It was there that light suddenly emerged.
The club was not busy on this particular evening – it must have been some time in the last week of September – when Charles took a drink and a copy of The Times to his favourite chair. After a few minutes he became aware of someone staring at him. The man was a short, tubby clergyman with thick pebble glasses, pleasant rosy cheeks, white hair and skin like a baby’s.
Charles met his eye and nodded. He had seen the cleric in the club before now, but never met him. Now, the man advanced on Charles.
‘Do you mind if I sit here?’ The voice contained none of the parsonical inflexions Charles identified with Church of England clergymen. ‘You don’t remember me, of course. You are Charles Railton, aren’t you?’
Charles admitted he was.
‘Good.’ The man nodded, absently. ‘Merchant,’ he said, ‘Paul Merchant. Vicar of Haddington. You married young Mildred Edwards, Parson Edwards’ daughter. I was vicar of the next parish. We met once at the Parsonage.’
Charles searched the files of his past. He could only just recall that rather grim, dark house that was the Parsonage, and his first visits there, with Mildred’s father, the Rural Dean, pompous, full of piety and quotations.
‘I’m afraid not.’ Charles tried to laugh.
‘Of course not. But I would like to speak with you. You see, I knew Mildred and her parents for a very long time, when she was a child.’ He gave a pleasant chuckle. ‘I am of an age when I cannot tell you what I did yesterday, but can recount the distant past with ease.’ He peered at his hands.
‘I understand you may not wish to talk of this,’ the Reverend Paul Merchant continued, ‘but I believe it is important.’
‘Talk of what?’ Charles was on his guard. London’s clubland never changed, he thought, it was a constant repository of secrets, kept and guarded like the Crown Jewels. Clubland was a village; they knew everything, though would never repeat that knowledge outside the smoking rooms. They would all know about Mary Anne’s rape; Mildred’s tantrums; their daughter’s disappearance; and that Mildred was under a doctor’s care. Not one of them would normally admit it, but these matters were known.
‘One hears things.’ Merchant did not look at him.
‘Such as?’
‘I think it would be wrong of me to repeat gossip. Yet, if it is true, would you listen to a story? It is about something that happened to Mrs Railton – Mildred Edwards – when she was only twelve years of age.’
Worried, Charles nodded assent, ‘Go on.’
‘She was a good girl; brought up in the faith; obedient; charming. Is she much changed? Yes, of course she is changed. She first altered after what happened at the Parsonage.’
‘Happened?’
‘It was unpleasant. I do not wish to be uncharitable, but the Rural Dean and his wife did not handle things well. I only know about it because I arrived there at a, possibly, inopportune moment.’
He told the story with no further digression: simply stating facts, as a good witness gives evidence.
A few weeks before her twelfth birthday, Mildred had been left alone for an afternoon at the Parsonage. The Rural Dean and his wife had one servant – a housekeeper. On that day, the housekeeper was also away, shopping in the nearby town.
When her parents returned, Mildred was nowhere to be found. It was high summer, and they thought she might have gone into the woods nearby.
They found her, at dusk, wandering in the woods, her clothes ripped and tattered, with blood on her legs. She was quite dazed. ‘I was there when she was brought in,’ Merchant told him. ‘At first it was thought someone had attacked her. The local doctor came over, and… well… er… yes, she had been interfered with. She could give no cogent story. Would not say if it was an assault on her by some man, or if it was childhood experiment.’
Her mother had finally settled on the idea that the whole thing was Mildred’s fault, and was backed by the Rural Dean. ‘The poor child was in some kind of shock. What she needed was love, affection, rest, medical attention. Instead, they browbeat her, trying to get at the truth, but, I fear, young Mildred had found the experience so strange – I personally feel she found it pleasant – that she somehow made up her mind to forget the details. She had no answers to give, so the Reverend and Mrs Edwards found her guilty of this enormous sin. A child of twelve. She was shut away in the darkest room of the house, with bread and water, for two days. When they let her out, she still had nothing to tell them. But, by then, I should imagine she really had closed off part of her mind, making sure she would never again recall it.’
‘You swear this is true?’ There had never been any hint. Charles’ thoughts went back to his wedding night, which Mildred had so enjoyed, and an odd remark came bouncing back over the years. She had become insatiable after the first time, and, in the early hours, Mildred, clinging naked to him, her legs wrapped around his body, had whispered, ‘Wouldn’t it be good in the open air? Under trees, in a wood.’
Could this dreadful childhood experience be responsible for the violent reaction she had shown towards Mary Anne?
‘There is a little more,’ the priest continued. ‘I believe I should tell you; though by rights I should not. I kept my counsel at the time, and have always felt it was right.’
‘Yes?’
‘About a week after the distressing business, a parishioner came to see me. A wise old man, versed in country lore, and the ways of village people. We talked, and he said something which revealed much. We spoke about the sights and sounds surrounding all men and women in remote communities, and he said, “Trouble is, vicar, the young folk see the beasts at it, and want to copy them. Is that wrong, vicar? God’s showing them. It’s natural. But they don’t always go about it right, even when they’re well schooled, even Vicar Edwards’ young lass and” – he mentioned the name of a local boy – “I see ’em trying, and they couldn’t get the hang of it”.’
Charles thanked the man, and talked longer than he intended. The next morning he visited Mildred’s doctor and told him the whole extraordinary tale. A week afterwards, the doctor talked to him at length, saying he had no doubt that Mildred had gone through an early sexual experience which she had found pleasant, though it weighed her with guilt. ‘I doubt if she’ll ever allow herself to remember it. The mind is an odd thing. Memory plays tricks. I think, if she could bring herself to recall that childhood experience, it would be good for her.’
This had not happened by the first week of October, when Charles received the shattering telephone call from Madeline Drew, saying she was back in England. She had to see him immediately.
*
They met, as arranged, in a small café in Knightsbridge, and the moment Charles saw her he knew he was lost.
‘What are you doing back here?’
‘Charles.’ Her eyes fixed on him like moonbeams, open, honest, fat with love and desire, deadly as a searchlight to a Zeppelin. ‘Oh, Charles, I’ve been so afraid. I’ve missed you terribly.’
‘When did you arrive? How? I shall have to make a report, and you’ll be looked after. They’ll want to question you…’
‘No,’ throaty. ‘Not yet. It’s not safe. I need somewhere to be alone with you; to talk.’
It was eight in the evening. Happily for him, Charles never had to explain to Mildred where he was going, if called out unexpectedly at night. She had said she intended to go to bed early. Mildred had seen the doctor – Harcourt, a sound Harley Street man – that afternoon. When Charles had left Cheyne Walk she looked tired.
‘I know of one or two places to rent.’ Recently, he had spent four days, out and about with another officer, looking for what they now called safe houses, of which they were in great need.
They had purchased three places out of the twelve or so viewed. One of the rejected properties was the second storey of a large house in Hans Crescent going for a reasonable rent, fully furnished, and ready to be occupied immediately. The owners, who lived on the gr
ound floor, would remember him, and know his business was official.
They ate a simple meal; then Charles took her to Hans Crescent. The arrangements were made, with Charles paying a month in advance. He stressed the official nature of the letting to the owner, mentioning the Official Secrets Act. The owner, a retired major, veteran of South Africa, understood perfectly.
‘This is purely temporary,’ Charles told her.
‘We shall see, darling Charles. Now, please, please, take me to bed before I die.’
So, he did as she said, and the relief was so great that all thought of immediately reporting the circumstances was placed on low simmer at the back of his mind. He should have known better, even then. Already Charles had broken all the rules of his trade. By rights, he should have marched Madeline to safety and telephoned Vernon Kell, the moment he clapped eyes on her. Now every minute was borrowed time. There is no doubt that Charles was not just foolish, but plain stupid in what he did. But a man led by the genitals has little conscience.
He bade her not to go out; and visited on the next evening, determined to get at the truth. Nicolai had ordered her back she confessed, and although she had obeyed Charles and stayed in the flat, it was essential that she should go out the following morning. Her German masters expected her to keep meetings with two men in London. She could supply information to Charles. ‘It’ll be good intelligence about the current number of agents in England and France. I promise you that, my darling. But, if you report the source, or the fact that I’m back, all will be lost. They suspect me in any case, and they’re good. Darling, they’ll hunt me down wherever you hide me. They’ll kill me,’ and her eyes changed, the fear of a child in the dark. ‘Please, until I’ve reassured them, don’t report to your Mr Vernon.’
So he lay with her, naked in the bed, and felt his manhood and self-respect begin to return.
Mildred was awake, in bed, when he got back to Cheyne Walk that night. She was friendlier, and even asked if there was any news of Mary Anne. ‘The doctor seems to be doing wonders for my nerves,’ a smile, unusual for Mildred. ‘He’s been asking the strangest questions about when I was a child – at the Parsonage. Why should he do that, Charles?’
He shook his head. ‘Some of the questions asked by doctors are beyond me.’
That night, Mildred dreamed she was lying under a cathedral of trees, and a young man, with Pan’s face, leaned over her, scrabbling at her clothing as she whirled among the earth and leaves, ripping her dress. She awoke to find the top sheet was torn, and she had a broken fingernail.
On the next day, Charles heard that they were still receiving Seagull’s messages, sent from Berlin to Switzerland.
‘You’ve been having me on a piece of string,’ his voice raised at her for the first time. ‘Madeline, you’re still working for them. The Seagull signals are coming in more regularly than ever. You fool, Madeline, there’s little I can do to save you now…’
‘And what happens to you, my darling?’ There was no trace of threat in her voice. ‘You’ve kept me here. I’ve already passed information to you. They’ll have you in prison for assisting the enemy. Probably shoot you. If you had gone to your people straight away, it would have been different. You’ve left it too late. Don’t you see, my darling, we’re in the same boat. My masters threaten me; yours will stop you in your tracks.’
‘I know where my duty lies.’
‘Do you? We can help each other, and enjoy one another at the same time. Our respective masters can be kept happy. Nobody need ever know. Then, when it’s over, we can come to an arrangement.’
‘Madeline, my dear. I’m a Railton…’
‘So is our daughter.’
His jaw dropped, and the colour went from his face.
Madeline Drew gently explained the situation, with the aid of photographs she had brought with her. In an hypnotic horror he stared at the pictures. Even though the child was so tiny, the Railton characteristics were plain for all to see.
When Charles left the Hans Crescent house that night, he did not even see the two Special Branch officers, in the shadows across the road.
*
October rolled into November, and then December. On the Western Front the guns stifled silence. Men died, and hung on barbed wire. Villages changed hands. Earth was fought over, won, and then recaptured. The uncertain weather that had persisted all summer began to change, and winter was upon them.
On a November night, Giles, his head stuffed with secrets and intrigues, came down from the Hide, where he had been moving Napoleon’s forces in the early stages of Waterloo, and saw Denise, caught in the lamp light as she tidied the drawing room. She was rapidly growing into a beautiful young woman.
‘Sit down for a minute, my dear.’ Giles smiled fondly at his granddaughter.
‘What do you wish, Grandpapa?’ She spoke English well. ‘I’ve been thinking.’ He smiled. ‘Are you happy, here?’
‘Oh yes. I am safe. I have everything I want, and the family are so good to me. Think, Grandpapa, I am to be Sara’s bridesmaid at Christmas. It’s so exciting.’
He nodded. ‘I wondered,’ a pause to the count of six. ‘I wondered if – say, next year, you might like to do me a favour.’
‘Anything.’
‘Would you like to go back to France, for a few weeks? Just to deliver some messages to friends of mine.’
‘If you say I must.’
‘We’ll see. We’ll talk about it again.’
*
Sara Railton was married, in the Parish Church of SS Peter and Paul, Haversage, to Captain Richard Farthing RFC, on 23 December 1915. In order to show economy, and with a complete disregard for superstition, she wore the dress in which she had been married to John Railton, a fact which caused a deep division of argument among locals and family.
On the night before the wedding, Dick stayed at the Bear Hotel in Haversage, and had a small dinner party to which all the Railton men were invited. All accepted, apart from Giles and Malcolm. They made reasonable excuses, but everyone knew they would be closeted, together with Bridget, in The General’s study for most of the evening. There, though nobody was to know, they came to certain strategic decisions which were to affect the Irish situation during the coming year.
Andrew got drunk at the dinner, and Charles – looking a little peaky, everyone said – had to put him to bed. Charles was to be Dick’s best man on the following day, as no Farthings had been able to make the journey to Europe. In his speech at the dinner, Dick said he made no apologies for the fact that James should really have been his best man, and they all remained silent for a minute’s prayer and hope that James might still be alive.
Certainly Margaret Mary was still convinced of her husband’s safety. She was to be Matron of Honour, with Denise as bridesmaid. It was easy enough to make it a happy occasion, though Sara was a shade cross when Caspar arrived and almost stole the thunder, by announcing that he and Phoebe would need a double room as they had been married, in secrecy, the previous week.
Billy Crook and Bob Berry had contrived leave, and the whole town turned out.
Even Mildred looked better, though few had the temerity to mention Mary Anne.
The couple left Redhill late in the afternoon to spend their Christmas quietly at a hotel near Torquay. This left the Railtons in command of the Manor for their own traditional Christmas festivities. For the second year running, Giles took over The General’s study, and played little part in the holiday games. Yet he also thought much about James Railton.
*
They had kept him in the same cell, in the place where they had taken him immediately after his arrest in Wilmersdorf.
For the first week there had been little sleep. The questioners came in teams, with about one hour’s rest between the interrogations. James did as he had been instructed, and told the story about really being Gustav Franke but working for a Swiss firm under the name of Grabben.
They made no physical threats. He was not charged with e
spionage. Then, after a week, they simply left him alone.
Every other day they marched him along stone corridors, into a yard so that he could walk for an hour. This was always done at three in the afternoon, rain or shine.
James started to learn the art of remaining sane under these solitary conditions. He scratched the days off, with a thumbnail, on one of the softer stones of the cell wall. He kept to a rigid routine, including modified physical jerks in the small, cold room. Each morning, he quoted as much Shakespeare as he could remember. Each afternoon he flew, in his mind, taking an aircraft up from Farnborough, and flying precise distances, closing his eyes, and going through the entire business, exercising his thoughts. At night, he worked on his German and French.
They would allow him no paper or writing materials, so all things had to be performed within himself. Eventually, he knew, they would come back to question him.
He did not know it was Christmas Eve – though he was aware that the festival was near at hand – when the Judas squint slid open and closed at an unusual time, early in the morning, almost before he was up and about. They had opened it normally only half an hour before.
James was intrigued; memories suddenly came back unheralded, and a scent seemed to have penetrated the cell. It was pleasant, the scent of spring flowers, and he knew it from somewhere, but could not quite put his mind on it.
*
Major Nicolai waited at the prison, early that morning of Christmas Eve when the woman arrived. He showed great courtesy, and they had coffee together in a small office before he took her deep into the bowels of the fortress.
It was a damp and miserable place. Later, she thought to herself that it smelled of despair.
Walter Nicolai and Steinhauer had both explained what would be done, and they stopped in front of the cell door. She positioned herself directly in front of the Judas squint. When she was ready, she nodded.
It took about three seconds. She nodded again, and the little metal door was closed.
Within minutes, she faced Nicolai – alone – in the same office in the main building.