Shadows of War

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘Veronica?’ Anneliese sounded disapproving.

  ‘She wrote to me that Polly Copthorne had rustled up a man called Parsons with important information about her husband’s death, and I should get in touch when I was next in London.’

  ‘Can I come with you?’

  ‘To see Veronica?’

  ‘No,’ said Anneliese, slipping her hand in his. ‘Just to your hotel.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Conrad, grinning. ‘I rather hoped you would.’

  Mayfair, London

  It was still light as Conrad walked up the small street in Mayfair where Veronica lived. Anneliese was unhappy that he was seeing her that evening, but Veronica had insisted on meeting the mysterious Mr Parsons with him. Anneliese had decided to head off to the Russian Tea Rooms to see if she could squeeze something more out of Constance. But she had at least agreed to see him at the Bloomsbury hotel later. Conrad suspected that she just wanted to be sure where he spent the night.

  Which was ridiculous. After the afternoon he and Anneliese had spent together, Veronica wasn’t a danger. Conrad was glad to be doing something rather than leaving everything to McCaigue. He wasn’t sure what to make of what Anneliese had told him. Should he really ignore his father? Was there nothing he could do or should do? McCaigue had urged him to go back to his unit, but Conrad would find that very difficult.

  Perhaps he would learn something from this man Parsons.

  He was taken aback for a moment to see his own name, ‘De Lancey’, on one of the four bells by the front door of the building. He pushed it, and a few moments later Mrs de Lancey appeared, wearing a stunning green dress.

  ‘You do look dashing in your uniform, Conrad,’ she said.

  Conrad was about to compliment his ex-wife on how she looked, but decided not to. ‘Where are we meeting this fellow?’

  ‘We’re not seeing him until eleven. He said he wanted to wait until it was dark.’

  ‘So what am I doing here now, Veronica?’

  ‘I thought we needed a drink beforehand. We can’t go to a rendezvous unfortified, can we, darling?’

  ‘Do we really?’

  ‘Don’t look so disapproving, darling. I was clever finding this chap, wasn’t I? You might show some appreciation.’

  ‘Yes, you were,’ Conrad said. ‘Of course I can buy you a drink. Where do you suggest?’

  They went to the Café de Paris near Leicester Square, which was crowded. Veronica said it was always crowded. They ordered cocktails; Conrad was disconcerted by Veronica’s choice of a gin and It, which had now become Anneliese’s drink in his mind. That was his fault for introducing his wife’s favourite drink to his girlfriend.

  Veronica seemed to sense Conrad’s tension, and was friendly and well behaved. Conrad even found himself relaxing a little. He was careful not to discuss what Anneliese had told him about Alston and his father. Reluctantly, he danced with Veronica. Twice. He enjoyed it.

  Then it was time to go. It was completely dark when they emerged on to Piccadilly.

  ‘Where are we meeting him?’ Conrad asked.

  ‘Not far. A street near Shepherd Market.’

  ‘That’s an interesting choice,’ said Conrad.

  ‘Apparently Mr Parsons thinks that no one will notice people meeting each other around there.’

  ‘That’s certainly true,’ said Conrad. Shepherd Market had been a haven for whores for centuries. And in wartime, it was bustling. Or perhaps rustling was a better word. Women stood around alone or in pairs, whispering to the servicemen who prowled the streets.

  The corner Veronica was looking for was a few yards from Shepherd Market itself, and a little quieter. They stopped. It was exactly eleven o’clock. Veronica lit a cigarette.

  ‘This is all rather interesting, isn’t it?’ Veronica said, watching a French girl discussing her skills with a fat middle-aged man.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Conrad.

  ‘Aren’t you tempted? Some of these girls look rather pretty.’

  ‘They look cold and they look desperate,’ said Conrad.

  ‘If you want to slip away afterwards, I won’t object,’ said Veronica, a hint of amusement in her voice. ‘I might even come along and watch.’

  ‘I know what you are doing,’ said Conrad.

  ‘And what’s that, darling? I would have thought bringing your wife along would make the whole thing more, I don’t know, respectable?’

  ‘Ex-wife,’ muttered Conrad, trying to maintain his grumpiness. But it was oddly pleasurable being teased by Veronica.

  Three men sauntered past, talking loudly. They had American accents, but were probably Canadians.

  ‘Do you know what this Parsons looks like?’

  ‘I told you I haven’t a clue about him, apart from that you simply must meet him. You are sweet on this German girl, aren’t you? Anneliese.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Conrad. ‘Yes, I am.’

  A man appeared at the top of the narrow street. A big man.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said Veronica, quietly.

  Conrad glanced at her keenly. She looked away from him as if embarrassed.

  The man was now having difficulty keeping on the pavement. Drunk. Very drunk. And easy game for the local traders.

  Not Parsons.

  Veronica’s eyes widened. ‘Conrad!’ she yelled as she pushed him sharply off the pavement.

  Conrad saw a blade moving rapidly towards his side. He went with Veronica’s shove and twisted. The blade ripped his tunic.

  Conrad took two steps back. In the gloom he could make out the drunk, holding a thin, pointed knife, legs apart, balanced perfectly. Not drunk. He was big and he was dangerous.

  Veronica screamed. The man ignored her, and Conrad backed towards the wall, hands open, eyes on the blade.

  The man feinted to the right and then plunged again towards Conrad’s left side. Conrad was quick and skipped to his right, turned and somehow grabbed the man’s wrist.

  The man tripped Conrad, but Conrad didn’t let go and they both fell on the street, the man on top. Conrad stared into his eyes, black in the darkness. His nose was broken, a boxer no doubt, or at least someone who had been in a few fights in his time. The man was pushing the knife downwards towards Conrad’s neck. Conrad was strong, but the man was stronger. Conrad stared at the blade as the man pressed it down to his chin; below his chin.

  Then the man let out a cry, and his face contorted in pain. The downward pressure reduced a little, so Conrad could resist it. The man was trying to concentrate on the knife and Conrad’s throat but was finding it very difficult ignoring whatever was causing him such agony.

  Conrad jerked suddenly to one side so that the knife struck the pavement, then he butted the man hard in the nose.

  The man cried out and dropped the knife.

  Conrad’s fingers knocked it away.

  He saw Veronica grab it.

  Both men got to their feet. Veronica held the knife in front of her.

  ‘Throw it to me!’ shouted Conrad as the man charged Veronica.

  She did as he had asked her and he caught the spinning knife by the handle. The man had pushed Veronica into the wall, and pulled back a fist to strike her, when Conrad plunged the blade into his back. He slumped to the ground.

  With difficulty Conrad withdrew the blade and stabbed him again.

  The man lay face down on the pavement. Still breathing, from what Conrad could see. Dark liquid oozed out from under his body on to the cobbles.

  Conrad stood up straight, panting. ‘Did you grab his balls?’ he asked Veronica.

  ‘Did you kill him?’

  ‘Not quite, unfortunately,’ said Conrad. Two men who had heard the scuffle were making their way cautiously towards them down the alley. ‘Time to go. Let’s split up: you run that way!’

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait for the police?’ said Veronica. ‘If you have killed him, it was self-defence.’

  ‘No!’ said Conrad, grabbing Veronica by the arm and propelling her
up the street. ‘We run. Now!’

  Veronica hesitated and set off.

  Once Conrad was sure she was moving, he slipped down an alleyway, brushing off a relatively sober corporal who tried to grab him. He emerged from the other end of the alleyway as he heard the first police whistle and slowed to a stagger, just another one of the many men looking for a little fun in the middle of a war.

  Conrad took a long route back to Veronica’s flat. He rang the bell, and her flatmate answered, a very thin blonde woman who introduced herself as Betty. She looked shocked.

  Conrad walked up the four flights of stairs to find Veronica on the sofa of their tiny sitting room, still wearing her green dress.

  ‘We don’t have a drop to drink in the house,’ she said.

  ‘I could use a stiff one myself,’ said Conrad. ‘But you should stay here. Betty can look after you.’

  ‘Hold me, Conrad.’

  Conrad hesitated, but then sat down next to Veronica and held her. Her smell was familiar, yet she was shaking in a most unfamiliar way.

  ‘What if you killed that man?’ she said when they broke apart.

  ‘I’ve killed a few men,’ said Conrad. ‘He was trying to kill me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Conrad. ‘But I can guess. Are you sure that wasn’t Parsons?’

  ‘I don’t know if it was bloody Parsons!’ said Veronica. Then: ‘Sorry. Sorry, Conrad. I’ll ask Polly about him tomorrow.’

  ‘Find out who he is, how well she knows him.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’ll do that.’

  ‘Now I have to go.’

  ‘Please stay, Conrad.’

  ‘No. I have to go.’

  Conrad smiled encouragingly at a still-stunned Betty, and left.

  Anneliese was waiting for him back at the Bloomsbury hotel. Conrad wondered briefly how she had managed to get up to his room. Hotel-keepers really were lowering their standards in time of war, although she was still wearing her nurse’s uniform, which might have helped.

  ‘Where were you?’ she said as soon as he entered his room. And then, when she saw his expression. ‘What happened?’

  Conrad told her about the attack. Anneliese had her own news from the Russian Tea Rooms. Tyler Kent and Anna Wolkoff had been arrested the previous morning. Constance hadn’t been there; in fact none of the regulars were there. Anneliese herself had left quickly and returned to the hotel.

  ‘I’m glad you waited for me,’ said Conrad.

  ‘I’m scared,’ said Anneliese.

  ‘Come here.’ Conrad pulled her close to him and held her tight. He kissed her forehead and then her lips.

  46

  Extract from Lieutenant Dieter von Hertenberg’s Diary

  22 May

  Ordered to head north. Advanced on Boulogne. Heavy fighting.

  Hampstead Garden Suburb, London, 22 May

  Anneliese got up at five-thirty to get an early bus back to her home in Hampstead Garden Suburb. She was frightened for Conrad, and a little concerned for herself. She was worried about the war, about Alston’s plan, and about what would happen to her own family if he succeeded. It was hard to imagine British anti-Semitism at the level of what was occurring in Germany. Yet in the 1920s Germany had been the most accommodating country in Europe for Jews. Things had changed there; they could change here.

  But despite her worries, her fears, she felt alive. She could face this. Especially if she had Conrad she could face this.

  It was a lovely morning. The birds were singing and a paper boy gave her a cheery greeting. She walked down the road to her little white cottage, thinking how similar this seemed to the tidy suburbs of Berlin. She passed an empty police car and two bicycles leaning against a hedge. The police in this country were just not as threatening as those in Germany, let alone the Gestapo. Despite what she had said to Conrad she couldn’t imagine a British Gestapo.

  She noticed a group of four policemen ahead of her walking down the pavement looking at the houses. Perhaps one of the neighbours had had a burglary.

  They stopped outside her house. Went through the gap in the hedge where the iron gate used to be. Rapped on the door.

  It was only then that Anneliese realized what was happening. She halted. One of the policemen glanced up the street and saw her.

  She turned and ran. There was a shout as they followed.

  But this wasn’t Soho in the dark. This was an empty suburb in broad daylight. She darted to the left into a small wood, hoping to find somewhere to hide. But one of the policemen was young and very fast.

  She reached the wood, but the trees were thinned and there were no bushes. She heard footsteps and panting closing in on her, and then hands on her shoulders knocking her to the ground.

  She looked up to see a tall bobby several years younger than her getting to his feet. ‘Madam, you are under arrest,’ he said politely.

  Bloomsbury, London

  Conrad couldn’t get back to sleep after Anneliese had left. The fact that it hadn’t bothered him that he had stabbed his attacker twice the night before bothered him. The first thrust was understandable, unavoidable. The man was about to hit Veronica. But the second? With the second he had been trying to kill. Like it or not, he was a killer now. So much for all that pacifism. In 1940, if you turned the other cheek, your enemy would blast your head off from close range.

  That’s just the way it was.

  Had the attacker survived? It was possible; Conrad had no way of knowing. But he thought it highly unlikely that the man would finger Conrad as the person who had stabbed him. Unless he was some kind of officially sanctioned killer.

  Which also seemed unlikely. Far more probable was that the man had been working for Alston. Alston had killed Freddie Copthorne and Millie. Why not Conrad? But had he had help? Help from ‘the authorities’, ‘the powers that be’, ‘the high-ups’?

  Who were these people? Right-wing aristocrats like Freddie Copthorne? Confused pacifists like his father? The army? The police? The secret service?

  Van?

  Van was an old school friend of Lord Oakford. From what Conrad knew of him, he was famous for his anti-appeasement, anti-German foreign policy. But could he have been got at in some way?

  And then there was the secret service. Naturally, Conrad knew next to nothing about them. In November his father had let slip that the head of the SIS had died and they were looking for a successor. Who was he? It couldn’t be McCaigue, could it?

  Conrad had met four members of the SIS: Foley in Berlin, Payne Best and Stevens in Holland, and McCaigue in London. Foley was impressive. Payne Best and Stevens unimpressive. McCaigue seemed trustworthy, but could Conrad really be sure even of him?

  And even if Alston had had no help, he was still dangerous. He could find himself another killer to go after Conrad. McCaigue had suggested Conrad return to his unit. Ironically, that would be the safest place to lie low. Conrad could leave it to McCaigue to wrap up Alston and his friends. But that was a tall order. Perhaps McCaigue could manage it, or perhaps the major himself would be the next victim: arrested, sidelined or even murdered. And if that happened, there would be no one to stop Alston.

  Apart from Conrad. But what could he do? See his father for a start. Anneliese was right that he shouldn’t try to confront him with his treachery. But if Conrad approached him with the right degree of innocence, he might discover when Lord Oakford was leaving for France. Maybe McCaigue had already arrested him? Dreadful thought though that was, it was the best outcome to hope for.

  Then he should go to see McCaigue. Tell him what had happened the night before and see if there was anything more constructive Conrad could do to help. Perhaps he should see Polly Copthorne himself, or telephone her, to find out more about the mysterious Parsons. And he should also drop in at the War Office to discuss armoured Bedford lorries, for Colonel Rydal’s sake as much as his own.

  Conrad arrived at his family’s house in Kensington Square just before nine.
<
br />   Williamson answered the door, with surprise and pleasure. ‘We weren’t expecting you, sir.’

  ‘Leave is becoming more and more unpredictable, Williamson. Is Father in?’

  ‘No, sir. He left for Paris this morning.’

  ‘Did he really?’ said Conrad. ‘What is he doing there?’

  ‘Government business of some kind, I believe. It all came up rather suddenly.’

  ‘Do you happen to know where he is staying?’

  ‘Presumably the Meurice, sir. If he gets a room. It’s where we usually stay. He promised to let me know.’

  So Lord Oakford had left his valet behind and Williamson had missed out on a trip to Paris. Given what the newspapers were saying about the situation in France, he probably didn’t mind this time.

  ‘Is my mother here?’

  ‘No, her ladyship is at Chilton Coombe. Will you be staying?’

  ‘I don’t know, Williamson. But I’ll come in for now.’

  Conrad thought he had done a reasonable job of registering only mild surprise in front of Williamson, but he was troubled. His father was already on his way to fetch the Duke of Windsor.

  And what was Conrad going to do about that?

  He went out into the garden at the back of the house. It was looking lovely; the wisteria was just popping out, as was the climbing rose on the back wall.

  His father had to be stopped. And Conrad couldn’t trust anyone else to stop him.

  If McCaigue could wrap up the plot in London, arresting Alston and whoever else was necessary, all well and good. Conrad couldn’t do much more about that. But he could stop his father. If he could get to Paris.

  He went back into his father’s study and telephoned Thomas Cook’s. There were no seats on any commercial flights to Paris and the agent seemed to think he was a bit of a fool for thinking there might be. He would need official help, of the kind his father had no doubt had.

  Who could get him a seat on an aeroplane? That day, preferably.

  Van?

  No.

  McCaigue?

  Possibly. Probably not. In fact McCaigue would be much more likely to forbid him from going to France.