‘I don’t think so,’ he had said, head drooping to his chest.
‘I’ll be back soon. But you must wait here.’
Now here he was alone. It was late afternoon and the gathering clouds told him that night could not be very far away. A chest of drawers stood against the wall by the bed. He looked through them and found various garments. His nostrils were assailed by the pungent smell of camphor. He also found a small pair of nail scissors among other items, probably long forgotten. He took the scissors and placed them on the bedside table, then removed his shoes and curled up on the bed, on top of the counterpane.
The snakes came earlier today. It was only just dark when he saw them. Their hissing was louder, their movements quicker. He could smell their venom. Himmler was there, Hitler and Müller, too, writhing up the wall of the station house to the roof. He hadn’t realised they could climb. He had thought he was safe from them all the while he was well above ground. But these three were rising and there was no escape. Eichmann was with them. He hadn’t seen Eichmann until then. Where had he come from?
They were all over his body now, writhing as they attached themselves to him with their fangs, their forked tongues flicking and licking at his white flesh.
He couldn’t move, could do nothing to stop Eichmann slithering up his chest to his exposed throat, then coiling his cold scales around his neck . . .
*
Wilde had been at The Times all afternoon discussing the interview with the designated reporter. They had agreed that Wilde would bring Coburg down to meet the man in the morning.
He arrived back at Red Farm just five minutes after Harriet found Coburg’s dead body. It was obvious that he had used a pair of nail scissors to cut lengths of cord from the sash windows and had then hanged himself from a central beam.
Two members of the guard provided by Eaton were cutting him down and lowering him to the floor.
‘Perhaps it was for the best,’ Harriet said.
‘For him, maybe – but what about the Jews in Poland? They needed his testimony. Now all we have is a batch of documents that will be denounced as meaningless forgeries.’
‘He was broken, Tom.’
Chapter 45
It took Heinrich Müller a while, but he finally had his man. Hitler had taken some persuading that Prince Philipp von Hessen was a traitor, but he had got there in the end and it was worth the wait. Oh, the pleasure of seeing the horror on the entitled little lickspittle’s face when he arrived under guard at Gestapo headquarters in Berlin.
The prince had been arrested at the Wolfsschanze, the Führer’s war base in East Prussia. He and Hitler had dined together and talked as always. But then, in the hours before dawn, when Philipp tried to leave the fortified encampment to return to Berlin, he was taken into custody by an SS general on Hitler’s orders.
Müller’s drip-drip poison in his master’s ear had achieved its aim. He laughed out loud when he heard.
Now, with the usually elegant prince standing shabby and bowed in front of him, Müller allowed himself a little time to simply gaze at the man and enjoy his terror and despair.
‘You are not so arrogant now, are you?’ he said at last. ‘Eh?’
‘I always tried to treat you courteously, Herr Gruppenführer Müller.’
‘Did you indeed? Well, I don’t remember that. So what should I call you now?’
‘Forgive me, I don’t understand the question.’
‘Well, you are no longer a prince or a man of any importance in the Reich. Surely you understand that? You are one misstep from the guillotine or firing squad for your treason.’
‘I have never betrayed—’
‘Are you accusing the Führer of lying?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Well, you are here at his behest. If he says you are guilty of treason, then that is the end of the matter.’
‘But . . .’
‘But nothing, prisoner. Stand up straight.’
Müller himself was sitting perfectly erect at the desk in his office while the prisoner stood before him in chains. Philipp immediately pulled back his shoulders and raised his chin.
‘So, now that you are no longer a prince, what are we to call you? Choose a name, why don’t you? Or perhaps you would like me to choose one for you. How about Weinberg? Herr Weinberg has a ring to it, don’t you think?’
Philipp seemed to be trying to retain a little pride and dignity. ‘If my name is to be changed by decree I would prefer to be called Wildhof, Herr Gruppenführer. It has family connections.’
‘Very well, Herr Wildhof it will be. So what are we to do with you? Guillotine or firing squad? Judge Freisler often favours the guillotine, I believe.’
‘Am I to be put on trial?’
‘That will be for the Führer to decide. For the moment, you are to be taken from here to Flossenburg concentration camp near the mountains of eastern Bavaria.’
‘Could I not be kept under house arrest?’
‘Sadly not, but I am sure you will find Flossenburg extremely comfortable and pleasant. You will have a chance to mix with the ordinary criminals held there and get used to your new status.’
‘Might I at least be allowed to know of what specific crime I am accused? If I am alleged to have committed some treason against Germany, you must produce the evidence and witnesses.’
‘Must? Are you telling me what I must do, Herr Wildhof?’
‘Forgive me, I phrased that wrongly. I am simply entreating you to give me a fair trial before I am condemned to a concentration camp.’
‘And now you are compounding the felony by insinuating that the Führer is less than fair in the way he treats you! As for your guilt, you sat at the Führer’s table and ate his food and now you doubt his word! Such perfidy! Such treachery! This will be reported to the Wolfsschanze directly, Herr Wildhof.’
‘But what is my crime?’
‘I am sure you know your crimes far better than I do. But let’s start with the affair of Herr Rudolf Coburg, shall we? You helped him defect to our enemies, taking with him secret RSHA documents. I think that’s quite enough, don’t you?’
Müller slammed the palm of his hand on to a desk bell and two uniformed officers immediately entered the room.
‘Take this man away – and have his records changed to show his name as Wildhof.’
The men treated him roughly, dragging him out to his fate. Müller allowed himself a little smile. One day, when Germany stood triumphant in England, he would surely mete out the same treatment to Professor Thomas Wilde. No one snatched a prisoner from under his nose or shot out his tyres before his very eyes and lived to an old age.
*
The wedding was held in their small parish church. It was organised as quickly as the law and church would allow so that summer would not wholly have given way to autumn, and it was a smaller, more intimate affair than it might have been because so many of their friends were away on war duties.
Wilde’s deepest regret was that his mother could not make the journey from Boston, Massachusetts, but she had sent him an affectionate letter telling him it was the right thing to do – as if he hadn’t known that for years – even if she would have preferred them to choose a Roman Catholic ceremony. But that aside, the most important thing was that she assured her son that Charlotte would approve.
Lydia had gone down on one knee in the living room to propose marriage. He had laughed at the sight of her and had accepted her offer with the proviso that this time she really meant it and would not leave him at the altar. It was then that she had brought up the subject of Charlotte.
‘There is someone else here, Tom, two others. Do you think we have their blessing?’
‘I know we do. She would have loved you.’
Charlotte had been his American wife. She had died in childbirth sixteen years earlier. His first son would have been sixteen if he had lived. Wilde knew that he and Charlotte would have become more terrified with each passing year b
ecause of the increasing possibility – likelihood – that the boy would be called up to fight in this bloody war.
‘I would have loved her,’ Lydia said.
‘She was warm and kind.’
‘I hope I am, too.’
‘Sometimes you are. Today you are.’
The ceremony in the little fourteenth-century church was performed by a beaming Oscar Fry, delighted to come out of retirement to do this service for his new friend. They then returned to Cornflowers for a modest reception of tea, beer, cake and a case of whisky, sent by Lord Templeman with a short note wishing them well and suggesting this batch of Scotch might make up for the ill-effects Wilde had suffered tasting the former sample. Wilde almost found himself forgiving the man.
It was a gentle and low-key reception with gramophone music and a little dancing in the living room, but none the less emotional for that. There was a touch of glitz, provided by a greatly recovered Mimi, who had been accompanied on the train up from London by Tallulah. Both of them were back in harness at the Dada Club, against doctor’s orders in Mimi’s case.
Despite the air of jollity and romance, Wilde’s thoughts kept drifting. One thing nagged and had done ever since his meeting with Churchill. Why, he wondered, had Goebbels not broadcast the message loud and clear to the world that Germany had killed the Duke in retaliation for Heydrich’s death?
It made no sense. It was in the very nature of the Nazi regime to enforce their will through terror, and they had gone out of their way to ensure everyone was aware of all the other foul acts of vengeance they had visited on the peoples of the occupied territories, to discourage resistance.
The only possibility that made any sense to Wilde was that the Nazis did not want to reveal that their man had been talking with the British in Stockholm. That, of course, was possible – but was that a feasible reason for not publicising their part in the Duke’s death? Surely, they could have claimed responsibility for his murder without mentioning the purpose of his flight.
Which brought another question to mind. If it wasn’t the Nazis, who else stood to gain from the plane crash? And why hadn’t they claimed responsibility? The answer was obvious: Stalin. If he had got wind of the meeting between Britain and Germany, he would have seen it as treachery by an ally – and he would have been ruthless in nipping it in the bud: kill the Duke and blame the Germans. Anything to stop Britain and Germany signing a pact.
From what Churchill had said, the message warning of the plane had come in a couriered message to the British embassy in Stockholm. But how could they be sure who the courier was or who sent him? Perhaps it was from the Soviet embassy, using German headed paper?
And that led on to another unresolved question: who was in a position to sabotage the plane on Stalin’s behalf?
Wilde tried to put these thoughts to the back of his mind. This was a day for love and laughter – and Johnny was undoubtedly the star of the show, running around the sitting room and demanding attention. He was a big hit with everyone.
After tea, there were toasts and a speech from Dr Rupert Weir, who indulged in a string of semi-obscene medical jokes and gave an indiscreet potted history of the newlyweds, wondering whether wedded bliss would be as satisfying as their six years of unwedded bliss.
Philip Eaton also proposed a toast, praising Lydia for ‘finally making an honest man of Wilde’ and apologising to Wilde for any discomfort caused by the ‘adulterated whisky’ – a reference that meant nothing to most of the guests.
A few days earlier, over dinner in Eaton’s club, the MI6 man had confided in Wilde that, since Quayle’s murderous attack at the bishop’s house, he and Templeman had spoken with Harriet and had reassured themselves that she was no threat, and that the secret of the Duke’s trip to Stockholm was safe. He mentioned, too, that they had worried that Harriet might be a traitor right to the very end. ‘It was Quayle, after all, who proposed dear Harriet for the service in the first place. That was a couple of years ago. He told us she was sound and had great attributes for the job – which of course she has. But when we began to worry about Quayle, we had to worry about her, too. That was why we went to such lengths to find her.’
‘But she told me she had always loathed Quayle.’
‘No reason to doubt it. She wouldn’t have known who put her name forward. Anyway, we’re happy now. She’s proved herself.’
‘But what,’ Wilde had asked, ‘was in it for Quayle? You have told me that his family owned coal mines in the north and farmland in Somerset and that he had untold wealth. Why would he betray the country that gave him all this?’
‘Life was a game for Walter Quayle,’ Eaton had replied, allowing his brandy to swirl in the glass. ‘If the whole world walked one way, he walked the other. If his country was at odds with Germany, why then Germany would be his friend. I’m not sure if he had politics or principles.’
‘And his little acolyte, Mortimer?’
‘Who knows? Perhaps he was in love with his master.’
Now, at the wedding reception, Wilde took time to sit with Mimi and Tallulah. ‘I have to say, you look a great deal better than you did when last I saw you, Miss Lalique.’
‘Mimi. My name is Mimi. And I owe you a very big debt of gratitude, Tom, for I doubt I would be here today without you. So my wedding gift to you is a free pass for as many drinks as you like on the house at the Dada.’
‘Then you will undoubtedly be seeing a lot of me while I’m in London.’
‘We’ll keep you to that,’ Tallulah said.
She was sitting at Mimi’s side on the sofa, with the two Pekingese snuffling around their feet. They had been discovered safe and sound at Battersea Dogs Home. Wilde’s eye was once again drawn to the beautiful amber necklace at Tallulah’s throat, the piece he had noticed when first he met her. ‘Can’t take your eyes off it, can you, Mr Wilde? Or are those my non-existent tits you’re ogling?’
‘I’m a married man now!’
‘So’s darling Dagger, but that doesn’t stop him.’
‘Templeman?’
‘Didn’t you know? He’s my secret lover. Not a very big secret, really.’
‘And he gave you the amber necklace?’
‘He got it on one of his hush-hush missions. He told me it was from the banks of the Baltic and very precious and that I was to give him extra special treatment in return.’
Glenn Miller was playing on the gramophone and Tallulah’s hand was claimed for a dance by one of the older college fellows. She blew Wilde a kiss and left him with Mimi.
‘I take it Templeman is a bit of a regular at the Dada. Couldn’t miss his towering figure in some of your glamorous photos.’
‘Isn’t he lovely? He adores the high life, which I always thought a little curious. You know, I always wondered if he was a bit of a leftie despite his great wealth, but he loved to come to the Dada and mix with the glamorous and the glitzy. It was so funny to hear him complaining about the decadence of the bourgeoisie . . . even as he quaffed fine Cognac and Dom Perignon. Champagne and socialism – strange how often they mix. I think it was probably like that in Moscow in the early days of the revolution.’
Templeman a leftie? Wilde had always wondered the same about Eaton. He had never been entirely certain about the MI6 man’s true allegiances. He looked around the room for him and saw him leaning on his stick, deep in conversation with Harriet Hartwell and Lydia. Yes, something told him that Eaton had always held a torch for the Communists. But Templeman the millionaire?
Suddenly a gale of new questions built up in Wilde’s mind. He shook his head. It didn’t bear thinking about. Only a paranoiac would imagine that the British secret service was riddled with Communists.
And the likelihood that Templeman had been to one of the Baltic states – probably Sweden – what did that mean? Probably nothing, and it proved nothing. Of course he went on missions to such places; it was his job.
At last Wilde and Lydia found themselves alone together in the kitchen, and
hugged. The last of the guests had departed, having bemoaned the fact that they couldn’t give the newlyweds a proper send-off because they weren’t going away. The honeymoon was two nights at home, then he would be back off to the OSS bureau in Grosvenor Street.
‘I liked your beautiful friend,’ Lydia said through tears.
‘I could tell.’
‘I said some horrible things but, you see, I knew you liked her and I was worried. I felt jealous.’
‘You shouldn’t have. Harriet’s OK.’ He smiled at her and brushed a tear from her cheek. ‘It was very good of you to invite her. I think she was rather surprised and delighted.’
Lydia laughed through her sobs. ‘I wanted to know my enemy. Anyway, she’s too late – I’ve got you now.’
‘You always had me.’
‘I told her how wrong I had been to be jealous and she said no, I was right – because she would have grabbed you given half a chance. But she never had a hope, she said. You were the first steadfast man she had ever met. Oh, these stupid tears . . .’
‘You’re allowed them today.’
‘You know, I shouldn’t say it because it might sound mean or disrespectful, but I couldn’t help wondering whether she’s a little, what’s the word, savant, perhaps? A little unworldly?’
‘Maybe.’ He kissed her again, and then the telephone rang.
‘I’ll get it and say you’re out. It’s bound to be bloody Phillips cutting short your break. Just like before.’
‘No, I’ll answer it. Don’t worry, he’s not getting me this time.’
Wilde sauntered out to the hall, hoping the phone would stop before he reached it, but it didn’t. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Wilde here.’
‘Tom, is that really you?’
He knew the voice instantly, even though he had only heard it for a few hours of his life. ‘Jimmy? Jimmy Orde?’
‘Aye, it’s me, Tom.’
A Prince and a Spy Page 37