. Nor do we know why he involved you – although I suspect it’s because you were the only person he thought he could trust.”
Flora sat there in silence for a moment, trying to absorb the enormity of what this young man was telling her. “So,” she said at last, very slowly, letting the gun hang by her side and getting to her feet. “I suppose everyone’s now after this list of his – you, the Germans, and whoever else might have got wind of it.”
“Precisely,” Bertie said. “We weren’t sure that the Germans were on to us until you and I bumped into that pair on the road, which obviously confirmed it. And the fact that they discovered your location so quickly rather suggests that there may be a double-agent in my agency, feeding all this information back to Berlin - which is partly why my boss was a bit jittery about your background.”
Flora said nothing for a moment. “I think you had better come back to my room,” she announced at last in a colourless voice.
“Good lord, why?” Bertie asked, rather stumped by this unexpected reaction.
“Because I should like a drink, and my hip-flask is in my bag.”
And so the pair made their way silently down the corridor, neither speaking as Flora walked slightly behind her erstwhile friend, once again clasping the gun in one hand and the torch in the other. She closed the door behind him, inviting him to take a seat in the corner as she fished around for her whisky.
“I suppose your name isn’t really Bertie,” she said lightly as she poured him a drink. She was more hurt than she was letting on, but had decided to believe him. The idea that he would be lying about this too was almost too much to contemplate, and her instinct told her he was on her side. Devious, but on her side.
“No,” he confessed, in some embarrassment, “it isn’t.”
“Am I allowed to know what it is?” she asked, handing him the glass and raising the flask to her lips.
“Not really,” he replied, “but I think I owe you that at least. It’s Frederick – my friends call me Freddie.”
“Not too much of a departure, then,” she observed smoothly. “I think that I shall continue calling you Bertie, if you don’t mind – false identities are a step too far for me. Out of interest, is anything you told me true?”
“Yes, it was,” Bertie said quickly. “I’m not Bertie Cavendish, but everything else I told you was true enough. The Navy; the vineyard; Nairobi; my father wanting me to be a lawyer….”
“The Cynthia-Rose?”
He grinned at her, relieved to sense the beginnings of acceptance in her voice. “Even the Cynthia-Rose,” he promised. “Scout’s honour.”
“And my mother?” she asked, her eyebrows raised in inquiry.
“Well, I did meet her in the food hall at Harrods,” he explained, shifting a little uncomfortably in his seat, “but it wasn’t exactly an accident. We have had someone keeping an eye on the school for the past few days, you see, and I was informed once you were on your way.”
“Good lord!” Flora cried in disgust. “Someone watching the school! Don’t tell me Miss Baxter is in your pay – although it would explain her uncanny ability to know precisely where I am at all times.”
Bertie laughed in spite of himself. “I’ve never heard of a Miss Baxter,” he assured her. “Unless she’s above my clearance level, I don’t think that she’s working for His Majesty’s Government.”
“Who then?” she asked, really rather keen to find out the identity of this supposed snitch.
“Do you remember that nice young man who gave you a lift to London….?”
“No,” Flora breathed incredulously. “I don’t believe it.”
Bertie simply shrugged his shoulders and drank from his glass.
“If this is the sort of treatment you give to schoolgirls, then I jolly well hope that I never fall foul of this agency of yours,” she said loftily, although she was secretly rather impressed. “It’s positively chilling.”
Bertie made no rejoinder, and Flora meditated over her whisky. “Poor Uncle Antal,” she said at last. “What a thing to do.”
“It was heroic, Flora,” Bertie said gravely. “You should be immensely proud of him.”
“And I am,” she replied simply. “However unless we recover this list of his, his sacrifice will have been for nothing. I vote that we should tear this place apart tomorrow morning until we find the blasted thing.”
“Ah,” Bertie said, “about that…”
“Lord, what is it now?” Flora demanded. “Do you have orders to shoot me at dawn?”
Ignoring this sally, Bertie got up from his chair and walked across to Flora, holding his glass out for a refill. “I’ve been given orders, Flor,” he said, looking at her in concern. “Apparently the agency has a new lead in Austria – it seems that your uncle had a close friend there, who may know something about the work he was doing. And if so, Antal may have told him some of the names from the list.”
“That’s rather unlikely, isn’t it?” Flora asked. “If he wouldn’t even report back to you, then why would have had shared that kind of knowledge with a friend?”
“We don’t know that he did,” Bertie replied, returning to his chair. “However in the circumstances, the agency feels that every possible lead is worth investigating.” Bertie looked down at his companion. “I should like you to come with me, Flora,” he announced rather suddenly. “I can’t really bear the idea of leaving you here when that other German may still be knocking about in town – you’d be much safer with me, in the Cynthia-Rose.”
This last statement was made rather gruffly, and it dawned on Flora that Bertie was not just being gallant, but perhaps even a shade affectionate.
“Oh, Bertie,” she said with a short laugh, “that’s very good of you, but I can’t leave just yet. Uncle Antal wanted me to be here, so there must be something to find. Besides, if that German is still plotting an incursion then I need to be here to look after Magda. I’m sure that she’s fully capable of looking after herself, of course – it may even be more sensible for me to fear for the German – but I can’t bolt yet. See what you can find out in Austria, and I’ll hold the fort here.”
“I don’t like it, Flor,” Bertie said, clearly troubled by this turn of events. “I don’t think I could forgive myself if….”
“If nothing,” she said briskly, keen to nip this potentially sentimental conversation in the bud; it was not an exchange she wanted to have in her bedroom in the middle of the night - particularly when she was wearing grey walking socks. “I shall be perfectly alright. Now we will both need a good night’s sleep before tomorrow, so off you go.”
Bertie rose, and made for the door. “I really am terribly sorry, Flor,” he said, with that crooked smile. “And I very much hope that when this is all over…”
“Good night, Bertie,” she said, before shutting him out in the corridor.
EIGHT
It took Magda some time to come to terms with the idea that Bertie had to leave. When Flora had told her that he needed to get going she’d flounced out of the room and spent the next hour crashing about in the kitchen, causing as much of a disturbance as she could with a metal ladle and a saucepan. She also
made sure to avoid him for the remainder of his stay: Magda hated goodbyes – she’d never let Antal or Laszlo see her tears when they’d disappeared off to school, war, or for married life, and she was damned if she’d start now.
Bertie and Flora, on the other hand, spent a final few hours turning the castle upside down in search of Antal’s list. They flicked through books; upturned vases; looked under rugs - Bertie even began to clamber up into the chimney in Flora’s bedroom, before realising rather sheepishly that Antal was unlikely to have been foolish enough to hide his piece of paper above his fire-place. Eventually they accepted defeat for a second time, and Bertie went upstairs to collect his things.
“I have made him a picnic,” Magda declared grandly, emerging from her underworld to thrust a bulging food-parcel and bottle of excellent looking claret at Flora. “And you tell him to come back soon.”
Without another word she spun on her heel and returned to her kingdom below stairs, determined to console herself with schnapps and a good rant to the oven about nothing in particular.
“Magda says goodbye,” Flora said solemnly, handing the weighty package to Bertie once he reappeared with this things, “and asked me to tell you that you mustn’t stay away long.”
Bertie tucked the picnic into his hamper and looked down at Flora. “I’ve left the radio in my room,” he told her. “If anything should happen just switch it on and it will connect you automatically to London.”
“Bertie,” Flora said, moved by this gesture in spite of herself, “what if you should need it? I’m sure that I shall be in no more danger here than you shall be flying into Austria. Besides,” she added, unable to stop herself from a slight dig, “what would your commanding officer say if he knew that you’d left equipment with a potential German collaborator?”
“You must stop saying that, Flor,” Bertie replied with a grimace. “It really was the most innocuous background check – imagine the grilling I got when they discovered I could speak fluent German.”