Authors: Michael Ridpath
He was eager to hear what she had to say. Millie’s death was still unresolved. Stuck away in darkest, coldest Scotland without hope of leave, there had been nothing Conrad could do about that, but he could think about it. He was sure that Theo wasn’t responsible, but he had no idea who was, and time did nothing to reduce his need to know.
Something
was going on, probably something involving Sir Henry Alston, Charles Bedaux and the Duke of Windsor. Conrad could hope that Major McCaigue had made some progress in finding out what, but even if he had, he probably wouldn’t tell Conrad. Conrad’s feelings towards his father were mixed: on the one hand he blamed him for letting Millie go to Holland on such a hare-brained scheme, on the other he felt desperately sorry for him for the loss of his daughter. And Conrad himself wasn’t free of blame. If he had only done what his father had asked and talked to Theo about peace, Millie would still be alive.
But Conrad’s father couldn’t help him find out about Millie’s death either. His only hope was Anneliese.
Conrad almost missed her in the crowd of men in uniform enthusiastic for their weekend leave, barging their way towards the station exits. She saw him first, and jumped up and down, waving to attract his attention. She was wearing her nurse’s uniform, and she was smiling as Conrad kissed her cheek.
‘Thanks for waiting,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry the train is so late.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Anneliese. ‘It’s hardly your fault. There is a café around the corner. Shall we go there? I have something I want to talk to you about.’
Anneliese led Conrad between the piles of sandbags at the station entrance, across Bishopsgate to Artillery Lane, and there they found a small café with a spare table. As they walked Anneliese chattered about her shift at the hospital, what her parents had been up to and a picture she had been to see with her mother:
The Lambeth Walk
.
‘Thanks for your letters,’ said Conrad as they finally sat down. ‘You’ve been busy.’
‘I have. They are such dreadful people, Conrad! Truly awful.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Conrad, amused by Anneliese’s improving grasp of English idiom. ‘So you don’t like Constance?’
‘I can’t stand her. But she loves me. I’m her pet German. As we thought, the Russian Tea Rooms is full of anti-Semites. They have formed some secret society, called “The Right Club”. Anna Wolkoff is the secretary, and the president is a Conservative MP, Captain Maule Ramsay.’
‘I spotted him when I met Constance there.’
‘Horrible man. Hates the Jews and doesn’t know the first thing about them! The others all love him.’
‘So who are the members of this “Right Club”?’
‘Not me. I did try, and Constance pushed for me to be let in, but they wouldn’t have me. I am pretty sure Anna Wolkoff doesn’t trust me.’ Anneliese sipped her tea. ‘There are lots of women. Most of the men have gone off to war, and it’s tricky for them, poor darlings. They hate the Jews and love the Nazis, but they are true patriots and want to fight for their country. There is a loyal band of regulars: Maule Ramsay, his wife, Constance, her friend Marjorie Copthorne, a pretty woman called Joan Miller – a model, I think. Then there is Anna Wolkoff and a suave friend of hers called Tyler Kent. He’s American, does something at their embassy in London, and seems to have been posted to Moscow before that. He speaks Russian.’
‘Not Alston?’
‘No. Constance says she tries to get him to come, but he refuses. He’s afraid of being seen there. I don’t blame him.’
‘So Constance is still in touch with Alston?’
Anneliese smiled. ‘Oh, very much so. In fact she is his mistress!’
‘Really?’ Conrad was surprised, although the idea that a Tory MP might have a little mistress to keep him entertained while he was in London and his wife was in the constituency shouldn’t have shocked him.
‘She’s desperately proud of it. She thinks the world of him. She thinks he’s going to be Prime Minister.’
‘He’s only been an MP a few years, hasn’t he?’ Conrad said.
‘Since 1935. But she is certain he will be. Soon. And what’s more interesting, he’s just as certain.’
‘That is interesting. How?’
‘He has a plan. I’m sure Constance knows what it is, but she won’t tell me.’
‘Is it a coup? Is he in touch with Oswald Mosley?’
‘Oh, no. He hates Mosley and therefore so does Constance.’
‘Has she mentioned the Duke of Windsor at all?’ Conrad asked.
‘Not in that context. We have spoken about him. She likes him, but I think that’s because he is good-looking and charming and she likes the romance of him giving up the throne for the woman he loved.’
‘Nothing about him and Alston?’
Anneliese shook her head. ‘No. But I’m sure there is
something
going on.’
‘That’s just what I’ve been thinking.’ What he wasn’t sure of was how he could find out what. ‘Any luck with Millie’s murder?’
‘Not directly. But I did learn something a couple of weeks ago that just might be connected. That’s why I wrote to you.’
‘Yes. Sorry I couldn’t come right away. They wouldn’t let me.’
‘Were you in Norway?’
‘Almost,’ said Conrad. ‘So what did you learn?’
‘I was talking to Marjorie, and Constance was there. For some reason we were discussing her Uncle Freddie. He was a close friend of Alston. He was killed in November last year, run over by a car in the blackout. Whoever did it didn’t stop. Anyway, Marjorie said that her aunt, Freddie’s wife, is convinced that it was Henry Alston who ran him down! They were having a drink together at Freddie’s club, and Alston left a couple of minutes before Freddie.’
‘Why would he want to kill Lord Copthorne?’
‘That’s what I asked. Apparently Lord Copthorne was worried about what Alston was up to, although it’s not clear what precisely that was.’
‘Did the police investigate?’
‘For a day. Then it all went quiet. Lady Copthorne thinks they are covering something up. Specifically that they are protecting Henry Alston.’
‘Good God!’
‘Constance was looking daggers at Marjorie as she said this. Marjorie said that her aunt was paranoid, and no one could possibly want to kill her sweet Uncle Freddie on purpose, especially his best friend. Then Constance said something rather interesting. Or at least I thought it was interesting.’
‘Which was?’
‘That Marjorie’s Aunt Polly – Lady Copthorne – was completely bats. Marjorie seemed a little put out by this and pointed out that Constance had never met her aunt. Constance said everyone knew it, and was furious with Marjorie.’
‘So you think Constance jumped in to shut Marjorie up?’
‘Yes. Because she knew she was right. Alston
did
run down Lord Copthorne.’
Conrad smiled. ‘Yes, that is interesting. But I suppose it is conceivable that Constance was defending Alston because she is dotty about him.’
‘It’s conceivable,’ said Anneliese. ‘But it seemed to me at the time that it was more than that. That she wanted Marjorie to shut up because her aunt was on to something.’
‘Could Lord Copthorne’s death have had something to do with why Millie was killed?’
Anneliese shrugged. ‘Maybe. It might all be just a coincidence. But it’s worth checking, don’t you think?’
‘I do,’ said Conrad. ‘I most certainly do.’
‘Did you know Lord Copthorne? Do you know anyone who knew him? Or his wife?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Conrad. ‘My father certainly did; in fact, I remember at Christmas he mentioned Freddie Copthorne had died. He might know Polly Copthorne. I can certainly ask him. I’m not sure he will give me a straight answer.’
‘How are you getting on with your father?’
‘I haven’t seen him since Christmas. We write to each other every now and then, but we don’t really
say
anything. I don’t know what to say. I mean, I still blame him for sending Millie to Holland, but he didn’t mean her to die, obviously. In fact, he asked me to go and I refused. And although I still profoundly disagree with him, I do understand that his motives for trying to stop the war are noble. He’s a noble man.’
‘And you haven’t told him any of this? In your letters?’
‘No,’ Conrad admitted.
Anneliese shook her head. ‘You English!’
‘I do write to my mother,’ Conrad said. ‘I tell her about how I feel.’
‘Except about your father,’ Anneliese said.
Conrad shrugged. Then a thought struck him. ‘Come to think of it, there is someone who definitely knows Polly Copthorne.’
‘Who is that?’
‘Veronica.’
‘Veronica! As in “Mrs de Lancey” Veronica?’
‘I think they are the same age – Polly is a lot younger than her husband. They came out together.’
‘Came out?’
‘Met the king. When they were eighteen. They were debutantes.’ Conrad saw Anneliese’s expression and laughed. ‘Don’t look so disapproving.’
‘Why not? Your ex-wife sounds like an awful woman. You told me all about her. You have such dreadful taste in women, Conrad.’
‘Veronica’s not so bad,’ said Conrad. ‘At least not now we are divorced. Are you jealous?’
‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Anneliese. But she looked guilty.
Conrad realized that she
was
jealous. ‘How are you feeling these days?’ he asked. ‘You seem, I don’t know, better.’
‘I feel a bit better. My New York plan fell through; usual story, we couldn’t get the right papers. My father still hasn’t got a job. But I am doing something useful at the hospital. And maybe time does heal after all. I never heard back from Wilfrid Israel or Captain Foley about working for the British government, but doing this for you has definitely helped.’
‘I think it’s important,’ said Conrad.
They sat in silence for a few moments. Conrad didn’t want Anneliese to go, and he sensed she didn’t want to leave. ‘By the way, I don’t have dreadful choice in women,’ he said. ‘I chose you.’
‘My point precisely. That was a waste of time.’
‘Don’t be silly, Anneliese. The weeks I spent with you in Berlin were the best in my life.’
A warm smile crept across Anneliese’s lips and she lowered her eyes.
The café was small and the tables were crammed together. Anneliese and Conrad were squeezed close to each other so that their knees were almost touching.
Conrad leaned over and kissed her.
For a moment she stiffened and he thought she was going to push him away, but then she relaxed.
‘Conrad, I’m shocked,’ she said as they broke apart. ‘An English gentleman like you in a public place like this!’
‘This is wartime,’ Conrad said. ‘People do this kind of thing all the time.’
‘You’re telling me. When I go to the hospital in the middle of the night the streets are teeming with prostitutes. It’s worse than Berlin before the Nazis! You English have become sex-obsessed.’
‘Sorry,’ said Conrad with mock sincerity. He took out a scrap of paper and scribbled something on it. ‘I’m having dinner with my father this evening, but I’m not staying at Kensington Square tonight. Mama is in Somerset and I can’t face Father alone all weekend. This is my hotel. It’s in Bloomsbury.’
Anneliese took the piece of paper.
‘Are you going to the hospital now?’ Conrad asked.
Anneliese nodded.
‘What time do you finish?’
‘It’s not too bad tonight. I’ll probably get away about two.’
‘Come and see me then. We can discuss politics. Art. Music. Like we used to.’
‘I remember what we used to do.’
Conrad shrugged and smiled.
‘At your hotel?’
‘Yes.’
‘At two in the morning! They won’t let me in.’
‘Of course they will. A respectable nurse like you.’
Anneliese glanced at the piece of paper and then at Conrad. ‘You have spent far too long up in Scotland with no female company.’
‘That’s definitely true.’
Anneliese folded the paper and put it in her bag. ‘No, I won’t come and see you in your hotel, Conrad. But I will write and tell you how I get on with Constance, and we can talk again next time you get leave. Now I must go to work.’
Conrad watched her go. Oh, well. It had been worth a try.
Pall Mall, London
It was several months since Conrad had last seen his father, and Lord Oakford was looking well, certainly much better than he had in the immediate aftermath of Millie’s death. Since Conrad wasn’t staying at Kensington Square, they were dining at his father’s club. In the bar they had discussed the shambles of Conrad’s unit’s manoeuvres around Britain and the North Sea during the Norwegian campaign. Oakford seemed despondent about Norway and the conduct of the war in general.
Conrad was surprised how well they were getting on; perhaps he should have stayed at Kensington Square after all.
They went through to a corner of the crowded dining room, and as their soup came, Conrad broached the subject of Lord Copthorne.
‘Yes, it was a tragedy,’ said Oakford. ‘Hundreds of people have died on the roads in the blackout. Things should get better with these longer days, thank God.’
‘Did you know him well?’
‘Not very well, no,’ said Oakford. ‘Only through Henry Alston – they were good friends. Nice enough chap, but his political views were a bit simplistic, I thought. I went to his funeral. Very sad.’
‘Do you know his wife, Polly?’
‘No. Met her for the first time at the funeral. She’s quite a bit younger than him. Far too young to be a widow; but with the war there will be many more like her. Why do you ask?’
‘I understand that she thinks Alston might have run him down.’
Oakford spluttered into his soup. ‘Now that is absolutely ridiculous! Who told you that?’
‘Apparently her husband and Alston had some kind of disagreement.’
‘That doesn’t mean Henry ran him down.’ Oakford laughed; the idea seemed genuinely absurd to him. ‘As I said, poor Freddie’s political views were a bit simplistic for my taste, and probably for Henry’s as well. He had that ignorant anti-Semitism that so irritates me. I don’t have to tell
you
about that. If they did have a bust-up it might have been over Freddie’s extremism.’
‘Veronica and I are seeing Polly Copthorne tomorrow,’ Conrad said. ‘Veronica is an old friend of hers.’ Conrad had just telephoned Veronica, and although he hadn’t told her why he wanted to see Polly, she had agreed to introduce him. She had sounded enthusiastic, in fact.