by Anne Perry
CHAPTER
TWO
“M r. Corracher, sir,” Woodrow said, opening the door to Matthew Reavley’s office and showing in a man in his early forties who was dressed formally in a dark suit. His hair was smooth and sleek, off his brow. Normally he would have been distinguished looking, but today his features were marred by anxiety.
Matthew stood up and offered his hand.
Corracher took it so briefly it was barely a touch.
“Thank you, Woodrow.” Matthew excused the clerk. “Sit down, Mr. Corracher. How can I help you?” That was a euphemism. Matthew was a major in the Secret Intelligence Service and Tom Corracher a junior cabinet minister of great promise. However, now he was sweating, in spite of the fact that the room was not overly warm. He had asked for an urgent appointment with someone in charge of counterespionage in London, and since America’s entry into the war in January Matthew’s duties were more general than previously, when America had been neutral, and German diplomacy across the Atlantic and sabotage of American munitions supplies a more immediate concern.
Did Corracher really have anything to say, or was he one of those who jumped at shadows? Many people were. The news was bad almost everywhere. Naval losses were mounting all the time and there was no end in sight. It seemed as if every day ships were going down somewhere. Britain was blockaded and in some places rations were so short the old, the weak, and the poorest actually died of hunger.
The news from the Western Front was devastating, and only moderately better in Italy, the Balkans, the Middle East, and Egypt. In Russia the tsar’s government had fallen and been taken over by the revolutionaries under Kerensky. Perhaps Corracher was merely reflecting the nation’s grief? He had a reputation for courage and a degree of candor. To Matthew it looked as if he might have been overrated in both.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Corracher?” he repeated.
Corracher drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. He had the air of a man about to be sent over the top to face enemy fire. Considering the real loss of life in Passchendaele, Matthew’s patience was fast dwindling.
Perhaps Corracher saw it. “I have been in Hungary recently,” he began. “I am not sure if you are aware of it, but the political situation there is very volatile. Losses in the Italian Front have been critical and it looks as if there may even be revolution there also—as well as in Russia, I mean.” He took a deep breath and steadied himself with an obvious effort. “I’m sorry. I am not making a great deal of sense.”
Matthew did not argue.
Corracher began again. “There is more unrest in Hungary than many people are aware of. A very strong element wishes to break away from the German- and Hungarian-dominated rule by Austria and become independent. If they did so, that would radically alter the balance of power in Southeastern Europe. The whole Balkan peninsula might be persuaded to ally with Italy and strengthen it against Austrian oppression.” Corracher smiled bleakly. “I see from your face that you appreciate at least some of what I am saying.”
“I do,” Matthew conceded. “Unfortunately that is not my area of expertise. I have been—”
“I know,” Corracher cut in. “America. But if my information is correct, you have also done some subtler and more dangerous, shall I say politically complicated, work here in England.” The nervousness had returned even more markedly. His body was rigid, his hands locked around each other, stiff fingered, and the sweat glistened on his face.
Matthew was aware of the silence in the room and the faint sound of footsteps beyond. Corracher was a cabinet minister, but he could still tell him nothing.
Corracher licked his lips. “There are men in this country, highly placed, who did not wish us to go to war against Germany, and do not now wish us to win. They do not wish us to lose, of course, but would rather we made an even-handed peace.” He was watching Matthew intently.
Matthew knew that far better than Corracher possibly could have. His own parents had been murdered in 1914 in order to regain a copy of the proposed treaty between King George and the Kaiser that his father had found and taken. It would have allied Britain with Germany in an empire that would have dominated the western world. But he had hidden it too well, and Matthew and Joseph had found it on the eve of the outbreak of war. But John Reavley had warned them that the conspiracy ran so high that they had not dared to trust anyone. Since then the man behind it—they referred to him among themselves as the Peacemaker—had maneuvered ruthlessly to end the war, even at the cost of Britain’s surrender. He had been willing to kill to achieve it, a lesser sacrifice for a greater cause. But Corracher could not know any of this.
“Indeed,” Matthew said as noncommittally as he could. It was hard to keep the emotion out of his voice. The memory could be pushed to the back of his mind, but the pain was always there: his parents crushed to death in a car wreck, then Cullingford murdered in the street; last year Blaine—and all the other men sacrificed to that terrible cause.
But Matthew had identified the Peacemaker, and the Peacemaker was dead now. It was a nightmare that came back to him waking or sleeping, heavy with the knowledge of betrayal and counterbetrayal. None of it had anything to do with Corracher.
“If you have come to tell me that, Mr. Corracher, it is unnecessary,” he said aloud. “We are aware of it. The most powerful man behind such a sentiment is dead. He was killed at sea, in the Battle of Jutland, last year.”
None of the fear left Corracher’s face; if anything, it increased. “Possibly.” His voice was flat.
“I was there. There can be no doubt.” Matthew remembered the German destroyer looming out of the darkness, the earsplitting sound as the huge twelve-inch naval guns on the deck of the Cormorant exploded, the searing fire belowdecks, magazines on fire, the stench of burning corticine, shattered glass, and smoke. Most of all he remembered Patrick Hannassey’s face as he stood with the prototype of the missile guidance system in his arms and hurled it down. He had turned to leap to the German ship that had rammed them and been carried away and back again by the sea, crashing into them over and over. Matthew had lunged after Hannassey. He could not afford to let him go with the knowledge he had of their scientific failure. He had locked with him, struggled, and won. He could still see Hannassey going over the side, whirling for an instant in the air, lit by the flames of the burning ship, arms and legs flailing. Then the German destroyer had heaved up on the wave and smashed into the Cormorant again, crushing Hannassey like a fly.
Corracher was staring at him, eyes wide. “Oh…” he gulped. “Then he…he can’t have been alone in the cause.”
Matthew’s emotions were too raw with the memory for him to argue. Hannassey was the only man he had ever killed with his own hands, but it was the knowledge of what happened to Detta that wounded him. She was the Peacemaker’s daughter. Of course long before he knew that, he had known she was an Irish Nationalist, just as she had known he was in British Intelligence. They had used each other. That did not stop him from loving her, or feeling the pain twist in his gut because he had beaten her at the game of betrayal. Her own people had crippled her in punishment for losing. Beautiful Detta—who had walked with such dark and subtle grace.
“Exactly what is it you want to tell me, Mr. Corracher?” Pain was jagged in his voice. “There have always been traitors and profiteers. Unless you come about someone of whose acts you have proof, there is nothing I can do. Perhaps it is a police matter rather than intelligence?”
Corracher appeared to come to some decision. The embarrassment in his face was acute, but this time he did not hesitate.
“I have worked hard and had some success in persuading the independent elements in Hungary to swing to the allied side. But they are my contacts, my mother’s family, and others they knew among the Hungarian aristocracy, who trust me. But I have been a voice within the cabinet against any kind of softening or appeasement,” he went on. “One of the few left.” He swallowed with difficulty, as if his throat was tight. “I
am about to be charged with a crime I did not commit, but the evidence against me is overwhelming. Mr. Lloyd George will have no choice but to dismiss me from office, and leave the criminal prosecution to take what course it will.” His voice cracked. “It is unlikely that I will escape prison. But even with the best legal defense I can find, if I am cleared it will not remove the slur from my name, or the suspicion that I was guilty.”
Matthew felt the anger grow within him. If the man really was innocent, it was appalling. “I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. “How can Intelligence help you? Do you know who is behind it?”
Corracher’s eyes reflected an emotional exhaustion that was crippling. “If you mean names, I have no idea,” he replied. “I don’t believe there is anything you can do. I’m not seeking your help, Major Reavley, I am giving you information. I am not the only person to whom this has happened. Other men with views inconvenient to some have left office for one reason or another. Kemp was killed in a zeppelin raid last autumn. Newell resigned, no real reason given. And Wheatcroft is threatened with a scandal which will destroy his life.”
Suddenly Matthew’s attention was total. A coldness settled inside him. In the instance of Wheatcroft, he knew exactly what Corracher was referring to; word of it had crossed Matthew’s desk. Alan Wheatcroft had been accused of acts of gross indecency with another man much younger than himself. It had not been proved, and he had protested his innocence, but whether anyone believed him was almost irrelevant. When the accusation became widely disseminated, as inevitably it would, his career would be finished.
“What views did the other three have?” he asked. The belief that he knew was not sufficient.
Corracher smiled bitterly. “Kemp’s sister married a Belgian. All her family was killed in the first German advance. He wants crippling reparations. Newell was something of an expert in Russian affairs. Wheatcroft is different.” A flicker of puzzlement lit his eyes for a moment. “I’m not sure what interest he would be to anyone else. Maybe there’s something about him I don’t know.”
Matthew’s mind was racing. Had the Peacemaker been alive he would have seen a pattern in it, but Hannassey was dead. Matthew had seen his body crushed beyond recognition. Nothing could have survived that impact.
“Do you understand me, Major Reavley?” Corracher said quietly, leaning forward across the desk a little, his hands clenched white.
“Yes,” Matthew answered, drawing his attention back. “Yes, I do, Mr. Corracher. I can look into the other cases, but tell me about yours.” He was aware that it would be difficult for Corracher, and embarrassing, but he could not investigate without the facts.
Corracher was very pale and his hands were locked till the knuckles were white.
“It is extremely sordid,” he said huskily. “I am actually being charged with blackmail.”
Matthew was startled. “You mean someone is saying that you are a blackmailer? Not that you are being blackmailed…”
“That’s right.” Two spots of color stained Corracher’s cheeks.
“Who is saying this?”
Corracher bit his lip. “Mrs. Wheatcroft.”
“Mrs. Wheatcroft?” Matthew was incredulous. “Alan Wheatcroft’s wife? For God’s sake, why? Hasn’t she got more than enough trouble already?”
“That’s it.” Corracher all but swallowed his words. “She is saying that I blackmailed Alan after creating the situation with which he was charged. He claims it never existed in reality. I set it up in order to take money from him.” He stared at Matthew with desperation. “I can see how his wife would wish that that were true, but it is not. I knew nothing at all about it until the police accused me! I was as shocked as anyone.”
“Do you imagine that Wheatcroft told her that?” Matthew asked. His pity for Corracher was intense, but far greater than for any one man was the threat he implied to the integrity of government and the country in general. The only way to fight it was to find the truth.
Corracher frowned, struggling with his own emotions. “I could understand his wanting to find any way of escaping the charge. He must have been desperate. Anyone would be. But why say it was me? Why not one of his closer friends, somebody more likely?”
“For example?” Matthew pressed. He loathed doing this—it was personal in the most distasteful way—but to evade it now out of squeamishness would make it worse.
Corracher looked embarrassed. “Well there are people with…connections to that sort of thing. I mean…men…” He tailed off miserably, as if the air in the room oppressed him.
Matthew was less delicate. “Who prefer other men rather than women,” he finished for him. “But presumably are discreet about it. Yes, of course there are. You think one of them may have set up the scene, or possibly was himself blackmailed into it?”
“It seems probable,” Corracher conceded.
“Any idea who?”
“No. I…I could give you a list of names of those whose nature I am aware of, but it seems a despicable thing to do.” His face registered his disgust at the manipulation of a shared vulnerability in such a way.
“I’m only interested in finding who set up the Wheatcroft scandal and blamed you,” Matthew said vehemently. “If you are right, then someone is effectively ruining both of you. They are robbing the government of the men most likely to fight for a lasting peace. One that will prevent enemy alliance with future elements in Germany which would allow the same thing to happen again. God knows, we need a just peace, but not a weak one.”
“That is why I came to you, Captain Reavley,” Corracher said, his eyes meeting Matthew’s again. “I don’t believe it is coincidental. Whoever has created the evidence that makes me look guilty has been very clever. There’s no way I can fight against it without betraying other good men and raising doubts about other men’s personal lives.”
Matthew saw it very clearly. It was simple and supremely effective. Like a slip noose, every movement against it pulled it even tighter. “Tell me about Wheatcroft,” he asked. “Exactly what is he accused of doing? Where? Who else was involved, and what part are you supposed to have played? What evidence is there, written or witnessed? Is any of it true, even the bits that merely support or contribute?”
Corracher was deeply unhappy. He began slowly, hesitating as he searched for words, too embarrassed to look up. “Wheatcroft is accused of having solicited a sexual act with a young man in a public lavatory near Hampstead Heath. He lives not far from the heath and was walking his dog, which he does regularly. He had been seen talking to the same young man at least twice within two or three hundred yards of the place a week or two earlier. He says that this man simply asked him directions and he gave them.”
“Both times?” Matthew interrupted.
“Yes. It was quite late, at dusk, and he was apparently lost.”
“What does the young man say?”
Corracher’s face tightened. He looked up quickly, then away again. “That’s the thing. He’s a friend of mine, at least his father is. I’ve known him in a casual way most of his life. He’s a bit wild. He’s run up a degree of debt that he can’t pay, and it would be difficult for his father to come up with that much.”
“I take it he says Wheatcroft approached him?” Matthew concluded.
“Yes.”
“And it couldn’t be true?”
“He says I told him to say it!” Corracher’s face was scarlet now, but the anger in him was painfully real.
“Give me times, dates, and names,” Matthew said gently.
“There’s more.” Corracher’s voice was husky. “Wheatcroft says I asked him for money to keep it quiet, and he paid me a hundred pounds, but when I came back for more he told me to go to hell. And that was when I told Davy Pollock—the young man in question—to report it to the police. There is a hundred pounds in my bank that I can’t account for. Wheatcroft said he put it there the day after I demanded it, and he has the paying-in receipt.”
“How are you supposed to have a
sked for it?” Matthew asked.
“In a typewritten note.”
“Which I imagine he gave to the police?”
“Yes.”
“Write down everything you can think of, Mr. Corracher, including where I can reach you at any time, and I’ll do everything I can to expose the truth,” Matthew promised.
“Thank you.” Corracher seemed relieved that at last someone appeared to believe him. He rose to his feet a little unsteadily and offered his hand, then withdrew it and turned to the door. Was he afraid Matthew would decline to shake it? It was a mark of how deeply he already felt tainted by the charge.
After he had gone, Matthew read all the information, made the briefest of notes himself, then left his office to begin his inquiries.
Outside the air was close and heavy, as if waiting for thunder. The streets were quiet compared with peacetime. Petrol was scarce and expensive, and the army had first call on good horses. There was something heartbreakingly drab about the quiet women waiting in queues or patiently walking along the pavements. The omnibuses had women conductors. One passed Matthew as he waited on the curb to cross. The driver was a woman also, her hair drawn back off her face and tied behind her neck. The girls who worked in munitions factories had actually cut theirs short. It was too easy to get it caught in the machinery and literally have one’s scalp torn off.
No one seemed to wear red or pink anymore, as if it were somehow indecent in the face of so much loss.
Matthew crossed the street and reached the other side, stepping up onto the pavement past a group of white-faced women, silent, each lost in her own world. There were such groups in every town and village all over Europe, waiting for the casualty lists. In some places where a whole brigade had been wiped out, every house in street after street would have the blinds half drawn and stunned, white-faced women would sit in the August heat and wonder how they were going to face tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after that.
Too much had been paid to allow this ever to happen again, anywhere, for any reason. To appease now would be to make this terrible sacrifice meaningless. That thought was not bearable.
