Mr Campion's War

by Mike Ripley

  But now, two years on, Magnus Asher – for SOE were convinced it was he – was alive, well, and prospering in a business no doubt shady in Marseilles, living openly and, by all accounts, in some style. And however dubious his business dealings, he maintained close links with Sandy Nevin’s Mission and had, according to several escaping airmen who had sheltered there, provided the chaplain with clothing, food and excellent quality forged documents, though presumably at a price.

  I asked if Asher had any sort of police record and was told that SOE had not found one, although the expressions on my two young captains’ faces betrayed the fact that they had not looked very hard. To be honest, two years of air raids had destroyed many official buildings and documents, so it was feasible that Asher had got away with murder and no one was any the wiser. If SOE were not interested in him, he was beginning to sound like just the sort of chap my lot could find a billet for.

  Should I need to get out of Marseilles quickly, I would have to find and approach Magnus Asher, though I would need to be armed with a suitably large amount of funds. To approach Sandy Nevin and his Mission directly could risk compromising his operation, and my SOE advisors felt it would be better ‘for all concerned’ if I put my trust, not to mention my life, in a deserter-turned-spiv. I told them that I quite understood.

  They had some other useful advice on what I might expect in Vichy, which boiled down to the fact that while Vichy was technically not at war with Britain but in a state of armed neutrality, I could expect to be treated as an enemy should my thin disguise as a Canadian diplomat be stripped away to reveal a hated Englishman. Many in Vichy were bitter about how French ships in British harbours had been seized and then the French fleet attacked by the Royal Navy at Mers-el-Kébir, with 1,200 French sailors killed, and furious that Britain now offered a base to General de Gaulle, whom they regarded as a renegade and traitor.

  It was nothing I did not know already, but out of politeness remained attentive and grateful for the information. I was genuinely grateful for the forged Vichy ration coupons they offered me, and tried to lighten the mood by observing that it was odd that the French actually called them ‘tickets’, which was an English word, while we called them coupons, which was a French word.

  Captains Smith and Jones were not amused, but then neither was I when they presented me with a final gift – a handy, tooth-sized cyanide capsule.

  ‘Just in case, old boy,’ said Jones, or perhaps Smith.

  That evening, during a walk along the Victoria Embankment, I threw it into the Thames.

  SIX

  Table Talk

  The Dorchester Hotel, London. 20 May 1970

  ‘Is my husband boring you, Herr Ringer?’ asked Amanda, pressing a hand lightly but with firm intent on Mr Campion’s shoulder. ‘He is rather good at that, especially when he has a captive audience. They say he could bore for England.’

  ‘Please do not be concerned, Lady Amanda. Albert is being most entertaining, as he always is, though I fear the younger ones …’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about me,’ Perdita gushed enthusiastically. ‘I’m finding this fascinating.’

  ‘Charles,’ Amanda fixed Luke with her no-nonsense-to-be-tolerated face, ‘as you have undoubtedly heard all Albert’s stories before, I’m putting you in charge of telling him when to shut up.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m with Perdita on this one,’ Luke said. ‘I’ve never heard Albert talk about his time in …’ then he caught the amused twinkle in the eyes of the German sitting next to him and finished limply, ‘… the services.’

  Ringer smiled. ‘Do not try to be diplomatic, Commander. It is perfectly acceptable for you to mention the war.’

  ‘But should Albert be doing so?’ asked Amanda. ‘Seriously, darling, aren’t you in danger of betraying state secrets or something? You’ve always said your war work was so secret that you never found out what you were doing most of the time, and surely you must have signed the Official Secrets Act.’

  ‘I’m almost certain I did,’ said Mr Campion vaguely, ‘but in those days one had to sign chits for everything from paper clips and pencils to a Lancaster bomber, should you require one. In any case, I’m not giving away state secrets, merely catching up with old friends and reminiscing about events more than twenty-five years ago. There can be little harm in that. Should I overstep the mark, then Charles here is on hand to arrest me but, until he does, it is my birthday, my party and I’ll gossip if I want to!’

  ‘Well, I only hope you know what you are doing,’ Amanda scolded him mildly, ‘and don’t stop your guests from enjoying this delicious meal.’

  Mr Campion pretended to look shocked at the implied accusation.

  ‘Heaven forfend! I will hold my peace until the main course is served, for it should be quite spectacular – and here it comes.’

  At the far end of the room the doors opened, and in rumbled a pair of silver-plate domed carving trolleys propelled and flanked by half a platoon of starched and shining waiters. The trolleys advanced in parallel towards the top table, like the slow-moving tanks of the Great War growling towards an enemy salient with infantry support. They came to a halt in perfect unison and the commanding waiters of each vehicle stepped forward to present a long-blade carving knife and fork, as if presenting arms.

  ‘To what are we being treated, Albert?’ asked Robert von Ringer politely.

  ‘Barons of lamb,’ Mr Campion said, tucking his napkin into his shirt collar, only to have it gently removed and placed in his lap by Amanda. ‘I thought two should be enough to feed this lot, if not the five thousand, and I got special permission to bring in two carvers from The Savoy: they are the experts when it comes to dicing and slicing this particular cut.’

  ‘They look like whole sheep,’ squealed Perdita.

  ‘Actually, the back half of two sheep,’ said Mr Campion. ‘We had to borrow the trolleys from the French Embassy. They were made by Christofle of Paris and I’m told they are quite expensive, so I would appreciate it, Charlie, if you’d keep an eye open in case one of the guests try to sneak one out under their coat.’

  ‘You mean you don’t trust your guests to behave themselves impeccably?’ said Luke with a broad grin.

  ‘Of course not!’ blustered Campion. ‘That’s why I invited them! But please don’t regard yourself as on duty, at least not where drinking is concerned. I’ve chosen a fantastic Château La Fleur-Pétrus Pomerol to go with the lamb.’

  ‘You know I’d be quite happy with a bottle of Spanish Burgundy for fourteen-and-nine down the local Berni Inn.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Charlie, don’t play the Philistine. You’ll enjoy the wine – I insist you will. It’s a 1961, which I am sure will be a vintage that will outlive us all, even if the paltry supply I’ve laid in probably won’t see dawn tomorrow.’

  Mr Campion turned to his German guest, indicating the two waiters looming over their trolleys, silvery domes opened to reveal roasted and glistening haunches of meat. The waiters dramatically clashed their carving knives against their long-handled, two-pronged forks and set about their business.

  ‘Now watch these chaps in action, Robert,’ said Campion. ‘I reckon they’d make excellent sabreurs.’

  ‘I think Campion is reliving the war,’ said Dr Jolyon Livingstone to his fellow diner far down the stem of one of the table extensions.

  His companion, Mr L. C. Corkran, allowed himself to be distracted from his enjoyment of some of Bordeaux’s finest produce.

  ‘What d’you mean, Joly? I admit that all these chaps waving long knives and pushing carvers as big as Bren-gun carriers looks a bit like Trooping the Colour in mufti, but you need a squad of well-drilled men who know what they’re doing to serve baron of lamb to this amount of people. Lord knows I’ve sat through enough official dinners where the gravy’s congealed into wallpaper paste before the potatoes have come over the horizon.’

  ‘No, no, I wasn’t referring to the menu, I was thinking about the guest list and especially the
selection for the top table.’

  ‘I suppose you think the master of a Cambridge college should automatically be placed on high,’ said Mr Corkran, determined to concentrate on the rapidly disappearing contents of his glass. ‘Must be strange for you to be placed below the salt for once.’

  ‘Actually, it happens quite a lot these days,’ sighed Dr Livingstone quietly, ‘though any further below the salt and we’d be the other side of Park Lane. But I was thinking of the guest of honour up there shooting the breeze with old Rudolph … oops! I forgot. We must call him Albert, mustn’t we?’

  Mr Corkran, who did not believe for one second that Dr Livingstone’s memory had failed, chose to ignore the deliberate slip.

  ‘Are you referring to Freiherr von Ringer?’ Mr Corkran dragged his adoring gaze from his wine glass and fixed the academic with the blank stare he had honed to perfection for use in interviews and interrogations over several decades. ‘He is a German gentleman who is an acquaintance of mine and an old friend of Albert’s.’

  ‘I know very well who he is and what he did during the war.’

  ‘You do? That’s interesting. May I ask how?’

  ‘You know very well, L. C.,’ said Livingstone, keeping his voice low. ‘I may not have been in one of your Boy Scout outfits, but I was in intelligence in the last few years of the war. Quiet codebreaking was our thing, not your shooty-bang games, but I did get the chance to meet a real live German spy in late 1944 when he came over to our side. Guess who.’

  ‘Ringer.’

  ‘Exactly. MI5 called me in to help with his clearance procedure as I had worked on the latest Abwehr codes, and they thought the St Ignatius connection would establish a certain level of rapport if not trust.’

  Mr Corkran went into ruminative mood. ‘Yes, the Cambridge chaps in Five always believed in the old school tie, or should that be cap and gown?’

  ‘I know what you’re implying, L. C., and I utterly refute it. There has never been any question of the loyalty of the alumni of St Ignatius, unlike some other colleges I could mention. Robert Ringer was an alumnus, as was I, though of a younger generation. It was logical that I should be involved in his debriefing. That fencing scar he got from Campion was an obvious point of mutual interest.’

  ‘So you knew the story?’

  ‘Of course, it was part of the folklore of St Ignatius. It happened ten years before I went up, but everyone knew of legends surrounding Rud … That Albert Campion, the chap who, to look at him, wouldn’t say boo to a goose, had beaten a Prussian sabre champion in a duel over some outrageous slur on his honour.’

  ‘It’s a good story, if you know Albert,’ Mr Corkran said thoughtfully. ‘Except that it wasn’t a duel, they weren’t using sabres and Ringer is no Prussian.’

  ‘You must allow us some small flight of fancy. Dinners at high table can be awfully boring in the long winter nights.’

  ‘I’ve heard it said,’ observed Corkran, ‘but I think all we have here is some old friends celebrating a birthday. I wouldn’t read too much into the table plan.’

  ‘But as the master of a Cambridge college, I am trained to do exactly that. Ringer’s not on the top table by accident; that’s not Albert’s style at all. And what about that very attractive Frenchwoman bending Lady Amanda’s delicate ear? Who’s she and what’s she up to?’

  ‘You worry too much, Jolyon. Now drink this excellent wine and pass the mint sauce.’

  ‘I think this end of the table should devote itself to talking loudly about hemlines, shoes and handbags,’ said Lady Amanda. ‘We don’t have to do it for long, but if we’re loud enough, then the men will soon lose interest and stop listening in, so then we can talk about them.’

  ‘You are assuming, Lady Amanda, that we might have something interesting to say about them,’ said the elegant Frenchwoman. ‘In either case, would we not be descending into cliché?’

  ‘You are absolutely correct, Madame Thibus, so we will therefore discuss important matters of foreign policy, economics and religious philosophy. That will put the men off just as much, but not until you have admitted to me that your dress is Givenchy and that beautiful tapestry bag down by the side of your chair is a Walborg.’

  ‘I admit to both offences, if there are offences,’ laughed Corinne Thibus, adding, ‘that bag may come from an America company but, like the dress, it was made in France. Does that suffice for the topic of foreign policy?’

  ‘I am sure it ticks all the diplomatic boxes, but I will not be diplomatic and admit openly that I am jealous of both. Your bag, in particular. I have not seen that particular design before. Is it an heirloom?’

  ‘No, but it is old enough to be one. I bought it in Paris almost twenty years ago from – how do you say it? – my first pay cheque. I was desperately in need of new shoes, but then I saw the bag I needed even more.’

  ‘It is a good size,’ said Amanda, nodding in agreement. ‘Capacious, you might say. Looks as if it could contain everything a girl might need.’

  ‘And more besides,’ the Frenchwoman smiled thinly. ‘Have we now exhausted the subject of fashion, or was it foreign affairs?’

  ‘That rather depends on how you come to be here tonight.’

  ‘Do I detect that the Lady Amanda is suspicious about something?’

  ‘Not at all suspicious, but very curious as to how you know my husband as, I am afraid, he has failed to mention your existence before now; and although he can be notoriously absent-minded when it comes to the minor things in life, I would hardly put you in that category.’

  Madame Thibus adjusted her smile in that knowing telegraphy which passes between women who instinctively know they are far too intelligent to be fooled by the playing of the coquette expression card, invariably accompanied by the fluttering of eyelashes as subtle, and as quiet, as wood pigeons mating in a tree in full foliage.

  ‘Should I be flattered by that, Lady Amanda? Or perhaps a little worried?’

  Amanda picked up her wine glass and drank slowly, observing the Frenchwoman over the crystal rim. She was not a threat, nor even an opponent, but she was an uncertainty and she had appeared suddenly, an immaculately dressed and supremely confident ghost from her husband’s past.

  ‘I was merely curious as to when you and my husband met,’ said Amanda, pointedly emphasizing the when and leaving the and how merely implied.

  ‘It was during the war,’ said Corinne Thibus without hesitation, meeting Amanda’s eyes.

  ‘You must have been very young.’

  ‘I was old enough. I had to be.’

  On the other ‘wing’ of the table, Guffy Randall was beginning to admit what his wife had long suspected, that he was going deaf on his left side. No matter how discreetly he had cupped a hand around his ear, he had been unable to follow much of Campion’s monologue, even though it seemed to have held Luke, Perdita and that starchy German fellow quite entranced.

  It did not help that Campion was naturally quietly spoken, nor that he resorted to initials – half of which went over Guffy’s head – and odd inserts of foreign lingo. From the little Guffy had managed to glean, Campion seemed to be talking about war, which was rather rum in his opinion as he regarded it bad form to mention the war in front of Germans.

  Sensibly, Mr Augustus Randall turned his attention to the excellent roast lamb in front of him and to the diners on his immediate right: the young French chappie, Fleurey, and his wife, Mary, who seemed to be getting on comme une maison en flammes. Happily, they were conversing in English, as that very thought had exhausted Guffy’s reservoir of half-remembered schoolboy French.

  Mary Randall took pity on her husband and brought him into the conversation by speaking across Joseph Fleurey, aiming for Guffy’s right ear.

  ‘Darling, we simply must go down to the Riviera this summer. Joseph here has a casino in Nice.’

  ‘I merely work in a casino, Mrs Randall. Sadly, I do not own it,’ protested M. Fleurey.

  ‘I don’t know about casinos; not m
uch fun to be had there with the fifty-pound travel-allowance rules,’ Guffy grumbled amiably. ‘But I’ve always had a soft spot for that bit of coast. Plenty of happy memories of Mentone, just around the corner from Nice towards Italy …’ Joseph Fleurey nodded politely, indicating that he too was familiar with the geography of the area. ‘Stayed at the Hôtel Beauregard there. The manager was a charming fellow called Étienne Fleur— But, of course, you must be the son.’

  ‘I am indeed, and proud to represent my father here tonight. Sadly, he is too old and infirm to travel these days, so his invitation passed to me.’

  ‘I hear you were very hospitable to my nephew Rupert and his wife when they visited Nice a year or so ago,’ said Mary.

  ‘They were delightful company, but terrible gamblers. I made sure they did not lose too much.’

  Mary Randall placed a hand gently on Joseph’s wrist. ‘Should we visit your establishment, I would appreciate a similar watchful eye being kept on my husband.’

  A wine waiter hovered in front of them, having judged psychically, as the best sommeliers always do, the exact moment that Mr Randall’s empty glass was returned firmly to the table. The drinker paused for the required moment of considered thought that is expected rather than required, gave a nod of acceptance, and the glass was smoothly replenished.

  ‘Got to admit that Albert knows his wine,’ said Guffy. ‘Must make a note of this – see if Lay and Wheeler can get us a supply. Got to hand it to you French, when it comes to wine.’

  ‘I thank you on behalf of a grateful nation.’

  ‘Grateful? That’s a matter of opinion.’

  ‘Guffy, really!’ Mary Randall laughed lightly, but the tone was anything but light. It was a warning, and pure Fitton.

  ‘Are we not, as a nation, grateful?’ asked Joseph, keeping his voice as falsely light as Mary’s laugh. ‘I am certainly grateful to England for keeping my father safe during the war and for helping to liberate my country.’