That was all they had, until just before luncheon when Thomson summoned them. ‘Hall’s sent me something which might be of interest. They’ve had it, under miscellaneous, for a few days. A wireless signal, repeated every hour on the hour for a whole day – last Wednesday. It’s a cipher they’ve used before.’ He tossed the transcript onto the desk. The decode read: ATTENTION ANGLER***ATTENTION ANGLER
GO STRAIGHT TO DUBLIN AND CONTACT D2 WHO
HAS WORK FOR YOU. ST.
‘St?’ Charles raised an eyebrow. ‘We know him, I think.’
‘Friend Steinhauer,’ supplied Wood.
‘And who’s D2?’
‘A rolling code name for a Sinn Feiner. All-purpose contact. The Hun’s used that contact code a dozen times before, so “Blinker” tells me.’
‘So our man’s in Ireland?’
‘Possibly. Wait events, we’ve got people there already on the watch. In the meantime, we make sure all ports, particularly the Irish boats, keep a lookout for your limping blond giant.’
Over luncheon, Charles asked if Brian Wood could ‘have a peep in the DORA-related files. Name of Fisher. A doctor with consulting rooms in Wimpole Street. Or see if he’s got an account with any of your people.’
The answer came back before the afternoon was out. Fisher was untouchable. Aged forty-three. Henry Fisher. ‘Respectable. Well thought-of, if you can think well of a quack who’s a soft touch for fashionable ladies who need calming down – laudanum; morphine; cocaine, that kind of thing. Wealthy. Respectable. Something we should know, sir?’
‘Don’t think so,’ but Wood did not like the edge to Charles’ voice. Later he told Basil Thomson that Mr Railton sounded, ‘exceptionally worried.’
*
They had told Padraig O’Connell to be in the bar near the pier at Kingstown, promptly at eight-thirty. He was there at eight-twenty-nine and the big fellow was sitting in the corner, one leg shoved straight out in front, as though it did not belong to him.
Padraig got himself a drink, looked around casually, to make sure there was nobody in the place to make him nervous, then walked towards the man who was wearing boots, dark trousers and short jacket, with a high-necked black pullover.
‘Off the boats are you, then?’ he asked.
‘I work them when I feel like it.’
‘Ah, and do you feel like it now?’ He had changed little, Padraig thought.
‘I’ll do anything for an honest wage.’
Both men were ‘established’ as they would have said among C’s people, and did say in Nicolai’s training school.
Padraig sat talking for the best part of half an hour. They exchanged drinks, and when he left, there was a copy of the Independent on the table.
The big man picked it up and looked at it, casually glancing through the pages. At the bottom of the In Memoriam section, someone had written in pencil: Railton. Malcolm and Bridget. Loving husband and wife. Glen Devil Farm, Co. Wicklow. Requiescat in Pace.
*
‘Reggie Hall’s too clever for his own good.’ Kell smiled, bearing no malice.
They had met as arranged, at his own home, and now, after dinner, sat in the chief of MI5’s study. Charles had taken an hour to outline the large amount of information, available to Hall and the Branch, which was not on file with the Firm.
‘First, I must thank you,’ Kell continued, ‘second, I really don’t think it’s going to make all that much difference. Hall’s got all these special facilities, though I don’t know if I can really condone the search of Casement’s private apartments. Much good will it do him.’ Which went to show that even Vernon Kell could sometimes be wrong.
‘I just don’t trust the Branch or the Admiralty.’
‘I never have.’ Kell twitched his moustache. ‘But, then, I don’t really trust C’s Boy Scouts either. Must be difficult for you, Charles, with relations littering our secret houses.’
‘It’s my jolly uncle Giles who bothers me.’
Kell grunted, ‘I always thought Giles Railton was born out of his time. Really should’ve been plotting for or against popes, helping to run one of Machiavelli’s agents out of Florence. Fifteenth century, that’s where Giles belongs. You know he’s offered me relations of yours in Ireland?’
‘Offered…?’
‘Your cousin – his son – together with his bride. He’s been running them privately for some time. C tells me your uncle Giles appears to be divesting himself of property, mostly personal informants and agents in the field.’
‘Malcolm?’ Charles could hardly believe it.
‘And Bridget,’ Kell sighed. ‘I’m hauling them in as soon as possible. If they want to stay on as freelance, well and good, but I have no use for them on the payroll.’
‘Unless Uncle’s actually penetrated Sinn Fein.’
‘He hinted as much, but I’ll believe it when I see it.’
*
The cold felt as though an infestation of vicious mites had burrowed into his pores. There was no snow, but the ground was like steel under the horse’s hooves, and the last light was just going.
Malcolm hoped his wife had at least warm soup in the house, for there had been little time to eat that day, and the weather had made the ride from Dublin twice as long as usual.
He cut off the main road so that he could approach the farm from behind. Long since, they had discussed a whole series of signals when either of them was out of the house; and now, as he came up the rise and saw the white stone building below, Malcolm felt a churning of his stomach.
When he had first come to Ireland, his refusal to become involved in any of his father’s work was firm; a decision taken for Bridget’s sake and not just his own; only when he discovered the old intriguer had enticed his wife into the web did Malcolm relent. Even the final decision was put off until he discovered that Bridget had, before their first meeting, been on almost kissing-cousin terms with many who were now dedicated Sinn Fein activists.
In the beginning he had wanted Bridget kept out of the whole business, but, within months, the impossibility became all too apparent. They had worked for a number of years now as a good team, sometimes playing off one another to Padraig O’Connell, their contact, and the faceless men who were Padraig’s puppeteers. There were times when they even laughed at the fact that Padraig O’Connell was blackmailing each of them with threats – one against the other.
They had learned as the years passed; learned caution, care and watchfulness. When one or the other was left alone at Glen Devil Farm, the day was punctuated with certain actions which would immediately signal to the returning partner that all was well.
The lamp he could see burning on the rear landing window now should be to the left; it was set far over to the right. In the fast fading light, Malcolm could also see that the churns were still in a row, while the second bedroom shutters were still closed. The churns should have been moved at three that afternoon; the second bedroom shutters would be opened at noon. The door of the big shed to the right of the house was propped open with a large stone. Under normal safety signals it should have been closed by two o’clock.
Over the past few weeks, he had taken to carrying a loaded pistol with him. Twice, some sixth sense had given him the scent of danger – a look in Padraig’s eyes; a half-heard conversation about armed rebellion. Now, he reached down and pulled the Luger 08, a 7.65 mm version, from the ‘poacher’s pocket’ of his riding coat. Carefully he edged the big grey, ‘Bracken’, down below the skyline and tethered him, speaking softly to the horse. Then Malcolm crested the rise again, keeping low, his face suddenly stung by a flurry of sleet.
He knew all the approaches to the farm, having walked them hundreds of times, winter and summer, and chose the western edge of the valley, for it had always been the danger spot – no windows to that side, only the two gables like a great misshapen black ‘M’, and plenty of scrubby cover on the slope. If there were ever trouble at the farm, Malcolm knew a lookout would have to be posted in the
yard itself in order to spot anyone making their way down the western slope.
As well as the incorrectly placed lamp, at least two other lights burned in the house – the one in the hall, and another in their main living quarters: even in the bad light, and through the increasing sleet, he could see the diffused shafts of illumination, blurred across the stable yard. At twenty yards from the house, he automatically pushed his thumb up and forward, taking off the safety catch of the German weapon.
At ten yards, and again at five, he stood for a few seconds, ears straining for sounds, his eyes stinging in the gloom as he searched the ground for movement.
When he reached the cover of the blank gabled end of the house, Malcolm waited again, listening. Something was very wrong, for at this time of day there would normally be movement – Bridget had been left, that morning, with the two trusted farm hands, and there should be sound from the yard, or inside the house, even on a bitter dirty night like this.
As silently as possible, staying close to the wall, he moved along the rear of the house, squirming under the window line at the rear, and then the far side. He reached the eastern gable, one silent step at a time, moving towards the front of the house. He could see the yard clearly in the light flowing from the doorway and living room windows. The door was open, still no sounds of life, no movement.
He could hear his heart thudding in his ears, and realized that his breathing was irregular and his muscles tense as wound springs. Fear, he realized as he felt the hair still crawl at the nape of his neck, even in the intense cold.
With his back against the front wall, Malcolm edged towards the first front window, squinting in at an angle. Nothing. Nobody. The table was not laid, the fire smouldered, low, as though nobody had tended it for at least an hour. He squirmed under the window and squinted from the other side. Still nobody. He could see into the unlit kitchen. No shadows, no sign of life. He went under the second window. The same. Then he reached the open door, stepping as silently as he could into the beam of light, the pistol close to his hip, ready.
The hall was empty, the hanging lamp lit, and the small oil lamp burning, trimmed, on the oak table next to the settle they had bought at Norton’s last sale in Wicklow Town.
He took a pace into the hall, pistol up, kicking the door closed behind him. The noise seemed deafening, then dwindled. He thought he heard a creak from upstairs, just the slightest noise, like a soft footfall on a dry board. Reaching out with his left hand, Malcolm picked up the oil lamp and, with the pistol ever ready, and his body braced for sudden action, he started to move through each room of the house.
It took a long time to cover the ground floor, for he paused every few seconds, listening for sounds, eyes hunting the dark corners for shadows. His intuition told him that Bridget was still somewhere here, and that there was at least one other person lurking in the house. As he approached the bottom of the stairs, he recalled an old man in Ashford talking about Glen Devil Farm, just after he had bought it. The old man said it was haunted, and, up to now, Malcolm had dismissed the idea with a laugh.
Half way up the stairs he distinctly heard another creak, this time as though a door had opened. There was light – from the wrongly placed lamp – on the landing and he stood, for a full minute, near the main bedroom door, lowering the oil lamp in his left hand, still listening, his back to the wall.
Another creak, from inside the bedroom he thought; then a tiny fluttering which could have been birds in a chimney. Slowly, he unlatched the bedroom door and kicked it open. The hinges squealed in pain as the door swung inwards, and from below came another, louder, creak – a footfall? the fabric of the house showing resentment at the cold?
A gust of wind carrying more sleet, hit the bedroom window with a splatter as he stepped into the room, the lamp held high again, casting shadows this time – across the big bed; a shining in Bridget’s dressing table mirror, making odd, star-patterned reflections; the huge black bulk of the wardrobe.
He took a step towards the bed, and heard, close at hand, a distinct sound; a settling crack, from the high oak wardrobe.
Lifting the lamp high, Malcolm turned slowly to view the entire, empty, room, and heard the crack again so walked to the wardrobe, his right hand still clutching the pistol reached out and turned the knob.
The door seemed to hesitate, then bulge. He jerked and it swung open to reveal a moment of unique horror, a nightmare, unreal, unbelievable – Bridget’s face, seemingly suspended, glowing a terrible unnatural blue, her lovely eyes now dull, but staring, popping from her head, her tongue which had so often caressed the inside of his mouth, protruding, her lips drawn back in a ghastly grin, and below, a slash of white where her neck should be, pulling her chin up at an odd angle.
Malcolm screamed aloud, stepped back and saw her, standing for a snatch of time, inside the wardrobe, before she began to pitch forward. His right hand went up as though trying to defend himself, across the upper part of his body, at exactly the moment when ‘The Fisherman’ threw his second white scarf over Malcolm’s head.
The scarf trapped his right wrist against his face, and automatically, Malcolm’s brain told him to use it to advantage. Stop the silk getting to his own throat.
There were three distinct sounds – the flopping noise of Bridget’s body hitting the bare boards of the bedroom floor, the crash of the pistol flying from his hand, hitting the side of the wardrobe, and the tiny explosion as the oil lamp went down to the left.
Then it was all sweat, struggle, smell and fire.
It oddly did not really dawn on Malcolm, until the end, that he was fighting for his life. The smells were a mixture of paraffin oil, burning, garlic, wet serge and excrement (somehow he connected the last with Bridget). Whoever was at his back hauled on the piece of silk with great strength, but Malcolm, stocky like his uncle The General, and with muscles now strong from the years of labour on the farm, heaved back with the one arm that prevented the material slipping onto his throat.
He felt something hard in his back, as though the assailant had lifted a knee, to give himself better purchase. Malcolm allowed himself to be pulled back, then brought all of his weight forward, kicking back at the same time. His ankle hit something hard, like wood, and he felt the attacker begin to falter as though losing his balance.
Malcolm consolidated, kicking again and hooking his outer arm round the silk, hauling forward and then moving his upper body to the left.
He heard a grunt and felt the pressure relax as his attacker began to lose balance. He was aware of the flames now, starting to gain hold on wood and the fabric of the bedroom curtains, beginning to dance and send great awesome shadows over the grim scene. He could feel the heat, and smoke began to reach his lungs. Tiny hands clawed at the inside of his throat.
The white strand of silk slid away, fluttering in the air, almost slowly, and his assailant fell heavily – a big man, dressed in black – half his body rolling into the lapping crimson flames.
Malcolm lashed out with his right boot, felt it connect somewhere near the man’s head, heard the grunt of pain, and kicked again. The man lay face down. Still.
For a second, he thought of trying to get Bridget from the house, then gave up the idea. The heat was getting worse by the second, and some clothing in the wardrobe had caught, sending up white smoke. Save yourself, he almost said it aloud, spotting the Luger right on the edge of the flames, grabbing at it, sensing the pain as he plucked it up, hot from the fire.
As he dashed down the stairs, he thought he could hear the man struggling in the bedroom, but he did not look back, or even think of the possibility that more than one person was in the house. The fact of Bridget’s death, and the sudden shock, had not yet reached him. In his present condition Malcolm was aware only that somehow the Brotherhood had discovered Bridget and himself as informers. His only object was to get clear, escape, and he had no idea where he could hide. If they found that he had not died like Bridget, nowhere in Ireland would be safe. Run to D
ublin, and pray he could make the sanctuary of the Castle. It was the one firm thought in his head as he climbed the rise, panting, half running, aware that the wind had started to howl, and the sleet was driving like showers of needles.
‘Bracken’ whinnied, on the far side of the rise, and, before Malcolm crested the top, he glanced back to see the sky a dull red, and Glen Devil Farm gushing smoke, with a great plume of blood-coloured flame spearing from the roof.
He did not see the big man, coughing and wheezing, stagger from the door, his right cheek seared with a burn, and his clothing smouldering. Yet even in this state, ‘The Fisherman’ stopped for a moment to curse Malcolm; then he lumbered forward, to dowse his clothes in the horse trough, still cursing – the weather, Malcolm, luck, and his own folly of complacence and ill timing.
He should not have been so foolish with the woman, he knew now, as the icy water soaked into the serge of his jacket. The sex just was not worth it. It was the same with the MacGregor woman, except that she was a willing partner.
‘The Fisherman’ swore again, and, somewhere above the wind and unearthly sound of the fire, an animal howled in the woods.
Chapter Four
Denise Grenot had become operational. C decided she would be better with the older established Frankignoul network. She was taken to Holland, and given what instruction was necessary at one of the network’s houses in Maastricht, for most of the reports came into this centre directly from Lanaken, just across the border in Belgium.
A tram ran between Maastricht and Lanaken, and this was the main route of the couriers. At the end of January, Denise made her first run, going into Belgium on a Monday morning and returning, on the Thursday, with a large amount of detailed information, both in her head and on paper.
The information she brought back on that particular day was vital to the spring battle-plan. But neither the French Staff nor the War Office took note of it. C even doubted if it was ever passed on to either French or Haig, let alone Lord Kitchener.