Above Suspicion E-Book

Helen MacInnes

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Richard and Frances Myles are preparing for their annual European summer vacation in 1939 when they are visited at their Oxford college by old friend Peter Galt, who has a seemingly simple job for them. Galt asks if they would start their holiday in Paris, meet a man there, and then continue their journey as he directs. But in the heightened atmosphere of pre-war Europe, nobody is above suspicion, in fact the husband and wife are being carefully monitored by shadowy figures. Soon the couple are racing across Europe and must use all their ingenuity to stay one step ahead of the enemy.

Leseprobe

ABOVE SUSPICION

ALSO BY HELEN MacINNES

AND AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

Pray for a Brave Heart

Assignment in Brittany (July 2012)

North From Rome (August 2012)

Decision at Delphi (September 2012)

The Venetian Affair (October 2012)

The Salzburg Connection (November 2012)

HelenMacINNES

ABOVE SUSPICION

TITAN BOOKS

Above Suspicion

Print edition ISBN: 9781781161531

E-book edition ISBN: 9781781161593

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd 144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: June 2012

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

© 1941, 2012 by the Estate of Helen MacInnes. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group Ltd.

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Contents

1. The Visit

2. The Party

3. Farewell To Safety

4. Beginning of a Journey

5. Pawn To King’s Fourth

6. The Agile Rabbit

7. The Walled Town

8. A. Fugger

9. Nürnberg Incident

10. Frau Köppler Recommends

11. At the Gasthof Bozen

12. Background for Terror

13. Reinforcements

14. The Singing of a Song

15. The Mountain

16. Frau Schichtl Intervenes

17. Innsbruck Revisited

18. Frances is Frances

19. Double Check

20. Rallying-Ground

21. Approach to Dreikirchen

22. Vikings’ Funeral

23. The Brenner Pass

24. End of a Journey

About the Author

THE SONG WHICH FRANCES SANG

Lully, Lulla, thou little tiny child, By by, lully lullay.

O sisters too,

How may we do For to preserve this day This poor youngling,

For whom we do sing,

By by, lully lullay?

Herod, the King,

In his raging,

Charged he hath this day His men of might,

In his own sight,

All young children to slay.

That woe is me,

Poor child, for thee!

And ever morn and day,

For thy parting Neither say nor sing

By by, lully lullay!

Coventry Carol: Pageant of the Shearmen and Tailors (fifteenth century). This song is sung by the women of Bethlehem in the play, just before Herod’s soldiers come in to slaughter their children.

1

THE VISIT

This June day seemed, to Frances Myles, very much like any other summer day in Oxford. She walked slowly along Jowett Walk, watching the gentle five-o’clock sun bring out the bronze in the leaves overhead. This was her favourite part of the road leading to her husband’s college. On her left the grey walls which hid the gardens of the Holywell houses were crowned with rambler roses. To her right were the playing fields with their stretches of soft green grass, and beyond them were the straightness of poplar, the roundness of chestnut and elm. Today there were only a few men practising at the nets: most of them were packing or going to end-of-term parties. Like herself, she thought, and quickened her pace. She was probably late again. She hoped guiltily that Richard would have enough work to occupy him, while he waited for her at College. He generally had… But it was difficult to hurry on a summer day like this: there were so many things to enjoy, like the twenty shades of green all around her, or the patterns of unevenly cut stones in the high walls, or the way in which a young man would catch a cricket ball and lazily throw it back. Little things, but then the last few months had made the little things important.

She entered Holywell, and hurried along its curve of old houses until she reached the Broad. There her pace slackened again and she halted at a bookseller’s window. Richard’s new book on English lyric poetry was well displayed. It was selling, too, which had been a pleasant surprise. (The bookseller had explained that away rather harshly: people were buying strange books now, it sort of soothed their minds.) She smiled to herself in the window at her totally unpoetic thoughts. A selling book would be a help towards another summer among the mountains. Another summer, or a last summer, she wondered, and turned away from the window. Once all you had to do was to decide what mountains you’d like to climb and then spend the winter writing reviews and articles to cover the train fares, and there you were. But each year it was becoming more difficult. She thought of past summers in the Tyrol, in the Dolomites. Once you could walk over mountain paths and spend the evenings round a table in the village inn. There had been singing and dancing, and lighthearted talk and friendly laughter. But now there were uniforms and regulations. Self-consciousness and uncertainty controlled even the jokes. Now you might only laugh at certain things. Now conversations with foreigners were apt to end in arguments.

Richard had discussed all this with her last night before they fell asleep. He had voted for one last look at Europe in peacetime, such as it was. There were still countries where one could breathe as one liked. Perhaps the premonition that this day was very unlike any other summer day for Frances Myles had laid its cold finger on her heart… Or it may have been the thought of Oxford as it might easily become next term. At any rate, the lightness had gone out of her step.

The young college porter was standing at the lodge gate. She tried to make her smile brighter than she felt.

“How is the new baby?” she asked.

He beamed with pride. “Just splendid, ma’am, thank you. Mr. Myles is waiting in his room. He has just ’phoned down to ask if you had arrived. I’ll tell him you’re here.” He moved back into the lodge. Frances remembered he had joined the Territorial Army in March, just after the seizure of Prague. Nowadays she kept remembering details like that. She hurried through the quadrangle, and began the climb to Richard’s room.

The oak was sported. She thumped on its massive panels, and drew back as she heard Richard open the room door first before he could let the heavy oak door swing out. He was smiling, with that guess-what look.

“Hello, darling,” she said. “Quite like old times to sport your oak. Why all the precautions?” He wiped her lipstick off his chin as he drew her into the room, fastening the two doors behind them.

“We’ve a visitor, Fran.”

It was Peter—Peter Galt.

He grinned and held out both his hands. “Hello, Frances, you look quite startled.”

“Peter! But we thought you were in Bucharest. When did you get back?”

“Two or three weeks ago. I would have written you if I could. I’ve just been explaining to Richard. I’ve purposely not written you. And I am not staying with you, either. I am putting up at the Mitre.”

Frances turned to her husband in dismay. “Richard, what’s the matter with him?”

Richard handed her a glass of sherry. He refilled Peter’s glass and then his own, with maddening concentration, before he spoke. “Peter got into a jam.”

“A jam? Peter?” She sat down on the nearest chair. She looked so charmingly anxious under her ridiculous hat that Peter hastened to reassure her.

“Don’t worry, Frances. It all turned out rather well in the end. But it did make it necessary for me to be recalled.” He grinned, and added, “Ill-health, of course.”

“Of course…” Frances was less alarmed, but she was still curious. She waited for an explanation. It was Richard who said in a non-committal way, as he placed an ashtray beside her, “He got entangled with a spy.”

“Well, I only hope she was beautiful,” Frances said. “I mean, if you will do things like that you may as well make the most of it.” She smiled as she looked up at the correctly dressed young man balancing against the fireplace. She had always hoped that Peter would never get entangled with anyone who wasn’t beautiful. She watched his calm face and the shy smile, and wondered. To a stranger he would seem just another elegant minor secretary to a British Embassy.

“Unfortunately it was a he,” said Peter. “And, to be quite truthful, I didn’t get entangled with him. He got entangled with me.”

“You look such easy meat, really, Peter.”

“That was an asset anyway.”

“And so you had to come back to England.” Frances was still unable to take Peter quite seriously. “He isn’t after your blood, is he?”

“He can’t do that. Bucharest dealt with him. But his friends might think I learned too much before that happened.”

“But, Peter, you don’t mix that kind of—politics with diplomacy, do you?”

“He did the mixing. Now I am waiting for all the commotion to die down.”

Peter gave a good imitation of his old smile, but Frances, watching his eyes, was already revising her opinion about this visit. Something serious was behind it all. When she spoke her voice had dropped all hint of teasing.

“Is that all?”

Richard, sitting on the edge of his desk, gave a laugh.

“Out with it, Peter. It’s no good being diplomatic with Frances. She can see through a brick wall as quickly as anyone.”

Peter finished his sherry. As he looked from Frances to Richard he seemed to be making up his mind about something… Or perhaps he was deciding how to begin. They both suddenly realised the change in him. He was an older, a more business-like Peter. And he was worried. His fingers played nervously with the stem of the sherry glass. He was choosing his next words with care.

“Frances is quite right. I am not in the F.O. any longer: I’ve been put on to other work. And that’s why I am here.” He glanced at his watch, and his next words were spoken more quickly. “I’m afraid this visit combines business with pleasure, and we haven’t very much time for everything I want to tell you. So you’ll understand if I begin abruptly… We haven’t the time for any build-up which would enlist your sympathy and make things easier for me. I’ll just have to start with the story, and hope for the best.

“First of all, I didn’t want to give anyone the idea that I have been in touch with you. So I didn’t let you know I was coming to Oxford, and I can’t stay with you. Even the porter at the lodge doesn’t know I’m with you: he thinks I am visiting old Meyrick. The reason is I have a job for you to do, and I hope you’ll agree to do it. It shouldn’t be dangerous; tiresome, perhaps, and certainly a blasted nuisance, but not actually dangerous if you stick to the directions.” He shot a quick glance at Richard, and added with emphasis, “You are just the people we need for it. You are both above any suspicion, and you’ve a good chance of getting through.”

Richard looked at Peter speculatively. “What on earth is it?” he asked. “And why?”

“I’d better tell you about the job first,” Peter answered. “The whys and wherefores can wait until the end. I am sorry if it develops into a kind of lecture, but I’d like you to get all the details quite straight. One of the reasons why I thought of you for this job, Richard, is your memory. If you’d take a mental note of things as I explain them that would save a lot of time.”

Richard nodded.

“The job is simply this. I’ve been hoping that you would go abroad as usual this summer, and that you’d travel by Paris, meet a man there, and then continue the journey as he directs.

At the end of it you should be able to send us some information which we need very badly. That’s the general outline. Now here are the particulars. I’ll give you no trimmings—just the facts.

“When you get to Paris just do as you always do. Stay at your usual hotel, eat at your favourite places, visit the usual mixture of museums and night clubs. Keep on doing that for some days—long enough, anyway, to establish your innocent-tourist reputation. And then, on Saturday night, visit the Café de la Paix. Sit at an outside table towards the left. Order Cointreau with your coffee. Frances will be wearing a red rose. Don’t notice anyone or anything in particular. About eleven o’clock Richard will upset his Cointreau. (He will be glad of an excuse not to drink it anyway, if I know Richard.) Your waiter will come and mop up. That and the red rose are the signal. A man will approach your table, and that’s the moment for one of you to speak. The sentence should begin, ‘Mrs. Rose told me we must see…’ and add the name of some place you’ve decided on. Pretend to talk; keep it all natural, but be on guard for the number which the man will give you somehow. That’s the key of this whole business. For if you go next day to the place which you mentioned, at exactly one hour later than the number which he gives you, you will get into real touch with him. And he has a message for you.

“It’s all very much easier than it sounds. He identifies you by the position of the table and the red rose and the upset glass of Cointreau, reaches your table at the time you expect him, hears the name of the place you’ve chosen along with the right sentence, and gives you a clue to the time for a meeting on the next day. Have you got all that, Richard?”

“Yes. But before we go any farther, why choose us? I mean, we shall be such amateurs for that job: we’ll probably mess it all up. There must be something fairly involved at stake, and it seems to me as if you needed someone with quick wits. I don’t know if mine have been sharpened well enough—in that way. As for Fran…” Richard shrugged his shoulders.

Frances only looked amused. “Darling, I love you,” she said. “Do go on, Peter.”

Peter took her advice.

“When you get the message it will probably be in some code. And that’s another reason why I want Richard to tackle this job. I can rely on him to get a meaning out of that message. His brain has had just the right training and discipline for that sort of work. Well, the message will direct you to another agent and he will direct you farther still, and you will find yourself passed on from agent to agent until you reach the chief of them. He’s the last one on the line, and he’s the chap we are worried about. That is the information we need.”

He paused, and watched Richard pour some sherry into his glass. Again Frances had the feeling that he was once more weighing his words very carefully before he spoke. His trouble was to tell them enough in the right order, without telling them too much.

“I think you’ll find the rest of this travelogue more interesting. We are now reaching the whys and the wherefores,” Peter allowed himself the suspicion of a smile. “You’ve heard of what is called the underground railway in Germany, haven’t you? It’s a version of the old Scarlet Pimpernel technique. It helps anti-Nazis to escape, and covers up their tracks. One of the brains behind it is the chief of this group of agents. On the side, of course, he collects information which has been very useful indeed. Until about five weeks ago we had the normal reports from him—accurate and regular. But since then we have had no really informative messages. Two of them, in fact, were dangerously misleading. Fortunately, we had other sources of information about these facts which made us suspicious, and we didn’t act on his advice. These suspicions were increased when two men, escaping from Germany by his route, disappeared completely. They have simply vanished into thin air.”

Frances put aside her glass, and leaned forward, cupping her face in her hands. Richard held a cigarette unlighted. The eyes of both were fixed on Peter.

“What we want to know is this—before the harvests are gathered in, to put it quite bluntly—does the man still exist, or has he been sending us false messages to warn us that things aren’t just right, or has he been liquidated? So your job is to follow the route directed by various agents, always keeping in mind that you are just the simple traveller, until you find him. The one clue I do know is that he will be an Englishman, the only Englishman in that chain of agents. I can’t help with his name or appearance because he has too many of both. In any case, the less you know, the easier it will be for you to play your role, and the better it will be for all of us. He probably won’t seem at all English when you meet him, but if you give him the correct high-signs, which the previous agent will pass on to you, you will find out that he’s an Englishman all right.”

“But why all this agent-to-agent business?” Richard asked. “Why doesn’t the Paris man direct us to him straight away?”

“The plan is his: he invented it to suit his own particular work. And it has been very successful. It’s been foolproof for a longer time than most systems. It’s simple enough. The Paris agent is the only stationary one, and that’s the reason why he takes so many precautions, just to safeguard himself. The others move about as their chief directs. It is just as well to keep moving, for they often work in Nazi-dominated territory. Each agent only knows the name and address of the man following him, and any information they collect can be posted along the chain of agents until it reaches the chief. Anyone who wants to get in touch with him must begin at the Paris end, and no one can begin at Paris unless he knows how to make the difficult contact with the agent there. There are only two sources which can direct anyone to manage that contact. We are one of them; the other is just as careful as we are. So you see there is some method in his madness.”

“And what about the information which he sends to you? He must have another line?”

Peter nodded. “Yes, and it’s a much more direct way, naturally. I knew you’d cotton on, Richard. Anything else which strikes you?”

Richard hesitated, and then, as Peter waited for an answer, he said, “The system is obviously pretty safe, except for one drawback. If the chief man himself is caught, then all information travelling out to him will get into the wrong hands. His agents might even be picked off by one if he were—persuaded into any confession. Not to mention the fate of the poor devils who thought they were escaping from Germany.”

“Exactly. That’s why the job has got to be done.”

“Your man must have been pretty sure of himself to think up that system, I must say.”

Peter said, “I suppose it looks that way, but you’ve got to take risks in his profession. It has been very much worth our while to take a chance on him. And, strangely enough, it is just this kind of system which gets the best results. Until now he has always been agile enough not to be caught; he has been doing this kind of thing, you know, since we were being pushed round the park in our prams. You may depend on one thing, Richard: he won’t talk. Anyway, you see how vital it is to know whether he is still functioning, before the volcano in Europe blows sky-high. We’ve got to be sure of him before then.”

“Yes, I can quite see that,” Richard said gloomily. “But I still think you need a professional man on the job.” It was a good sign, anyway, thought Peter, that Richard was still arguing about it. He was clearly not very much in love with the idea, but he was still at the stage of objections rather than that of a downright refusal. Peter wondered if he should tell them anything more. He thought wearily, “I’m devoted to both of them, but can’t they see, in God’s name, that I was counting on them to accept, or I wouldn’t have let them in on all this?” Yet people changed, and being a don at Oxford might very well make you too contented, too unwilling to act against your own security. Richard was waiting for his answer.

“We sent one,” Peter said briefly. “We should have heard from him by this time. When we didn’t I suggested to my Chief that we should try an amateur; that line served me well enough in Bucharest. A couple of innocents abroad might be able to get through all suspicion. The thing to remember is that you are not agents; don’t let yourself get mixed up in any sideline snooping. All we want to know is whether an Englishman is there or not. If the trail gets too hot, then just pull out of it, using your own good sense. If there’s any questioning, then stick to your story. You are just two holidaymakers having your annual trip abroad. There is one other point: your job will be finished when either you find the man or you’ve reached the sixth agent without finding him. He never worked with more in a line. You will have a margin of safety all through, because the contacting clues will be vague enough to let you have an out and your amateur status will be an additional help. That really is your strongest safeguard.”

Richard said nothing, but Galt, watching him closely, was satisfied. It wasn’t a comfortable, peaceful way of life which had held Richard back: it was the fact that Frances would be in this too.

“When you’ve finished, wire to this address in Geneva,” Peter said. He wrote some words quickly on a piece of paper and handed it to Richard, still looking undecided, worried… But Galt knew he had won.

“Better memorise the address and then destroy it,” he advised. “If you find your man, then wire, ‘Arriving Monday’, or ‘Tuesday’, or whatever day you actually saw him. If you don’t find him, wire ‘Cancel reservations’.” He drew a deep breath. “Thank God that’s over,” he said. “Is it all clear, Richard?”

“I’ve got it memorised, if that’s what you mean. But look here, Peter, if you have really decided that I ought to do this job, don’t you think I’d better go alone? I’m not running Frances into any risks.” His tone was grim. Frances looked at him suddenly. So that was what had made him hesitate.

When she spoke her voice was low, but equally determined. “Richard, I am not going to be left behind.”

Peter said, “Unfortunately I agree with Frances. Since you’ve been married you’ve never separated on your holidays. It really would be better if you were just to do what you always do. And you’ll be safer with Frances because you won’t take risks if she is with you.” He looked anxiously at Richard. “I know it’s going to ruin your summer,” he began, and then stopped. He had said enough as it was.

Richard was staring at the red geraniums in the window box.

“It isn’t the ruining of it,” he said slowly. “Everyone’s holidays are ruined this year. But I don’t think we’d really be of any use.”

Peter was picking up his gloves and umbrella and his black hat. He was still watching Richard intently. Something seemed to decide him. He moved over to Frances to say goodbye.

“I would never have asked you if I didn’t think you could pull it off,” he said. “And I would never have asked you if the whole thing wasn’t so urgent, Richard. I’d have done it myself, except that the people we are working against have got me docketed since Bucharest. I’ll be on the files by this time. I thought of someone else, but your qualifications for this job are just what we need. I didn’t enjoy asking you, I may as well say… Time I was leaving now. I see I’ve kept you late for Frame’s party. I met him this morning in front of the Mitre, and he asked me to come along too.” He waved his hat towards the invitation card propped up on the mantelpiece.

“How long,” said Richard, “should this job take?”

“We allowed two weeks to our man, but he knew the ropes. We’d better say about a month. It will be safer if you don’t hurry things. You will have to spend a few days in each place to make it look convincing. Remember, I want you to steer clear of any suspicion or danger… For God’s sake, take care of yourselves.”

His voice was normal again by the time he had reached the door.

“Goodbye, Frances; goodbye, Richard. See you when you get back.”

The door closed softly, and left a silent room.

Frances was the first to move. She pulled out her compact and powdered her nose. She readjusted her hat to the correct angle.

“You’ll do,” she said to her reflection in the mirror. “Come on, my love, we are three-quarters of an hour later than I had meant to be late… You’ve got it all memorised?”

Richard nodded. “That’s the least of it. Frances, this is the time to back out. Now.”

Frances rose, and looked at the seams of her stockings. She altered a suspender. “When do we start?” she asked. “As soon as you have finished all your teaching?”

Richard looked at his wife’s pretty legs.

“Blast Peter,” he said, and took her arm as they left the room.

They talked of other things as they went downstairs.

2

THE PARTY

The party in Frame’s rooms had just reached the right temperature when Frances and Richard Myles arrived. They stood for a moment at the doorway rather like two bathers about to plunge off a springboard. Their host, armed with sherry bottles, pushed his way through to meet the latecomers.

“I’m so glad,” he breathed. “Sorry about this awful crowd: such a mob.” He turned to welcome some other new arrivals. Actually, thought Frances, he was just delighted that the room was jammed with people talking their heads off. She smiled goodbye to Richard. This wasn’t one of those ghastly affairs where you only knew the host. They wouldn’t have to put on their special act today, when they would meet each other with surprise in the middle of the room, greet each other warmly and start the vivacious conversation of two friends who rarely met. They always found that others, with an ear for preposterous remarks, would drift towards them. As Richard had said, splendid isolation didn’t mix with sherry.

But tonight Richard had already seen two men he wanted to talk to, and Frances waited in the corner she had chosen for herself as three young men gravitated towards her. They had, in their typical manner, only smiled politely when they caught her eye, and had then, without another glance in her direction, started a quiet but determined progress towards where she stood. She noticed Richard was looking round him in that particularly ingenuous way he had when he was most on guard… But Peter Galt had not arrived yet.

The three young men arrived from their various directions, and began one of the usual adroit conversations which sherry parties inspire. They all avoided talking present-day politics with an understanding as complete as it was tacit. This was perhaps the last conversation they would have together for a long time, and they wanted to keep it gay. They discussed the Picasso exhibition in London, and Guernica, and that led to Catalonian art and Dali. Frances wanted to know if the pineapple Cathedral at Barcelona was still more unfinished. (Michael had been there with the International Brigade. It was a bad show about his arm; Frances had heard that the shrapnel still embedded there might end in amputation.) But Michael steered the conversation to Gaudi and his architectural fantasies. Frances remembered a chapter somewhere by Evelyn Waugh on Gaudi’s telephone kiosks. It was an amusing description and they laughed.

“Eternal Oxford: how delightful it is to return and be so far removed from the rigours of life.” The voice had a very pronounced, almost too careful Oxford accent. The speaker was tall and remarkably good-looking. A duelling scar marked his chin, another his cheek; they gave his blondness a certain formidable quality. His smile was very self-possessed. “Mrs. Myles, as lovely as ever.” He bowed very low over Frances’ hand.

Frances collected herself. “Oh, hello. How are you?” She made hasty introductions. “Freiherr Sigurd von Aschenhausen— John Clark, Sir Michael Hampton, George Sanderson. Herr von Aschenhausen, you know, was an undergraduate along with Richard.”

There was a pause.

“Charming to return and find Evelyn Waugh and Oxford still inseparable.” Von Aschenhausen’s voice was friendly. The three undergraduates maintained a polite smile in place. Frances knew they were placing his date of residence at the University very accurately. She thought of explaining that it wasn’t black satin sheets but Catalonian architecture which they had been discussing, and then gave up the idea as being more trouble than it was probably worth. Even allowing for the foreigner’s favourite indoor sport of underestimating the English, surely von Aschenhausen couldn’t be serious. After all he had been to three universities, one in Germany, one in England and one in America. One thing he must know about undergraduates by this time, and that was that they were always in revolt. They were never static. The only way they could form their minds was by opposing accepted opinion. Frances herself had seen the swing of the pendulum away from the æsthete to the politically conscious young man who Studied Conditions. The æsthete himself had been in rebellion against the realism of the post-War group.

George made some polite remark to cover up their embarrassment. Michael was lighting a cigarette. John was gazing into the middle distance. Frances remembered he was allergic to Germany; since that kick four years ago when he hadn’t saluted a procession in Leipzig. The conversation limped along, the undergraduates hoping that von Aschenhausen would go; but he didn’t. Frances did her best: she talked about summer holidays. The undergraduates were going to France; von Aschenhausen was returning to Berlin. She explained that Richard and she would like to have their usual view of mountains.

“Where exactly were you thinking of going?” asked von Aschenhausen.

“We were in the South Tyrol last year. I’d like to get back there just once more”—Frances’ voice was honey-sweet—“just before the volcano erupts.” The Englishmen smiled grimly. The German protested politely.

“What! With this peaceful England? There will be no war, no general war. Just look at everyone in this room…” Unconsciously he straightened his back as he looked round the room. “And there’s not a soldier among you,” was the implication. He might just as well have said it. Michael flicked a piece of cigarette ash off his wounded arm. He spoke for the first time.

“There’s a limit to everything, you know. Goodbye, Frances. I must go now. Have a good time this summer.”

The others had to go now too, it seemed.

Von Aschenhausen remained. Frances shook herself free from her embarrassment. After all, he used to be amusing and gay. He had made many friends when he was up at Oxford; he had been invited around a good deal. She wondered how he was getting along in the New Germany; he used to laugh off any political discussions by protesting that he wasn’t interested in politics. She racked her brains for something tactful to say. It was difficult in this summer of 1939. You were so conscious of nationality now. She was relieved when von Aschenhausen spoke.

“I am afraid that young man did not like me particularly,” he said. “Is it because I am a German, or is it his usual manner? I have noticed that a cripple is usually more bitter than the ordinary man.”

“Cripple?” Frances’ eyes widened; she was at a loss for words.

“Of course, there is a change in the attitude here towards me,” he continued. “Six years ago I had many friends. Today— well”—he smiled sadly—“it would be better if I came as an exile.”

“I wondered at first if you were, and then I thought not.”

“How did you know?” He looked at her amusedly.

“By your clothes.” She looked pointedly at his Savile Row suit. He hadn’t liked that; his smile was still there, but it was less amused—good—cripple indeed!

“It is really very sad for a German to find how misjudged and abused his country is. Of course, our enemies control the Press in foreign countries, and they have been very busy. They have clever tongues.”

“Have they? It is strange, isn’t it, how criticism of Germany has grown even in countries which were once really very close to her. I wonder how it could have happened.”

He looked as if he didn’t know quite how he should take that. She gazed at him steadily with wide blue eyes. He smiled sadly.

“You see, even you have changed. It is depressing to return to Oxford, which I loved, and to find myself surrounded by glaciers.” Was the man being really sincere, wondered Frances, or was it just another of those pathetic stories?

“Perhaps it is the change in you which has changed us.”

He looked surprised. “Oh, come now, Mrs. Myles. I haven’t changed so very much. I am still interested in literature and music. I haven’t become a barbarian, you know. Politically— well, I have progressed. Everyone does, unless he is a cow. I am more realistic than I once was, less sentimental. I’ve seen the stupidities committed in the name of idealism and abstract thinking. People are made to be led. They need leadership and with strong leadership they can achieve anything. At first they must take the bad with the good; in the end they will forget the bad, because the ultimate good will be so great for them.” He spoke with mounting enthusiasm.

“You believe you have not changed. And yet under the leadership which you praise so much you may only read certain books, listen to certain music, look at certain pictures, make friends with certain people. Isn’t that limiting yourself?”

“Oh, well, limiting oneself to the good, eliminating the bad—all that is better in the end.”

“But who is to say what is good for you or bad for you? Is it to be your own judgments, educated at Heidelberg, Oxford, and Harvard, or is it to be some self-appointed leader who can’t even speak grammatical German?” Von Aschenhausen didn’t like that either. He obviously had no answer ready for that one.

Frances kept her voice gentle. “You see, you have changed. Do you remember the Rhodes scholar who preceded you here? Intelligent man, quiet, and very kind. What’s his name?

Rotha, wasn’t it? You liked him then. But where is he now? Oranienburg, I heard.”

Von Aschenhausen made an impatient gesture. “That is all very sentimental, Mrs. Myles. It is time that the British really saw the things which matter. Discipline and strong measures are needed in today’s Europe. It is a more dangerous and forbidding place than it was six or seven years ago.”

“That is just our point,” said Frances. “What made Europe more dangerous and forbidding?”

He laughed, but it didn’t sound jovial.

“You are a very prejudiced person, I can see. I suppose you will now lecture me gravely on the wickedness of Germany’s claims to natural Lebensraum. It is easy to talk when you have a large Empire.”

“On the contrary, Herr von Aschenhausen, I like to think of all people having their Lebensraum, whether they are Germans or Jews or Czechs or Poles.”

His voice grated. He was really angry. “It is just such thoughts as these which have weakened Britain. In the last twenty-five years she could have established herself as ruler of the world. Instead, she makes a Commonwealth out of an Empire, and they won’t even fight to help her when she has to fight. She leaves the riches of India untapped; she urges a representative government on Indians who were about to refuse it. She alienates Italy with sanctions. She weakens herself all the time, and she thinks it is an improvement.”

“Hello, you are being very serious in this corner.” It was Richard.

“I’ve been having a lesson in statecraft,” said Frances, conscious of Richard’s eyes on the two pink spots on her cheeks. I shouldn’t let myself get angry, she thought, and listened to von Aschenhausen, once more smiling and plausible. She had the feeling that he was trying to cover up, as if he were annoyed with the impression he had given her. He was very polite as they said goodbye. He bowed low, his composure completely regained.

“I hope we meet again,” he said. “And don’t worry, Mrs. Myles. You will see that England will not be at war. You are all good pacifists, here. Enjoy yourselves abroad.”

Richard said, “I hope so,” and smiled. He took his wife’s arm and piloted her skilfully to the door. Frame waved a sherry bottle from two groups away.

“Lively party,” Frances called over to him, but the noise of voices around her drowned her words. Frame’s answer was also unheard. They exchanged smiles of understanding, a wave of the hand, and then Frances and Richard were outside the room into quietness and fresh air.

Richard lowered his voice. “I got to you as quickly as I could when I saw an argument had developed. I thought you had sense enough by this time not to waste your breath arguing with a Nazi. He is, isn’t he?”

“Yes. I think he didn’t mean to show it, but I made him angry.”

“What interests me is what he said to anger you.”

“Was it obvious?” Frances was dismayed.

“To me, yes. No one else would notice. What was it anyway?”

“Britain.”

“Anything else?”

Frances shook her head.

“All right; let’s drop it. I hope you weren’t too intelligent, though. Peter wants us to be the unworldly don with his dim wife.”

Frances stared. “But we needn’t start that business until we are on the boat train.”

“Probably not; still, you didn’t notice Peter taking any chances, did you?”

“I must say I thought he was a little—theatrical. He was very unlike himself.”

Richard shook his head slowly. “No to both of these. He was too worried to be theatrical. By the way, he didn’t turn up at the party.”

“Perhaps he changed his mind,” said Frances.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps he was just being very sure that he wouldn’t meet us again. That’s probably nearer it.” Richard’s voice was gloomy.

Frances pressed his arm to her side. “Cheer up, Richard, or you’ll have me worried in case I spoil your fun. It’s one of the troubles of having a wife, you know. You just can’t get rid of her.” She was rewarded with almost a smile.

But the sun had gone, and with it the bronze in the leaves overhead. The playing fields were empty. Over the grey walls and the sharply pointed rooftops the sounds of bells followed them as they walked slowly towards their house.

3

FAREWELL TO SAFETY

The rest of the week passed quickly. Frances was busy with the closing of their house. She also made a hectic dash to London for some clothes she “simply must have.” Richard finished the odds and ends of work which face a tutor towards the end of term—but from Peter Galt they heard nothing.

“Which means we are to go ahead,” said Richard at breakfast on Wednesday.

That morning he bought their tickets to Paris and interviewed the bank about a supply of Traveller’s Cheques and some French money. The expense of their unknown journeys had worried him, but his bank manager, who had always been tactful about overdrafts, met him with a discreet smile. The bank had been authorised to give Mr. Myles a letter of credit. Richard did not ask who had authorised it. The bank manager treated it all as something merely routine.

In the evening Richard hunted through his bookshelves and picked out the Baedekers and maps. He had a fair collection of these, for since his first year at Oxford he had spent part of each summer walking and scrambling his way across mountains into villages. He spread them out around him as he sat on the floor of the study, and lit his pipe. He wondered which he could omit: surely the Pyrenees and Majorca would be unnecessary. Peter had hinted in the direction of Central Europe. Still, it was better to be safe; he knew his way about these maps, and they ought to go along, all of them. He would take less clothes if his suitcase got too crowded.

Frances came in, her hair brushed loosely to her shoulders.

“Don’t overwork, darling,” she said with mock concern. “I begin to feel exhausted. I came in to ask you to sharpen my pencil.” She held out a miserable stub.

“What on earth do you do with your pencils?” asked Richard. “Gnaw them?”

Frances disregarded this with the adroitness of four years of marriage. She looked at the note-book in her hand, and checked off the items she had written there. Richard watched her as she bit her lip and counted. He felt that wave of emotion which came to him when he looked at Frances in her unguarded moments; and he had the bleak horror which always attacked him then when he thought how easy it might have been never to have met her.

Frances straightened her legs. “That’s that,” she said. “Just my own things to pack tomorrow after Anni departs. Richard, that is going to be a difficult moment. Other summers it was different. She always knew she would be coming back in time for October. She seems to feel she will never be back here. I found her packing in floods of tears this evening. I’ve sent her out now to say goodbye to her friends. So there goes the best cook we shall ever have. It was really rather painful this evening. I’ve got just as much attached to her as she has to us. She wants her father’s farm to have the honour of a visit from the gnädige Frau and the Herr Professor, if they should visit Innsbruck this summer.”

Richard finished sharpening the pencil. “Her people were pro-Dollfuss, weren’t they?”

“They were… I have a feeling that they have changed. Anni has been very silent about them since she returned last year. One thing she did tell me. Her sister told her that if she came back to England and a war broke out she would be stoned to death. That is what they said we did in 1914. Isn’t it appalling?”

“Well, I suppose if a nation allows concentration camps, it will find it hard to believe that other people don’t use similar methods. Cheer up, old girl, who cares what a lot of uncivilised people think anyway? It’s only the opinion of the civilised that really matters.”

“Yes, but it looks as if a lot of the civilised will be killed because they ignored the thoughts of the uncivilised. Ignoring doesn’t expose them, you know, Richard.” She traced a pattern on the carpet with her pencil. “Sorry, darling, I’m tired, and depressed. We’ve all gone so political these days. I worry and worry inside me, and I think everyone else is doing the same; it is difficult to forget what we all went through last September.”

Richard tapped the stem of his pipe against his teeth. “Yes, it’s difficult,” he said slowly. “I shan’t forget helping to dig trenches in the parks, or the paper tape on all the windows, or the towels we were told to keep beside a bucket of water. All the time I was digging I kept wondering whether the trenches would be any good at all, and I knew they wouldn’t be. I didn’t think much of the towel idea either. But what else was there? And then bastards like von Aschenhausen come along all smiles and bows. And wonder why people are not enthusiastic about them. They blackmailed us with bombers one year, and go back on the agreement they had extorted out of us, and then expect to be welcomed as friends. All within nine months. All that, Frances, makes one of the reasons why I listened to Peter. If I could put a spoke of even the most microscopic size in the smallest Nazi wheel, I’d think it a pretty good effort.” He had risen, and was pacing up and down the study.

“I think this interruption is due. I see that ‘proposition look’ dawning in your eye. Don’t try, don’t you try to leave me at home. I’m coming.”

“I was afraid you were.”

“Richard, my dear, you know that whenever you imagine exciting things they always turn out duller than a wet day in Wigan. It’s the parties you don’t get excited about which turn out to be fun. Now here we are, both thinking of ourselves in terms of Sard Harker. What will happen? We’ll go to Paris, and then find that the man does not turn up. I’ll wear a red rose for three nights, and you’ll spill Cointreau for three nights, until the whole cafe is gaping at us. And then we’ll go on our holiday, wondering if Peter’s sense of humour has become over-developed since Bucharest.”

Richard laughed. “You sound almost convincing Frances. But I know that you know what I know. This is no bloody picnic.”

She rose from the floor, and went over to the window. It was wide open. She leaned forward to breathe in the dewy smell of the earth. The lilac trees at the end of the garden had silver leaves. Richard came to her, and slipped an arm round her waist. They stood there in silence watching a garden moonlit. Frances glanced at him. He was lost in thought.

“If you want to know,” he said at last, reading her thoughts in the uncanny way two people living together learn to do, “I am thinking we should photograph this in our memory. We may need to remember it often for the next few years.”

Frances nodded. Around them were the other gardens, the mixed perfume of flowers. The walls hung heavy with roses and honeysuckle, their colours whitened in the strong moonlight. The deep shadows of trees, blurring the outline of the other houses, were pierced here and there with the lights from uncurtained windows. The giant elms in the Magdalen deer park stood sentinels of peace.

She said suddenly, “Richard, let’s go up the river; just for half an hour.”

“The dew is heavy. You had better wrap up well.”

“I shall. It won’t take five minutes.” She kissed him suddenly and left him. He heard her running upstairs, the banging of the wardrobe door in their bedroom. So Frances had this feeling too, this feeling of wanting to say goodbye.

She came downstairs in less than her five minutes dressed in a sweater and trousers, and with one of his silk handkerchiefs round her neck. They walked the short distance to the boathouse in silence. They got out the canoe in a matter-of-fact way, as if they were defying the moonlight to weaken them. They paddled swiftly up the narrow river. White mists were rising from the fields on either side of them, encircling the roots of the willows which edged the banks.

“When I used to read my Virgil this is what I thought the Styx might be like,” said Frances. Then suddenly, “Richard, what are you planning to do in Paris?”

“Water carries sound,” he reminded her. To prove his words, they heard low voices and the laugh of a girl, before they saw two punts drifting to meet them.