Miller Caldwell - A Reluctant Spy

‘A sherry, gentlemen, and a mince pie, perhaps? Come through to the church hall. I am sure there are plenty left.’

Hilda tucked her oboe case under her arm and left the vestry, wrapping her scarf around her neck against the cold. If she met the Browns outside, she would be glad of her long coat and gloves. She walked towards the hotel with her ears open. A few other people had also set off for home and called across the street to thank her for her performance. She replied in as normal a tone as she could.

By the time the Commercial hotel came into view, she had still not encountered them. She looked at her watch; it was growing late. They were sure to contact her tomorrow, she thought.

She climbed the steps to the hotel and took off her gloves. Fergus appeared right away and gave her a quizzical look.

‘Your mother is entertaining a couple in the sitting room. I’ve just served them tea. Would you care to join them?’

‘Do you know who they are?’

‘No, not really. They’re not from around here, I’m sure about that. Mr and Mrs Brown, they said.’

‘Fergus, yes please bring me a cup of tea too. I’ll be in the sitting room with them.’

Her heart pounded as she strode quickly through the reception hall. She found Mrs Brown in conversation with her mother while Mr Brown listened with interest.

‘Ah, here she comes, the accomplished oboist,’ said Mr Brown.

‘I had no idea that you’d be here. I was not expecting you,’ she said, willing her mother to leave the room now, and end their acquaintance.

‘We had business up this way and saw the posters for the performance of the Messiah. They were on the church notice board, in the library and goodness knows everywhere else. One of Germany’s best composers,’ said Mrs Brown.

‘Wasn’t Handel English, dear?’ asked Mother.

‘Both mother. Born in Germany he spent his first forty-two years in Germany. Then he came to Britain and took out citizenship. He was English for the rest of his life. Thirty-two years,’ Hilda replied crisply.

‘More German than English then,’ Madge concluded as Fergus brought a fourth cup of tea.

‘I had forgotten you played the oboe until our mutual friend mentioned it,’ said Mrs Brown, casting a meaningful glance at Hilda.

Hilda took a deep breath. ‘Mother, I wonder if I could ask you… er… to…’

Mother pouted her lips. ‘Oh, I understand. You want to talk to your friends in private. Can I take your cups?’

Mother put the Browns’ teacups back on the tray, while Hilda held on to hers.

Mother made her way out, flipping the door closed behind her with her right foot.

‘Well, as I said, this is a surprise.’

‘A pleasant one, I trust?’ Mr Brown put his hand in his pocket and brought out an envelope. ‘This is for you.’

‘More instructions?’ she responded, trying to sound businesslike.

‘Not this time. We bring just a little expression of our gratitude. To see you through the next few weeks, especially at Christmas.’

She felt the envelope and raised her eyebrows.

‘Twenty-five pounds and ten shillings,’ he said. ‘We pay our agents well.’

‘Pounds or marks?’ she asked.

‘On this occasion, pounds. The next payment you receive will be in marks. In Hamburg, of course.’

‘I see. Thank you.’

‘No, thank you. You are doing well. You are integrating into the community, gaining its support and getting to hear the concerns of the locals. Moreover, you are keeping an eye on military movements too. That is the information we need. Are they up for a fight, or just muttering?’

‘You mean you came up from London just to say that and to give me this money?’

Mr Brown narrowed his eyes. ‘Who told you we came from London?’

It dawned on Hilda that this morsel of information had come from Mr Dynes. She thought quickly.

‘You have brought money for me. I have not seen you for several weeks. I surmised you had been in touch with your London Embassy. Of course, I may be wide of the mark.’ She held her breath; would they be convinced?

Mr Brown’s expression relaxed. ‘You have a remarkable sense of logic. Yes, London is where we came from. Just what we need in one of our promising agents. Well done.’

Hilda’s shoulders sagged with relief, and she was glad she was sitting down. ‘You mean you came here on Christmas Day just to hand over the money?’ she asked.

‘Call it a Christmas present. Yes, to give you the money, and to hear you play, but it’s disappointing that you ask so many questions. One spy does not tell another what they are doing. There is much work up here for us to do in Scotland, further north of here as well. It’s a very useful part of Britain for us.’

Mrs Brown piped up with an abrupt change of subject. ‘We were sorry to read about your father’s death.’

Hilda nodded. ‘Thank you. You read about it in the papers?’ Now she might discover how Eicke knew.

‘The Times obituaries.’

Of course, his army service. No doubt, his old regiment had some kind of procedure for placing obituaries in the English broadsheets. She saw an opportunity to discover how closely the Browns were in contact with Eicke.

‘I suppose I had better mention his death to Herr Eicke,’ she said.

Mrs Brown did not hesitate to answer. ‘Herr Eicke already knows. We informed him of your father’s death when we read about it.’

After breakfast next day, as the wind began to make the tall firs dance, Hilda telephoned Dynes. He asked her to meet him at the entrance of St Laurence’s churchyard at 10.15 that morning.

She could not get over the near miss at the performance the previous night; her British handlers – she supposed she must now call them that – had so very nearly come face to face with her German contacts. She played through the evening in her mind. Why could she see the Browns at the concert, but not Dynes and Thornton? At least she had some forewarning of the Germans. It had thrown her a little off-balance; anyone with more than a smattering of musical knowledge would have noticed the nervous trill as she played her second solo.

At ten o’clock, she asked her mother for a shopping list and set off with her basket. It took only five minutes or so to get to the church, and as she approached the open gate to the cemetery, she saw Dynes seated underneath an oak tree.

‘Good morning.’

‘Good morning. Shall we walk down this line of gravestones?’ he suggested.

The ash walkway had a spattering white covering of snow which contrasted with the green grassy edge. A dusting of frost sparkled on the gravestone tops and on the path, but there was not enough to make the walkway slippery. She glanced at the names on each stone as she passed by; the 1850s was a decade well represented and included a many very young children.

However, Dynes was not interested in the graves. ‘Why were the Browns in town?’ he asked.

She smiled. ‘They brought me my fee.’

Dynes laughed. ‘This espionage pays well,’ he said, bringing a brown envelope from his jacket’s breast pocket. ‘Here, your earnings from us. I hope they are at least comparable.’

‘What a coincidence. Perhaps you should stagger my next payment, or better still, let my bank manager… Ah. There will not be another payment, will there?’

Dynes chose to ignore the question.

‘When are you going back to Germany?’

‘In three weeks’ time.’

‘Three weeks, eh? Have you told your mother?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did she take it?’

‘I am not sure if she appreciates the gravity of the situation. In her eyes, I have made my bed in Hamburg, and I must sleep in it. She sees my return home as a need to be closer to Otto, Karl and Renate.’