Paving the New Road (31 page)

“Her family must be very worried.”

“I don’t think she had any. There were two men who brought her flowers once, but they didn’t come back or ask after her.”

“Robbie!” Clyde signalled to the theatre door, which was being closed.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Fräulein Werner.” Rowland smiled warmly at the struggling actress. “I do hope we will be seeing you on the stage again soon.”

The production of
Romeo and Juliet
at the Kammerspiele was unexpectedly good. The story was so familiar, and the performances so visually moving, that Rowland’s companions did not require German to follow the play. A modern interpretation, it was set to the background of a live jazz band and the cast wore spats and flapper beads.

Rowland noticed a number of people leave as the music started, but his attention was soon wholly on the stage.

They had come primarily to speak with the cigarette girl, but they left talking about the show and, for a while, politics, conspiracies and spies were forgotten.

“It was inspired!” Edna said, as they found a table in a smoky bar. “The way the players connected to the audience … it’s something you don’t get in film. It’s exhilarating! Perhaps I’ll audition for the stage when we get home.”

They all laughed at her, without restraint, accustomed to the sculptress’ ability to find glory in the merest whim. She ignored them. Rowland told them then what he had learned from Helga Werner.

“That’s odd,” Milton said frowning. “I wonder what happened to Miss Niemann.”

“Well, considering she left her possessions behind, it seems to me that either she did not leave of her own accord or that she fled in fear,” Rowland said.

“Rowly’s right,” Edna agreed. “If she was simply quitting the show, why wouldn’t she just tell them?”

“I wonder what exactly was her connection to Bothwell,” Clyde mused.

“Richter would know,” Milton said, leaning back with his hands behind his head.

Rowland shook his head. “We can’t ask him without giving away why we’re really here.”

“Perhaps we should just tell him,” Edna suggested.

“No!” Milton said, slapping the table. “We cannot take everybody we meet into our confidence.” He leaned between Edna and Rowland and whispered, “Do you two remember that we are spies?”

Rowland laughed. He too was loath to involve the generous tailor, though unlike Milton he was not concerned with being clandestine for its own sake. What they were doing could be seen as an act against the German government. It would not be a good idea to involve a German citizen in their plans.

The club’s singer began to croon a gentle swing.

“I’ll work out how to ask Richter tomorrow,” he said, standing. He grabbed Edna’s hand. “I’d better dance with you before you become too big a star, I suppose.”

The next morning Rowland excused himself from a picnic organised by their host, on the pretence that he was meeting with another art dealer.

Richter murmured disapprovingly. “You work too hard, Mr. Negus,” he said. “Young men like you shouldn’t be passing up good food, let alone fine Bavarian beer and excellent company, to talk business with some withered old businessman.”

“I’m afraid I must see him, Mr. Richter,” Rowland replied. “Perhaps I can catch up with you afterwards? Where will you be?”

“We are going to visit the Schleissheim Palace in Oberschleissheim. Your friends will find the gardens pleasing, I think, and the paintings in the palace galleries will be of interest also.”

“I’ll join you there as soon as I’m finished,” Rowland promised. He looked at his host a little uncomfortably. “There was something I wished to speak to you about, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, my boy. Is there something the matter?”

“No … well, perhaps. There is something I have omitted to tell you, Mr. Richter.”

Richter sat down, hauling Stasi onto his lap. “Please go on,” he said encouragingly.

“As you know, Peter Bothwell’s widow is my cousin.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Apparently Peter wrote home on a number of occasions about an actress he’d seen in a play … an Anna Niemann. Mrs. Bothwell became convinced that there was something between them.”

“But Peter is dead now … surely—”

Rowland shrugged. “My dear cousin can be quite fixated about these things. She refuses to let it go. She made me promise to find Miss Niemann and speak with her.”

“Oh dear, my poor Mr. Negus. To be caught between a jealous woman and her dead husband!”

“I’ll say—it’s rather awkward. I was hoping you might know Anna Niemann. Then I could speak with her and be done with it.”

Richter shook his head. “I wish I could help you, Mr. Negus, but I am afraid I don’t know her.”

“Did Peter Bothwell never mention her?”

“Not that I recall … Perhaps he admired her performances.” He wagged a finger at Rowland. “You tell Mrs. Bothwell that she has no reason to concern herself. Revenge converts a little right into a great wrong. It is best we remember Peter as the noble man that he was.”

Rowland looked searchingly at the tailor, wondering if he was lying just to protect his friend’s reputation. Richter returned his gaze with equal scrutiny.

Rowland sighed. “Perhaps you’re right, Mr. Richter.”

“I am, my boy. We have all made mistakes. They should be allowed to be forgotten. A clear conscience is a soft pillow, but few men sleep so.”

Rowland nodded. “I’d better be off, I suppose. I’ll see you all at Schleissheim Palace.”

24

NEW GUARD LEADER BACK

WIFE ATTENDS ROYAL COURT

The Court ceremony, said Mrs. Campbell was the most beautiful that she attended during her seven months’ trip abroad. She met the late Lady Cynthia Mosley several times in England. Lady Cynthia who was the wife of the British ‘Blackshirt’ leader, was prominent in the Fascist movement. “She was a woman of great charm and simplicity” said Mrs. Campbell. Commenting on the craze for blonde hair in London, Mrs. Campbell said that every woman who wished to be smart appeared with fair hair, at all costs. Of course this extreme faddism was not indulged in by the people who really mattered.

The Sydney Morning Herald, 1933

T
he Osteria restaurant exuded a distinctly Bavarian charm. The walls were wood-panelled and painted with classical scenes. The dining room was dark and cosy. As Blanshard had predicted, Rowland recognised Unity Mitford quite easily.

Seated at a table at the front of the restaurant, she was broad-shouldered and long-limbed. Rowland wouldn’t have called her pretty but there was a defensive haughtiness, a certain iron resolve about her face that he found artistically interesting. She wore a black button-down shirt and she watched the entrance like a hungry hawk.

Rowland took the table next to hers and when the waiter arrived he tried to order in English before reverting to German. When the waiter left to bring his coffee, the black-shirted woman leaned over from her table.

“I say, are you English?” Her accent was distinctly that of the British privileged classes.

“Australian, actually.”

“Oh, the colonies.”

“Robert Negus,” Rowland said. “How do you do?”

She turned her chair around and thrust out her hand. “Unity Mitford.” She shook his hand vigorously, pumping it up and down.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Mitford.”

“I haven’t seen you here before,” she said. “I would have noticed another Brit, even if it was a colonial.”

“This is my first visit to this establishment,” Rowland said, finally pulling his hand from her grasp.

“I’ve been here simply loads of times.”

“Is the food particularly good?”

“No, I’m waiting for someone.”

“I see. I shouldn’t ask you to join me, then?”

She glanced at her watch. It was by then nearly noon. “Perhaps he’s not coming today.”

Rowland stood as she rose to move to his table.

“I am a direct sort of gel, Mr. Negus, so I must tell you at the outset that I am not available.”

“For lunch?” Rowland asked, wondering why she was moving to his table if that was the case.

“No, I’d be rather delighted to join you for a spot of luncheon, but it must go no further. I am spoken for, as it were.”

Rowland pulled out her chair. “I see. It is impertinent of me to enquire as we are barely introduced, Miss Mitford, but who is the lucky gentleman?”

She sat and beckoned him to do so too before she whispered, “Chancellor Hitler.”

“Indeed.”

“Do you believe in destiny, Mr. Negus?”

“Destiny?”

“I do. And destiny has brought me here.”

“To the Osteria?”

“No, to Adolf Hitler. Where were you conceived, Mr. Negus?”

“I assure you, I have no idea.”

“Well, I was conceived in Canada … In a place called Swastika. Don’t you think that could be a sign, Mr. Negus?”

“Unless Swastika is the name of a nunnery, Miss Mitford, I am sure many people were conceived there. They can’t all be destined for Mr. Hitler.”

“My middle name is Valkyrie … handmaiden to the Nordic god Odin. It’s quite simply meant to be. Once we meet, the Chancellor will know it too.”

“I see.”

“So you and I cannot possibly be anything more than acquaintances: friends at the most.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” Rowland tried to steer the conversation in a less awkward direction. “Would you care to order?”

Unity gave the waiter her selection without needing to even glance at the menu. Her German was halting but she had a healthy appetite and a fondness for Bavarian beer.

“What brings you to Munich, Miss Mitford?” Rowland asked, as the food arrived.

“I’m on an educational tour sponsored by the British Union of Fascists,” she said proudly. “I’m a member, you know.”

Rowland glanced at Unity’s black shirt. “I had guessed.”

“Of course, the Germans are a way ahead of Britain on the path to proper government. England is still being choked by Jews and Communists.”

“Choked?”

“A Jewish Bolshevik invasion, Mr. Negus. Australia’s been saved from that, I suppose, being so far away. But Britain and Europe are in peril. It’s time to fight back. Britain for the British. I say!”

Rowland kept his face unreadable. This was going to be harder than he’d first assumed. Blanshard hadn’t mentioned the woman was mad.

“I’m travelling with Australians, you know.” Unity sipped her beer. “Perhaps you know them? Colonel and Mrs. Eric Campbell.”

“I know
of
them,” Rowland said cautiously, pleased that it was she who had raised the subject of Campbell. “The Colonel is a friend of friends, so to speak.”

He watched as Unity cut vigorously into her food. There was something quite mannish about her manner. Her movements were expansive and somehow indiscreet. Everything about her was beginning to irritate him.

“He’s quite an impressive sort of chap,” Miss Mitford continued. “In fact, Sir Oswald Mosley, who’s a personal friend of mine, is quite taken with him. He thinks Australia may be in good hands with Campbell at the helm.”