Flawed Banner

by John Harris

  Witkins smiled. ‘Let’s say, I seemed to arrive at an inopportune moment.’

  ‘There couldn’t have been any mistake?’

  ‘I’d already been in the army two years and I’d served all of it in the Far East. Funny things happened in the Far East. Men developed strange habits. However, I only described what I saw, not what I thought might be happening.’

  ‘Did you ever speak to Redmond about it?’

  ‘Briefly. At the hospital. He claimed he was suffering from a recurrence of malaria and must have been in some sort of coma.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘Not really. But I wasn’t the one who started the rumours. It must have been his aide.’

  ‘He saw what you saw?’

  ‘He said he did.’

  ‘What the two of you said carried a lot of weight.’

  ‘I suppose so. But I didn’t say a word beyond a discreet report to my senior officer because I felt that as Senior Medical Officer he should know. He insisted I tell the Governor what I knew. I knew quite a lot as it happened, because I questioned the orderly before he was sent away. He was a nasty piece of work. Dangerous. Redmond should have got rid of him at once. I certainly would have. He insisted it had happened before.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘I never said I did. Or that I didn’t. I was asked to report on what had taken place and what the orderly told me. That’s what I did. I questioned him carefully. I didn’t want to be involved in the downfall of a chap as brave and able as I knew Redmond to be.’

  ‘Do you think Redmond was guilty?’

  Witkins smiled. ‘I was asked that many times,’ he said. ‘I always simply told what I’d seen. I never gave an opinion. I’m not giving one now.

  Woodyatt accepted Witkins’ attitude. He was clearly a man of some honour and he didn’t try to push him.

  ‘I suppose you know what happened next to Redmond?’

  ‘Yes, I know. He went to England and according to the newspapers, he shot himself in Paris on the way back.’

  ‘Is that all you’ve heard?’

  Witkins smiled again. ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard a lot more than that. Around 1907, and again in 1914, they questioned me very closely at the War Office. You’d have thought I was the guilty party. I learned later there were suspicions about what he’d been up to in London when he arrived from Burma, because he was seen near the German Embassy.’

  Witkins paused for a moment, thinking. ‘It seems there were suggestions that he should be watched,’ he went on. ‘But with the impending trial it wasn’t considered urgent and nobody did anything. Somebody slipped up, of course, and they were looking for a scapegoat.’

  ‘You heard what happened to him afterwards?’

  Witkins smiled and sat back in his chair. ‘I heard Hitler sacked him. I suppose he’s dead now.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Woodyatt said, ‘he seems to be very much alive. Which raises the next question. Did you know him well enough to notice anything special about him by which he might be identified?’

  Witkins didn’t ask why. He seemed a very restrained type. Instead he simply sat musing for a while and Woodyatt was driven to prompt him. ‘Habits?’ he suggested. ‘Marks? You were a medical man. Did you ever examine him?’

  ‘Once,’ Witkins said. ‘When he got malaria. After that I spoke to him again only once, briefly, before he returned to England.’

  ‘Notice anything special about him?’

  Witkins smiled. ‘Have you found him?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re hoping to.’

  ‘Then, in that case, I can’t be of much help. It’s difficult to face a man who’s about to fall from grace because of something you’ve noticed. I’m afraid, being young at the time and him being older and powerful and famous, I was very embarrassed about the whole business and kept my eyes on the blotter on my desk throughout the whole interview.’

  ‘Was there nothing about him you noticed? Something that would help me identify him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s hoped we might persuade him to return to England.’

  Witkins gave a little laugh. ‘You’ve a hope.’

  ‘It might be possible. They’re prepared to wipe the slate clean.’

  ‘Are they, by God? Why?’

  ‘The Germans got him to talk about us. It’s thought we might be able to get him to talk about the Germans.’

  Witkins frowned. ‘Well, I suppose there’s that,’ he admitted. ‘You know where he is?’

  ‘Not exactly. I’m hoping to. But I suspect he’ll need a lot of persuading to come back here. Even to admitting to who he is. That’s why I need things which will prove he’s the man I want. If he doesn’t come back willingly, he has to come back unwillingly.’

  Witkins smiled. ‘Well, I suppose that’s fair enough. He asked for it, doing what he did.’ He paused, sitting silently for a moment. ‘Let me see. Things that might identify him? Blue eyes. Fair hair. Straight nose. He was a handsome devil.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘He had a slight limp. Favouring his right leg.’

  ‘I’d not heard of this.’

  ‘It was almost unnoticeable. But doctors spot these things at once. A bullet hit him at Majuba and it gave him trouble.’

  ‘Any marks on him I’d be able to see? Things you noticed. Scars for instance.’

  ‘He had one or two. He took a bullet through the hand. There was a scar. In the fleshy part between forefinger and thumb. It was still pink when I saw it, though it’ll have changed now. It was a sort of indentation. Quite deep.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘A scar along the line of his jaw. Very slight. He got it in some scuffle on the North-West Frontier somewhere. Just a line and the marks of two or three stitches. Barely perceptible. But it was there. I can’t think of anything else. But if I do I’ll pass it on. On the other hand–’

  ‘On the other hand – what?’

  Witkins studied his hands for a while. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it occurs to me there might not be time. It’s just an idea that might not have occurred to anybody else.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If he’s suddenly become valuable to us, won’t he be just as valuable to the Germans?’

  The thought that they had been wasting time suddenly began to worry Woodyatt and he headed back to the office as fast as he could. Pullinger met him in a determined mood.

  ‘It had occurred to me, too, of course,’ he maintained. ‘We certainly want him before the Germans get him. For more than one reason.’

  ‘Isn’t treachery enough?’

  ‘Not this time. There’s been a leakage of information probably from Cabinet papers. The man who’s responsible seems to be known as “Charlie”. We’ve suspected something of the sort for some time. We code-named him “X”. Then yesterday MI5 picked up a German agent called Camorgis. Part-Greek. Works in the Foreign Office. Minor post. He’s been blackmailed into working for the Germans. He confirmed what we know. But he doesn’t know the name. Apparently he’s code-named “X” by the Germans, too, so we got that right even if only by accident. When you find Redmond you could ask about him.’

  ‘Will he know him?’

  ‘There are a lot of things he might know. We’ve had a memo from the Chief of Staff’s office. They know about you and why you’re going to France. Hannah keeps in touch. They’ve suggested you do a bit of questioning. Immediately. They’re very keen.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You ever heard of pilotless aircraft? They were thought up during the last war by a Frenchman who was considering guiding them by radio. We used the idea for a target plane. But that was an orthodox piston engine. We’re thinking now of jet engines. It’s a new form of propulsion that does away with propellers. The Germans are on to it. The Oslo report confirmed it.’

  ‘What’s the Oslo report?’

  ‘British naval attaché there was offered a statement on German te
chnical developments. It was anonymous and to this day we don’t know where it came from. It said the Germans were developing large rockets.’

  ‘What sort of rockets?’

  ‘Not the sort you light on Bonfire Night or fire at sea when you’re in distress. These are big ones. Probably weighing sixty tons. With warheads as big as a torpedoes.’

  ‘How are they aimed?’

  ‘With a target as big as London you don’t need to aim them. We know a type called Hermann Oberth has developed a liquid fuel for them. We also know the Germans have set up a branch to develop the idea under a general called Walter Dornberger.’

  ‘And will Redmond know all about this?’

  ‘He was working on the development of the Luftwaffe at Lipezk in Russia in 1922. In 1918 the Germans were deprived of an air force so they persuaded the Russians to allow them to train there. Redmond was one of those who went, so he might.’

  ‘Isn’t he a bit too old to know about this sort of thing?’

  ‘He wasn’t old in 1922. He wasn’t old in 1931 when Dornberger was appointed, or in 1929 when Oberth published a book on his ideas.’ Pullinger seemed elated. ‘If we pull this off,’ he said enthusiastically, ‘it’ll be a real feather in our caps. You’ve seen everybody who knew Redmond. Well, not everybody. Hannah’s actually turned up Darby, the Paris military attaché. He’s living in France. It would be well worth while going to see him. Married a woman called Daphne Quennell. Lives near Bordeaux. I’ll wire him to expect you. You’d better get moving. I take it you’ve nothing on.’

  ‘I was due for leave this weekend.’

  ‘Going anywhere?’

  ‘Only to Truro to see my mother.’

  ‘I’ll get Hannah to contact her. How about your wife?’

  ‘There’s no need to worry about that.’

  ‘No hope of a reconciliation?’

  ‘None whatsoever. She’s found a chap in the navy. She prefers a life on the ocean wave.’

  Pullinger didn’t argue. ‘We’ve arranged for you to be flown from Hendon to Paris. After that, it’s up to you. Contact the Transport Office there and arrange things. You can go wherever you wish. I’ve arranged documents that will open doors, and papers that will threaten anybody who’s obstructive. They carry an impressive barrage of signatures. The Chief’s. Mine. The CIGS’s. Even the Prime Minister’s. That ought to be enough. You’ll have a car. Hannah’s taken care of it. If you need anything – support, copies of papers, anything – arrange for a signal to be sent. Just remember we want Redmond.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do if he’s difficult? Club him?’

  ‘Don’t let that worry you. When you’ve identified him beyond doubt, just let us know and we’ll arrange the rest.’

  ‘The rest?’

  ‘Ship. Aeroplane. Whatever’s needed to get him back quickly. Escort perhaps. Just identify him and then leave it to us. If you need help, just contact me. Just remember–’ Pullinger’s last words remained with Woodyatt for some time ‘–I want him back.’

  Two

  Despite the size of the task ahead of him, Woodyatt found himself looking forward to the adventure. Since his wife’s departure there was nothing to keep him in England. He knew France well because his parents had taken their children on walking tours in Alsace and Lorraine. They had got to know a French farming family called Maury with whom they had stayed regularly, and France was as familiar to him as England. He spoke the language fluently and being part of the British Expeditionary Force was a prospect that pleased him. Called up under the reserve of officers scheme, he had been whipped away at once on the order of Pullinger and had spent every bit of the war so far in and around Pullinger’s little enclave. The thought of seeing something of hostilities at closer quarters intrigued him.

  There was another attraction. The Maury family had a daughter, Nicole, who even at the age of fourteen, had seemed interested in him. Perhaps, he thought with pleasant nostalgia, she might be even more interested now that she had grown up. He hadn’t seen her for four years but he remembered her as remarkably pretty. His mother had clearly thought the same and had even dropped strong hints that were blatant match-making. Following university, Nicole had started work as a library researcher in Metz, and happily his orders would take him to that city.

  The aircraft waiting for him at Hendon was an Avro Anson which was a little like a flying greenhouse. He was given a seat next to the pilot, who was the only member of the crew.

  ‘Ferry service,’ he said. ‘Deliver mail and odd bods like yourself. Not very fast. These things are hardly front-line machines. Wings flap in a strong wind. To get the wheels up you have to wind that handle there about three thousand times and, since it’s stiff, I usually fly with ’em down. Bit slow at landing. Tend to float. Might have to ask you to stamp your feet a bit.’

  The pilot was middle-aged and clearly quite happy in the humdrum job the Phoney War had thrown up for him, and he kept Woodyatt entertained until the Eiffel Tower appeared out of the mist ahead.

  Paris wasn’t very different from London. The statues in the Place de la Concorde were sandbagged and in the Rue Halévy they were selling tarred paper vests ‘to keep the soldiers warm’. In one shop there were pottery dogs lifting hind legs over pottery copies of Hitler’s Mein Kampf.

  Compared with London’s version, the black-out was blinding and the newspapers were full of official optimism and stories that the Germans were already starving. Theatres and dance halls were open and there seemed no limit to food, while the air was loud with emotional songs full of banal sentimentality. Even the soldiers you saw on the streets didn’t seem to think the war was dangerous.

  Signalled ahead by the Hannah woman, the Transport Officer had a car waiting. It was a little Morris with a hood and the usual camouflage of brown and green.

  Woodyatt’s first call was at the Préfecture de Police on the Quai des Orfèvres.

  ‘Sir George Redmond?’ The police officer he spoke to looked baffled. ‘In 1904? That is a long time ago, Monsieur le Capitaine, and we are in the middle of a war.’

  The policeman introduced him to the archivist. He was no more helpful. ‘1904?’ he said. ‘You wish a report on a suicide in 1904? I can’t imagine where to look for such a thing.’

  Woodyatt’s first job now seemed to be to find Darby, who’d been assistant military attaché at the Paris Embassy at the time of Redmond’s faked suicide. He had an address at a village called Bray-en-Basse in the Charente near Saintes. It was an attractive village that seemed to be full of anglers, either on the way to the River Charente or on the way back. He found Darby’s house without difficulty, a low, ivy-covered building with a garden sloping to the river.

  The door was opened by a tall woman. She was grey-haired but straight-backed and imperious. She must once have been elegant and, judging by her features, beautiful.

  ‘Daphne Darby,’ she said in English. ‘You’ll be Captain Woodyatt.’

  She led him through the house to where a table and chairs stood out of the sun on a vine-covered patio. ‘My husband’s on his way,’ she said and Woodyatt saw Darby heading up the garden.

  He was tall like his wife, with thick grey hair and a moustache clipped so short it almost didn’t exist. It was only after he watched him for a short while that Woodyatt realised he was minus one of his legs. But he had obviously learned to manage very well and there was barely a sign of a limp.

  ‘Better have a drink,’ he said immediately. ‘Redmond,’ he went on as he sat down. ‘Bloody man! I’ll never forget him. What happened over that weekend was enough to give me nightmares. It was desperately important, y’see, to avoid a scandal and we were all in such a hurry. King Edward was hoping just at that time to put the seal on the Entente Cordiale and he was livid. Anything that might throw a spanner in the works was most unwelcome, and here was this damn fool ruining everything by shooting himself.’

  As his wife occupied herself with drinks, Darby went on with enthusiasm mixed with a
touch of nostalgia. ‘No one knew what religious denomination Redmond had followed, so the French police played safe by using the English Episcopal Church in the Rue d’Aguesseau. But then, of course, up popped this business of him having a wife and we had to start all over again.

  Darby looked harassed even at the memory of it. ‘Even when the funeral finally took place it was a total farce.’

  ‘There was someone there from the War Office, wasn’t there?’

  ‘Not half!’ Darby said. ‘Me.’

  ‘Were you the chap who accompanied the body from Paris?’

  ‘Yes. Instructions had been received that it had to be accompanied to its destination. And as there wasn’t anybody else available, it fell on me.’

  ‘Were you on the same ferry?’

  ‘Yes. It was a dreadful crossing – the Channel at its very worst – and when we arrived at London Bridge station it was deserted. Typical British Sunday. You couldn’t even get a cup of tea. The crate was loaded into a Carter Paterson van for King’s Cross. Not very dignified. Had Typhoo Tea on the side. His brothers – you’ll have heard of the brothers – they followed in a hansom. But the word somehow got around and King’s Cross was crowded. Mostly North-Country people they seemed to me, and a few ex-soldiers and their families.’

  Darby looked as though he didn’t know whether to laugh or weep at the memory of the confusion. ‘You won’t believe it,’ he said, ‘but the bloody crate containing the coffin stood on the platform all day just like an abandoned suitcase. The widow and son were in the Great Northern Hotel and everybody started making a lot of fuss over the demands of Redmond’s Yorkshire admirers, trying to persuade her to change her mind about the private interment. There were at least three Members of Parliament and they all seemed to think the War Office had refused to meet the expense of a public funeral. She refused to listen.’

  Darby sat for a moment, his eyes distant. ‘When the evening train for the North arrived,’ he went on, ‘the crate was placed in the guard’s van and immediately flowers and wreaths appeared. The bloody station-master even allowed it to be opened so that for half an hour there was an unofficial lying in state with people filing past. When I discovered what was going on, I played merry hell. The station-master said it was what the people wanted and I had to tell him very firmly that it wasn’t what the army wanted. Fortunately, he had the lid back on by the time the family mourners appeared from the hotel.’