Charles Snow - Last Things

It must have been shortly after that night, possibly in the same week, that he met with the rest of the inner circle on two occasions, which, according to the accounts I heard later that year, were more eventful, or at least more tense, than any of their planning sessions in Chester Row.

There had been a geographical change. These two meetings didn’t take place in Muriel’s study. The whole group had now become hypnotised by security, as we all did when it percolated round ourselves, as detestable as the smell of gas. They decided that Chester Row, and they were not necessarily wrong, was not security-proof. So they shifted the venue.

Their choice of a second meeting place seemed to bear the imprint of ingenious minds familiar with political history, possibly Gordon’s or Charles’: for, with what must have been a tinge of satisfaction, they chose a setting not likely to be kept under surveillance. That is, they chose the London house, in Halkin Street, of Guy Grenfell’s father, chairman of his local Conservative Party, Baronet (for political and public services), member of the Canton, Beefsteak, Pratts, The Turf and White’s.

A disinterested observer might have gained a subdued pleasure from the fact that this house, in period, style, structure and market value, was remarkably similar to Muriel’s and only just over half a mile away.

Present at both these meetings were Olly, his two deputies, Muriel, Gordon, Charles and Guy Grenfell. The first of them lasted from 9 p.m. till something like one the next morning, the second rather longer. There was little to eat or drink. Before them was a single topic, the security attack on the bw disclosure, and how to get out of it with the least damage.

It was possible to think, as some of them did in calmer times, that they exaggerated their danger. Perhaps for the first time they were not behaving like experienced operators. If so, I was partly to blame: for my warnings, which had been overstressed and more darkened by pessimism because I was thinking of Charles, had been taken as a precise, almost official, forecast by Muriel and Gordon, and relayed as such to Olly. So that from the beginning they all assumed that lies or stonewalling weren’t going to last them for long: they had as a minimum, to produce a story which admitted some of the truth. That is, that letters about the subcontract had been suspected, and deliberately searched for, and then, as was public knowledge, used.

The story ought to be kept as simple as possible. It ought to involve as few persons as possible. Security might know or half-know more than they could reveal, and would conceivably be placated by an account which was less than complete but was self-consistent.

All this was debated, and often repeated, for they were all under strain, at the first session. It seemed that Muriel played more of a leading part than usual. She wasn’t as creative as one or two of the others, but she was as acute, particularly for this kind of semi-legal argument, as any of them. She also had influence on Olly, so that in the end she brought him round to a solution. It could be very simple. It could be just one person’s private initiative. And that meant one thing. Someone had to take the rap.

That phrase had been used by Olly – who, like other leaders, had no fastidious objections to a cliché – to sum up the first meeting. It would not be difficult to develop a history of how one person became committed to the idea and executed it. Who? It had, in order to agree with the facts which security were known to possess, to be one of the Cambridge cell. In the end, it reduced to one of the three, Charles, Gordon, Guy.

As I had already been told, the real conception had emerged, not only from those three, but from several others, all drawn together in a sort of invisible college or committee of young men. Who carried it through, that is who was present when the offices were invaded and the files searched, I never knew, nor (I was nearly certain) did my source of all this information. Apart from his own denial, I had some reason, circumstantial but strong, to believe that it was not Charles. I was inclined to think that the balance of evidence pointed to Gordon. In any case, it was very largely chance who had been the actual agent. Olly paid no attention to it when, in the second session, he made them come to a decision. Someone had to take the rap. It had to be the one whom the movement could most easily spare. Olly might not be a brilliant young man: possibly he would not be heard of much again. But in that meeting he showed his quality. Not brought into contact with him (I was told that I should be bored) I thought he sounded something like a junior Parnell. Not bright: not specially articulate, but somehow he could stay still and people waited to listen to him.

The one whom the movement could spare. There was no sentiment about the choice. If it fell on Gordon, he would suffer most, being poor and depending on his grants and the prospect of a Fellowship. While Charles was the youngest of the whole party. So far as anyone could see, Olly didn’t give even a token consideration to either of those claims. He cut out what old Pilbrow used to call the personalia. He was cordial and, without making a show of it, ruthless.

None of this was done quickly. Leaders of his type didn’t utter laconic orders out of the side of the mouth. It was a long churning conversation, more like a trade union committee than a meeting of the Stavka. The more astute, though, didn’t take long to see that the result was already determined. Gordon was the last man to sacrifice, Olly led one of his aides into saying: they needed him for the future, he was their best economic brain, probably the best brain all round that they possessed. On a reduced scale there was some similar opinion in favour of Charles. He wasn’t specially popular with Olly: perhaps his ironic tongue, or the fact that some of them thought him unduly lucky, had made enemies. He himself said that he was reasonably dispensable: the consequences, in practical terms, would not be all that important to him. But the majority would not have it. Whether living with Muriel went in his favour or not, it was impossible to make out. All in all, the positives outweighed the negatives, and they said that he was too useful to lose.

So, slowly, talk gradually converging, never pointed, the party came to look towards Guy Grenfell. Just how it was made clear to him that he had to volunteer, remained obscure, even when I was told the story. Almost certainly, there was no direct remark or question. On the other hand, there must have been a number of hints, and not too subtle ones. In his own house, very likely having thoughts of his parents, Guy for a long time managed to avoid seeing them.

It must have been, I thought later, like a drawing-room version of more mortal sacrifices. You couldn’t read the diaries of the Scott expedition without realising that it had been hinted, more than once, to Captain Oates that he ought to go. The solemn issue of morphine pills a few days before. No one I knew who had been in any kind of collective danger, doubted the tone in which that was done. The finale was grand. They were brave men. Actions weren’t the less grand because those who performed them were recognisably like the rest of us.

It took a long time, but Guy brought out his offer. Not in a gallant manner, but with a touch both of truculence and superciliousness. The others responded with relief, but taking it very much for granted. They all knew he had money of his own. They all knew also that he was not a star academic. Charles, who was fond of him and felt he was a richer character than most of them, first repeated his own offer and then acted as impresario in producing enthusiasm for Guy’s. The others crowded round with comradely applause. Courtesies over, they set to work composing a history – where Guy was a solitary figure – which security would find it hard not to accept. They did not break up until that was tested and done.