Passions of War

by Hilary Green

  ‘He’s back in New Zealand,’ Leo said. ‘I gave him my address before he left Adrianople and there was a letter waiting for me when I arrived home.’

  ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘As far as is possible with a broken heart. He’ll survive, and I suppose I shall – somehow.’

  Victoria squeezed her hand. ‘If there is anything I can do to help . . . What are your plans now?’

  ‘I don’t have any.’

  ‘Come back to the FANY. It will do you good to meet up with all your old friends.’

  ‘You’ve rejoined, have you?’

  ‘Well, technically we never left. I tried to contact Mabel Stobart when I got back but she has gone off to Canada to visit her son and the Women’s Sick and Wounded Convoy seems to have been disbanded. As far as I can see, Stobart was pretty disillusioned with the reception she got when they came back. I mean, if anyone deserved a hero’s welcome she did, but really, except for a few people, no one seems to have noticed what we all did. It certainly doesn’t seem to have made any impression on the powers-that-be. But the FANY are going from strength to strength and Ashley-Smith is convinced that if war does come we shall be allowed to play our part. So why don’t you come along to the next drill?’

  This time Leo shook her head. ‘I’m not ready for all that yet. I just need time and peace to sort my life out. I think I shall go up to Bramwell Hall, our place in Cheshire, for a while. Maybe when I come back to London I’ll rejoin.’

  A year had passed since that conversation. Leo had done as she had suggested and spent several months at Bramwell. She rode out over the Peckforton Hills on Amber, the little chestnut mare her father had bought her to sweeten the pill of being left behind in England when she was fifteen. When the weather was poor she spent long hours studying the history of the Balkans and practising her Serbian. Quite what her object was in doing this she could not explain, except that it seemed a last, tenuous link with the happiness she had once dreamed of.

  Since the death of her grandfather, Bramwell had been cared for in the absence of the owners by a married couple, James and Annie Bartlett. Both had been born on the estate and had risen from scullery maid in Annie’s case and under groom in James’ to the position of housekeeper and estate manager. They had been kind to the wild fifteen-year-old who had been deposited in the household five years earlier, and they extended the same unspoken sympathy to the sober young woman who had returned from the horrors of war. Leo found herself cosseted and spoilt as she had never been before.

  Sometimes Tom came to stay, and sometimes Victoria came, but mostly she was alone and slowly the wounds healed and she ceased to wake every morning with that hollow sense of loss.

  Tom, meanwhile, was busy making finished pictures from the sketches he had drawn during his horrendous weeks on the battlefield and arranging the exhibition he had planned with Leo. It was the opening of this that finally persuaded her to leave her sanctuary and return to London. The pictures created a sensation, but it was not the kind that they had hoped for. He was variously accused of ‘sensationalism’; ‘gothic exaggeration’; ‘an almost pornographic delight in violence and suffering’ and an attempt to undermine the morale of the nation. Dispirited, he packed the pictures away and vowed never to exhibit again.

  Over the winter Leo slowly picked up the threads of her old life again. Most of it was centred on the FANY, where she found old friends and a renewed sense of purpose. With rumours of impending war with Germany growing stronger week by week all the members were confident that if the crisis came they would be ready, and that their services would be welcomed by the military hierarchy. Leo found it difficult to take the practice drills seriously and from time to time she attempted to point out how very different the experience was under real war conditions. She tried to bring home to the others the horror of some of the wounds they would have to deal with, and the effect of living with the noise of the guns and the pervading dirt and stench. But she had the impression that many of them thought she was ‘shooting a line’ in order to bolster her own standing within the corps, so she gave up.

  She continued to attend the drills, however, and as winter gave way to spring and then summer corps morale received a boost during the annual camp, when they were inspected by the commanding officer of the Royal Army Medical Corps and given an excellent report. There was a general feeling that they were ready to swing into action as soon as the call came.

  As the months passed Leo had to fend off frequent enquiries about when she and Tom were going to get married. At first she told people that she still needed time to recover fully from the effects of her experiences in the Balkans but that story began to wear thin when it was clear that, physically at least, she was back to full health. Then, in a moment of inspiration, she hit upon the perfect excuse. ‘It all depends on my brother,’ she would say. ‘Of course, he must be there to give me away but at the moment his duties are keeping him in Belgrade. We are waiting for him to finish his tour of duty.’

  Now Tom was heading for Belgrade with the object of persuading Ralph to apply for leave. If he succeeded it might save Ralph from possible disgrace but it would certainly pose new problems for the two of them.

  Two

  Driving through the streets of Belgrade from the station to the hotel where Ralph was staying, Tom was assailed by conflicting memories. There was the police station to which he had been taken when he was arrested and accused of spying; but here was the house of a family who had made him welcome on his return months later, where he had passed many pleasant evenings; and that was the town house of the Countess Malkovic, where he knew Leonora had had her final encounter with Sasha. But he was concentrating on these recollections only as a distraction from the throb of excitement that he could not quite subdue. Very soon he would see Ralph again. Over the past year he had made a conscious effort to detach himself, to find a life that did not include Ralph. Once, in Athens, he had thought himself free of that enchantment. He was determined that this time he would not let it take hold of him again.

  He had telegraphed ahead and Ralph had booked a room for him, and there was a note at the reception desk saying that he was on duty but would return in the late afternoon. Tom followed the bellboy upstairs and discovered that the room was part of the suite that Ralph had taken for himself and Leo the previous summer, so they would have adjoining bedrooms. He unpacked, washed and changed his shirt and decided to use the time before Ralph’s return to pay a visit to the Malkovics. Leo had not asked him to contact them and he suspected that she would have forbidden it, but he felt that he could not return from Belgrade without at least being able to assure her that Sasha was well.

  He presented his card to the butler who opened the door, and asked to see Count Aleksander. The man obviously remembered him from the previous summer but informed him regretfully that the count was not at home.

  ‘He is with his regiment in Macedonia at present, but the countess is in residence. If you wish I can ask if she is at liberty.’

  Tom remembered Sasha’s mother as a warm, attractive woman who had always welcomed him, so he willingly agreed to the butler’s suggestion. He was shown into an ornately decorated reception room where he spent some minutes examining a collection of dark oil paintings in heavy frames, until the butler returned to say that the countess would be happy to receive him. He followed the man up to the first floor, where he opened a door and announced: ‘Mr Devenish, my lady.’

  This room was much lighter, with long windows opening on to the garden, and decorated in delicate, feminine colours, but the figure which rose to greet him was not the imposing, well-upholstered one he was expecting. Instead he found himself facing a thin, pale-faced girl who appeared scarcely more than a child. She stepped forward and offered her hand.

  ‘How do you do, Mr Devenish? We have not met, but I have heard my husband speak of you and I am very glad to make your acquaintance.’

  Tom had addressed the butler in Serbian, having become reasona
bly fluent during his previous stay, but she spoke in careful, stilted English. Her manner and the words were perfectly correct, but he had the impression of a child playing at being grown up. For a moment he was disconcerted, then he realized what must have occurred.

  ‘Thank you very much for agreeing to receive me at such short notice, Countess. I must offer my felicitations on your marriage. When did it take place?’

  ‘We were married at Easter,’ she replied. ‘Unfortunately, my husband . . .’ there was the barest hesitation in the use of the word, ‘was recalled to his regiment almost immediately, so we have had very little time together.’

  ‘That is unfortunate,’ Tom murmured, ‘but I suppose it is one of the penalties of being married to a distinguished soldier.’ So, Sasha had fled his marriage bed at the earliest opportunity!

  ‘Yes, you are right, of course,’ she replied. ‘Please, won’t you sit down?’

  Tom took the chair she indicated and she perched opposite him, rigidly upright on the edge of her seat. He saw that her breathing was rapid and shallow and remembered what Leo had told him about Sasha’s fiancée’s delicate chest.

  He said, ‘How is the count? I hope he is well.’

  ‘Thank you, yes. Last time I heard from him he was in good health.’

  ‘And the . . . the dowager countess, his mother?’

  ‘She is well, too. She is at the country house at the moment, with Adriana, her daughter.’

  They made conversation for a few minutes more and then Tom rose. ‘I won’t take up any more of your time, Countess. Please give my regards to your husband when you write to him, and to your mother-in-law. I am sorry not to have seen them but I shall only be in Belgrade for a few days.’

  On the way back to his hotel Tom was oppressed by a feeling of waste. He felt sorry for the fragile girl he had just left, and sorry for Sasha, bound to this pale child when he had found his perfect soulmate in Leo. He was sorrier still for Leo, stoically concealing her broken heart and determined to rebuild her life and sorry, finally, for himself, burdened with a love he could not acknowledge, let alone express.

  He heard Ralph coming before he entered the hotel room: the rapid, energetic footsteps; the authoritative voice ordering tea to be sent up, in ungrammatical Serbian. Then the door opened and Ralph bounded in and seized him by the shoulders.

  ‘Tom! My dear old chap! It’s so good to see you. How are you?’

  Tom gripped his upper arms briefly in response, and knew himself lost. ‘I’m well, thank you. And you?’

  ‘Fit as a flea, thanks. How about Leo?’

  ‘She’s well. She sends her love.’ Tom stared into his face. ‘You’re growing a beard!’

  ‘How very observant of you!’

  ‘Why? It doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘Never mind that for the moment. When are you two going to stop shilly-shallying and name the day?’

  ‘You know the answer to that. We are waiting for you to come home.’

  ‘Don’t wait. Name the day and then I can tell my superiors that I must have some leave to attend my sister’s wedding.’

  Tom’s heart missed a beat. He had not thought of that and the last thing he wanted was to have their best excuse overridden. On the other hand, if it became really necessary to get Ralph out of Belgrade . . . As often before in the last two or three years he was oppressed by the sense that he was fated to marry Leo, whether they both wanted it or not.

  Ralph was dealing with the waiter who had brought the tea. When the man left he waved Tom to a chair. ‘Sit down, old chap. Have some tea and tell me what it is that has suddenly brought you back to Belgrade. I really thought once you got back to England nothing would root you out again!’

  ‘I’m not so averse to travel as I once was,’ Tom said, ‘but I came because I’m worried.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘About you.’

  ‘Good lord! There’s no need. I told you, I’m fine.’

  ‘In health, perhaps. But I’m concerned about . . . the political situation here and your possible involvement in it.’

  He saw a subtle change in Ralph’s expression. The look of relaxed good nature was replaced by a hint of a frown and a narrowing of the eyes. ‘I’m not involved with politics. I’m not allowed to be.’

  ‘Yes, I understand that. That’s why I’m worried about the sort of company you are keeping.’

  ‘How do you know what company I keep?’

  ‘I’m still in touch with various people over here: Max Seinfeld, for one. And they tell me you are mixing with a dangerous crowd.’

  ‘Dangerous, in what way?’

  ‘The Black Hand.’

  ‘What does Seinfeld know about the Black Hand?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Ralph. It’s an open secret. Dragutin Dimitrijevic – Apis – and Tankovic and the rest have made themselves so powerful in the Serbian army that they’re untouchable. Max thinks they are planning something, something that could blow up in all our faces.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘He doesn’t know, except he thinks it is something to do with Bosnia.’ Tom leaned forward. ‘The point is, Ralph, everyone knows that you have been associating with them. If they are going to do something violent it might be assumed that you were party to it. I’ve come to urge you to get out of Belgrade before it happens. Ask for some leave, you must be entitled to some. Come home, till all this blows over.’

  Ralph put down his cup and leaned back in his chair. There was a look on his face that Tom had never seen before, a grave, calculating look that made him seem suddenly older. After a moment he gave a brief, wry smile. ‘What an idiot you must think me! Do you really think I couldn’t see what Apis and his cronies were up to? Do you think I hung around with them for the pleasure of their company?’

  ‘Then why?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Because I knew they were dangerous lunatics! I thought if I could get close to them I might be able to pick up some information about what they intended and warn the authorities.’

  ‘You were spying on them?’

  ‘I suppose you could call it that.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what they are planning?’

  ‘I’ve been picking up clues for the last two or three months. I’ve seen Tankovic with some pretty unsavoury types who call themselves Young Bosnia. They are desperate to see Bosnia independent of Austria/Hungary and they will use any means that come to hand to achieve that. There’s one called Gavrilo Princip, a little runt of a fellow with a fanatical look in his eyes, and another called Illic, who seems to be the leader. I’m pretty sure Tankovic has supplied them with weapons and training in how to use them, but I couldn’t guess what for until a few days ago.’

  ‘And now you can?’

  ‘Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria is coming to Bosnia in two days’ time to review the troops on manoeuvre there and afterwards he’s due at a reception in Sarajevo. He must be the prime target.’

  ‘Good God! Have you told anyone what you suspect?’

  ‘I went to see our ambassador and told him but I don’t think he took it seriously. After all, I have no proof. It’s all speculation.’

  ‘What about your contacts in the Serb military?’

  ‘What would be the point? Apis is Chief of Military Intelligence so all I would be doing is exposing myself as a potential danger. Anyway, the Serbs won’t shed too many tears over a rift with Austria.’

  ‘Couldn’t you warn the authorities in Bosnia, or even the Austrians themselves?’

  ‘And be the cause of an international incident? There’s nothing the Austrians would like better than an excuse to invade. I don’t want that on my conscience.’

  ‘If Apis and the rest suspected that someone had passed information to the authorities, could that be traced back to you?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Then for God’s sake, Ralph, that makes it all the more vital for you to get out of the country.’

  ‘Not yet. There’s no official ap
proach open to me so that means I have to find some other way to put a stop to it.’

  ‘You? How? What can you do, on your own?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. But perhaps I’m not entirely on my own any more. Can I rely on you, Tom?’

  A sudden sense of déjà vu swept over Tom. How many times had he looked into those amber eyes, just as he was doing now, and been inveigled into taking part in some mad scheme that could end in disaster for them both? But he had never refused before, and he knew he could not now. He sighed deeply. ‘You know you can – as always.’

  Ralph leaned forward and gripped his wrist. ‘Good man! You never know, one day the world may be grateful to us, because if this assassination attempt succeeds it could bring the whole of Europe to the brink of war.’

  ‘But what on earth do you imagine we can do?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Probably nothing, but we have to try. I’ve already made a rough plan – well, a starting point, at any rate. Today is June the twenty-sixth, in our calendar, but in the Julian calendar, which was in use then, it’s June the thirteenth. June the fifteenth is St Vitus’ Day, Vidovdan in Serbian, which commemorates the battle of Kosovo against the Turks in 1389. It’s a very important date for patriotic Serbs, so it is the obvious date for the assassination attempt. Now, I happened to hear Danilo Illic tell Tankovic that his mother keeps a boarding house in Sarajevo. I’ve arranged to take seventy-two hours leave, starting tomorrow, and booked a room there. You can join me. If there isn’t a spare room we can always share.’