Tell Tale

by Jeffrey Archer

  “I am grateful to you, Mr. Henderson,” said the justice. “Please allow me a few moments to consult with my colleagues.”

  Henderson bowed, as the chairman and his two colleagues discussed the case among themselves, before coming to an agreement.

  The chairman turned back to face the defendant.

  “Mrs. Dawson,” he began, “despite learned counsel’s moving plea in mitigation, someone in your position must have been well aware they were breaking the law.” Marianne bowed her head. “So I am left with no choice but to sentence you to six months in prison, which will be suspended for two years. However, should you appear before me again, I will not hesitate to issue you with a custodial sentence. But on this occasion, I shall order you to pay a fine of two hundred pounds.” He switched his attention back to Mr. Henderson, and asked, “Is the defendant able to pay this sum?”

  Mr. Henderson turned around and looked toward the back of the courtroom where his client was seated. Arthur nodded.

  7

  ARTHUR TOOK A piece of headed paper from the letter rack on his desk and placed it in the typewriter.

  Dear Mr. Stratton,

  Thank you for your most recent letter, and the three new checkbooks that arrived this morning.

  May I begin by placing on record how much I appreciate the years of dedicated service Mr. Arthur Dunbar carried out on my behalf, and would you be kind enough to pass on my best wishes to him and the hope he will have a long and happy retirement.

  I have checked my latest accounts, which appear to be in order. However, I will be writing to you at the end of the quarter concerning some future investments I am presently considering.

  I should also like you to know that I have recently married, so you may find a new pattern will emerge in some of my transactions. My wife and I intend to travel abroad occasionally, to visit the great concert halls and opera houses of Europe. While we’re away, Mr. and Mrs. Laidlaw will continue to run Ambrose Hall, so you can expect the usual bills for household expenses in addition to their monthly salaries.

  May I also add …

  There was a knock at the door, and Arthur stopped typing. “Come in.”

  Morag popped her head round the door and said, “I just wondered what you and Mrs. Macpherson would like for lunch? I still have some of that game pie you’re rather partial to.”

  “Perfect,” said Arthur, “but not too much. Mrs. Macpherson has already chastised me for putting on weight.”

  “And Mrs. Macpherson also asked me to remind you that you’re going into Edinburgh this evening for some concert.”

  “Not some concert, Morag, Beethoven’s Third at the Usher Hall.”

  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “Yes, I’m just finishing off a letter to Mr. Stratton, so could you ask Hamish to come up? I’d like him to drive into the village and post it.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Arthur returned to the letter.

  May I also add how delighted I was to learn that you will personally be supervising my account in the future. It gives me succour to know that my affairs will be in such safe hands.

  Yours sincerely

  There was a knock on the door and Laidlaw walked in.

  “You asked to see me, sir?”

  “Yes, Hamish. Just a signature.”

  A GOOD TOSS TO LOSE

  MR. GRUBER HANDED back the boys’ essays before returning to his desk at the front of the class.

  “Not a bad effort,” the young schoolmaster said, “except for Jackson, who clearly doesn’t believe Goethe is worthy of his attention. And as this is a voluntary class, I’m bound to ask, Jackson, why you bothered to enroll?”

  “It was my father’s idea,” admitted Jackson. “He thought there might come a time when it would be useful to speak a little German.”

  “How little did he have in mind?” asked the schoolmaster.

  Jackson’s friend Brooke, who was seated at the desk next to him, whispered loudly enough for everyone in the class to hear, “Why don’t you tell him the truth, Oliver?”

  “The truth?” repeated Gruber.

  “My father is convinced, sir, that it won’t be too long before we are at war with Germany.”

  “And why should he think that, may I ask? When Europe has never been at peace for such a long period of time.”

  “I accept that, sir, but Pa works at the Foreign Office. Says the Kaiser is a warmonger, and given the slightest opportunity will invade Belgium.”

  “But, remembering your treaty obligations,” said Gruber as he walked between the desks, “that would also drag Britain and France into the conflict.” The schoolmaster paused for thought. “So the real reason you want to learn German,” he continued, attempting to lighten the exchange, “is so you can have a chat with the Kaiser when he comes marching down Whitehall.”

  “No, I don’t believe that’s what Pa had in mind, sir. I think he felt that once the Kaiser had been sent packing, if I could speak a little German, I might be in line to be a regional governor.”

  The whole class burst out laughing, and began to applaud.

  “We must hope for the sake of your countrymen as well as mine, Jackson, that it’s a very long line.”

  “If Kaiser Bill were to wage war, sir,” said Brooke, sounding more serious, “would you have to return to your country?”

  “I pray that will never happen, Brooke,” said Gruber. “I look upon England as my second home. Europe is at peace at the moment, so we must hope Jackson’s father is wrong. Nothing would be gained from such a pointless act of folly other than to set the world back a hundred years. Let us be thankful that King George V and Kaiser Wilhelm are cousins.”

  “I’ve never cared much for my cousin,” said Jackson.

  * * *

  “Have you heard the news?” said Brooke, as he and Jackson strolled across to the refectory a few weeks later.

  “What news?” said Jackson.

  “Mr. Gruber will be returning to Germany within a fortnight.”

  “Why?” said Jackson.

  “It seems the headmaster thought it wise given the circumstances.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Jackson as they sat down on a wooden bench and waited to be served lunch.

  “But I thought you didn’t like having to study German,” said Brooke, as he attempted to spear a soggy carrot with his fork.

  “And I still don’t. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like Mr. Gruber. In fact he’s always struck me as a thoroughly decent fellow. Not at all the sort of chap one would want to go to war with.”

  “We might even be at war with him in a few months’ time,” said Brooke, “and if you’re still thinking of making the army your career, you could find yourself on the front line.”

  “I don’t think you’ll be exempt from that privilege, Rupert,” said Oliver, swamping his food with gravy, “just because you’re going up to Cambridge to swan around writing poetry.”

  “Which reminds me,” said Brooke. “My mother wondered if you’d like to join us in Grantchester for a couple of weeks this summer. And I can promise you some rather interesting gals will be joining us.”

  “Can’t think of anything better, old chap. That’s assuming Kaiser Bill hasn’t got other plans for us.”

  * * *

  Oliver Jackson did spend a couple of carefree weeks with his friend, Rupert Brooke, that summer, before they parted and went their separate ways. Brooke to read Classics at King’s, while Jackson reported to the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, to accept the King’s shilling and spend the next two years being trained as an officer in the British Army.

  * * *

  In October 1913, Second Lieutenant Jackson of the Lancashire Fusiliers reported to his regiment’s depot in Chester, where he quickly discovered that talk of war with Germany was no longer confined to the Foreign Office, but was now on everyone’s lips. However, no one could be sure what would light the fuse.

  When Kaiser Wil
helm’s close friend and ally, the Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria, was assassinated in Sarajevo, the German emperor had at last found the excuse he needed for his troops to invade Belgium, giving him the chance to expand his empire.

  The only good thing that had happened while Oliver was serving his tour of duty in Chester was that he fell in love with a Miss Rosemary Carter, the daughter of one of his father’s colleagues at the Foreign Office. In the fathers’ eyes, the marriage was no more than an entente cordiale, whereas both mothers quickly realized that this particular treaty had never required Foreign Office approval.

  One of the many things Kaiser Bill did to irritate Oliver was to declare war while he and Rosemary were still on their honeymoon. Lieutenant Jackson received a telegram delivered to his Deauville hotel ordering him to report back to his regiment immediately.

  * * *

  A few weeks later the Lancashire Fusiliers were among the first to be shipped out to France, where Oliver quickly discovered that it was possible to live in far worse conditions and force down even more disgusting grub than he’d been made to endure at Rugby.

  He settled down in a trench where rats were his constant companions, three inches of muddy water his pillow, and slowly learned to sleep despite the sound of gunfire.

  “It will be over by Christmas,” was the optimistic cry being passed down the line.

  “But which Christmas?” asked a bus driver from Romford as he forked a billycan of corned beef and baked beans, while refilling his mug with rainwater.

  In fact the only present the young subaltern got that Christmas was a third pip to be sewn next to the other two already on his shoulder, and then only after he replaced a brother officer who had not made it into 1915.

  Captain Jackson had already been over the top three times by the winter of 1916, and didn’t need reminding that the average survival period for a soldier on the front line was nineteen days; he was now in his second year. But at least they were allowing him to return home for a three-week furlough. What old soldiers referred to as a “stay of execution.”

  Jackson returned to the Marne after spending an idyllic carefree break with Rosemary in their country cottage at Crathorne. He was grateful to find that even his father was beginning to believe the war couldn’t last much longer. Oliver prayed that he was right.

  On arriving back at the front, Jackson immediately reported to his commanding officer.

  “We are expecting to mount another attack on Jerry in a few days’ time,” said Colonel Harding. “So be sure your men are prepared.”

  Prepared for what? thought Oliver. Almost certain death, and not quickly like the hangman’s noose, but probably prolonged, in desperate agony. But he didn’t voice his opinion.

  Once he was back in the trenches, Oliver quickly tried to get to know the young impressionable men who’d just arrived at the front line, and hadn’t yet heard a shot fired in anger. He couldn’t think of them as soldiers, just keen young lads who had responded to a poster of a moustachioed old man pointing a finger at them and declaring YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU.

  “Once you go over the top, you need only remember one thing,” Oliver instructed them. “If you don’t kill them, as sure as hell they’ll kill you. Think of it like a football match against your most bitter rivals. You’ve got to score every time you shoot.”

  “But whose side is the ref on?” demanded a young, frightened voice.

  Oliver didn’t reply, because he no longer believed God was the referee and that therefore they must surely win.

  * * *

  The colonel joined them just before the kickoff and blew a whistle to show the match could begin. Captain Jackson was first over the top, leading his company, who followed closely behind. On, on, on, he charged as his men fell like fairground soldiers beside him, the lucky ones dying quickly. He kept going, and was beginning to wonder if he was out there on his own, and then suddenly, without warning, he saw a lone figure running through the whirling smoke toward him. Like Oliver, the man had his bayonet fixed, ready for the kill. Oliver accepted that it would not be possible for both of them to survive, and probably neither would. He held his rifle steady, like a medieval jouster, determined to fell his opponent. He was prepared to thrust his bayonet, not this time into a horsehair bag while training, but into a petrified human being, but no more petrified than he was.

  Don’t strike until you see can the whites of his eyes, his training sergeant had drilled into him at Sandhurst. You can’t be a moment too early, or a moment too late. Another oft repeated maxim. But when he saw the whites of his eyes, he couldn’t do it. He lowered his rifle, expecting to die, but to his surprise the German also dropped his rifle as they both came to a halt in the middle of no-man’s-land.

  For some time they just stared at each other in disbelief. But it was Oliver who burst out laughing, if only to release his pent-up tension.

  “What are you doing here, Jackson?”

  “I might ask you the same question, sir.”

  “Carrying out someone else’s orders,” said Gruber. “Me too.”

  “But you’re a professional soldier.”

  “Death doesn’t discriminate in these matters,” said Oliver. “I often recall your shrewd opinion of war, sir, and looking around the battlefield can only wonder how much talent has been squandered here.”

  “On both sides,” said Gruber. “But it gives me no pleasure to have been proved right.”

  “So what shall we do now, sir? We can’t just stand around philosophizing until peace is declared.”

  “But equally, if we were to return meekly to our own side, we would probably be arrested, court-martialled, and shot at dawn.”

  “Then one of us will have to take the other prisoner,” said Jackson, “and return in triumph.”

  “Not a bad idea. But how shall we decide?” asked Gruber.

  “The toss of a coin?”

  “How very British,” declared Gruber. “Just a pity the whole war couldn’t have been decided that way,” added the schoolmaster as he took a Goldmark out of his pocket. “You call, Jackson,” he said. “After all, you’re the visiting team.”

  Oliver watched as the coin spun high into the air and cried, “Tails,” only because he couldn’t bear the thought of the Kaiser’s image staring up at him in triumph.

  Gruber groaned as he bent down to look at his emperor. Oliver quickly took off his tie, bound the prisoner’s wrists behind his back, and then began to march his old schoolmaster slowly back toward his own front line.

  “What happened to Brooke?” asked Gruber as they squelched through the mud while stepping over the bodies of fallen men.

  “He was attached to the Royal Naval Division when he last wrote to me.”

  “I read his poem about Grantchester. Even attempted to translate it.”

  “‘The Old Vicarage,’” said Jackson.

  “That’s the one. Ironic that he wrote it while he was on a visit to Berlin. Such a rare talent. Let’s hope he survives this dreadful war,” Gruber said as the sun dipped below the horizon.

  “Are you married, sir?” asked Oliver.

  “Yes. Renate. And we have a son and two daughters. And you?”

  “Rosemary. Just got married when the balloon went up.”

  “Bad luck, old chap,” said Gruber, before taking his former pupil by surprise. “I don’t suppose you’d consider being a godfather to my youngest, Hans? You see, I consider it no more than my duty once the war is over to make sure this madness can never happen again.”

  “I agree with you, Ernst, and I’d be honored. And perhaps in time…”

  “May I suggest, Oliver, for both our sakes,” said Gruber as the British front line came into sight, “that when you hand me over, you don’t make it too obvious we’re old friends.”

  “Good thinking, Ernst,” said Oliver, and grabbed his prisoner roughly by the elbow.

  The next voice they heard demanded, “Who goes there?”

  “Captain Jackson, L
ancashire Fusiliers, with a German prisoner.”

  “Advance and be recognized.” Oliver pushed his old schoolmaster forward. “Bloody good show,” said the lookout sergeant. “You can leave him to me, sir. And you can keep moving, you fucking Kraut.”

  “Sergeant,” said Oliver sharply, “try to remember he’s an officer.”

  * * *

  The war was over by Christmas. Christmas 1918.

  Captain Ernst Gruber spent two years in a prisoner of war camp on Anglesey. He passed the mornings teaching his fellow prisoners the local tongue as there might come a time when it would prove useful to speak a little English, he suggested, echoing Jackson’s words.

  Oliver sent Gruber the collected works of Rupert Brooke, which he translated in the evenings while he waited for the war to end.

  Ernst Gruber was shipped back to Frankfurt in November 1919, and within days he wrote to Oliver to ask if he was still willing to be a godfather to his son Hans. It was several weeks before he received a reply from Oliver’s wife, Rosemary, to say that her husband had been killed on the Western Front only days before the Armistice was signed. They also had a son, Arthur Oliver, and on her husband’s last furlough he’d told her that he hoped Ernst would agree to be one of Arthur’s godparents.

  With the assistance of Oliver’s father, Herr Gruber was allowed to visit England to fulfill his role in the christening ceremony. As Ernst stood by the font alongside Oliver’s family, he couldn’t help wondering what would have happened if he had won the toss.

  POSTSCRIPT

  September 19, 1943

  LIEUTENANT HANS OTTO GRUBER was blown up by a landmine while serving on the Western Front. He died three days later.

  June 6, 1944

  CAPTAIN ARTHUR OLIVER JACKSON MC was killed while leading his platoon on the beaches of Normandy.

  November 15, 1944

  PROFESSOR ERNST HELMUT GRUBER was executed by firing squad in Berlin for the role he played in the failed attempt to assassinate Adolf Hitler at Wolf’s Lair.