“Where does this lady live?”
“Wickrath, just down the road from here. Her name’s Frau Gafford.”
Frau Gafford lived in a small, modern bungalow next to a farm surrounded by fields where sheep and horses peacefully grazed. An elderly woman, now bent with arthritis, she still possessed an exquisite face with skin unblemished by time.
“My husband and I used to farm next door and we built this house after we retired a year ago.”
She spoke excellent English with only the slight trace of an accent.
“Then we bought Trudi – she’s the mother of the pups.”
Trudi was a magnificent little dog with pepper and salt markings and floppy ears that were completely white on the inside. She had borne no less than six puppies of which only one was male: the largest and only black one of the litter.
“He’s like his father – a handsome boy belonging to a couple in the village,” Frau Gafford told us, “and this pup is the liveliest too, as you can see.”
Indeed, whilst his sisters were asleep the black pup roved around the neat wooden enclosure which housed them all in the middle of the living room. Andrea chose him without further ado, and Frau Gafford made coffee whilst I laboriously made out a Eurocheque in Deutschmarks. Due to her name, I surmised that her husband was probably English and my curiosity was further aroused when I saw a distinguished-looking man busily weeding a flowerbed a few feet from the French windows.
I couldn’t help asking, “Frau Gafford, was your husband at one time a member of the British forces?”
Andrea frowned at me, clearly annoyed at my nosiness, whilst the lady herself sat back and gave me a level stare.
“My husband came, of course, from England many years ago but now he is a German citizen.”
It was obvious that she didn’t want to pursue the subject. But as chance would have it, Mr Gafford was just approaching the front door as we left. Hearing English being spoken, he looked startled and bade us a muttered ‘hello’ under his breath. Close up, I noticed that he possessed a lined face and vivid, blue eyes which hinted at sadness. However, our pleasure in acquiring the little black pup soon caused me to forget this encounter and we spent the rest of the day deciding on an appropriate name.
As I happened to be reading a biography of the famous Dr Johnson at the time, I opted for the name ‘Boswell’ and Andrea approved. It was some weeks before we were able to take the puppy out for walks (due to the required inoculations) but at last the day came when I was able to exercise him properly around the garrison perimeter. Due to recent IRA threats, the roads leading out of the camp had been blocked off with security points mounted at strategic positions. These I assiduously avoided, so it came as a bit of a shock to be challenged coming out of a wood.
“Identity papers, sah!” bellowed a corporal dressed in combat fatigues, wielding an AK 47 and wearing the red armband of the military police. “We’re doing a spot check on all personnel within the camp’s boundaries today.”
“Yes, yes, no problem.”
As instructed, I produced my identity card.
The corporal read the details and then looked down at Boswell.
“That dog, sah! Is he registered?”
He glared suspiciously at the mite frolicking at my feet.
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“All dogs should be in accordance with Regulation 478 of Standing Order 65, BAOR Standing Orders 1988. So papers are required for that there pet.”
I exclaimed, “But he’s a puppy and we only bought him five weeks ago!”
“Not satisfactory, I’m afraid. Garrison station orders demand that all domestic pets are to be registered, when born, at the RMP sergeant major’s office to be found in Building 76. The aforesaid animal will need to be checked out for health purposes and be given an army number.”
“A number? But he’s not in the army,” I said stupidly.
“Regulations is regulations, sah! I don’t make ‘em, you know. I’ll take your details and give you seven days to complete the formalities.”
I was to hear that refrain – ‘regulations is regulations’ – many times over the time that I worked with the forces and soon became accustomed to it.
Six
Life, especially at weekends, was definitely improving now that Andrea was with me and Boswell had joined the family. We began to visit various places in the area and were able to eat out in restaurants as well, always accompanied by our beloved dog. The Germans never took exception to this practice, perhaps because their dogs were always so well behaved. Unfortunately Boswell certainly wasn’t to begin with, having a tendency to bark at all and sundry until we managed to cure him of this bad habit.
We travelled to picturesque Monschau in the hilly Eifel area which lies west of the Rhine, in a valley through which a vigorous river runs and superb mountain walks surround the town. We visited Duisburg zoo where Boswell was entranced by the cavorting sea lions, who barked rather like he did whilst they frolicked in their watery enclosure. We visited the Wolfram Talsperre, a celebrated dam which the allies bombed in the Second World War, and its accompanying park. The dam divides a large lake into two: one half lapping only a few feet beneath a wall, whilst the other falls away hundreds of feet down the sheer face of the structure. We also tramped round Xanten, an ancient Roman settlement where the ruins have been ‘added to’ by modern archaeologists restoring the atmosphere of a town of that period.
Moreover, living on the mainland of Europe made travel across national borders so easy and it was not long before we journeyed to Maastricht to visit their famous flea market on a Sunday. Only just across the border, this town was an hour away from Brockendorf and after locating the market we decided to explore it separately. I soon headed for those stalls containing old books which I could never resist. On the way, I espied a stall selling medals of all descriptions and, although not really a collector myself, I wandered over to see what was on offer.
As expected, there were an abundance of war medals from all European countries, including Britain. Standard service medals, priced collectively, were housed in separate boxes from different countries and didn’t appear expensive but more individual medals were stuck up on a board and were priced per item. It was while I was looking at a row of Iron Crosses that I first noticed the British Military Cross. Surprised to see such a valuable item on sale, I examined it closely. Each of the silver arms bore an embossed crown at the end, with the royal cipher ‘GRI’ appearing in the middle. I turned it over and what I saw then gave me a considerable shock.
At the back of the vertical bar, an inscription had been engraved:
7690278 SECOND LIEUTENANT P H GAFFORD
ROYAL REGIMENT OF HALBERDIERS
TEUTOBERGER WALD APRIL 4 1945
*
“You are interested, yes?”
An old man with whiskery sideburns, clearly the owner of the stall, loomed. I glanced up at the sign above and his identity became clear:
HANS SCHAFER – ANTIQUE MEDAL DEALER / ANTIQUITAT ORDEN HANDLER – MAASTRICHT – DUSSELDORF – KOLN
*
“Just looking,” I muttered, “but may I enquire where you purchased this?”
“All Schafer’s sales are legal, my friend. That is all you need to know.”
I nodded.
“Of course, but I still would like to know the location.”
“Medals usually come from other markets but sometimes I call at private houses to ask if there are such things for sale. Where, I will not tell you but it is unusual to find a British gallantry medal.”
I also noticed that no price had been marked up for this item and I guessed that this might have been done deliberately. Victoria Crosses, I knew, were virtually priceless and Military Crosses, although more common, would still be dear.
“How much?” I asked.
“Bravery medals are much more expensive than the others. Such a British medal to a German collector would be very valuable, but to you I can sell
it for 300 marks or 400 guilders.”
My grip on the medal tightened. Horrendously expensive it might be, but I knew I just had to buy it.
“200 marks.”
“250?”
“220, absolutely no more.”
“You have a deal, my friend.”
Walking away I inspected my new purchase, admiring the way the ribbon with its vertical bars contrasted with the silver cross.
I didn’t say anything to Andrea at the time whilst I decided what to do next. What I had suspected all the time turned out to be true. Gafford had been in the British Army and, judging by the medal, had distinguished himself too. So why had he sold it? I didn’t think for a moment that Schafer had stolen it. The real problem was that it was none of my business.
Perhaps my instincts as a one-time defence lawyer had been aroused. The whole thing smacked of an injustice. Why should a former English officer be so reticent about his military past and dispose of the medal? Quite how I was going to restore the medal to Gafford without causing embarrassment all round needed more reflection on my part, but then an event occurred which drove the whole thing from my mind. When I went into the office the next day, Margery was waiting for me with a message.
“His secretary has just rung, Mr Courtley. JAG wants you to fly to London as soon as you can. He wants to see you about an important matter – something which he’ll only discuss in person.”
My first reaction was had I done something wrong? But nothing came to mind – after all, I’d only held office for a short time. Whatever, it meant a quick trip to London – a welcome break after the tedium of life on the garrison and my club class fare would be met by expenses.
“So you’ll take me with you, Charlie. I can visit Fortnum and Mason and buy a few of their choice groceries.”
Andrea was delighted when I told her the news. She was especially fond of the famous store’s range of condiments – particularly the fruit chutney, and as these items are much cheaper than designer clothes I could not really complain even though I had to meet the cost of her ticket myself.
“Naturally, darling girl – although it’ll only be for a few days.”
I had already booked a double room at the Wanderers, the London club which I had recently joined so I could stay in town whenever I wished. I expected to meet Peascod at the office but before I arrived there, whilst still at the club, I received a phone call from his secretary. Judith was a small, wizened lady of an indeterminate age who, despite her size, possessed a deep sexy voice redolent of Greta Garbo and Marilyn Monroe combined.
“Oh, Mr Courtley,” she informed me breathlessly, “Sir Binden wishes to treat you to lunch today.”
This was announced in a tone of amazement, probably because such an arrangement was so rare. Binden Peascod was renowned for being extraordinarily mean.
“Please would you meet him at the Parthenon at 12.30 sharp.”
That figured. Peascod would be a member of what was reputedly London’s gloomiest club: frequented by senior clergymen, academics in the obscurest subjects and dry-as-dust Chancery lawyers. I had never been inside but sometimes walked past the club’s building (named and modelled on the famous monument in Athens) perched on a corner of St James’s Square.
At the appointed time, I announced my arrival to the doorman, a semi-comatose octogenarian, who escorted me to a club room where Peascod was waiting.
“My dear chap, we’ll have lunch straightaway followed by a chat. A fellow member will be joining us later.”
The dining room was high-ceilinged, chilly, and ran three quarters of the length of the ground floor.
No menus were displayed on the members’ tables and when a waiter approached bearing one, my host simply muttered, “Club Lunch for two.”
That didn’t sound very enticing, nor did it turn out to be. Brown Windsor soup was followed by ‘Club Steak and Kidney Pie’ (most of which I didn’t touch, not being able to eat offal), followed by a stodgy treacle pudding covered in thin custard. Peascod offered me sherry from a decanter on the sideboard and proceeded to pour a minuscule measure. He took none himself and the rest of the meal was accompanied by plain tap water.
After sampling the indifferent fare, I wondered whether he might suggest we retreat to the smoking room where, at least, I could light up my pipe, but then I remembered that he didn’t smoke. When coffee was served, he began to speak.
“Courtley, there’s been a development in the office. Veejag, regrettably, is unable to sit on the Merse trial. He put his foot in a rabbit hole whilst beagling last week and twisted his ankle. I had hoped that Smither would undertake the case but regrettably he isn’t prepared to give up the retirement leave he’s owed. The only other full-time member of staff is, of course, you...”
I nodded. There were part-time time judge advocates, of course, one or two of whom were also circuit judges but it made sense that I should do the case if available.
But why was Peascod making such a drama of the whole thing?
“I must impress upon you that this is a most significant case; pilfering with a difference.”
“What difference? Theft is just that, theft – surely?”
“Well, not just theft as between one soldier from another. This is far more serious, stealing from a full general who commands Her Majesty’s British Army of the Rhine.”
“Worse than stealing from an empty general then?”
I could not help being flippant. Peascod looked pained.
“This is not a joking matter, Courtley. The trial may well arouse press interest.”
“Well, pinching the General’s golf club is straightforward enough from a legal point of view.”
“True, but you realize how important it is for you to conduct yourself with especial care. The eyes of the high command will be upon you!”
“I’m sure I can handle the pressure.”
I took a large swig of water, wishing it were wine. So this was Peascod’s fatuous reason for inviting me to lunch! He pursed his lips in disapproval and was on the point of rebuking me when a bellow emanated from the end of the room.
“Peascod, there you are!”
A burly figure strode across to our table. Peasod shot to his feet and was standing virtually to attention.
“Sir Frederick, so good to see you. Let me introduce you to one of my assistant judges, Charles Courtley.”
It was the belly that jogged my memory: that tyre-like paunch jutting from the man resembling a ship’s prow. It was indeed Sir Fred Borler QC, who I described once as resembling an ancient baby and who had once led me in an exceedingly tedious fraud trial years before. His bulging eyes contained no spark of recognition, however.
“So you’re the chap that’s doing the golf club case. Binden wanted us to be introduced. I’m prosecuting, you see.”
“Indeed so,” Peascod chipped in, “the Army Prosecuting Authority felt that for such an important case, a Queen’s Counsel was merited. Sir Frederick is not only a very senior lawyer but also once solicitor general as well as being a former member of the Territorial Army.”
“Loved every minute of it, Binden. All those summer exercises and campfire jollifications in the evenings.”
So this was the real reason for the lunch. Peascod wanted me to meet Borler, presumably to remind me of the great responsibility which lay upon my shoulders.
“Your task as the judge,” Peascod continued, “will be much assisted by having Sir Fred there, Courtley. I’m sure he will allow you to draw on his vast experience of legal practice.”
This was too much to stomach. I allowed sarcasm to get the better of me.
“Oh, no doubt, although I have to say that when Sir Fred led me in a fraud, I learnt very little from him. My recollection is that he asked no questions at all during the entire six weeks of the trial.”
Peascod looked confused; it seemed that he had missed the barb altogether, whilst Borler frowned.
“However, when one is a judge, silence is golden, isn�
��t it? So his example helps me there, no doubt,” I continued recklessly.
Before either of them could respond, I decided I had had enough.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I must rush. I’m due to meet my wife in Fortnum and Mason shortly.”
I left without waiting for a reply.
Seven
As a result of the commotion over the Merse case, I had forgotten all about the medal which I had placed for safekeeping in a desk drawer in which I kept personal papers. Only on the day that Andrea and I were flying to Berlin did I come across it again whilst looking for our passports. Turning the object over in my hand, I reminded myself that I needed to make a decision. What if Gafford had not given the medal away at all and it had been stolen initially, although legitimately acquired by the dealer? I cursed myself for not asking Schafer more questions about its source at the time. If Gafford had sold it, however, then why should he want it back? The fact remained that the object had cost me a great deal of money, so what was I going to do with it?
Eventually, I concluded that I should ring the Gaffords and ask. Quite what I was going to say I had not decided, but somehow assuming that Frau Gafford would answer the phone I felt that I could deal with the situation tactfully enough. Consequently, when her husband answered I was taken aback for a moment.
“Oh, Herr…er, Mr Gafford. You may not remember me but my wife and I bought a puppy from you some weeks back...”
“Are you the English couple from the garrison?”
“That’s right. Well, an odd thing has happened since then. We were shopping in Maastricht and I came across a medal. Now, it just happened to have your name inscribed on it.” I stumbled on despite the silence. “And I bought it. A friend of mine collects medals, you see…”
I was beginning to gabble.
“Why are you phoning me?”
Wig Betrayed Page 4
