by Pirate Irwin
“There is no one,” admitted von Preetz glumly.
“What, not even Goering could be persuaded to come over after his speech the other day at the wedding?” asked Sebastian.
All three aristocrats and wannabe conspirators convulsed into laughter, wiping away tears at his suggestion.
“Goering!? Ah Stuart you have a splendid sense of humour,” guffawed von Helldorf.
“The glutinous one is only interested in power, uniforms of varying exotic colours, money and social climbing . . . all of which he has accrued under Hitler and he is hardly likely to surrender all that in some scheme devised by us.”
“But what about his speech the other day. It seemed genuine,” protested Sebastian, who was slightly miffed at being the laughing stock of the room.
“That was to score points over Ribbentrop, that’s all. All that bunch are interested in is putting down the others and getting closer to the ear of Hitler, but no one dares try and stir it up between them because then they regroup and chew you up,” said von der Schulenburg harshly.
“Besides, do you really think that the author – well, the man who delivered the speech anyway – of the reprehensible Nuremberg laws against the Jews would be acceptable to the British? I don’t think so!
“He is often not in his right mind in any case as he is constantly on the old morphine so God help our pilots should there be war! Just for their sake, make sure you do something, Stuart!” said von Helldorf and roared with laughter.
“Very well, he may not be an ideal companion but unless I am missing something, gentlemen, you have not once mentioned the Wehrmacht, whose help must be vital if you are to succeed,” smiled Sebastian.
He realized he had struck the right chord with this shot across their bows because all three shifted uneasily and looked at each other.
“We have contacts there obviously,” mumbled von Helldorf, though none too convincingly.
“However, while we have several high ranking officers willing to aid us, the surrender by your government at Munich did us few favours and the bloodless entry into Czechoslovakia diminished our support and only increased the army high command’s belief in Hitler,” added von Helldorf.
“Then I would suggest you are lost, despite your idealistic belief in salvation at the last minute, gentlemen,” commented Sebastian. “I will still carry out your mission because I admire your courage and gall, but without the army I cannot see how you can succeed.”
Von der Schulenburg stood at this and walked over to Sebastian’s sedentary position.
“Better to do something than nothing at all, Stuart. Though this may be in vain, I for one would like to be able to look my children in the eyes and tell them that I tried to make it a better world for them to grow up in. And that I was not a willing accessory to the oppression and prejudice against Judaism on the account of some perverted minds who through bullying and weak leadership from the establishment imposed themselves as our moral guiding force. That I could not live with,” said von der Schulenburg in a sotto voce tone but it carried the moral weight and passionate belief he wished to impart.
Sebastian held up his hands to acknowledge that he could not argue with this fine figure of a man in front of him and his belief in what he wanted to try and do, but ultimately to Sebastian it appeared it would serve little purpose except to bring down not only the three men in the room but also a strand of society better suited to wait its time and let the current mob burn itself out.
To Sebastian, this modern day Cassius, Brutus and Casca were about to commit the same impetuous mistake as their Roman predecessors in bringing down a dictator but ultimately condemn themselves.
However, he knew it would be useless to tell them that.
They were determined to meet their day of destiny, come what may and he was not one to stand in their way, though by his actions he knew he would be helping them get to the final destination, and that did not sit well with him.
*
“Ludovic Ponsonby,” came the crisp tones down the end of the phone.
Ponsonby was one of the names given to Sebastian by von Preetz and by a strange coincidence he was a distant relative of his through his errant father, though whether his first target was aware of this was unlikely.
Ponsonby was an under-secretary at the Foreign Office and someone whom the Baron had had friendly relations to the extent they had dined at each other’s house several times and the von Preetzs had been guests at his estate in Scotland, much to the fury of the von Ribbentrops who took it as another slight on their standing.
Sebastian had thought about the foolhardiness of trying to persuade anyone in the British Government, a young man without any credentials being entrusted by three high ranking Nazi officials with a tale of wanting to stop Hitler at all costs – it was more like to sceptical ears he was a fantasist, who had modernized John Buchan’s 39 Steps and given himself the role of Richard Hannay.
However, it also gave him a feeling of self-importance and a sense of being needed which were vital to his ego and thus he promised himself after enjoying a troublefree trip back to England, which didn’t mean he hadn’t had a bout of nerves and the rough crossing had covered up well his constant wandering to the side of the ship to disgorge every meal, that he would fire ahead with his effort to stop the war.
“Mr Ponsonby, this is Mr Sebastian Stuart,” stammered Sebastian, cursing himself for displaying his nervousness.
“Yes, and what is this matter about, Mr Stuart, that you call me at home. Furthermore how did you get my number?” came the rather aggressive reply.
“There is a rather delicate subject I would like to discuss with you, sir, and I would ask you to grant me five minutes of your time at your house so I could enlighten you both on that and from whom I got your number. Suffice to say I have just returned from Germany,” said Sebastian with a much steadier timbre to his voice.
“Well, I don’t really see how that takes us much further, Stuart. You’re not part of the embassy there, are you?” enquired Ponsonby.
Sebastian shook his free hand in frustration at the obstructiveness of his interlocutor and thought, Jesus, I was right initially. I shouldn’t have bothered.
“Well no, not exactly, though you could say I have got diplomatic matters to discuss and I would like to put them to you as it is of the utmost importance and will not be a waste of your time.”
There was a deep intake of breath at the other end of the line, then a sigh and silence ensued, leaving Stuart to wonder whether he had had the phone put down on him.
“Stuart, be here in 10 minutes. The address is 10, Pelham Crescent, off the Fulham Road. I can give you 30 minutes at most and it better be bloody worth it,” Ponsonby said gruffly, and then the line did indeed go dead.
Sebastian took a cab to Ponsonby’s home which was one of the prettier crescents in London, not quite on the scale of those in Bath but nevertheless an address suited to a man of Ponsonby’s station, and left Sebastian wondering what a contrast this was to the basic habitat of his bohemian father.
Ponsonby resided in a fine four-storey house, whose white exterior showed no signs of peeling paint and whose black door was so finely polished that, Sebastian mused, his distant relative must have a platoon of guardsmen come around every morning to polish it as shiny as their boots.
His knock on the equally shiny gold knocker was answered within time by a pretty looking maid, whose looks were enhanced by the smile she greeted him with, displaying a polished set of teeth. Those guardsmen again, surmised Sebastian, they must be dying to get the war on before their hands drop off from polishing!
His fantasy was brought to a halt as the maid, Nina, ushered him through the door and through the giant hallway with its traditional black-and-white marble floor, needless to say polished to a T, and to a doorway to the left of the impressive stairway.
She had barely knocked on the door before a gruff voice gave them permission to enter.
“Mr Sebastian Stuart
, sir,” said Nina with a graceful dropping of her head as if she was addressing an emperor.
Ponsonby definitely looked the part of an emperor, albeit within the narrow confines of his study, thick black hair slicked back over his scalp, an aquiline nose, deep brown eyes and as he waved Stuart in without rising from his chair he displayed thin, finely manicured almost feminine fingers.
Added to the burgundy smoking jacket and frilly white shirt he was wearing, Sebastian thought he had landed in the middle of an Oscar Wilde book, though without the humour.
Nina having exited, head still bowed, Sebastian waited for the offer of a drink or at the very least a chair – neither was forthcoming.
“So, Stuart, what is this all about?” Ponsonby asked, staring straight into him with a piercing look.
Sebastian did not feel comfortable having to stand like he was still a schoolboy being upbraided by his housemaster and said as much.
“If I could be so bold, sir, to ask if I could have a seat, as it would make me more at ease,” he said rather aggressively.
Ponsonby shrugged his shoulders as to say “oh, very well” and gestured to the high-backed leather chair which stood in front of his desk.
Sebastian looked around the smallish study as he went to sit down and thought what a contrast it made with the rather shambolic but comfortable one of von Preetz’s – there was one bookcase covering one wall while the other three were filled with portraits of what he took to be ancestors of the both of them, though none of the severe faces staring out at him looked like people he’d care to be associated with.
“So, Stuart, who sent you, or rather who furnished you with my personal details?” Ponsonby asked and leant forward with his arms clasped, leaning on the desk and jutting out his jaw in what appeared to be his only pose he struck – aggressive.
“Well, sir, Baron von Preetz instructed me to get in contact with you as he said you had been friends and remained so after he and his wife Victoria left London.”
Sebastian hoped that this might at last loosen up his uptight and cold relation and he was right because the arms came off the desk and he leant back in his chair, putting his fingers to his full mouth.
“Do you want me to go on?” asked Sebastian after a minute of silence had passed.
A brief nod of the head gave him the green light and he proceeded to relate in as concise a form as possible all that the troika of aristocrats had told him. Having finished, he waited for a reply which was not immediately forthcoming.
Ponsonby levered himself out of his chair and walked over to the window which looked out onto the garden – again Sebastian found himself contrasting the elegant if rather stiff figure of his host with the shambolic von der Schulenburg – and clasped and unclasped his hands in an agitated state.
“I am afraid, Stuart, there is nothing to be done,” he said, shaking his head but with his back still to Sebastian.
“While I like the Baron enormously and understand his and his friends’ aversion to that loathsome regime, I am a rare voice inside the FO who argues constantly to stop appeasing Hitler and to give some encouragement to those within Germany who wish to stop him.
“Sometimes I feel that they are more pro-Nazi inside the Foreign Office than many Germans are and it does not make me feel very good,” he said turning towards Sebastian with a sad smile.
Sebastian raised his hands, slapped them down on his thighs and decided to have one more go as he didn’t have anything to lose, while his best friend’s father had nothing but a very dark future opening up before him.
“But I thought the vocation of a diplomat was to avert war, not to watch from the sidelines and help it along. Surely just a word from you to Lord Halifax about the feeling within Germany might have an effect?”
Ponsonby rolled his eyes and laughed.
“Firstly, my dear boy, you betray your youth by believing diplomats are like priests in thinking their job is a vocation, and secondly, Halifax has many qualities, but encouraging open revolt in Germany is not one of them . . . besides, he believes, as does the Prime Minister, that the best way to keep Hitler in check is by giving him a bit of leeway and thereby containing him.”
“Yeah, like what happened at Munich, which worked out so well, as no blood was spilt of good old English blood but it led to the annexation of faraway Czechoslovakia, which handled more firmly, I am reliably informed would have led to the Wehrmacht revolting . . .” Sebastian retorted.
“Listen, Stuart, I don’t need a bloody history lesson from you. I was there in Munich and we did what was considered best at the time for everyone. Plus, you say the Wehrmacht would have mutinied well – that implies they wouldn’t now so how are your friends going to stop Hitler . . . with fine words and bare hands, I doubt it!” Ponsonby responded in a patronising tone.
“But just a word of encouragement from the highest level over Danzig could set off the same tremors in the army and perhaps just perhaps avert massive bloodshed,” pleaded Sebastian. “For God’s sake, sir, don’t just stand there shrugging your shoulders saying you can’t do anything. This is a chance for you to do such a thing, Jesus Christ!” yelled Sebastian, his patience gone with the priggish, cold diplomat standing in front of him.
“That will be all, Stuart. You are just the latest in a long line of emissaries, if I can so dignify you with such a term, to plead for this so-called underground. Von Preetz and the rest should sit tight and I am sure everything will work itself out, besides, if he wants to make a gesture of defiance, he should resign from his post like a man of principle would,” said Ponsonby, who provoked Sebastian even more with the smug smile that followed.
“They have more honour in their little finger than you obviously possess, despite your claiming to be opposed to Halifax and his policy . . .”
“That is it, Stuart. There is nothing more to discuss and you are dismissed,” Ponsonby cut in coldly, turned his back once more on Stuart and waved his hand towards the door.
“Abrogating one’s responsibilities obviously runs thick in the Ponsonby family tree,” retorted Sebastian.
Ponsonby turned, a look of real anger in his eyes, and said “Don’t you dare cast aspersions on my family, you impudent bastard!”
Sebastian laughed drily at that and received a quizzical stare back.
“It’s the first correct thing you have said during your gracious gift of an audience, Ponsonby. You see, I am a Ponsonby also, but unfortunately my father Sir Frederick fled before I was born, so I guess in the literal sense I am a bastard but having seen what the male line is like today, I am heartily relieved not to have to shoulder that burden. Good evening to you, Ponsonby, and may your inertia reap its foul reward,” and with that Stuart closed the door behind him, leaving Ponsonby steaming and confused at what had turned into a most disagreeable evening.
Ponsonby, though, being a vindictive type, was not going to allow Stuart to get away with his rudeness and, having calmed down, he made a phone call.
“Callaghan here,” came the reply.
“Ah, Callaghan, this is Ludovic Ponsonby. I was wondering whether you could perform a service for me.”
“Certainly, Mr Ponsonby. What is it?” asked Callaghan, whose accent was a mix of Irish and Cockney.
“Well, I have just had a most disconcerting encounter with somebody and I would like you to find out as much as you can about him and keep track of his movements. Deliver your report directly to me as is normal under special circumstances.”
“That won’t be a problem, Mr Ponsonby. How do you spell his last name . . . ? S-t-u-a-r-t, yes, very well, sir, I’ll get straight onto it when I go on duty tomorrow. What, no, don’t worry, sir, I will exercise the utmost discretion, yes, goodnight, sir.”
Ponsonby replaced the receiver with a self-satisfied smile on his face . . . Sebastian was about to be hounded by one of Scotland Yard’s finest and should there be any dark secrets he, Ludovic Ponsonby, would destroy him.
Stuart had no more luck with o
ther erstwhile contacts and friends of Baron von Preetz’s than he had had with Ponsonby, and his mother’s efforts to help him gain access to her high-ranking friends produced little. Sebastian finally had to admit defeat and decided he would present his findings to von Preetz’s contact at the embassy, though he felt it was going to be a waste of both of their time.
Everywhere he had gone he had been met either with derision and disbelief that he would have been entrusted with such a message of great import, or else pure indifference, and he decided the least bad thing about Ponsonby was that he was no worse than the others of his cadre.
It was not to say that aside from his mission Sebastian did nothing else, for while he may have been regarded with disdain by his elders he found that having spent six months in Germany he was of interest to his generation, both male and female, the latter sex’s attentions being more welcome than the former.
Thus, he found himself lodging with his mother in Cheyne Walk with a fine view overlooking the Thames, while it was within walking distance of several good pubs and restaurants where he spent most of his evenings as he found his mother’s perpetual bridge evenings too tiresome.
His immediate circle of friends was quite a cosmopolitan bunch, numbering French, Italian and German among them with a smattering of Americans also.
They were generally debauched, for in that age, heavy drinking, dancing into the small hours and sharing the girls round wasn’t looked upon as being strange and while that implied a total lack of loyalty amongst the group, it was in fact quite the opposite as they trusted each other with another’s consort.
Sebastian’s most common date was an American called Wanda Brighouse, who came from a wealthy Massachusetts family and was doing a six-month work experience at the top auction house Christies, having graduated from Harvard.
She was a busty blonde, loud and brash with an ability to drink most of the group under the table, but she also had a tendency to sleep in late and would have been released by Christies but for her father’s habit of being one of their best clients, though his wallet far outweighed his sense of taste. She had a wonderful apartment in Pimlico near Victoria Station – three bedrooms, two of them ensuite, a large oak-panelled dining room, equally big drawing room – which was filled with outrageously over-the-top china birds which didn’t mix too well with austere Victorian prints and Hogarth style scenes of debauchery. The sofas and chairs were decorated in brightly coloured pastels, while liberally spread around the flat were sculptures of naked Roman youths, both male and female, and scenes depicting some of the more Bacchanalian pleasures enjoyed by the ancient Greeks and Egyptians.