The Secret Generations (51 page)

*

Most of the family regarded Giles Railton
’s quiet withdrawal from active official life with some suspicion. As Charlotte put it, ‘My father-in-law is not the kind of man to turn his face to the wall at the first intimation of mortality.’ She also admitted that Andrew was the last of the Railtons she would have imagined capable of infidelity: and she had firm proof of that – six neatly typed pages from Mr James Prosser, Enquiry Agent, of Beak Street.

Charlotte had decided that the whole question of action over Andrew
’s now blatant infidelity should be kept silent. She was certainly not going to throw away the benefits of being a Railton because her husband had decided to do disgusting things with some little tart.

She would do nothing, unless the worst happened, and Andrew was stupid enough to ask for a divorce.

In the meantime, she continued to help Sara at Redhill; saw Margaret Mary; worried – with all of them – over poor Mildred’s obvious deterioration; and, lastly, made a vow to try and like her daughter-in-law Phoebe, who was disliked by most of the family, the only exceptions being Caspar and Margaret Mary.

The others disliked Phoebe for a whole muddle of reasons.
‘Bossy and dogmatic,’ said Sara, and ‘Unreasonable snob,’ from Mildred in one of her lucid moments. Charles thought her ‘sly’; Andrew hardly ever gave a concrete reason, and Giles was blunt and forthright. ‘Cotton,’ he grumbled, on the one occasion when Charlotte drew him on the subject. ‘Cotton means the family’s in trade. Railtons’ve never been in trade.’

In reality, Phoebe was not nearly as dogmatic as some of the family thought. Her bluntness came from a northern upbringing; her bossiness from having to stand up to a truly overbearing father. All of it was really a kind of defence against a deep sense of insecurity. In Caspar she had found the one person who could fulfil all her wants and requirements, and one whom she could also respect, love and admire on equal terms.

Caspar himself had made great progress as far as his peg-leg was concerned, and they were now talking about the advances in other techniques regarding false limbs. So he had hopes for his arm. But his greatest achievement had been a mastery of the secret work he performed each day.

C, in later years, was to say that Caspar was, without doubt, the finest Chief of Staff he could ever want. Caspar rarely needed to look up facts from their many files. He seemed to have acquired an almost photographic memory for names,
faces, operations and topography. He would, it was whispered, have been the best man for any enemy to kidnap, for he held details of the secret trade in his head as a genius mathematician holds figures.

Like his mother, Charlotte, Caspar had many suspicions regarding his grandfather
’s semi-retirement. ‘The old bugger’s up to something, Phoeb,’ he told his wife one night. ‘I mean, he’s been in the game longer than any of us; knows all the tricks. He’s got some poor sod in his sights.’ After a few moments he muttered, ‘God, no? No, it couldn’t be…’ In fact he had fitted the first clues into place within the jigsaw of truth which was so worrying him.

Later that same evening, he made an excuse to visit the King Street house, spending some time upstairs trying to talk with his hopelessly retarded brother, Rupert. While he talked, he searched the boy
’s room.

Ramillies was out, so he crept into his room also, and performed a similar, and fairly thorough, search.

He said nothing to Smith-Cumming, but Caspar was now certainly worried by at least one glimmering and terrible suspicion. A spare white silk scarf was missing from Rupert’s old uniform chest. It had been there a few months previously. Caspar had seen it.

*

Malcolm was ‘cleaned out’, as C called it, by his people, MI5, and the Branch. All three departments prepared files which were eventually put together, and issued to all the sections – including Admiralty Intelligence – as the up-to-date dossier on revolutionary action in Ireland.

When it
was all over, Malcolm declared that he never wished to see that wretched country again. All he wanted was the chance to do some proper farming, but there was the question of his age and fitness, which made him eligible for compulsory military service.

He still lived with his father in Eccleston Square, and Giles
did his best to see if matters could be arranged in the young man’s favour.

He had even spoken to Sara about Malcolm taking over running the farm, but Sara
’s reaction was merely to say that if Malcolm wished to
help
with the running he would be more than welcome.

In the meantime, Ramillies visited his grandfather, at Eccleston Square, at least three times a week. Malcolm was always kept well out of the way during the visits.

During the week before the Casement trial, in May, Ramillies came to the house one night much later than usual.

Giles sat opposite the young man, in the Hide, his eyes friendly, yet never leaving Ramillies
’ face.

‘
We will not be disturbed,’ he began, ‘Malcolm’s tucked away, and I’ve sent the servants to bed. Now…’ He started as usual, going through the latest events and gossip at the Foreign Office. Ramillies was now his main source of intelligence from within the corridors of diplomatic power.

It was three days since they had last met, but Ramillies, whose eyes and ears were sharp for detail, was able to play b
ack almost a minute by minute résumé of all he had seen and heard in the past seventy-two hours.

‘
And what of you, Ramillies?’ It was the standard question, and Ramillies answered with eyes clear of deceit, and a silver tongue which would only disclose so much and no more, even to his beloved grandfather.

‘
Busy, as always. You’ve taught me so much, sir. I find most of the moves come easily enough…’

‘
Once you’ve learned the game, you realize there are few variations,’ the older man smiled. ‘Like chess.’

Ramillies nodded,
‘I think I have everything under control. Quiet; possible enemies watched; delicate situations placed so they can never bother me again, and…’

‘
And the Russian?’ Giles asked smoothly.

‘
I still spend four or five hours a day. I think I’ll pass when the time comes, as you tell me it will.’

Giles nodded.
‘Now to the reason I asked you here so late.’ He opened one of his desk drawers. ‘Here we have certain details; specific documents,’ unfolding a dossier. ‘Can you manage to take two days from the office this week without causing ripples?’

‘
Naturally.’

‘
Good. I want you to go to Scotland, but there are rules in what I shall instruct you to do. Deviation could bring havoc.’

As Giles was beginning to tell Ramillies of the action he wished him to take, Sergeant Billy Crook VC was arriving at Waterloo Station to start an unexpected week
’s leave.

He had been out of the line when the CO sent for him.
‘Spot of leave’s come up, Sarn’t Crook.’ The Colonel smiled. All very friendly.

‘
Leave, sir?’

‘
Mmm. Not really compassionate, but…’

‘
Not my mother, sir.’ His heart skipped a beat. His mother was looking very well at Christmas.

‘
No–no–no. But it is, er, someone – your former employer, Mrs Farthing?’

‘
Mrs Richard Railton Farthing, sir.’ It was old Mr Giles, and the rest of the family, who had insisted Lady Sara kept the Railton in. Funny how he still always thought of her as Lady Sara.

‘
Yes, that’s it. She has well-placed friends, Sarn’t Crook.’

‘
Sir.’

There was a pause, while the Colonel shuffled papers.
‘Well, have a good time, Crook. Collect your warrant. Oh, and you’re not to hang about in Paris or London. Straight to… er,’ another look down at the papers, ‘Haversage, is it?’

‘
Haversage, Berkshire, sir. Yes.’

‘
Off you go then. Lucky devil. Have a good leave.’

What could Lady Sara want? No good thinking about it or worrying. As long as it was not his Ma, nothing mattered. A week at Redhill, in early spring. It would be bliss. No guns. No fear.

He took the underground train to Paddington. Haversage, change at Didcot. Next one in half an hour.

It would have been strange, in the crowd, when he finally walked onto the platform, if he had noticed passing the chief
petty officer who walked with a stick, as though he had a peg-leg. A big man, broad, with one side of his face heavily bandaged. He wore his Number One uniform, with a navy raincoat, and a white silk scarf.

The chief petty officer was heading towards Platform Two. The Bristol train.

*

‘
Of course they’ll find the bastard guilty, Brian. A traitor. Guilty as hell, and they’ll hang him for it. I was there, heard the lies – how he was landed to stop the rebellion.’

‘
But…’ Wood considered that Charles Railton was a very different man from the one he had known at the outbreak of war.

‘
I tell you, Sir Roger Casement will hang.’ Charles noticed his hands were shaking. His nerves were in shreds. It was not just the job, being close to Thomson for most of the time, reporting to Kell, becoming involved in the puerile inter-department feuds; there were the two other vice-like pressures.

Mildred would not leave his consciousness. How could someone as steady as Mildred disintegrate so rapidly? She was getting worse, the moods of elation dropping into deep troughs of despair, and short-fused temper.

During the more placid moments, he noticed that each month she asked for a small raise in her allowance. Mildred had always managed her finances like a careful book-keeper. Now she needed more and more.

Charles could not know that Dr Fisher had subtly removed her from the laudanum, and was
‘treating’ her with morphine. Yet Kell had kept his promise, introducing Charles to his medical man, an earnest, likeable and obviously dedicated young doctor called Martin Harris.

They had spent an hour together, with Charles answering questions as succinctly as possible. As Vernon suggested, the doctor was amenable to a small plot
– a dinner party seemed best. Charles arranged it. But, when the day arrived, Mildred was suffering from ‘a terrible bilious attack’, and the dinner was postponed. Harris then had to be away, so it would now not take place until early August.

On top of all this, there wer
e the illicit demands for information – munitions output, aeroplane types, recruiting, relationships between the War Office and Admiralty. Hardly a week went by without one of the notes, with a short list of questions.

Because he could trust
‘Brenner’, and knew some complex duplicity would prevent the truth reaching those who asked the questions, Charles did as he had been told. He gathered the intelligence, attended the meetings in the tucked away house, reported in full to ‘Brenner’, and tried not to think any more about it.

Somewhere though, on the periphery of his mind, hung a large question mark. He even tried to ask
‘Brenner’ for more details, but the man smiled, shaking his head. ‘Holy Writ,’ ‘Brenner’ said. ‘In the fullness of time all things shall be accomplished.’

And now, Basil Thomson had asked Charles to discuss the white silk scarf murders with Wood and Partridge.

They waited to take a lead from him, and he cleared his throat saying that they should look at what they knew of this man who their enemies called ‘The Fisherman’.

Certainly he was a saboteur, and a murderer with at least four victims
– ‘Five if you count Miss Drew…’

‘
Haas, sir,’ Wood corrected, the policy being that the dead woman should be named in all documents as Hanna Haas, ‘and we
can’t
count her. The modus operandi is totally alien to the others.’

‘
You mean because of the knot? Then we can’t count my kinswoman in Ireland, either, because all they got was charred remains…’

‘
And the testimony of Mr Malcolm Railton.’ Wood corrected again. ‘It’s not simply the knot. There were other indications. Whoever killed Miss Haas did not use the same method. The others were quick professional jobs, a scarf looped around the neck from behind, with the ends crossed and pulled – with a knot added, like a signature.’

Charles nodded. They knew
‘The Fisherman’ was responsible for the explosion on HMS
Bulwark
, and that he had orders to carry out similar acts. Couldn’t they do a reconstruction? Establish motive.

They began to go through each murder in detail, then the dates and periods of time when they knew exactly where
‘The Fisherman’ had been.

Fiske, the first victim
– the naval officer – was the easiest. He had been in
Bulwark
and had gone on leave the day of the explosion.

‘
Let us suppose,’ Wood had a sheet of paper in front of him, ‘“The Fisherman” could not get aboard Bulwark. Fiske was used to take a parcel aboard. If it had happened like that, he probably needed to eliminate Fiske.’