Michael Ridpath - Shadows of War

‘I haven’t heard of any changes of plan,’ Theo said. ‘But my sources have gone quiet.’ The Duke of Windsor had finished his inspection of the French lines and, according to Bedaux, was spending the occasional day twiddling his thumbs at the British Mission to French general headquarters at Vincennes. Bedaux himself was cannoning around all over the place. As far as Theo knew he was in Spain trying to secure steel supplies for France, and he had plans to go on to Morocco to look for coal.

‘We don’t have much time, do we? The operation is scheduled for the tenth of May.’ That was in five days’ time.

‘That’s correct,’ said Liss. ‘And the forecast is good.’

A miserable winter, one of the worst on record, had been followed by a lush, sunny spring. Delay was unlikely this time.

‘I will try to get hold of my sources and see if I can find out anything new. It might be difficult in the time.’ Especially since Theo had lots of other agents to deal with in Holland, giving him last-minute indications of Dutch preparations for invasion. The flat Dutch countryside and straight roads were perfect for an invading army, but there was a risk they would pull their fingers out of the dykes and flood the whole country.

Looking at the new version of Case Yellow, Holland was just a sideshow. The battle would be decided in the hills and forests of the Ardennes, and then the French countryside behind them.

‘Do what you can,’ said Liss.

Liverpool Street Station, London

Conrad arrived at Liverpool Street Station early for his train back to his battalion in Suffolk. Which was lucky, because as he was deciding whether to get a cup of tea or read a book, Major McCaigue materialized.

‘You again,’ said Conrad. ‘Don’t you take Sundays off?’

‘I do usually,’ said McCaigue. ‘And I have today. Officially. Do you remember I had an official and an unofficial message for you last time we met?’

‘I do.’

‘Well, I’d like to have a word with you unofficially. About what you have discovered this weekend, if anything.’

‘Why should I tell you?’ Conrad said.

‘We are getting more and more concerned about the Duke of Windsor,’ said McCaigue. ‘But he is still protected. I need all the evidence I can lay my hands on to change that.’

‘I have discovered very little about the duke this weekend,’ said Conrad. ‘But I did find out quite a lot about Sir Henry Alston.’ What the hell. There was a chance that telling McCaigue what he knew would throw a spanner in the works of whatever plan Alston was hatching.

‘Sir Henry Alston?’

‘Do you know him?’

‘I know of him. Conservative MP. Possibly pro-German. Either less extreme or perhaps more clever than Maule Ramsay and Oswald Mosley. The man who sent your sister and Constance Scott-Dunton to Holland.’

‘That’s him. I think that he might have had Constance kill my sister. And that he might have run down Lord Copthorne about the same time last November.’

‘Those are grave allegations. Do you have proof?’

Conrad told McCaigue about his visit to Lady Copthorne. He didn’t mention Anneliese. ‘But you probably know all this already. Lady Copthorne said that the police were very keen to drop the investigation. Orders from on high. Friends of yours, no doubt.’

‘Acquaintances, possibly,’ said McCaigue. ‘I work for the counter-intelligence section of the Secret Intelligence Service. That means I worry about foreign spies abroad. If someone like Sir Henry Alston needed watching, it would be Special Branch of Scotland Yard, or MI5, who would do it. I wouldn’t find out about it, unless someone like you told me.’

‘It’s my pleasure,’ said Conrad.

The irony was not lost on McCaigue, but he ignored it. ‘It’s appreciated,’ he said. ‘Keep me informed, will you? And if you do need help, telephone. You have my card.’

As Conrad took the train back to Suffolk, he was unsure whether he had done the right thing in trusting McCaigue. And a question nagged. How had McCaigue found out that he was in London? On one level it was easy to assume that the secret service was all-knowing. On the other, someone must have told them. It couldn’t have been Colonel Rydal. And it was unlikely to be any of the people he had seen over the weekend: Anneliese, Veronica, Polly Copthorne. No, it was more probably someone in the battalion. The adjutant, perhaps: someone junior to Colonel Rydal whom the secret service had instructed to keep tabs on him.

An unpleasant thought.

The Dorchester Hotel, London

Eight men sat around the table in the private dining room of the Dorchester. Sir Henry Alston was at one end, Lord Oakford at the other. Between them were a General, an Admiral, a Newspaper Magnate, a Civil Servant, a Politician, and an Industrialist. Alston, although he was responsible for bringing everyone together, was the youngest man there. The dinner had been excellent; somehow the Dorch had managed to keep its kitchens well supplied despite the eight months of war.

Alston lit a cigar. ‘There’s no hope for Norway, is there?’

The General shook his head. ‘The Hun is running rings around us. We have evacuated Namsos. We’re making a stand at Narvik, but our fellows have no chance. The whole thing is a muddle; the politicians have let us down again. Winston doesn’t have a clue what he is doing. I blame him entirely.’

‘It’s Neville who will take the blame,’ said the Politician, who was also a junior minister.

‘Is he in danger?’ asked Alston.

‘I rather think he might be,’ said the Politician. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t think so — we have a large majority after all. But he’s getting complacent, and the House doesn’t like that.’

‘The country will want someone to take responsibility,’ said the Newspaper Proprietor. ‘Neville is the obvious candidate. He can’t get away with dropping Winston and carrying on regardless.’

‘Then who will become PM?’ asked the Industrialist.

‘Halifax?’ The General phrased it more as a question than an answer.

‘Edward commands a lot of respect,’ said the Politician. ‘But he sits in the House of Lords. The country needs a leader from the Commons. Someone who can deal with Parliament directly.’

‘Even at a time like this?’ asked the General.

‘Especially at a time like this,’ said Lord Oakford. The table turned to him, anxious for his opinion. They knew how close he was to Lord Halifax. ‘Edward is an old friend of mine and I admire him immensely. He is a good man to have at your side in a crisis. I’m sorry to say it, but I don’t believe he has the courage to step forward and lead the country now. You need a certain kind of man to take decisions which will be of such historical importance. He knows nothing about military strategy, as he will freely admit. He’ll say it’s because he is in the Lords, but the truth is he isn’t up to it, and he knows it.’

‘So who would become PM?’ asked the Admiral.

‘Not Winston, surely?’ said the General.

‘He’s popular in the country,’ said the Newspaper Proprietor.

‘But he’s the one who is principally responsible for the balls-up in Norway!’ protested the General.

‘What we need most of all is peace with Germany,’ said the Industrialist. ‘Churchill is the last man to achieve that.’

There were murmurs of ‘hear hear’ and ‘absolutely’ around the table.

‘The whole country is bored with the war,’ said the Newspaper Proprietor, who prided himself, with some justification, on knowing what his readers thought. ‘And once we start losing it, they will want it stopped.’

‘So, if not Churchill, who?’ asked the Industrialist.