Daughters of War (8 page)

‘Why should men take all the risks? If they are prepared to fight and die for their country, shouldn’t we women be ready to do the same? At least, surely, we should be able to prevent them dying just through the lack of basic first aid.’

He looked at her and she had the impression that he was coming to a decision. ‘Look, I probably shouldn’t say this, but I might be able to help.’

‘Help? How?’

‘Tomorrow I am leading a detachment to reinforce the Bulgarians who are besieging Adrianople. If you and your friend want to travel with us I won’t turn you away. It’s not Chataldzha, but it’s a good deal nearer to the front line than this is.’

Leo caught her breath. ‘You would really take us with you? Thank you! Thank you so much!’

He smiled ruefully. ‘I shall probably live to regret it. Just don’t, for God’s sake, mention it to the colonel. I should probably be cashiered.’

Leo smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry. We won’t say a word. When do we leave? How do we get there?’

‘You need to be at the station by 6.30 tomorrow morning. The train leaves at 7 o’clock.’

By the time Leo crawled into bed everything was settled. The major was dubious about whether Sparky could go on the train but when Victoria declared that if he could not she would drive to Adrianople he agreed that it would be managed somehow.

‘I’m in enough trouble already,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.’

Leo remembered the look in his eyes. All through their conversation she had been aware of his gaze and known that he found her attractive – and she knew that half-consciously she had traded on the fact. It was a not unpleasant feeling to realize that she had that power. But it was not his face that floated across her imagination as she hovered on the brink of sleep. It was the dark, imperious eyes and the arrogant mouth of Aleksander ‘Sasha’ Malkovic.

Six

Tom was beginning to realize that he had been extremely lucky to meet up with Max. At the Serbian border they were informed that the train could not proceed any further and all the passengers were told to get out. There was trouble with frontier police who were reluctant to admit two foreign journalists. It was not until Max slipped several large denomination banknotes into his passport that they were allowed to proceed to Belgrade. He then managed to acquire, by similar means, what seemed to be the only motor car in the village, to convey them there.

In Tom’s imagination the Serbian capital was like something out of a book of Russian fairy tales, all crooked wooden houses and narrow streets, and he was surprised to find an elegant city where grand houses with neoclassical façades overlooked broad thoroughfares busy with hansom cabs, shiny barouches and even trams. Nevertheless, the signs of war were everywhere. The streets were crowded with men in uniform, and refugee families in rough peasant attire pushing handcarts loaded with possessions mingled with the smartly dressed bourgeoisie. Accommodation was at a premium but eventually they found rooms in the Union Hotel in a busy street not far from the main square.

Looking at the décor of heavy wood and stained glass Tom commented, ‘This reminds me of a gentleman’s club in London, not somewhere in eastern Europe.’

Max smiled. ‘There are places like this from Vienna to Prague. You have to remember that Belgrade was the southern outpost of the Austro-Hungarian Empire for many years. The Ottoman Turks were just the other side of the Danube.’

Over dinner Max proposed that the following morning he would introduce Tom to some of his contacts in the newspaper world.

‘You know what? There are at least a dozen daily papers operating in this city, and my rag has a stringer based here who should be able to give us all the latest news. I’ll see that you get an exclusive that’ll have the editor of the London
Times
begging you to join his staff.’

Tom felt the colour rising in his face. He had never imagined that his bluff would be called in such a direct fashion and he felt guilty at having deceived this good-hearted man. ‘Look, Max,’ he said, ‘I’d better come clean – that’s the American expression, isn’t it? The fact is I’m not a journalist, not even an aspiring one. Let me explain . . .’

He told Max in as few words as possible about Leo’s disappearance, though he glossed over the exact nature of their relationship. Max listened, pursing his lips and nodding. When Tom finished he whistled softly.

‘Gee whiz! What a story! Gallant young women setting off into the unknown to render aid and succour to wounded soldiers. My readers would just love that! But I understand your feelings. A lady’s reputation and all that.’ He sighed regretfully. ‘OK, listen. With my contacts, if your fiancée has passed through here recently I’m sure we’ll be able to pick up her trail. I’ll ask around tomorrow, discreetly of course. No need for anyone to know who she is. But I just ask one thing in return. If we do find her, will you let me talk to her? I could write up her story without mentioning her name, if she wants it that way. But, gee Tom, it’s not something to be ashamed of. If it was my girlfriend showing that kind of guts I’d be proud!’

Tom digested this in silence for a moment. Up until then he had only viewed Leonora’s disappearance as an act of foolishness that had caused her family, and himself, a great deal of inconvenience. It had never occurred to him that it was something admirable and Max’s words made him see it in a whole new light. Finally he said, ‘OK, Max. If we find her you can talk to her, on condition that if she doesn’t want the story published, even anonymously, you will respect her wishes. Do I have your word?’

‘On my honour. So, what’s your first port of call here in Belgrade?’

‘I thought I’d go and see the British Consul. She may have gone to him for help, or if the Serbian authorities have detained her they will, presumably, have contacted him.’

‘Good thinking,’ Max said. ‘I’ve got people to see, as I said, so I suggest we go our separate ways and meet back here for dinner. That all right with you?’

Tom had no difficulty in obtaining an interview with the British Consul but his response was not helpful.

‘Terribly sorry, old chap, but I haven’t seen the young lady, or heard anything about her. If she and her friend were here in Belgrade I would expect to have heard a rumour, at the very least. The British community here is not large and word soon gets round if there are any new arrivals.’

‘Do you think they might have been turned back at the border? We had some difficulty getting through.’

‘It’s quite possible that the authorities at the frontier refused to let them pass. They are very suspicious of foreigners at the moment, particularly anyone without a really valid reason for coming here. Two unaccompanied ladies trying to reach the battlefields would be bound to raise questions. Your fiancée is probably safely back home by now, unless they have decided to stop off and sample the cultural delights of Vienna.’

On leaving the Embassy Tom found his way to the post office and sent a telegram to Amelia Malham Brown at Sussex Gardens. ‘No sign of L here. Situation very unsettled. Have you any news?’ That done, he found himself at a loose end. It seemed pointless to wander round the city on the off chance that he might bump into Leo or Victoria. On the other hand, he had no wish to spend the rest of the day sitting in the hotel, so he decided that he might as well take the opportunity to explore. What he found was a city pulsating with feverish excitement. The Serbian flag was everywhere, but the shops were mainly closed, many of them boarded up. He was aware that he attracted curious glances from passers-by and once a group of soldiers elbowed him off the pavement and one of them shouted something incomprehensible at him. He began to wonder whether it would have been more sensible to stay in the safety of the hotel; but his artist’s eye was caught by the unfamiliar scenes, and he wandered on along the broad thoroughfare of the Knez Mikhailov, pausing occasionally to sketch the elegant frontage of one of the grand houses that lined it. At the end of the street he found himself entering a large park, where groups of soldiers lounged under the trees and small children attended by their nursemaids ran through drifts of fallen leaves. Beyond that were the walls of Kalmegdan, the castle that crouched like a protective lion on the cliffs dominating the confluence of the Danube and the Sava rivers. Tom strolled through the great gateway without hindrance and found himself in another park-like space, bounded by the curtain walls. Climbing to a vantage point on these he looked down on a panorama which included the two rivers and the bridges that linked the Old City to its newer outposts. He took out his sketch pad and began to draw.

He was so immersed in the scene below him that he did not notice someone climbing the steps behind him until a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder. Looking up, he found two policemen standing above him. One of them stabbed a finger at the sketch pad and said something in Serbian. At first he thought they were merely curious but then one of them took him by the arm and jerked him to his feet. He protested, but neither man spoke English and they seemed unimpressed by his British passport and began to pull him towards the steps. Their manner was becoming increasingly threatening so Tom decided that, rather than provoke a struggle he could not win, it would be best to go with them and hope that when they reached the police station, which he presumed was where they were taking him, he would find someone with whom he could communicate. To his intense humiliation he was frogmarched through the streets and finally through the doors of a forbidding-looking building and into a room where uniformed officers were sitting at desks, surrounded by civilians who all seemed to be talking and gesticulating at once. When one of the officials was free, one of Tom’s captors thrust his sketch book onto the desk and poured out a lengthy explanation. The officer skimmed through the sketches and then looked up at Tom and barked a question.

‘I’m sorry,’ Tom responded helplessly, ‘I don’t understand. I’m English. Do you have anyone here who speaks English? Look –’ he produced his passport again – ‘British citizen – see?’

The official took the passport and peered at it curiously, then put it down without comment on top of Tom’s sketch pad. Tom realized with a sinking feeling that passports were a new-fangled notion which had not yet become current in Serbia, but when he moved to pick it up the man quickly snatched it out of reach. Tom felt panic beginning to churn in his bowels.

‘I want to speak to someone who understands English,’ he said, as calmly and clearly as he could manage. ‘I don’t know why I have been brought here, but I’m a British citizen and I demand to see the British Consul.’

The official looked at him without speaking for a moment, then he said something to the policemen who had brought Tom in and jerked his head towards a bench at the side of the room. One of the men took Tom’s arm and pulled him towards it.

‘I want my passport back!’ Tom demanded, and he could hear his own voice shaking.

There was no response, other than another jerk of his arm. Defeated, he allowed himself to be led to the bench and sat down, comforting himself with the thought that perhaps the official had summoned an interpreter and was waiting for him to arrive. Minutes passed and stretched into an hour. The crowds round the desks changed but did not lessen. Eventually Tom got up and went back to the man who had taken his passport.

‘What is going on? Why am I here? What are we waiting for?’

The man simply shrugged and jerked his head towards the bench. Tom contemplated walking out of the door, but a glance showed him that it was guarded by two policemen. He went back to the bench.

After another hour a man in civilian clothes entered, spoke to the official and then came over to Tom.

‘You are English?’

‘Yes, I am. And I’ve been here for over two hours. Do you mind telling me what is going on?’

The man gestured with his chin towards a door at the back of the room. ‘Come, please.’

Reluctantly Tom followed him down a dusty corridor and into a room which was bare except for a wooden table and two chairs.

‘Sit, please.’

Tom sat in the chair indicated and the other man seated himself on the opposite side of the table. Tom saw for the first time that he was holding the sketch pad.

‘What is this?’

‘It’s a sketch pad. I’m an artist.’

‘Why are you drawing pictures of the city?’

‘Because I have never been here before. You have some fine buildings. I like to draw buildings and landscapes.’

‘Why this view?’

‘Because it makes a good picture. It’s very picturesque. You understand “picturesque”?’

‘Why are you here in Belgrade?’

That brought Tom to a standstill. Did he explain about Leonora’s disappearance? Or did he stick to the story that he was a journalist? He decided that the former approach was just too complicated.

‘I’m a journalist. I am travelling with an American colleague, Maximilian Seinfeld. He works for the
Baltimore Herald
. We are staying at the Union Hotel. If you contact him he will vouch for me.’

‘A journalist? You have a press card?’

‘I . . . no. I am a freelancer. I don’t work for any particular paper.’

‘I think you are lying. I think you are a spy. You are working for the Austrian government, preparing pictures of strategic locations for use in the event of any future hostilities.’

‘No! Why would the Austrian government want my pictures? You are fighting the Turks, not the Austrians. Anyway, I’m not Austrian. I’m British. This is all a terrible mistake. I demand to see the British Consul. I spoke to him this morning. Tell him Thomas Devenish is here and ask him to vouch for me.’

The man looked at Tom for a long moment in silence. Then he said, ‘Turn out your pockets, please.’

‘Why?’

‘Turn out your pockets.’

Tom took out his wallet and his small change, some pieces of charcoal and a pencil and the key to his hotel room. His interrogator collected them up. ‘Also your watch, please.’