The Secret Generations (43 page)

The couple were too engrossed in one another even to notice her, but Sara smiled as she tiptoed from the house. She wondered if another wedding could be in the offing, for the young woman so ardently fucking Caspar was none other than his erstwhile nurse, the Honourable Phoebe Mercer.

Fancy, she said to herself, hurrying away. Just fancy. Old Phoeb.

*

Since his message in May
– saying the Dimpling woman had been taken – there had been no further contact with Peewit.

Silence. In June, a short paragraph in the
Berliner Tageblatt
gave the news that Frau Henrietta Dimpling, an Englishwoman who had taken German nationality by marriage, had been tried for espionage, found guilty and shot. No Franke; no Grabben; no Railton.

‘
They’re not even going to tell us.’ Giles was convinced that James had died. C noted that, for once, he seemed upset.

C decreed that Margaret Mary should be told nothing of their suspicions until after the birth of the second child, due in August. Until then, they would wait. Seagull had sent four other messages
– nothing particularly startling.

There was still no news of Mary Anne, but Charles had managed to get Mildred to see a doctor. She still haunted the church, but prescribed sedation appeared to have some effect.

So, they waited until August before saying anything to Margaret Mary; and while they waited there was plenty to occupy everyone. Charles still monitored reports from their infiltrated men in the prison camps, who now included Otto Buelow. Some of Kell’s men worked close to Special Branch officers in France and Ireland, where tension grew steadily. ‘Ireland’s like a watched pot,’ Kell said. ‘It never quite boils, but one day it will, and maybe we won’t be looking that fine morning.’

With Gallipoli a shambles, Churchill left the Admiralty, taking the Chancellorship
of the Duchy of Lancaster in Asquith’s new Coalition. Later in the year he would leave the Cabinet altogether. The drive for munitions was on at last under the silver tongued whip of Lloyd George, and a new terror struck. German Zeppelins began to attack England, even bombing London. Now nobody felt safe.

On the Western Front, men fought and died for a few
hundred yards of earth, and names like Neuville and Givenchy exploded from the maps that people marked with little pinned flags in their parlours.

‘
Keep the Russian going,’ Giles goaded Ramillies. ‘You’re going to need it, and sooner than you may think.’

On 20 August, Margaret Mary Railton gave birth to a daughter. A sister for little Donald. She was called Sara Elizabeth. A week later, Giles went with C to Redhill Manor, and spoke to Sara. They would tell Margaret Mary next week, they said. It was not correct protocol, but they felt, as James
’ stepmother, she should be the first to know.

The news put a blight on all the happy preparations she was making with Dick, whose commission had been granted. He would not be required for service until the following January.
‘I thought they were crying out for pilots,’ he raged.

‘
Be thankful,’ Sara whispered, ‘I thought you were crying out for a wife.’ Suddenly she covered her face, and gave a mighty sob. ‘God, I can’t believe it about James, Dick. Tell me it isn’t true.’

But it was Margaret Mary who told them it was not true. Two officers from C
’s Service went to the house near Kensington Gardens, and Sara contrived to be there, to see the baby, at the same time.

They told her, flat-voiced, with sympathy. It was t
he considered opinion of his commanding officer that James had died in action.

Sara moved in to comfort her, and was surprised to see a secret smile on Margaret Mary
’s lips as she slowly shook her head. She thanked the officers with a steady voice, saw them to the door and went on with her conversation.

Sara suddenly interrupted her,
‘M-M, my dear. Please, how can you be so sure about James?’

‘
He’s alive, Sara.’ Her face lit up as she spoke. ‘I just
know
he’s alive.’

Sara thought she sounded strangely like Martha Crook.
‘But
how
can you be so sure?’

‘
James and I always know about each other. He’s with me when I play the piano. Believe me, Sara.’

*

In the village of Ashford, Co. Wicklow, Padraig O’Connell met Malcolm Railton in their usual bar.

They had talked for about an hour when Malcolm put a hand
on Padraig’s arm. ‘I’ve never seen you wrong yet, have I?’

‘
No, but I’ve told you already, I’ve never trusted an Englishman before. What’s the matter with you?’

‘
Nothing’s the matter, but you must know that I have to go to England for Christmas, and take Bridget with me.’

‘
So, and will you come back?’

‘
Padraig, it’s essential. Family business. A marriage. I
have
to be there, they would suspect if we dodged it.’

‘
Maybe I’ll have work for you while you’re there. How long will you be gone?’

‘
A week. Ten days at the most.’

‘
Good. Come back for the New Year, because things will change fast then. How can I trust a bloody Englishman? But you come back. God love us all, Casement’s returning, and there’ll be fire in this country in the next months. It doesn’t take spies to know that.’

‘
No.’ Malcolm turned away, and caught a glimpse of the sun going down over the Wicklow Hills, with dark clouds hanging as though God was sending a storm in on cue.

Chapter Ten

It was in early October
– soon after Nurse Edith Cavell had finally been betrayed, and executed in Brussels – that Giles knew his nephew Charles had been compromised.

‘
Cavell was nothing to do with us,’ C reiterated for the umpteenth time, as though trying to convince himself.

‘
We used her, though.’ Caspar was troubled.

‘
Of course. She was there, ran a good escape route. Gallant lady. It remains, young Caspar, she was not official. If the public wishes to make her a martyr, all well and good.’

Later that same day, Giles was with Vernon Kell and Charles. They also talked about Miss Cavell
’s execution. ‘Betrayal, treachery – it’s all part of the trade. Terms of our trade if you like.’

Giles continued in a monologue,
‘Take the fellow Buelow. Doing us some good in the prison camps, but a traitor to his own; and the Seagull woman, treacherous to both countries.’ He paused, trying to gain Charles’ attention. ‘She’s sending interesting stuff, so C tells me.’

There was something odd about the way Charles stood. A stiffness; an unusual angle of the head.

That evening, hunched over the maps and soldiers, reliving the events in Scotland during ‘The Forty-Five’ Jacobite Rebellion, which ended with the carnage at Culloden, he put his mind to work on Charles’ possible predicament. A few years earlier, Giles had visited Culloden. He was not superstitious, but in that grim place, he knew there were ghosts, shadows of the terrible slaughter. He wondered if Flanders would hold ghosts a couple of hundred years hence.

Then his nimble, labyrinthine brain turned again to Charles.
Of course the man was worried, obsessed, with Mary Anne’s disappearance, and his wife’s emotional turmoil. But Giles smelled something else, and the only other element in Charles’ situation was the woman they called Seagull.

By October 1915, there was hope for Mildred, and Charles knew it. The gleam of hope came unexpectedly. Charles had behaved himself; even though, like any normal man, he missed the company of a woman who could be all things to him. He had taken up his old habit of dropping into the Travellers at day
’s end. A few stiff gins before going back to Cheyne Walk gave him courage.

It was there that light suddenly emerged.

The club was not busy on this particular evening – it must have been some time in the last week of September – when Charles took a drink and a copy of
The Times
to his favourite chair. After a few minutes he became aware of someone staring at him. The man was a short, tubby clergyman with thick pebble glasses, pleasant rosy cheeks, white hair and skin like a baby’s.

Charles met his eye and nodded. He had seen the cleric in the club before now, but never met him. Now, the man advanced on Charles.

‘Do you mind if I sit here?’ The voice contained none of the parsonical inflexions Charles identified with Church of England clergymen. ‘You don’t remember me, of course. You
are
Charles Railton, aren’t you?’

Charles admitted he was.

‘Good.’ The man nodded, absently. ‘Merchant,’ he said, ‘Paul Merchant. Vicar of Haddington. You married young Mildred Edwards, Parson Edwards’ daughter. I was vicar of the next parish. We met once at the Parsonage.’

Charles searched the files of his past. He could only just recall that rather grim, dark house that was the Parsonage, and his first visits there, with Mildred
’s father, the Rural Dean, pompous, full of piety and quotations.

‘
I’m afraid not.’ Charles tried to laugh.

‘
Of course not. But I
would
like to speak with you. You see, I knew Mildred and her parents for a very long time, when she was a child.’ He gave a pleasant chuckle. ‘I am of an age when I cannot tell you what I did yesterday, but can recount the distant past with ease.’ He peered at his hands.

‘
I understand you may not wish to talk of this,’ the Reverend Paul Merchant continued, ‘but I believe it is important.’

‘
Talk of what?’ Charles was on his guard. London’s clubland never changed, he thought, it was a constant repository of secrets, kept and guarded like the Crown Jewels. Clubland was a village; they knew everything, though would never repeat that knowledge outside the smoking rooms. They would all know about Mary Anne’s rape; Mildred’s tantrums; their daughter’s disappearance; and that Mildred was under a doctor’s care. Not one of them would normally admit it, but these matters were known.

‘
One hears things.’ Merchant did not look at him.

‘
Such as?’

‘
I think it would be wrong of me to repeat gossip. Yet, if it is true, would you listen to a story? It is about something that happened to Mrs Railton – Mildred Edwards – when she was only twelve years of age.’

Worried, Charles nodded assent,
‘Go on.’

‘
She was a good girl; brought up in the faith; obedient; charming. Is she much changed? Yes, of course she is changed. She first altered after what happened at the Parsonage.’

‘
Happened?’

‘
It was unpleasant. I do not wish to be uncharitable, but the Rural Dean and his wife did not handle things well. I only know about it because I arrived there at a, possibly, inopportune moment.’

He told the story with no further digression: simply stating facts, as a good witness gives evidence.

A few weeks before her twelfth birthday, Mildred had been left alone for an afternoon at the Parsonage. The Rural Dean and his wife had one servant – a housekeeper. On that day, the housekeeper was also away, shopping in the nearby town.

When her parents returned, Mildred was nowhere to be found. It was high summer, and they thought she might have gone into the woods nearby.

They found her, at dusk, wandering in the woods, her clothes ripped and tattered, with blood on her legs. She was quite dazed. ‘I was there when she was brought in,’ Merchant told him. ‘At first it was thought someone had attacked her. The local doctor came over, and… well… er… yes, she had been interfered with. She could give no cogent story. Would not say if it was an assault on her by some man, or if it was childhood experiment.’

Her mother had finally settled on the idea that the whole thing was Mildred
’s fault, and was backed by the Rural Dean. ‘The poor child was in some kind of shock. What she needed was love, affection, rest, medical attention. Instead, they browbeat her, trying to get at the truth, but, I fear, young Mildred had found the experience so strange – I personally feel she found it pleasant – that she somehow made up her mind to forget the details. She had no answers to give, so the Reverend and Mrs Edwards found her guilty of this enormous sin. A child of twelve. She was shut away in the darkest room of the house, with bread and water, for two days. When they let her out, she still had nothing to tell them. But, by then, I should imagine she really had closed off part of her mind, making sure she would never again recall it.’

‘
You swear this is true?’ There had never been any hint. Charles’ thoughts went back to his wedding night, which Mildred had so enjoyed, and an odd remark came bouncing back over the years. She had become insatiable after the first time, and, in the early hours, Mildred, clinging naked to him, her legs wrapped around his body, had whispered, ‘Wouldn’t it be good in the open air? Under trees, in a wood.’

Could this dreadful childhood experience be responsible for the violent reaction she had shown towards Mary Anne?

‘There is a little more,’ the priest continued. ‘I believe I should tell you; though by rights I should not. I kept my counsel at the time, and have always felt it was right.’

‘
Yes?’

‘
About a week after the distressing business, a parishioner came to see me. A wise old man, versed in country lore, and the ways of village people. We talked, and he said something which revealed much. We spoke about the sights and sounds surrounding all men and women in remote communities, and he said, “Trouble is, vicar, the young folk see the beasts at it, and want to copy them. Is that wrong, vicar? God’s showing them. It’s natural. But they don’t always go about it right, even when they’re well schooled, even Vicar Edwards’ young lass and” – he mentioned the name of a local boy – “I see ’em trying, and they couldn’t get the hang of it”.’

Charles thanked the man, and talked longer than he intended. The next morning he visited Mildred
’s doctor and told him the whole extraordinary tale. A week afterwards, the doctor talked to him at length, saying he had no doubt that Mildred had gone through an early sexual experience which she had found pleasant, though it weighed her with guilt. ‘I doubt if she’ll ever allow herself to remember it. The mind is an odd thing. Memory plays tricks. I think, if she could bring herself to recall that childhood experience, it would be good for her.’

This had not happened by the first week of October, when Charles received the shattering telephone call from Madeline Drew, saying she was back in England. She had to see him immediately.

*

They m
et, as arranged, in a small café in Knightsbridge, and the moment Charles saw her he knew he was lost.

‘
What are you doing back here?’

‘
Charles.’ Her eyes fixed on him like moonbeams, open, honest, fat with love and desire, deadly as a searchlight to a Zeppelin. ‘Oh, Charles, I’ve been so afraid. I’ve missed you terribly.’

‘
When did you arrive? How? I shall have to make a report, and you’ll be looked after. They’ll want to question you…’

‘
No,’ throaty. ‘Not yet. It’s not safe. I need somewhere to be alone with you; to talk.’

It was eight in the evening. Happily for him, Charles never had to explain to Mildred where he was going, if called out
unexpectedly at night. She had said she intended to go to bed early. Mildred had seen the doctor – Harcourt, a sound Harley Street man – that afternoon. When Charles had left Cheyne Walk she looked tired.

‘
I know of one or two places to rent.’ Recently, he had spent four days, out and about with another officer, looking for what they now called safe houses, of which they were in great need.

They had purchased three places out of the twelve or so viewed. One of the rejected properties was the second storey of a large house in Hans Crescent going for a reasonable rent, fully furnished, and ready to be occupied immediately. The owners, who lived on the ground floor, would remember him, and know his business was official.

They ate a simple meal; then Charles took her to Hans Crescent. The arrangements were made, with Charles paying a month in advance. He stressed the official nature of the letting to the owner, mentioning the Official Secrets Act. The owner, a retired major, veteran of South Africa, understood perfectly.

‘
This is purely temporary,’ Charles told her.

‘
We shall see, darling Charles. Now, please, please, take me to bed before I die.’

So, he did as she said, and the relief was so great that all thought of immediately reporting the circumstances was placed on low simmer at the back of his mind. He should have known better, even then. Already Charles had broken all the rules of his trade. By rights, he should have marched Madeline to safety and telephoned Vernon Kell, the moment he clapped eyes on her. Now every minute was borrowed time. There is no doubt that Charles was not just foolish, but plain stupid in what he did. But a man led by the genitals has little conscience.

He bade her not to go out; and visited on the next evening, determined to get at the truth. Nicolai had ordered her back she confessed, and although she had obeyed Charles and stayed in the flat, it was essential that she should go out the following morning. Her German masters expected her to keep meetings with two men in London. She could supply information to Charles. ‘It’ll be good intelligence about the current number of agents in England and France. I promise you that, my darling. But, if you report the source, or the fact that I’m back, all will be lost. They suspect me in any case, and they’re good. Darling, they’ll hunt me down wherever you hide me. They’ll kill me,’ and her eyes changed, the fear of a child in the dark. ‘Please, until I’ve reassured them, don’t report to your Mr Vernon.’

So he lay with her, naked in the bed, and felt his manhood and self-respect begin to return.

Mildred was awake, in bed, when he got back to Cheyne Walk that night. She was friendlier, and even asked if there was any news of Mary Anne. ‘The doctor seems to be doing wonders for my nerves,’ a smile, unusual for Mildred. ‘He’s been asking the strangest questions about when I was a child – at the Parsonage. Why should he do that, Charles?’

He shook his head.
‘Some of the questions asked by doctors are beyond me.’

That night, Mildred dreamed she was lying under a cathedral of trees, and a young man, with Pan
’s face, leaned over her, scrabbling at her clothing as she whirled among the earth and leaves, ripping her dress. She awoke to find the top sheet was torn, and she had a broken fingernail.