Blackest of Lies (18 page)

“No.  Cried off late last night.  Apparently Asquith has given him the thankless task of looking into the Irish problem – particularly the reasons behind the Easter Uprising.”

“I don’t envy him.”

“Absolutely not.  Anyway, where was I?  Oh, yes, O’Beirne will be doing his bit for the Foreign Office and there will be a few servants and a driver from the Royal Horse Artillery.  That’s it, I think.”

Henry, dozing in his seat, sat a little more upright.  “Just to show that I am not
quite
unconscious,” he said, “what about the Russian side of things?”

“In what respect?” asked Fitzgerald, tapping some ash off his cigar.

“Well, we
are
all English, are we not?  Well, all right – Hubert here is a colonial of some sort – but we are going to some God-forsaken country where …”

“I see what you mean.  Sorry, yes, we do need an interpreter, of course, and we’re to have a young Scottish subaltern from the Cameronians – MacPherson.  That definitely
is
it.  As for the arrangements, themselves, it’s off to the War Office tomorrow to tie up any loose ends, then down to Kings Cross and away to Thurso.”

“Yes, Chris explained that side of things.  But I was wondering about …”

“Hullo,” said Hubert, interrupting.  “I wonder who this is.”

Fitzgerald got up and joined Hubert at the window seat.  Outside, in the dusk, a pony and trap was drawing up to the front door.

Anne stepped into the drawing room, having been announced by the butler.  For a moment she stood rooted at the door until Hubert walked over to her.

“Come and sit down over here, Miss Banfield,” he said.  “It’s turned cold outside.  Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you.  I’m very well as I am,” she said nervously.

Huber stood looking at her, a wide grin fixed inanely on his face.  “Fine,” he said, after an embarrassing pause.  “Well, let me introduce everyone.”  He turned to Farmer and said, “My Lord, may I name Miss Anne Banfield of Scotland Yard?  Miss Banfield, this is Field Marshal Lord Kitchener.”  Both shook hands and muttered the usual compliments and then Hubert repeated the process with Fitzgerald, leaving himself until the last.  “And I am Lieutenant Chris Hubert, temporarily seconded to His Lordship’s staff.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you all.”

The men sat down once she was seated.  Farmer, knowing that he would be expected to take the lead, thought matters over for a moment.  It was very unlikely that this girl would have been briefed on the real situation.  He would have to be ‘in character’.  “Well now, Miss Banfield, what can we do for you?  Is there a message from Commissioner Thompson?”

Anne looked tortured.  “Well ... in a way.”

“’In a way’, Miss Banfield?” asked Fitzgerald.  “I’m intrigued.”

Anne took a deep breath and then related everything that had happened, including her interview with Thompson and the ‘visitors’.  When she had finished, there was a stunned silence.  She looked at the three men in exasperation and turned to Farmer.  “But don’t you see, sir?  I
really
believe that the IRB or someone from the Casement faction will try to murder you if you go to Scapa Flow.  I’m here entirely on my own initiative.  I’m not representing Special Branch in any way but I simply
cannot
understand why I am not being taken seriously.  The men I overheard are committed and very dangerous.  What’s more, they have the organization and contacts to carry off something like this so, in my opinion, they should not be discounted quite so easily.”

“I can see that, young lady, and I’m very grateful,” said Farmer, emolliently.

Hubert had said nothing all the time she had been talking.  He was conscious of a sense of wonder that this slip of a girl would thumb her nose at someone like Thompson –
just because she thought she was right
.  As for the thugs, he could smell Boissier and Pickup and that meant Kell.  He looked over at Fitzgerald only to find that the other was looking at him.  Without a word being passed between them, both men knew that she had to be told.  Not just because it was necessary to avoid any possibility of exposure if she took matters further but also because she had
earned
it.

Farmer cleared his throat and said “Are you sure that we can’t tempt you to a brandy or something?”

Anne smiled at him.  “No, really, sir but thanks.”

“Well, then.  In that case, I have a story for you.  I’m sorry to tell you that, despite your courageous efforts, you are too late.  Two weeks ago, Lord Kitchener was murdered by the IRB in this very house.”

Anne turned pale.  “But …” she stammered, staring at him.

“He’s very good, isn’t he?” said Chris, leaning mock-confidentially towards her.  “Miss Banfield, let me do the introductions again.  Colonel Fitzgerald and I are the real thing but this gentleman is, in fact, Colonel Henry Farmer of the RAMC.”

“Oh my God.”

“Well, not quite.  It’s a bit of a shock, isn’t it?”

“May I change my mind about that brandy, please?”

“Certainly.”  Hubert poured out the drink while Fitzgerald carried on the explanation.

“You see, it was decided by Commissioner Thompson and Major Kell that it would be in the interests of the country if we could keep Lord Kitchener’s assassination a secret for a little while longer to allow us to come up with some strategy to avoid the inevitable catastrophe which would ensue when the facts were made public.”

“Lord Kitchener, dead?  I can’t believe it.  Is that why you’re going to Russia – to keep Colonel Farmer out of public view?”

“You have it exactly.  He’ll be ‘retired’ when we return.”

Anne, elbows on knees, put her forehead in her hands.  “And I nearly exposed
everything
.  No wonder Thompson was so angry with me.” She looked up frantically as another thought struck her.  “I might have lost the war for us!”

Farmer smiled.  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Miss Banfield.  You weren’t to know.  I don’t know about the other two gentlemen here but I think it reflects greatly to your credit that you were prepared to sacrifice everything to save Lord Kitchener.  It’s not your fault that it was in vain.”

Anne looked up.  “Thank you for that, sir.”  She sighed.  “But it’s not likely to do me much good
now
.”

“You mean, with Thompson?” asked Fitzgerald.  “Oh no, I don’t think we need to mention this to him at all.  No, no, no. You have never been here.”

“I know of no Miss Banfield,” said Henry, expansively.

Hubert, for his part, said nothing but gazed contentedly at the young woman.

**********

Sunday dawned breezy and cold.  But even that couldn’t dampen Hubert’s new-found love of life.  Anne had somehow added a little sparkle to things.  She had stayed the night, of course.  There was no way she could return to London.  Instead, she had left early this morning but not before Hubert had been able to chat with her.  Afterwards, he wandered into the garden, where Farmer was speaking to Dudeney.

“If you don’t wipe that vacuous grin off your face, Chris, I may have to be violently ill,” said Farmer, in an undertone.

Hubert chuckled to himself.  “Sorry, Henry, but you must admit, she
was
rather nice.”

“Yes, she was – much too nice for the likes of you.  Do the decent thing and leave her alone.”

“Henry, today you can say whatever you like.  I forgive you, my child.”

Farmer grinned and turned back to chat to Dudeney while Hubert’s attention was occupied by the sight of a motorcycle being checked through the main gate at the top of the hill.  Within minutes, the rider was walking along the path towards them and Hubert took the envelope from him, acknowledging the salute.  It was from Kell.  Hubert read the two sentences and handed it silently to Farmer.  It read:

TAKE CARE – STOP – GALLAGHER ON LOOSE AGAIN - END

“Does this mean what I think it means, Chris?”

“Probably.  They’ve worked it out.  We’re using a double and they’ll want to do the job again.”

Farmer turned pale at the thought.  “I know I could face death if I could look at it.  I saw it often enough in South Africa,” he said.  “But this ... a shot in the dark, never knowing when it would come …”

“Chin up, Henry.  Remember, you have an identity to maintain.” He pocketed the message and punched Farmer gently on the arm.  “Come on!  Things are moving in our favour.  If Gallagher is out for you, he’ll come here first.  And where will we be?  In Russia.  Let him chase us there, if he wants.  When we return, you’ll disappear back to Farnham House and no-one will be the wiser.  The odds are in our favour.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Farmer, not completely convinced.

“I am.  Now, let’s go.  We have to get up to London and you have one or two things to do at the office before we get on the train.”

“I’ll join you in a minute, Chris.”

Hubert walked off towards the house and Farmer turned round to the old gardener.  “Well, Dudeney.  This is it.  I’m off.  But I couldn’t leave without telling you how grateful I am.  I don’t think I could have managed quite so well without your help.”

“It weren’t nothing, sir,” he said, removing his cap.  “I’m just that happy that I was able to do my bit for His Lordship.  You take of yourself now, sir.  It ain’t over yet, or I’m much mistaken.”

“You look after yourself too, Dudeney.  And take care of the roses.” He lowered his voice, “Make sure no-one tries to assassinate
them.
”

Sunday 4 June 1916 1700 hours – 2000 hours

It took almost until five o’clock in the afternoon before they reached Whitehall.  Farmer immediately went in to his office, followed closely by Fitzgerald, while Hubert hung around in the anteroom for a few moments to speak to Kitchener’s secretary.

“Do you know, Lieutenant”, she said, “I will be rather sorry to see the ‘Field Marshal’ leave for Russia.  I’ve become rather fond of him, these past few weeks.”

“And no wonder, Miss Thorpe,” he said with a smile.  “You’ve been thrown together, as it were.  I know he’s valued your help very greatly, indeed.  To be honest, I don’t know how he could have done so well without your smoothing the path for him.  We’re
all
so grateful.”

She blushed, ducking her head. Then, surprising him, she reached up to run his lapel between her finger and thumb, “You won’t let anything happen to him?” she said in an undertone.

Hubert held her hand, “That’s why I’m here.”  He smiled to comfort her and then said more briskly, “Anyway, I really must check how they’re getting on.  I’m sure he’ll call for you in a moment.”

Hubert knocked on the door and noticed the pause within the room beyond as Farmer and Fitzgerald ‘arranged themselves’ in case of visitors not in the know.

“Come”, called Fitzgerald, casually.

Hubert opened the door and walked in, closing it behind him.  Fitzgerald was standing beside Farmer who was signing documents at his massive wooden desk.

“Won’t be long, Chris”, said Farmer, “We’re just finalising a few things from that last dispatch box before we leave.  There’ll be more of the damn things waiting for me on the train, apparently – plus the Russian one.  Grab a seat and we’ll be with you in a minute or two.”

Hubert parked himself on a large, somewhat solidly sprung War Office sofa and looked around the room.  Maps and military prints dominated – only the odd little porcelain cup or plate livened up what would have been real mausoleum of a room to work in. 
Each to his own
. 

“You just missed Sir Henry Oliver, Chris,” boasted Farmer.

“What did
he
want?”

“It seems that he was responsible for setting up all the travel arrangements.  Someone apparently told him that it was my idea to do this morale-boosting visit to the Fleet and it rather upset all his original plans for a Clyde departure.  Of course, you and I both know it was really Kell.  He came over to give me all the new details – rather decent of him, I thought – but it seems that Jellicoe is not happy at the thought of my travelling from the mainland to Scapa in the
Hampshire
.  It’s too dangerous, apparently, and telegraphed this morning to say that he wants me to make the trip in a destroyer, as you thought.”

“HMS
Royal Oak
,” said Fitzgerald.  “But that’s just the main party.  The servants and luggage will follow in the Fleet pinnace.”

“When do we get into Thurso?” prompted Hubert

Fitzgerald flicked through a thick operations order from a red box, “Around 1100 hours tomorrow – it’s a 700 mile journey.” 

Fitzgerald took Farmer through some more paperwork until Hubert looked at his wristwatch.  The ‘few minutes’ had now stretched to half an hour and he politely coughed to attract Fitzgerald’s notice.  “Sir, may I remind you that we must be at King’s Cross by 1830 hours?”  It was essential to maintain the pretence even within the confines of the office.  There was no telling when an unguarded comment would be overheard in a rabbit warren like the War Office. 

Fitzgerald nodded curtly.  “Almost done,” he said.

**********

On the bridge of the
Hampshire
, Captain Savill watched the crew begin tying up operations following instructions from the C-in-C himself to manoeuvre closer to the
Iron Duke
in preparation for Lord Kitchener’s embarkation.  The weather, by now, had changed for the worse.  The wind, already strong, had risen and veered round to the north, running a heavy sea.  Scapa Flow was renowned for being well sheltered but it was fast disappearing behind a mass of white tops fading into a grey mist.  Soaked by spray on the open bridge, Savill pulled the collar of his waterproof more closely round his neck and shouted down to his gunnery officer who was helping to supervise deck operations.

“Matthews!”

“Aye, sir?”

“Organise a party to rig safety lines for the Army – looks as though we’ll need them soon.”

“Very good, sir.”

Savill returned to the tiny wheelhouse and sat back in his chair, wiping the sea water from his face.  He was a sailor of the old brigade, having served during the Boer War.  His exceptional skills at sea had enabled him to rise high enough to command the Royal Naval College at Greenwich before being brought back to active duty.  Open bridges were no hardship to him, even in this sort of weather, but how His Lordship would take to being sea-sick was beginning to worry him.  He reached underneath the seat for his charts.

On the deck, near the port capstan, Matthews watched the team starting the delicate, but strenuous, process of securing the cable from the buoy.  Normally, this wouldn’t pose too much of a problem but in these conditions, things could get nasty.  It was all hands to the pump – even the ship’s blacksmith and one of the few soldiers on board had been roped in. 

The deck for’ard was completely awash with spray, periodically hiding it from Savill’s view up on the bridge and, with the engines barely turning over, there was nothing to give the ship any sort of headway in the strong seas to provide stability.  From time to time, he could see snapshots of action between successive explosions of seawater from the bows as the team wrestled with the enormous rope.

“Look lively, let’s get that hawser over the capstan!” shouted Matthews over the shrieking of the gale.

“Aye, sir!” said Chief Petty Officer Wesson.  “Come on lads!  Oi, Greer!  Blacksmiths are welcome too, y’know! Grab the end!”

The Herculean effort needed to press the cable over the end of the steel capstan had to be seen to be believed.  Six straining men took all their efforts to complete the task in the dangerous conditions of the pitching, rolling deck.  No-one noticed the small, wiry army private squeeze in amongst them.  His mind was not on the hawser.  With a sly sideways movement, totally masked by the gathering violence of the storm, he nudged the blacksmith just as the deck reached the top of a roll to port.  Off balance, Greer’s right leg slid underneath him as his rock hard blacksmith’s boot skated across the holystoned decking.  His cry was smothered by the gale as he slid towards the capstan, trapping his leg under the cable and virtually shearing it off above the knee. 

The pounding of the seas smothered his screams.

**********

“Well, Joan”, said Farmer, “this is it, I suppose”.  He was standing awkwardly with Fitzgerald and Hubert in the outer office, trying to make his farewells to Kitchener’s secretary.  He jerked his hand out hesitantly towards her.  She reached out to take it and then pulled him forward to clasp him in a warm hug.

“Do take care of yourself, Henry”, she said in a whisper.  It was the first time she had used his Christian name.  He held her in his gaze and smiled shyly.  He jerked his head.  “’Do my best”, he said.

A silence descended on the room as they looked at each other.  Just as Fitzgerald was beginning to feel himself something of a gooseberry, Hubert suggested that it was time to make a move to the railway station.  They picked up the last of their hand luggage and were on their way out of the door when the phone rang.

“Lieutenant Hubert”, she said, “It’s for you”.  As he took the set from her and put the receiver to his ear she murmured, “It’s Major Kell”.

“I’m sorry, sir, could you wait just a moment while I take this call?”  Fitzgerald and Farmer came back in to the office and sat down.  Hubert listened while Kell spoke a few sentences and then hung up.  “That was Major Kell, sir.  We’re missing some classified travel documents.  He’s requested that I pop over to his office and collect them.  I’m also to receive a final mission briefing.  In view of the time, I think the best thing would be for you and Colonel Fitzgerald to make your way over to King’s Cross and I’ll join you there with the papers”.

“It’s a bit last minute!” said Farmer looking significantly at him. “Don’t be late.  Seven o’clock departure.”

“I won’t, sir.”  Hubert winked at him, picked up his cap and left for Kell’s lair, as he liked to call it.

**********

As the launch sheered away from the
Hampshire
in the pounding seas, Matthews climbed up to the bridge to report the blacksmith’s accident to Savill.  “We’re transferring Greer across to the
Soudan
, sir”, he shouted over the noise of the wind.

“How bad does it look?  Will he keep his leg, do you think?”

“I doubt it very much.  It looks pretty bad but at least he has a better chance in a hospital ship like the
Soudan
.  The surgeons can get to work right away.”

“Poor chap – it’ll be the end of his time in the Navy.  Well, best hope that we have no need of his services during the trip.  Carry on, Guns.”

“Aye, sir.”  Matthews, having completed his task, returned to Number One gun to supervise preparations for their forthcoming departure.

**********

The instant Hubert stepped out of the lift in MI5 HQ, he sensed the two men standing on either side.  Before he could do anything about it, he felt his arms seized.  “Boissier and his pet poodle, I suppose.  Frightened any more girls lately?”  He gasped explosively, as Pickup punched him hard in the lower back.

“You’d better watch yourself, Hubert.  Kell told us to grab hold of you and bring you to his office – but he didn’t say to be gentle about it.”

“Now, now, Pickup,” said Boissier.  “Don’t let it get personal.”  He shook his head ruefully at Hubert.  “He is
so
sensitive.”

Expertly, they manhandled Hubert along the corridor, passing a white-faced Jane, and deposited him in a Chesterfield in Kell’s office.  “Chris!” she faltered.  “Chris, what’s happening?”

Kell glanced up and saw her peering round the door.  “It’s quite all right, Miss Sissmore.  Lieutenant Hubert is just helping us with something.  Please close the door, thank you.”

Hubert rubbed his back, groaning.  “What the hell is going on?  Colonel Farmer is waiting for me at Kings Cross.  If I don’t arrive there in the next fifteen minutes, he’ll have to leave without me.”

Kell glared at Boissier and Pickup.  “I asked you to bring this officer to me as soon as he entered the building.  I gave no orders to assault him!”

Pickup actually shuffled his feet like a schoolboy.  “He resisted arrest, sir.”

“Arrest?  Who do you think you are?  Look, just stand there behind his seat, both of you.  Keep an eye on him because this is not going to go well.”  He glanced down at a doubled-up Hubert.  “Hubert
.  Hubert!
  Pay attention.”

Hubert tried to sit up straight and look Kell in the eye.

“That’s better.  Now, let’s get something straight – you will not be boarding that train.  Colonel Farmer will depart as planned but those plans no longer include you.”

**********

Farmer never liked King’s Cross, even at the best of times.  Today, it was a bit chilly and miserably damp, he thought, as he stood on the platform beside his private train.  Coupled with the usual mayhem of troops embarking and disembarking from transports, it was the least attractive place on earth he could think of. 

He glanced around, almost forgetting to return the salute of a passing private soldier.  The smell of coal smoke and hot oil was everywhere, stinging the eyes and smudging collars.  On the furthest platform, he could see crowds of women, many carrying children, waving handkerchiefs tearfully at their departing husbands, unsure if they would ever see them again in this world.

Fearing the worst. 

The shrieking of others, hidden from view behind a grimy cloud, he assumed was to welcome the return of those dearest to them.  It all seemed to be a sort of dirty, mechanical staging post between the worlds of death and destruction and those of home and safety. A single platform change could take you from one to the other.

He snorted to himself.  “Bloody business is turning me into a philosopher.”

Fitzgerald touched his arm, causing him to start a little.  “My apologies, sir.”

Farmer smiled.  “Not at all, Oswald.  I was miles away.  To tell the truth, I was concerned that we haven’t seen Hubert yet.”

“I’m afraid that’s only one of our problems – the least of them, in fact.”

“God!” said Farmer, “what next?”

Fitzgerald enumerated them on the fingers of one hand like a school-marm.  “Firstly, I cannot persuade that fool of a Station Master to allocate a private waiting room for you.  They are
all
under renovation at this very moment, which I find unbelievable, to say the least.  You are very exposed out here – if I were to take a cynical view of the world, I might say ‘almost deliberately so’.  That being the case, I really think it would be best for you to board and wait for departure.  It would at least keep you out of sight.”