Authors: David Roberts
‘I am not political, Lord Edward,’ Cavens said with dignity. ‘I fight as a profession, not for a cause.’
‘I am afraid that will soon not be a good enough answer. All over the world there are people who say politics is a dirty business and they will have nothing to do with it but do you remember what the philosopher Edmund Burke said? “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.”’
‘I know how to fight if I have to, Lord Edward. You seem to be angry about something, if I may say so. I hope it is nothing I have done?’
‘No, I apologize, Fred. You are right. I am angry but not at you. Since you have been in Germany, I have suffered a loss. A girl called Gerda Meyer – a photographer – was killed by the Luftwaffe in an undefended Spanish town called Guernica.’
‘Guernica! You were there?’
‘I was and so was my friend, Verity Browne. We all nearly lost our lives. Miss Browne was badly wounded when the gallant Luftwaffe pilots machine-gunned the civilians escaping the fires started by their bombs and incendiaries. Your friends in Germany are not playing games, Fred. They are leading us all toward Armageddon and, damn it, we are doing our best to make it easy for them. That is what makes me angry.’
‘But what is this to do with me?’ Cavens demanded, by now thoroughly perplexed and not a little insulted.
‘I suppose I mean that I cannot any longer fence with a man who plays games with Himmler. You must choose, even if it is “not your business”.’
‘Then I choose not to stay and be insulted, Lord Edward,’ Cavens said, beginning to gather up his weapons and leave.
Edward knew he ought to apologize. Why take out his anger on Fred Cavens? But then, he thought with a grin, why not?
Cavens left with the briefest of goodbyes. Edward knew he had seen the last of him and was sorry, but at least he had refused to compromise. He was no longer capable of shaking the hand of a man who had shaken the hand of Heinrich Himmler.
Fenton had watched this exchange with some amazement. He had not seen his master in this mood before. He seemed sterner and more hawk-like than just a few weeks ago. Fenton thought he had recovered from the experience of Guernica but now he recognized that he might never fully recover – might never want to.
There was a ring at the doorbell and he went to answer it. To Edward’s surprise, it was Sir Vida Chandra.
‘Sir Vida, forgive me for my
déshabillé
. I have, as you can see, been fencing. Mr Cavens has just left.’
‘I met him on the steps. He looked . . . disgruntled.’
‘Did he? I am afraid I have been guilty of bad manners. I told him I could no longer fence with a man who also fenced with Herr Himmler. You’ll say I was unforgivably priggish but it’s odd, it seems to me that, unlike a gun, a sword is never less than personal.’
‘Not at all priggish. You are quite right, Lord Edward; the time is coming when we will all have to make it clear which side we are on. I have a feeling you may have thought I was on the wrong side.’
‘I confess, I was alarmed when I heard you owned the house in which David Griffiths-Jones and Guy Baron were staying. I know something of both gentlemen and don’t like what I know.’
‘You’ll have to believe me when I tell you I had no idea who Mr Griffiths-Jones was when I let him the house. Perhaps I ought to have known but I might still have let it to him. We do live in a democracy. What do you have against Communists? Surely your friend Miss Browne is also a Communist?’
‘Leave her out of this, Chandra,’ Edward said, angry again.
The Indian held up his hands. ‘I had no wish to be offensive. I am just saying we are on the same side.’
‘Was Westmacott coming to see you with secret papers when he was murdered?’
Chandra did not seem put out by this sudden change of tack. ‘I was acting as an intermediary, certainly.’
‘For Mr Churchill?’
Chandra bowed his head in tacit admission. ‘It was not my fault Major Stille got to him first.’
‘Oh, you know about that?’ Edward said, momentarily discomforted.
‘I do and I also know that you were instrumental in putting that silly young man – Younger, isn’t that his name? – behind bars. You know, I think he is just a silly young man. He, too, made his choices but they were the wrong ones.’
‘Maybe, but I beg to differ with you. He was not just a silly young man. He was a murderer . . . He even tried to murder Miss Hay who had cared for him as an honorary aunt all his childhood.’
‘Why did he need to kill her?’
‘Because she knew too much about his origins and he assumed that his mother had told her he was responsible for Westmacott’s murder. As it happened, she knew nothing about that. She only knew that he had developed a fascination with Germany which had led him to hand over defence secrets to a certain Major Stille.’
‘Ah well. You are probably right: the boy is rotten. But, Lord Edward, I have not come here to discuss ethics but to offer you a job. I happen to know that Sir Robert Vansittart is going to ask you to take over Desmond Lyall’s department. The man he had in mind has had to go elsewhere, I understand, or maybe he’s just not up to the job. I don’t know. You have at least proved one thing – that the department requires completely reorganizing and re-staffing if it is to continue with its valuable work.’
‘But you said you had a job to offer me?’
‘I do. I have. An even more important job. I would prefer it if you would work with Mr Churchill. Notice I don’t say
for
Mr Churchill. Marcus Fern warned me you were touchy about grammar. Mr Churchill needs someone like you to look after his security and help assess the value and reliability of the information he receives from his sources.’ He held up his hand. ‘Before you refuse and proclaim once again that you are not, and have no wish to be, Mr Churchill’s private detective, let me make it clear that is not what is being offered to you. It is a much more important position than that though you would also be responsible for hiring and controlling his personal detective. I’m sure you would agree that Mr Churchill’s life is too valuable to allow him to be assassinated by some madman or a foreign agent.’
‘I am sorry, Chandra, but . . .’
‘Come to Chartwell next week and we can talk some more. Mr Churchill wants to hear from you about the investigation.’
Without waiting for any further response, he left the room. He returned immediately to say, ‘Oh, by the way, that amphora of yours – it’s a fake, you know. Sonerscheins offered it to me but I turned it down.’ And then he was gone.
‘I am the more deceived,’ Edward said to Fenton, as he went over to examine his treasure. ‘Isn’t it strange? When I did not know that this was a fake, I thought it was the most beautiful thing. Now I find it ugly.’
The telephone rang and he waved Fenton aside and went to pick up the receiver. It was Verity and she seemed to be crying.
‘Edward, have you heard the news?’
‘What news?’
‘It was on the wireless a moment ago. The Hindenburg has crashed as it was coming in to land in New Jersey. It burst into flames and . . . and . . . It was supposed to be so safe.’
‘Oh my God! Was Lord Benyon on it?’
‘They haven’t yet said who the passengers were but I am sure he was. He was in Frankfurt for a meeting and he said he was going on to the States in the Hindenburg. After what happened on the
Queen Mary,
he said he’d had enough of ships. He thought airships might be safer.’
‘Oh, Verity, my darling. How awful. I’ll telephone the Foreign Office and find out if . . if . . . You never know, perhaps he changed his mind at the last minute. Was everyone on board killed?’
‘I think so. . . I don’t know. Edward, tell me, will this never end? Will everything we love go up in flames?’
Edward shook his head but said only, ‘I will come over as soon as I have rung Sir Robert. Be brave.’
He put the telephone receiver down and staggered a little. He put out a hand to steady himself on the table beside him. Benyon’s death would be a blow not only to him personally but to the country. No man had done more to keep the national finances on a sound footing.
There was a cry of warning from Fenton. Edward had quite forgotten the amphora, sitting on the little table. He turned and made a grab for it but the vase slid out of his grasp. It hit the wooden floor, bounced and broke into a dozen pieces. Edward looked at the shards of ancient – or not so ancient – clay, hardly able to believe what had happened. Quite literally, he felt, the world was crashing down about his feet.