The Secret Generations (14 page)

Later, when James had left them, Sara told him that someone had suggested she should go to Martha Crook if she wanted a child.
‘Why should someone go to her, John?’

It was little more than Martha
’s merely having been some kind of nurse or midwife. ‘You seem to be learning fast about the country, so you must have discovered how they are here. The old ways are just under the surface; the old charms; magic, if you like. The country folk round here seldom go out on All Hallows Eve, for instance. Martha has a reputation, and my guess is that she plays on it. I gather she still works as a midwife when it’s necessary. But people do go to her, people who want children – and those who want to be rid of them, I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s become the local wise woman…’

‘
In this day and age? John it’s 1910, not the Middle Ages.’ Sara had been rather shocked by the story of The General and Martha Crook. There was something unpleasant about the family just keeping her, having Billy put to a trade. She felt he deserved more.

‘
In the country, Sara dear, nothing’s impossible. You
should
visit her some time.’

As they were on the subject, John decided it was time to bring up the question of the estate manager.
‘I hear you’ve had a run-in with Hunter, about using man-traps,’ he began casually, not expecting the whirlwind he would unleash.

Sara
’s lips pursed, her eyes turning towards him. ‘Yes, John. I wanted to speak of Hunter. He’s a vile beast of a man, and must go.’

‘
Go? But you’ll never replace him. He was The General’s confidant, and…’

‘
And he’s a pervert. A freak, who if it were not for your position, would be arrested and locked up.’

‘
Sara!’ John Railton was taken aback by her vehemence. But he also knew she was right. Many blind eyes had been turned to Hunter. ‘Someone’s been…’

‘
Yes. It’s like your Martha Crook, and your half-brother Billy. Something to be kept in the family. He’s a criminal and you protect him, because he was The General’s man, and a good manager. He’s not only a pervert, but he’s a law unto himself. Imagines he can play God.’

‘
Sara, man-traps are regarded as part of life out here. We have to protect the game and…’

‘
It’s not just the man-traps, it’s the man. I’m the one who is here most of the time, and
I
don’t want him working on the estate…’

John asked her what she knew, and how she had come by it.

‘I felt a fool.’ She sat, straight-backed, her face set. John began to see that, even in a few short weeks, life at Redhill had changed her. ‘Hunter was blustering at old Natter the other day. Uncalled for, to upbraid another servant in front of me – unforgivable; but Hunter’s a bully and insolent, as you know. Anyhow, when he rode off, old Natter muttered away, and I heard him say what Hunter was.’ She hesitated, ‘I didn’t know what he meant, so I asked James. He told me, with some embarrassment. John, I don’t think your son – and a lot of other people – really care for your employing a man who brings young boys and girls up to the Glebe House, and commits such horrible, criminal acts. You protect him, and that’s wrong.’

She was correct, of course, John acknowledged to himself. The General had a strange outlook and did not regard Hunter
’s particular perversions as more than quirks. Yet it was against the law – God’s law as well as the law of the land. Over the years, the men of the family had simply accepted Hunter, and not dwelt on the implications.

‘
How would you suggest we replace him, if I dismiss the man?’ He asked, presently.

‘
It’s quite simple. Bob Berry’s a first-rate farm manager; he could combine the jobs, and do them both without difficulty.’

‘
Ah,’ John smiled. ‘I also wanted to talk about Mr Berry. It’s a tradition here – in fact a necessity – that the farm manager should be married. The General made an exception with Berry. But I’m not going to allow it to continue. I’ve already decided, he’ll have to go by the end of the year – well, at Michaelmas really; that’s the usual time.’

Sara slowly rose, standing in front of him, her back straight, eyes becoming as hard as any Railton soldier
’s. ‘John,’ while her voice remained controlled, there was an edge to it that her husband had never heard before. ‘You are my husband, therefore my master – for I promised in church to love, honour and obey you. You are also master of Redhill Manor. But you need me here for the best part of the year. I did not like the idea, but I have come to terms with it. I even enjoy it. If you are to go on in politics, I must have a measure of power here. I would not threaten you, for you are my beloved husband; but, if Bob Berry is sent from the farm, then I shall pack my bags, return to London and never put my foot over this threshold again. The same applies to the decision about Hunter. He
must
go.’ The words, melodramatic though they were, carried conviction.

Her tone softened,
‘John, dear. I’ve come to love this place. It has a sort of magic about it that ensnares a person. Other Railton wives have found the same, I know. You haven’t the time to deal with everything. I have, and I mean what I say about Berry and Hunter.’

John said nothing. He needed time to think. Yet, after two more conversations with Sara, he finally agreed.
‘I shall pension off Hunter, and see Berry.’ Oddly, he felt that, for a Railton, he was being weak. Yet he wanted to dedicate the bulk of his time to the political work. Sara was happy at Redhill, and a few small changes would do no harm.

As for Bob Berry, the farm manager was already putting to rights the problem which had worried him from the moment of The General
’s death. He had formed a liaison with the sixteen-year-old daughter of Jack Calmer, the best butcher in Haversage.

Young Rachel Calmer had first put in an appearance when she had been sent to the farm on an errand. The errand, a minor matter
– a ten-minute chore – took her the best part of three hours, after which she began to walk out with Berry.

By late spring, young Rachel, who was a fine slim girl, with dark, almost gypsy, looks, told her suitor that she was pregnant. She did not tell him that she had set out to become
pregnant by him.

For Bob Berry, the future was prepared. The banns were read, and shortly afterwards his new appointment as farm and estate manager was confirmed.

Hunter left quietly, a fact which amazed many people. But John saw to it that he was provided with a regular annuity, and a house, far away on the other side of Oxford.

At Redhill Manor, things were changing.

*

Giles, in his own secret way, had been a one-man intelligence service for so many years now that he had long since ceased to be answerable to any of the official bodies. He shared his private knowledge
– or most of it – and undeniably trod a delicate and dangerous path, with contacts which took him into strange areas, encompassing practically every country in Europe.

True, he had recently opened up a rich vein of information through his own kinfolk in Ireland, but long before his son, Malcolm, had even met
Bridget Kinread, Giles had skilfully infiltrated his own agent within the now reblossoming Fenian movement.

In the past he had personally visited the man, interrogated him, and been the recipient of his private letters and messages, which provided a wide variety of intelligence concerning the Republican Brotherhood. The man
’s real name was Declan Fearon. They had coded him SNAKE, which seemed apt, even amusing, to Giles.

Now, the elder Railton called on Vernon Kell to ask a favour. He learned that Charles was progressing well and suggested that his nephew could possibly receive further training by seeing the man known as SNAKE. For the first time Giles shared this secret source with Kell who, suitably impressed, agreed that Charles might
well benefit from a short clandestine operation.

So it was that Giles briefed Vernon Kell who, in turn, gave
Charles the details of what he was to do. The agent would be expecting him, on one of three consecutive nights, between seven and nine at his home in West Cork. Passwords were arranged and Charles felt more than a small thrill at being entrusted with bringing back detailed intelligence from Ireland. The dates set were in a matter of a fortnight’s time.

*

Hans-Helmut Ulhurt – ‘The Fisherman’ – sailed, ostensibly as second mate, on the merchant vessel
Möwe
, out of Hamburg, in early April.

They unloaded in Liverpool, leaving only machine parts in the cargo hold. These were to be delivered, during the return journey, in Dublin. The task in Liverpool should have taken four days at the outside. Unfortunately, though, the ship developed trouble with her steering, causing her to wait for replacement parts to be brought from Hamburg.

In all,
Möwe
was in Liverpool docks for almost two weeks, during which time ‘The Fisherman’ travelled to Porstmouth, Southampton, Plymouth, London and thence to Scotland, via the industrial heart of the Midlands.

He was able to pass himself off quite easily as an Englishman, and had no troub
le while travelling. On the contrary, he made some very pleasant friends and, in all, had five liaisons with young women who were fascinated by his stories of the sea, his wooden leg, and other parts of his anatomy which provided hours of pleasure and homely fun.

He promised to visit these women again
– in particular a Mrs MacGregor, who kept a boarding house in Invergordon.

While he took pleasure with the ladies,
‘The Fisherman’ behaved himself on other counts, getting drunk only once – and that in the privacy of his room at a small private hotel in London.

Finally, they delivered the machine parts in Dublin where the ship was to be berthed for six days.

On the first morning, Steinhauer’s man visited Bewley’s Café where he got into ‘casual’ conversation with a man who gave him a number of messages for a mutual acquaintance in Germany.

‘
Our friend once told me that he had a man who could do almost anything for good comrades,’ the Irishman said quietly, after passing on certain intelligence which ‘The Fisherman’ was sure would interest his chief.

‘
Yes,’ ‘The Fisherman’ nodded. ‘Yes, that man is myself. Can I be of service?’

The Irishman looked at him with clear hard blue eyes which reminded Ulhurt of broken glass.
‘Some friends of mine have a great problem, he began. ‘You see, we’ve discovered a traitor in our midst, and there’s really only one thing you can do with a traitor…’

‘
How well I know it.’

‘B
ut, you see, the fellow’s well-known and lives in a small community. If my friends did the job themselves they’d be surely tracked down. They need an outsider; but someone who can come and go without leaving a ripple on the water, so.’

‘
The Fisherman’ nodded, ‘I’m your man. Just tell me where, and who. It will be done in a matter of forty-eight hours.’

‘
Well, now.’ Padraig leaned back in his chair. ‘Well, so. You’ll be having to take the train. The fella you’ll want lives in the village of Rosscarbery. That’s in West Cork.’ He then started to give the German more precise instructions. ‘We’d like a real example made of him,’ he ended.

*

Charles had arrived in Rosslare on the steam ferry, complete with rod, fly-box, and the usual impedimenta, looking every inch a visitor out for a week or so of pleasant fishing.

He took the train to Cork and then moved on by omnibus, putting up for the night in an inn some five miles from Rosscarbery. In the bar he could not detect any suspicion
– ‘There’s a lot of people here for the fishing from across the water’ – they told him. So he arranged matters with the innkeeper, and spent the following day catching nothing in nearby fresh water.

At about four in the afternoon, Charles packed up his rods, returned to the inn and announced that he was off for a walk. Nobody seemed surprised
– the English were mad anyway and there was no accounting for them. If the Englishman wanted to go walking at this time of day who were they to comment?

Rosscarbery stands high on rocky ground, its one access being a steep rising road which takes you straight into a small square; the whole, perched c
onfusion of grey houses reminiscent of a Provençal village. The main road forks up the hill, and is approached over a fine straight causeway.

It was a blustery March evening, with cloud lowering in from the west, and the last struggling rays of pale sun trying to cast slanting beams onto the sea lying to Charles
’ left. Ahead of him, the long causeway led to the road and the hill. He paused for a moment. Vernon Kell had told him not to arrive early. It was straightforward, he said, and merely a matter of timing. The man they called SNAKE lived in a small house on the far side of the town, on the western slope of the hill. Charles had studied a plan of the place. From the causeway it would take him about an hour to walk to their informant’s door.

He rested, looking out at the sea, reflecting on its constant movement, aware of the noise as small breakers hit the rocks, but at the same time remaining alert, alive to the possibility of someone watching him.