A Gathering of Saints

by A Gathering of Saints (retail) (epub)

  Worst of all, another window, this one at Cane Hill in winter. He would press his cheek and ear against the cold glass, listening to the chapel bells at Earlwood House, echoes joining to produce the complex tangles he had learned by heart, tumbled single notes and far-ranging courses that spoke so clearly to him and told him what he must do. The will of God, the crack of doom, the handwriting on the wall.

  Finally, the landing and its bolted, fourfold door – waiting. The Door of Sighs. The Door of Despair. The Door of Penitence. The Door of Paradise Regained. The Door and what lay behind it.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Monday, December 23, 1940

  3:00 p.m., Greenwich Mean Time

  Capt. Guy Liddell took a taxi from his St James’s Street office to Whitehall, telling the driver to let him off at the sandbagged entrance to Downing Street. It was cold, with a light snow falling from a leaden sky and the Royal Navy warrant officer on duty at the barricaded street corner was dressed in full foul-weather gear, complete with a cosy-looking khaki-coloured balaclava that hid his entire face except for eyes and mouth.

  The guard examined the intelligence officer’s pass, nodded and pulled open the barbed-wire gate in the wall of sandbags. He let Liddell pass through, then closed the gate behind him and went back to stamping his booted feet, blowing out great clouds of steamy breath into the mid-afternoon air.

  Liddell walked quickly down the narrow street, clasping his briefcase tightly in his right hand. Twenty yards beyond the plain black door of Number 10, he turned into the Foreign Office courtyard and showed his pass to yet another guard before he was allowed into the bleak, Italianate building.

  A few moments later he was shown into the undersecretary’s waiting room, a large, gloomy apartment fitted out like the old first-class departure hall at Victoria Station: hard chairs, more potted plants and bad copies of pictures of royalty round the walls, Edward VIII conspicuous by his absence, while Victoria, Edward’s great-grandmother, gazed down sternly from her position over the cold hearth of the ornate fireplace. The formalisation of deceit; as far as Liddell knew there wasn’t an official portrait anywhere that showed the dour old monarch with her withered arm, a birth defect that was common knowledge but never revealed in public.

  The only literature provided for visitors consisted of back copies of the Herald and Telegraph, an atlas long out of date, a book of photographs published by the Studio Magazine entitled This Is England and a book of photographs from the 1910 International Horse Show.

  Sighing, Liddell lowered himself into one of the chairs and took out his pipe. This was England indeed – resolutely lodged in the past and refusing to admit to a future where Britannia might not rule the waves, or anything else for that matter.

  Twenty minutes later Butler’s parliamentary private secretary appeared. Henry ‘Chips’ Channon, forty-three, was an American by birth but with strong connections to the old boys’ network in England. Educated at Christ Church Oxford, he’d married Lady Honor Guinness, the earl of Iveagh’s eldest and plainest daughter, purchased a safe Conservative seat in Southend-on-Sea and then did enough favours to gain a position for himself as Butler’s private secretary.

  ‘Hello, Guy,’ he said, grinning broadly as he entered the waiting room. ‘You’re looking well.’

  Not as well as Channon. Liddell was aware of the man’s legendary status among the clothiers of Bond Street and Savile Row. It was said that Chips Channon couldn’t step out of his garishly furnished flat on Belgrave Square without spending several hundred pounds. Today he was dressed in a dark blue, beautifully cut suit, creamy white silk shirt and a maroon tie discreetly dotted with the Iveagh crest.

  ‘Channon.’ Liddell nodded politely.

  ‘Here to see Rab are we?’

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘Well, we are extremely busy.’ Channon offered up a well-practised frown of concern. ‘This Dutch situation is causing a great deal of trouble.’

  Liddell smiled; he’d only just heard about it himself. Somehow the entire Dutch Navy had managed to sneak away from the German Navy and the Luftwaffe, then put into port at Hull the day before, complete with a cargo ship full of German prisoners. ‘I only need a few moments.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Channon gave a little bow and then vanished. He returned almost immediately and led Liddell into his office, a dark-panelled room that connected to the undersecretary’s chamber. ‘Go right in.’ Channon seated himself behind his desk, watching as Liddell went through to Butler’s office, paying particular attention to the briefcase in the intelligence officer’s hand.

  Butler was standing behind his heavy partner’s desk, examining a wall map of Europe. He turned as Liddell came into the room. ‘See to the door, will you?’

  Liddell did as he was told. Butler motioned to a carved, Spanish-style chair upholstered in red leather and sat down behind his desk. Liddell sat down, the briefcase on his lap, and examined Butler. He’d seen photographs of the undersecretary in the newspapers but he was still surprised at the man’s unfavourable first appearance.

  In the first place he looked at least ten years older than his actual age of thirty-seven. He had an unhealthy pallor, sallow skin and dark, puffy bags under his pale grey eyes. The broadly cut pinstripe suit in dark brown had obviously been tailored to hide a spreading belly. If Liddell hadn’t known who Butler was, he’d have taken the man for a Mayfair pub-crawler, or worse.

  ‘I presume you’re here with your report on Inspector Black,’ said Butler, his pudgy hands tented together under his chin, small mouth pursed.

  ‘In part.’

  ‘He’s been released from Queen Victoria?’

  ‘Yesterday. He’s back in London.’

  ‘But not at work.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’ Butler nodded. ‘You’ve spoken to him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’ll resign then?’

  ‘If necessary.’

  ‘I assure you, Captain, it is necessary.’ Butler frowned. ‘Presumably you’re keeping him under surveillance until we’ve ascertained his loyalties in this matter.’

  ‘For the time being.’ Liddell nodded. ‘Although I don’t think his loyalties are at question.’

  ‘He is a Jew, as I recall.’

  ‘That is correct, yes.’

  ‘His people haven’t been in this country long from what I gather. German extraction, yes? Schwartz or some such is his real name?’

  ‘His name is Black,’ said Liddell tightly. ‘His grandfather came to London in 1846. His father was born here as was Black himself.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ murmured Butler. ‘You can never tell about these people.’

  ‘These people?’

  ‘Foreign Jews.’

  ‘I’ve been a policeman for a long time, Mr Butler. In my experience you can never tell about anyone, Jew or… parliamentary secretaries.’

  Butler ignored the comment. ‘Still, we’ll keep a watch on him just in case, shall we?’

  ‘That’s one of the things I’ve come here to discuss.’

  ‘It’s not a matter for discussion, Captain. I believe you’ve had a direct order to that effect from the Home Office.’

  ‘From Mr Anderson, yes.’

  ‘And presumably you will follow those orders.’

  ‘Under normal circumstances I would, yes.’

  ‘I don’t have time for opaque comments from somewhat less than senior civil servants, Liddell. There are matters involved which you know nothing about.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Liddell shrugged. He took out his pipe. Butler frowned. ‘I’d rather you didn’t light that.’

  ‘Of course.’ Liddell put the pipe away and undid the snap on the briefcase in his lap. ‘According to Inspector Black, he is preparing to leave for Wales in the morning. Holyhead, to be precise. He tells me that he intends to stay there for the holidays.’

  ‘I really don’t have the slightest interest in what Mr Black’s pl
ans are for the Christmas season.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ Liddell said, smiling briefly. ‘In light of which I thought you would like to know that I intend to withdraw our surveillance of him as of today. Our manpower capabilities are already stretched to the limit. I see no purpose in continuing a useless watch on the man.’

  ‘I thought we had established that you are not the arbiter of what should or should not be done vis-a-vis this situation. It has been taken out of your hands, Liddell.’

  ‘And I’m taking it back again.’

  ‘You’re being insolent.’ Butler was going red in the face. The tented hands were now flat on the green leather desktop, the knuckles whitening. ‘I am aware of your—’

  ‘Do you have any idea how Channon got his nickname?’ said Liddell, enjoying the moment.

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Your secretary, Mr Channon. His nickname is Chips, were you aware of that?’

  ‘I don’t see what—’

  ‘He was given the nickname because of his passionate affections for a young man at Oxford named Charles Herring. Herring, fish. Fish, “chips.” I’m sure you can see the connection.’

  ‘This is preposterous!’

  ‘I’m afraid not. In fact it’s all rather well documented. As are his connections with a number of other people whose – how did you put it? – “loyalties have not been ascertained”?’ Liddell reached into the briefcase and drew out a single typewritten page. ‘They include the late Sir Phillip Sassoon, who had, as I believe you yourself once said, “a prolonged and hazardous relationship with the Duke of Windsor,” Lady Diana Cooper, also a friend of the Duke and Duchess and an assortment of guardsmen and rather unseemly types from the Fitzroy and the Marquess of Granby.’ Liddell paused and extended the sheet of paper towards Butler. ‘I have the names if you’d like to read them yourself.’ He waited for a moment. ‘Including that of Mr Margesson.’

  Butler paled. Margesson had been Conservative whip in the House of Commons for the past eight years and was directly responsible for Channon’s elevation to the rank of parliamentary secretary. As well, it was rumoured that the florid young man’s personal expenses were being paid by the outrageously anti-Semitic Lord Bearsted and there was also the more serious question of his relationship with Archibald Ramsay, the pro-Nazi MP who had been interned in May. ‘Mr Channon’s private life is none of my concern, Liddell, and none of yours,’ Butler muttered finally.

  Liddell made his tone purposely harsh as he replied, ‘Sodomy is a crime, Mr Butler. And it is my concern when it involves a man in Mr Channon’s position.’ He paused again, took a deep breath and then went on, ‘There is also the question of your own situation, sir.’

  ‘You’re on very dangerous ground, Liddell.’ Butler’s face was now as mottled as a piece of old cheese. ‘I’m not at all sure I like the direction you’re headed in.’

  Liddell raised an eyebrow. ‘No, I don’t suppose you do.’

  ‘Perhaps you should leave, Captain Liddell, before this goes too far.’ Butler paused. ‘For your own sake.’

  ‘It’s already gone too far, Mr Butler.’ Liddell watched the man carefully. Knight had told him to tread with extreme care; they were dealing with an extremely powerful group of men and of them all Butler was almost certainly the most dangerous. ‘I don’t suppose you know what a “Pig and Eye” is, do you, sir?’

  ‘No.’ Butler’s voice was cold as ice.

  ‘It stands for “personal investigation” file. We’ve been keeping a number of them for some years now.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘Pig and Eyes are kept on anyone in government or industry who occupies a sensitive position.’ Liddell looked at Butler directly. ‘Someone like yourself, for instance. A man occupying a position of authority who might be unduly influenced if certain… pressures were brought to bear.’

  ‘And what exactly do you keep in these files?’ Butler’s tone was flat and the grey eyes had turned to flint.

  ‘Details concerning sexual proclivities and peccadilloes, financial transactions that might be misinterpreted should they be made public, membership in various organisations, illicit or questionable friendships and liaisons.’ Liddell stared blandly at the man on the other side of the desk. ‘That sort of thing.’

  ‘You have a file like this on Channon, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yes. Quite a large one as a matter of fact.’

  ‘This is dangerously close to blackmail, Liddell.’

  ‘On the contrary, Mr Butler. The files are for the protection of the people involved.’ Liddell smiled thinly. ‘We wouldn’t want this sort of thing to fall into the wrong hands, would we?’

  ‘Am I to assume that you have such a file on me?’

  ‘Yes. I was just getting to that, as a matter of fact.’ Liddell opened the briefcase again, took out a thin folder and stood up, placing the briefcase on the floor beside his chair. He put the file on Butler’s desk then sat down again. It contained one thing – a blowup of a single frame from the damning film of the conspirators taken by Knight at the Walker estate. With the recordings that went along with it, the picture was ample evidence of treason. The undersecretary stared at the plain folder as though it were a coiled snake. He looked across the desk at Liddell but made no move to open the file. ‘What you have is an extract, of course; the entire file is a good deal larger.’

  ‘Who put you up to this, Liddell? Morton?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know who you mean.’ He did, of course, know precisely whom Butler was referring to – Desmond Morton, Churchill’s very private assistant. God, he thought, if only it were true!

  ‘You’re saying that you’re acting on your own authority? If that is the case, then—’

  Liddell interrupted before the man could say anything more. ‘I’m not saying anything at all, sir. I’m merely bringing the file to your attention and also informing you that contrary to instructions from the home secretary, I am suspending surveillance on Inspector Black.’

  Butler still refused to open the file in front of him but Liddell saw that one hand had moved slightly, the fingers just brushing the edges of the folder.

  ‘You have copies of this?’ Butler asked finally.

  ‘Of course.’ Liddell picked up his briefcase, snapped it shut and stood up. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time. According to Mr Channon, you’re having some trouble with the Dutch Navy at the moment.’

  Without waiting for a reply he turned on his heel and left the office. Three minutes later he was standing in the Foreign Office courtyard, taking in deep grateful breaths of the icy air.

  Tucking his briefcase under his arm, he crossed the snow-covered garden to Downing Street. Instead of going back to Whitehall he turned in the opposite direction and made his way towards St James’s Park. A brisk walk to Whites would do him good and a treble gin would be better still.

  Reaching the Guards Memorial, he paused to light his pipe then continued on into the park. He’d done all he could; now Black was on his own.

  * * *

  Following the instructions contained in the obscure telegram he’d received from Liddell that morning, Morris Black left his flat in Shepherd’s Market shortly after two o’clock and proceeded on foot to the underground station at Green Park.

  The fracture in his leg was almost completely healed but he still used the cane he’d been given at the hospital in East Grinstead. He also continued to wear a patch over his eye; his sight had returned two weeks before but the minor skin graft above the lid was still angrily inflamed.

  Going down to the platform, he lowered himself gingerly onto one of the benches to wait for his train, acutely aware of the looks he was getting from other travellers, most of whom presumably assumed he was a wounded soldier home on recuperative leave and not a policeman who’d almost got himself killed for his stupidity.

  The day before he’d gone to the cemetery at Golders Green and stood by Fay’s
grave. It was foolish, of course; he needed the answers to a thousand questions and absolution for a thousand sins, none of which were to be had in Golders Green. Fay was dead, he might as well be, and only old men and fools conversed with headstones. Somehow, though, the quiet moment seemed to help. Perhaps there was no peace for him alive, but inevitably, at least, there was this final end to pain and sorrow: a small plot, a plain marker and the endless wheel of infinite seasons turning overhead.

  A westbound train whistled noisily into the station and he boarded it, taking the Piccadilly Line to South Kensington then doubling back on the District Line to Victoria. Still following instructions, he took the lift up to the main rail terminus and stopped for a moment to buy a copy of the Times at the W. H. Smith kiosk. Limping across the bustling concourse to the far side of the station, he went out through the exit into Hobson’s Place, an ancient, cobbled,and little-used dead-end passage tucked in against the south-facing wall of the station.

  He lit a cigarette, leaned on his cane and waited, completely alone on the pavement of the narrow little side street. A full five minutes went by, the bitterly cold wind flapping the tails of his overcoat and pinching at his nostrils, making him wish he’d thrown the telegram into the wastebasket as he’d initially intended. Suddenly he felt a light hand on his elbow.

  ‘Hello, Morris.’ He turned, surprised. It was Katherine Copeland. Before he had time to react further, he heard the powerful growling of a car engine and a massive, dark green Bentley Tourer, canvas top raised, edged around the corner, pulling to a halt in front of them.

  Katherine stepped forward, pulled open the door and gently prodded Black into the passenger seat. She squeezed in beside him and the huge motor car moved off, turning around at the end of the snow-covered cul-de-sac and moving back towards Wilton Street and the main entrance to the station. Black turned and stared at the handsome, dark-haired man behind the wheel. On the single occasion they’d met previously the man had been half-asleep, wearing a dressing gown and slippers, but Black recognised him instantly.