‘ . . . trust him Miriam, trust our son, let him do what has been asked of him.’
No, Tom! This time you are wrong! Resolution renewed she crossed the High Street turning left into Earp’s Lane following it to emerge into Church Street.
It was quiet after the sounds of the Bullen with its cross flow of traffic. Ahead of her, the stone church rose dark against the sky. It was normally quiet in this backwater but today the silence was strangely ominous. She shivered as she watched the man coming toward her.
19
Closing a file marked ‘Secret’, Philip Conroy leaned back in his chair. Tomorrow he would return to London, his report would go to the head of the department; but would that see the end? Would there ever be an end . . . ? He breathed a long breath of exhaustion. The answer to that question was, there was no answer, as long as man fought against man there would be infiltrators, those working against a country from the inside. ‘Bloody quislings’ as Isaac Eldon had spat angrily, but Godfrey Browne was no quisling.
It had been something of a miracle. There had been a report of maps displaying geographical locations of some town he had never heard of. He had felt little interest in the information passed to him – a young lad, coloured crayon on bits of paper, probably a school project, certainly not worth time following up. But of course bureaucracy demanded he give it a passing glance. He had thought that was all it would take, until he checked the name of the town. Wednesbury! Even now he felt tingles of alarm race along his spine. The town was small, insignificant on the map, but set where it was in the centre of the industrial Midlands, producing what it did, munitions vital to this country’s existence as a sovereign nation, then those maps had suddenly taken on a very different face, and with the face had come a body.
It had been known to the Ministry of Defence for some time that Luftwaffe photo reconnaissance aircraft had made a series of passes over Coventry, Birmingham and Wolverhampton, no doubt assessing what anti-aircraft defences they boasted. Assessment had paid off. It had cost England almost an entire city; four hundred and sixty nine German bombers all raining their payload onto Coventry. Christ, how had anybody survived?
There had been some indication of a special operation being planned by the enemy. The Code and Cipher School housed at Bletchley had decoded a signal laying down procedures for something they termed ‘Moonlight Sonata’. The target was not named but the word ‘Korn’ had been mentioned. That had been on the eleventh of November and on the twelfth another decoded transmission listed target 51 ‘Einheitpreis’, target 52 ‘Regenschirm’ and target 53 and again that word ‘Korn.’
Not a lot of use as it stood; without knowledge of what those targets might be, the Ministry’s hands were tied. In the quiet of his office, Philip Conroy relived the feeling of utter hopelessness. All that next day the sense of impending disaster had haunted him, the thirteenth! It seemed destined to live up to its reputation. It had been the evening of that same night that capricious Lady Luck had seen fit to change her mind. A captured German pilot had been overheard telling a cellmate of a massive air attack planned to take place between the fifteenth and twentieth of November. He mentioned the same words that had been in that earlier decryption, Regenschirm and Einheitpreis. It had taken but a moment for someone to say ‘Regenschirm is German for umbrella’ and another to add whimsically that ‘perhaps they had been talking of England’s Umbrella Man, that is what Neville Chamberlain is nicknamed, isn’t it? On account of his always being seen carrying an umbrella.’
Not Neville Chamberlain, those German prisoners had not been discussing the trait of England’s erstwhile Prime Minister! Understanding had rushed in like a flood. They must have been speaking of his home town, of Birmingham! One of those predetermined targets had to be that city. But what of that other word, what of ‘Einheitpreis’?
‘Say it quickly enough and you could be saying “all at one price”.’
A colleague quipped, ‘That would be the Sixpenny Store, Woolworth’s to you ignoramuses.’
The laughter stopped. Birmingham was a city of heavy industry, could that other target also be a part of the vital heartland, another of the larger towns? It had to be. But which, Coventry or Wolverhampton? Eventually they had settled for the latter.
Lady Luck had smiled yet her kiss had been the kiss of Judas. The very next evening Coventry had been almost wiped from the earth and eight days later had come Birmingham’s date with destiny in an air attack which severed three vital water mains, leaving the city without water with which to fight the fires. The destruction had been harrowing, as had been the worry of where and what was Korn? The question had remained to plague, could that be Wolverhampton or some other place entirely? Days brought no solution and it had seemed they never would; but then had come information regarding a boy and several hand drawn maps.
It had fallen to him to come to Wednesbury and as his train approached the town he had wondered just why it was so important. There was virtually no visible evidence of its coal mining history, no colliery winding wheels as he could see, yet the part it played in the war effort was so crucial that the powers that be had seen fit to despatch him there, his brief to interview a boy. He had felt a fierce aggravation. What could a boy tell him? A boy would most probably pee in his trousers at the first question!
But Philip Conroy had reckoned without Reuben Carson.
The lad had not peed his trousers. He had shown no sign of fright when questioned by a stranger but gave each reply clearly and directly.
‘The maps are for a school project.’ That answer had confirmed his theory. The whole thing would be a waste of time. Then the boy had spoken of a ‘Raygensherm’ and it was that had the tingles running along his spine, turning to icicles when Reuben had gone on to mention ‘fine at price’ and finally ‘corn’.
The boy’s pronunciation had been incorrect, but it had been near enough to match with the information gained from intercepted enemy transmissions.
Intelligence had reported radio transmissions emanating from somewhere in the Midlands, transmissions feeding information to the enemy. Could they be coming from this town?
Similarity had been too close to ignore. Philip Conroy remembered the leap of his veins. What he had supposed would be a complete waste of time had suddenly promise to be what Special Branch were searching for . . . an enemy agent!
Lord, if only the connection had been made sooner, maybe they could have been ready for the raids which had decimated Coventry and Birmingham. But the milk had been spilled and it was no use crying over it. Two names, two cities, but the third ‘Korn’, where was that destined to be? They had found no similarity for that, no indication of what it might imply.
He had reported his findings, emphasising his belief that neither the boy nor his family knew anything beyond what they had told. It had been at that meeting he had learned of a new project, one which was the reason for the enemy’s heavy bombardment of the Midlands. They knew what, but they didn’t know where; that at all costs must remain a secret.
All costs meaning a boy’s safety!
Philip Conroy’s teeth clenched. War was a dirty bloody business!
The boy could not be told of any threat yet it had been certain he knew, it had shown in his quiet reply when asked would he take one further step. He had shown no trace of fear, no sign of reticence when requested to undertake what for a man would have been termed a mission. He accepted immediately. Not quite so readily the mother and grandfather, but then their reluctance had been understandable as had Miriam Carson’s desire to take her son from that school.
She had been intercepted, asked would she go home willingly or be escorted there by a policeman?
What must the woman have felt? What were her feelings now, supposing the lad had told her what had gone on inside the school? Somehow he felt the boy had not revealed how he had been summoned to the headmaster’s room, detained there after the rest of the pupils and staff had left the premises. He had also likely not spoken
of the man opening a cupboard and taking out what appeared to be, in Reuben’s own words, ‘something like my mum’s wireless set except she doesn’t talk to hers. He pressed a switch and said something I did not understand into a microphone in his hand. My mum doesn’t do that either so I guessed the machine must be a way of talking to people, you know, rather like a telephone, not that I have ever used a telephone.’
The boy had later confided the conversation privately, adding ‘I would rather you don’t repeat this to my mum, Mr Conroy. She has enough to worry over without my giving her more.’
Again that concern for others. Reuben Carson was a young man deserving of his ‘lieutenant’ status.
‘You have been most helpful, Reuben,’ the headmaster had said. ‘Your map has shown very clearly the spot my friends have been searching for.’
‘Friends?’ Reuben had queried convincingly.
‘Let us say my countrymen.’ Browne had turned again to the transmitter. ‘Now it is time to give them the information they have been seeking.’
‘You mean the golf links?’
The man had depressed the switch again, spoken into the microphone then, flicking it off once more, had turned again to Reuben.
‘Of course the golf links. Or rather, what is beneath them. It was very clever of you to have found out they hide a secret underground armaments factory. Not that secrecy will be of any importance for much longer; the Luftwaffe will wipe it out once my message is received.’
‘I was certain then, Mr Conroy,’ Reuben had explained, ‘that the machine was a way of passing information to the Germans and that should he tell them about the golf links, even though there was no truth in what he said, they would bomb Wednesbury like they bombed Birmingham. I couldn’t let that happen, not if I could help it, so that was when I grabbed the inkstand and hit him with it.’
How could one so young have such presence of mind, so much courage? He thanked God for it, for the time it allowed for himself and the officer of Special Branch to reach that room.
The blow had taken the man by surprise, leaving him dazed but by no means incapable. He had snarled as they had entered the room and in that same moment snatched the lad, holding him with one arm across the throat, the other hand touching a revolver to his temple.
‘Make no mistake,’ he had said, pressing the gun against the young face, ‘I will shoot. I will kill the boy. Allow me to leave, make no attempt to prevent or follow, then before I leave this country I will set him free; on that you have my word.’
‘The word of a traitor!’
‘The word of a patriot,’ Browne had answered the accusation. ‘The word of a man loyal to his own country. Allow me to introduce myself; Gottfried von Braun, former officer of the Wehrmacht.’
‘In other words a bloody spy!’
‘If you wish.’ Cold with menace, the pale grey eyes had glinted. The gun swung to meet the police officer surging toward von Braun; the bullet it spat threw him to the ground where he lay unmoving.
There had been a moment of silence. A silence intense and heavy, a moment of disbelief.
‘Now,’ von Braun had said matter of factly, ‘I must leave.’
Only then had the boy moved. Muttering, ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ at the same time he lifted one leg and brought his foot down hard on that of his captor.
It could only have been the hand of God that prevented von Braun pulling that trigger, but the gun had fallen from his hand as he screamed with pain.
‘I knew as that would take his mind off leaving.’ Reuben had grinned as other officers had rushed into the room placing von Braun in handcuffs.
‘You see, Mr Conroy, I noticed he was wearing a slipper, that meant his gout was playing up again. We all of us lads knows of his gout, that sometimes his foot gets to be so painful he can scarce walk on it; so it was my guess that, could I stamp on that foot, it might have him drop the gun and give you the chance to grab him.’
Pulling the file toward him, Philip Conroy opened it at the last page to read again the words he had written as a footnote. Words describing the bravery and selflessness of a young boy.
‘A boy the country will never learn of,’ he whispered. ‘England will not know the debt she owes you, Reuben Carson, but I know . . . yes, I know.’
20
What would Becky Turner have said had her secret been revealed? Would she have denied she had ever visited that dance hall? Perhaps, but would her mother have believed that denial?
Placing underwear she had laundered into the drawer of her dressing table, Katrin Hawley smiled at her reflection in the mirror.
‘Why did you not tell Mary Turner of her daughter’s visits to Wolverhampton? Of the man named Earl? Was it because you value Becky’s friendship?’
The smile remained as if painted on the surface of the glass, but the eyes took on the hue of ice. Becky Turner had not valued the friendship of a girl she had helped humiliate in a school playground. It was probable she never thought of that incident, but Katrin Hawley thought of it and that was the reason of that confidence remaining unbroken. To have informed Mary Turner would have afforded some little gratification, but that little could be nurtured, helped to blossom and grow until it reached the point of ultimate satisfaction, the moment when revenge would taste its sweetest. So the charade would go on, she would continue to assist in the achieving of Becky’s dreams, but one day payment would be taken, Becky Turner would awaken to a nightmare.
Can you be so positive? The reflection seemed to ask its own question.
Slipping into a chocolate brown skirt that fastened easily about her slim waist and teaming it with a cream blouse, she looked again into the mirror. ‘Oh yes,’ she breathed, ‘I can be positive . . . one way or another I will make it happen.’
Her father would be working with Isaac Eldon!
Katrin Hawley watched the man on the opposite side of the large desk but her mind refused to leave the words he had just spoken.
Isaac Eldon would be working with her father!
It had to be a mistake, Arthur Whitman had not intended to say Isaac Eldon, it had been a slip of the tongue.
‘I see you are surprised.’ Whitman smiled, catching the frown settling on his secretary’s face. ‘I suppose quite a few will feel the same way once the news breaks on the factory floor. Isaac and Jacob,’ he laughed, ‘aptly named, wouldn’t you say Katrin, seeing they will work so close together.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Katrin seemed to talk to herself. ‘Eldon, he . . . he was arrested, he is in prison.’
‘Arrested! In prison! Good Lord, Katrin, whatever gave you that idea?’
‘The man who came to the office, the one who had Eldon called from the factory, he was from the Ministry . . ’
‘That’s right.’
Her mind oblivious of the interruption Katrin continued in the same dazed half murmur, ‘ . . . it had to be because of those maps, it had to be.’
Arthur Whitman frowned. ‘Maps,’ he repeated sharply, ‘what maps would they be?’
The sudden cut of his voice or instinct? Whichever, it had Katrin snap alert. She had made an error speaking of those maps.
‘Sorry.’ She glanced at the pad on her knee then back to the man. ‘What was that, Mr Whitman? I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch that last word.’
‘Maps!’ Enunciation precise, Arthur Whitman replied. ‘You said it . . . Eldon’s arrest . . . had to be because of some maps.’
‘Did I say that? I must have got my tongue in a twist, what I meant to say was p’raps, perhaps it was the rumours which circulated after Mr Eldon’s leaving so abruptly had me thinking he had been arrested, rumours hinting at his passing information about the work done here at Prodor.’
‘That’s the last thing Isaac Eldon would do! Whoever spread those rumours best pray God they don’t make the mistake of saying them in front of me; that man came from the Ministry of Defence with a special project they wanted Isaac to work on. There is to be a new syst
em of heavy shell manufacture and the project is to be carried out in conjunction with Titan Engineering of Darlaston. Isaac and your father have devised a method of shell forging that requires no internal machining, a method they have termed ‘finished cavity forgings’. This will prove invaluable in terms of production of heavy artillery, increasing the number of twenty-five pound shells for the Howitzer Gun and the three point seven Anti Aircraft Guns, it might even double the number made at present as well as significantly adding to the numbers of all the rest of what is made here at Prodor once the new plant is installed.’
Her father and Isaac Eldon had devised a new method of shell production! Back at her own desk, Katrin contemplated what she had heard. Eldon had not as she thought – as she had hoped – been arrested . . . but those maps? She had seen them with her own eyes, detailed drawings of Wednesbury showing areas of industry, maps carried by the grandson of Isaac Eldon! The authorities could have found no evidence of those maps, how otherwise could Eldon have avoided a charge of treason? A charge which, if proved, could have him if not hanged then at least imprisoned for a great many years. But he was not imprisoned. Katrin’s fingers tightened over her pencil. Isaac Eldon was free as he had ever been.
They would not let her into that school.
Standing at the window of the home she shared with her father, Miriam Carson stared at the street through a misty sheen of rain. She had gone to Church Street, she had almost reached the school when a man had stepped in front of her.
‘Sorry,’ he had said, barring her way when she had made to walk around him. ‘Sorry, Mrs Carson, but I can’t allow you to go any further.’
He knew her name, knew why she was here . . . Reuben! Fear which had dragged at her the whole day became ice blocking every vein. This man must have come to the school for the same reason she had, to take her son!
A Step Too Far Page 15
