The Secret Generations (36 page)

It was this meeting that was arranged for the day after Charles
’ ‘confession’ to Kell, and he again took the Coventry train to meet the girl who dominated his thoughts.

In the Coventry tart
’s parlour, she purred, naked, leaning over him in the dark. ‘Do you think I’ve done well? “G” thinks I’ve done very well. I’ve got to carry on, and report to him when he arranges another meeting. Have they found out about him yet?’

In fact they had, for
‘G’ was registered as a Russian alien named Muller, living in Bloomsbury, near Russell Square. ‘If they have, I would not tell you, my darling. It’s not in the rules, and
you
certainly know the rules.’ Charles smiled.

‘
Meaning?’

He patted her bottom.
‘Meaning you are well trained in all the arts of your craft.’

She laughed
– which craft was he speaking about? the one he ordered to sail, or the one he sailed in?

Presently she asked if he had an itinerary for her journeys during the coming week?
‘G’ merely provided the place names. It was Charles who controlled her movements.

‘
How would you like a couple of days in London?’

‘
With you, Charles?’

‘
At the Carlton. I can get away for one of the nights.’

She squealed like a child,
‘Oh, and it’s nearly Christmas…’

‘
Wait,’ he stopped her mouth with his hand. ‘We’ll have one wonderful night, but you may not like the next day too much. There’s someone important who wishes to see you about Marie Grenot.’ She must stick to the story she had told him about Marie; but, he cautioned her, ‘On no account give the impression that we have anything more than a professional relationship. It could bring great harm to both of us.’

It was, then, on the morning after they had spent the
‘wonderful night’ together at the Carlton, that Sara saw them leaving the hotel. At that moment, Madeline did not know she was on her way to be interrogated by Giles Railton. Nor could she know that she was already pregnant by Charles.

*

The village of Ashford lies a few miles from Wicklow Town, in the direction of Dublin. In one of its six public houses, Malcolm Railton sat quietly drinking with Padraig O’Connell.

It was ten o
’clock at night, in the second week of December.

‘
So the English think the Fenian movement is dead?’ O’Connell looked over the top of his glass, his eyes red in the glow from the turf fire.

‘
No, I don’t think they’re that foolish. But they imagine things’ll be quiet now there are Irishmen fighting alongside a common enemy.’

O
’Connell let out a loud, almost drunken, laugh. ‘Can’t the buggers read? Don’t they allow them the Irish newspapers in London?’ He spoke of a letter, published in the Irish Independent only a couple of months previously, by the Dublin-born Foreign Service diplomat, Sir Roger Casement, urging all Irishmen to fight against Britain, and not against the Central Powers.

‘
Oh yes, but I don’t think they take Casement very seriously. He’s gone to ground, and’ll get himself arrested if he sets foot in this country, or across the water.’

‘
Well, you find out how much they know, friend Malcolm, and I’ll tell you what
I
know. For some damned reason I trust you, even though you’re an English bastard. You’ll find out?’

‘
I’ll do my best. You can be certain of that.’

‘
Right, then. Well, here’s the latest…’ Padraig began to speak softly. At the end, he said, ‘The English will be too busy with their war to notice that the Irish patriots are armed and organized, ready to throw them out of this country once and for all. You’ll see.’

On the following morning, two telegrams were sent from the Post Office in Dublin
’s O’Connell Street.

One was to Sara, at Redhill, apologizing for the fact that Bridget and Malcolm Railton would not be able to join the rest of the family for Christmas.

The other was to a Mr Gordon Rainer, in Paddington.

This second telegram
– in cipher – told its recipient what he already in part knew: that Sir Roger Casement was in Berlin to recruit and get German assistance for a future uprising in Ireland.

Giles Railton had the deciphered message in his locked desk drawer when Charles showed Madeline Drew into the room.

His usual chilly manner became warm, even pleasant, with the girl, as Giles bade Charles leave them. He felt it was always best to be as nice as possible before he put someone to the question. Giles was a Grand Master at inquisitionary techniques.

Six hours elapsed before Charles was summoned to take Madeline away. The girl was white and shaking.
‘That man is a ruthless, dreadful person,’ she sobbed.

As for Giles, he looked as though frozen inside an iceberg. Much to Charles
’ concern, Giles Railton kept his nephew locked from his conversation and company throughout the entire Christmas holiday: while Madeline refused to give any clue as to what had transpired during the inquisition.

*

The riddled and mutilated corpses remained, either buried in shallow graves, or lying in the fields, woods and ditches of Belgium and France – that dreadful killing area in the final months of 1914. The trail of dead, from both sides, marked the ground for all time: as did abandoned and shattered armaments.

Before Christmas, the Allied armies faced those of the Central Powers; entrenched and
miserable, along a line stretching from below Ostend, through Picardy and Champagne, into Lorraine.

Across Europe there was rain. Over the sweeping downland, above Haversage, around Redhill Manor, it snowed.

The whole Railton family, with the exception of Bridget, Malcolm and, of course, the Grenots, gathered for the annual festivities though, much to Sara’s chagrin, Giles took over The General’s study, where he remained for most of his visit.

The children and some of the adults played in the snow, building snowmen, or taking the three old toboggans onto Roman
’s Slope.

Caspar, looking surprisingly cheerful, arrived in a Bath chair, with a snake-slim, beautiful young nurse called Phoebe, who appeared to watch over him like a nanny. He insisted on spending at least two hours each day trying out his peg-leg
– his courage and determination appearing miraculous to all who watched him.

Only on the final day of this rather sombre Christmas did the rest of the family discover that Phoebe was, in fact, the Honourable Phoebe Mercer, heir to the Lancashire cotton millionaire, Lord Mercer of Bury. They also failed to notice that she put Mary Anne
’s nose out of joint.

Mary Anne was in uniform, and scheduled to leave, with several Anglican High Church nuns, for France in January.

On Christmas Eve, she spent some time with her cousin, Caspar.

‘
Sure you’re up to it, Mar?’ he asked, using her initials, as they had done since childhood.

‘
I passed everything, top of my group. And spent a lot of time in the wards.’

Caspar
’s smile was not patronizing. ‘Oh, Mar, I hope that’s enough. Some of the professional soldiers over there’ve been shocked at the sheer barbarity of modern weapons. I hope to God you’re tough enough.’

‘
I was tough enough when we played soldiers years ago.’

‘
This isn’t playing soldiers,’ Caspar snapped. Then the smile returned. ‘Yes, you were quite a tomboy. Uncle Charles treated you rather like a boy, didn’t he?’

She nodded.
‘I think he very much wanted me to be a boy. Well, he’s got his heart’s desire now; though little William Arthur’s a handful, and Father isn’t at home enough to appreciate him. I’ll tell you one thing, though, Cas. I’ll wager young William Arthur doesn’t get the beatings I got.’ She had the same true Railton look as the others – tall, with a good body which showed under her uniform as she moved.

Caspar shifted in his chair, the effort making him contort his face, as pain bit into the stump of his leg. She saw the beads of perspiration break out on his brow.

‘You all right, Cas?’

‘’
Course I’m not all right, Mar. Oh Christ!’ They were alone, and had been close all their lives, but this was the first time since childhood that Mary Anne had seen him in tears. ‘How would you feel, Mar? One leg and one arm. Good old Phoebe pumps morphia into me when it gets really bad, and they say that eventually it’ll go altogether. It’s not so much the pain as the disability. The look of pity I see in people’s eyes. I don’t want their bloody pity. I want work. I want to kill fucking Germans – sorry.’

‘
It’s all right. I’ve learned a lot of words since I began nursing. You’d be surprised, cousin.’

And at that moment Phoebe returned.
‘You mustn’t tire him, you know,’ giving Mary Anne a look of professional superiority.

Mary Anne merely laughed.
‘Even in his present condition, I doubt if
I
could tire him, Phoebe.’

Caspar was quietly amused by the exchange.

On Christmas afternoon, at the giving of presents, Giles seemed his old self, though Charles noticed that his uncle’s gaze did not once stray in his direction. For the remainder of the time – Christmas dinner apart – Giles sat brooding in The General’s study. He saw only three people alone: James, Caspar and Ramillies.

Giles saw James on the afternoon of Boxing Day, after the younger man had spent the morning riding to hounds.

When they were seated in the study, Giles asked how Oxford was going. He had arranged for his nephew to spend time in the university city, while he studied the Berlin dialect, and learned from maps and photographs the city which he had only visited once in his life.

‘
Oxford’s fine, sir. Old Professor Bucholz and Dr Meyer are hard taskmasters, and Margaret Mary’s not happy only seeing me at week-ends.’

‘
It would be most unwise for her to join you in Oxford.’

‘
Oh, she understands. Still doesn’t like it.’

Giles offered one of his rare smiles, and James asked after C.
‘He’ll be back in the New Year.’ Giles sounded oddly put out, as though a tiny portion of his power would be removed. ‘Very tough. I saw him last week. He’s like a war horse, pawing the ground to get into battle again.’

‘
I get my final orders from C?’ James asked.

‘
Officially, yes. But I shall be present.’

‘
How long have I got?’

Giles did not look at him.
‘Not long. The actual date will depend on the reports from Oxford. We don’t want you in Berlin until we think you’ll get away with it.’

James grunted. Inwardly he was already excited.
‘How do I get in?’

‘
The same way as Friedrichshafen. Only you’ll change identities straight off, and head directly for Berlin. Identity is the most important factor. You follow me. You must begin to think as a German now. Once there, you won’t have time to look back. You must be invisible in that city.’

Outside, in the big drawing room, the women sat and talked. When James came out of the study Sara told him that Margaret Mary had gone up to rest before dinner.

‘And we all know what that means,’ she muttered, watching Porter who had been summoned, and was shuffling away in search of Caspar. Before this interruption they had been talking to Charlotte, trying to help her, and understand the nature of her present distress. Comprehension was not difficult – all had seen Caspar’s courage, and Rupert’s heartbreaking condition. He had played with simple toys through the holiday, and had a tantrum in church: so bad that Nanny Briggs had had to remove him.

‘
I’m resigned to it,’ Charlotte said. ‘I can live with Caspar’s disablement, because he can live with it; and Rupert has no option. Andrew’s the true concern. He’s so changed since it all happened.’ Indeed, Andrew, who had been an almost too perfect example of the Royal Navy at its best, was altered beyond recognition, and Sara was shocked at the way he appeared to be drinking so much.

Charlotte had said he had plenty of work to do at the Admiralty.
‘Though Lord knows if he’s doing it properly. He’s always half drunk when he gets in at night.’ Then she asked if any of the other men had mentioned her father-in-law’s speech, after the ladies had withdrawn following the Christmas dinner. There was a general shaking of heads. ‘Well, I know Andrew was pretty drunk, but, even within the family, he thought his father had been a trifle indiscreet.’

She then recounted what Andrew had told her.

After the dinner, Giles had stood at the head of the table, and facing Andrew, Charles, James, Ramillies and Caspar, proposed a toast. ‘Within our family there are few secrets,’ he began, ‘yet we all know of our particular work. I doubt if there is any other family in the country with as many of its sons working among the same shadows, and carrying the same secrets in their heads. We are, gentlemen, members of a unique, and very special, society. We live mainly in a secret world. Be proud of that, and do not listen to any of the military or political pundits who say our kind of work is degrading or contemptible: they have yet to understand the true nature of our various callings. In time, both military and political worlds will appreciate what we do now. This is honourable work; patriotic work. We are…’ he paused, searching for the right words, ‘We are a new style of generation. A secret generation. So, I toast us – the secret generations.’