Blackest of Lies (6 page)

"Impossible,” said Kell and Fitzgerald at the same time, almost.

Hubert knew that this
was
the answer – the only
possible
answer, given the circumstances.  It was all about
time
.  "No, hear me out fully.  There’s no suggestion that we walk out into the street and find ourselves another Field Marshal.  All we have to do is to produce a man who looks sufficiently like him from a distance to fool others.  We can arrange things at the War Office to minimise visits from those who might see through the act.  The deception only has to last for a week or so while 'His Lordship' becomes progressively more affected by pressure of work.  I can’t see the IRB trying to claim responsibility when Kitchener appears to be walking around large as life.  Remember, it’s
our
playing field. 
We’re
in control.”

Fitzgerald snorted.  "Hubert, have you any idea how ridiculous this whole thing ..."

"Let's just wait a moment, there, Colonel,” said Thompson, "I'm beginning to get the feeling that our lieutenant here wouldn't come up with this sort of idea without something in mind.”  He leaned over, poured himself another brandy and looked appreciatively at Chris.  “Let’s hear the rest, Hubert.
”

Saturday 20 May 1916 1700 hours – Sunday 21 May 1916 1600 hours

Hubert leaned against the massive stonework of the mantelpiece and gazed into the embers of the fire for a few moments.  Folding his arms, he turned around, leaning back against one of the granite uprights.  “As you know, I was involved in the Second Ypres thing last year.  I won’t go into the miserable details but the upshot was that I ended up in a casualty clearing station in Poperinghe.” 

“It’s a little town quite close to the battlefield,” he said, seeing Thompson silently ask the question.

“Complete with Military Cross, Hubert.  Let’s not forget that,” said Kell in his best Headmaster’s voice.

Hubert continued as if he Kell hadn’t interrupted.  “I spent about a month there in pretty bad shape.  Afterwards, I was transferred back to Blighty and deposited on the doorstep of the Royal Victoria hospital at Netley.  It took some time, but I recovered much of my health there and it’s not stretching the truth to say that it was all due to one man – Henry Farmer – Colonel Henry Farmer of the Royal Army Medical Corps.  Best doctor I have ever known.”  Hubert gazed into the middle distance, immersed in unpleasant memories.  “A decent man.”

“What about him, Hubert?” asked Thompson.

“Sorry.”  Hubert brought his faculties back into order and continued.  “The thing was that, from time to time, the patients and staff would put on their little revues.  You know the sort of thing.  A chance to have a laugh, forget about the war.  All good clean fun –
and
it gives some of the lads the chance to dress up in ladies’ clothes.”  He ruminated dispassionately about the whole business of amateur dramatics in the Armed Forces.  “Never understood that sort of thing.  So peculiarly British.  Anyway, Henry’s turn was to wear the most ridiculous false moustache you've ever seen and do his bit as ‘Kitchener’.”

Fitzgerald bristled.  Whether it was at the moustache story or the fact that someone had been taking Kitchener’s name in vain was difficult to tell.

“The point is he was pretty good at it.  In fact, he'd actually met Kitchener at Gallipoli and had spoken to him so I’m told he had the voice to a tee.  What I’m saying is that I’m sure Colonel Farmer could pose as the real thing for a
short time
if we avoid placing him in positions where he has to make military decisions or voice an opinion or be interviewed by people who know him.  He just has to be
seen at a distance
.”  He paused.  “You’ll forgive me, Colonel”, he said, glancing at Fitzgerald, “but Lord Kitchener was known as a rather reticent, unapproachable individual.  That could well work in our favour.  No-one is going to walk up to him and engage him in weighty matters without an appointment and an agenda under his arm.  And it could be done in the three days you stipulated.  I’m confident of that.”

Hubert had shot his bolt and stood in the ensuing silence, waiting for some sort of reaction from the other three.  It did not take long. 

“I have never heard anything so preposterous in my entire life,” said Fitzgerald, spluttering.  “The very thought that some
barber surgeon
could stand in the shoes of a man of Lord Kitchener’s stature and get away with it is beyond the pale, to say the least.”

“Well, actually, he’s a microbiologist, specialising in the infection of wounds but he’s had to be a bit of an all-rounder due to current circumstances.”

Fitzgerald froze him with a stare.  “How can you possibly imagine that he would have the presence to carry the thing off, even at a distance?  I will have absolutely nothing to do with such an imbecilic idea.”  Fitzgerald was evidently not impressed.

“And you will tell the PM this, personally, Colonel?” said Thompson quietly.  Fitzgerald looked like a stopped clock, allowing Thompson to turn his attention back to Hubert.  “I have to admit, I thought you had something there, Hubert, but ...”

“Well, let’s just think about it for a moment, sir,” said Hubert.  He looked around at the other three.  It was plain from Fitzgerald’s face that he, for one, would not think about it for a second, but he persisted.  “Colonel Farmer is now working in a discreet little convalescent home in Hampstead – Farnham House – I did some time there, after Netley.  I can meet with him tonight or tomorrow morning and talk it over with him.  He is about the same build as Lord Kitchener – perhaps a little more weight – but nothing strenuous from the tailoring point of view.  Colonel Fitzgerald could provide us with Lord Kitchener’s normal undress uniform and that side of things could be sorted out right away.  Taking Monday to alter the others, we’re left with all day Tuesday and perhaps Wednesday, if we can spin a good enough yarn at the War Office.  We can use that time to give Henry the basic grounding he’d need to survive a day in London.  He simply has to be seen entering and leaving the building for the thing to work.  In fact, he doesn’t have to speak to a soul all day if we can shift his diary around.  The main thing is to be
seen.
”

“That will mean bringing his personal staff into the secret, Hubert.” said Kell.  “How many others have to be told before that secret is common knowledge?”

“Well, that’s not necessarily true,” Fitzgerald conceded.  “His ADC and suchlike can be given tasks out of the building.  Out of town, even.  It is his secretary who is the key to the matter.  She guards the outer office.  Nothing gets through to Lord Kitchener without her permission.  I have seen generals turned away from her desk empty-handed.”  He paused, as the thought struck him.  “Poor Joan.  She’ll be devastated.”

Thompson looked across at Kell.  Could it
possibly
work?  After all, doubles had been used throughout history.  Why not now?  “And you think that a day or two would be enough for this doctor to carry it off, Hubert?” he asked.

“Well, remember, he’s not just ‘a doctor’.  He is a senior military officer – that’s enormously in his favour and saves us a lot of time.  Personally, I think that he should be seen about town on Wednesday.  As I say, no-one in their right mind is going to try to sit Lord Kitchener down and interrogate him about intimate family matters, so I would think that only the briefest details need to be gone into.  The same applies to the military situation and his secretary can help him by avoiding situations where Henry would be caged in a room with someone who knows him well.  Current names, places and decisions are the critical things and most of that we could deal with in a day.  Just get him into the public eye and we are safe for a while.  It gives us time to
think.
”

“And what exactly are your thoughts, Kell?” said Thompson.

“I agree with Colonel Fitzgerald.  It is the most preposterous thing I have heard in my life.  However, having said that, I cannot conceive of any alternative.  But I would stipulate one thing, Commissioner.”

“What’s that?”

“This Colonel Farmer must be a willing volunteer.”

“Rubbish.  He is a serving officer and we have the direct orders of the PM to ...”

“Totally irrelevant.  If he has to have any chance of preserving the illusion of Lord Kitchener’s continued existence, he must be comfortable in the role.  The alternative is immediate disclosure and we will end up in worse trouble than we are in now, if that is possible.”

“You're right, of course.” said Thompson, nodding.  “Hubert, it’s all down to you.  You know the man.  Will he do it?”

“I don’t know.  All I can do is to ask him.”

“Right you are.  Well, I think that settles that, Kell.”  He grabbed frantically at his handkerchief and sneezed loudly.  “Apologies.  Let’s get Hubert packed off to Outer Hampstead, or wherever, while we read the Riot Act to the domestic staff.  In fact, it might not be such a bad idea to keep them here until this Colonel Farmer looks the part.  The IRB thing applies to them, too.  They would find it a bit difficult to run off to the newspapers shouting about His Lordship’s death when he’s walking about, apparently, large as life.”  He looked around.  “Well, I’m feeling a lot happier now that we have something to work towards.” He levered himself out of the armchair and walked over to the brandy decanter. 

“Who’s for a drink?”

**********

In a shabby, darkened room on the top floor of a run-down Dublin tenement, MacNeill leaned back in a rickety chair.  He hated the foul-smelling dump but it was safe.  It was the rats that bothered him – that mediaeval aura of death and disease their very name conjured up.  It made his skin crawl but, as usual, he had to push personal matters to the back of his mind – he had business to attend to.  As Brigade Intelligence Officer, it was his job to mastermind the death of Britain’s ‘most honoured military hero’, the architect of the war.  He smiled at how he was about to wipe that damn-your-eyes look off those bloody stupid posters. 
Britain needs you
.  ‘Aye’, he thought, ‘but Ireland doesn’t need
you
, you old bugger.’  He took a deep drag of his cigarette and exhaled slowly.

He tilted his head further back into the shadow of one corner of the room and looked listlessly over at the other two men.  Academics – he despised them.  They could thump tables with the best of them about a free Ireland while they passed the port around but ask them to hold a gun to a man’s head and blow his brains out and they’d wet themselves.  He sneered at them from the darkness while still acknowledging the sad fact that he needed them.  They were his wordsmiths, his voices to the outside world, his political arm.

“Well then, Padhraig, how are you going to release the news?”

Padhraig Chesney thought carefully before answering.  The presence of the Grim Reaper quite so near at hand unsettled him.  He cleared his throat nervously before answering, “I don’t think we should leap into print as soon as we hear Sean’s done the business.”

“Why?”

“Well, we can catch them twice if we time it right.”

“How?”

He looked around the room for support and, finding none, licked his lips with a pale, flickering tongue.  “Once Kitchener is dead, the British Government will have to find some way of announcing the fact.  From the trouble we’ve already made about the Harp business, not to mention Easter Monday, it’s going to be fairly obvious that we did it.  But the Brits will never be able to admit that to the public so they’ll try to concoct all sorts of fairy stories to explain away the real truth.”

“And that’s when we make our move?”

“That’s when we make our move.  Not only will we hit the headlines with a blow by blow account of the execution, but we’ll also show Asquith up for the liar he is.  When we announce Kitchener’s death, it’ll be the end of Britain as far as the war’s concerned and we’ll squeeze even more out of it when the country gets to know that
their own Government
lied through their teeth at them. It’ll wreck the political landscape and bring the Government down.  We’ll wipe out morale at home and Government control at the Front.”

MacNeill grunted and leaned forward to stub out his cigarette, bringing his face momentarily into the pale light of a low-wattage bulb. He looked up without moving his head.  “What about you, Iain?  You’re our tame newspaper editor.”

Iain Devlin’s involvement with extremists was an open secret in journalistic circles and, privately, he revelled in the smell of danger that hung around men like MacNeill as long as he didn’t come too close to it.  This was too close to it.  He sat, hunched up, with his elbows on his knees, head down.  “I don’t agree, Eoin.  I think the more time you give to Special Branch to think something up, the more chance there is of losing the advantage.  It’ll always be harder to announce our involvement after the news becomes public.  But if we can be the
first
to spread the news, no-one can deny it was us.”  He looked up.  “What about Casement and his boys?  I still have a couple of my lads standing by to get the story about Kitchener and his boyfriends from Dan Bailey.  He was supposed to be coming over from Germany with Roger but now that Gallagher’s going to kill the ould bastard, what’s the point of running the story?”

MacNeill sighed with impatience.  “You just don’t get it, do you?  The point, Iain, is that we don’t just want to kill Kitchener.  We want to
destroy
him!  So, when Dan gets to Dublin, you run the story at the same time as we announce Kitchener’s execution.  And, in any case, we don’t give a tinker’s cuss about Casement.  If he had his way, there would have been no Easter Rising and he would have had nothin’ to do with Bailey’s ‘revelations’ so he’s not the man for us.  Not any more.  Gallagher will kill Kitchener for us and then we’ll have some fun.”

“Have you heard from Sean yet?”

MacNeill leaned back in the chair and darkness closed over his face once more.  “No.  It was supposed to be some time this weekend.  So unless something has come up, we should hear in the next few hours.”

“How will he get in touch, then?”

MacNeill looked sharply at the other man and said quietly, “That’s none of your business, Iain.  Leave that sort of stuff to people like me and Sean.  Don’t you go worrying your head about it, so.  Y’hear?”

Devlin gabbled something in excuse but MacNeill ignored him.  “I like the idea of hitting the Brits twice for the same operation.  Maximise the effect.  It’s good economics.”  He paused and mulled the matter over for a few minutes, while the others kept their silence in the gloom.  “OK, we’ll go for the double whammy, as the Yanks would call it.”