Michael Ridpath - Shadows of War

All this, Fruity and the duke had discussed. And frankly, Fruity wanted to have a part in writing it down. He wanted to be doing a soldier’s work in this phoney war.

Instead of being a bloody tourist. A tourist who had to pay for himself. Because the other thing Fruity had learned that day was that no one was going to pay him for what he was doing. The War Office had refused his demand for payment, telling him he was not in France in an official capacity, and the duke had changed the subject when Fruity had raised it. He was so damned mean! Mean about bills, mean about paying his staff. Mean about everything apart from Wallis. One of her Fulco di Verdura brooches would keep Fruity going for the duration.

Not for the first time, the Little Man was taking advantage of Fruity.

He ordered another whisky.

It was not as if Fruity had a private income. His wife did, but a chap needed to pay his own way. He loathed being beholden to Baba. She was loaded. She was the daughter of Lord Curzon, the grandest Indian viceroy, but her real wealth came from a settlement from her mother, an American department-store heiress.

He hated leaving her alone in London. Not just because he missed her — which he did, very much — but also because he had no idea whom she was seeing. He just hoped it wasn’t Tom Mosley again. He was sure he didn’t know who all his wife’s lovers were, but he knew enough of them, and Tom Mosley was the most serious. She had started writing about weekends with Lord Halifax, the Foreign Secretary and another former viceroy. He was about as high-minded as they came, so she ought to be safe with him, although you never knew with Baba.

Fruity needed another whisky. And he needed to take his mind off his woes. He spotted a sociable American he had had a drink with the week before, and called out to him. ‘Let me get you one, old man. What will you have?’

At least the duke was paying his bloody hotel bill.

Kensington Square, London

‘A glass of sherry, Conrad?’

After all he had been through in the last twenty-four hours, Venlo and then his conversation with Anneliese, Conrad felt like something stronger, but he accepted his father’s offer.

Lord Oakford was pleased to see his son. Conrad was relieved that he wasn’t in one of his frequent black moods. He poured Conrad a glass from a decanter with his one remaining arm, and then a glass for himself.

‘I’m sorry I’m so late for dinner,’ Conrad said. ‘Thanks for waiting for me. I wanted to see Anneliese.’

‘Oh, how is she?’ said Oakford.

I don’t know how she is, thought Conrad. I don’t understand her! Why can’t she just agree to marry me? Why does she have to run away to New York? Why won’t she see me again? What’s wrong with her? Doesn’t she know I love her? Doesn’t she know I’ll do anything for her?

‘Oh, you know,’ he said.

Oakford looked at him sharply. Conrad stared into his sherry glass.

‘I heard about Venlo,’ Oakford said.

‘I wondered,’ said Conrad. He had scanned The Times that afternoon in the club. As well as a description of the Munich beer hall bomb, it had reported a confused incident at ‘Venloo’ involving kidnapped Dutchmen. Clearly his father knew the real story.

‘I knew you were going.’

‘I thought you might.’ Conrad sipped his sherry.

‘Why didn’t you drop in and see me before you went?’

‘It was all fixed up rather quickly,’ Conrad said. ‘One moment I was at Tidworth, the next I was in Whitehall, and before I knew it I was in an aeroplane bound for Holland.’

‘What happened?’

Conrad hesitated and then decided to tell his father everything. For three years in the early 1930s Lord Oakford had been a minister in the National Government. He was a close friend of Van and Lord Halifax, and he had helped Conrad arrange the visit of emissaries from the German conspirators to Britain the year before. He knew secrets.

Oakford listened with interest. ‘A shambles,’ he said when Conrad had finished.

‘My thought exactly,’ said Conrad.

‘So the Germans have nabbed our agents. Presumably the Gestapo will interrogate them? Will they talk, I wonder?’

‘One has to assume they will,’ said Conrad. ‘Do you know a Major McCaigue? He debriefed me with Van.’

‘I’ve met him once or twice. A good man. Works for the SIS, the Secret Intelligence Service. They’re under a lot of pressure at the moment. They have a reputation for being all-seeing, but they didn’t spot the Nazi — Soviet pact coming, and this is a very public balls-up. On top of all that, their chief died last week, and they haven’t picked a successor yet. Did you contact Theo? Van said you were going to try.’

‘Yes,’ said Conrad. ‘He said he didn’t know whether Schämmel was genuine and he was going to check. I never found out his answer.’

‘Did you discuss peace terms with him?’ Oakford asked. He was trying to make the question sound casual, but Conrad could feel the quickening of his attention.

Conrad pretended not to notice. ‘No,’ he said.

‘Does he think there is still a chance of a coup?’

‘They are planning one,’ Conrad said. ‘To coincide with an offensive in the Low Countries.’

‘Interesting. Soon?’

‘In the next few days. The fifteenth to be precise. But Theo didn’t seem certain either would happen.’

‘I’ve always thought it was a mistake to rely on the generals,’ said Oakford.

‘I’m going back to Holland to see him tomorrow,’ Conrad said. ‘Van sent me. He wants me to confirm Schämmel was bait and find out if Payne Best and Stevens have talked.’

‘Oh, really?’ said Oakford, raising his eyebrows.

Conrad sensed there was something a little odd about his father’s reaction, but before he could pursue it, the door opened and a tall girl with dark hair bounded in.

‘Millie!’ Conrad leaped to his feet. She hugged him. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here! I thought you were down in Somerset.’

‘I’ve come up to find some war work,’ Millie said.

‘It’s lovely to see you.’ And it was. Conrad and Millie had always been close. There were four surviving de Lancey children: Conrad, his younger brother Reggie, Charlotte, who was married with a baby, and Millie. Edward, the eldest and Lord Oakford’s favourite, had died in a mountaineering accident when he was twenty-two. No one in the family mentioned his name, but Conrad knew they all thought about him. Millie was twenty-three and still unmarried, although Conrad knew she had turned down many advances. The suitors didn’t surprise him; in his opinion she would be quite a catch. She was attractive in a gangly kind of way, she was intelligent and she was fun.

‘What about the evacuees?’ he asked. Millie was helping billet the bewildered families who had arrived from Coventry in September in the homes of an equally bewildered village.

‘Most of them are fed up with the country and are going home. I thought I would be more use in London.’

‘And Reggie? What’s he up to?’

Reggie was twenty-seven, a year younger than Conrad. He was therefore too old to be called up yet, but certainly young enough to volunteer.

‘He says that he’s wanted on the estate,’ Millie said.

‘He’s quite right,’ said Lord Oakford. ‘The country is going to need all the food it can grow.’

Reggie had devoted his life to managing Chilton Coombe, the small family estate in Somerset, and irritating the three perfectly capable tenant farmers there. But Lord Oakford was happy to keep at least one of his sons out of harm’s way. Conrad didn’t have much respect for Reggie.

‘Father tells me you have been on another top-secret mission,’ Millie said.