Blackest of Lies (16 page)

And now here was this ‘Miss Banfield’ and her slew of hysterical conclusions.  Thompson had torn a strip off her, but perhaps that was just not enough.  She was one loose end too many.  Heaven knows what she might do if sufficiently frustrated.  Her name had clicked something in his filing cabinet of a memory, causing him to call the Lady Superintendent for a check of the records, and there she was in a note written by his predecessor, Melville.  Her undercover work in the Bank of England in the months leading up to the war had earned her a commendation
–
and Steinhauer himself had been batting for the other side
– a
very
dangerous young lady, then. 

He considered the matter for a moment and then, having come to a decision, pressed a lever on the intercom.  A female voice answered and he delivered his order quietly into the microphone.  “Send the Brothers Grimm to me, immediately.”

**********

In the darkness of that evening, U-75 laid its cargo of mines two miles off Marwick Head.  Like obscene fruit, they slid out of the stern of the
Bruder Walther
and disappeared into the black, roiling sea.  Beitzen watched them go, satisfied that he had done his duty.  But ‘duty’ was a difficult concept to wrestle with after two years of incessant war.  What
was
his duty, and to whom?  Things were no longer as clear cut as they once had been.  It wasn’t that he had stopped believing in his country.  That was still as strong as ever it had been – perhaps even more so, for he was thinking now of Germany in what would be her post-war years – but this had long stopped being a war of men or ideals.  It was a war of industries, of men growing fat on the profits they made from the misery of human conflict.  As far as
they
were concerned, things could go on as they were for as long as there were men to sacrifice.  Kitchener’s demise would suit them very nicely, indeed, but how would it help Germany?

Willi had been right, of course, it was not for him to decide which orders he would follow and which he would not, but he was still the Captain of the boat. 
He
would decide
how
the orders would be followed.  At 2304 hours on the second day of June 1916, he stonily watched the mines being laid.  Set for a depth of
seven
metres.  It would be a heavy ship indeed, and drawing a lot of water, whose hull would ride deep enough to strike them.  Kitchener was safe – at least from him.

He saw the mine laying party safely back in, took a last look around at the headlands of Birsay, flickering silver-blue under a moon in its first quarter, and went below, closing the hatch firmly behind him.

**********

Anne left the bus and walked the short distance to her flat in Blandford Street, hands behind her back, eyes down and scuffing an angry rhythm on the pavement with her heels.  This Kitchener business was getting her well and truly down.  Nothing of any consequence had happened at the Turkish Baths since that episode and she had been left with a great deal of time in which to mull the matter over.  The end result was that she was convinced, more than ever, that she was right.  She knew ‘Mr Darlington’ for the slimy bugger that he was and his supporters were cut from the same cloth.

Having struggled with her malevolent front door, she walked slowly up the stairs to her flat and let herself in.  As she made to move into the little living room, she stopped instantly at the sight of a well-dressed man in his late forties, sitting in her favourite armchair at the far side of the room.  He smiled genially.  “
There
you are!” he cried, like an old friend who had been kept waiting.  “Come in! Come in!”

“Thank you
so
much!” she said archly, and strode into the room, throwing her keys into a little Chinese pot she kept on the dresser for the purpose.  The door closed firmly behind her, making her start and whirl round.  A very different individual was leaning against it, arms folded and with a damn-your-eyes look in his face.  This one was in his mid-twenties, a little below medium height, well-built and soberly dressed - even quite handsome, she thought.  But all that stopped at the eyes.  They were Billingsgate eyes – dead, without expression or life.  She shuddered, as though she had found an earwig in her salad, and turned once more as the first spoke.

“I have no doubt she’s wondering what on earth two unknown gentlemen are doing in her sitting room, Mr Pickup,” he said in a soft, cultured voice.  “And, indeed, she has every right to be indignant.”

“What the hell
are
you doing in my room?”  Anne said it forcibly enough but she was far from confident.  The look in Pickup’s face had unsettled her.

The older man’s gentle face creased in mock horror.  “Dear me, Mr Pickup, such
language
!”

“I could scream my head off right now, if I chose to.  So just get on with whatever you’re here for.”

“I wouldn’t recommend that, would you, Mr Pickup?  Her employer wouldn’t welcome the attentions of Fleet Street just at the moment.”  He saw the confusion in her eyes as she tried to work out the relationship between the sleazy owner of the Baths and this man. He gave a light chuckle, “I really believe she thinks I’m referring to the proprietor of that ...
establishment
.  No, no, I’m referring to Mr Thompson.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about and if you don’t …” Anne looked at him closely, head on one side.  “Have we
met
?  Have I seen you somewhere before – a wanted poster or something like that?”

“Tell her to be quiet, Boissier,” said a silky voice from behind.

“It talks!” she said.

Boissier smiled, as if at a private joke.  “I wouldn’t rub Mr Pickup the wrong way, Miss Banfield, really I wouldn't.  Please sit down and let’s talk shop, without any more fairy stories about who really pays your salary.  You’re Special Branch.  Let’s establish that and go on from there.”

Anne said nothing but sat down anyway.  She had been on her feet most of the day and was glad to flop down on the sofa, where she could watch both men.  Pickup made no move and continued to stare at her in a very disconcerting way.  Boissier, on the other hand, had made himself comfortable and looked every inch the much-loved uncle at ease in his niece’s home.

“I
do
like your flat,” he said, looking around.  The smile faded and the avuncular eyes hardened, glittering in the soft light from the paraffin lamp on the table.  “Now then, Miss Banfield, I am led to believe that you have been misbehaving yourself.  I’m sorry to hear that of you.  Apparently, your recent hysterics have upset certain parties and my colleague and I have been given the pleasant task of calling on you in the hope that we can straighten matters out.”

“By which you mean …?”

“Don’t be coy,” Pickup said through his teeth.

“Is all this a
threat
of some sort?”

Uncle was back and he was offended.  “Miss Bancroft,
really
!  Do you take us for thugs?”

“Do I
have
to answer that?”

Boissier looked long and hard at her.  When he finally spoke, she was left in no doubt – of the two, Boissier was the deadlier.  “Miss Banfield.  This is just a social call.”  He looked up to the ceiling, as if searching for
just
the right words.  “More ... more
permanent
action will come later – if required.  At this moment, I am merely charged with asking you to let matters rest.  You are a very small fish swimming in a dark, fathomless ocean, completely out of your depth.  Believe me.”

Anne bristled, in spite of the cold finger of fear running down the nape of her neck.  “I am not to be threatened!”

“A
threat
?  No, no – a request.  Just a request,” urged Boissier, as if it mattered to him.

“Boissier, leave her with me for ten minutes.  She’ll see sense by then.”  Pickup’s tone had hardly changed in the few words he had spoken since Anne had returned.  The menace was still there.

Anne looked at him up and down.  “Just how old
were
you when you were potty trained?”

Pickup said nothing but smiled the small, secret smile of the cat waiting its chance.

“Miss Banfield, I
have
warned you.  You’ll upset my friend.  And then,” he said, spreading his arms wide, “where will we be?” 

Boissier stood up and adjusted the lie of his suit with exaggerated care. He took a deep breath and radiated affection.  “Now, then, we have trespassed on your hospitality long enough and it’s time for us to leave.  No,” he said, holding up a manicured hand, as Anne rose, “I won’t hear of your asking us to stay a moment longer.”  He walked to the door, which Pickup had opened for him and turned round.  “Remember what I have said, dear girl. 
Let it lie!
  If we have to come back, it will be under less pleasant circumstances.”  He smiled.  “Well, anyway, nice to have met you.  Try to relax after your hard day at work, now.”  He pointed an elegant finger down the hall.  “We’ve drawn you a bath.”

Anne was left alone in the room with Pickup who strolled over to her, where she stood frozen with fear.  He reached out a hand and cupped it under her chin, squeezing it until it hurt.  He smiled.  “Everyone says you’re a bad, bad girl.  I
do
hope so.”  He released her slowly and, walking backwards towards the open door, he left, closing it quietly behind him.

In the silent room, Anne began shaking uncontrollably.

**********

In the end, the dreaded Commons meeting took place on Friday in Committee Room 14 of the House of Commons.  Lloyd George’s vicarious attack on him in the House had fizzled out to nothing, partly due to the Government’s confident handling of the situation but mostly because the vast majority of MPs were all for Kitchener.

Farmer, now
extensively
prepared by Fitzgerald and others, felt surprisingly confident.  Perhaps it was the fact that this would be his last day ‘in office’, so to speak, before heading off for Scapa, Russia and then blessed oblivion back at Farnham House.  ‘End of term!’ he smiled to himself, in memory of his schooldays at Shrewsbury.

Every man and his dog seemed to be there and, for a moment, Farmer was taken aback but – what the hell! – in for a penny ... 

“Gentlemen, good morning.  My time, as you can imagine, is somewhat limited, so let me start straight away.  For some time now, I have felt that the circumstances attendant on the fact that I am an unelected Minister of State has imposed something of an artificial barrier between the workings of my Ministry and the House.  No one regrets this more than I and, recently, it has been brought to my attention that it has even caused a degree of discomfiture among some members of this very audience.”

More than one MP smiled to himself at the verbal paper cut targeted at people like Herbert, Markham and Lloyd George.

“Here is how I would like to proceed – I plan to take you through the current state of affairs as respects the conduct of the war and dwell particularly upon why I have felt that an increase in the number of divisions we field is absolutely necessary.  I will then be happy to accept any questions from the floor and do my utmost to answer them fully and freely within the constraints of military security.”  Farmer smiled to disarm any remaining troublemakers.  “How does that sound?”

Asquith, sitting in the front row, was taken aback both by the impersonation and also by the confidence radiating from the man.  This doctor chap was positively enjoying himself!

Lloyd George was there, of course, but said little and nothing to the point.  He made sure that his attacks were always made through third parties.  As a result, Henry had to do a little fencing with people like Law and Herbert but the hardest thing was to justify Kitchener’s decision to extend the call-up to married men.  Questions on that particular point rained hard for a while until he held his hand up for silence.

“Gentlemen, it comes down to this in the end – Germany can field many more men than we and are already conscripting married men to the colours.  If we are not to be swamped by sheer numbers, we have to do our best to match them.” 

He held his hands out as though cupping water.  “We here hold the fate of this great nation in our very hands – we can only trust to God that this war, a conflict the scale of which we have never seen before, will end before we drain the last drop of that precious blood which runs in the veins of our country’s manhood.  Our losses each and every day seem to us all an intolerable burden.  Yet, I tell you this – we
can
win and we
will
win – not simply because of the seeming legions of young men we expose to destruction but because we fight in a just cause.  Yes, many have claimed such a cause in the past and many of them without justification but, to paraphrase my Right Honourable Friend over there, Mr Churchill, ‘on the whole – and it is on the whole that such things must be judged – the British Empire has been a force for good.’  We must
never
allow that moral force to be trampled upon by the expansionist dreams of an upstart Dictator.”