Read sample Dangerous Sea

1

‘Damn and blast it! Oh sorry, Connie, but, hang it all, just look at it!’

It was late February and London was cold, wet and miserable. After the warmth and colour of the auditorium, Bow Street seemed distinctly uninviting. Peering out through the rain from the portico of the Opera House, Lord Edward Corinth wondered how he would ever locate the Rolls. He grasped his companion by the arm and said, ‘I don’t think Page will find us in this mêlée. Perhaps I ought to go and explore.’

As he finished speaking, however, the Duchess pointed. ‘Look! Over there, Ned. There he is.’

Somehow, the chauffeur had found his way to the front of the queue of taxis and cars, and Edward, relieved and admiring, wondered if he had had to resort to bribery or if it was sheer force of personality. Page approached them holding a large umbrella open above him. Edward gratefully released his sister-in-law into his charge and prepared to follow but a tap on the shoulder arrested him.

‘Lord Edward – it is you, isn’t it?’

The man who addressed him was small, narrow in the shoulders and altogether unprepossessing. His frailty was emphasized by his bald head, wispy ginger moustache and weak blue eyes which nevertheless glowed brightly from behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He had raised his black silk hat to greet Edward and now replaced it.

‘Lord Benyon, how are you?’ Edward responded, with genuine warmth. Benyon might resemble an undernourished bank clerk from one of the novels of H.G. Wells but he was, in fact, a distinguished economist and one of the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s trusted advisers. It was not a total surprise to see him at Covent Garden because Edward knew he was a close friend of Sir Thomas Beecham, the director of the Opera House.

‘That was my sister-in-law you saw being escorted to the car. May we give you a lift or have you a car of your own?’

‘That’s very good of you, Lord Edward,’ said the little man. ‘If it’s not taking you too much out of your way, I confess we would be very glad of a lift. I don’t fancy my chances of finding a taxi in this weather. I live in Gerald Road. Do you know it? Almost next to the police station.’

‘Of course. Noel Coward lives in Gerald Road, doesn’t he? I went to a party there once, with a friend of mine who was rather a good singer.’

‘Yes, indeed. Not that, I’m afraid, we see anything of him. He moves in much more glamorous circles. Oh, forgive me, may I introduce my sister, Mrs Garton?’

Edward raised his hat to a lady so tightly wrapped in her cloak he could only see a pair of blue eyes above a rather pleasant smile, and then looked anxiously after Connie. ‘Very good. Let us sally forth. I don’t know how long Page can defend his position from the mob.’

A girl in a threadbare dress and a rain-sodden hat thrust a bunch of violets at him. Irritated by this new delay, he moved his arm to brush her aside and was immediately ashamed. How could his minor inconvenience compare with what this girl had to endure? He fished in his trouser pocket and came up with a half-crown which he pressed in the girl’s hand. Her gratitude made him even more embarrassed and he saw Benyon smiling.

‘As my friend, Verity Browne, would say, these girls don’t need charity. They need education and a proper job,’ he said sheepishly.

They elbowed their way through the crowd which continued to stream out of the Opera House. They ducked and dodged as umbrellas were opened all about them, spokes prodding spitefully. Water dribbled off black brollies on to shawls and capes, down necks, ruining top hats and making patent-leather shoes glisten. Women, clutching their evening bags in one hand and holding their long dresses clear of the wet pavement with the other, protested in shrill squeals. The scent of rotting vegetables from the market made Edward momentarily nauseous.

When they reached the sanctuary of the Rolls, Connie was already ensconced in the back but made no objection to taking Benyon and his sister home. Connie had not met him before but they had many friends in common and were soon at ease with one another. Edward relaxed and, as the car turned into the Strand, prepared to devote himself to Mrs Garton.

‘What did you think of the opera?’ he asked her. ‘Wasn’t Erna Berger a magnificent Queen of the Night?’

‘It was heaven. The Magic Flute is a favourite of mine, Lord Edward, and Erna Berger … how could anyone sing with such purity of tone? I really can’t find the right words without resorting to cliché. And Tiana Lemnitz … her Pamina! I believe we were privileged to hear it.’

Edward said, rather mischievously, ‘So what do you think it’s all about? I mean, not that absurd Masonic abracadabra stuff. What’s it really about?’

‘Human cruelty,’ she replied rather surprisingly. ‘Beneath all that heavenly music, there is the story of harsh and unjustified punishment. It’s hardly surprising Pamina tries to kill herself.’

Benyon, seeing Edward was rather taken aback by the seriousness of his sister’s remarks, said, ‘Well, we must enjoy it while we can. It may not be a privilege we will have again, to listen to such singing. Sir Thomas was saying to me the other day that he was literally bankrupting himself putting on what the press are calling a Coronation Season. Unless he can find money from somewhere, it will have to be his last.’

‘Oh, but that’s terrible!’ Connie exclaimed. ‘We can’t let Covent Garden close. Can’t the government do something? Surely, London must have an opera house. If the Italians can fund La Scala and that’s not even in Rome …’

‘Maybe, but the government puts guns before music.’

‘Some would say about time too,’ Edward put in drily.

‘Well, I wouldn’t,’ Connie said stoutly. ‘My son, Frank, told me Sir Thomas had been at Eton not long ago and it had been a revelation. Let me see, what was it they played? I remember, Mendelssohn’s Midsummer Night’s Dream. Frank said it was better than the record he has of Toscanini. Of course music is more important than guns, Ned.’ She shivered. ‘Though I’m not saying we don’t need guns, more’s the pity.’

There was a silence and then Edward said, with an effort, ‘I was very sad to hear about Inna. I would so much have liked to come to the funeral but unfortunately we were out of the country … Verity and I. Your wife was a very remarkable woman, if you will allow me to say so. I don’t know exactly what it was she said to Verity but it had a great effect on her. She had some sort of block writing her book on Spain but Inna showed her how to overcome it. I honestly believe she is the only woman Verity admired unreservedly.’

‘That’s very good of you,’ Benyon said, visibly moved. ‘It was a great blow to me, though of course we knew the cancer wouldn’t … give her very long. Perhaps you think it wrong of me to be at the opera within two months of her death but …’ Mrs Garton leant over and took his hand, ‘when she was dying, she begged me to go on doing what she knew I had to do to keep sane – music, going to all my ridiculous meetings and committees. She knew that if I stopped and … gave way, I would never be able to survive. Inna was my life, Lord Edward, but I feel her with me now, by my side …’ He made an effort to pull himself together. ‘Forgive me for talking this way. It must be Mozart. He sometimes has that effect on me. Now, tell me, you were in Spain over Christmas, were you not? I read something about it in the paper.’

‘Yes,’ the Duchess interjected. ‘Frank gave us all a fright by running away from school to join the International Brigade.’

‘And Verity and I went to Spain to fetch him back,’ Edward said grimly. ‘We caught up with him on Christmas Day just outside Madrid. He was manning a machine-gun, would you believe?’ He could hardly keep the admiration out of his voice. ‘Anyway, we dragged him back by the scruff of his neck and he hasn’t stopped complaining since. He’s resolutely refused to go back to school so, at the moment, he’s sitting at home in a deep sulk while we try to think what we are going to do with him.’

‘I see,’ Benyon said meditatively. ‘Look, what are you doing at lunch tomorrow? I have a ghost of an idea but I need to mull it over and talk to someone first to see if it’s practical.’

‘That’s very good of you,’ Connie said. ‘Of course you’re free tomorrow, aren’t you, Ned?’

A little nettled at being taken for granted, Edward had to agree. The car drew up in Gerald Road, a narrow street of substantial houses with a small police station at one end endearingly decorated with window boxes. When Page opened the car door for them, Benyon said, ‘Please don’t get out, Lord Edward. The Athenaeum at one o’clock? Excellent!’ Turning to Connie, he added, ‘Thank you so much for the lift, Duchess. I must tell you, my wife thought very well of Lord Edward and my dear Inna was a shrewd judge of character.’

The Athenaeum, in Pall Mall, was just a five-minute walk from Brooks’s, Edward’s club in St James’s Street, but in atmosphere it was a world away. Brooks’s had its share of members who slept the days away in the deep, leather armchairs but these were by no means the majority. Members of Brooks’s were, for the most part, aristocrats, diplomats and politicians – Tories to a man, despite the club’s Whig origins. At the Athenaeum, Edward anticipated bumping into bishops, judges and senior civil servants. The thought did not excite him. As he entered the atrium with its sweeping staircase leading to the great rooms on the first and second floors, he was as usual put in mind of a cathedral and he could not prevent himself grinning when the first person he saw, after he had given his name to the porter, was the Bishop of Worthing, Cecil Haycraft, whom he had met at Mersham Castle.

‘Lord Edward! I didn’t know you were a member, but how nice to see you. How is your brother, the Duke? I heard that he made a very good speech in the Lords on the Education Bill.’

‘Thank you. He is well but, as to my being a member here, I have to disappoint you. I am just a guest.’ He decided to tease the Bishop who rather prided himself on being modern and unstuffy. ‘I am surprised that you are a member. Isn’t it a little … old-fashioned for a man of your advanced views?’

The Bishop blushed and Edward repented his impertinence. ‘I’m just joking – forgive me.’

The Bishop’s face cleared. ‘Of course, and you, Lord Edward, how are you and how is that delightful friend of yours, Miss Browne?’

There was the very slightest sting in the inquiry. Verity Browne was everything the Athenaeum feared and despised. She was a woman and, if that was not bad enough, she was a Communist and, worst of all, a journalist. And yet, for some reason which he could not quite define, Edward found more satisfaction in her company than in that of any of the women in his social circle. The society women he met at dinners and at balls – though, as a matter of fact, he no longer went to balls – bored him.

Verity did not bore him. She was elusive. She was infuriating. She liked to make fun of his preconceptions and prejudices. She accused him of belonging to a class which history had decided to consign to the dustbin and she was consistently disparaging of his efforts to be a chevalier sans peur et sans reproche. Despite all of this – and to his friends’ amusement and puzzlement – he found himself completely in her thrall. Perhaps it was that she did not toady to him, the son of a duke, as so many of the women in his set appeared to do. Perhaps it was because she forced him to see the world from a different perspective, or perhaps it was just something ‘chemical’, as the modish phrase had it. On several occasions he had been on the point of proposing marriage to her but for one reason or another he had never got the words out. He knew she was more than likely to say no, so there was some relief in not having forced the issue.

Verity was aware of Edward’s feelings for her – how could she not be? – and sometimes thought she reciprocated them. She certainly liked and admired him. His courage, his intelligence, his enterprise and – there was no getting away from it – his social position made him attractive and she had come to depend on him in moments of crisis. If only he would be satisfied to be her lover. It wasn’t just that, as a committed Communist, it was against all her principles to marry into the aristocracy. If she decided she wanted to do something perverse, she would not be put off by the derision of her comrades in the Party. No, she genuinely felt she was unsuited to marriage. Her strongest emotions were political rather than personal, or that was what she told herself. She was a foreign correspondent – a demanding and occasionally dangerous job which she had been told often enough was man’s work. And there was war everywhere, in Spain and soon throughout Europe. A great battle with Fascism was looming and she was determined to be part of it. For the foreseeable future, there was going to be no chance that she could be fulfilled by building a cosy nest for her man and bringing his babies into the world. She did not like babies or anything which restricted her movements. She was ready to accept she was selfish but at least she wasn’t cruel enough to marry a man and lead him a dog’s life. If there was one thing upon which she prided herself it was being honest.

‘Verity is well. She has just completed a book on the war in Spain, for the Left Book Club. I am sure you are a subscriber.’

The Bishop was not sure if he were again being teased and finally decided he was. ‘I am indeed a subscriber. You have me in your power, Lord Edward. If it came to the notice of the club secretary, I would probably be drummed out.’

He smiled and Edward liked him for it. Further discussion was cut short by the appearance of Lord Benyon on the staircase above them.

‘I thought it might be easier to talk confidentially in one of the card rooms and then have lunch, if that’s all right with you.’

Benyon ushered him into a small room redolent of cigars. Two card tables, covered in green felt, stood abandoned in one corner and on a horsehair sofa opposite sat Major Ferguson.

‘I gather you two know each other,’ Benyon said.

Edward nodded and took Ferguson’s outstretched hand. He had met the Major a few weeks previously and knew him to be one of those shadowy policemen whose authority was not to be questioned and whose sphere of operations was wide but amorphous. Special Branch had been set up during the Fenian troubles of the 1880s but was now responsible for state security which, according to Verity, in practice meant harassing the Communist Party while tacitly approving Sir Oswald Mosley’s activities. Edward had no idea if this was true or merely left-wing paranoia.

Major Ferguson was not physically impressive. He was shorter than Benyon who was himself not much above five feet. He wore a bristly military moustache, not unlike the Führer’s. He was almost bald. His brown eyes were masked by spectacles thick enough to suggest his sight was very poor. He was saved from the instant anonymity he no doubt fostered by a scar above his right eye.

‘Lord Edward!’ Ferguson exclaimed, pretending for no reason Edward could imagine that bumping into him like this was just some happy accident. ‘Much has happened since we last met.’

He was referring to the Abdication of the King and the murder of two people connected with him. ‘Your investigation was commendably thorough and you got to the bottom of it all with the minimum of fuss. Congratulations.’ He shook Edward’s hand with unexpected vigour.

‘Very kind of you but …’

‘But what am I doing here? Shall I tell him, Lord Benyon, or will you?’

‘You go ahead.’

‘Right you are.’ Ferguson was playing the hearty ‘good fellow’ you might meet on a racecourse but Edward was not deceived. This man, despite his insignificance, was dangerous. ‘Cigarette?’

Edward was about to take one and then remembered Ferguson favoured a particularly noxious Egyptian brand. Ferguson laughed to see him hesitate. ‘I had a small bet with myself that you’d remember.’ He replaced his cigarette case in his breast pocket and they all sat down.

‘Major Ferguson hasn’t got long. He won’t lunch with us so I knew you wouldn’t mind if we disposed of our bit of business before eating,’ Benyon said apologetically.

Edward nodded, rather bemused. ‘Business? What business?’

‘Not business exactly,’ Ferguson said airily. ‘A week from now Lord Benyon is going to the United States ostensibly to accept an honorary degree from New York’s Columbia University. He is also giving two lectures – one to the New York Press Club and another to a group of influential businessmen. He then goes on to Washington and will have a meeting with Mr Lauchlin Currie, the President’s chief financial adviser, and will give two more lectures there before returning home.’

‘I see. And how does that …?’

‘Affect you?’ Ferguson had a habit of completing people’s sentences. ‘I’ll tell you, but I need hardly say that this is all in the strictest confidence.’

‘Except certain people already seem to know!’ Benyon broke in.

‘Yes. There’s a leak somewhere right enough, at the very top of government, but we haven’t yet put our finger on who the wagging tongue might be. Anyway, Lord Benyon has a much more important object in going to Washington than giving a few lectures, interesting though they will no doubt be,’ he said, smiling insincerely at Benyon. ‘The real purpose of the trip is a private meeting with President Roosevelt and two of his closest advisers. The Prime Minister has, as you know, begun to strengthen our armed forces in the light of the international situation …’

‘Too little and too late!’

‘Probably, Lord Edward,’ Benyon agreed, ‘but there’s no point in crying over spilt milk. The fact is that millions of pounds are being spent on rearmament but Britain is no longer the financial power it used to be. Neville Chamberlain – and, whatever I think of him as a human being, he’s a sound man to have as Chancellor of the Exchequer – has said that the fifteen hundred million pounds the government plans to spend on the Navy and the Army in the next five years is almost certainly inadequate. The Chancellor will have to raise taxes and borrow at least two hundred million. That’s not going to be easy. Most people are quite unaware of it but, to be blunt, Britain is bankrupt, so far as a country can go bankrupt. Most of our foreign investments had been disposed of by 1918 and it’s little more than sheer bluff that we can sit as equals at the same table with our North American friends.’

‘And your object is to borrow money off the United States?’

‘Beg, borrow or steal,’ Benyon said emphatically. ‘We cannot fight another war without American financial support. Roosevelt has made it plain that the United States will not come in on our side if there is a war. Fifty thousand “doughboys” were killed on the Western Front. It may not be many compared to our losses but American public opinion is absolutely firm in its opposition to any policy other than isolationism. No more young Americans will die on the battlefields of Europe.’

‘I understand and I wish you good fortune, Benyon. You have clearly got a Herculean task ahead of you but I don’t see how I can be of any assistance.’

‘We have it on good authority,’ Benyon went on as if Edward had not spoken, ‘that the German government knows the real purpose of my visit and Major Ferguson says they will do anything … anything to ensure its failure.’

‘Meaning?’

‘We have definite information that they would not stop at murder,’ Ferguson elaborated.

‘Oh really, Major! Are you asking me to believe that agents of the German Reich would resort to murder to stop Lord Benyon reaching Washington? With respect, surely that is pure John Buchan.’

‘Not at all!’ Ferguson said a little huffily. ‘Our agent in the German Chancellery is adamant that this threat is to be taken seriously and his information, gained at great personal risk, is not to be dismissed lightly.’

Edward felt himself reproved. ‘Well, I am sorry, but you must admit it seems preposterous. The new Germany is not to my taste and I have been convinced for some time that war is inevitable but surely no European government will resort to murder. They are not a bunch of thugs.’

‘But that is just what they are, Lord Edward,’ Ferguson said fiercely. ‘Hitler has never had any compunction in murdering even his closest associates when they have outlived their usefulness. Think of the Night of the Long Knives in June 1934. Röhm and all his Brownshirts were murdered at a word from their Führer. You have heard of these prison camps they have set up? There’s one near Munich about which we are beginning to hear frightful stories. Without trial, without possibility of appeal, the Nazis imprison their enemies in these places and most are never heard of again.’

‘Jews …’ Edward began.

‘Not only Jews. Communists – anyone who causes them any trouble.’

‘And the German public knows about this?’

‘They know something of it but it is dangerously “unpatriotic” to object … to speak out in defence of the country’s “enemies”.’

‘I am not naive about the Nazis, Major Ferguson. I do understand what you are saying but to put it another way – and I am not meaning to belittle Lord Benyon’s mission – would they bother to attempt to kill him? Are there not many more obvious … targets?’

‘I don’t think you fully understand, Edward.’ Benyon unconsciously dropped into an intimacy which his listener considered a compliment. ‘My mission is of the utmost importance. If war was declared tomorrow, we might stave off defeat for a week, a month or – at the most optimistic estimate – three months. We cannot win – we cannot survive – without American aid.’

Benyon was deadly serious and a cold shiver ran down Edward’s spine. ‘The French?’ he offered up.

Benyon was contemptuous. ‘A “busted flush”, as our American friends would say. I believe they could not withstand a German invasion even as long as we could. They have no English Channel to “serve it in the office of a wall”.’

‘But I still don’t see how I come into this. I am flattered you have taken me into your confidence but surely, Ferguson, you have Lord Benyon protected?’

‘On British soil Lord Benyon has protection day and night but out of England …’

‘How are you travelling to the States, Benyon?’ Edward asked.

‘On the Queen Mary.’

‘That is almost the same as being on British soil.’

‘Not so, Lord Edward,’ Ferguson said. ‘We have a passenger list but who is to say if it is accurate or complete? The Queen Mary carries some seven hundred First Class passengers and an equal number in the other two classes. Lord Benyon will keep himself to himself as far as is possible without arousing comment but there is always a chance …’

‘… someone might take a pot shot at me.’

‘Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,’ Edward quoted. ‘I have always considered that to be a particularly insidious lie.’

‘Sweet and honourable to die for one’s country?’ Benyon said thoughtfully. ‘But don’t forget that Horace’s next line, if I remember it aright, is mors et fugacem persequitur virum – Death hunts down the man in flight.’

‘Our agent believes that it is on the ship they are most likely to attempt to … do their dirty business.’

‘But, Ferguson, you can surround him with your people on board.’

‘It is not that easy, Edward,’ Benyon said earnestly. ‘The difficulty is that I do not wish to draw attention to my mission. If it is to succeed, secrecy is of the essence. If the press were to get hold of the real reason for my trip, it would be a disaster. Our enemies would make hay with our obvious weakness and the American public would imagine they were about to be duped by “perfidious Albion”.’

‘One of my men will pose as Lord Benyon’s manservant,’ Ferguson said, ‘but what we really need is someone who can mingle easily with the other First Class passengers and keep an eye out for any potential threat.’

‘And you want me to be your homme de confiance?’

‘Don’t be offended,’ Benyon said hurriedly. ‘It would be a great pleasure for me to have you on the Queen Mary as my guest – or rather the government’s guest. I will have a great deal to worry about and to feel that you were there to … well, to keep an eye on me, would be a great relief.’

‘Are you taking anyone else with you?’

‘My secretary, Marcus Fern. I call him my secretary but really he is my assistant – a brilliant young man. I don’t know if you have met him?’ Edward shook his head. ‘He’s a very able young banker and one day he’ll be Governor of the Bank of England, I’m convinced of it. It’s very pleasing he has consented to accompany me on this trip. He’s at Samuel Montagu – David Keswick spotted him. Fern is one of the new breed of City men – self-made – his father was a schoolteacher. We need more of his kind, in my view, if London is to retain its position at the centre of the financial world.’

‘My dear Benyon, as I have said, I am very flattered to be asked and I don’t underestimate the importance of your mission but, to be honest with you, I am determined to find myself a real job – a permanent position where I can put my shoulder to the wheel. There’s a war coming and I want to be in a position to make a contribution …’

‘I appreciate your patriotism. I must tell you I am fully informed of what you have achieved in the past two years. I know it is a fault of yours to undervalue yourself. You are building something of a career as a “trouble-shooter”, as the expression is. You may think you are unknown in government circles but I assure you that this is not the case. I happen to know that only the other day Vansittart was speaking of you to the Foreign Secretary in the most complimentary terms.’

‘May I think over what you have told me?’ Edward said at last. He had a feeling he was being ungracious. Benyon was not a man to overstate the importance of his mission. ‘When exactly are you sailing?’

‘In five days.’

‘Good Lord! On Saturday? Oughtn’t you to have dealt with all this weeks ago?’

‘Although my lectures were planned some time ago, the extra element was only added a few days ago.’

‘And the warning from our agent,’ Ferguson added, ‘came through the day before yesterday.’

‘I see,’ Edward said doubtfully.

‘Twenty-four hours. We need an answer not later than Wednesday to permit us to make other arrangements if you decline to accompany Lord Benyon.’ Ferguson spoke stiffly as if he had expected Edward to have agreed immediately.

‘There’s one other thing, Edward,’ Benyon said, looking at him anxiously. ‘I thought it might be useful to take a young man with me to run errands and carry my briefcases, make sure I catch trains and so on, and I wondered if your nephew Frank would take the post. You said he was rather at a loose end. Of course, I would have to meet him and see if we would get on but he obviously has pluck and determination. I like the sound of him.’

Edward smiled. How clever! Benyon had offered to solve a problem which only minutes ago had seemed intractable. He was being offered the gentlest of bribes but could hardly take offence. He said, ‘You know Frank considers himself a Communist? In fact I believe he’s a member of the Party.’

Major Ferguson grinned. ‘We know but we believe, under his uncle’s watchful eye, he will do nothing to embarrass Lord Benyon. However, I must emphasize that neither he nor anyone else can be told the real purpose of the mission. Only Mr Fern and yourself know that. Even my man, Barrett, who will act as Lord Benyon’s valet, does not need to be told. You understand?’

Major Ferguson was suddenly grim-faced.

‘I understand,’ Edward said.

2

Verity Browne looked up into the smiling face of the young American and smiled back. His name was Sam Forrest and he was the emissary of John L. Lewis, the United Mineworkers chief.

Lewis was the most powerful labour representative in the United States. When asked by a reporter what he believed, he said without hesitation, ‘The right to organize, shorter hours, the prohibition of child labour, equal pay for men and women and a guarantee that all who are able to work shall have the opportunity for employment.’ When the reporter added, ‘And a living wage?’ Lewis roared, ‘We demand more than that: a wage that will enable the worker to maintain himself and his family in health and modest comfort, purchase his home and educate his children.’

Lewis was not a Communist, nor was Sam Forrest, but they did believe in the reform of capitalism and Forrest had been sent to England to meet workers’ leaders and see what the two labour movements could do to help one another. Forrest’s three-week visit was almost over. It had been a considerable success and he was returning home on the Queen Mary in five days’ time thoroughly pleased with himself.

‘Why don’t you come with me, Miss Browne? You could report on our struggle and meet some of our leaders. Maybe go to Chicago. There’s a major move going on there in the meat-packing industry. Maybe you could sell your book to a New York publisher and give some lectures on the war in Spain. Anyways, I’d sure be glad of your company.’

Verity was taken aback. She liked this young man a lot – his open smile and lazy drawl had got under her skin – but she had never contemplated prolonging the acquaintanceship. She had followed Forrest from meeting to meeting, reporting for the Daily Worker, the official organ of the Communist Party, and had even managed to get a small paragraph into the New Gazette about a meeting in Coventry which had been broken up by the police.

‘Oh, I couldn’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m supposed to be giving a lecture in Scarborough next week.’

‘Where the heck’s Scarborough?’

‘My employer, Lord Weaver – he’d sack me.’

‘Well, who cares? Get a job on the New York Times. Don’t be so defeatist.’

‘I’m not being defeatist,’ Verity said indignantly. ‘I’d have to get permission from the Party.’

Forrest could sense she was weakening. ‘No problem there. I was talking to one of your people and he was saying they ought to have better liaison with their friends in the United States. Got any more reasons not to come with me? I could introduce you to some useful people.’

‘I need to be back in Spain. Madrid can’t hold out much longer.’

‘Look, Miss Browne … Verity,’ the big man said, taking her by the arms, ‘I guess Madrid can fall without your help. You’d only be gone three weeks, a month at the most. It would be good for your career. This is our century. Europe’s finished. Come with me. You won’t regret it.’

Lord Weaver, Verity’s employer and the proprietor of the New Gazette, was enthusiastic. ‘I like it. We should have more people in the States. Hopkins is a good man but he can only cover so much. He reports from Washington and Washington isn’t America. Write some pieces about how ordinary people live, about the way machines are transforming the lives of housewives.’ He held up his hand as he saw Verity open her mouth to object. ‘I don’t mean report on women’s topics. It’s simply that what happens in America happens over here five years later. You know, “I saw the future and it works.” ’

‘That was said about Russia. But you really mean it, Joe. You want me to go?’

‘I think it’s a great opportunity. Godber will have a fit,’ he laughed. Godber was the paper’s editor. ‘He really can’t stand you. I can’t think why.’

Verity grinned. ‘I suppose it won’t cost too much. I can go steerage.’

‘Certainly not! The New Gazette’s prestige is at stake. I don’t suppose Sam Forrest is going steerage.’

‘No,’ Verity agreed. ‘First Class.’ It had surprised her that this representative of the people was travelling in such style. When she had asked him if there wasn’t a contradiction there, he smiled and said. ‘My union’s one of the most powerful in the country. I wouldn’t be taken seriously by the employers or anyone else if they think I can’t afford to travel with the high-hats.’

The Party, too, as Forrest had forecast, was enthusiastic. Verity was summoned to meet Ronald Kidd, her area organizer, a man of about fifty with a flowing mane of white hair and black eyes which burned with ardour for the cause. Verity liked him but was rather more afraid of him than she was of her other employer, Lord Weaver. Kidd was emphatic. Of course she must accept Forrest’s invitation.

‘Get to know as many of the union leaders as you can and write about the class struggle for the Daily Worker. We’ve neglected to build up strong ties with our friends in the United States. That was why we were so ready to welcome Mr Forrest. It’s important we don’t let this opportunity pass just because we have so much on our plate here in England. I’ll give you the addresses of friends of ours in the Youth Congress, young people with the right ideas – not all Communists. And here are some back issues of New Masses – that’s the official journal of the Communist Party in the States.’

‘I didn’t know they allowed Communists in the United States,’ Verity remarked.

‘I have a pamphlet here somewhere on the history of the Party in the States,’ Kidd said, opening a desk drawer stuffed with leaflets. ‘It’s very different from ours. The Party spent many years trying to establish separate unions and organizations but, in the last year or two under the leadership of Earl Browder, a magnificent man – from Kansas I believe – the CPUSA has changed tack. The new directives from Moscow mean we co-operate with any group opposed to Fascism. In the States, Party workers have joined the CIO, the Committee for Industrial Organization, whose president is John Lewis, young Sam’s boss. Ah, this is what I was looking for.’ Kidd produced a small, stapled pamphlet from a cardboard file. ‘This will tell you all about it. But don’t spend too much time trying to meet Party members. As I say, your task is to develop relationships with the union bosses. For the most part, they are as capitalist as their employers but, in their struggle for workers’ rights, they are our allies. Our enemy’s enemy is our friend. You understand?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

Kidd opened the pamphlet and began to read. ‘ “The IWW” – that’s the Industrial Workers of the World,’ he explained, ‘the Communist Party in industry, you might say – “was founded with a statement that the working class and the employing class have nothing in common. Instead of the old slogan: a fair day’s wage for a fair day’s toil, the IWW says abolish the wage system. An injury to the members of one industry is an injury to the whole working class and has to be met with strikes and sabotage.” ’ He pushed his glasses up his nose and looked sternly at Verity. ‘That is what we believe even if for the moment we have to compromise. Never forget it.’

Verity left Kidd’s office – a modest affair over a garage next to a church in Bermondsey – confused but excited. Her restless spirit was stimulated by the promise of a new world to explore. She decided she would drop in on her friend Edward Corinth and show off a little. It did not strike her as odd that she chose to talk over her orders with a member of the despised ‘upper class’ rather than another Party member.

‘Miss Browne, my lord.’

‘I do wish you would sound a little less funereal, Fenton. Miss Browne would be very hurt if she could hear you.’

‘I did hear him,’ Verity said, sweeping into the bedroom uninvited and kissing Edward on the cheek. She turned to Edward’s valet. ‘I sometimes think you don’t trust me, Fenton.’

‘Madam!’ The rebuke, if on the chilly side, was not totally humourless. He didn’t trust her as far as he could throw her which, since she was small and very thin, was a considerable distance.

‘I know, Fenton,’ Verity sighed theatrically. ‘You are being protective, but surely you can’t blame me just because, whenever Lord Edward comes to any event in which I have a starring role, he always gets himself a bloody nose?’

She was referring to the Cable Street riots and a lecture she had given in the East End the previous autumn which had ended in fisticuffs. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘I bring you tidings of great joy. I am leaving the country. I shall trouble you no more. I am off to the United States of America – on the Queen Mary, no less.’ With a sweep of her hand, very much in the Isadora Duncan mode of expression, she swung her arm sideways, knocking a china ornament off the mantelpiece. ‘Oops, sorry,’ she said, bending to pick the pieces up off the floor.

‘Please, miss, let me do that,’ Fenton said, with an implied sigh of forbearance. ‘I shall return shortly with a dustpan and brush.’

Verity looked around her and noted the suitcases open on the bed and on the floor beside it.

‘But you, too, look as though you are about to take a trip. Are you off to Mersham?’

‘A little further actually. Please put down my hairbrush. It’s a particular phobia of mine not to allow anyone to touch my hairbrush. And that goes for my shaving tackle too,’ Edward added, deftly removing the razor from Verity’s outstretched hand.

‘Oh, that’s what it is, is it? I thought it had to be the exhibit marked C – the murder weapon.’

‘Please, Verity, I’ve got a lot to do before I leave. I really don’t have time for idle chatter. I have to be at Southampton not later than one pip emma tomorrow and I’ve only just started to get everything together.’

‘Well! That’s a coincidence. I too have to be in Southampton tomorrow. I suppose there’s no possibility we are going to be shipmates?’

‘God forbid!’ Edward said, putting his hand to his forehead in imitation of Sir Donald Wolfit playing Macbeth. ‘But here’s a coincidence,’ he continued with heavy irony. ‘As you have guessed, I also have a passage booked aboard the Queen Mary. We are, in short, to be tossing in the same barque for four, or possibly five, days. Let Joy be unconfined. I had counted on a few days’ repose to get me in a fit state to cope with the mind-numbing energy of New York but, what matter …? To be with you … Just joking,’ he added, fending off a cushion. ‘Come over here and let me kiss you properly. Quick, before Fenton gets back.’

She offered him her cheek. ‘I’m certainly not kissing you if you’re going to be patronizing.’

‘Sorry, V. But why are you going? I must say, it’s quite funny! We both suddenly decide to go to America and end up on the Queen Mary together. We’ll probably be in next-door cabins. No, wait! I will be in First Class and you will be with the Ellis Island immigrants, I assume.’

‘You assume wrong. We newspaper men – and women – travel in style.’

‘So, on the spur of the moment, you decide to go to America? Why, for goodness sake? Oughtn’t you to be in Spain? I thought there must be one continent at least which is free of the mayhem you seem to bring to the places you visit.’

‘I’m not a tourist. I’m a newspaper correspondent,’ Verity said grandly. ‘So I go where the news is and, if mayhem is your word for news, then you are quite correct. But seriously, are you emigrating, or what? No, I’ve got it! You’re after that girl again, aren’t you? What a lark!’

‘If you mean Miss Pageant …?’

‘Yes, Amy.’

Amy Pageant was Lord Weaver’s daughter and was now a star on Broadway. Edward and she had had a brief affair and Verity had always been jealous of her, even though she had no right to be.

‘As a matter of fact, I am accompanying Lord Benyon who is travelling to the United States to receive an honorary degree from Columbia University and give several important lectures,’ Edward said pompously.

‘I see. And what precisely is your function? To carry the bags? I never heard you were an economist.’

‘I am going as his personal assistant to smooth his way so he can concentrate on the important things.’

‘I shall enjoy meeting him again. A very nice man, I thought. I was so sorry about Inna. Is he very unhappy?’

‘He’s one of those people who bury their unhappiness in work. But you still haven’t told me your reason for being on the Queen Mary.’

‘I am going to report on the workers’ struggle. Our comrades in arms – how the ordinary American combats the tyranny of capitalism. Hard-hitting stuff.’

‘That’s for the Daily Worker, I imagine. What does Joe Weaver want you to do? If I remember correctly, the Gazette already has a correspondent in America.’

‘The paper does have a Washington correspondent and, of course, takes stories from Reuters and other news agencies but Joe thought a series of articles on how the ordinary American lives and works would be interesting. The idea being that what the Americans do today, we do next year.’

‘I see. Well, there we are then. We travel together. I look forward to it. Now, leave me to get on with my packing.’

‘I don’t know about travelling together, exactly,’ Verity said casually. ‘I am travelling with a chap called Sam Forrest. He’s John L. Lewis’s assistant. Have you heard of him?’

Edward was immediately on his guard. ‘He’s an American politician, isn’t he?’

‘He’s head of the mineworkers’ union.’

‘He’s not a “Comrade”?’

‘No, he believes that reform within the constitution is the only way to avoid revolution. Roosevelt likes him – well, respects him anyway.’

‘I look forward to meeting Mr Forrest,’ Edward said courteously.

Verity was suspicious. ‘I don’t trust you when you’re being reasonable. I hope you won’t try and patronize him like you do me.’

‘Tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibi finem di dederint, Leuconoe¨, nec Babylonios temptaris numeros. I don’t know why but old Horace has been rather in my mind.’

‘There you are! That’s just what I mean. You know I have no Latin. It wasn’t thought suitable for gels to be taught Latin in the schools I attended. Anyway, wasn’t Horace the one who liked little boys?’

‘It’s not my fault you weren’t educated. The poet says, “You don’t inquire – it’s forbidden to know – what our end will be – whether this winter will be our last.” Something like that … Oh, and “Don’t play about with foreign affairs.” ’

‘I can’t think why they teach that stuff at Eton. It should be abolished. I don’t trust your translation, anyway. I’m sure there was something about Babylonians in there.’

There was a silence as Fenton returned to the room and began sweeping up the remains of the china ornament.

‘I’m sorry, V, I’m forgetting my manners. Have some coffee or something. I can’t give you lunch, I’m afraid, I’ve got to go to the bank and so on and arrange some things for Frank.’

‘For Frank?’

‘Yes, he’s coming too – to carry the bags as you put it. But don’t tell him I said that,’ he added hastily.

‘Oh, that’s good.’

There was another, somewhat awkward, silence. Edward’s nephew Frank, the future Duke of Mersham, had not endeared himself to his parents by running away from school to join the International Brigade. The Duke had blamed Verity for turning him into a Communist and precipitating his flight to Spain. This was not entirely fair. It was true that Frank had been very taken with Verity and impressed by her commitment to the Party, and she had thoroughly enjoyed seeing a sprig of the aristocracy abandon his class prejudices and side with ‘the people’. It helped that he was good-looking and half in love with her. However, she claimed she had never encouraged him, except by example, to go to Spain. If there was anyone to blame it was a young Eton master by the name of John Devon in whose company Frank had gone to war.

Verity had told the Duchess she would bring Frank home and, with Edward, she had done what she had promised. The two of them had travelled to Spain and tracked him down to a particularly nasty spot on the front line in the ever-moving battle for Madrid. The task of getting him back to England was made easier when his commanding officer had been informed that he was only seventeen. Frank had claimed to be twenty. He was immediately ordered out and had no option but to obey. He had spent the journey home in a deep sulk and had remained mutinous back in the bosom of his family. He understood why his uncle should wish to drag him home and listened guiltily as he lectured him on the distress he was causing his parents. However, he found it difficult to forgive Verity for what he saw as her betrayal. How could she of all people not approve of his leaving school to fight for the Republic?

The long and short of it was that Frank had arrived at Mersham Castle a week after Christmas and proceeded to make everyone’s life a misery. If there was anywhere more pleasant to be imprisoned than Mersham, Edward could not imagine it, so he was not too sorry for his nephew. Bored and sulky, Frank had cheeked his father and reduced his mother to tears on more than one occasion. He had taken to hunting three days a week, choosing to jump the highest fences and run the greatest risks. His recklessness paid off. He was thrown quite badly, concussing himself briefly, and felt in some obscure way that he had made a point.

He still absolutely refused to go back to Eton and, though the Duke could get him into his old college at Cambridge easily enough, it was evident the boy needed to do something first to clear his head of what his father called ‘this Communist nonsense’. There had been some talk of his going to the Cape or Kenya but Edward was against it. He had a feeling that, in his present mood, Frank could easily fall into bad company and turn into one of the lost souls who made their own and other people’s lives a misery in the ill-named Happy Valley. Benyon’s offer to take him to America came at just the right moment. He would have some sort of a job to keep him busy and he had more than once said how much he wanted to go to the United States, ‘where people are valued for what they are, not for where they were born’, he would add with bitterness.

The problem, as Edward saw it, was how to get Frank to go willingly. It was important for his self-respect not to be shipped off to the States like the naughty schoolboy he was. Edward suspected that, if his father or mother informed him of what had been arranged, he would rebel. It was better they said nothing other than that Lord Benyon had expressed a desire to meet him and he was to present himself at the Athenaeum the next day for an interview about a possible job.

Frank took the bait, intrigued that anyone should want to offer him employment but determined not to allow himself to be treated like a child. As Edward had anticipated, the two of them liked each other at first sight. It did not matter that Benyon was a middle-aged academic economist and Frank a schoolboy on the cusp of manhood who had been to the wars and returned with his tail between his legs. What mattered was they were both natural rebels. The Duke’s son wanted an end to the class system and to help usher in a Communist utopia. The economist liked nothing so much as to ruffle the feathers of politicians, diplomats and businessmen. Benyon displayed like campaign medals the press reports of his spats with Montagu Norman, the Governor of the Bank of England and the most powerful man in the financial world, not excepting the Chancellor of the Exchequer with whom he had also had very public differences of opinion. It was good, too, that there was so little time to think about it. The Queen Mary sailed on the Saturday. Benyon made his offer on the Thursday and Frank accepted on the spot.

‘That reminds me. How’s the book going?’ Edward inquired.

Victor Gollancz had just published Verity’s account of her time as a foreign correspondent in Spain and in particular the siege of Toledo. Government forces had been routed by Franco’s Moorish troops and a savage massacre followed. The book was called Searchlight on Spain and had borne the imprint of the Left Book Club.

‘Too early to say,’ Verity said, affecting nonchalance. She was actually consumed with excitement and it required a great effort of will not to telephone the publisher on a daily basis to find out how many copies had been sold.

‘You got my letter? I thought it was very good. Very vivid and, as far as I could judge, accurate.’

Edward’s praise meant more to Verity than she would ever have admitted and she had bought an album in which to keep his letter and others of a similar nature – though as yet she had not received any. Edward had been in Spain at the outbreak of the civil war and his was an opinion she valued.

‘You really think so?’ she was unable to prevent herself asking.

‘I really think so. Now please, V, leave me. We’ll meet at Philippi.’

‘Where?’

‘Philippi – Julius Caesar … God help us, woman! Shakespeare.’

Verity had, she supposed, studied Shakespeare at some of the many schools she had briefly attended, but had no memory of this play.

‘I can’t think how you missed it. It’s the classic account of how a Fascist tyrant is killed by a group of conspirators who themselves become tyrants.’

‘Of course I’ve read it,’ she lied, ‘I just didn’t recognize the quote, that’s all. Stop being superior. I hate people who are always quoting things.’

‘We shall meet on Southampton Dock,’ Edward elaborated. ‘Now please leave me.’

‘Well, we will, dash it!’ she riposted. She had meant to say something witty or even biting, but it would have to do. Damn him!

While Frank had been meeting Lord Benyon, Edward had been closeted with Major Ferguson in his dreary little cupboard of an office above a public house off Trafalgar Square. He was going through the reports British agents had sent detailing possible threats to Benyon.

When he had finished, Edward stood up and stretched himself. ‘It doesn’t amount to much, does it? It’s all very vague. An overheard conversation, a copy of a letter recovered from a waste-paper basket, a hint from an official in the Reichsbank …’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ Ferguson agreed. ‘It’s one of the reasons Lord Benyon refused to have full police security. He thinks we are exaggerating the threat, and perhaps we are, but it is my duty to take no risks. I don’t want it said that I didn’t do all I could to protect him. As you know, the man is important enough but his mission makes him very important.’

‘And the moment Benyon is on American soil I can regard my duty as completed?’

‘Yes. You will be met by FBI agent Henry Fawcett who will accompany Lord Benyon throughout his stay. Then, if it is convenient, you will return with Lord Benyon on the Queen Mary on March the eighteenth. By that time, he will have succeeded or failed in his mission so he will be in less danger but we mustn’t take anything for granted. Do you think you can keep him safe for four or, at the worst, five days?’

‘God knows.’

‘By the way, our chap in New York is Bill Stephenson – a Canadian. Officially, he’s Head of British Passport Control in the United States. He has an office in Rockefeller Center. Here’s his number, but only telephone him in an emergency. He likes to keep a low profile, you understand. He’s one of the best.’

‘I see. Your man, Tom Barrett, is staying with Lord Benyon the whole time … as his valet?’ Edward had been introduced to Barrett the previous day and had liked the look of him. He was a twenty-seven-year-old Welshman possessed of attractive hazel eyes and a wide smile which revealed good teeth. He had played rugby for Wales and looked as though he would be a useful man to have by you in a scrap.

‘Yes, he is one of our small band of trained marksmen.’

‘Well, that sounds all right. Now, you said you had a list of the First Class passengers?’

‘Yes. It may not be quite complete. There are changes right up to the moment the ship sails but here it is.’

Edward was handed a file containing some twenty-five sheets of names. ‘It’s all right,’ Ferguson said smiling. ‘You don’t have to read this now. It’s for you to keep and refer to as and when. I might say, the Atlantic crossing ought to be entertaining. Cunard like to have film stars and the like on board. It brings useful publicity. There are some famous names on the list like the stage magician, Jasper Maskelyne. Have you ever seen him? I saw him at the Palladium once. Quite extraordinary – he cut this girl in half in front of our very eyes …’ He noticed Edward looking at him in amusement, stopped and then went on more calmly, ‘Apparently entertainers like Maskelyne get a free trip across to the States in return for doing a show. There’s also the black American singer and actor, Warren Fairley, and his new wife, Jane Barclay.’

‘Of course! Fairley’s been playing Othello at the Haymarket,’ Edward said, as excited at the opportunity of meeting him as Ferguson had been about Maskelyne. ‘I gather it was quite a sensation. The reviews were ecstatic. I meant to see it but because of … you know, having to dash off to Spain, I never did. Jane Barclay’s some sort of starlet, isn’t she?’

‘Fairley met her on the last film he made. They were married immediately after it was finished – that was about eighteen months ago.’

‘I see you have been doing your homework! Isn’t Fairley a Communist?’

‘He is and, as you can imagine, a black man who is also a Red married to a white girl has a rough ride in the States. Too colourful, if you will pardon the pun. It’s one of the reasons he wanted to come and live in England. He gets too much harassment in the States from people who should know better. He only goes back to make films. There’s one character who isn’t going to like sharing First Class with him – George Earle Day. Ever heard of him?’

Edward looked blank.

‘He’s Senator Day from South Carolina and he doesn’t like the English, Jews or anybody with a black skin. He hates Fairley worse than most. Their paths have crossed on several occasions. The last time, Fairley was making a speech against segregation in the city of Anderson and Day had him locked in the cells for a night. It caused an outcry in the press.’

‘Hmm, he sounds just the fellow to make for an interesting trip. By the way, if he doesn’t like the English, what’s he been doing in London?’

‘He’s been … how shall I put it? … oiling a few wheels. He’s hoping to be made ambassador to the Court of St James. Ambassador Bingham – a good man and a friend to Britain – has Hodgkin’s disease and I am sorry to say is unlikely to recover.’

‘Senator Day’s a friend of Roosevelt?’

‘Hard to say. More likely FDR wants him out of Washington.’

‘But surely London is an important posting?’

‘Yes, and at such a crucial time for us it could be awkward having an ambassador of Day’s persuasion. He’s an isolationist who believes England’s ripe for Herr Hitler’s picking. And he may be right at that,’ Ferguson added grimly.

‘Anyone else?’

‘You’ll find in that file potted biographies of anyone who is anyone. Oh, one more person to look out for is Bernard Hunt, the art historian and dealer. We have our suspicions of him.’

‘What sort of suspicions?’

‘We think he’s probably a crook so don’t buy any pictures off him.’

‘I’ll try not to,’ Edward grinned.