Munich

1

It took Legat a few moments to work out where he was.

His narrow mattress was hard; the room was not much larger than the metal bed frame. Regency striped wallpaper. A ceiling that sloped steeply at an angle of nearly forty-five degrees. No window. Instead a skylight directly above his head through which he found himself squinting at low grey cloud. Seagulls whirled across it like litter in the wind. It reminded him of a seaside boarding house.

He groped around the bedside table and opened his pocket watch. A quarter to nine. The Prime Minister had kept him up fetching documents for his speech until nearly three. Afterwards he had lain awake for hours. He must have fallen asleep just before dawn. He felt as if someone had rubbed grit in his eyes.

He threw off the sheet and blanket and swung his feet to the floor.

He was wearing a pair of duck-egg blue pyjamas from Gieves & Hawkes that Pamela had given him for his birthday. Over these he pulled a plaid dressing gown. Sponge bag in hand he opened the door and inspected the corridor. There were three bedrooms crammed into the attic of Number 10 for staff who had to be on call throughout the night. As far as he could tell he was the only occupant.

The pale green Ministry of Works linoleum was clammy underfoot. It flowed along the passage and into the bathroom. He pulled the light-cord. Again, no window. He had to run the tap for more than a minute before the water turned lukewarm. While he waited he placed a hand on either side of the basin and leaned towards the mirror. Increasingly these days the face he shaved was his father’s. A face from a sepia photograph: manly, resolute, oddly innocent. All that was lacking was the large dark moustache. He lathered his face with soap.

Back in his room he put on a clean shirt and threaded his cufflinks. He knotted his purple and dark-blue striped Balliol tie. Behold the Third Secretary! It was five years to the day since he had looked in the back pages of The Times and discovered the list of successful candidates in the 1933 Diplomatic Service Entrance Examinations. The names were printed in order of marks achieved: Legat, Reilly, Creswell, Shuckburgh, Gore-Booth, Grey, Malcom, Hogg … He had read it several times before it sank in. He had come top. A few lines of newsprint had turned him from an Oxford graduate with a first-class degree in Mods and Greats into a man of the world, an official high-flyer. He would be an Ambassador certainly; possibly even Permanent Under-Secretary. Everybody said so. Two days later, still in a state of euphoria, he had proposed to Pamela, and to his amazement she had accepted. If anything, her fantasies had outstripped his own. She would be Lady Legat. She would preside elegantly and effortlessly over receptions at the Paris Embassy in the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré … They had both behaved like children. It had been madness. And now the world had grown old and ugly around them.

By the time he was fully dressed it was nine o’clock. There were six hours left until Hitler’s ultimatum expired.

He went in search of breakfast.

The narrow stairs led down to a landing outside the Prime Minister’s flat, and from there to the anteroom next to Chamberlain’s study. His intention was to slip out to the Lyons Corner House near Trafalgar Square – he could be there and back in thirty minutes – but before he could reach the main staircase he heard a door open behind him and a woman’s voice called out, ‘Mr Legat! Good morning!’

He stopped and turned to face her. ‘Good morning, Mrs Chamberlain.’

Her costume was funereal, charcoal grey and black, with a necklace of large beads of jet. ‘Did you manage to get some sleep?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Come and have some breakfast.’

‘I was just about to go out.’

‘Don’t be silly. We always give the duty secretary breakfast.’ She peered at him myopically. ‘It’s Hugh, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. But really—’

‘Nonsense. There’s such a crowd gathering outside already. It will be much easier for you to eat here.’

She took his arm and gently tugged him after her. They passed through the state drawing rooms watched by various Whig and Tory statesmen, looking down their noses at them from heavy gilt frames. To his surprise she continued to hold on to him. They might have been fellow guests at a country-house weekend going in to dinner together. ‘I am so grateful for all that you young men do for my husband.’ Her tone was confiding. ‘You have no idea how much you lighten his burden. And don’t say you’re just doing your job – I know the personal cost of public service.’

She opened the door to the dining room. It was not the grand official one but the more intimate, wood-panelled room with a table for twelve. At the far end, reading The Times, was the Prime Minister. He looked up at his wife and smiled. ‘Good morning, my dear.’ He nodded at Legat. ‘Good morning.’ He resumed reading.

Mrs Chamberlain gestured to a side table where half a dozen dishes with silver covers were being kept warm on a hotplate. ‘Do please help yourself. Coffee?’

‘Thank you.’

She handed him a cup and went and sat next to the Prime Minister. Legat lifted the nearest cover. The greasy-sweet smell of the bacon reminded him how hungry he was. He went along the table filling his plate: scrambled eggs, mushrooms, sausages, black pudding. When he sat down, Mrs Chamberlain smiled at the size of his breakfast. ‘Are you married, Hugh?’

‘Yes, Mrs Chamberlain.’

‘Any children?’

‘A boy and a girl.’

‘Exactly the same as us. How old?’

‘They’re three and two.’

‘Oh, how wonderful! Ours are much older. Dorothy is twenty-seven – she was recently married. Frank is twenty-four. Do you like this coffee?’

Legat took a sip; it was disgusting. ‘It’s very good, thank you.’

‘I make it with chicory.’

The Prime Minister rustled his paper slightly and grunted. Mrs Chamberlain fell quiet and poured herself some tea. Legat resumed eating. For several minutes there was silence.

‘Ah, now this is interesting!’ The Prime Minister suddenly lifted his paper and folded it to the page he had been reading. ‘Could you make a note of this?’ Legat quickly put down his knife and fork and took out his notebook. ‘I shall need to write a letter to –’ he brought the small print up close to his eyes – ‘a Mr G. J. Scholey of 38 Dysart Avenue, Kingston-upon-Thames.’

‘Yes, Prime Minister.’ Legat was bewildered.

‘He has a letter to the editor printed: “In the spring of this year I was observing a blackbird with a nest of eggs in a steep bank. Upon my approach each day the sitting bird would allow me to observe her at a few feet distant. And then one morning her familiar figure was missing. On peering over the bank I found her four young chicks cold and lifeless in the nest. A thin trail of blackish breast feathers led me down the bank to a small bush, under which I discovered the mangled remains of my old blackbird. And, intermingled in that trail of blackbird’s feathers were a few others – those which could only have come from the breast and flanks of a little owl …”’ The Prime Minister tapped the paper with his finger. ‘I have observed exactly the same behaviour by the little owls at Chequers.’

Mrs Chamberlain said, ‘Oh, Neville, really! As if Hugh hasn’t got enough to do!’

Legat said, ‘Actually, I believe it was my grandfather on my mother’s side who helped introduce the little owl to the British Isles.’

‘Did he really?’ For the first time the Prime Minister looked at him with genuine interest.

‘Yes, he brought several pairs back with him from India.’

‘What year would this have been?’

‘I should think about 1880.’

‘So in barely more than fifty years, this little bird has spread all over southern England! That is something to celebrate.’

‘Not if you’re a blackbird, apparently,’ said Mrs Chamberlain. ‘Do you have time for a walk, Neville?’ She looked across the table at Legat. ‘We always take a walk together after breakfast.’

The Prime Minister put down his paper. ‘Yes, I need some air. But not the park, I’m afraid – not today. There are too many people. It will have to be the garden. Why don’t you come with us … Hugh?’

He followed the Chamberlains as they descended the grand staircase arm in arm. When they reached the Private Secretaries’ corridor, the Prime Minister turned round to Legat. ‘Would you mind just checking whether there’s been a reply from Rome to my telegram last night?’

‘Of course, Prime Minister.’

They continued on to the Cabinet Room while Legat ducked into his office. Miss Watson was behind her wall of files.

‘Has the Foreign Office messenger been over yet?’

‘Not that I’ve seen.’

He checked with Syers, who said, ‘They don’t normally show up till eleven. How was last night?’

‘This morning, you mean.’

‘Christ. How are you feeling?’

‘Bloody awful.’

‘And the PM?’

‘Fresh as a daisy.’

‘Irritating, isn’t it? I don’t know how he does it.’

Cleverly was in his office, dictating a letter to his secretary. Legat put his head round the door. ‘Excuse me, sir. Has a telegram come in from the Rome embassy this morning? The Prime Minister wants to know.’

‘I haven’t seen anything. Why? What is he expecting?’

‘He wrote to Lord Perth late last night.’

‘About what?’

‘Instructing him to ask Mussolini to intervene with Hitler.’

Cleverly looked alarmed. ‘But that wasn’t authorised at Cabinet. Does the Foreign Secretary know?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Not sure? It’s your job to be sure!’ He reached for the telephone. Legat took advantage of his distraction to escape.

Inside the Cabinet Room, one of the doors to the terrace was open. The Chamberlains had already descended the steps and were strolling across the lawn. Legat hurried after them.

‘No reply from Rome yet, Prime Minister.’

‘You are sure it was sent?’

‘Definitely. I stood in the cipher room and watched it go.’

‘Well then, we shall just have to be patient.’

The Chamberlains resumed their walk. Legat felt awkward. He was conscious of Cleverly standing at his office window, talking on the telephone, watching him. Nevertheless, he fell in behind them. The weather was still mild and gloomy, the big trees turning brown. Drifts of fallen leaves lay across the damp grass and the flower beds. From beyond the high wall came the sound of traffic. The Prime Minister stopped beside a bird table. From his pocket he pulled a piece of toast he had taken from the rack at breakfast. He broke it into pieces and laid them out carefully, then stepped back and folded his arms. He brooded.

‘What a day this promises to be,’ he said quietly. ‘You know, I would gladly stand up against that wall and be shot if only I could prevent war.’

‘Neville – really – please don’t say such things!’ Mrs Chamberlain looked as if she were about to burst into tears.

The Prime Minister said to Legat, ‘You were too young to fight in the last war, and I was too old. In some ways that made it worse.’ He glanced up at the sky. ‘It was an absolute agony to me to see such suffering and to be so powerless. Three-quarters of a million men killed from this country alone. Imagine it! And it wasn’t just they who suffered, but their parents and their wives and children, their families, their friends … Afterwards, whenever I saw a war memorial, or visited one of those vast cemeteries in France where so many dear friends are buried, I always vowed that if ever I was in a position to prevent such a catastrophe from happening again, I would do anything – sacrifice anything – to maintain peace. You can understand that?’

‘Of course.’

‘This is sacred to me.’

‘I understand.’

‘And it all happened only twenty years ago!’ He fixed Legat with a gaze almost fanatical in its intensity. ‘It’s not simply that this country is militarily and psychologically unprepared for war – that can be remedied – we are remedying it. It’s rather that I truly fear for the spiritual health of our people if they don’t see their leaders doing absolutely everything they can to prevent a second great conflict. Because of one thing I can assure you: if it comes, the next war will be infinitely worse than the last, and they will require great fortitude to survive it.’

Suddenly, he turned on his heel and started marching back across the lawn to Number 10. Mrs Chamberlain stared helplessly at Legat for a moment, then went after him. ‘Neville!’ The energy of the old man was more than merely remarkable, thought Legat: it was disconcerting. The Prime Minister trotted up the dozen steps to the terrace and disappeared into the Cabinet Room. His wife was not far behind.

Legat followed at a distance. On the terrace he stopped. Through the open door he could see the Chamberlains embracing. The Prime Minister was stroking her back in reassurance. After a while he stepped away slightly. He held her by the shoulders and stared at her intently. Legat couldn’t see her face. ‘Go on, Annie,’ he said gently. He smiled at her, brushed something from her cheek. ‘We’ll be all right.’ She nodded and left without turning round.

The Prime Minister beckoned Legat into the room. He pulled a chair out from the Cabinet table. ‘Sit down,’ he ordered.

Legat sat.

Chamberlain stayed on his feet. He patted his inside pockets, pulled out a cigar case, tipped out a cigar and snipped off the end with his thumb. He struck a match and lit the cigar, sucking at it until it was well alight. With a vigorous shake of his hand he extinguished the match and threw it into an ashtray. ‘Take this down.’

Legat reached for a sheet of headed notepaper, pen and ink.

‘To Reich Chancellor Adolf Hitler …’

His nib scratched across the paper.

‘After reading your letter I feel certain that you can get all essentials without war and without delay.’ Legat waited. The Prime Minister paced up and down behind him. ‘I am ready to come to Berlin myself at once to discuss arrangements for transfer with you and representatives of the Czech Government …’ He paused until he saw Legat had caught up. ‘… together with representatives of France and Italy if you desire. I feel convinced that we could reach agreement in a week.’

At the end of the room the door opened and Horace Wilson slipped in. He nodded to the Prime Minister and took a seat in the far corner of the table. Chamberlain resumed.

‘I cannot believe that you will take the responsibility of starting a world war which may end civilisation, for the sake of a few days’ delay in settling this long-standing problem.’ He stopped.

Legat glanced round at him. ‘Is that it, Prime Minister?’

‘That’s it. Sign it with my name, and have it sent care of Sir Nevile Henderson in Berlin.’ He turned to Wilson. ‘All right?’

‘Excellent.’

Legat began to stand.

Chamberlain said, ‘Wait. There’s another. This one is to Signor Mussolini.’ He took a few more puffs on his cigar. ‘I have today addressed a last appeal to Herr Hitler to abstain from force to settle the Sudeten problem, which, I feel sure, can be settled by a short discussion and will give him the essential territory, population and protection for both Sudetens and Czechs during transfer. I have offered myself to go at once to Berlin to discuss arrangements with German and Czech representatives, and if the Chancellor desires, representatives also of Italy and France.’

Across the table, Legat could see Wilson nodding slowly.

The Prime Minister continued. ‘I trust Your Excellency will inform the German Chancellor that you are willing to be represented and urge him to agree to my proposal which will keep all our peoples out of war. I have already guaranteed that Czech promises shall be carried out and feel confident full agreement could be reached in a week.’

Wilson said, ‘Are you going to inform the Cabinet?’

‘No.’

‘Is that constitutional?’

‘I don’t know, and frankly at this stage, what does it matter? Either this will work and everyone will be too relieved afterwards to quibble, or it won’t and they will be too busy trying on gas masks to care.’ He said to Legat, ‘Will you take those over to the Foreign Office and make sure they are dispatched at once?’

‘Of course, Prime Minister.’ He gathered the papers together.

‘At any rate,’ Chamberlain resumed to Wilson, ‘my conscience will be clear. The world will see I have done everything humanly possible to avoid war. The responsibility from now on rests solely with Hitler.’

Legat quietly closed the door.