The Blood Dimmed Tide (4 page)

‘I am very tired and have a great longing for order,’ he whispered as he closed the front door.

4

Page of Wands

THE smell of dinner drifted from the kitchens of the Strand Hotel, a rich meat-heavy smell that provided no comfort to the hungry pedestrians on the street; the grey city-workers, the shop-girls, the servants and tradesmen, most of whom had been surviving for the past three years on meagre rations and what they could extemporise from their depleted larders.

The previous year, Winston Churchill, Minister of Munitions, had requisitioned the hotel for the duration and set up offices for the Air and Naval departments in the Strand’s former ballrooms and bedrooms. Major Charles Rogers had spent nine months sitting in a deep leather armchair at a desk in Section M studying maps and reams of intelligence reports on Europe’s Atlantic seaboard. When his work was finished, he dined every evening dressed in a dinner jacket under the splendour of crystal chandeliers caressed by clouds of the finest cigar smoke.

In spite of his elegant surroundings, Rogers found his daily tasks − the allocation of aircraft alongside the various squadrons and shipping convoys to counter the U-boat menace − frustratingly mundane.

It upset him that military airplanes were still being used by the Admiralty solely as a tactical weapon, in support of naval activities, rather than as a separate fighting arm. Invariably, the planes were grounded. It soon became apparent to Rogers that in the North Sea, when the moon was right for flying, the weather was probably not. Finding the long periods of desk-bound inactivity almost unbearable, Rogers had applied for a transfer to flying duties himself, but Churchill had little faith in the new-fangled aircraft and was not prepared to waste a first-class intelligence officer on one of them.

When Rogers had pestered Churchill for a post more suited to his temperament and experience, one a little closer to the action, he was rewarded for his persistence with the additional task of monitoring the movements of Irish Republicans and their sympathisers in London. Principally he was to target the activities of secret societies devoted to the occult, which had been infiltrated by undesirable rebel elements.

Rogers studied the file that had been handed to him.

‘Mystics and Irish folklorists?’ he asked Churchill with incredulity. ‘What has the war effort got to do with this ragtag band of misfits?’ He tried to make his point as forcibly as possible. The Easter Rising might have caused a little local trouble in Dublin, unnecessarily prolonged because the rebels had the bad form to kick-start their revolution on a public holiday, but surely the Admiralty had more pressing problems on its mind. What about the German U-boat campaign and the threat posed by the Kaiser’s High Seas Fleet?

Churchill grunted and eyed him coldly.

‘The Admiralty has learned that the Irish rebels have sent representation to the German high command, urging them to invade along the country’s western seaboard. At the same time, their sympathisers are raising funds and support for Irish independence in this very country. Ignoring them would be akin to falling asleep in a crime-ridden city and leaving the back door wide open. Your task is simple. Here is the list of a very busy little network of rebel supporters. I want you to stop them in their tracks before they can commit treason.’

Rogers licked his lips and tried to generate some enthusiasm in his voice.

‘Sounds straightforward.’

‘Of course it is. And remember, our country is engaged abroad in a war to end all wars, but right here, at home in this city, there are dangerous elements just as potent lurking in the shadows, and they are hell-bent on achieving their ghastly aims.’

Rogers nodded curtly, and Churchill sighed contentedly. ‘By the way, they’re serving Beef Wellington tonight,’ he said. ‘The Admiralty never forgets that it is the stomach that governs the world, rather than the head or heart.’

By the time Rogers had finished dining on the evening of 12 February, a fog had risen from the stagnant Thames and was pressing down upon the darkened city. He raised his lit cigar to his mouth and savoured the aroma of tobacco as he stood on the steps of the hotel. In the darkness, he heard the sound of someone coughing belligerently.

Unexpectedly, the figure of one of his spies, a tall, lean Irishman known as Wolfe Marley, emerged from the corpse-white fog. On spotting Rogers, the spy removed his black cap. His crown of thick grey hair bristled in the dripping air, making him resemble a badger that had aggressively poked its head from its lair. He bounded up the steps and joined Rogers.

‘Just passing by in the course of my patriotic duty, sir,’ said the Irishman.

Rogers felt a flicker of annoyance at being approached in such a familiar manner by one of his underlings. He had the impression that Marley had been waiting close by in the fog for some time. For what? For him to emerge from the hotel? The warmth of the Strand and the cigar’s aroma quickly evaporated. The night air tasted damp and cold.

‘Do you know where you are, Marley?’ Rogers’ hushed voice emanated hostility. Majors and generals in white shirts and black suits accompanied by women in glittering dresses cautiously manoeuvred around them. Marley was wearing a nondescript coat, held up by a worn-looking leather belt.

‘Of course I do. The stench of money and arrogance helped me navigate my way.’ He dipped his bare head in mock respect. ‘Unfortunately, growing up in Ireland has ruined my relationship with the upper classes. I see that they exist in their cocoon of wealth, but I can never seriously respect them, or see a reason for their existence. If all this were taken away by a German bomb should anyone care?’

Rogers felt tension tug on his face. He grimaced.

‘Are you just going to stand here? You look like a tramp.’

‘I thought I’d accompany you this evening.’

‘Accompany me? Haven’t you other duties?’

Marley flashed a crooked smile at Rogers, who glared back. The Irishman represented the world of subterfuge and violence, which he tried to sweep from his mind every evening on leaving the hotel. He had assigned Marley the task of watching the movements of Madame Maud Gonne MacBride, the former actress, and the widow of Major John MacBride, one of the executed leaders of the 1916 Rising. Rogers’ department had served her with a notice under the Defence of the Realm Act, placing her under house arrest in Balfour Street. The authorities did not want the charismatic widow to return to Ireland, fearful that once set loose she might stir up the embers of rebellion like a modern day Joan of Arc.

‘I hope our grieving widow is keeping you busy,’ said Rogers.

Marley’s head darted about, taking in the windows of the hotel and the enormous span of the brightly lit dining room. He stared with fierce interest at the departing staff. Compared to their well-fed faces glowing with alcohol, he looked much too gaunt and starved. There was no excess left to his face or body. His eyes were like those of a ravenous fish swimming in a lifeless pool.

‘I’ve been searching for her all week,’ said Marley.

‘Searching?’ Rogers’ voice grew more clipped. ‘The woman’s under house arrest. And you’re meant to be watching her.’

‘Somehow she’s got wind of the hunting dogs following her. Unbeknownst to us, she’s been slipping in and out of her house in the disguise of a Red Cross nurse. The black widow has lost none of her theatrical skills. In fact, now that she has a secret audience they are flourishing.’

Rogers frowned at Marley. ‘Gonne is an actress. A lover of disguises and masks. What’s so important about this that it couldn’t wait until our next scheduled meeting?’

Marley flexed his tongue and licked his lips. ‘Last night, I followed her to a house off Edgware Street. There was a séance taking place upstairs.’

‘Have you come to warn me that the widow is recruiting ghosts?’ interrupted Rogers. ‘Or perhaps you’re worried she’s using a medium to take commands from her executed husband?’

‘William Butler Yeats was in attendance at the séance.’

A distant horn throbbed from the direction of the Thames. In the fog, it felt like a ghostly vibration.

‘So? Everyone knows that Ireland’s most famous living poet is obsessed with ghosts.’

‘I believe revolution is starting to interfere with his ghost-hunting. The house he visited was a former safe house for Irish rebels on the run. It’s currently being rented by a man called Theodore Havel, who used to be one of the most successful weapon smugglers in Europe. This is about more than an obsession with the supernatural.’

‘Gonne is part of Yeats’ hobby, too. No one has a greater personal interest in that woman. He would go to the ends of the earth to catch a glimpse of her.’

‘He’s not that servile or a fool.’ Marley bared his teeth. A look of excitement came over his features. ‘My informants tell me that a plot to bring Gonne back to Ireland is at an advanced stage. Along with a large consignment of weapons from Germany. I believe she poses a very dangerous threat to the nation’s security.’

‘And what part does Yeats play in all this?’ Rogers inspected him over his cigar.

‘I’m short of information in that regard. We should not forget that Yeats was a member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood in his youth. He also had links with several of the traitors behind the Easter Rising. Yeats likes to think of himself as a great benefactor to the Irish nationalist cause. It’s part of his mystical persona.’

‘There is no such thing as the Irish Republican Brotherhood anymore. At least not in any form we’re familiar with. That’s the problem with these hot-headed revolutionaries and literary types. Always rowing and forming splinter groups. If Yeats is still involved politically then it’s with the splinter of a splinter group.’

‘Yet he’s there in the background. Pulling the strings, I suspect.’

‘Nonsense. I know Yeats from the Dorchester Club, and he’s a typical Irishman. There’s no real harm in him. He just can’t choose carefully enough. Not his lovers nor his friends. Nor where his national allegiance lies.’

‘Yeats wants it both ways. He wants his English friends to treat him like a fellow Englishman, while Gonne and her Irish rebel friends expect him to behave like a passionate nationalist.’

Rogers stubbed out his cigar. ‘The department are more interested in watching Gonne. The idea of that mad woman roaming London at large would give my commanders nightmares. Remember she’s meant to be under house arrest.’

‘She knows she’s being watched and she’s enjoying it. She abhors anonymity. You could say she’s conducted her whole life in front of an audience.’

‘You knew her professionally, didn’t you?’ Rogers’ face sharpened.

‘A little. Before the war.’ Marley’s accent changed to that of an actor in a music hall sketch ‘When the ‘Oirish theatre was in its heyday, I treaded the stage day and night at the Abbey.’

‘An actor and a spy. Quite a combination. And there was me thinking you were just a second-rate informer.’

‘Deception is my game now.’

‘I’m as keen on subterfuge as the next man in this business, but you must remember intelligence is my game. I deal in facts. Hard evidence. What proof do you have that Gonne is at the centre of this conspiracy? All this talk of gunsmuggling, séances and London’s most famous poet, it all sounds so mysterious and far-fetched to me.’

A siren sounded in the street warning of a possible Zeppelin bombing raid. Dogs began yelping from back alleyways. Rogers took advantage of the distraction and called a hackney cab.

‘You have to remember,’ he continued, ‘that we have Gonne’s passport, which means she can’t return to Ireland or escape to France. She’s a refugee in a city hostile to her cause. I want you to keep her in your sights. Perhaps you’ll have something more interesting to tell me next week at our briefing.’

Rogers put on his hat and made to leave, but Marley reached out and gripped him by the arm. The siren grew louder.

‘You should stay and hear me out.’ Marley’s teeth were clenched. ‘Gonne is a doomed woman, and that’s what makes her so dangerous. Doomed and ruthless. The perfect combination for treason.’

‘Let go of my arm.’

‘I want her arrested.’

‘I can’t grant you that.’

‘Then what is the purpose of my following her and reporting my suspicions to you?’

‘There is no purpose. Other than letting her know we are watching her.’

A half-smile froze on Marley’s lips and his eyes went cold and still. Rogers glared indignantly at him. The Irishman was a night-wanderer, a double-crosser, a violent and shadowy creature of instinct. What was his motivation in helping the British? Not the fine dining at the hotel Rogers had just left, nor the warm sitting room tended to by the rosy-cheeked wife where he was headed. The Irish were the untamed animals of Europe, whatever their allegiances. Rogers was beginning to understand why so many of them ended up in the carnage of the trenches in Flanders, blindly pursuing a political ideal and the promise of nationhood. He looked back at the hotel, into the dining room filled with overweight middle-aged men who preferred their dinner rounded off with light conversation and a gentle doze.

‘I’ve done my duty. I’ve informed you of my suspicions,’ said Marley tensely. ‘I’ve pinpointed potential troublemakers. It’s your job to negate their potential for violence. If you relay my suspicions to your superiors I’m sure they’ll act upon them.’