To Ride the Wind (40 page)

It was kind of funny, the major thought, that the capture of a high-ranking enemy general could bring some happiness to the brigadier.

That evening, Kurt von Fellmann arrived at Patrick’s HQ under guard by two red-capped British military police. Patrick met him outside his HQ in the driveway and both men saluted each other before exchanging firm handshakes, as a small but curious crowd of Australian staff officers lingered briefly at the entrance to the HQ, looking on.

Kurt was dressed in his grey field uniform and Patrick could see that he had lost a lot of weight since he had last seen him in Sydney before the outbreak of the war.

‘I must congratulate you, Patrick,’ Kurt said, accepting the cigar offered to him. ‘I was foolish enough to be too far forward of my lines on an inspection and had underestimated the cunning of your band of thieves. So here I am, a prisoner of your British allies.’

Patrick held out a light for Kurt who lit his cigar, sucked in the smoke and blew it out into the chill of the late afternoon.

‘I am pleased to see that you are still alive, my friend,’ Patrick said. ‘I know that my Aunt Penelope must be relieved to know that you are now out of harm’s way.’

‘I suppose that you are right,’ Kurt sighed as Patrick led them on a slow stroll through what was left of the garden of the French manor. The two MPs trailed a discreet distance behind.

‘You know,’ Kurt said, pausing to gaze across the fields divided by quaint stone walls, ‘you and I have been pitted against each other as far back as Fromelles. Our intelligence service has been very good at keeping a dossier on your career. I have often thought of you on your side of the line.’

Learning his distant cousin had been aware of his military movements, Patrick had a painful thought. Possibly his eldest son had been providing the information. But he dismissed the idea. It was too horrible to think that his own flesh and blood could be capable of such a treacherous deed. George might be ruthless in his ambition to swell the family coffers but he was not a traitor.

‘You look as if you could do with a hearty meal,’ Patrick said. ‘I have ordered a special dinner tonight of Yorkshire pudding to mark your company with myself and my officers.’

‘I have always liked your English pudding,’ Kurt replied, placing his foot on a low, stone wall. ‘I am afraid that you must know the British naval blockade is having an effect on the Fatherland. Many women and children will die of hunger and that must play on your conscience, my friend.’

‘You have had no conscience using your zeppelin dirigibles to bomb innocent women and children in London,’ Patrick countered.

‘We should not argue about the morality of what we do,’ Kurt said, placating him. ‘We are, after all, simple soldiers who do the bidding of our political masters.’ On that point they both agreed and Kurt shifted the conversation. ‘Tell me, how is my cousin Alex? Intelligence informed me that he has been sent to the front.’

‘Alex was killed a few weeks ago on the Ypres front.’

‘I am sorry. I did not know. Please accept my condolences. He was a fine man and a good officer, as I recall from when we were at your regimental ball in Sydney back in’ 14.’

‘Thank you for your kind words of condolence,’ Patrick replied, looking out across the fields to the horizon where he saw the flashes light up the darkening sky. Seconds later, he heard the booming and recognised the sound of long-range German artillery.

Kurt stood up straight to view the horizon. With little time to react, both men heard the distinctive sound of large artillery shells hurtling through the darkening sky in their direction. The first one slammed into the ground and exploded in a great geyser of smoke, earth and fire in the field they had been gazing at. The next four rounds exploded in a cluster just short of the manor. Patrick spun around to shout but before the words could leave his mouth another round blasted rock and shrapnel a few feet from where he and Kurt stood. Kurt was flung through the air by the blast and fell heavily ten yards away. Winded, he fought for breath, his ears ringing.

The shelling had ceased for now and Kurt guessed that his heavy guns were carrying out a registration mission. As he sat up to examine himself for injuries he saw Patrick lying face down in a pool of blood twenty paces from where he sat. One of the two MPs guarding him had been blown into bloody scraps from a direct hit and it seemed that Patrick had taken metal pieces from the exploding shell. Kurt scrambled to his feet.

‘Patrick!’ he yelled. He could barely hear his own voice as the blast had left him with a severe ringing in his ears. Already officers were spilling from the manor to race towards their brigadier.

Kurt rolled Patrick onto his back and groaned. Tiny wisps of smoke drifted from what was left of his chest and stomach. A large piece of red hot metal had all but ripped Patrick apart. Kurt could see that his cousin was still alive, but had little to no hope of surviving the terrible wound inflicted by the shrapnel. Patrick opened his eyes, his face unmarked by the blast. He could not speak, however, and within moments the old soldier died. Kurt took Patrick’s hand but felt himself being pulled back.

‘Leave him alone, you bloody Hun,’ the operations major snarled as he dropped to his knees beside Patrick. The major’s tears flowed, knowing that his friend and respected commanding officer was dead. Wiping away the tears with the back of his jacket sleeve, the major rose to his feet. He glanced at the captured German officer and felt a twinge of guilt for his outburst when he saw in the German officer’s face his own grief.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the Australian major said gently. ‘The brigadier told me that you were related.’

‘Yes,’ Kurt replied, his ears still ringing. ‘And now the war is over for us both on this day.’

‘I am sure that the brigadier would have wanted you to stay and dine with us tonight,’ the Australian major offered.

‘Thank you, major,’ Kurt replied, brushing down his uniform. ‘We will have the opportunity to raise our glasses to toast the simple soldiers that we are on both sides. No toasts to Kings and Kaisers – just to the young men dying in this war.’

The last remaining thorn in his side had been removed, George gloated when the news was delivered that his father had fallen on the Western Front. He was careful to present a sombre face to all he knew, receiving condolences for the loss of the man Sydney knew and respected for his philanthropic services to the community. George decided that he should have a memorial service for both his father and his brother on the same day to save time and expense. He chose a chapel that he knew his father’s militia unit used for services and the little church was packed out with senior military officers who knew Patrick and Alex. Giselle was unable to attend as she was already en route to Queensland but Louise placed two wreaths on the altar on her behalf.

With the service over George was pleased to be out of the church. Although he had played the grieving brother and son, he had allowed his wife to make all the arrangements for the service and the wake that would be held at their home. Louise had done a very good job but as George stepped into the bright sunshine he was startled to see Sean Duffy leaning on his cane and talking with Colonel John Hughes. The sight of Sean made George’s skin crawl. How could Louise see anything in the cripple? Sean looked away from the British army officer, catching George’s eye, and both men stared at each other across the church steps with mutual hatred. George broke first, glancing behind to reassure himself that Louise was still in the church.

When she came out a short time later George watched her reaction when she caught sight of her former lover. She paused for a moment but turned away to walk towards him. The solicitor meanwhile had returned his attention back to John Hughes, for whom George also had a great dislike. Hughes had once intimated that George was on the German payroll as an agent for their Fatherland. Although he had not been able to prove it, George feared him more than ever since his plan to have Karolina killed had failed. Now that she was under the protection of the Lutheran pastor there was little chance he could arrange to have her silenced forever.

‘Did you invite that bastard?’ George snarled quietly to Louise when she was close to him.

‘Who do you mean? Colonel Hughes or Major Duffy? Major Duffy served under Patrick,’ Louise replied. ‘He had every right to be here today.’

‘Did you invite him because of your feelings towards him?’ George snapped.

‘It is over between us,’ Louise sighed sadly. ‘You have won. You have me under your roof and now you have total control of the family’s fortunes. I am surprised that you did not organise a celebratory party instead of a service to remember your father and brother.’

‘What I strive for is to make the Macintosh family name the most powerful in Australia,’ George answered. ‘So that my son will one day inherit what is due to him.’

‘Have you forgotten that Giselle has a son, too?’ Louise said, bridling, causing a scowl to appear on her husband’s face. ‘He has an equal claim to Patrick’s inheritance.’

‘That brat will be satisfied just having a roof over his head, and an allowance to squander as he grows older,’ George replied. ‘My brother’s blood was weak and that will probably be his son’s inheritance.’

Louise looked away, hoping to catch sight of Sean, but he was already gone. She knew that he would not attend the wake although he was entitled to. Her body still ached for his strong arms holding her at night but she also knew her sacrifice might keep Sean safe from her husband’s dangerous machinations – so long as she did not break her promise to never see Sean again.

She excused herself and went down to the car waiting for her, leaving George still standing at the bottom of the steps to the church. Jack Firth had informed him that the solicitor had employed a man to ask questions about a wide range of matters that touched on their business arrangement. Tiny threads could be woven into a strong thread, George thought. It was time to arrange for some more threads to be cut. It was time to meet with Jack Firth.

23

S
ean’s meeting with Colonel John Hughes at the memorial service had not been coincidental. Sean had telephoned the British officer, as Patrick had once mentioned that if anything were to happen to him then John Hughes could be trusted with any matters concerning the family. They had agreed to meet at the service.

When Sean brought up the subject of Giselle’s eviction, the distinguished Englishman expressed his contempt for George. Then Sean had led the colonel to the subject of Karolina Schumann. This in turn led to the contact between the police inspector charged with her case and his dealings with George Macintosh. When Sean mentioned the link between the two men, John Hughes did not look surprised.

‘Do you have anything else?’ he asked Sean, who now realised that he had entered into that strange game men in intelligence tended to play. It was like a game of poker, and the British officer was asking Sean to show him his hand without revealing his own.

‘As much as I dislike the man,’ Sean replied, ‘I doubt that he is of any interest to your intelligence chaps.’

‘You might be surprised,’ John Hughes answered, casting his eyes towards George who stood on the steps of the church watching them. ‘I am not at liberty to discuss the matter any further but I can tell you that there are highly placed forces within the government who are actively discouraging any of our investigations into George’s affairs. It seems that he wields a lot of power beyond even the national interest.’

‘You mean that our government is prepared to turn a blind eye to a man who is possibly committing treason?’ Sean asked, aghast at the inference.

‘When it comes to political power,’ John replied with a sigh, ‘possible treason takes a second place to the funds he contributes to keep them in power. Politicians only see their seats being protected – not the country.’

Sean had been given just enough to proceed in another direction, having realised that the British officer was hinting that they might be able to work together to bring George down. ‘I will keep in contact, Colonel,’ he said, and the two men parted.

It was only a matter of days before Christmas when Sean was visited by Harry Griffith at his office. The former policeman entered the room with a triumphant smile and dropped a manila folder on Sean’s desk. ‘Old Jack is gonna have the worst Christmas of his life when he finds this file missing,’ Harry chuckled. ‘It cost a bit to have it lifted, but I think you might find it useful.’

Sean flipped open the folder and, as he read, his face broke into a smile. It was the file pertaining to Karolina Schumann and the covering letters indicating that she should be arrested, signed by Jack’s superior officers. No doubt they would be interested in learning the subordinate inspector had been derelict in his duties.

But Sean’s smile evaporated when he turned over a few more sheets of paper and saw George Macintosh’s name appear along with attached notes about observations made of him by the police even before the outbreak of the war – notes describing his meetings with a well-known German agent and the passing of money between the two men.

‘You don’t know just how badly Christmas will go for Inspector Firth – or George Macintosh,’ Sean said quietly. ‘What you have brought me is worth its weight in gold.’

‘I thought you might be pleased,’ Harry said. ‘I did not pay it much attention but I did see where that Schumann sheila and the Macintosh bloke’s names cropped up. If you ask me, this Macintosh bloke is working for the Huns and should be hung for treason. It seems that his mate, Jack, has been sitting on the file and probably getting paid by Macintosh to keep it to himself.’

‘You should have been a detective,’ Sean said, reaching into his drawer.

‘I preferred to be in uniform. Too much paperwork being a detective.’

Sean retrieved the brown envelope and added a few more pounds as a bonus. The file sitting on his desk was invaluable. He thanked Harry and wished him a merry Christmas. When he had left, Sean wondered about where he would go from here. It was obvious! Colonel Hughes would be in a position to act on the file and bring both men down. He reached for the telephone and put in a call. As Sean did not discuss the contents of the file over the phone, he made an appointment to visit the British officer at his home, as Hughes was currently attending a military conference.