Shadows of War

May 1940

34

Extracts from Lieutenant Dieter von Hertenberg’s Diary

2 May 1940

I nearly died this afternoon.

We have spent a week planning the exercise, and by and large it went very well. We used a stretch of the Moselle which is supposed to look a lot like the Meuse near Sedan, our objective in the first week of the offensive. It’s a fast-flowing river, especially now with the snow melting so late this year, and there are steep banks on the western side. The exercise started at 1000 with artillery bombardment, air assaults from Stukas, and infantry crossing the river in dinghies. They established a bridgehead and then the engineers set up a pontoon bridge. It was quite a sight to see them constructing it in such difficult circumstances. Of course it will be infinitely worse under enemy fire, but our engineers are brave men who know what they are doing.

Once the bridge was constructed the first of our Panzers rolled across.

Just as the exercise was coming to the end, I drove out on to the middle of the bridge with General Guderian. I was having a cigarette and watching the infantry’s dinghies make their way back to the eastern shore, when I heard a shout, and a splash. A man had fallen in. The current was swift and he was quickly swept down towards the bridge. He clearly couldn’t swim.

I can swim. Without thinking very hard I dropped my belt, kicked off my boots and jumped off the bridge to intercept him.

The cold was extraordinary. I’ve swum in what I thought were cold lakes before, but nothing like this. The breath seemed to leave my body instantly, and I was numb. I forced myself to focus on the soldier, who was only metres away. His arms were flailing and he was going under.

I just managed to reach him, and tried to get him to keep still while I kept his head above water. I was already thirty metres downstream from the pontoon, but his colleagues were paddling furiously with the current after us.

The man wouldn’t stop struggling. I don’t think he knew what he was doing, but he pushed me underwater so that he could try to keep his own head high. I went down, and fought for air. The bastard was going to drown me!

I took in one gulp of freezing water, forced my head up for air, and then he pushed me down again. I tried to keep my mouth shut, but there was water in my lungs and I knew I couldn’t hold out any longer. Then arms grabbed my shoulders and dragged me upwards. A moment later I was in the dinghy, choking.

Afterwards, the infantryman thanked me. But he was embarrassed. We both knew he had nearly killed me.

The exercise was a success according to the general, and I think he is right. We are ready now. After the exercises in the Eifel Mountains, we know we can organize ourselves to cross the Ardennes forests and hills, and we can bridge the Meuse at Sedan when we get there. Morale is high; we have faith in Guderian’s leadership, and in our own tactics. Keep moving. Keep the enemy off balance. Concentrate our armour. Those are his mottos and I think they will work.

The trouble is, we will be sitting ducks. Both when we are in long columns of vehicles on mountain roads, and when we try to cross the rivers. Will speed and boldness really protect us? I think they will. I have to trust they will.

It all depends on whether the French army we will be facing really will be as weak as the High Command seems to think it will be. I know Theo is behind our intelligence on that, and if there is one person I trust on that kind of thing, it is Theo. Now we are at war, politics are behind us. I am willing to fight for the Fatherland and die for it if necessary, just like my ancestors before me. It’s good Theo finally seems to feel the same way, and is doing his bit to help us. It’s just a shame he can’t be out here at the front fighting with us.

3 May

Got in big trouble this morning. A group of us decided to take a couple of dinghies out on the river and paddle about. We hadn’t had the chance yesterday. After my ducking I thought it was important to overcome any fear and get back on the water, a bit like falling off a bicycle.

It was a peaceful, misty morning, and everything was quiet compared to the din of the exercise yesterday. The Moselle really is a beautiful river, at least on this stretch. But when we returned to shore, the chief was waiting for us. He was furious, and went into one of his highest gears of temper tantrums, which is pretty high. ‘Joyriding on the river is strictly forbidden!’ I think he overreacted, especially with me.

That bothered me afterwards, but Gustav said the chief was only angry with me because he had been so shaken by nearly losing me yesterday.

I wonder if that is true. I hope it is.

There is nothing I wouldn’t do for General Guderian.

35

Liverpool Street Station, London, 4 May 1940

Conrad lit yet another cigarette and watched the steam-smeared iron, steel and blackened brick jolt and judder past the train window. The train was just outside Liverpool Street Station and had been for a quarter of an hour. The journey from Ipswich had taken two hours longer than it should, with an hour spent stationary in Chelmsford, and Conrad had stood all the way.

If the soldiers of the British Army had been trained in one skill during the long phoney war, it was patience. But even with so much practice, Conrad found it hard to maintain his. He couldn’t wait to get to London. He hadn’t been to the capital since November — indeed he had scarcely been away on leave. A couple of days down to Somerset for Millie’s funeral in December, another three days at Christmas. Then nothing.

Part of the reason was that the battalion had been despatched to Galloway in January, shivering on a frozen hillside in one of the coldest winters on record.

The other reason was that Conrad’s CO, Colonel Rydal, had been told by ‘the powers that be’ not to let his lieutenant take leave in London. The colonel never spoke to Conrad about this directly, and Conrad didn’t ask him. Until, one afternoon at the beginning of April, when the colonel summoned Conrad to join him on a recce to plan an exercise for the following week.

They drove up into the hills and then Colonel Rydal consulted his map and set off at a rapid pace up a slope beside a burn, swollen with spring meltwater. There was sunshine, and the snow had almost disappeared from the hills. After half an hour’s strenuous climb, they reached the top of a crag, with a dramatic view to the north of moors and lochs and to the south of a patchwork of fields glistening in the spring sunlight, dotted with barrel-shaped sheep on the brink of giving birth, and the white-belted local cows.

The colonel sat down and pulled out his pipe. Conrad lit a cigarette, and began to examine his map for likely rallying points for the exercise.

‘Sod the exercise, Conrad. I already know what we are going to do.’

Conrad smiled. ‘Very good, sir.’

‘You are a damned good officer, Conrad.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘If I ask you something will you give me an honest answer?’

Conrad mulled over the colonel’s question before replying. One of the things he liked about his unit was the trust between the officers. And the men, for that matter. They were all very different — some of them didn’t even like each other — but they trusted one another. And they all trusted Colonel Rydal. He led by example.

‘I won’t give you a dishonest answer,’ said Conrad. ‘I might say I can’t answer the question. Depends what it is, obviously.’

Rydal frowned. ‘I suppose that will have to do.’ He puffed at his pipe. ‘Conrad, are you a Soviet spy?’

‘No, sir,’ said Conrad firmly. But he appreciated the directness of the question.

‘Thought not,’ said Rydal. ‘But there are some people who think you are. You clearly got yourself into some hot water when you were away on Sir Robert Vansittart’s business last autumn.’

‘I did. I discovered some things that some people with power would rather I hadn’t.’

‘I gathered something like that might be going on. Look here, it’s not right you’ve been stuck up here without any leave for so many months. If you give me your word not to cause trouble and ask difficult questions, I’ll grant you some leave. Will you give me your word?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.’

‘Why the devil not?’

Conrad explained. If Rydal trusted him, then he should trust Rydal. He told him about Millie’s murder and about Theo’s allegations that the Duke of Windsor had been indirectly providing information about the French deployment to the Germans.

Colonel Rydal listened, his frown deepening as Conrad’s story progressed. ‘Is this true, de Lancey?’

‘Absolutely true, sir.’

Rydal examined his lieutenant closely. ‘Well, I can see why they want to keep you stuck up here.’

‘So can I, sir.’

‘Leave it with me, de Lancey.’

Two days later Rydal told Conrad he could have seven days’ leave the following week, during which time he could ask all the questions he damn well wanted, but he should ask them as unobtrusively as possible.

But then Germany invaded Norway. All leave was cancelled, and the battalion loaded up on to their lorries and spent several days driving erratically around the north-east of England and Scotland. The general staff couldn’t seem to decide whether a motorized battalion was an asset or a liability in the Norwegian mountains. In the end half the battalion embarked on a ship at Newcastle without their vehicles, and steamed out into the North Sea. They were given maps of the countryside around the small town of Namsos. But they never made it. Within sight of the coast of Norway, the ship was given orders to turn around and steam back to England.

After a further week loitering in the Northumberland countryside, they were sent down to Suffolk to protect East Anglia from a German invasion, and Conrad was finally granted a weekend’s leave.

During his time in Scotland Anneliese had sent him perhaps half a dozen letters. They spoke obliquely about ‘their friends in Kensington’; although Anneliese didn’t mention the Russian Tea Rooms by name, she did mention Constance. It was clear that she was becoming friendly with the woman, but it didn’t sound as if she had learned much of interest. Conrad was very pleased to see her trying so hard to help him, especially dealing with such hateful people, although reading between the lines it was clear that Anneliese enjoyed the cloak-and-dagger aspect of her endeavour. He replied with carefully constructed letters, encouraging her, telling her he was thinking about her but not scaring her off with too much sentiment.

The truth was he was thinking about her. It would be odd if stuck in a frozen hut in Scotland with a group of fellow soldiers he hadn’t thought about the woman he had fallen in love with in Berlin: so spirited, so sensual, so enchanting. He wondered whether the month or so they had spent entwined with each other back then was all that there ever would be. In his more disheartened moments, when it was particularly dark and cold, and the boredom was reaching extremes, he feared that might be the case.

Was it just the old Anneliese he had been in love with? Had the Nazis changed her permanently with their callous brutality, their concentration camps, their murders? They had trampled on her soul, injured it perhaps beyond repair. He knew he could still love her. But could she love him? And if she couldn’t, shouldn’t he just let her go?

Then, just a few days after the invasion of Norway, he had received an excited letter from her saying she had learned some gossip from their Kensington friends that she simply must tell him in person. That was three weeks ago, and it was only now that he had managed to arrange to see her: she had promised to meet him at Liverpool Street Station that afternoon. Conrad hoped she would still be there, despite the lateness of his train. Knowing Anneliese, she wouldn’t give up unless she had to, but then a shift at the hospital might force her.

He was eager to hear what she had to say. Millie’s death was still unresolved. Stuck away in darkest, coldest Scotland without hope of leave, there had been nothing Conrad could do about that, but he could think about it. He was sure that Theo wasn’t responsible, but he had no idea who was, and time did nothing to reduce his need to know. Something was going on, probably something involving Sir Henry Alston, Charles Bedaux and the Duke of Windsor. Conrad could hope that Major McCaigue had made some progress in finding out what, but even if he had, he probably wouldn’t tell Conrad. Conrad’s feelings towards his father were mixed: on the one hand he blamed him for letting Millie go to Holland on such a hare-brained scheme, on the other he felt desperately sorry for him for the loss of his daughter. And Conrad himself wasn’t free of blame. If he had only done what his father had asked and talked to Theo about peace, Millie would still be alive.

But Conrad’s father couldn’t help him find out about Millie’s death either. His only hope was Anneliese.

Conrad almost missed her in the crowd of men in uniform enthusiastic for their weekend leave, barging their way towards the station exits. She saw him first, and jumped up and down, waving to attract his attention. She was wearing her nurse’s uniform, and she was smiling as Conrad kissed her cheek.

‘Thanks for waiting,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry the train is so late.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Anneliese. ‘It’s hardly your fault. There is a café around the corner. Shall we go there? I have something I want to talk to you about.’

Anneliese led Conrad between the piles of sandbags at the station entrance, across Bishopsgate to Artillery Lane, and there they found a small café with a spare table. As they walked Anneliese chattered about her shift at the hospital, what her parents had been up to and a picture she had been to see with her mother: The Lambeth Walk.

‘Thanks for your letters,’ said Conrad as they finally sat down. ‘You’ve been busy.’

‘I have. They are such dreadful people, Conrad! Truly awful.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Conrad, amused by Anneliese’s improving grasp of English idiom. ‘So you don’t like Constance?’

‘I can’t stand her. But she loves me. I’m her pet German. As we thought, the Russian Tea Rooms is full of anti-Semites. They have formed some secret society, called “The Right Club”. Anna Wolkoff is the secretary, and the president is a Conservative MP, Captain Maule Ramsay.’

‘I spotted him when I met Constance there.’

‘Horrible man. Hates the Jews and doesn’t know the first thing about them! The others all love him.’

‘So who are the members of this “Right Club”?’

‘Not me. I did try, and Constance pushed for me to be let in, but they wouldn’t have me. I am pretty sure Anna Wolkoff doesn’t trust me.’ Anneliese sipped her tea. ‘There are lots of women. Most of the men have gone off to war, and it’s tricky for them, poor darlings. They hate the Jews and love the Nazis, but they are true patriots and want to fight for their country. There is a loyal band of regulars: Maule Ramsay, his wife, Constance, her friend Marjorie Copthorne, a pretty woman called Joan Miller — a model, I think. Then there is Anna Wolkoff and a suave friend of hers called Tyler Kent. He’s American, does something at their embassy in London, and seems to have been posted to Moscow before that. He speaks Russian.’

‘Not Alston?’

‘No. Constance says she tries to get him to come, but he refuses. He’s afraid of being seen there. I don’t blame him.’

‘So Constance is still in touch with Alston?’

Anneliese smiled. ‘Oh, very much so. In fact she is his mistress!’

‘Really?’ Conrad was surprised, although the idea that a Tory MP might have a little mistress to keep him entertained while he was in London and his wife was in the constituency shouldn’t have shocked him.

‘She’s desperately proud of it. She thinks the world of him. She thinks he’s going to be Prime Minister.’

‘He’s only been an MP a few years, hasn’t he?’ Conrad said.

‘Since 1935. But she is certain he will be. Soon. And what’s more interesting, he’s just as certain.’

‘That is interesting. How?’

‘He has a plan. I’m sure Constance knows what it is, but she won’t tell me.’

‘Is it a coup? Is he in touch with Oswald Mosley?’

‘Oh, no. He hates Mosley and therefore so does Constance.’

‘Has she mentioned the Duke of Windsor at all?’ Conrad asked.

‘Not in that context. We have spoken about him. She likes him, but I think that’s because he is good-looking and charming and she likes the romance of him giving up the throne for the woman he loved.’

‘Nothing about him and Alston?’

Anneliese shook her head. ‘No. But I’m sure there is something going on.’

‘That’s just what I’ve been thinking.’ What he wasn’t sure of was how he could find out what. ‘Any luck with Millie’s murder?’

‘Not directly. But I did learn something a couple of weeks ago that just might be connected. That’s why I wrote to you.’

‘Yes. Sorry I couldn’t come right away. They wouldn’t let me.’

‘Were you in Norway?’

‘Almost,’ said Conrad. ‘So what did you learn?’

‘I was talking to Marjorie, and Constance was there. For some reason we were discussing her Uncle Freddie. He was a close friend of Alston. He was killed in November last year, run over by a car in the blackout. Whoever did it didn’t stop. Anyway, Marjorie said that her aunt, Freddie’s wife, is convinced that it was Henry Alston who ran him down! They were having a drink together at Freddie’s club, and Alston left a couple of minutes before Freddie.’

‘Why would he want to kill Lord Copthorne?’

‘That’s what I asked. Apparently Lord Copthorne was worried about what Alston was up to, although it’s not clear what precisely that was.’

‘Did the police investigate?’

‘For a day. Then it all went quiet. Lady Copthorne thinks they are covering something up. Specifically that they are protecting Henry Alston.’

‘Good God!’

‘Constance was looking daggers at Marjorie as she said this. Marjorie said that her aunt was paranoid, and no one could possibly want to kill her sweet Uncle Freddie on purpose, especially his best friend. Then Constance said something rather interesting. Or at least I thought it was interesting.’

‘Which was?’

‘That Marjorie’s Aunt Polly — Lady Copthorne — was completely bats. Marjorie seemed a little put out by this and pointed out that Constance had never met her aunt. Constance said everyone knew it, and was furious with Marjorie.’

‘So you think Constance jumped in to shut Marjorie up?’

‘Yes. Because she knew she was right. Alston did run down Lord Copthorne.’

Conrad smiled. ‘Yes, that is interesting. But I suppose it is conceivable that Constance was defending Alston because she is dotty about him.’

‘It’s conceivable,’ said Anneliese. ‘But it seemed to me at the time that it was more than that. That she wanted Marjorie to shut up because her aunt was on to something.’

‘Could Lord Copthorne’s death have had something to do with why Millie was killed?’

Anneliese shrugged. ‘Maybe. It might all be just a coincidence. But it’s worth checking, don’t you think?’

‘I do,’ said Conrad. ‘I most certainly do.’

‘Did you know Lord Copthorne? Do you know anyone who knew him? Or his wife?’

‘I didn’t,’ said Conrad. ‘My father certainly did; in fact, I remember at Christmas he mentioned Freddie Copthorne had died. He might know Polly Copthorne. I can certainly ask him. I’m not sure he will give me a straight answer.’

‘How are you getting on with your father?’

‘I haven’t seen him since Christmas. We write to each other every now and then, but we don’t really say anything. I don’t know what to say. I mean, I still blame him for sending Millie to Holland, but he didn’t mean her to die, obviously. In fact, he asked me to go and I refused. And although I still profoundly disagree with him, I do understand that his motives for trying to stop the war are noble. He’s a noble man.’

‘And you haven’t told him any of this? In your letters?’

‘No,’ Conrad admitted.

Anneliese shook her head. ‘You English!’

‘I do write to my mother,’ Conrad said. ‘I tell her about how I feel.’

‘Except about your father,’ Anneliese said.

Conrad shrugged. Then a thought struck him. ‘Come to think of it, there is someone who definitely knows Polly Copthorne.’

‘Who is that?’

‘Veronica.’

‘Veronica! As in “Mrs de Lancey” Veronica?’

‘I think they are the same age — Polly is a lot younger than her husband. They came out together.’

‘Came out?’

‘Met the king. When they were eighteen. They were debutantes.’ Conrad saw Anneliese’s expression and laughed. ‘Don’t look so disapproving.’

‘Why not? Your ex-wife sounds like an awful woman. You told me all about her. You have such dreadful taste in women, Conrad.’

‘Veronica’s not so bad,’ said Conrad. ‘At least not now we are divorced. Are you jealous?’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Anneliese. But she looked guilty.

Conrad realized that she was jealous. ‘How are you feeling these days?’ he asked. ‘You seem, I don’t know, better.’

‘I feel a bit better. My New York plan fell through; usual story, we couldn’t get the right papers. My father still hasn’t got a job. But I am doing something useful at the hospital. And maybe time does heal after all. I never heard back from Wilfrid Israel or Captain Foley about working for the British government, but doing this for you has definitely helped.’

‘I think it’s important,’ said Conrad.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Conrad didn’t want Anneliese to go, and he sensed she didn’t want to leave. ‘By the way, I don’t have dreadful choice in women,’ he said. ‘I chose you.’

‘My point precisely. That was a waste of time.’

‘Don’t be silly, Anneliese. The weeks I spent with you in Berlin were the best in my life.’

A warm smile crept across Anneliese’s lips and she lowered her eyes.

The café was small and the tables were crammed together. Anneliese and Conrad were squeezed close to each other so that their knees were almost touching.

Conrad leaned over and kissed her.

For a moment she stiffened and he thought she was going to push him away, but then she relaxed.

‘Conrad, I’m shocked,’ she said as they broke apart. ‘An English gentleman like you in a public place like this!’

‘This is wartime,’ Conrad said. ‘People do this kind of thing all the time.’

‘You’re telling me. When I go to the hospital in the middle of the night the streets are teeming with prostitutes. It’s worse than Berlin before the Nazis! You English have become sex-obsessed.’

‘Sorry,’ said Conrad with mock sincerity. He took out a scrap of paper and scribbled something on it. ‘I’m having dinner with my father this evening, but I’m not staying at Kensington Square tonight. Mama is in Somerset and I can’t face Father alone all weekend. This is my hotel. It’s in Bloomsbury.’

Anneliese took the piece of paper.

‘Are you going to the hospital now?’ Conrad asked.

Anneliese nodded.

‘What time do you finish?’

‘It’s not too bad tonight. I’ll probably get away about two.’

‘Come and see me then. We can discuss politics. Art. Music. Like we used to.’

‘I remember what we used to do.’

Conrad shrugged and smiled.

‘At your hotel?’

‘Yes.’

‘At two in the morning! They won’t let me in.’

‘Of course they will. A respectable nurse like you.’

Anneliese glanced at the piece of paper and then at Conrad. ‘You have spent far too long up in Scotland with no female company.’

‘That’s definitely true.’

Anneliese folded the paper and put it in her bag. ‘No, I won’t come and see you in your hotel, Conrad. But I will write and tell you how I get on with Constance, and we can talk again next time you get leave. Now I must go to work.’

Conrad watched her go. Oh, well. It had been worth a try.

Pall Mall, London

It was several months since Conrad had last seen his father, and Lord Oakford was looking well, certainly much better than he had in the immediate aftermath of Millie’s death. Since Conrad wasn’t staying at Kensington Square, they were dining at his father’s club. In the bar they had discussed the shambles of Conrad’s unit’s manoeuvres around Britain and the North Sea during the Norwegian campaign. Oakford seemed despondent about Norway and the conduct of the war in general.

Conrad was surprised how well they were getting on; perhaps he should have stayed at Kensington Square after all.

They went through to a corner of the crowded dining room, and as their soup came, Conrad broached the subject of Lord Copthorne.

‘Yes, it was a tragedy,’ said Oakford. ‘Hundreds of people have died on the roads in the blackout. Things should get better with these longer days, thank God.’

‘Did you know him well?’

‘Not very well, no,’ said Oakford. ‘Only through Henry Alston — they were good friends. Nice enough chap, but his political views were a bit simplistic, I thought. I went to his funeral. Very sad.’

‘Do you know his wife, Polly?’

‘No. Met her for the first time at the funeral. She’s quite a bit younger than him. Far too young to be a widow; but with the war there will be many more like her. Why do you ask?’

‘I understand that she thinks Alston might have run him down.’

Oakford spluttered into his soup. ‘Now that is absolutely ridiculous! Who told you that?’

‘Apparently her husband and Alston had some kind of disagreement.’

‘That doesn’t mean Henry ran him down.’ Oakford laughed; the idea seemed genuinely absurd to him. ‘As I said, poor Freddie’s political views were a bit simplistic for my taste, and probably for Henry’s as well. He had that ignorant anti-Semitism that so irritates me. I don’t have to tell you about that. If they did have a bust-up it might have been over Freddie’s extremism.’

‘Veronica and I are seeing Polly Copthorne tomorrow,’ Conrad said. ‘Veronica is an old friend of hers.’ Conrad had just telephoned Veronica, and although he hadn’t told her why he wanted to see Polly, she had agreed to introduce him. She had sounded enthusiastic, in fact.

‘To ask her if Alston killed Freddie?’ Oakford said.

‘To ask her why she thinks he might have done.’

‘Waste of time,’ said Oakford. ‘Complete waste of time. And I didn’t realize you still saw Veronica.’

‘I don’t,’ said Conrad simply.

Conrad was pretty sure that his father didn’t know anything useful about Lord Copthorne’s death, and so he let it drop. ‘Can you imagine Henry Alston as Prime Minister one day?’

Oakford thought. ‘Yes, perhaps one day. Maybe after the war. As you know I have a high regard for him: he’s brilliant.’

‘But not sooner?’

‘He has only been an MP for five years. If Chamberlain falls, which is becoming more of a possibility every day now Norway is such a disaster, then I wouldn’t be surprised if Alston found himself in the Cabinet.’

‘And you?’ asked Conrad. It hadn’t occurred to him before that his father might return to government.

‘I would serve if asked,’ said Oakford. ‘It would depend who was PM. It would be a good opportunity to make my views about peace known.’

‘Does Henry Alston know the Duke of Windsor?’ Conrad asked.

‘Hold on a moment, Conrad,’ said Oakford, frowning. ‘Are you trying to create some conspiracy here? I thought Van warned you off all that.’

‘He did, it’s true,’ Conrad admitted.

‘Then why do you ask me these things?’

‘I wonder if in some way they are connected to Millie’s death.’

‘That’s outrageous!’ said Lord Oakford, his eyes alight. ‘Don’t pull Millie into your paranoid fantasies. Yes, Alston and I both met the Duke of Windsor when he came to London in February. And yes, we did talk about ways of bringing this war to an end. Which is a perfectly honourable goal. And I resent your implication that it isn’t!’

Conrad wanted so badly to argue with his father. But he knew he wouldn’t get anywhere, and nor would he get any useful information from him. If Anneliese was correct and there was something fishy about Lord Copthorne’s death and about Henry Alston’s political ambitions, his father would deny all knowledge of it.

So he bit his tongue. ‘Sorry, Father,’ he said. ‘How are Charlotte and Matthew?’

Bloomsbury, London

Conrad was awakened by a gentle knocking at his door. He turned on the bedside light and checked his watch. Half past two.

It took him a moment to realize who it was.

He smiled as he hopped out of bed and padded over to the door in his pyjamas. He opened it.

There was Anneliese, in her nurse’s uniform, her fist raised to knock again.

‘Hello,’ he said, grinning.

‘Shut up,’ she said. She pushed him into the room and shut the door behind them. She reached up and kissed him, her tongue darting around his mouth. He felt her hands on his chest under his pyjamas. She pushed him back towards the bed, and then, with a sudden movement, ripped open his pyjama jacket, causing buttons to scatter across the room.

She pushed him back on to the bed and tugged at the cord holding up his trousers. He was already hard as she pulled them down.

‘Anneliese—’

‘Shh…’

She strode across him still in her uniform and kissed him again. He clumsily began to unbutton her dress.

She stood back from the bed, and slipped it off. In a couple of moments more she was naked.

She was beautiful. So beautiful. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted her before.

She lowered herself on to him and began to move, slowly for a few seconds and then with an increasing urgency. He responded, until with a final upwards thrust he pushed her high off the bed.

‘Hello,’ she said a moment later, and kissed his nose.

36

Bloomsbury, London, 5 May

Veronica picked Conrad up from his hotel in a Rolls-Royce. She was wearing the uniform of the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, the FANYs. Conrad hadn’t seen her for over a year. Tall and slim, her red hair stuffed under her cap, she looked good in her khaki uniform.

Anneliese had slipped out of Conrad’s hotel room at dawn, leaving him a little groggy but in better spirits than he had been for a long time.

‘What is this, Veronica?’

‘It’s my Aunt Peggy’s. She donated it to the war effort. I drive a sweet old general around London in it.’

‘Very nice,’ said Conrad. ‘And why the uniform on a Sunday?’

‘People will ask fewer questions. Hop in the back and pull your hat down over your face. You look far too young for me to be driving you around in this.’

It was next to impossible to get petrol these days, unless you knew how. Obviously, Veronica knew how. Conrad wasn’t going to complain; being driven in Veronica’s aunt’s Rolls along empty roads to the Copthornes’ house in Buckinghamshire was infinitely preferable to struggling with the wartime train timetable again. He didn’t have much time before he had to return to his unit, and Polly Copthorne was his best chance to find out what had happened to Millie.

As they drove, Veronica chattered on about her life during the war. How she loved driving old generals but she was looking for something more exciting. How Linaro was a beast. What their mutual friends from their brief marriage were doing — people Conrad could scarcely remember and certainly didn’t care about. They had always been Veronica’s friends really. He responded briefly to her own enquiries about his life.

‘How’s that little Jewess you found in Germany?’ she asked brightly.

‘“That little Jewess” is finding life difficult,’ Conrad said, Veronica’s casual condescension puncturing his good mood. ‘It turns out it isn’t much fun being half-Jewish in Nazi Germany. Or being in solitary confinement in a concentration camp. Even here her father can’t find a job despite being a qualified doctor.’

Veronica was silent in the front seat. ‘Sorry, Conrad,’ she said eventually. ‘The war hasn’t really touched us properly yet, has it? One forgets about the people who have already had to suffer Hitler for years.’

Conrad felt slightly guilty; he should feel grateful that Veronica had dropped everything to chauffeur him up to see her old friend. He was grateful.

They drove on in silence for several minutes until they approached the village in the Chilterns where the Copthornes lived. Their house could be seen from a distance. It was a dull nineteenth-century pile, but it overlooked a pretty valley of woods, hedges and lush green pasture. The Copthornes had come by their title recently, through trade, like the Oakfords: merchant banking in the Oakfords’ case, brewing in the case of the Copthornes. Not like Veronica’s family, whose father, the twelfth Baron Blakeborough, stomped over the same fields as his ancestors had for hundreds of years. There was a difference: you couldn’t be brought up in the English aristocracy without being aware of it, and knowing that everyone else was aware of it too.

‘I came here after Freddie’s funeral,’ Veronica said. ‘And I used to join Polly here for house parties when Freddie was wooing her — that was when his father was still alive. Polly was dotty about him then. In fact, I really think she was always dotty about him.’

Conrad thought he could detect a hint of wistfulness in Veronica’s description of a happy marriage.

‘My father said Freddie’s politics were extreme,’ Conrad said.

‘Not exactly extreme,’ said Veronica. ‘A lot of people used to think like he did. It’s just others have changed their minds and he didn’t.’

‘Like you?’ Conrad well remembered Veronica’s excitement at the new, modern, well-ordered Germany.

‘Yes, like me. I used to tease you about being a Red. Well, you were right about Germany, I will grant you that. I knew things were wrong when the Nazis invaded Czechoslovakia last year. Then they invaded Poland and we went to war with them. And look what they have done to people like your poor German friend. You were right all along: Hitler is a beast, and we have to stop him. I’m trying to do my bit, however pathetic that might be. But I envy you being a man, Conrad. You can actually go and fight.’

‘But that’s not what Freddie thought?’

‘We’ll have to ask Polly.’

Polly Copthorne answered the large front door herself, threw her arms around Veronica and burst into tears. Conrad stepped back.

After a few seconds, Polly stood back. ‘I’m sorry, Mr de Lancey. I’m still quite emotional since Freddie died. And Veronica is such an old friend. I am surprised myself how pleased I am to see her.’

Conrad recognized Polly from a couple of the dances he had attended when he was in pursuit of Veronica. She was a small woman with a delicate round face, not much in the way of chin, but dark, clever eyes. Her face looked younger and more innocent than Veronica’s, but two straight lines had been scoured downwards from her eyes towards the edges of her lips. It was a face that was being changed by grief.

‘I remember you,’ said Polly, and held out her hand for Conrad to shake. She led them into a drawing room, which was surprisingly prettily furnished given the bland austerity of the house’s façade. Polly asked a maid for tea and then talked about her worry of what to do with the house. She would like it to be a convalescent home or a hospital for wounded soldiers. The problem was there were just not that many of them.

‘That may change soon,’ said Conrad.

Polly glanced at him. ‘Norway?’

‘That. And France. The Germans will attack France some time, I am sure of it.’

‘So tell me Mr de Lancey—’

‘Conrad.’

‘Conrad. Veronica says you want to talk to me about poor Freddie’s death?’

‘I do,’ said Conrad. ‘But let me tell you first about my sister, Millie, who also died last November.’ Veronica had suggested that this would be the best way to win Polly’s trust, and it worked. Conrad was vague about which Germans exactly Millie had met in Holland, but he did speak about Henry Alston and Marjorie Copthorne’s friend Constance.

‘I’m so sorry to hear all that,’ Polly said with the sympathy of someone with a fresh understanding of grief. ‘So you think this Constance might have killed your sister?’

Conrad shrugged. ‘That’s what the Dutch police think. And Constance and Henry Alston are lovers.’

‘Lovers? I didn’t know Henry had a mistress! I wouldn’t have thought he was the type.’

‘I’m sure he kept her very quiet.’

Polly put down her tea cup and stared hard at Conrad, assessing him. Conrad waited. People usually trusted him because he usually told the truth, and he was certainly telling the truth now.

‘My husband and Henry Alston knew each other for several years,’ she said eventually. ‘Ever since Henry became an MP. They were very good friends, especially in the last year or so. They shared the same views on the war: they both wanted to stop it at any cost. I met Henry a few times, but he gave me the creeps. It wasn’t his scars; there was just something about him. And Freddie and I disagreed about the war. I think if we are fighting the Germans we should jolly well beat them, and that Hitler is an awful monster.’

‘There’s something to be said for that,’ said Conrad.

‘I know Freddie and Henry used to see your father sometimes. Freddie had a lot of time for him, and for Henry. Said they were both brilliant men and just what the country needed. Freddie, love him though I did, poor darling, wasn’t brilliant, and he knew it.

‘Then, just before he died, Freddie became worried about something. Dreadfully worried. I don’t know what it was, but I know it had something to do with Henry Alston, some sort of scheme he had which upset Freddie. He almost told me but then he changed his mind. I tried to push him on it, but he said I was better off not knowing. That worried me in itself.’

‘Have you any idea what this scheme was?’

‘No, none, except that it troubled him deeply.’

‘My father says that perhaps Freddie was too extreme for Alston and that is why they fell out?’

Polly Copthorne laughed. ‘It was always Henry who had the ideas and Freddie who followed. Freddie never told me what those ideas were, he thought I would disapprove, but they excited him. Until they didn’t. And then he was run over.’

‘You think Alston might have run him down deliberately?’

‘Yes. I do. He was meeting Henry that night at Erskine’s. Henry left a few minutes before him. Freddie was run over in the lane before he got to St James’s. Why would anyone be driving fast enough to kill someone in a dead-end side street in the dark unless they wanted to do just that? Kill them.’

‘Did you tell the police?’

‘Oh, yes. They were very interested. They had questioned Henry once, and were going to question him again. Then it all went quiet. I asked the policeman who had interviewed me why, and he said they had evidence a driver unknown to Freddie had knocked him down and just drove off. The policeman wouldn’t say what that evidence was. He didn’t look happy about it; he looked sorry for me.’

‘You suspect a cover-up?’

‘I am jolly certain that Henry Alston killed my husband.’

Conrad nodded. ‘Thank you, Polly. Did you ever hear Freddie speak of my sister? Or Constance Scott-Dunton?’

‘No. I do know that Freddie was going to ask his niece Marjorie to help him with something, but I don’t know what came of that. Constance Scott-Dunton, presumably.’ She smiled at Conrad. ‘I am sorry about your poor sister. If there is anything I can do to help you prove Sir Henry Alston was involved in her death, or Freddie’s, I will.’

‘I liked your friend Polly,’ Conrad said as Veronica drove him back to London.

‘Do you think she’s right, or do you think she’s imagining things?’ Veronica asked.

‘I rather think she’s on to something,’ said Conrad. ‘What about you?’

‘The thing people don’t realize about Polly is that she’s really quite clever. And perceptive. She may well be on to something.’

Veronica turned to look behind at Conrad. Then the car wobbled and she looked ahead on the empty road. ‘I am sorry about Millie, Conrad. That’s dreadful for you.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Look. We’ll be back in London in no time. Do you want to drop into the Ritz for a cocktail on the way back to the station?’

Conrad was tempted. No matter what she did, Conrad was always tempted by Veronica. ‘I’m sorry, I had better get to the station as early as possible. The trains never run when they should.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Veronica. ‘What does a girl need to do to get a drink these days?’

37

Zossen

‘So, Hertenberg. Can you see the changes?’

Lieutenant Colonel Liss, as he now was, was grinning as he glanced at Theo. They were standing over the cowhide: the relief map of northern France and the Low Countries.

Theo examined the German deployment. There were still three army groups: C by France’s eastern border with Germany, A just to the east of the Ardennes and Luxembourg, and B further north on the Belgian and Dutch borders.

‘You have switched some divisions from Army Group B to Army Group A,’ said Theo.

‘You have a good memory. I remember you suggesting it. Army Group A will now make the main thrust through the Ardennes to Sedan, and Army Group B will push through central Belgium to engage the Allies in Flanders.’

‘I suspect it wasn’t me who changed your mind.’

‘No. It was General Manstein and General Guderian. And the Führer. The crash at Mechelen helped.’

‘Really? I thought that was disastrous.’ In January an aeroplane transporting a staff officer carrying plans for Case Yellow from Munster to Cologne had somehow got lost and crashed in Belgium, near the town of Mechelen. The documents had been captured: they detailed the original Case Yellow invasion plan of Holland and Belgium, with the main thrust being carried out by Army Group B to the north. Theo knew that the plans had swiftly found their way to the French and British general headquarters.

‘The Führer was of the view that we had to change Case Yellow, now that the enemy knew the original plan. So, given the weaknesses you had highlighted around Sedan, we have.’

‘And when you play the war game, do we win now?’ Theo asked.

‘That depends,’ said Colonel Liss. ‘And that’s why you are here.’ He pointed to the French 7^th Army, deployed around Lille on the western Belgian border. ‘If the French send their most powerful troops north into Flanders according to their Plan D, then Guderian breaks through here.’ He pointed to the Meuse at Sedan. ‘And there is no one to stop him. But, if the French 7^th Army moves immediately eastwards to reinforce the front near Sedan, things get bogged down.’

Theo’s brother Dieter would be with Guderian’s armoured corps at Sedan.

‘Won’t the French assume that we have changed our plans, now we know they have them?’

Liss grinned. ‘According to your colleagues, they seem to believe that the Mechelen crash was staged by us as a bluff. I can see why: it’s extraordinary that any pilot could get so lost as to stray over the Rhine into the wrong country, however bad the weather, but there you are. So, as far as we are aware, the French are still using Plan D. I would like you to confirm that.’

‘I haven’t heard of any changes of plan,’ Theo said. ‘But my sources have gone quiet.’ The Duke of Windsor had finished his inspection of the French lines and, according to Bedaux, was spending the occasional day twiddling his thumbs at the British Mission to French general headquarters at Vincennes. Bedaux himself was cannoning around all over the place. As far as Theo knew he was in Spain trying to secure steel supplies for France, and he had plans to go on to Morocco to look for coal.

‘We don’t have much time, do we? The operation is scheduled for the tenth of May.’ That was in five days’ time.

‘That’s correct,’ said Liss. ‘And the forecast is good.’

A miserable winter, one of the worst on record, had been followed by a lush, sunny spring. Delay was unlikely this time.

‘I will try to get hold of my sources and see if I can find out anything new. It might be difficult in the time.’ Especially since Theo had lots of other agents to deal with in Holland, giving him last-minute indications of Dutch preparations for invasion. The flat Dutch countryside and straight roads were perfect for an invading army, but there was a risk they would pull their fingers out of the dykes and flood the whole country.

Looking at the new version of Case Yellow, Holland was just a sideshow. The battle would be decided in the hills and forests of the Ardennes, and then the French countryside behind them.

‘Do what you can,’ said Liss.

Liverpool Street Station, London

Conrad arrived at Liverpool Street Station early for his train back to his battalion in Suffolk. Which was lucky, because as he was deciding whether to get a cup of tea or read a book, Major McCaigue materialized.

‘You again,’ said Conrad. ‘Don’t you take Sundays off?’

‘I do usually,’ said McCaigue. ‘And I have today. Officially. Do you remember I had an official and an unofficial message for you last time we met?’

‘I do.’

‘Well, I’d like to have a word with you unofficially. About what you have discovered this weekend, if anything.’

‘Why should I tell you?’ Conrad said.

‘We are getting more and more concerned about the Duke of Windsor,’ said McCaigue. ‘But he is still protected. I need all the evidence I can lay my hands on to change that.’

‘I have discovered very little about the duke this weekend,’ said Conrad. ‘But I did find out quite a lot about Sir Henry Alston.’ What the hell. There was a chance that telling McCaigue what he knew would throw a spanner in the works of whatever plan Alston was hatching.

‘Sir Henry Alston?’

‘Do you know him?’

‘I know of him. Conservative MP. Possibly pro-German. Either less extreme or perhaps more clever than Maule Ramsay and Oswald Mosley. The man who sent your sister and Constance Scott-Dunton to Holland.’

‘That’s him. I think that he might have had Constance kill my sister. And that he might have run down Lord Copthorne about the same time last November.’

‘Those are grave allegations. Do you have proof?’

Conrad told McCaigue about his visit to Lady Copthorne. He didn’t mention Anneliese. ‘But you probably know all this already. Lady Copthorne said that the police were very keen to drop the investigation. Orders from on high. Friends of yours, no doubt.’

‘Acquaintances, possibly,’ said McCaigue. ‘I work for the counter-intelligence section of the Secret Intelligence Service. That means I worry about foreign spies abroad. If someone like Sir Henry Alston needed watching, it would be Special Branch of Scotland Yard, or MI5, who would do it. I wouldn’t find out about it, unless someone like you told me.’

‘It’s my pleasure,’ said Conrad.

The irony was not lost on McCaigue, but he ignored it. ‘It’s appreciated,’ he said. ‘Keep me informed, will you? And if you do need help, telephone. You have my card.’

As Conrad took the train back to Suffolk, he was unsure whether he had done the right thing in trusting McCaigue. And a question nagged. How had McCaigue found out that he was in London? On one level it was easy to assume that the secret service was all-knowing. On the other, someone must have told them. It couldn’t have been Colonel Rydal. And it was unlikely to be any of the people he had seen over the weekend: Anneliese, Veronica, Polly Copthorne. No, it was more probably someone in the battalion. The adjutant, perhaps: someone junior to Colonel Rydal whom the secret service had instructed to keep tabs on him.

An unpleasant thought.

The Dorchester Hotel, London

Eight men sat around the table in the private dining room of the Dorchester. Sir Henry Alston was at one end, Lord Oakford at the other. Between them were a General, an Admiral, a Newspaper Magnate, a Civil Servant, a Politician, and an Industrialist. Alston, although he was responsible for bringing everyone together, was the youngest man there. The dinner had been excellent; somehow the Dorch had managed to keep its kitchens well supplied despite the eight months of war.

Alston lit a cigar. ‘There’s no hope for Norway, is there?’

The General shook his head. ‘The Hun is running rings around us. We have evacuated Namsos. We’re making a stand at Narvik, but our fellows have no chance. The whole thing is a muddle; the politicians have let us down again. Winston doesn’t have a clue what he is doing. I blame him entirely.’

‘It’s Neville who will take the blame,’ said the Politician, who was also a junior minister.

‘Is he in danger?’ asked Alston.

‘I rather think he might be,’ said the Politician. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t think so — we have a large majority after all. But he’s getting complacent, and the House doesn’t like that.’

‘The country will want someone to take responsibility,’ said the Newspaper Proprietor. ‘Neville is the obvious candidate. He can’t get away with dropping Winston and carrying on regardless.’

‘Then who will become PM?’ asked the Industrialist.

‘Halifax?’ The General phrased it more as a question than an answer.

‘Edward commands a lot of respect,’ said the Politician. ‘But he sits in the House of Lords. The country needs a leader from the Commons. Someone who can deal with Parliament directly.’

‘Even at a time like this?’ asked the General.

‘Especially at a time like this,’ said Lord Oakford. The table turned to him, anxious for his opinion. They knew how close he was to Lord Halifax. ‘Edward is an old friend of mine and I admire him immensely. He is a good man to have at your side in a crisis. I’m sorry to say it, but I don’t believe he has the courage to step forward and lead the country now. You need a certain kind of man to take decisions which will be of such historical importance. He knows nothing about military strategy, as he will freely admit. He’ll say it’s because he is in the Lords, but the truth is he isn’t up to it, and he knows it.’

‘So who would become PM?’ asked the Admiral.

‘Not Winston, surely?’ said the General.

‘He’s popular in the country,’ said the Newspaper Proprietor.

‘But he’s the one who is principally responsible for the balls-up in Norway!’ protested the General.

‘What we need most of all is peace with Germany,’ said the Industrialist. ‘Churchill is the last man to achieve that.’

There were murmurs of ‘hear hear’ and ‘absolutely’ around the table.

‘The whole country is bored with the war,’ said the Newspaper Proprietor, who prided himself, with some justification, on knowing what his readers thought. ‘And once we start losing it, they will want it stopped.’

‘So, if not Churchill, who?’ asked the Industrialist.

‘Lloyd George,’ said Alston. ‘He’s well known in the country. He wants peace. He’s not tarnished with this war so far. And he won the last one.’

‘He’s an old man,’ said the Industrialist. ‘He must be eighty. He would need help.’

‘He’s seventy-seven,’ said Lord Oakford. ‘And he would have help. Henry and I would support him. And I suspect that there are some members of Cabinet who would serve in a government for peace?’ Oakford glanced at the Politician.

‘There are,’ said the Politician. ‘I would serve under him. And there are quite a few others.’

‘It would be difficult to make peace behind the Frogs’ backs,’ said the General.

‘Wait until the Germans attack them,’ said the Admiral. ‘They’ll give up in no time. France is much weaker than it was in 1914. No backbone.’

‘Shame Edward VIII isn’t still on the throne,’ said the General. ‘He would be the one to lead an honourable peace. I never understood why he had to abdicate just because his wife was divorced.’

‘Neither did I,’ said Alston, quietly.

‘I spoke to him when he was in London in February,’ said the Newspaper Proprietor. ‘With Henry and Arthur. Suggested he do a tour around the country campaigning for peace. He seemed keen, but I haven’t heard anything since he went back to France.’

‘It’s difficult for him,’ said Alston. ‘He can’t be seen to be usurping his brother. But if he was asked to step into the breach when his country really needed him, I’m sure he would.’

‘Absolutely,’ said the Newspaper Proprietor.

There was silence around the room. Alston sensed that the table had edged too close to treason. He knew they all wanted peace with honour, and they needed a way to achieve it that would fit with their idea of patriotism and duty to their country. It was Alston’s plan to give it to them.

‘Well, let’s hope we turn things around in Norway,’ he said. ‘And it’s the Germans who sue for peace.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ said the General. But he knew that wouldn’t happen. They all knew it wouldn’t happen.

The Tiergartenstrasse, Berlin

Theo lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom. Next to him, Hedda slept, snoring gently, her fair hair spread out on the pillow. Her husband’s unit had been sent to Trier, ready to join Guderian and Dieter and a few hundred thousand other German soldiers on their drive through Luxembourg.

Theo had been distracted at dinner at Horcher’s with Hedda. Hedda had noticed — she really didn’t like being ignored. They had left early, and back at his apartment, Hedda had put everything into turning his attention towards her. The resulting sex had blown his mind.

But now his mind was recovering, and turning back to what Colonel Liss had said. Back in November, Theo had taken the decision to warn Conrad of the weakness in the French line. The enormity of what he had done had impressed him, even tormented him, in the following months. He told himself he wasn’t a traitor to his country, but sometimes he thought he was just fooling himself. How would he feel when German soldiers, including his own brother, ran into stiff opposition at Sedan because of his efforts? Especially his brother. The last time Theo had seen him at the family’s manor house in Pomerania, Dieter’s enthusiasm for General Guderian and the forthcoming battle in the Ardennes had known no bounds. Theo could hardly bear to look at him.

What Theo hadn’t considered was that Conrad’s message would fail to get through. He was confident that Conrad would have passed it on, but he now realized that his assumption that the British generals would act on it was optimistic. Conrad himself had pointed out how badly humiliated the British had been by believing in Major Schämmel before Venlo. Why should they believe Conrad now?

Because the weakness in the French lines should have been just as obvious to them as it had been to the Duke of Windsor. Perhaps they were confident that armoured divisions really couldn’t make their way through the woods and forests of the Ardennes.

If that’s what they thought, Theo knew they were wrong. The Wehrmacht had practised in the woods of the Eifel Mountains. They knew it could be done.

Dreadful though it was to him as an officer of the Wehrmacht, Theo still believed that a swift victory over France would be a disaster. Hitler would be firmly entrenched. Europe would become a National Socialist continent for years, decades, maybe even centuries to come.

He could not allow that. Even though he was risking his comrades’ lives, including that of his own brother, he somehow had to get a message to Conrad to tell the British what was about to happen. Conrad might be a lowly lieutenant, but Theo admired his resourcefulness.

Besides. It was the only thing he could think of.

38

Suffolk, 6–7 May

It was late. Conrad decided to take a stroll around the football field of the prep school in which he was billeted before turning in. He needed fresh air after the all-too-familiar boiled-cabbage-and-bleach smell. After returning to England from Spain, he had spent a grim six months as a teacher at another school about fifteen miles away. He thought he recognized this school as one a team he had been coaching had played at football. It had rained hard and his school’s side had lost 4–1.

The battalion was a mobile reserve, ready to rush to the site of a landing should the Germans decide to invade East Anglia, an eventuality which seemed to Conrad unlikely, but not impossible. The Royal Navy was the first British line of defence, supported by the RAF. It would be extremely difficult for German invaders to get through to the beaches all the way from northern Germany, out of range of air support.

It was a dark night. Although the moon was almost full, it was shrouded by thick cloud. Conrad thought again about how he could try to return to London to ask more questions. As far as he was aware, the CO had heard nothing yet about his last visit. Would this weekend be too soon to try his luck?

It was infuriating that he was stuck here in the wilds of Suffolk when he had been making such good progress in London. It looked highly likely Alston had killed Freddie Copthorne. And if Alston was willing to kill his own friend, then it was quite possible that he had arranged for Millie’s death through Constance. Then there was the question of Bedaux and the Duke of Windsor. Was there a link between them and Alston? And if there was a link, what were they planning? His father had admitted that he and Alston had had lunch with the duke in February.

He wished he could discuss all this with his father. Lord Oakford knew Alston well, and he had access to everyone in power in London. He could ask questions and get answers. If Alston had indeed arranged for Millie’s death, then Conrad should be able to rely on his father to help him. But Oakford and Alston were not just colleagues, they were friends, and Polly Copthorne hadn’t given Conrad absolute proof that Alston had killed her husband — certainly nothing that would persuade Lord Oakford that Conrad’s accusations weren’t fantasies.

If only his father trusted him! Conrad was certain that Lord Oakford would never do anything to betray his country or his son, but who knew what he might say to Alston in the mistaken belief that his fellow director was harmless? Lord Oakford was a fine man in so many ways, he was the man Conrad admired most in the world, yet he couldn’t trust him. It was so frustrating.

He would just have to rely on Anneliese and McCaigue. Anneliese was doing well; what McCaigue was up to, he had no idea.

‘Sir! Mr de Lancey, sir!’

He turned to see a lance corporal running towards him.

‘Yes, corporal?’

‘Message from Lieutenant Dodds, sir. Three Home Guard have wandered into a minefield. They need sappers to get them out.’

Conrad swore under his breath.

The minefield was only ten minutes from the school on a stretch of boggy pasture half a mile in from the sea. The minefield was clearly marked, although in the dark it was impossible to make out the writing on the wooden signs. Dodds was there with the Home Guard platoon commander and he had alerted the engineers who were on their way. Even in the gloom, Conrad could see three figures in the field about a hundred yards away waving towards them. One of them was shouting for help. He sounded more like a child than a man.

‘How did they get in there?’ said Conrad to the Home Guard officer, who was a middle-aged man with the rank of captain. ‘I thought you people were supposed to know the local terrain. That was the whole point.’

‘They come from a village ten miles away,’ said the captain meekly. ‘They have never patrolled here before.’

‘Well, can’t they just keep still and wait?’ Conrad said. ‘The sappers will be here in twenty minutes.’

‘That’s Cobbold shouting,’ said the Home Guard officer. ‘He’s only seventeen. He’s just joined up.’

Conrad stood up and roared. ‘Private Cobbold! Stay calm and wait for the sappers! They won’t be long.’

Private Cobbold shut up.

‘I could go through the minefield and lead them out, sir,’ said Dodds. ‘It’s quite muddy. You can see their footprints in the field. If I tread in them exactly, I shouldn’t blow up a mine.’

‘Don’t be silly, Dodds. Just wait for the sappers.’

‘He was shouting about running for it earlier,’ said Dodds.

‘Why would he do that?’ said Conrad. ‘If he’s that scared he will just stay put.’

‘Message from the sappers, sir.’ It was Lance Corporal Fowler. ‘Their vehicle has broken down.’

‘They are engineers, aren’t they?’ said Conrad impatiently. ‘Can’t they fix it?’

‘Fan belt has snapped.’

‘All right, you men out there!’ Conrad shouted. ‘There’s been a delay with the sappers. Hold tight, we’ll sort it out!’

He turned to send his own vehicle to head back to pick up the sappers. Just then there was a cry from the field. Conrad turned to see a figure sprinting towards them. ‘What the hell?’ said Conrad. ‘Stop!’ he yelled. ‘Private Cobbold, I said—’

There was a loud explosion and Private Cobbold was sent flying into the air, landing hard on his shoulder.

Then there was silence. The watching soldiers held their breath, straining to hear sounds of life. Then it came, a long low moan.

‘Are you all right, Cobbold?’ the Home Guard officer shouted.

His request was met by another moan.

‘I’m going to get him,’ said Dodds.

‘Wait for the sappers. It’s his own bloody fault he’s in there. There is no reason he should get you killed too.’

The moan rose to a scream. And then another.

Conrad turned to Corporal Fowler to give him orders to drive off and pick up the sappers.

When he turned back, Dodds was in the minefield. He had a torch and he was sweeping the ground in front of him, stepping gingerly from footprint to footprint.

‘Mr Dodds! Come back here at once!’ Conrad shouted, but Dodds ignored him.

The screams continued.

Conrad held his breath as he watched Dodds pick his way through the field. At any moment he expected to hear another explosion and to see Dodds turned into a rag doll flying through the air. But perhaps Dodds’s theory would hold true. Perhaps by sticking to the footprints he would dodge any mines.

Conrad liked Dodds, and he was turning into a very good officer. This would be a very stupid way to lose him.

He reached the point at which the Home Guards’ path into the minefield was closest to Cobbold’s moaning body. But there was still ten yards distance between the two men, ten yards of virgin minefield. Dodds hesitated. For a moment Conrad thought he would chance his luck by stepping on to untrodden grass, but then he eased himself on to the ground, and began to crawl. It was hard to see in the dark, but standard operating procedure when forced to traverse a minefield was to crawl on your stomach, using a bayonet to probe ahead for mines, and that was what Conrad assumed Dodds was doing.

It was still dangerous, though, and Private Cobbold was still yelling.

Those last ten yards seemed to take an age. Then the moon appeared from behind the clouds, and a few seconds later Dodds’s tall frame was silhouetted against the grey horizon above the sea in the distance. Conrad could hear the officer talking soothingly to the fallen man, whose screams decreased to whimpers. A barn owl shrieked.

Dodds bent down, slung Private Cobbold over his shoulders and stepped back the way he had come. The screams intensified: Dodds had given no consideration to Cobbold’s wounds — he couldn’t afford to.

Carefully, slowly, Dodds picked his way to the edge of the minefield where four men and a stretcher were waiting for him.

He ambled over to Conrad and stood to attention. He was breathing heavily and his tunic was covered with blood.

Conrad felt the fury explode within him. ‘Mr Dodds! I gave you a clear order not to go in there! Are you trying to get yourself killed?’

‘Yes, sir! I thought we had discussed this before, sir!’

‘You’re an idiot, Mr Dodds.’

‘Yes, sir! No doubt at all about that, sir!’

Conrad stared at the tall, blood-spattered, nineteen-year-old officer with the rosy cheeks, standing to attention in front of him. A wave of relief rushed through him, extinguishing the anger and replacing it with a sort of giddy euphoria. He felt his lips twitch into a grin. Dodds smiled too. Very soon they were both bent over laughing, as the Home Guard captain looked on bemused.

It was a long night. The sappers eventually arrived and cleared a path to the two men still stuck in the field. The boy survived, but only just. He had lost a lot of blood and the surgeon said he would lose his leg below the knee.

When Conrad and Dodds eventually arrived back at the prep school for breakfast, there was an envelope waiting for Conrad, addressed in his father’s writing.

Conrad tore it open. It contained an unopened telegram with a covering note from his father saying it had arrived at Kensington Square and he had forwarded it immediately.

Good for him, thought Conrad.

The cable was from a Hubert Berger of a bank in Liechtenstein. MEET ME IN HOLLAND 11 MAY AT 6 PM MADVIG’. Given the invasion of Denmark in April, Copenhagen was no longer operational as a letterbox, and so Theo had used a neutral Liechtensteiner to pass on his message. According to the code they were using, 11 May at 6 p.m. actually meant 8 May at 3 p.m., which was the following day.

It must be urgent. Probably something about an imminent invasion of Holland and Belgium, Conrad guessed. But how the hell could he get there in a day?

He could try to persuade Colonel Rydal to give him leave, but since he had only been back at the battalion for less than forty-eight hours, that was a long shot. If the colonel did agree, then Conrad might be able to book a seat on an aeroplane to Holland: it would be tight but it was possible he could get to the airport in time. But would they stop him getting on the aeroplane at passport control?

Probably. Given how Major McCaigue had somehow known about his trip to London the previous weekend, it seemed quite likely that someone would stop him.

He could try to get authorization from McCaigue or from Van. But that would take hours, or even a day. And even then the chances were he wouldn’t get it.

Was there anyone he knew who could or would just up sticks and get on an aeroplane to Holland? Someone he could trust and so could Theo?

Anneliese? No. Insurmountable border-control difficulties. His father? Definitely not. His brother Reggie? Worse. Veronica?

Veronica.

He found a telephone and gave Veronica’s number to the operator. Amazingly, she was already awake. Must be the war and the driving job.

‘Darling! How lovely to hear from you!’

‘Veronica, can you do me a tiny favour? It would involve dropping everything and getting on an aeroplane right away. The ticket’s about eleven pounds. I’ll pay.’

‘Oh, is it something cloak-and-dagger?’

‘As a matter of fact it is.’

‘How divine! Tell me.’

Ten minutes later Conrad composed a telegram back to Herr Hubert Berger in Liechtenstein: ‘SORRY CANT MAKE TRIP STOP WIFE WILL COME INSTEAD STOP DE LANCEY’.

39

Clapham, South London, 8 May

Constance found the pub easily enough, just off Lavender Hill in Clapham. She ignored the hubbub coming from the public bar, and pushed open the frosted glass door of the saloon bar, which was empty, with the exception of a big man perched on a stool, accompanied by a half-empty pint of beer.

He grinned when he saw her. ‘Hello, Connie, my love! Good to see you!’

‘Nice to see you too, Joe,’ said Constance. Normally she hated people calling her Connie, but it somehow seemed all right coming from Joe Sullivan.

‘What will it be?’ asked Joe.

‘A glass of sherry, please.’

‘Ada!’ Joe yelled through towards the public bar. ‘A sherry for the lady.’

They sat down at a table. Joe Sullivan was a big man with a broad chest, a thrusting jaw and two distinct bumps on his nose. He was probably about thirty: old enough not to be called up yet. Constance had met him at a Nordic League rally and, despite his tough appearance, she found him remarkably easy to talk to. They shared an enthusiasm for the literature of the movement, and had become experts on the various theories of Jewish, Freemason and communist conspiracies. Constance knew that Joe had done some bodyguard work for the Nordic League and the British Union of Fascists. He could be firm. The truth was he liked a fight. And he believed in the cause. So, the right man to come to.

Within a couple of minutes they became involved in an intense discussion of a pamphlet they had both read: The Rulers of Russia by an Irish priest, which demonstrated that fifty-six of the fifty-nine members of the Central Committee of the Communist Party in Russia were Jews.

‘Why can’t people see what’s right in front of their faces?’ said Joe. ‘This war is being run by the Jews for the Jews.’

‘You’re right there,’ said Constance. She glanced at the bar. Empty. They were alone. The time had come. ‘Joe? Could I ask you a favour?’

‘Course you can, Connie. What is it?’

‘Have you ever killed someone?’

Joe froze, his blue eyes coolly examining her. For a dreadful moment Constance thought she had made a mistake, but it was too late. She ploughed on.

‘Would you kill someone for me?’

Still no response from Joe.

‘I’d pay you.’

‘Who is he?’ said Joe. ‘A lover? Or is it a she? Your husband’s mistress?’

‘Nothing like that,’ said Constance. ‘There’s something going on. Something I can’t tell you about at the moment, but it will change the government and end the war. In a good way, a way you would approve of. But only if we can get rid of this man. His name is Conrad de Lancey.’

‘Is he Jewish?’

‘No,’ said Constance. Then she had an inspiration. ‘But his father works for a Jewish merchant bank.’ Henry had told her that Gurney Kroheim’s roots were actually Quaker, but there was no need for Joe to know that.

‘How much?’

‘Five hundred pounds. I have two hundred and fifty with me to give you now, and two hundred and fifty afterwards.’

‘And I’m supposed to take it on trust that this will help stop the war?’

‘Yes,’ said Constance. ‘

Joe smiled. ‘Who would have thought it? A nice well-brought-up lady like you?’

Constance stared at him. ‘I’m deadly serious, Joe. This has to be done.’

Joe laughed. ‘I know you are. All right. I’ll help you. Do you have the money with you?’

‘Yes,’ said Constance, reaching into her bag.

‘Not here,’ said Joe. ‘Somewhere more private. And you’ll need to tell me something about this Lancey bloke. Come back to my place and we can talk some more about it.’

He was smiling. Constance knew what he wanted.

‘Where’s Ivy?’ Ivy was Joe’s pretty wife.

‘At work. Peter Robinson in Oxford Circus. Works all hours, my missus. Won’t be back till late.’

For an instant, Constance felt guilty about betraying Henry. It was possible that Joe would still do the deed if she didn’t sleep with him. But if she did sleep with him his help was guaranteed.

And that would keep Henry safe and his plans intact.

She finished her sherry and smiled at the big man. ‘Yes. Let’s go back to your place.’

Leiden

Theo lit his third cigarette as he dawdled over his coffee in the little café in the Diefsteeg, a Dutch newspaper open on the table. Just as they were parting, after the Gestapo agent had slipped off the roof of the Academy building, Theo had suggested the café to Conrad as a future rendezvous. Although the British agent had spotted them there before, the Gestapo hadn’t, and it was somewhere they both knew.

Theo was enjoying his coffee. Almost reason enough to come to Holland, a neutral country which still served decent coffee. Not for long, though. Maybe he should have another cup while he could.

Theo was not happy that Conrad wasn’t going to meet him himself. He wondered who ‘his wife’ was. It could be someone from the British secret service, in which case Theo wasn’t sure yet what he would do. The British were blown in Holland, and approaching one of them with his message would be foolish. Yet perhaps he should risk his own safety, given the importance of what he had to say.

Or perhaps Conrad meant his real wife, or ex-wife, Veronica. Theo had never met her. She belonged to the five-year period between 1933 and 1938 when Conrad and Theo hadn’t seen each other.

Just then the door opened and a tall Englishwoman entered the café. She was striking: red hair, pale skin, high cheekbones, long legs, wearing an expensive tweed suit. Theo was sure the woman was British: she had that air of cool arrogance of the English upper classes. She scanned the small café. There were only three customers: two old men drinking beer in companionable silence, and Theo.

For a moment Theo caught her eye. The Englishwoman raised a carefully plucked eyebrow. Theo smiled vaguely and turned back to his newspaper. Out of his peripheral vision he could see the woman hesitate, clearly deciding whether to approach him. Then she ordered a cup of tea in English, and sat at one of the other tables, lighting her cigarette. Theo was confident she wasn’t a professional; she had no tradecraft at all. She must be Veronica de Lancey.

The four customers sat together in silence for half an hour; then the two old men left and a couple of male students dropped by for a cup of coffee and a slice of cake.

Eventually, at four o’clock, Veronica gave up, paid her bill and went out on to the narrow lane.

Theo followed her rapidly. He glanced up and down the alley: it was empty. She turned and saw him.

‘Theo?’

‘Yes,’ Theo replied in English. ‘Who are you?’

‘Veronica. Conrad’s wife.’ She looked angry. ‘Why did you let me wait for so long looking like a chump?’

‘I wanted to be sure we weren’t being watched.’

Veronica looked up and down the lane. ‘Well, are we?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Theo. ‘This will only take a moment. If I tell you something, can you remember it without writing it down? It’s extremely important that you repeat it to Conrad as soon as you get back to England.’

‘I can do that,’ said Veronica.

‘Right, then. Listen carefully. The German offensive will start on the tenth of May. That’s Friday. We will invade Holland, Luxembourg and Belgium. And the main thrust will be through the Ardennes at Sedan. Have you got that?’

Veronica repeated it accurately.

‘Good,’ said Theo. ‘Now we should part. I’ll go back up to the Breestraat, and you go down there.’ He pointed down the lane towards the Pieterskerk.

‘Goodbye, Theo,’ said Veronica with a smile. ‘Perhaps we’ll meet again after this stupid war.’

‘That might be a while,’ said Theo as he turned on his heel. He had a lot still to do before dawn on Friday.

House of Commons, Westminster

Alston was sitting on the government benches a couple of rows behind and a little to the right of the Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain. The House was packed, and although they were well into the second day of the debate on Norway, no one was bored. The tension was growing. History was being made in front of them. But it was not clear to Alston which way history was going.

The Prime Minister was holed below the waterline and was sinking. He had opened the debate the day before with a lacklustre performance. Criticisms had mounted during the day, culminating in a powerful speech in the evening by Leo Amery, who had wheeled out the famous quotation of Oliver Cromwell when dispatching the Rump Parliament: ‘You have sat too long here for any good you have been doing. Depart, I say, and let us have done with you. In the name of God, go!’

Brilliant. Quite brilliant.

Chamberlain had shipped more water the following morning. Herbert Morrison for the Labour Party had indicated that his party would regard the motion as a vote of censure, thus raising the stakes. Chamberlain had mishandled this challenge by saying that he hoped he could rely on his friends to support him. This was an error: he was swiftly losing friends, and his only hope of staying afloat was to receive support from the Parliament as a whole, not just his cronies. Lloyd George responded with a sharp, powerful speech, demanding that the Prime Minister give an example to the country of sacrifice in wartime by sacrificing his own seals of leadership. There was no doubt the old man still had his wits about him.

Chamberlain was sinking fast.

But there was a problem. Somehow, Churchill was wriggling free of blame for the Norwegian fiasco. Speaker after speaker was blaming Chamberlain and exonerating Churchill. The most remarkable was Admiral of the Fleet Sir Roger Keys, Member for North Portsmouth, who, dressed in full uniform with six rows of medals and thick gold braid on his sleeves, extolled his admiration for Churchill and his desire for bold leadership.

When Chamberlain sank, Arthur Oakford was still firmly of the view that his friend Lord Halifax would duck the opportunity to become Prime Minister. Apparently, Halifax’s stomach was giving him severe trouble at the mere thought of it. But Alston was becoming increasingly worried that if that were the case, Churchill might emerge as his successor.

The First Lord of the Admiralty rose at ten o’clock that evening. Churchill was in an impossible position, somehow having to declare loyal support for Chamberlain while still laying the blame for the Norwegian disaster on the Prime Minister rather than himself. But he did it. Churchill was going to fight the war and win it, and he brought the House with him.

When it came time for the division, Alston knew what he had to do. He was one of forty-one Conservative MPs to vote against his party. In the end, the government won the debate, but with a majority of only eighty-one. Given that the Conservatives had a nominal majority of over two hundred, it was a disaster.

As Alston went to bed that night, it seemed certain that what he had been praying for for months was finally about to happen: Chamberlain was on his way out. Yet suddenly, inexplicably, it looked likely that he would be replaced as Prime Minister by the biggest warmonger of them all.

Winston Churchill.

40

Mayfair, London, 9 May

Veronica went straight from Heston Airport to the small flat in Dunraven Street she shared with a friend, and telephoned Conrad on the Suffolk number he had given her. It took a long time for the captain she spoke to to get hold of him, but eventually she heard his voice.

‘I’m back,’ she said.

‘Did you see Theo?’ Conrad asked.

‘I did.’

‘What did he say?’

Veronica passed on Theo’s message verbatim.

‘But the tenth is tomorrow!’ Conrad said.

‘I know. Can you get hold of a general or something?’

There was a pause on the line. ‘You’ll have to do it, Veronica. Have you ever met Van?’

‘You mean Sir Robert Vansittart? Once, at your parents’ house in Kensington Square. I’m not sure he would remember me.’

‘Remind him, Veronica. I know you can do that. Go immediately to the Foreign Office and demand to see him. Say you have a message from Holland about the invasion. Be persistent. You know how to be persistent, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do, darling. I’ll make him listen to me, I promise.’

‘Once you have spoken to Van, ring Major McCaigue on this telephone number and tell him exactly what Theo told you.’ Conrad read out the number. If Van didn’t believe Veronica, it was likely that McCaigue would.

‘Do you think we are too late?’ said Veronica.

‘I don’t know,’ said Conrad. ‘But we have to try. Oh, and Veronica?’

‘Yes?’

‘Well done.’

Veronica hung up, and ran downstairs. She found a taxi in Park Lane. ‘Whitehall, please.’

Kensington, London

After the excitement of the previous two days, Alston felt deflated as he made his way back to his flat in Ennismore Gardens. Arthur Oakford had just confirmed what he had feared; Halifax had turned down the premiership. Didn’t have the stomach for it, quite literally. Which meant Churchill. There seemed to be a consensus in the House that the next government should include the Labour Party, and the Labour leaders preferred Churchill to Chamberlain. Despite the disaster in Norway, the House of Commons was suddenly well disposed towards the warmonger-in-chief. Churchill was going to become Prime Minister the next day. This was not how it was supposed to be.

He was surprised when he opened the door to his flat to see a light was on. It was past eleven o’clock. It couldn’t possibly be Dorothy down from Scotland to surprise him, could it?

‘Hello?’

‘Henry!’ He smiled as Constance rushed in from the sitting room, flung her arms around her neck and kissed him.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked her.

‘I told my mother I was staying with a friend in town. I wanted to be with you tonight.’ She broke away from him. ‘What’s wrong? Did Halifax become Prime Minister after all?’

‘No,’ said Alston. ‘It’s worse than that. It’s going to be Churchill.’

‘But Churchill’s responsible for the mess we’re in!’

‘I know. But suddenly everyone loves him.’

‘So no Lloyd George?’

‘No,’ said Alston, pouring himself a Scotch with barely a splash of soda. He sat down on the sofa and Constance snuggled up close to him.

‘That’s awful. Will Churchill make you a minister?’

‘I doubt it very much,’ said Alston. ‘He knows my views on the war. I suppose he might ask me to join the government, to create a “broad church”, but I would have to refuse. I couldn’t possibly serve under him.’

‘Oh, my poor darling,’ said Constance. ‘That’s so unfair!’

‘I know,’ said Alston. It was nice to be able to briefly drop his guard with Constance.

‘Maybe it’s not so bad,’ said Constance.

‘How can it not be?’ said Alston.

‘You said Churchill was a fool. Maybe he will lose the war and then they’ll dump him too.’

Perhaps Constance had a point. In a way, the biggest risk to Alston’s vision of a modern pro-German government was not Churchill, but a coalition of tired old moderates who would be able to negotiate a peace with Germany that left Britain alone to continue its path to decline and decay. That was not what Alston wanted.

Alston wanted a strong government, with himself at the heart of it, with Lloyd George as Prime Minister and the Duke of Windsor as king. A government that was an ally of Germany, that had the strength of purpose to rule the world in partnership with Hitler, that would lead Britain to greatness once again.

‘Maybe the Germans will finally attack France tomorrow and knock the Frogs out of the war with one of their blitzkriegs. With Chamberlain gone and Halifax out of the picture, there will be only you left to save us all from the warmongers!’

‘Maybe they will,’ said Alston. He smiled and stroked Constance’s hair. Her unquestioning support helped. And although she seemed naive and ignorant of politics, in fact she had good instincts.

Alston banished all thoughts of giving up. Next time, when Churchill slipped up, he had to be ready to move. Constance was right: that time might not be very far away.

‘By the way, you don’t have to worry about Conrad de Lancey anymore,’ Constance said. ‘I saw Joe Sullivan today and gave him the money. He’ll make sure de Lancey won’t be asking any more difficult questions about Lord Copthorne or me or the Duke of Windsor. We just need to alert Joe when de Lancey is back in London.’

‘Sullivan agreed to do it just like that?’

‘Yes. It wasn’t just for the money. I explained that de Lancey was against the cause.’

‘It’s more than that,’ said Alston. ‘I have heard de Lancey has been asking a lot of awkward questions, and unless we do something very soon he will find some very awkward answers. He’s getting very close.’

‘Well, Joe will put a stop to that.’

‘Good,’ said Alston.

Alston sipped his whisky and smiled. Only a few months ago, the idea of killing de Lancey would have shocked him. But now he knew that it was the right and necessary thing to do if de Lancey were not to blow the whole thing open. In moments of national crisis, like now, he had to have the moral strength to do what was necessary. Anything less was weakness and, unlike Lord Halifax, Alston was not weak. Herr Hitler and Signor Mussolini had not achieved what they had by being weak. Constance had taught him that. Which was remarkable for such a young woman.

‘You have been an enormous help to me, Constance. But someone like you shouldn’t be involved in this kind of thing.’

‘I love helping you, silly!’ She smiled at him. Then the smile disappeared. ‘Besides, I told you I had once killed someone. Before Millie.’

‘I remember you saying you had “taken steps”.’ Alston had been curious at the time what those steps were. He was even more curious now.

‘It was my uncle.’

‘The one you went to live with?’

‘That’s right. After Daddy killed himself, my mother, my sister and I went down to Dulwich to stay with him and my aunt — my aunt is my mother’s sister. After the factory closed we had no money and they did. I knew there was something wrong with Uncle Cedric, but I didn’t know what. On the surface, he seemed very correct and proper, kind even, but he was cruel to my aunt and my mother. He had my aunt under his thumb and he soon had my mother in the same position.

‘Then one night he came into our bedroom. My younger sister Lucy was asleep. He tried to kiss me. So I whacked him. For the next three months there was war between us, he did all he could to turn my mother and my aunt against me. It was horrible, but I refused to give up.’

Constance sighed. ‘But he knew how to really hurt me. One morning I came back to our bedroom and found him with Lucy. She was naked. She was only thirteen! When he saw me, he smiled.’

‘How old were you?’

‘I was fifteen. The next morning he fell under the eight-thirty-nine train to London Bridge. A witness said she thought he was pushed. I told the police he had wanted to kill himself. I was late to school that morning, but no one noticed.’

‘My God,’ said Alston.

‘And the thing of it is,’ said Constance, ‘life was better for me and for my sister, and for my mother and my aunt. Much better.’ She kissed his scarred cheek. He loved the way she seemed to favour that side of his face with her tenderness.

‘I’ve never told anyone that before. I didn’t think anyone would understand. But you understand, don’t you, Henry? Now.’

‘Yes,’ said Alston, stroking her hair. ‘I understand.’

‘It’s either de Lancey or us, Henry. You can’t become Prime Minister if you are in jail for murder, now can you? Come to bed. And tomorrow, who knows? Perhaps the war will be lost and you will have your chance again.’