Michael Ridpath - Shadows of War

Alston didn’t like the look in Freddie’s eye; he had never seen such determination in his friend before. Alston’s instinct was it was dangerous. Time to drop him.

He leaned back in his armchair. ‘All right, Freddie. I understand. Perhaps we should leave you out of these discussions. You and I can meet socially, of course — I’d like to continue to do that — but I will ensure that you remain in the dark about what I am doing.’

‘No, Henry, it’s not that simple,’ Freddie said.

Alston smiled. ‘I thought you just said you liked things simple.’

Freddie took no notice of the dig. ‘You see, if I am right and what we have been discussing is treason, it should stop.’

‘Stop?’

‘Yes. I’m not suggesting that we should stop agitating for peace. But we shouldn’t negotiate with the German government behind our own government’s back. And we shouldn’t even mention the Duke of Windsor becoming king.’

Alston held Freddie’s gaze. He was deadly serious. But Alston was not going to be threatened by Freddie Copthorne. ‘No. I’m sorry, Freddie, but no. I will not abandon this country’s best hopes for peace because of your illogical scruples.’

‘If you don’t, Henry, then I shall be duty-bound to inform the authorities what we have been doing. What you have been doing.’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘I don’t know. I’m trying to tell you I’m not playing games. I will not be party to treason. And if I see treason I will stop it. I know right from wrong, and I know my duty.’

Lord Copthorne was sitting ramrod straight in his chair, his gaze unflinching. Alston could see he had chosen the role of stubborn Englishman and he was going to stick with it.

Alston knew that in his own way, Freddie was incorruptible. He had his principles and he kept to them. Until that moment his principle had been to support an alliance between Britain and Germany. But now he had dredged up what was for him a more important principle.

‘Whom will you inform?’

‘Winston.’

‘Winston! But he’s the worst of the warmongers. He’ll make a meal of this and scupper any chance of us bringing in a more sensible government.’

‘Exactly. That’s why I would talk to him.’

That wasn’t so stupid. Other more obvious people that Freddie might have chosen to speak to could have been persuaded to keep quiet by Alston or his friends. But not Winston Churchill. After years out of office, he had been brought into Cabinet as First Lord of the Admiralty at the beginning of the war. He was by no means the most senior member of the government, but he was the noisiest and the most energetic. And the one least likely to be swayed by Alston.

‘Well?’ said Freddie.

‘Well what?’

‘Are you going to agree not to negotiate secretly with the German government? Will you rule out bringing in the Duke of Windsor as king?’

‘No, I bloody well won’t, Freddie. Don’t be such a damned idiot. This is much bigger than your scruples. This is history we are talking about.’

‘I know,’ said Freddie. ‘And that is why I shall speak to Winston tomorrow unless you give me the assurance I ask for.’

‘Bugger off, Freddie,’ Alston said, slamming his glass on the table. Usually good at controlling his temper, he was furious. He stormed out of the little library, grabbed his coat from the cloakroom and headed out into the night. Unusually, he had driven to Mayfair: he had dropped Constance off at her aunt’s house in Dulwich before meeting Freddie.

He sat behind the wheel and seethed. He couldn’t possibly abandon his whole strategy to please Freddie’s scruples. Alston told Freddie and everyone else that he wanted peace, but what he really wanted was an alliance with Germany. Germany represented the future: a modern, ordered, effective society whose citizens believed in their country and in its destiny. Britain too could be such a country, but only if radical changes were made to the British government, probably including the monarch. Ideally, Alston himself would have an important role in the new government. And this government would work with Nazi Germany, not against them. That meant talking to them. That meant the Duke of Windsor becoming king. It probably meant Lloyd George becoming Prime Minister. It meant speaking to people like Charles Bedaux, Otto Langebrück and Rib. Eventually even to Hitler. Freddie just didn’t understand that.

But Freddie wasn’t bluffing. He would go to see Churchill the following morning, and once he had done that it would all be over. Britain would be stuck in the war until it was finished, probably until the Germans invaded. And what was so damned patriotic about that?

Alston regretted not playing for time. He could have told Freddie he would think about it, given himself a week to work out what to do. Perhaps he should go back into the club and have another word.

There was a little light on the blacked-out London street from half a moon, enough to see a man step out of the club and walk along the lane thirty yards ahead of Alston’s car. Although Alston couldn’t see his face, he could recognize Freddie Copthorne’s thin frame and slightly stooped posture.

Now was his chance to jump out of the car and demand from Freddie a week to think about his ‘proposal’.

Or. Or he could do what Constance had done, what she would no doubt do at that very moment if she were the one sitting behind the wheel. Seize the initiative.

This was a war. The course of history was at stake. People were dying all over Europe for causes they believed were just.

Sir Henry Alston switched on the engine of his car and put his foot down hard on the accelerator, changing up into second gear ten yards before he hit Lord Copthorne from behind and sent him flying through the air into an unlit street lamp.

Kensington, London, 25 November

The family, or what was left of it, were at breakfast, and they were all well behaved. Charlotte’s presence was calming. She was two years younger than Conrad, married to a banker who had just joined the navy. She had brought her nine-month-old son Mattie with her, although he was asleep at that moment upstairs in the old nursery. Reggie seemed to have run out of idiotic opinions, at least temporarily, and Conrad resisted asking him why he wasn’t in uniform.

Conrad and his father were stiff and polite to each other. Conrad had repeated to him what he had told the rest of the family, that he was hopeful that the Dutch would release Millie’s body soon, but he couldn’t guarantee it, and that they didn’t know who had killed her. Conrad hadn’t yet had the opportunity to ask Oakford more about Constance, but he would wait until they could speak privately. Then he would be on his way back to Tidworth and soldiering.

In the middle of a general discussion about arrangements for Millie’s funeral, assuming they eventually got her body back, his father’s valet Williamson appeared with a letter addressed to Conrad. Conrad opened it. It was handwritten on Foreign Office notepaper and dated the day before. What he read shocked him.

Dear Mr de Lancey,

Major McCaigue has passed on to me the information you gave him this afternoon about your trip to Holland, and in particular the rumours you heard concerning the Duke of Windsor.

I urge you to return to your battalion forthwith and require you to desist from making any more enquiries on this subject. The matter is in hand.

Yours sincerely,

No doubt Van was a busy man, but Conrad was offended by the abrupt tone. It was at least clear; Conrad was being told to shut up and look the other way. Which was all very well, but he had put his life at risk at Venlo for Van, and again in Leiden, although admittedly that was not at Van’s request. It was to serve his country, though.