The Secret Generations (49 page)

He took a step towards the bed, and heard, close at hand, a distinct sound; a settling crack, from the high oak wardrobe.

Lifting the lamp high, Malcolm turned slowly to view the entire, empty, room, and heard the crack again so walked to the wardrobe, his right hand still clutching the pistol reached out and turned the knob.

The door seemed to hesitate, then bulge. He jerked and it swung open to reveal a moment of unique horror, a nightmare, unreal, unbelievable
– Bridget’s face, seemingly suspended, glowing a terrible unnatural blue, her lovely eyes now dull, but staring, popping from her head, her tongue which had so often caressed the inside of his mouth, protruding, her lips drawn back in a ghastly grin, and below, a slash of white where her neck should be, pulling her chin up at an odd angle.

Malcolm screamed aloud,
stepped back and saw her, standing for a snatch of time, inside the wardrobe, before she began to pitch forward. His right hand went up as though trying to defend himself, across the upper part of his body, at exactly the moment when ‘The Fisherman’ threw his second white scarf over Malcolm’s head.

The scarf trapped his right wrist against his face, and automatically, Malcolm
’s brain told him to use it to advantage. Stop the silk getting to his own throat.

There were three distinct sounds
– the flopping noise of Bridget’s body hitting the bare boards of the bedroom floor, the crash of the pistol flying from his hand, hitting the side of the wardrobe, and the tiny explosion as the oil lamp went down to the left.

Then it was all sweat, struggle, smell and fire.

It oddly did not really dawn on Malcolm, until the end, that he was fighting for his life. The smells were a mixture of paraffin oil, burning, garlic, wet serge and excrement (somehow he connected the last with Bridget). Whoever was at his back hauled on the piece of silk with great strength, but Malcolm, stocky like his uncle The General, and with muscles now strong from the years of labour on the farm, heaved back with the one arm that prevented the material slipping onto his throat.

He felt something hard in his back, as though the assailant had lifted a knee, to give himself better purchase. Malcolm allowed himself to be pulled back, then brought all of his weight forward, kicking back at the same time. His ankle hit something hard, like wood, and he felt the attacker begin to falter as though losing his balance.

Malcolm consolidated, kicking again and hooking his outer arm round the silk, hauling forward and then moving his upper body to the left.

He heard a grunt and felt the pressure relax as his attacker began to lose balance. He was
aware of the flames now, starting to gain hold on wood and the fabric of the bedroom curtains, beginning to dance and send great awesome shadows over the grim scene. He could feel the heat, and smoke began to reach his lungs. Tiny hands clawed at the inside of his throat.

The white strand of silk slid away, fluttering in the air, almost slowly, and his assailant fell heavily
– a big man, dressed in black – half his body rolling into the lapping crimson flames.

Malcolm lashed out with his right boot, felt it connect somewhere near the man
’s head, heard the grunt of pain, and kicked again. The man lay face down. Still.

For a second, he thought of trying to get Bridget from the house, then gave up the idea. The heat was getting worse by the second, and some clothing in the wardrobe had caught, sending up white smoke. Save yourself, he almost said it aloud,
spotting the Luger right on the edge of the flames, grabbing at it, sensing the pain as he plucked it up, hot from the fire.

As he dashed down the stairs, he thought he could hear the man struggling in the bedroom, but he did not look back, or even think of the possibility that more than one person was in the house. The fact of Bridget
’s death, and the sudden shock, had not yet reached him. In his present condition Malcolm was aware only that somehow the Brotherhood had discovered Bridget and himself as informers. His only object was to get clear, escape, and he had no idea where he could hide. If they found that he had not died like Bridget, nowhere in Ireland would be safe. Run to Dublin, and pray he could make the sanctuary of the Castle. It was the one firm thought in his head as he climbed the rise, panting, half running, aware that the wind had started to howl, and the sleet was driving like showers of needles.

‘
Bracken’ whinnied, on the far side of the rise, and, before Malcolm crested the top, he glanced back to see the sky a dull red, and Glen Devil Farm gushing smoke, with a great plume of blood-coloured flame spearing from the roof.

He did not see the big man, coughing and wheezing, stagger from the door, his right cheek seared with a burn, and his clothing smouldering. Yet even in this state,
‘The Fisherman’ stopped for a moment to curse Malcolm; then he lumbered forward, to dowse his clothes in the horse trough, still cursing – the weather, Malcolm, luck, and his own folly of complacence and ill timing.

He should not have been so foolish with the woman, he knew now, as the icy water soaked into the serge of his jacket. The sex just was not worth it. It was the same with the MacGregor woman, except that she was a willing partner.

‘The Fisherman’ swore again, and, somewhere above the wind and unearthly sound of the fire, an animal howled in the woods.

Chapter Four

Denise Grenot had become operational. C decided she would be better with the older established
Frankignoul
network. She was taken to Holland, and given what instruction was necessary at one of the network’s houses in Maastricht, for most of the reports came into this centre directly from Lanaken, just across the border in Belgium.

A tram ran between Maastricht and Lanaken, and this was the main route of the couriers. At the end of January, Denise made her first run, going into Belgium on a Monday morning and returning, on the Thursday, with a large amount of detailed information, both in her head and on paper.

The information she brought back on that particular day was vital to the spring battle-plan. But neither the French Staff nor the War Office took note of it. C even doubted if it was ever passed on to either French or Haig, let alone Lord Kitchener.

*

‘The Professor’ still visited James’ cell daily and carried on the strange interrogation, supplying the answers to his own questions.

They became quite friendly, and spoke often of music, between questions.

Then, towards the end of January, when the cold had become so intense that James wondered if there would be any end to the winter, ‘The Professor’ announced that he would be leaving soon.

‘
Where are they sending you?’ James had started to regard their relationship as a friendship.

‘
They are not sending
me
anywhere.’ ‘The Professor’ raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s
you
they’ve decided to move.’

James laughed, he had expected something of the kind for several weeks. Common sense told him they would not keep hammering away at him. It had to end, and James was well resigned to what the ending would be.

‘Am I at last to get a trial, then?’

‘
The Professor’ shook his head. ‘I’ve already told you, nobody’s interested in a trial.’

‘
I shall disappear then…’

‘
You’ve already disappeared. In London they’ve given you up for dead.’

‘
My fate, then? A quiet bullet? An unmarked grave?’

Again he shook his head.
‘You must realize, that nobody wishes to see you dead. There are reasons. You have a special protection. Go in peace.’ He sounded like a priest.

*

Giles was in the Hide, with the lamps turned down, and no maps on his table. He often just sat and thought these days, like a contemplative monk. But the religion upon which he meditated was one of political ideologies, of society, and the vagaries of birth. It was also of intrigues, treachery, betrayal, and where true loyalty should lie if a man’s conscience would be clear.

Vaguely, in the distance,
he heard a hammering and clanging. He wondered if it was another Zeppelin raid.

Then, his man Robertson began to knock on his door, shouting loudly,
‘Sir! Sir! Come quickly, sir!’

It took a minute for him to realize that there was some kind of emergency. Then he crossed to the door, unlocked it and went into the passage.

Looking from the top of the stairs he did not recognize the figure who stood, dirty, unkempt and ragged, in the hall. Only when he reached the penultimate step did Giles see that the tramp-like figure was his son Malcolm.

‘
Home is the hunter.’ Malcolm’s voice sounded full of bitterness.

‘
Home from the chase.’ Giles was unruffled.

Exactly one week later, as the thaw set in, on 21 February, the huge German artillery barrage began around Verdun, smashing all the badly-conceived Allied battle-plans to shreds. The dreadful killing season had begun, and no intelligence collected by C, or any other Service, would stop it.

*

The thaw spread over the United Kingdom also, and with it came the news Richard Farthing had been waiting for.

He had hoped to be assigned to a squadron in France almost straight after reporting for duty, but the powers who ruled the lives of pilots in the RFC failed to post him. Much of his time had been spent at Farnborough, and when he flew it was usually in a flimsy DH-2, which did not please him.

Sara, though, was only too pleased to know that Richard was still in England, flying in comparative safety. Their marriage of only a few months had again altered her life more than she had dared hope. With Richard Farthing as her husband, Sara basked in that balmy sense of true security. She regularly thanked God for the day when James had first met Dick and brought him back to Haversage.

She saw him most week-ends, and found that there was now an emotional stability in her life, centred solely around her new husband. Richard was so different from the Railton men, and without a trace of guile, or secrecy, in his make-up. His generosity, coupled with what she saw as an incredible knowledge of practically any subject – from engines to the most modern composers, artists and writers – made him unique in her eyes. Indeed, this was the key, she felt, to marriage: partners who saw a uniqueness in each other. It was what James and Margaret Mary had experienced, she now knew; though she doubted if any of the other Railton men and women had even touched the surface of the emotion, with the exception of Caspar, possibly, though Sara had yet to really fathom ‘Old Phoeb’. The line of thought always led back to James, and she sometimes had a quiet weep about his death, for she was sure they would never see him again, and marvelled at Margaret Mary and her unshakeable confidence in his return.

Pondering on this always brought her mind to the tiny permanent worry. The one black spot in Sara
’s life was the constant cloud, no bigger than a man’s hand, which seemed to hover in the back of her mind – that, one day, Dick would be snatched from her.

Their happiness together was apparent to all who saw them.
‘You can tell as how them two has a good time in bed,’ Natter croaked to Vera Bolton as they watched the couple ride out of the stable yard one morning.

‘
Oooh, Ted, you watch what you’re saying! You’ve got a one track mind you have!’ squeaked Vera.

‘
Ah, and you’m not far behind me, young Vera. I seen you with Billy Crook last time ’ee were on leave, and him so young.’

Vera turned scarlet, leaving the yard and snapping at him,
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ted Natter. You got a nasty mind.’

‘
Daft cat!’ Natter responded.

Vera, in fact, knew very well what he was talking about. Certainly there was a matter of some years difference between her and Billy Crook, but Billy had become forceful and dominating since his medal, and promotion. Vera was so much under the eagle eye of her mother, at the Manor, that she had not sampled the delights of womanhood until Billy
’s leave at Christmas.

The first time was after the wedding; and they crept into the hay loft above the stables practically every day of Billy
’s leave after that. Now he wrote to her regularly from the Front, while she had just started to become worried. Usually she was never late. But she had missed her period altogether that January.

As for Sara, she would have given anything to miss, and heaven knew it was not for want of trying, for Dick was by turns tender, passionate, dominating, demanding and altogether
the answer to her every sexual fantasy.

His one blind spot was her personal worry about his safety. He was such a good and confident pilot that she knew death in the air rarely crossed his mind.
‘It’s only as safe as you make it,’ was his watchword, ‘which means, you
have
to make it safe.’

When his orders finally came, he was bouncing with joy, but he grumbled about the fact he would be flying the DH-2 in France.
‘The German aeroplanes are streets ahead,’ he said on the day his posting came through. ‘Their Albatros is particularly good. The DH-2’s a sturdy little thing, nippy in the climb, and very stable in a dive; she’s light, stands punishment, but is no match for an Albatros.’

Sara
’s heart sank, and she urged him to take care. ‘Don’t worry about that, my darling,’ he grinned. ‘The Farthings are known for their own particular sturdiness. We can take a lot of punishment, and we’re also very nippy on the turn and in a climb, or hadn’t you noticed?’

‘
I’ve noticed you’ve only got one forward-firing gun, thank heaven,’ Sara grinned back wickedly.

‘
Want to test it out in London?’ He put an arm around her. ‘I guess I should buy some of the new warm flying gear before I go to decimate the Hun flyers. We can do that, take in a show or two, have a grand time. Then you can come over to Hendon and see me off, eh?’

They did it all, saw Hetty King at the Hippodrome, ate more than was good for them, went to Gamages
’ Aviation Department, where Dick bought a fur cuirass, and a new leather aviator’s coat, and made love with a concentrated passion whenever they could.

On the morning Dick left, Sara, with one other RFC wife, stood by the edge of the field at Hendon and saw him raise a gloved hand as the little DH-2 buzzed into the sky. To her, it looked very flimsy, but she stayed, with her eyes glued to the two aeroplanes, until he disappeared from sight.

By the time Sara got back to Haversage it was the first week in March, and the rain had set in. All she wanted was to hide in her room and cry, but there were things to be done, and one met her the moment she got into the hall.

Vera Bolton stood waiting for her, asking for a word.

Sara sighed, and took her into The General’s study, asking her to sit down – she did not hold with this business of servants standing through interviews, and had a premonition this was not going to be easy. Like as not, Vera wanted to leave. Already many girls from local houses were going off to be with the men, riding motor cycles, driving ambulances: Dick even told her there were women tinkering with the aeroplanes at Hendon and Farnborough.

‘
Well, Vera…?’ she began, then saw the maid was in tears. ‘What is it? Oh Vera, what’s wrong, my dear.’

Between sobs, it came out.
‘I can’t face me Mum, M’m. I just can’t face her. I’m in the family way.’

Then Sara had to forget her own grief and heartache. She had to be kind, considerate and sensible. The father was, undoubtedly, Billy Crook.
‘Does he love you, Vera?’

‘
He said so, at the time M’m, but I gather they all do. He was my first ever. He said so every time; said how he loved me.’

‘
And do you love him? that’s really more important.’

In a surprising gush of almost poetic speech, Vera said she loved him dearly, that Billy was her meat and drink, her sun and moon, the cobwebs on spring trees in the morning, and the shine on fresh apples. Sara had to bow her head to hide her smile, and reminded Vera that she was older than Billy.

‘I don’t see how that comes into it, not if you love someone.’

‘
Well,’ Sara knew it was wrong to suggest it, but it might be necessary – ‘Have you seen Mrs Crook yet?’

‘
No! Oh, my God, M’m. If I can’t face me own Ma, how d’you think I’d face Billy’s mum?’

‘
I didn’t mean about telling her she would be a grandmother.’ Sara paused long enough for it to sink in.

Vera
’s mouth opened into an elongated ‘O’. ‘Oooh! Oh no, M’m. No, I couldn’t do that!’

‘
You want to have the baby, then. Very well. I’ll do my best to see if we can get Billy’s reaction. It won’t be easy, but I’ll try.’

‘
If
he’ll marry me, M’m.’

‘
Billy’s an honourable boy. Yes, there’s a difference in ages, but I personally think you’d make a fine wife. I think he has to do the decent thing.’ As she said it, Sara realized how like a Railton she had become. Dick would have laughed to hear her say something like ‘do the decent thing’.

She saw Mrs Bolton first. It was the deft way in which Sara broke the news, and the plans she laid for Vera and Billy, that softened any blow.

‘Well, she’s been a wicked girl, no doubt, Lady Sara. I should tan her bottom for her…’

‘
Oh, I shouldn’t do that. I mean she’s a grown woman, and in her condition…’

‘
It’s only her condition that stops me, M’m. Spare the rod and spoil the child.’ Then she softened. ‘Our Vera? Who’d have thought it?’… and Mrs Bolton finally went off, smiling and ready to cluck, rather than tut, over her daughter.

She tried telephoning Giles, but Robertson said that Mrs Giles would not be home until later. So she sent for Martha Crook. She was much more calm, and less inclined to be shocked.
‘She’s a good girl, and I think Billy’d be a fool not to take her, if he’s spared. I’ll talk to her, and, if need be, look after her until the baby comes.’ She smiled to herself. ‘Well, I can’t really blame Billy. There was a letter from him today. He’s resting, out of the line, at the moment.’

Later in the evening, Sara telephoned Giles again. They exchanged courtesies, and she immediately sought his help in getting one of his War Office contacts to arrange some leave for Billy.