To Love a Traitor (6 page)

Matthew was now attired in a red-and-white-striped jersey and short trousers that revealed a shapely yet strong pair of calves. An inch or so of lightly haired skin showed above the tops of his socks. He seemed the very image of honest, athletic British manhood—until one saw that the right sleeve of his jersey was knotted and turned up over the stump of his arm.

George felt something in him stirring and had to firmly remind himself what Matthew was suspected of. It just all seemed so unreal, so unlikely—the allegations, Hugh’s death, even the war itself. Surely a British man, now walking down a British street in the sunshine with every appearance of not having a care in the world, could not possibly have spied for the Bosch?

“Penny for them,” Matthew said suddenly, startling George out of his musings.

“Oh—sorry. I was just… I was just thinking about H—my brother,” George said with at least a degree of truth to salve his conscience.

Matthew clapped him on the shoulder. “Still upset about that pen? That was a rotten piece of luck. And worse luck that you’re here with me and not my reverend father, who I’m sure would have something both comforting and profound to say. Something about the most important memento being the memories you cherish of him, I should imagine.”

Unexpectedly touched, George didn’t quite know what to say. “He sounds like a very wise man, your father,” he managed.

“Oh, he is, he is. And apparently an excellent sportsman in his youth,” Matthew added in a lighter tone. “Although his bent was for cricket, not the muddier sports like rugger or football. He still indulges occasionally in the summer, although Mother puts her foot down and makes him change his clothes first. She doesn’t think it’s dignified to have a clergyman running around a field shouting
Howzat?
while dressed in dog collar and cassock.”

George smiled. “I imagine there would be a few shocked faces among the congregation at such a sight. So, ah, what position do you play?” he asked.

“Midfield, usually, although I sometimes go in defence—it depends who turns out. Luckily for me, although I played rugby at school like you, I used to play soccer for a village team before I left home. After all, I’d hardly be much use as a scrum half these days.” His right arm—what was left of it—waved in illustration.

George shot the man a glance. Matthew’s tone had been rueful, but there was no sign of bitterness in his face. “Don’t you mind?” he asked, and could have kicked himself. “Sorry. That was awfully personal.”

Matthew’s face broke into one of those winning smiles that were a grave danger to George’s resolve to stay impartial, at least until he knew more. “Well, I won’t deny it can be a bit of a bore—but really, I got off awfully lightly. There are lots of fellows far worse off than I am, and that’s without counting the ones that aren’t here at all, like your poor brother. Ah—here we are.”

They turned into the grammar school grounds, where a number of other players were already milling about in the afternoon sunshine, some clad in red-and-white stripes like Matthew, and others sporting a garish shade of yellow. Matthew went over to greet his fellows, while George paced awkwardly about the edge of the playing field with assorted young ladies and other hangers-on. It was almost half-past two—a little earlier, perhaps, than was ideal for the players’ digestion of their Sunday luncheons, but as late as was possible at this time of year, unless the match was to be concluded in the dark.

George studied the players. There was a wide range of ages—indeed, two of the opposing side appeared from their demeanour to one another to be father and son. None of the footballers, apart from Matthew, appeared to be missing a limb, but one had a disfigured face and another, livid scarring on the visible portion of his legs. On the far side of the pitch, George could see a dour-faced young man, smoking away like a factory chimney with both hands in his trouser pockets and a thick muffler around his neck.

“That’s Arley,” Matthew said softly in George’s ear, making him jump a little, as he hadn’t noticed Matthew’s return to his side. “Used to be the team’s star striker before the war. Enlisted in ’16. Got a tin leg now—he lost the other one in Amiens, poor fellow. He comes every week to watch, though.” Matthew was silent a moment. “Hutchins must be poorly again. They usually come together. Hutchins can’t run these days either—got his lungs gassed out in ’15, poor blighter. That’s the thing that used to terrify me, far worse than the guns—at least if you were shot, the chances were it’d be a clean death.”

George felt hot and sick, despite a stiff breeze that had begun to blow in from the North. “I—I just remembered, I need to get back,” he blurted out. “A case—need to study the precedents. I’ll see you later.” He could feel Matthew’s astonished stare on his back as he almost ran from the field, but he couldn’t have stood it there a moment longer. He felt much as he imagined a soldier in a foxhole must feel when surrounded by the enemy. Except here, George was the enemy. How could he stand there with all those men who’d lost so much? What would they think of him if they knew he’d been a C.O.?

Or worse, if they knew the deception he was currently practising on one of their number?

Fleeing the grounds, George wandered aimlessly about town, attempting to walk himself calmer. The streets seemed suddenly and perversely filled with reminders of the war: scarred old soldiers sitting on benches enjoying the feeble warmth of the winter sun; the newly erected Memorial Cross; the Salvation Army mission—all of them bringing back memories that refused to stay buried.

In the end, he was forced to take refuge in his room at Mrs. MacPherson’s. He sat at his desk staring at a book on trust law, but at the end of an hour, he couldn’t have recalled a single sentence.

Not feeling up to facing Matthew around the supper table, George begged a couple of slices of bread and butter from Mrs. Mac, telling her he was feeling unwell, and took them back up to his room for a solitary meal he could barely stomach in any case. God, he’d lasted less than a day before messing things up royally. Sheila Pendleton would throw up her hands in despair at his incompetence. George sat at his desk, his head in his hands.

Around eight o’clock, there came a knock at the door. “George?” Matthew’s voice sounded hesitant. “May I come in?”

So this was it. Now Matthew would question him, would want to know why he’d acted so strangely. Could he lie? Make up some ghastly trench experience? George’s sense of honour rebelled at the thought—but in any case, he hadn’t a hope of spinning a yarn that wouldn’t be exposed as false almost instantly. Not to someone who’d actually been there.

George would have to tell Matthew about being a C.O. at least. Would have to admit to his cowardice. And it was too soon…far too soon. That confession should have waited—indefinitely, for preference, despite what Sheila had said, but at any rate, until he was on a firmer footing with Matthew. Now, though, there was a good chance Matthew would simply decide George wasn’t, after all, the sort of fellow he wanted to become friends with.

“George?” Matthew called again. “Please open the door.”

Bowing to the inevitable, George trudged to the door. If Matthew rejected him now—and he would—it was no more than George deserved in any case.

But when George opened the door, Matthew’s attitude seemed neither suspicious, nor hostile. If anything, he seemed glad to see George once more. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” he began, to George’s utter astonishment. “That was incredibly thoughtless of me—going off about the war like that.”

George stared, unable for a moment to speak.

Matthew gestured with his left arm, the remainder of his right flapping oddly as it tried to follow suit. “I mean to say, we all had our bad experiences during that time, and I should have known better than to, well, spout on about things which are obviously painful for you. I shan’t do it again.” He paused. “I hope we can still be friends?”

“I—yes, of course.” As if in a dream, George grasped Matthew’s shoulder. Shaken, he nevertheless managed to dredge up a smile. “Of course we’ll be friends.”

Matthew’s pale, open face broke into a smile of sheer relief. “Good man! Now, how about coming down for a cup of tea? Marmaduke’s been pining for you,” he added hopefully.

George gave a shaky laugh, weak with profound relief. “The day that monstrous beast pines for anyone or anything except his dinner, I’ll eat my hat.”

That night, he wrote a letter.

Dear Mabel,

You’ll see from the head of this letter that I’ve moved into digs. What you won’t know, however, is that I’m sharing lodgings with Matthew Connaught. Sir Arthur came up trumps for us—even managed to fix it somehow that a room became free here. I’m sorry to tell you, though—

George paused, staring blankly at the wall for a moment, then continued.

I’m not at all sure I believe him guilty. He seems a very friendly, genuine young man. I’ll continue to dig, of course. I’ll write again when I have more news.

Yours affectionately,

Roger

P.S. Sir Arthur told me an odd thing yesterday. He said Pip Wharton had recommended me for work at the Admiralty, and suggested it might have been Hugh’s idea. Did you know?

P.P.S. If you write, address the letter to George Johnson or the game will be up!

Chapter Six

Mabel’s reply arrived a couple of mornings later. George opened it without thinking at the breakfast table and hastily stuffed it in his pocket upon seeing the salutation.

His subterfuge did not go unnoticed by Matthew. “Mrs. Mac, I do believe our friend George has received a letter from his young lady,” he teased. “We won’t ask you to read it aloud, but you must tell us all about her. Is she fair? Dark? Pretty, or more in the handsome line?”

“It’s simply a letter from a friend, that’s all,” George said a little shortly.

“But one that’s not suitable to be read in company? Say no more,” Matthew said, laying a finger aside of his nose in a ridiculously portentous fashion. “We shall be silent as the very grave about this
pal
of yours. Who, by the way, uses very pretty lavender notepaper, and is that the scent of lilacs I detect…?”

George managed to derail the conversation by threatening to throw a soft-boiled egg at his companion, at which point Mrs. Mac put a stern oar in and told them in no uncertain terms they’d be cooking their own food if there was any more nonsense at her table.

He didn’t have the opportunity to read Mabel’s letter until lunchtime, as he ate his sandwiches sitting on a bench in a chilly Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

Dearest Roger

(I may call you that inside my letters, mayn’t I? Do let me know if I should call you George!)

Your letter gave me quite a shock. Do you mean to say they expect you to investigate Connaught all by yourself? Surely your work in cryptography hasn’t prepared you for this. I’m very impressed with your courage in going right into the lion’s den, but I’m fearfully worried about you. Please do be careful. If this man was a traitor and he gets wind of what you’re up to, who knows what he might do? I can’t lose you too, Roger.

George swallowed. Not that he hadn’t taken Sheila’s warning seriously, but he hadn’t really thought through what it would do to Mabel if anything were to happen to him. Although God knew he’d been terrified of losing her, when she’d been struck down with the flu last year. But then again, in his defence, Sheila and Sir Arthur had, between them, given him very little time for reflection.

You must write often so I know you’re all right. Please promise you will. And no, if Hugh was involved in your getting the job at the Admiralty, I had no idea. Although now I come to think of it, he
did
say something in one of his letters from the Front. It was a few weeks after you were sent to that awful prison. He said he felt he understood you, now. It was such a strange remark, and completely without any further explanation, but I suppose he couldn’t say too much for fear of the letter being read. He asked how you were, but of course I couldn’t tell him very much at the time as you hadn’t been allowed to write any letters yet. That was a terrible time, not knowing what was happening to you.

If you like, I’ll go to see Pip Wharton on my day off and ask him about it. I don’t suppose I know him any better than you do, but I’m sure he won’t mind an old acquaintance visiting to talk about Hugh. In fact, I should have visited him before now—poor man, it can’t be much fun for him shut up in that big house, having to get about in a bath chair.

You know, I’m gladder than ever that I didn’t give up the nursing, like Father wanted me to. I should hate to be stuck at home with nothing to do but worry for your safety—especially now, when I might reasonably have expected to have left all that sort of thing behind me. Write often.

Affectionately yours,

Mabel

George refolded the letter with a strong sense of guilt, tempered with the uncharitable feeling that if Mabel didn’t want him in danger, perhaps she should have thought twice about voicing her concerns about Hugh’s death in the first place. Although that really wasn’t fair of him—she’d only asked him to set the wheels in motion, not to jump into the chariot himself.

At any rate, it was too late for second thoughts. He was here now. The die was cast.

Matthew’s predictions regarding the weather proved to be well-founded. In the course of the week, it turned bitterly cold, with frosts and snow flurries and the promise of worse to come. Mrs. Mac started to grumble both about her joints and the price of coal, and George and Matthew took to wearing sweaters under their jackets even in the house.

The football match due to be played that Sunday was cancelled owing to the pitch being a foot deep in snow, a circumstance met by the once-again-present Watkins with disgust and sour insinuations that the government was somehow to blame, by Matthew with cheery fatalism, and by George with concealed relief.

At least until he realised the weather meant he and Matthew would be stuck for the afternoon in the cramped sitting room with Miss Lewis, Watkins, and Watkins’s opinions.

“It’s the men at the top I blame,” he was saying, although George wasn’t entirely certain what he blamed them
for
. Everything, probably. “Them with their titles, their Lord This and their Sir That. What have they ever done to make them better than good, honest working men? How is it that it’s the men at the top what got the cushy jobs in the war, them they called
officer class
, while it’s the man in the street what did all the fighting?”

“
Tom
,” Miss Lewis admonished him. “You know Mr. Connaught was an officer in the war. You can’t say he never did any fighting, can you?”

George felt the first faint prickling of unease at the subject being brought up, and tried to tell himself he was overreacting.

“Actually, casualties among officers were rather higher, in proportional terms, than among the men,” Matthew put in almost apologetically. “Comes of leading the charge.”

Obviously not daring to contradict him, Watkins turned his sneer upon George. “I suppose you was an officer in the war?”

George blanched at the direct attack. “I… Ah…”

He was saved by Matthew’s interruption, a breach of manners that was quite unlike the normally polite young man. Perhaps his attention had wandered for a moment—but George rather thought it had been to spare him any possible discomfort. “Mr. Watkins was working on the railways, so was exempted from service, you know,” he said, leaning over to address George.

“But he would have enlisted,” Miss Lewis put in earnestly. “If it hadn’t been for his ears, he’d have signed up straight away. He gets a terrible ringing in them sometimes.”

“And dizzy spells,” Watkins reminded her, although he looked a little shame-faced about it. “If it hadn’t been for that… But it was very important work I was doing. The country has to be kept moving, ’specially in times of war.”

“I dare say, if Tom had been able to go out to fight, it would have all been sorted in half the time,” Miss Lewis said, her loyalty, at least, commendable.

“You’re a silly girl,” her swain replied, his tone affectionate even if his words were not. “What do you know about wars?”

“I read the newspapers, you know,” she said indignantly.

“Oh, the
newspapers
. As if there was a grain of truth in anything
they
print.”

And they were off again on the same, well-worn track. “Fancy a stroll, Matthew?” George asked desperately.

Matthew beamed. “Excellent idea. Coming, Miss Lewis, Mr. Watkins?”

George held his breath.

“What, go outside in this weather when I don’t have to? When there’s a roaring fire indoors? You can keep that,” Mr. Watkins answered for both of them.

“Well, if you’re sure… Come on, George. Just the two of us, then. Let’s get wrapped up, and we’ll be off.”

They hastened upstairs to pile on—at least in George’s case—pretty much every article of clothing they owned, and hurtled back downstairs in exuberant spirits to plunge out into the snowy world beyond the front door.

“Lord, I’m glad to get outside,” Matthew said with an air of heartfelt relief, gleefully kicking up clouds of snow. “Isn’t it amazing how a simple coating of white powder can make the place so extraordinarily beautiful?”

“Yes, and isn’t it amazing what a detrimental effect it can have on the public transport system?” George countered, pretending a cynicism he didn’t really feel. Their snow-covered surroundings weren’t the only beauty in sight. Matthew, pink-cheeked and wrapped in a bright red woollen muffler, made a fine picture against the general whiteness. It seemed absurd to suspect him of any treachery—particularly after his kindness in saving George from Watkins’s interrogation. “We’ll have the devil of a job getting into work tomorrow if the trains and buses don’t run.”

“Oh, I doubt it’ll last, anticyclones over Scandinavia notwithstanding,” Matthew prophesized confidently. “The snow in London never does. The days of frost fairs on the Thames are long gone. Still, no reason not to enjoy it while it’s here!” So saying, he gathered a handful of snow from a garden wall—and promptly hurled it at George from only three feet away, striking him on the shoulder.

“Oh, you’re for it now!” George promised, gathering ammunition of his own. “Damn it!” he cursed as his missile sailed past its target, Matthew having seen it coming and ducked.

“Language, Mr. Johnson!” Matthew chided him. As George looked up, a loosely packed snowball hit him square in the face. He spluttered and immediately retaliated, this time scoring a hit on Matthew’s ear and knocking his hat flying.

“Ow! Not fair—your snowballs are hard!” Matthew complained, rubbing his ear with his mittened hand.

Guilt-stricken, George paused in the act of forming more ammunition. “I
am
sorry—I didn’t mean to—” His words were cut off as Matthew, apparently bending to retrieve his hat, instead scooped more snow up and launched it at George. “Now who’s not being fair!”

Laughing, Matthew raised his hand in a gesture of peace. “You’re right, that was a dirty tactic! I’m sorry. Shall we call a truce?”

George grinned. “I think we’d better. People are beginning to stare.”

“Rot. They’re just wishing they’d thought of it, that’s all.”

They strolled on, footsteps crunching agreeably in the snow, and eventually reached the Heath where a vast crowd of children—and not a few adults—were making the most of the weather. Snowballs flew, and daredevils of all ages hurtled down slopes on a variety of conveyances. Several had well-constructed toboggans, but others made do with tea trays and the like. A couple of small children towed an even smaller one in an old tin washtub, while at a prudent distance from the slope, a gang of urchins struggled to raise the head of a snowman far taller than they were.

As George and Matthew stood and watched, a party of two young men and one young woman on one overloaded toboggan swerved wildly and took a majestic tumble into the snow at their feet, laughing fit to burst, while a middle-aged lady in a tweed skirt and hat, her Yorkshire terrier on her lap, slid serenely by.

“Now, why didn’t
we
think of bringing something to ride upon?” Matthew demanded.

The laughing young woman straightened her hat and brushed the snow off her skirt. “Fancy a go with our toboggan? Archie and Bill won’t mind, will you, chaps?”

“Not in the least,” one of them said cheerfully. “In fact, I, for one, could do with a breather.”

“Need a hand getting it up the slope?” the other asked, eyeing Matthew’s empty sleeve.

“No, thank you,” George answered. “We can manage. If you’re sure you don’t mind?”

“No, please, be our guests. But watch out—it pulls to the left. I’ve got snow down the back of my sweater,” he added plaintively, jumping up and down in what George presumed was an attempt to dislodge it.

“And my stockings are soaked through,” the girl added, screwing up her face in comical dismay. “You two have at it.”

“Right,” Matthew said decisively. “Race you to the top of the hill!”

He set off at a run. “Not fair,” George shouted, scrambling after him. “I’ve got the toboggan.”

Matthew half turned, still running. “Ah, but I’m handicapped,” he said, holding up his right arm—and promptly slipped and fell. “Bother!”

Laughing, George gave him a hand up. “Let that be a lesson to you,” he said with mock severity as Matthew dusted himself off.

They reached the top smiling and well-warmed by their exertions, puffing out steamy breaths into the chilly air. “You’d better sit in front and steer,” Matthew said. “I’ll go behind and hold on to you.”

George turned the toboggan around and set it at the top of the slope. It was a beauty—elegantly constructed out of wood, with a seat about three feet long set above sturdy, curved runners. He seated himself upon it, and Matthew slung a leg over and sat down behind him. It felt curiously intimate for such an absurdly innocent affair—Matthew’s legs were either side of George’s, and his chest was pressed up against George’s back, his good arm around George’s waist. Thank heaven for layers of clothing between them.

“Right, I’m set,” Matthew said in his ear, the warmth of his breath tickling the back of George’s neck.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” George asked to tease him. “Right, then. On the count of three: One, two,
three
.” They kicked off with their heels, and then they were off, sliding down the hill at first slowly and then faster and faster.

It had been years since George had ridden a toboggan. Had they always travelled at such speed?

“Watch out!” Matthew cried as they veered towards another sled.

George pulled hard on the right-hand rope and whooped as the collision was avoided. Then—

“Oo-er!” A small child crossed their path on a tea tray and, thankfully, emerged unscathed.

“I say, well steered!” Matthew’s jubilant shout almost deafened him.

They were almost at the bottom now—and a rival toboggan sporting a father and child swerved into their path. George yanked on the rope and, fearing that wouldn’t be enough, dug in his heel. The toboggan, indignant at such rough usage, retaliated by tipping as it turned and tumbling them both out onto the snow.

George wasn’t entirely certain for a moment exactly which limbs were his, and which belonged to Matthew. They disentangled themselves, laughing, and bowed to the applause of the young woman whose toboggan they had borrowed.