Simon Tolkien - Orders from Berlin

‘No, it’s nothing like that,’ said Trave. ‘We just need to make some background checks. You know how it is.’ He spoke awkwardly, uncomfortable with having to lie to this woman who was being so hospitable. But he knew he had no choice in the matter.

‘So he’s getting promoted,’ she said, but Trave didn’t need to lie this time. She assumed she’d got the right answer. ‘Well, that’s exciting,’ she went on. ‘But he never tells me anything, you know. In fact …’ She paused, holding her spoon suspended in her cup, and Trave suddenly saw that she was fighting to keep her self-control. ‘In fact, I don’t even know what he does down there in London because he hasn’t spoken to me at all. Not for more than fifteen years. So you can see it was a bit of a shock when you asked me about him — brought back a lot of memories which I try not to dwell on too much.’

‘Why? Why hasn’t he spoken to you?’ asked Trave, surprised.

‘Because he blames me for what happened; blames me for having moved forward with my life.’

‘Forward from what? Please tell me what happened, Mrs Seaforth. I need to know.’

‘The war happened. I told you that. Alistair died; my husband died. It’s a common enough story. You can hear it from widows in any town or village in the country.’

She was withdrawing from him, Trave could feel it. He regretted being so direct with his questions. His curiosity had got the better of him and he’d pushed too hard. But he couldn’t give up now. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Seaforth,’ he said, looking contrite. ‘Really I am. I can see the past must be very painful to you.’

‘It is,’ she said, nodding. ‘I prefer not to think about it unless I absolutely have to. And from what you’ve told me, Mr Trave, it doesn’t sound to me like we need to go down that road,’ she said, giving Trave a sharp look that was at odds with her previous manner. ‘You say you’re here to do a background check on Charles, and I can tell you that I know nothing against him. Quite the opposite, in fact. As far as I’m aware, he’s honest, he’s not been convicted of any crime, and he’s extremely clever. But I expect you know all that already.’

Mrs Seaforth got up from her chair and held out her hand. It was obvious that she wanted her visitor gone. It was difficult to understand why when she had been so welcoming before. He had clearly offended her in some way, touched a raw nerve of some kind. Trave tried in vain to think of a way to keep the interview going and then gave up. He shook her offered hand and walked away.

He walked down the street and round the corner to a pub called The Fox and Hounds, with a dramatic picture of a hunting scene painted on the inn sign, which creaked gently in a breeze that had blown up as if from nowhere while he had been drinking tea with Seaforth’s mother. There were no other customers in the bar, and he sat in a corner inglenook, gazing disconsolately into the brown depths of a pint of the local beer while he waited for the shepherd’s pie dinner that he’d ordered when he came in. He wasn’t hungry, but he knew he had to eat.

‘New to town?’ asked the landlord when he brought Trave the food. He was a big man with a beard, and he seemed friendly enough.

‘Yes, I’m just passing through,’ said Trave, and then added, rousing himself from his lethargy: ‘I’m here to see Mrs Seaforth. Do you know her?’

‘Of course I do. She’s a lovely lady,’ the landlord said heartily. ‘John Seaforth’s a lucky man.’

‘Her husband?’ asked Trave.

‘That’s right. He used to be our postman, but he’s retired now.’

‘I’m here about some business concerning her son down in London.’

‘Never met him. He went south before Mary moved into Langholm. She used to live in a little village a few miles from here with her first husband, Jack O’Bryen. I never knew him. He died in the last war. Their oldest son too. You can see Jack’s name on the town war memorial up in Buccleuch Park.’

‘Just Jack’s?’ asked Trave. ‘Why not both their names?’

‘No reason,’ said the landlord hurriedly, and moved away back to the bar, putting a sudden end to the conversation.

Trave ate his food slowly, turning the landlord’s strange behaviour over in his mind. He’d been friendly like Mrs Seaforth, but then suddenly he’d backed away, just as she’d done. There was something in the past that they didn’t want to speak about. Alistair, the elder son, had been in military uniform in the photograph on Mrs Seaforth’s mantelpiece. He’d fought in the war and he’d been killed in it too, but his name wasn’t on the town’s war memorial. It couldn’t have been an accidental omission because his father’s name was recorded there among the fallen.

Suddenly Trave knew why Alistair’s name wasn’t there. And the knowledge galvanized him out of his lethargy like an electric shock. He needed to see Seaforth’s mother; he had to find a way to make her tell him what had happened, and he couldn’t take no for an answer.

Just as before, Mrs Seaforth opened her front door almost straight away after he’d knocked. It was as if she’d been expecting him to return.

‘I think I know what happened to your eldest son and I need to talk to you about it, about the effect it had on Charles-’, Trave said in a rush, and then broke off, bending over to catch his breath. He’d run all the way from the pub and had a stitch in his side.

She was clearly shocked. She recoiled from Trave as if she’d been hit, then looked away for a moment, trying to collect herself. ‘I’m sorry. I thought I made it clear that I don’t have anything else to tell you,’ she said eventually. Her tone was severe, but she couldn’t quite carry it off. It wasn’t in her nature to be unfriendly.

‘Look, I know this sounds crazy, but it’s a matter of national importance,’ said Trave, throwing caution to the winds. ‘I should have told you before, but the reason I’m here is that some people think Charles is working for the enemy …’

‘For the Germans?’ Mrs Seaforth asked, looking aghast.

‘Yes. And it’s my job to find out if that’s true or not. I need you to help me.’ Trave was still winded and he took deep breaths between each sentence.

‘But how?’ she asked, holding out her hands palms up to emphasize her sense of her own powerlessness. ‘Like I told you before, I haven’t spoken to Charles in fifteen years.’

‘It’s what happened before then that I’m interested in,’ said Trave urgently. ‘Please, Mrs Seaforth. You have to trust me.’

‘You really think this — that he’s some kind of spy?’ she asked incredulously.

‘I think it’s a strong possibility. And not just that — I think he could be plotting something dangerous, something that may affect us all. We may not have much time,’ he said, putting his hand on her arm.

She hesitated a moment more, then gave in. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said, bowing her head.

Trave followed her back into the parlour and sat in the same armchair he’d sat in before, looking over again at the photograph of Mrs Seaforth’s two sons on the mantelpiece. But the picture had a different effect on him from before, when he’d been simply curious about the two boys; now he saw them as actors in a still-unfolding tragedy. Because he was certain that he’d just discovered what had happened to the handsome elder brother with the laughing eyes and the devil-may-care expression. Alistair Seaforth had been killed not by the Germans, but by his own comrades. Far away from home, in some desolate corner of the Western Front, he’d been taken out at dawn, tied to a stake, and shot dead by a firing squad. And his name wasn’t on the Langholm war memorial beside his father’s because executed soldiers were not memorialized; they were legally forgotten. Except that Alistair’s brother, Charles, had refused to forget or to forgive. Looking over at the teenage boy in the photograph staring up at his elder brother with such devotion, Trave had no doubt what his reaction had been.