 
### Rubicon Crossing

### by

### Peter Draisey

### SMASHWORDS EDITION

### Copyright ©1991 by Peter Draisey

### * * * * *

### PUBLISHED BY:

### Peter Draisey on Smashwords

### Rubicon Crossing

### All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

### This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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# Since its conception the Prussian Army Intelligence had stretched its tentacles out across Europe and had becomes the most fearsome organisation the world had seen at that time. There was nothing it would not do to achieve its aims. Its agents had infiltrated every organisation through out the continent. It quickly realised that if it was to succeed in defeating the Western Allied forces of France and Great Britain it had to prevent the Americans from entering the First World War.

It was January 49 BC, Caesar was staying in the northern Italian city of Ravenna and he had a decision to make. Either he acquiesced to the Senate's command or he moved southward to confront Pompey and plunge the Roman Republic into a bloody civil war. An ancient Roman law forbade any general from crossing the Rubicon River and entering Italy proper with a standing army. To do so was treason. This tiny stream would reveal Caesar's intentions and mark the point of no return.

### In The Beginning.

### Charnwood Park Summer 1972

### Stella Wickham, confident and sure of her self as she approached her thirty second birthday, stepped into this quiet corner of the National Park. It was free to the public yet hidden away because of events that had occurred fifty years before. and the ghosts that still pervaded this peaceful valley. She was still not used to the fact that she was now Professor Wickham , reputed to be one of the brightest minds in the country. Placing her feet firmly and using the stick to balance , she levered herself up onto the ridge. The shale had been slippery and she had fallen more than once while climbing this route; even at the best of times it was tricky. Today the wind- filled rain made it much worse. Catching her breath, Stella stood on the ridge, and with the wind tugging at her hair, she looked down across the valley.

### The place had changed little since the old man had first described the area to her and she had been back many times since then .Yet still there was that unusual feeling of silence and tranquillity that bellied the violence that had once descended upon this place.

### It had all begun during her second year at university and looking back she had to smile as to how she had been seduced and manipulated into her present position. It had been her then current boyfriend, whose name she could barely remember now, who had suggested the trip to Dublin. She now realised of course that he was only her boyfriend so that he could enable the process to commence. Reading Mathematics and Modern languages and being by far the best student in her year must have sent signals echoing round the halls. The trip to Dublin had been a very pleasant affair and it was late on a summer Saturday afternoon, after a long lazy liquid lunch, when she was feeling sufficiently mellow and was beginning to consider the possibility of losing her virginity that night and was quite relaxed about it. When they were joined by a mutual acquaintance, a serious young man, who belonged to the Anglo- Irish Society who had made the suggestion that they might like join him at a gathering he had been invited to that evening. The news that food and drink was for the taking had encouraged them to accept his invitation.

### The evening itself was a little disappointing but the people she had met there were not. To her surprise there were people there who knew her or at least knew of her. This she found a little overwhelming, and slightly frightening. It was quite an intellectual affair but she was still rather flattered, at being the minor celebrity. It was here she had met Professor Stephan Brandon, who it appeared was her host and was especially interested in her; and quite happy to spend time with her, appearing to be very interested in her life and work.

### Even after she had returned to her university they communicated regularly. His soft easy manner, familiar, kind and wise, gained her trust. It was only years later did she realise that this was all part of the process

### Her tutor, hearing of her visit to Dublin, began to take a lot more interest in her and she was invited to many of his functions. Slowly but surely she was drawn into his circle of friends until on that final day she was invited to join him in London at a seminar. By then her passion for cryptology was well known.

### The invitation when it came both flattered and surprised her; she did not think she had any talents to offer , she was wrong . She remembered noticing the sun was setting across the London skyline as she signed on the dotted line and became for the rest of her life a member of the establishment.

### On the train home she remembered naively asking if it were M I 5 or 6 she had joined and was somewhat disappointed when told neither, nothing more was said. It had been the following day when her tutor had told her to just carry as though nothing had happened

"Live your life as normal, my dear" he had said.

### It was following year, that Stephan Brandon invited her back to Dublin with the titillating information that he had things to tell her that would help her with her PhD

### She had spoken to her tutor about it , and was surprised when he encouraged her to accept the invitation.

### It was during that year that she became aware of the old man. He seemed to be observing her from afar. It was only later, when she had been there for sometime, that she was finally introduced to him. He was not Irish, although he had lived in Ireland for many years. They had many things in common and soon began talking for hours. She was never told his name, even though she had asked several times , but she felt that the old man and Stephan Brandon were related in some way It was towards the end of this second visit that the old man began to suggest that they may be able to help each other. She needed something for her doctorate and he had information that might help her. There was information that he wanted her to know. He was terminally ill and would not last long, but he had a strong desire for his story to be told. It was about then that she was reminded of the family rumour that her mother Rachel had been born in mysterious circumstances. So when it was suggested that the old man was, in fact, her true Grandfather it added to the fascination and the intrigue that she was beginning to feel. All this her tutor listened to without comment other than to say "Carry on." and this she had done.

### Now, several years later, she looked down into the depression where the lake had once been and where now only a stream flowed down into the valley; she contemplated the surrounding country side. The once opulent estate had long gone, destroyed by death duties until what remained of the grounds had been taken by the National Trust.

### She could make out the derelict remains of the Hunting Lodge on the far side of the valley beyond the stream; this was where the climax of the whole affair had occurred. She began to struggle down the track that led into the wood. The flinty shards of limestone crutching beneath her feet were a constant reminder of those terrible events that had occurred here so many years ago. Even now it was not unusual to find a spent cartridge case and the occasional cap badge. She approached the small chalet that she leased from the National Trust. A small inheritance had enabled her to make this her second home, where she could read, study in peace and not be disturbed. It was here she dealt with any work the ministry sent her that required her special skills.

### Having unlocked her domain she quickly settled in. The outward appearance hid its inner strength for it was really one building inside another. She had had it built on the foundation of a much older stone building. Having settled in, her few possessions in place, and cooked herself a light meal, she felt ready to commence her work. She secured the window and shutters carefully and locked the doors, The routine had become a pleasure: she had changed into a boiler suit, adjusted her hard hat and switched her helmet light on. She removed the carpet and lifted the trap door to disclose a shaft. Carefully, she sat on the edge and looked down into the darkness below. It had ceased to cause her any foreboding many years ago. She lowered herself carefully down into the shaft and on reaching the bottom squatted on her haunches and peered down the tunnel that lay in front of her. Over the years s she had widened it. This had given her a real sense of achievement as now it only took a moment to reach the ledge above the subterranean water tank. Her head torch shone on the water it contained and, reaching carefully down, she fished about until she grasped the sunken float. Gripping it firmly she pulled. Deep below a gurgling sound commenced and the water level began to fall. She sat and waited patiently until the water had completely drained away into the subterranean cavern below, leaving a limestone bowl. Slowly she began to ease her self down into the tank using the foot and hand holds that had been cut so many years before. At the bottom of the bowl she could see a opening cut into the side of the bowl into which she squeezed herself. Once inside she was able to stand upright and, then, by using hand-holds began to climb up into a cavern cut from the sand stone, which was high and dry above the bowl; it was the size of a small garage, She had fitted battery lighting in the early days which she now switched on illuminating the small dry room which was large enough to work in She reached down and slid a flat rock that revealed a hole in the floor. From this she drew forth the brass box.

### The brass box had not only fascinated her but had inspired her imagination. Inside had been the torn photograph and two books. When her maternal grandmother had been shown the photograph she had began to tremble and rambled on about many things; the family merely shook their head and sadly concluded that the old lady's Alzheimers had taken a turn for the worse.

### To begin with the two books had meant nothing to her. The whole affair being an intriguing adventure The diary was in English but the other book was black and had a faded eagle embossed onto the leather cover. This was in German and it wasn't until much later during her university life that the books had begun to have a serious effect on her life.

### Her studies at university had enabled her to quickly realise that the two books, the diary written in English and the black leather book with its heavy embossed eagle on the front, had to be protected She also realised that the letter containing the old man's instruction were not the ramblings of an old fool. but the instructions of a clever and highly intelligent man. It was he who had told her of this place and where to hide the books, on the only occasion they had met alone. What had convinced her that the information he had given her was genuine she would never know. But having done what he asked she had returned as she had promised. He was old and tired; it was almost as though he had handed the baton on to her before he had died that week end.

### Both books were in code, a subject that she had more than sufficient knowledge of as she had the cipher, now she must work and open the secret of the Rubicon Crossing

## Chapter One.

##

## July 10th 1915. Western Front

## The air pulsated and quivered, sucking the very breath from his lungs, as the giant howitzers fell silent and the shelling stopped.

## In the eerie silence that followed. Hauptnam Richard Kahn, Reservist Commission Officer in the 2nd Battalion Prussian Guards, shivered and fought to regain his breath as he eased himself slowly onto his back and stared up into the night sky....

## A drop of cold rain stung his cheek, then another, and another. He lifted his face, and searched blindly from side to side seeking the precious drops that might somehow reach his parched throat. He lay there, his head and shoulders imprinting themselves deep into the glutinous mud. He stared, once again, into the darkness. The patterns of stars above were changing, first one shape then another. He became conscious that the stars were disappearing and the rain steadily increasing. He and the young Corporal had been pinned down for hours. He shivered, not from the muddy water that lapped around his thighs, but from the fear, the deep pervading fear, that had sapped his strength and brought him to the point of nervous exhaustion, leaving him to doubt his own ability. Did he have the resolve to survive what lay before him, trapped as he was in No Man's Land.

## The drenching rain now fell upon them, refreshing him with its coldness, giving him renewed strength to get out of this hell hole. The bombardment had caught them by surprise, and had forced them to burrow like rats into the stinking mud.

## Only Kahn and the corporal now remained, he had no idea whether the other men, belonging to his patrol, were still alive. Slowly he began to struggle to the rim of the shell hole and cautiously peered out cross the escarpment. The clouds were casting shadows. While he lay in darkness, away to his left, their trenches were still bathed in bright moonlight.

## He turned, and looked down at the corporal, who lay half submerged in the glutinous mud. The corporal groaned, and struggled to prevent himself from sinking in further. He had been hit in the legs and stomach, and would not survive the night. There was nothing Kahn could do; they had no food or water left. Of the five men who had struggled desperately to find protection from the hailstorm of red hot shrapnel, three had been blown to pieces before his eyes, their limbs scattered as though the ground were a butchers yard. The putrefying smell of rotten flesh made him gag. Kahn knew what he should do. Some of his fellow officers would not have hesitated. A bullet into the man's brain would have been a mercy. Yet Kahn could not do this. Neither could he desert the man, not while there was hope left. No one deserved that.

## Kahn turned back and stared out across the barren land to the security of their trenches, so near, yet so far. A patch of moonlight exposed a shallow depression that was all that remained of a communication trench. It led away from their trenches, but at least it would get them away from this graveyard.

## Kahn removed the webbing from the dead troopers, and fashioned a sling round his shoulders, which formed a bridle round the wounded corporal. The night was black and silent. The moon had gone in and the rain had become heavier. At least this would be to their advantage, allowing them to move across the sticky surface, like a pair of seals. Soon Kahn found himself looking into a deserted trench. It appeared to lead towards the comparative safety of their own lines.

## No sooner had he eased the wounded corporal into it, than he heard the high pitched whistle of an approaching shell. He clawed desperately into the ground, and vainly attempted to avoid its blast. It landed behind them, lifting them, throwing them forward. The corporal had taken the full force. Kahn hardly needed to look. The young soldier, barely out of his teens, was dead. A second shell landed, demolishing the trench and almost burying them both.

## Coughing and spitting to remove the clods of evil smelling earth from his mouth, Kahn quickly cut the webbing that tied him to the dead soldier. He could do no more. A third shell landed near by. They were finding their target. Who the shells belonged to was of no consequence. The front lines were barely one hundred yards apart at this point. It stopped raining and the moon began to appear from behind the clouds, throwing ghostly shadows across a stark landscape.

### Ahead, Kahn could see the vague outline of what remained of an ancient fortified redoubt; an isolated fortress built in the early months of the war when trenches had barely begun to be created. An epitaph to a bygone age of warfare. It stood partly destroyed by the tides of war that had swept back and forth across no man's land, yet was still capable of being used as protection, in this violent landscape.

### The next shell could land directly where he was. He must move and move quickly. He threw himself forward and rolled through the narrow doorway and into the bunker, just as another shell landed, bursting where he had been only seconds before. His world exploded around him. He felt himself floating, and found it hard to breathe. His whole body shook uncontrollably. There was a fierce burning sensation. as though a giant hammer had hit him in the face. He lay there, unable to move, as in a dream. It all seemed unreal. Was he dying? The question invaded his mind. The roar of the shells increased to screaming pitch. Then suddenly they stopped once again. He lifted his head and listened. Was an attack about to commence?

### He reached out, and touched something smooth. It felt like the barrel of a heavy gun, lying amongst the rubble. Painfully he turned his head, and at that moment a star shell turned night into day. There, sitting but a few inches from his face, was the devil. His mouth opened but no sound came forth. Was this truly death? He had often pondered on what form it would take; never in his wildest nightmares had he believed it would be like this. Was this the devil within his soul that had come to claim him? Was he looking into life's mirror? Surely only the devil would force him to see his own image in death. The shapes swirled about him as he lost consciousness.

## Shafts of dusty sunlight streaming through the remains of the gun emplacement created, in his mind, pictures of the little village church where he had spent his childhood. He felt a great surge of relief, for the devil had not claimed his own.

## He became aware that he was wounded. He could feel that the front of his tunic was sticky with blood. Searing shafts of pain caused sweat to explode on his face, as he struggled to sit up. Waves of unconsciousness seemed to ebb and flow. He could feel his lifeblood pumping out of his wounded face. The bleeding must be stopped. Laying out his field dressing, he forced two morphine tablets between his torn lips. His mouth was full of blood. He managed to slowly stem the flow, using a thick pad, held in place with bandages and a leather strap

## He peered round in the half-light, and recoiled in horror. It had all been a trick, for the devil sat there staring blindly forward; its dark unseeing eyes searching for lost souls. This devil, who had stolen his face, was no figment of Kahn's imagination. The neat round hole in its forehead oozing black congealing blood, and flies dancing round the corners of its mouth, made the dark moustache twitch and move. Kahn leaned forward carefully, and looked closer. The nerves in his face jumped viciously, bringing tears to his eyes. The face was half hidden by shadows, but the likeness was unmistakable, as though they had been identical twins born to different mothers. Kahn sat there and looked at the body as though he were staring into his own grave.

## The dead man wore the mud-splattered uniform of a British soldier.

## Kahn's, tired and aching brain was numbed by the morphine. It refused to digest his situation. Deep within in his subconscious, bells rang out, insisting that he should understand what was going on around him. The dead soldier demanded attention, but Kahn could only feel his aching limbs. If only he could just shut his eyes, then perhaps it would all go away. He looked again at the dead soldier. You're lucky, he thought, no more pain or anguish, just peace. Your family will cry for you, but you will never return to your homeland. Suddenly it was as though an electric shock suddenly passed through him. Now he saw it, so clearly, for regardless of the numbing effects of the morphine, it was obvious. The opportunity would never present itself again. Despite his wounds, he struggled to where the soldier lay and painfully began to search the body.

## He found the remains of an emergency field dressing, containing enough bandage to dress the other wounds, in his shoulder and legs. He removed the dead soldier's red and green dog tags from around his neck and emptied his tunic pockets. There was a pay book and little else. He was surprised, that there were no photographs or letters. Perhaps the man did not have a family? That would suit him even better.

## The tags and pay book identified the body as that of Sergeant George Frederick Bagworth, 3rd Battalion Rifle Brigade. Hauptmann Richard Kahn carefully placed the papers and tags in his own jacket pocket.

## "Well my friend," he said aloud,· you may no longer be of any use to the British Army, but you are worth your weight in gold to me."

# Khan gazed, almost affectionately, at the dead soldier.

# "You are in a far better place," he muttered painfully.

# This was to have been the final reconnaissance before attempting to move through enemy lines disguised as a Belgian businessman, on route to his final destination...England.

## The idea that one man could change events when tens of thousands were fighting each other to a stand still. was frankly ridiculous, but this is what they wanted him to do. The more he thought about it the greater his sense of mixed emotion grew within him. At first he had been terrified at the prospect that lay ahead but, as time passed by, his confidence grew until now there was a feeling of arrogance building up within him. In some ways his sense of euphoria became almost intoxicating; it put him beyond almost every power in the land. It made him omnipotent

## Although he was a commissioned officer in the Prussian Guard, the inherent sense of discipline made him naturally respond to orders and he was now attached to group that had a more flexible outlook on life. Even so the original plan, devised by his superiors, had left him with a cold feeling of trepidation. It was in his opinion, flawed and open to mistakes from which he could not escape. Once he stepped out and began to cross the lines he would be totally on his own, with no possibility of support until he reached his destination.. Up to now he had not been able to think of an alternative.

## "No my friend, you are in a much better place" he whispered

## He felt the adrenaline pumping through his body, relieved that now at last the original plan could be discarded. The ways and means, the whys and wherefores were already forming in his mind. He was a lot more confident that his new plan would work but he knew he would have to wait all day before he dare venture out of the bunker. He needed to wait for darkness otherwise the snipers would pick him off before he had gone any distance. Having to drag the body of the dead sergeant with him would make him even more vulnerable. Just how badly wounded was he? Was fate going to deal a cruel blow at this, his moment of success?

## His face hurt, God it hurt, yet he dare not have any more morphine. He felt excited and he knew exactly what he needed to do. His brain worked at a frantic pace. Would he have enough strength by nightfall to haul the body back to his lines? He doubted it. His only hope was that his Company Sergeant would survive long enough to find him. Until then, there was nothing he could do but wait and hope that he could reach his commanding officer, Lt Colonel Karl Malinin.

## * * * * *

## Malinin's re-appearance in Khan's life in the spring of that year had been something of a surprise. They had met only briefly some years before at the University of Westphalia where Professor Malinin had been a lecturer in Philosophy and Khan, an undergraduate, was studying mining engineering. They had also met socially. For reasons only known to the professor, Malinin had begun to take a deep interest in him. Kahn was flattered, and had been invited on several occasions to Malinin's meetings. The other young people who had been there, had been mentally stimulating, bold spirited and interesting freethinkers, but later Kahn had found their politics far too extreme for his basically conservative attitudes. He had managed to read Marx's Das Kapital, on Malinin insistence, but had found it hard work and it raised more questions than it answered. Now, lying in the remains of the redoubt, amongst the dirt and rubble, watching the sun climb slowly into a clear blue sky, Khan realised that Malinin had been a central force, the puppet master very much the Father figure, moving from group to group, offering a word here, encouraging and yet constantly provoking argument. He had manipulated those young people; they were truly his puppets, ready to dance to his tune. Even now stranded as he was in this hell-hole, Khan still felt angry that Malinin had attempted, to do the same to him and had almost succeeded. It made him all the more determined to not allow this man to send him to almost certain death.

## Like a dutiful patriot he had returned to the homeland from his occupation as a mining engineering in Northern England when ordered to do so in the Autumn of 1913. He could sense that things were afoot when he rejoined his regiment in the new year, the training regime had moved up to a much higher level. The barracks were full of gossip of how the Kaiser and the High Command were no longer prepared to allow France and Britain to stifle the ambition they felt. It was Germany's right to have its Empire as both the French and British had. The mighty Royal Navy prevented expansion overseas so they would turn to the East; the lands that stretched all the way to India would be Germany's. The vast war chests that lay within the treasury's walls would finance it. Gold that had been squeezed out France at the conclusion of the Franco-Prussian war; a war that had given birth to the present day German Empire. The German High Command created plans with meticulous precision; all that was needed now, was for the pieces of this jigsaw to be put in place . A job given to the Prussian Army Intelligence .

## Ever since war had been declared, Kahn had felt slighted and humiliated. With a commission in the Prussian Guards, he had fully expected to join his regiment. Instead, he had been posted to a Fortress Battalion and from there to one of the many mining companies simply because he was a mining engineer. He felt out of place and isolated. None of his fellow officers had been commissioned as he had been, but had come up through the ranks as senior NCOs before being promoted. The Colonel had capitalised on this fact. Khan should have realised at the time that Malinin's invitation in May, to address the Cadet Officers at the University, had been nothing more than a ploy to sound out his views on returning to England. He found Malinin's obsession with secrecy frustrating, for having agreed to return, he had been forced to wait until nearly the end of month before receiving orders to report to army headquarters. Kahn remembered the headquarters, an imposing chateau fortress situated upon a ridge, high above the Belgian countryside. The ditch that surrounded it had once been filled with water, now only the narrow, stone bridge remained.

## Kahn had been directed across the bridge and through a high stone archway into a courtyard. The yard had been a cold, intimidating place; the high walls prevented even the noonday sunlight from reaching into the damp verdigris-covered corners. Shuddering slightly, Kahn had watched two columns of Guardsman march into view, ominous and forbidding, rifles at the slope. They had halted on the far side .A group of officers stood close by, talking quietly.

## Walking up the long flight of steps, Kahn had entered a vast marble and terrazzo entrance hall. Its elegant stairway reached up to an enclosed gallery that encircled the upper floor. Rows of heavy oak desks were strategically positioned across the hall, and behind one of them sat a large, bald headed, warrant officer clerk, a god in his little empire.

## Kahn, his orders having been processed, had been directed to cross the hall and go through a small doorway that led to a narrow passage. This in turn had led to a part of the chateau that had once been the servant's quarters, narrow and dank, and only dimly lit with the occasional oil lamp. Climbing a narrow spiral stairway leading up into one of the towers, Kahn arrived at a heavy wooden door. He knocked and upon being summoned, he entered.

## Lt Colonel Malinin was standing by the open window. Glancing round, he abruptly motioned Kahn to join him. The amiability of their last meeting was missing, Malinin looked tired and strained.

## In the courtyard below, the guardsmen had been drawn up into two lines facing a blank wall, their rifles at the ready. A figure, blindfolded, arms tied behind his back, faced them. In the unholy silence that had fallen upon the courtyard, the voice of an officer, his sword raised, rang out clear and resonant.... "AIM.". the order had cracked through the morning air...."FIRE". The crash of gunfire echoed round the empty courtyard, the sound ricocheting from wall to wall. The figure lifted, forced against the wall, before sliding to the ground.

## The Colonel had turned as he closed the window; the events below appearing to have no further interest. Kahn remembered the expression of complete indifference upon his face.

## "A French Officer, caught behind our lines pretending to be a Belgian farmer; a brave man, he knew what he faced if he was caught."

## He walked across to chairs grouped in a half circle, indicating that Khan should take one. "The price of failure".

### The significance of that last phrase was not lost on the young officer.

### Malinin's words still echoed in Kahn's mind. Kahn remembered what he had seen in the courtyard that day; it had been Malinin's way of introducing Kahn to his world of secrecy and treachery and to what would happen if he failed.

### Two hours later, Kahn had retraced his steps back down into the courtyard. He remembered standing there surveying the scene: the Guardsmen had gone, taking the Frenchman's body with them. Malinin's plan to sabotage the British War Effort using, not only Kahn skill as a chemical engineer, but his recognised talent with explosives , gave him a feeling of power that was quite intoxicating. As yet the full enormity of the project had not sunk in . All he could think of was that, at last, this it had given him the opportunity to get away from the hated Fortress Battalion.

### Now, almost three months later, as he lay wounded and weak, watching the flies feeding upon the dead soldier, he recalled that it had taken barely a week for him to realise what lay ahead. He was now to be at the very cutting edge of this conflict and he was perhaps one of the few people who had spent any length of time in England living and working with the ordinary people. He had spent years learning the language of the North , priding himself that he could speak English with as broad an accent as any Yorkshire man, but not now, he was out of practice. All the others were either diplomats or politicians and no doubt brilliant at what they were doing and yet Kahn could not help feeling that in many ways they were cocooned within that rarefied arena and could not see beyond it unlike himself an ordinary working soldier, perhaps that was why he had been chosen

### There was the question of how he was to get to England. He had suggested going south, endeavouring to cross into southern France, his French was passable, then travelling north and across the channel using one of the western ports, or even going to Ireland. For some reason they were adamant that he should not do that . They preferred the more direct route; cross the lines disguised as a Belgian business man getting into neutral Holland as soon as possible. Although he had a deep craving to win through, to pit himself against all odds, almost as though there was an inner untapped power in him, he quickly realised that the Belgian business man would mean certain death. His memory of the Frenchman was still fresh in his mind..

### His face felt numb, but his brain worked feverishly, contemplating his position. Secretly, Khan had to admit that he was sympathetic to certain parts of Marx's socialist dogma. He had tasted poverty after his father had died and it was something he did not wish to taste again. Khan found it amusing that Marx's theory of destroying society so that a new world could be constructed, was just what he intended to do, but for all the wrong reasons.

## War was a destructive machine and morality should have no place in it. The years he had spent in England had taught him to like and admire the English; they were rebels at heart and it was this rebellious nature he intended to use. He must not fail.

## To fail, as Malinin had reminded him, was something he had already witnessed, yet he was still not afraid; a strange calmness spread throughout his body. He felt his mind clear. He would be on his own, directing his own affairs and yet, in the depths of his mind, still lurked that instinct to survive. He would not suffer the Frenchman's fate.

# At last the sun began to sink beneath the low-lying clouds. By now Malinin would have realised that he was missing. Khan had the wit to realise that he would not see another sunrise if they did not reach him soon.

# Chapter Two

# German Intelligence Divisional H Q Western Front

# As the sun began to settle down into the western horizon, the duty guard came smartly to attention and presented arms as the cavalry officer hurried by,

# Rittmeister Gemp scanned the windows above as he hurried across the square, clutching his brief case with difficulty, his one good arm gripping the case firmly. The empty sleeve of what remained of his other arm, flapped uncontrollable. High above him he could see the tall lean figure of Lt Colonel Malinin standing by the open window, looking out across the town towards the setting sun

# The sound of the evening curfew bell dying away in the distance, brought a renewed feeling of anxiety. to Malinin. He found no solace in the beauty of the evening sky, the noise of a motorcar entering the square caused him to lean forward straining to see who had arrived. The cavalry officer had crossed the square unobserved.

# Malinin pushed himself away from the window. His mood was dark and angry, not only with himself but with others. Turning, he walked across to the fireplace and placing his hands upon the mantelpiece, stared tight-lipped at his image in the mirror that hung above it. He had aged twenty years since his appointment, and although he had faced this situation many times before and had learnt to live with it. He still fumed inwardly even though outwardly he appeared contained

# This operation was to have been a stepping-stone; one of many, but it was perhaps the most critical one they had had to face. It had taken months of careful planning and to ensure complete secrecy had required many hours of work. He had allowed only one other person to help him and now that other person was missing somewhere out in no man's land. This was perhaps the first time that Malinin had felt near to despair, an emotion that he was not used to nor was he sure that he could handle it. He cursed himself silently knowing he could not allow his plans to fail, not now, not after all this time.

# Total War, for that is how he viewed the present conflict, was not just a matter of armies confronting each other. In his mind, the control of the very societies involved was far more important; demoralising the civilian population would eventually destroy the armies. He wanted to control what they read, and get into the heads of the politicians and civil servants, bending them to his will. Also he wanted to destroy their ability to arm them selves by having a civilian fifth column working behind enemy lines, who could disrupt industry through strikes and sabotage

# Since his appointment to the head of the Prussian Army Intelligence, the service had spread its tentacles through every level of German society and beyond. His team of agents, or "travellers" as he preferred to call them, were in every country throughout Europe. His staff had been picked and trained by him personally to handle the enormous influx of information that now poured in. There were certain members of German society on whom he had files but he kept these himself and he had no compulsion about using them when it suited him, or if he felt his aims were being thwarted. He was aware that his position and relationship with the German General Staff created jealousy and envy in certain quarters. He had to be constantly on his guard, ensuring that neither he nor his organisation was undermined.

# He returned to his desk and sank down into the leather chair resting his head wearily on his hands. The various countries in Europe were being slowly but surely manipulated, just one stood out against him and that country lay across a thin strip of water called the English Channel. Prior to the declaration of war his agents had spread throughout the length and breadth of Great Britain and yet, in the space of less that three months, his entire organisation had been destroyed, not by the Government or the military, but by ordinary people .The entire population had turned against everything Germanic, to such an extent that even the Royal family were rumoured to have thrown off their German ancestry and were about to change their name to Windsor.

# He was left without a single agent in Great Britain, so he had been forced to turn for help from his hated Bolsheviks and the Irish,. Fortunately there was hope, finding Khan had been inspirational. The young man's chemical abilities had amazed him and, what was even more important, was his ability to speak colloquial English. The young man had no discernable accent, and he was so ordinary he was practically invisible. It had been an almost perfect plan, now this had happened.

# The spirit might be willing but the flesh was getting weaker. The noise of the telephone ringing was like a bell inside his head.

# "Yes," he snapped.

# "Rittmeister Gemp has arrived, Herr OberstLeutnant." Ammerson, his orderly informed him

# "I will see him in five minutes."

# The Cavalry Captain had only been on his staff for a short time, and had not yet earned the Colonel's trust.

# Malinin sat at his desk and drew from his pocket a silver snuffbox. He tapped out a small quantity of white powder onto the back of his hand, and holding it to his nose, sniffed it up. He breathed in deeply; the weariness began to evaporate and his head cleared. He needed the relief that the coca leaf gave him more and more as the weeks passed.

# He was a cautious man where trust was concerned and although his passion for information gave him power and made him appear to the world outward and confident, he was in fact introverted. His strict Lutheran upbringing had left him with few friends and having never married, he had no family; he was a very lonely man by choice.

# Ammerson was the exception. He had been Malinin's orderly since the early days and, while the master and servant relationship never wavered between them, there had grown a mutual feeling of respect and admiration. Ammerson served him out of what seemed to be a genuine sense of devotion. Malinin repaid that devotion by granting something that he gave to no other person his complete trust.

# The orderly was the only person who knew of Malinin's addiction to cocaine and played the part of courier with the numerous contacts across the border in Holland.

# The drug began to creep through Malinin's body, soothing it. Yet he was still conscious of the nervous grip that fastened his stomach into a knot as he wondered, even with all his determination, whether his plans were about to collapse?

# A shudder of uncertainty went through him. He recalled the only other time when his judgement had been flawed. That had been the day he had discovered that Ammerson had betrayed him. The orderly had stood before him, head hung, eyes on the floor, and had confessed that he had been supplying information to a Dutch contact. The shock had struck Malinin as though it had been a physical blow. He had stood there transfixed, unable for several seconds to believe his ears. Then a terrible anger had filled his heart; reaching down, he had drawn his service revolver and a bullet entering the chamber had caused Ammerson to look up. The orderly sank quietly to his knees and waited. Malinin had stared at the back of the man's head, and having placed the cold muzzle behind the man's ear, watched as the orderly had shivered slightly and tensed expectantly. He expects me to shoot him, Malinin had thought, just like a rabid dog. No excuses, no pleading, the man had known he had failed and had been prepared to die, not because of any information he might have given to the enemy but because he had betrayed our trust. Malinin remembered how suddenly his anger had evaporated.

# Even as Malinin sat and looked out at the gathering twilight, recalling those events brought tears of emotion to his eyes. He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and blew his nose violently.

# He remembered how he had spent the rest of that day and well into the night subjecting Ammerson to the most intensive questioning. By morning he had left the man exhausted but alive, for the orderly had succeeded in making the Dutchman believe that it was he who was the addict and not his superior. Ammerson's confession had, in the end, proved to be a blessing, for although Malinin had suspected that British Intelligence were involved in the supply of drugs into Holland, this was the first real contact they had achieved. Now he was in a position to ensure that the enemy received only the information that he wanted them to receive.

# Five minutes almost to the second, as if he had been standing there with his watch in hand, the young cavalry officer knocked on the door. Malinin rose and stood once again by the window.

# 'Enter,' he barked.

# The young man entered and quietly closed the door.

# "Well?" asked Malinin.

# Gemp was a neat, dapper man, whose active service career in the Cavalry had come to an abrupt and savage end outside Liege in 1914 where he had lost an eye and his left arm. He shook his head.

# "Damn the fool," cursed Malinin. 'What does he think he's doing? His orders were quite clear. He had no business going himself."

# Gemp nodded in agreement. "Hauptmann Kahn is a very independent minded person, that's why you chose him."

# "Yes! Yes." muttered Malinin irritably. "I am fully aware of why he was chosen."

# Malinin, oblivious now to Gemp's presence, walked back to his desk and resumed his seat. Stretching his legs out he allowed his chin to sink onto his chest and shutting his eyes, fell into deep thought.

# Since his first meeting with Kahn, the young officer had displayed an independence of mind that had both surprised and disturbed him. Had he been correct in choosing such a man? 0utwardly the young man was a typical Prussian Officer obedient and disciplined. Privately, things were different.

# He had become aware that Richard Kahn was far more radical and freethinking than he had first thought. He found it most disconcerting that Kahn was quite prepared to argue fervently to prove a point, totally unafraid of authority .This and an element of theatre which the young man could use , one minute the centre of a crowd dominating the conversation , the next portraying such a quietness and sinking into the background as to make himself almost invisible.

# Malinin was aware of the young officer's feelings, regarding the plans and arrangements for crossing enemy lines and although his Prussian background had prevented him from refusing to obey a direct order, Malinin now realised that he was quite capable of bending it to suit him.

#

# Gemp remained silent. He had lived within the rarefied atmosphere of the Intelligence service long enough to know that Malinin had turned it into a private fiefdom. Even his patron and benefactor, General Von Ludendortf, did not escape Malinin's attention. For Gemp was aware of the files that Malinin kept in the large iron safe in his small bedroom. These contained information, of both a personal and professional nature, on nearly all the Chiefs of Staff and it was even rumoured that there was a file on the Kaiser himself.

# Malinin trusted no one. He was the only man who had access to all its dark secrets as Gemp had found out when he asked Hausman, the old clerical officer in charge, for Kahn's file.

# "Its been transferred into the Commanders possession," he had been told

# "Does the Commander keep many files?" Gemp had asked mildly.

# "Only the special ones." The reply was terse.

# "Who else has access to these special files?"

# "No one! Only the Commander," he had been told. "Keep it to yourself; not even the General sees those files."

# 'The General?" asked Gemp.

# "General Von Ludendorff," came the somewhat surprised reply.

# Gemp suddenly realised that Malinin was speaking on the telephone. He looked up and began to listen as Malinin spoke. The man's voice was quiet and yet threatening.

# "Find Kahn," demanded Malinin. The unfortunate officer on the other end was offered no alternative unless he wished certain indiscreet letters to be sent to his divisional commander.

# Malinin replaced the phone, and sat there staring into space; finally, focussing on Gemp, he leaned forward placing his hands on the desk.

# "Get forward and see that they find Kahn and bring him back here."

# Malinin remained seated, nervous and tense; a tight gnawing pain filled his stomach.

# It was several minutes, before he became aware of Ammerson. The orderly had entered his office from the small bedroom which held Malinin's narrow cot and the trunk containing his few personal possessions, as well as the ominous black, iron safe in which were kept the Colonel's innermost secrets.

# "I've been asked to find out certain information, Mein Herr!" stated Ammerson nervously.

# "What is this.... certain information?" demanded Malinin

# 'The Dutchman, Geyntain, wishes to know about the Shoemaker"

# Malinin said nothing. Rising to his feet, he stared ahead.

# A shaft of aggravated pain went through his stomach. He could only just prevent himself` from crying out.

# The fact that Kahn's code name, his most closely guarded secret, was now known to British Intelligence was devastating. Ammerson had no way of knowing it; this inquiry meant that there was another agent in his department.

# Kahn missing, and now this. Malinin felt that his world was beginning to collapse, just as he was beginning to see his efforts bear fruit.

# "When do you see this Geyntain again?" Malinin asked.

# "Tomorrow night, with luck,"

# "Very well, by then we shall have the information. Now go back to your desk and wait."

# Malinin felt a great weariness sweep over him. Reaching down he pulled open a drawer, and drew out a plain, buff coloured file, It had no official markings, this was one of his own private files, code marked I.S.C. (E) 124.Industrial Sabotage. Chemical (Explosive)Elol24.

# He opened it, and began to re-read the words that he already knew off by heart. Richard Albert Kahn. born 17th July 1888. Place of birth: Borken, Prussia.

# Mother Maria Ingrid Kahn (ref G20047): Father Albert Wilhelm Kahn(ref I19672)d'cd 1897.

# Physical Appearance. Height 1.84 metres, medium to heavy build. In generally good health. No disabilities. Distinguishing marks; a serrated scar running from the elbow of the left arm to the palm of the left hand.

# Family. The subject states in conversation, that his mother and father lived the life of a respected middle class family. Father was the chief engineer of the von Haffen mining company. They lived on the far side of Borken away from the actual mine, near a small park and next to the manager and deputy manager, although their house was smaller. He can recall that they were happy to live within the strict social strata that existed in Borken. Their position entitled them to be invited to the von Haffen household at certain times of the year, Christmas Day and High Summer's Day, when they would receive small gifts from the hand of Countess von Haffen and afterwards were served steins of frothy beer for the gentleman, mulled vine for the ladies and orange juice or occasionally ginger-beer for the children.

# Subject remarked how he enjoyed those occasions and looked forward to them eagerly. He admired the van Haffen's lifestyle and secretly hoped that one day he would reach their level in society.

# 1897.Father is killed in a mining accident. A week later he was shocked to find out that they had to move from their comfortable little home, across the park to a dank, dirty cottage. They were no longer invited to the von Haffens. (This had a tremendous effect on the subject. One could observe the anger and bitterness he felt while he recollected this event.)It certainly changed his attitude towards society in general and to those in the positions of power. Yet, whilst he was bitter about the way he saw society rejecting him, he still craved to be part of that society, for he had hated those years that they had spent in the cottage, and was relieved when finally his mother obtained a position of housekeeper to the local doctor.

# The Doctor, a widower, formed a great attachment for the subject and encouraged him to study and helped him in many ways. When eventually his mother announced that she and the doctor were to marry, he was very pleased for them. (It is, interesting to note that now they were once again invited to the von Haffen but the subject refused to attend.) His mother died of T.B. in 1913. (It seems that his mother had been his main stay for he was deeply shocked by her death.) In fact he did not settle to any thing until June 1914.

# Education: 1904 won a scholarship to the University of Westphalla.l909 Graduated in Chemical Engineering (Distinction). Offered a position as research assistant in mining engineering with a specialisation in controlled explosions. Declined offer.

# Military Training: Volunteered for initial training (twelve months). Obtained reserve commission in Prussian Guard. (This appears to have been one of the highlights of his career, the guards being an elite regiment.)He was proud to have been accepted by them, yet they found him lacking in some ways. I suspect that his subconscious hatred for the old school Junkers must have surfaced at times.)

# Reprimanded twice for lack of discipline. Commanding officer reported that while he was competent and diligent about his duties and appeared to have been an excellent shot, having won the regimental rifle competition on several occasions, he still lacked certain qualities that were required to become a good officer in the Prussian Guard.

# (Probably displayed too much initiative)

# Occupation: Mining Engineer prior to rejoining his regiment on receiving mobilisation orders June 1914.

# 1909: Joined the Northern European Mining Company as assistant engineer. In 1911 went to England as part of a surveying team, contracted to survey and sink new mineshafts in the South Yorkshire area. He took lodging in the market town of Rotherham near Doncaster. He spent two years in this area and learnt to speak English fluently. States that he found the local people's attitudes different from those he had known in his hometown and, although their manner of speaking was blunt and direct, they welcomed him. The whole social system was more relaxed than in Germany. He found it difficult at first because of his upbringing and military training, but quickly settled in with the help of his compatriots and the local people.

# States that he enjoyed walking upon the moors, also how beautiful the countryside is. (Seems to be contented with his own company.)

# Tells how in eighteen months they all seemed to be settled in to the local way of life, some of the men having married local girls.

# He returned to Borken in 1913.

# 

# Chapter Three.

#

# Dawn, July 11th 1915

# Malinin shivered as he woke. Through his eyelids he could see daylight. The muscles in his neck were stiff and he ached. His mouth was dry, and unpleasant. Lifting his head slowly, he began to focus on the silver inkstand that stood on his desk.

# He reached up, and struggled to undo the metal clips that held his stiff uniform collar then he released the two top buttons of the dress coat, which he was still wearing from the night before. Rising stiffly from his chair, he stood and held onto the desk; he felt dizzy and light headed. Carefully, he walked to the window and drew back the curtains, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight that streamed into the room. A discreet knock on the door heralded Ammerson carrying a tray of steaming coffee.

# "Six o'clock, Herr OberstLeutnant," Ammerson reported, standing rigidly to attention, his steel-capped boots echoing sharply against the wood block floor.

# Malinin ignored him. Ammerson had been with the Colonel long enough to recognise that his Commander was not in a good mood. He had forgotten the last time that he found the Colonel asleep in the small bedroom adjacent to this office.

# Placing the tray carefully upon the oak desk, Ammerson poured the strong black coffee into the fine bone china cup. Malinin took the cup and sipped. Its hot bitter taste burned his tongue, his eyes brightened and watered as the coffee attacked his taste buds. He had once again spent the night sleeping in his chair, his back ached and his temper was short. Passing his hand over his chin, he felt the need of a shave.

# Turning, he lifted his arms, allowing Ammerson to remove his uniform jacket. He sank back into his chair, and shutting his eyes, he relaxed, allowing his senses to drift as he listened to his orderly stropping the razor and felt him arrange the hot towels. He breathed deeply, filling his nostrils with the clean refreshing smell of soap as Ammerson applied the warm shaving brush around his chin. He found it a great comfort as he lay there. It gave him time to collect his thoughts, to become accustomed to the day ahead. He did not open his eyes again until he felt the hot towels being removed. He stood up, and wiped his face dry.

# "Has Rittmeister Gemp reported yet?' he demanded.

# " Nein, Herr OberstLeutnant," said Ammerson, once again springing smartly to attention.

# The Colonel stiffened, and his feeling of euphoria disappeared.

# Pulling his uniform coat on aggressively, he turned on Ammerson.

# "Get out."

# Malinin waited until the orderly had closed the door, before taking the snuffbox from his coat pocket. He needed the relief that the white coca powder gave him, even more now. Yet it did nothing to relieve the pain deep within his stomach, which grew worse each day.

# The noise of the phone ringing startled him. Snatching at the receiver relieved the tension that existed within him.

# "It's the Rittmeister, " Ammerson reported.

# "Put him through". The Colonel waited impatiently.

# "I have been informed that Kahn and one other, have been found in the Bixschoote sector," Gemp's voice sounded indistinct and faint

# "What the hell is he doing up there?" demanded Malinin. He could feel the tension once again building up inside him.

# "There seems to be some confusion." Gemp's voice was now clearer. "It seems that Kahn is, in fact, dead."·

# "WHAT!' Malinin gripped the phone, his world began to spin .He gripped the edge of the desk to prevent himself from falling. The tension within him was near bursting point.

# "Where are you?" he almost panted in anguish

#  "Approximately twenty kilometres south of Bixschoote sector l am setting off now to investigate."

# "NO" snapped the Colonel, a hint of panic creeping into his voice. "You report back here, I shall go. I shall take Ammerson."

# "But Colonel! "

# "That is an order!" The ice-cold fury in Malinin's voice countenanced no argument. He threw down the receiver.

# He stood very still for several seconds fighting to get his whole body to calm down. He cranked the field telephone that was also on his desk and ordered signals to put him through to the Bixschoote sector.

# "Get me Battalion Headquarters"

# Pacing anxiously back and forth he waited for his call.

# "This is Divisional Headquarters, put your Commanding Officer on immediately......This is Malinin; intelligence states that there is a report that one of my men has been brought in from your sector, I need further information."·

# Malinin listened carefully." You say a Sergeant Gage brought in one of our Officers also a British prisoner?" Malinin was angry and confused. He was only interested in the officer-."What has the Britisher got to do with this affair?"

# "They are together!" he expressed surprise... "I am leaving immediately, ensure that they are kept under guard and that no one speaks to them."

# Shouting for Ammerson to get his car and to gather their travelling coats, Malinin stormed out of the office and headed for the stairs leading to the square below.

# The Colonel's temper had not improved. He had been travelling for over four hours and the pain in his stomach was growing worse as his Benz motorcar negotiated, yet another shell hole. These were becoming more and more numerous the nearer they got to the front. The crack and roar of artillery, made him wince unconsciously. The day had become hot and sticky. He brushed away a fly that was irritating him, and looked up into the sky. He felt sure that it would rain before the day was out. He still felt cold, he could not get warm these days, he needed the white powder and his supply was running out.

# It was nearly noon when they finally arrived at Battalion Headquarters. A young staff officer hurried out and directed them to the Field Hospital which was situated in the ruins of a nearby chateau.

# "You have them under guard?" demanded Malinin

# "The sergeant who brought them in, he is on guard outside," replied the young officer. He directed Ammerson to drive round to the back of the Chateau and in through a set of narrow gates leading to a small courtyard.

# A figure stepped forward. The soldier was squat and heavily built, Malinin recognised him.

# "Sergeant Gage, where is he? "

# The sergeant came rigidly to attention. "They are both in there, Herr OberstLeutnant." he replied, pointing to a small door.

# "Both?' queried Malinin.

# "Yes! Herr OberstLeutnant,··

# Turning to the young staff officer, Malinin directed him to return to his normal duties. Reluctantly the officer turned and marched away. When he was safely out of sight. Malinin turned once again to the sergeant.

# "You and Ammerson stay here, do not allow anyone to enter; is that clear.?"

# The two soldiers came to attention and acknowledged the order.

# Malinin walked briskly across to the small cellar door half hidden behind the remains of a bush. He opened it and stepped inside. It was pitch dark.

# He stood quite still allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to the murky light that filtered from a small mud stained window situated high up at the back of the cellar. There was no sound. Reaching down, he quietly unclipped the flap of his holster. He moved closer. He could now make out the shape of a bed, and on it he could see what looked like a body.

# Striking a match, he held it high so that he could see more clearly.

# "Kahn " he called.

# The noise of boots crunching against the earth floor caused him to swing round. A figure wrapped in a blanket slowly rose.

# "Kahn?" repeated Malinin irritated by the silence

# "Yes! Herr OberstLeutnant,"

# Malinin froze. If he had not recognised the words he would have assumed it to be a wounded animal. The voice was barely discernible; it was so filled with pain and anguish.

# The match flickered and burnt Malinin's fingers, plunging them once more into darkness. Cursing, he struck another. The bright light flared, and the figure that loomed out of the darkness made Malinin gasp, and reach for his gun. In the light of the match stood a soldier, a sergeant in the British Army. His head was swathed in blood stained bandages, concealing his face. Only his eyes, that had an intense fish stare that never left Malinin's face, seemed to glow in the reflected light of the match. Malinin had no other way of telling whether this was Kahn or not, for hadn't he been told that he was dead?

# "What the devil is going on?" he demanded, easing his service revolver gently out of its holster·.

# The sergeant seemed indifferent to the Colonel's action. He turned and slowly lifted a barrel that covered a lantern. Malinin could hear the laboured breathing as the sergeant struggled to lift the light and fastened it to the wall. The cellar was now bathed in light.

# "You have a decision to make, Herr OberstLeutnant," he coughed. "You have to decide whether I am Kahn disguised as a British soldier or perhaps...."

# In obvious pain the sergeant slowly reached down, and pulled the blanket off the bed, exposed the naked body of a man, "or perhaps this is Leutnant Kahn."·

# Malinin glanced down at the body stretched out on the bed. A neat round hole, in the forehead, could be clearly seen in the light of the lantern.

# Silently, Malinin stared at the body, and then, at the Sergeant. The Sergeant appeared to slump, easing himself down onto the edge of the bed. He fumbled in his pockets. Malinin watched, as he saw him push tablets into his mouth...morphine... In the half-light the soldier looked haggard. The likeness between the two men was remarkable. In daylight, differences would have been noticeable. The dead man's face was broader, the eyes slightly bolder and more protruding, the hair line lower. Although Malinin was convinced that he knew who was who, doubts still lingered in his mind. The Sergeant seemed to be aware of this for he looked searchingly at the Colonel.

# "You have a file on Kahn don't you?" whispered the Sergeant. His attitude was that of a person who knew in his own mind the eventual outcome. He was only going through this pantomime to satisfy the Colonel. "You have a pencil and paper?" he gasped. Fighting for breath his face creased in agony as the pain of speaking grew worse.

# Reluctantly Malinin tore a sheet from his notebook and with his pen handed it to the soldier and watched as the man wrote, finally handing it back.

# He stood there while Malinin read the note, absorbing each word and with convinced finality holding the note above the lantern, watching it as it burnt to dust

# "So Sergeant!" He pronounced the word as though grieved that the other man had been proved right, allowing each syllable to roll from his lips with sarcasm. "What are your plans? "·

# "Leutnant Kahn is dead. Sergeant Bagworth had risen from the dead for I am that man..... Now. "

# Malinin snorted dismissively. This was madness, he thought, "How do you intend to cross to the British Lines? Walk?" he looked at the Sergeant contemptuously. "Look at you, .... barely able to stand.... the blood you must have lost."·

# The effect of the morphine seemed to give the sergeant hidden strength. "It is...because of ......these wounds." he gasped and breathing deeply to gather strength, he went on, "We must hurry...hurry.. it can work...it is a better plan." his voice now so weak that Malinin had to lean close to hear.

# The Colonel had been only too aware of Kahn's opposition to the original plan, code name Shoemaker. Now it seemed that the young man was to be proved right again. The Shoemaker would certainly have walked into a trap. Malinin looked at the young soldier in front of him, inwardly pleased that his decision to choose this man was proving to be a good one. Little had he expected him to show such strength and fortitude. Yet, he was still annoyed with himself for allowing the initiative to slip from him. He found himself searching his mind to find some way to stop this craziness, purely because he had not devised the plan, and his position was being usurped.

# "How will you convince the British?" he asked his voice full of doubt.

# The Sergeant looked annoyed, and reaching across took back the notebook and pen and once again wrote for several seconds.

# 'A SERGEANT WHO IS DUMB AND HAS NO MIND WILL BE DISCHARGED...

# FOUND OLD PIONEER SHAFT THAT LEADS TO DEEP BUNKER

# GET MINING COMPANY TO EXTEND OUT` TO OUR OLD BUNKER IN NO MAN'S LAND NEAR TO BRITISH LINES.

# He handed the notebook back almost casually, as though to him it was obvious and was annoying that he had to use his valuable strength to explain.

# Reluctantly Malinin accepted that the Prussian tradition of blind obedience had dissolved in front of this young man's determination. He still felt annoyed and embittered that rank seemed now of no importance and he had to force himself into accepting that this officer had usurped his position of command.

# The Sergeant sucked great gulps of air as he fought back the pain. The older man looked at him, amazed at his inner strength. He watched him as he laid out his documents: the discs that he had placed over his head and round his neck; The pay book and, finally, the last link in the chain, a photograph cut like a piece of jigsaw; it was of a woman in her middle years, a round homely sort; the young man's mother.

# There was a matching piece which was his father. This he gave to Malinin to despatch. When the two halves were once again placed together, they would be ready, ready for the kill. Reaching for the notebook, Malinin began to tear out the written sheets and watched carefully as they too burned to dust.

# Malinin stood up and proceeded to brush off the small pieces of straw that clung to his field service tunic.

# "I shall organise the mining operation straight away."

# He turned, and began to walk towards the outer door. Then stopped.

# "It occurs to me.....Does anyone else know of you're changed identity?.. besides myself and Sergeant Gage "

# The Sergeant shook his head.

# Malinin regarded the wounded soldier coldly. "It doesn't leave us with many options, does it?"

# The Sergeant sat there and stared into the empty darkness that had been left with Malinin's departure.

# He knew exactly what Malinin had meant. It had only been twenty-four hours since he had endeavoured to save the Corporal, and even less since he, in turn, had been saved by Gage. Now it had all changed, the choices were few. He was to become a moral coward. lt was either Gage or himself, for all the other choices exposed him to too much risk, especially as he was about to embark on a venture that could last for months or even longer. He was sick at heart for he knew what must be done.

#

# 'C' Company of the 1st German Pioneer regiment had been digging almost continuously for nearly forty hours when, suddenly, they were halted. Without further explanation, they had endured a two-hour forced march, arriving exhausted in a sunken roadway which lay some distance from the front line. Barely arrived, they were ordered to commence digging from a point deep inside a bunker situated by the roadside. They were working in teams of five, two men actually digging at the face, the others removing and clearing the soil,

# They began to hear other workings close by and within a matter of yards broke through into yet another tunnel, which stretched away into no mans land.

# They were ordered to move quickly through this tunnel until they arrived at the face, and began once again to dig. Speed had to be maintained. They were told nothing, but assumed that they were preparing for a huge land mine.

# The ground was solid clay, so little or no shoring was done. The men grumbled. Why were they so deep? They received no answer, just ordered to dig faster. They worked feverishly, hacking and digging until they dropped, only to be dragged clear and fresh men put in their place. No speaking, no stopping that was the order.

# "How much further?" one gasped.

# "Keep going," was the reply. Then their officer measured the tunnel, and gave the order to stop. The men dropped with relief wiping the black sweat from their eyes. They watched as their platoon commander, by the light of his lantern. checked his calculations.

# "Dig up," he ordered, "carefully.''

# Slowly, they began to cut the soil from above removing each piece to avoid it collapsing around their heads. Suddenly, they were told to stop. All the men, except two, were ordered back. They just sat waiting, waiting in the pitch darkness. For what?

# They sat there, looking at each other. How long had it been? They were tense and fearful. They were experienced miners and knew that a bombardment had begun. Although they could hear nothing, the vibrations that they were feeling would eventually cause the roof of this unsupported tunnel to collapse.

# "How much longer, Gunter?"

# The older of the men looked up and seemed to sit motionless for a moment, as though he was gauging the shuddering. He looked at the roof of the tunnel.

# 'We leave now," he said. "Before this roof buries us alive."·

# His companion breathed a sigh of relief and, gathering their tools together, they began to crawl back towards the safety of their lines.

# A light suddenly appeared ahead, and two figures could be seen crawling towards the two miners. The dirt blackened face of a sergeant and close behind him, what appeared to be wounded soldier, for his face was covered in bandages. The heavy grey field coat that he wore seemed out of place down in this hole.

# "Where do you think you are going?" demanded Sergeant Gage, "Get back, you have work to do."

# For a moment the men just stared at the sergeant who could smell their fear and panic. He moved forward, and slowly the men turned and began to crawl back.

# "What now? "Gunter asked sourly.

# The sergeant wriggled round so that he could see the wounded man clearly. He spoke softly so that the miners could not hear; yet they got the impression that this man was no ordinary soldier. It was impossible to see in this light whether he was an officer or not. His field coat covered whatever he may have worn underneath.

# The wounded man shook his head, and pulling a watch from his pocket, looked at it closely. They sat and looked at each other. Neither spoke. They could all now feel the shuddering. It seemed to be getting worse. The wounded man was breathing heavily. He slipped something into his mouth. The sweat began soaked his blood stained dressing. It ran down his face, forming rivulets of red and black giving him a gaunt, ghostlike appearance. He looked anxiously at his watch. At last he signalled for them to start digging. Slowly they removed the earth. The sounds of battle became louder. The ground shuddered violently and still they dug. It was so dark that only when the smell of battle reached their nostrils; the sharp bitter mixture of cordite, gas and fetid humanity; did they realise they had broken through. The wounded man scrambled past and up into the darkness above. Before Sergeant Gage could raise his head above the hole, the wounded man had struggled clear of the heavy coat and had flung it back down, enveloping the Sergeant in its coarse folds. As he pulled the coat from around his head, he was able to feel the hand of the man above, pushing him back down into the tunnel.

# Grasping the coat, Sergeant Gage looked at the other men.

# "Right, let's get back," he ordered.

# With relief, they began to wriggle quickly back towards their own lines. The Sergeant's orders were to bring the coat back with him. He found dragging it difficult especially as there appeared to be something bulky jammed into one of the pockets. He reached in and pulled out a stick bomb. It clicked as the priming pin came loose, no longer secured by the confines of the pocket. He did not hear the screams of the other soldiers ahead, as they heard the dull but ominous thump of explosives followed by the rush of air signalling the collapse of the tunnel roof. His own cry of anguish muffled everything, as he desperately thrust the bomb away before the blinding flash sealed them in forever.

#

# Late 11th July

# The wounded man sat there, his head still reverberating from the blast. The earth had swallowed up the cries of Sergeant Gage and the miners. He sat there in complete darkness, his chest was heaving as he filled his lungs with the fetid air that filled the deep bunker. He could feel his heart pounding, until it seemed to fill his whole body, blocking everything else out. It crashed against his ears as though his very existence rebelled against what he had just done. This was no longer warfare; honour and chivalry had died with those men in that tunnel.

# Oh! Dear God!" he wailed. "What have I done?" His head sank forward, and he gasped for breath. He was filled with an overwhelming feeling of disgust and contempt. He longed to punish himself, to tear his living heart from within his body. Yet, the darkness surrounded him, protecting him, even from himself. The darkness was complete; it was as though he no longer existed; as though Richard Kahn, murderer, killer of his own men, was dead; and he rejoiced.

# The ringing in his ears was no longer there, just silence, a terrifying silence. The pounding of his heart had ceased. His conscience teased him, letting him believe that the darkness was a void before his rebirth and at that moment he lay within his mother's womb waiting, just waiting, to be born as George Bagworth. His conscious sought this as a means of escape. The more he thought about this, the easier his mind became. That core of survival fought through, blanking everything else out.

# Slowly he laid the palms of his hands upon the floor, where bulks of timber had been laid upon the cold earth. Gently he extended his hands out until satisfied that there was room for him to lie down. At that moment his past, his present, and his future did not exist. He allowed himself to slowly keel over, on to the timbers and there he slept.

#

# Malinin and Ammerson stood in the sunken roadway and watched the two men disappear into the mineshaft. They waited a further thirty minutes; making sure that the pioneers had left the area, before they detonated the charges that would collapse the tunnel. Neither of them spoke as they returned to the hospital. Malinin then made sure that the Chief Medical Officer recorded that Leutnant Kahn had died from wounds received in action. He then spent another hour arranging a diversionary raid

# "So you see, my dear Ulrich, it is vital that the raid is carried out tomorrow night!" Malinin raised his hand to stop the Battalion Commander from interrupting, "and that the church is secured and held. My man is carrying important information that the General Staff is waiting for. He will he heading for the church and will need your men's protection. If, for any reason he doesn't appear by midnight, then your troops can withdraw."

# He stood up, and reached across grasping the Commander by the hand. "The General Staff is relying on you," Malinin concluded. The fact that his cock and bull story would very likely cost the lives of many men did not bother him at all. Just so long as it fooled the enemy into thinking that the Shoemaker was dead.

# Turning, he walked quickly out to his waiting car and, as he passed the adjutant's dugout, he deposited a small knapsack.

# "Give this to the section leader tonight and tell him to, either give it to my man, or leave it behind the altar in the church."

# He found Ammerson, and their driver, ready to begin the journey back to Headquarters.

# After an hour of wending their way past columns of transport heading for the front, they reached a stretch of road bounded on either side by forest. Malinin halted the car. Dismounting, he ordered Ammerson to follow, and together they walked through the trees for several hundred yards.

# "When you contact the Dutchman tonight," he ordered. "I shall require more medical supplies."

# Ammerson nodded. He needed no further explanation. He knew exactly what the Colonel meant.

# "I shall drop you at the cross-roads and you should reach the meeting place in a couple of hours."

# Malinin stopped and looked around, to make sure there was no one near.

# "With regard to the Shoemaker.....you will inform the Dutchman that he will be crossing tomorrow night, under cover of a diversion attack, and will conceal himself in the church".

# It was nearly dark and the clock in the square was striking eight as Malinin arrived back at Headquarters. Gemp was waiting for him.

# "Orders have arrived from General Ludendorff," Gemp announced. "You are to report to him in person immediately."

# Malinin eyed him coldly, "Who gave you permission to read orders addressed to me."

# Gemp stiffened and bristled with indignation. "The orders were received by phone," he replied.

# As he followed Malinin into his office, Gemp gave a nervous exhalation of breath.

# "What news of Leutnant Kahn?"

# Malinin did not answer, but settled himself at his desk and, removing his gloves, inspected his fingernails. Finally he looked up.

# "He's dead!...... It's finished."

# "My God!...just like that !" Gemp was astonished. "You seem to be taking it very calmly."

# "Yes, that is correct," replied the Colonel. "It's something one has to expect," he stared unblinking at the Captain. "Well, if I am to report to the General tomorrow, I had better get these reports finished."

# "Very good, Herr OberstLeutnant," replied Gemp coldly, clicking his heels." I will wish you good night."

# "Goodnight, Rittmeister Gemp."

# 

## Chapter Four.

## The Border Post between Neutral Holland & German occupied Belgium

## Late 11th July,

# The Dutchman Raymond Geyntain placed the military travel pass carefully back inside his wallet. It was an extremely valuable piece of paper. That, and the additional bribe he had slipped the military policeman, allowed him to travel throughout occupied Belgium virtually unhindered.

# Bribery and corruption was a vital part of his life, in Geyntain's view. It was equally important to know when to bribe, and when not to bribe. As an admirer of Sigmund Freud, founder of the psychoanalytic school of psychiatry , whose books Raymond had read avidly. coupled with natural inquisitiveness, made his research into the human mind not only an intriguing pastime but also a profitable one. For unlike his father and his grandfather, Raymond no longer involved himself with the every day movement of contraband. His study of his fellow man had enabled him to delegate this work so that it had become almost legitimate. The right amount in the right hands had opened numerous official and unofficial doors, inside the Belgium and Dutch Governments, as well as the Occupying Forces. Now he reserved his own efforts exclusively for the movement of drugs. He eased his conscience by regarding himself as someone who was merely supplying a need. It also enabled him to find out numerous titbits of information about his customers.

## He prided himself that this was a family business and had been so since the days of Napoleon. He made a good living out of it. It was only since the beginning of the war that he had seen his profits increase beyond his wildest dreams.

## If he could survive until the end, he would be a very wealthy man. Nevertheless, he realised that these were the last of his halcyon days, and for some months, he had been transferring funds into legitimate businesses as well as establishing bank accounts in other countries. Many in the German Army craved for both morphine and heroin, and this had been a major factor in his decision to specialise in drugs. Now he began to doubt the wisdom of that. Although his contacts in the British Pharmaceutical Industry were only too happy to supply their Dutch client with any quantity, and were indifferent as to where it might end up, there were others who were about to impose unwanted conditions upon Raymond.

## It was not long after, that he met Alexander Broughtman. It seemed pure accident at the time. Over coffee they spoke of this and that but soon the conversation turned slowly but surely to Geyntain's business activities and how useful his fund of information would be to the Allies, especially the British. He quickly realised and Broughtman made no secret about it That this English man was one of those rare breeds who would deny emphatically that he was a spy , still a dirty word amongst gentle society . He was more a procurer of information for Britannia and was pleased to accept the rewards that came his way.

## Regardless of his personnel feelings , Raymond Geyntain had no love for the German Army, the reverse in fact. He deliberately avoided supporting either side. As a Dutch neutral, he had no intention of becoming involved. He felt that it would not help his business interests so he had declined Broughtman's offer. He quickly realised that had been a foolish thing to do.

## It was soon after this that his supplies began to dry up. His contacts offered one excuse after another. He became even more concerned when he discovered that his business rivals were taking his customers from him. Not long afterwards Broughtman appeared again and suggested that an answer to his problem could be found if he reconsidered his invitation to support the Allies. Always a pragmatist Geyntain now accepted the invitation.

## Pulling on his soft leather driving gloves, he put the 20 h.p. Sizaire Berwick into gear and drove slowly away from the checkpoint. He had no time to waste; he must reach Roesalore, so that his telegram would reach Rotterdam that night. The information he had received from Ammerson was now vital. Whatever they had learnt about the Shoemaker must have worried them, for it was unusual for him to be directed to find out such precise details. Now he could tell them exactly when the man would be crossing and also the location, but he must hurry for the roads were bad and he had no way of telling what delays he might meet.

## The clock tower, pot marked and bullet ridden, with its bell cracked and deadened, sounded the beginning of the night curfew. The citizens of Roesalore moved quickly through the lengthening shadows, to make sure they were safely behind closed doors before the patrols commenced.

## Geyntain watched, unconcerned, as he fastened his long coat and prepared to leave. He was relieved to have got the telegram sent. There had been nothing unusual for the censor to be wary of, just a list of items Geyntain wished to order and to have ready for his arrival in Rotterdam later that week. The list comprised of a variety of goods, their weights and quantities. The only risk was that the censor had a copy of the same cheap novel that Geyntain had used to code the information for which Rotterdam was waiting. Then he would know that the quantity indicated the page number and that the first two numerals of the weight indicated the line on that page, the last two numeral would point to, the word on that line.

##

## The dull slate-grey skies of the previous evening had disappeared. He studied the sky. The evening star was bright and low on the western horizon. Heavy rain had made the broken roads almost impassable. It was either mud or dust these days. To the east, more dark and forbidding clouds were beginning to build up. He must press on if he was to reach Gwent before nightfall

## It was almost dark when he finally arrived. He halted by the roadside near to the ornate wrought iron gates that led to the Chateau de Montayne, once owned by the Belgian General Fleron, before it had been confiscated by the occupying forces.

## The German High Command had planned to put France out the war quickly by surrounding Paris, as had been done in the Franco Prussian war of 1872 , before concentrating their entire forces on the Russian front. This they had to do before the vast Russian Armies could be mobilised. To achieve this they had invaded through neutral Belgian and this had brought the British into the conflict. Although the Belgian Army had fought gallantly and had inflicted terrible wounds upon the invaders, the inevitable happened and the massive forces that faced them drove all before it. The British army fighting a strategic retreat from Mons whilst the Belgians fought them street by street and with it brought the wrath of the Hun upon their heads.

## Geyntain sat and watched the lights that swayed and danced in time to the music that issued from the open windows. He felt angry and bitter at the way the Germans had treated their gallant adversary, for they had turned the old gentleman's home into a brothel, forcibly enrolling the General's daughters, much to the German officer's amusement. Their amusement had been short-lived, for the daughters had been found dead the following morning, having decided to commit suicide. They had poisoned not only themselves but also their first and only customers. Geyntain shivered, not because of the coldness of the air, but with anger and fury, for he had been engaged to marry Christiane Fleron the General's youngest daughter. Shutting his eyes tightly he fought back the hot tears that squeezed their way between his eyelids, now thankful that Broughtman had forced him out of his self-imposed isolation.

## The gears protested as he forced the car back on to the road, driving another half mile until he arrived at the back of the Château. A large wall now blocked his view of the house. He drove the vehicle into a small copse, which hid it entirely.

## He lifted a valise from the back of the vehicle, and made his way to a small gate in the wall.

## Well-oiled hinges allowed him to slip silently through into the garden, now dark and overgrown. He navigated his way past the thick bushes of rhododendrons, and made his way to the rear of the building. The German authorities had allowed the General and his wife to remain in the house. In fact they had been forced into a life of virtual imprisonment, condemned to stay in the dark damp confines of the old cellars.

## Geyntain tapped quietly on the small door and waited. Keeping to the shadows, avoiding any inquisitive sentries who might pass by.

## "Yes?' called the tired voice of an old woman. "Who is it?'

## "Raymond....... Raymond Geyntain," he answered softly.

## He continued to wait, listening as the bolts slid back and the key turned in the lock.

## The door opened a crack and the fetid smell of dirt and damp made him draw back in disgust. He was filled with impotent fury. The red-rimmed eyes of the old woman peered cautiously from beneath a woollen shawl, drawn tightly round her head.

## Too tired, too ill, she turned with out speaking, and walked slowly down the corridor. He followed her, into a room that was cold and unlit. Rivers of black ran down the wall culminating in a tidemark of mottled fungus. The furniture had once been of good quality, but was now old. There was little more than a table and chair with a bed pushed into one corner.

## From beneath a bundle of dirty rags came the consumptive cough of the General. Geyntain stood and looked; it broke his heart to see the condition the once proud owners had been reduced to.

## Raymond placed the leather valise, on the table. He took from it: bread, meat, and cheese, as well as coffee, a bottle of brandy, and some wine. He unfastened his long coat, from which he drew a packet of medicines. These he placed in front of the old woman. She reached forward and grasped his hand, lifting it to her cracked lips. He could feel her tears upon the back of his hand.

## "Monsieur you are so kind," she whispered.

## He touched her head and smiled, sadly the privation of the last year had unhinged her mind. She no longer recognised him as the young man, against whom she had fought so hard, determined that he should not become her future son in law. He had once hated this arrogant woman. Now times had changed and he could no longer feel bitter.

## "Come.... Eat," he replied, taking the old lady by the arm and guiding her to a chair. He looked round the room, and saw two dirty mugs perched upon the lintel that spanned an empty blackened fireplace. He wiped them as best he could, opened the brandy and poured a small amount in each cup.

## "Here. Drink this, and then give some to the General. Then you must eat." Geyntain insisted. "Time passes and I must change and get upstairs."

## He left the old lady bending over the bed. He went down the passageway to a back room. Where in the corner lay a large wooden trunk. After lighting the lantern, he lifted the trunk lid and carefully removed his change of clothes. It took him only a few minutes to change. He removed the black cloth that covered a badly stained mirror and carefully examined his image. He was now dressed in the uniform of a Captain of the German General Staff. He removed a fine black leather wallet from his civilian coat, and placed his civilian cloths in the trunk and locked it. Laying the wallet on the trunk he carefully opened a concealed pocket and examined several small packages. Satisfied, he fastened the pocket securely.

## He then climbs a short flight of stairs that led, to what appeared to be blank wall. With his penknife he carefully removed a wooden plug, placed his eye to the hole and peered through. Choosing his moment, he removed the panel and slipped into a toilet cubicle. He waited for several moments, before flushing the cistern and casually stepping out into the brightly lit washroom. It was empty.

## The washroom was situated on the ground floor and had originally been part of downstairs pantry. It led into a short hallway, which came out beside the main staircase. The sound of an orchestra playing, drifted down from the grand salon above, intermingled with the faint but distinctively high-pitched laughter of the French whores who now occupied the bedrooms.

## Geyntain stood at the foot of the staircase and picked an imaginary hair from the sleeve of his tunic. Casually he acknowledged a group of young officers who had just entered through the main entrance, and were heading for the noise and laughter upstairs.

## He strolled across the hallway, and into what had once been a vinery but which was now used as a smoke room. It was early and the room was not crowded. This suited Geyntain's purpose. His quarry sat alone on the far side, near the tall windows that looked out onto the lawns, now fading in the approaching darkness. The Officer looked pale and nervous. Sweet glistened upon his brow. Geyntain settled his wallet deeper into his tunic pocket. The man was unpredictable.

## "Good evening Count Hajek." Geyntain sat down in the chair opposite.

## Major Count Gaston von Hajek, a dark thin-faced man whose slick down hair and tiny moustache only emphasised the thin lipped expression of tight anger as he bit nervously on an empty cigar holder.

## "Where the hell have you been?" Hajek slurred, his voice loud and brutal

## "Have you been waiting long?" Geyntain smiled quietly to himself.

## Hajek scowled and stared at him coldly, adjusting his monocle with some difficulty.

## "Have you brought my medicine?" He breathed deeply. Trying desperately to retain his self-control.

## That depends on what you have to tell me." Geyntain found the whole thing somewhat amusing. His customers would never admit that they were drug addicts, always preferring to call it their medicine.

## The Major's fist closed round the riding crop that lay upon the table.

## "That would be very foolish," said Geyntain. "Your may be very brave when it comes to little boys and young defenceless girls, but there is not an officer in this room who would raise a hand to protect you from the thrashing you would get. Not even your father the Genera1."

## "I have nothing to report." The Count slowly dropped his hand, and began to fumble with his empty glass.

## "In that case I'll not waste any more of your time." The Dutchman made to rise to his feet.

## A desperate look came into the German's eyes.

## "No! Please," he begged. Reaching out, he touched Geyntain's sleeve.

## Geyntain pulled his arm away contemptuously and resumed his seat.

## "What have you to tell me" he repeated.

## Hajek sat and stared at him, his look full of loathing and revulsion." I need only to raise my hand and I could have you shot within the hour."

## A tired and exasperated look crossed the Dutchman's face.

## "And letters, including photographs showing what you did to that boy would arrive on General Ludendorf's desk within the week. You know how he feels about men of your calibre. How long do you think you would survive as his A.D.C, before you were sent to the front?" Geyntain's voice was a hiss.

## The Major's face turned grey, and he wiped it with a shaking hand.

## "Field Marshal von Folkenhyn is due in the next day or so. There is to be an important meeting, with all the divisional commanders. Also Colonel Malinin has been ordered to report tomorrow."

## Geyntain felt a prickly sensation down his back when Malinin's name was mentioned. The man meant trouble. And was more cunning than a bagful of weasels.

## "Why?" asked Geyntain

## "I don't know," pleaded the now desperate Count. " It could be something to do with the Irish Brigade."

## "That's not new," rebuked Geyntain angrily. "If you want any more medicine you will have to do better than that."

## "There is something going on, regarding the Irish, "insisted the Count, "I've heard the General speaking about telegrams to America."

## "And what did he say about the Shoemaker?" Geyntain watched the Count's face closely.

## "Shoemaker?" The major's puzzlement looked genuine. "I've not heard mention of that." The Dutchman reached across and poured himself a glass of champagne. He sipped it slowly, all the time watching the Major opposite, who sat and fidgeted with his hands, constantly using a silk handkerchief to wipe his pale sweating brow.

## Geyntain reached into his pocket,

## "Try some of my new snuff?" he suggested, pushing a small ceramic box in the Major's direction. The Major grabbed the box and with shaking hands fumbled to release the lid.

## Trying desperately to retain some dignity he placed a small amount of white powder on the back of his hand and sniffed it up. He sat there for several seconds, breathing easily.

## "Yes, very fines snuff." A long lazy smile spreading across his face.

## Geyntain stood up and leaned across the table until his face was only inches from the Major's. "Make the most of it, for that's all you'll get."

## The Major's mouth opened in protest, as Geyntain continued. "Find out what Malinin and the General are discussing, and meet me at the Cafe Rue de Napoleon with the information, and the rest is yours." With that he turned and left the lounge.

# Chapter Five.

#

# Imperial Army Headquarters, Western Front.P.M.l2th July.

# Rittmeister Gemp breathed a sigh of relief as they reached the top of the marble staircase leading to the main reception room of the grand Belgium palace that was now General Ludendorff's supreme headquarters. He and the Colonel had travelled most of the night and had had to fight their way past many columns of moving troops to get here by noon. Gemp's right arm was wrapped tightly round a parcel of papers that the colonel needed, as his left arm was useless having been blown away just above the elbow. It hurt abominably, that and the fact that he had lost the sight of his right eye in the same action. gave him an ever increasing feeling he ought to accept his father's suggestion to resign his commission and return home. He could join the family clothing business now busy making uniforms and the fact that he just been informed that his mother had inherited a large vineyard, added weight to the argument

# The reception area was crowded with Officers from many regiments. Malinin, without much compulsion pushed his way across to a window ordering the junior officers to vacate the area immediately. He brought chairs round a small table and seated himself so that he could observe the whole room.

# " Go and tell them we are here" he ordered Gemp as he began to scroll through the mound of papers he was carrying

# Major Hajek enjoyed his position of power, as ADC to the General. "The Colonel is late "he said " He was ordered to report this morning."

# "He has disobeyed orders," he added sarcastically.

# He sat primly on the edge of his chair, his hands held piously in front of him.

# The nerve ends in Gemp's stump began to throb angrily, as he stood in the doorway of Hajek's office.

# "So tell your Colonel he will have to wait with the others" With that, Hajek continued to read the papers on his desk.

# Gemp felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise in anger. He had no love for his Commanding Officer, but this arrogant pig, this cocooned popinjay should not be allowed to talk in such an insolent manner.

# "You tell his Colonel!" demanded Malinin as he pushed past Gemp and walked into the office. "And stand up when you are in the presence of a senior officer."

# Hajek rose slowly to his feet. He made no effort to conceal his distaste for the two officers.

# "My apologies, Reserve Lt Colonel." Hajek came rigidly to attention, and gave an exaggerated bow from the waist. The sarcasm of using Malinin's full official rank did not go unnoticed. Malinin stiffened, his eyes closed to mere slits, and his mouth tightened. "But there are many regular officers waiting to see the General.......And you are late."

### Gemp felt himself redden with embarrassment. He glanced out of the corner of his eye and watched Malinin's reaction. The rivalry between the regular Prussian Officer Corps made up mainly from the sons of the conservative Junker's aristocracy and the bourgeoisie was well known in military circles. Neither had anything but contempt for the other.

### Malinin's expression was stony. He reached into his pocket and withdrew his notebook, and began to write. Gemp smiled, for although he was unable to read what the Colonel had written, he felt sure that it would cause the ADC to change his attitude. He watched as Malinin handed the note to Hajek.

"Now, tell the General that we are here,, or shall I tell him all about that?" he said indicating the piece of paper.

### Hajek looked at Malinin suspiciously. Slowly his eyes moved down to the paper. Gemp had been right. The Aide looked as though he might pass out. His face became waxy and grey. His hand shook. He looked once again at Malinin with a mixture of fear and pure hatred. His arrogance dissolved.

"I shall inform the General straight away."

# Malinin, his eyes still fixed squarely upon the Aide, nodded.

# "This popinjay is a fool", he muttered contemptuously.

# Turning, he left the office and returned to his position in the reception room so that he could observe all who entered and departed. There, with his brief case resting on his knees, his leather bound notebook out he scrutinised every face in the room and constantly made notes

# Gemp perched himself on the wide windowsill and stared out at the gathering rain clouds. He felt increasingly despondent these days, his arm and eye caused him so much discomfort that it became harder each day to do his duty as he felt he should do it. .

### The Calvary officer was mystified as to why he was there in the first place. It was out of character for Malinin to confide in any of his staff, so being ordered to accompany him, had surprised Gemp. He had been even more surprised when Malinin had not only given him a thorough briefing on what was going on in the Intelligence world but had also asked his advice on certain matters. Gemp might not like the man, but he could not help but respect him.

### It was nearly four o'clock when the doors were thrown open.

"Attention!" roared the Warrant Officer guarding the door. Every Officer in the anti room came rigidly to attention, and watched as the Chief of Staff and various Army Commanders streamed out.

### The officers remained at attention, and slowly the rhythmic squeak of Calvary boots approaching the doorway, could be heard.

### Major Hajek stood ramrod straight to one side, ready with a sheaf of papers. General Ludendorff stood and surveyed the Officers in the anteroom. He held out his hand, into which Hajek placed a note. The General's eyes darted across the words. Without looking at the Major, the General merely nodded agreement. Hajek opened his mouth to announce the name of the next officer, when suddenly, Malinin pushed his way through the clustered officers and, closely followed by Gemp, approached the doorway.

### Hajek blocked his way." I am sorry Colonel, but you will have to wait a little longer." His eyes danced insolently. His mouth was a sneer.

"Do you wish me to tell the General a little story or perhaps show him some photographs?" Malinin whispered venomously.

# "What is going on out there?" demanded the General, his face dark and menacing. "Malinin! So. you have arrived at last. I do not expect to wait this length of time."

"My humble apologies Mein General," said Malinin," I came as soon as I received your orders. It is good I have not been further delayed," he added looking at the A.D.C...Hajek followed them in and place a thick pile of papers on the General's desk, accidentally knocking the phone onto the floor. Mumbling apologies, he carefully replaced the phone next to the papers so that the receiver just rested upon the papers and not the cradle. He then retreated to his office and closed the door. Gently lifting the receiver, he prepared himself to hear some of Malinin's dark secrets. He felt no sense of disloyalty, for he felt betrayed by his own class. His family's military tradition stretched back generations. These 'Idiotenhaus' liberals who had penetrated the officer corps had, in his opinion, fermented trouble and discontent. If these milksop socialists had been kept out of the army, he thought, we would now be in Paris once again and this time to stay. No! They did not deserve his loyalty and they had no right to criticise his private indiscretions.

### Voices could be heard from the receiver. He took out a blank sheet of paper, and began to write.

### Malinin and the General had known each other for many years. It had been Ludendorff, when he had been Lt Colonel on the General Staff, who had put forward the idea of creating the Prussian Army Intelligence Service, using a relatively unknown academic, with the rank of Reserve Captain, as its head. Ludendorff had read Malinin's radical theory of total warfare, and unlike many of his compatriots believed that it had a valid contribution to make. Ludendorff was an autocratic man of iron, one of the few remaining Junker Officers who had retained that austere dignified way of life that made the Prussian Officer Corps the finest.

"There are matters I wish to discuss with you Colonel." The General sounded cold and uncompromising, "but first your report."

### For the next two hours their unseen audience, Major Hajek, listened, unable to believe what he was hearing. He heard the details plans to finance the revolutionaries in Russia and how their leader, Vladimir Ilyich, although at the moment still living in Switzerland would soon be transported by train across Germany, when the time was right. He found the discussion concerning the German socialists Luxernbough and Leibkrecht and their peace movement boring. Although he did prick his ears up, when their spy ring (code name Romulus), had been penetrated. Expecting to hear that they were to be rounded up and shot, for this was nothing more than traitors deserved, he was astounded to hear Malinin arguing that it would be to their advantage to get one of his men to infiltrate the organisation

### Hajek was now convinced that it was Malinin who was the traitor. His scribbling became frantic as he took down every word he heard.

### Malinin sat, his eyes following the General as he paced back and forth.

"The Irish question, how is that progressing?" enquired the General.

### Malinin rose to his feet. He felt more in command of the situation this way. He looked sideways at Gemp before speaking, "I regret that, our hopes for the Irish Brigade have amounted to nothing, even after spending all of January and most of February going round the camps." Gemp sat there silently absorbing this information surprised how freely his Commanding Officer was speaking in his presence.

"I have not heard if our alternative suggestion has been accepted." asked Malinin.

"Yes!" replied the General. "The Irish Republican movement in America, believing that we will supply them with arms and ammunition, has offered to organise a general insurrection in Ireland itself."

### Malinin gave a sigh of relief. "So they took the bait."

"Yes, Colonel, they took the bait." The General sounded dissatisfied. "But I am not convinced they will succeed, they lack our Prussian detail for planning."

### Malinin tensed, for he realised they were approaching a critical part of the discussion. If it went the wrong way and the General made the wrong decision, Malinin would have to be very persuasive to make him change his mind. From his brief case he withdrew a sheet of paper and handed it to the General.

### Ludendorff read the paper carefully several times. He raised his eyes and stared coldly, first at Gemp, and then at Malinin. Regardless of his own doubts he knew that he had to trust the Colonel, who had been proved right on so many occasions. There was too much at stake. He said nothing for several seconds.

"Are you sure this will work?"

### Malinin nodded emphatically.

### Finally the general folded the note carefully and handed it back to the Colonel..

"So what of your other arrangements?" The General asked

### In the next room, Hajek's attention had wavered. He jerked up and craned closer to the receiver. He had heard something that rang bells inside his head. What had that Dutchman Geyntain been asking? He thought. The Shoemaker that was it. That was what Malinin had just said, the Shoemaker.

# "Dead?" roared the furious General. "We have spent months preparing for this, and your incompetent specialist has got himself killed."

# "It was unfortunate," argued Malinin. Gemp had never seen his Commander like this before. He seemed to have lost his usual inner calm and was almost pleading with the General.

# Ludendorff went and sat at his desk, his pale blue Prussian eyes flashed with cold fury.

# "Very well the project is cancelled; I'll not allow anymore time to be wasted on this matter.

# Gemp gasped and turned to stare at Malinin. He willed him to react, but Malinin appeared transfixed, Gemp waited. Surely Malinin would do his utmost to persuade the General to change his mind? But the Colonel just sat there as though turned to stone and then without warning he sprang to his feet and, gathering his papers together, requested the General's permission to leave.

# The General said nothing, giving Malinin a very piecing look and, merely inclined his head.

# Malinin turned and then hesitated. He looked in the General's direction and without saying a word, placed a letter on the desk and left.

# It was several seconds before Gemp realised that his commanding officer had reached the outer door. His mind was in turmoil, why did Malinin look so pleased, as though he had received good news.

# As they collected their travelling coats, Malinin suddenly looked up and stared enquiringly in the direction of the General's rooms. Major Hajek stood there, his arms full of papers.

# "Anything wrong?" Gemp muttered quietly, following Malinin gaze.

# "Why should he take those papers in at the beginning of our meeting and now remove them?" Malinin muttered. He could not know that Major Count Gaston Hajek was very pleased with himself.

# Gemp felt exhausted. His stump still ached abominably, his good eye was sore and the other socket had begun to bleed. He was relieved when Malinin announced that he intended to stay overnight, and return to his headquarters the following day. They dined early, and Gemp was glad to retire to his room, and was soon fast asleep, leaving Malinin to his own devices.

# The same family had owned the Café Rousson for nearly a century. Downstairs was a large bar where the young men of the town gathered, where they could meet their sweethearts and in the intimate alcoves and whisper sweet private words. Upstairs were rooms where private parties could be held or monsieur could entertain his mistress. It was these stairs that Malinin now climbed, hardly aware of the faded red fabric that adorned the walls. The day had been long and it would not be over for some hours yet. The girls who had heard his footfall were to be disappointed, for ,regardless of their desirability, he had no time to be diverted.

# He was only vaguely aware that the door, he had stopped at, was covered in a faded green velvet. He tapped quietly using the end of his cane.

# The door opened and a tall man, his check tweed suit contrasting vividly with Malinin's sombre grey, held out a sunburnt hand in greeting.

# "Good evening Colonel," His deep voice had a caressing quality, that woman found irresistible. The soft American accent was full of buoyant confidence. "You look weary... Come in. Sit down." It sounded more like a command than a request.

###

### Without asking, the American poured a large brandy and handed it to Malinin. The Colonel sat and lifted the glass to his lips, and felt the fiery liquid slip slowly down his throat.

"It is good," he remarked lifting the glass in admiration.

"Only the best will do for Walter Salvenson," laughed the American. He refilled the Colonel's glass. Then stretching himself out in the chair opposite, he lifted his long arms and scratched his baldhead.

"Well?" he demanded.

" I give you a toast," Malinin raised his glass. "The Shoemaker is dead, long live the Shoemaker."

### The American screwed his eyes up in puzzlement. "I don't get you?"

"You don't have to," replied Malinin. "All you need to do is trust me as General Ludendorf is prepared to do. Suffice to say, Mr Salvenson, that at this moment our man is crossing through enemy lines. He is on his way."

"Well what do you know, you did it. You got your Belgian Businessman across?"

# Malinin frowned, and leaning forward, tapped the American on the knee.

# "No my friend, a complication arose...believe only what I say and not what you hear.. The Belgian is dead, a tragic accident."

# "But you've just.... "Protested Salvenson.

### Malinin held his hand up to silence the man. "There is someone, in either my department, or the General Staff, whose loyalty is in doubt. I have my suspicions but until I am sure I can do nothing.

"There must be something you can do." persisted the American. "What about a false trail?"

### Malinin looked puzzled.

"Misinformation," insisted the American.

"That I have already done... In fact I have broken one of my basic rules. I have confided in one of my suspects and I even asked his advice." Malinin sat back and stared into space as though wondering if he taken the right decision after all. "I even enrolled my General in playing a part."

"Nevertheless, "he continued. "When I say our man is on his way. this is true... but the Shoemaker is dead and General Ludendorff has cancelled the project just as I asked him to do. Somehow this information will be given to the Allies and that is what we want them to believe. Do you understand?"

### The American nodded, " So have you the photograph?"

### Malinin reached into his pocket and took out an envelope. From it he withdrew a photograph. It showed an old man in the uniform of a mining surveyor. It had been cut as though part of a jigsaw puzzle.

"You will send this to our contacts in America," he said. "They understand what is required."

### The American smiled confidently," Yes Colonel, they understand perfectly, don't worry. These are not your idealists poets who dream of day's that never existed. These men are dedicated. They won't let you down."

"So be it." The Colonel rose to his feet. " I will wish you good night then. Contact me again when you have news of its arrival. Do you understand"

# The American coughed. "There is the question of payment."

# Malinin smiled, "You will find that your account in Geneva has increased considerably."

# Walter Salvenson smiled.

# 

# Chapter Six.

# Late afternoon 12th July Rotterdam

# Geyntain sat beneath the café's wide awning that shielded him from the afternoon sunshine and ordered his second cup of coffee. The journey to Rotterdam had taken less time than he had expected and he had arrived outside the Albion Steamship Office far too early. From the deep shadows he was able to observe the coming and going of the office across the street.

# Since Broughtman had persuaded him to help the Allies, he had kept his visits to the shipping office to a minimum. He was aware that German Intelligence watched the place so he had made it his practise to wait until he saw Madame Hofman leave, before he ventured across the square and slipped quietly into the wine store next door. He could then go through the adjoining door into the shipping office without being seen.

# Today he realised that he would have to wait longer, as he watched a seaman making his unsteady way towards the shipping office yet another seafarer looking for a berth aboard one of the many vessels owned by the (Albion Steamship) Company.

# Yet there was something about the man that attracted Geyntain's attention. Taking a small pair of opera glasses from his coat pocket, Geyntain adjusted the focus. Yes, he recognised him, even with the cap pulled well down over his face. It was Alexander Broughtman.

# There was no love lost between them. For Geyntain must now dance to Broughtman's tune to get his supplies. This rankled him especially now he was beginning to doubt the man's loyalty. He remembered seeing Broughtman on the roadside leading to the Mendon Forest, deep in conversation with a German General.

# The man Geyntain had come to visit, Captain Percival Langley RN (rtd), managing director of the Albion Steamship Company, was officially the head of British military intelligence in Holland. His espionage network extended throughout Holland, Belgium, and Germany.

# British Military Intelligence was in an embryonic phase of its existence, starved of financial resources, it was forced to use unusual and inventive methods but both Langley and Broughtman had their own methods .The navy man ran his organisation on a commercial basics ,merely charging the Foreign Office for his services which they quickly found reliable and were consequently glad to pay. Broughtman had a more down to earth method where private industry was concerned. He had the black book in which he kept sensitive information especially where the chemical and arms industry was concerned, then he blackmailed them. If they didn't feel like subscribing, as he called it, then his friends in the newspaper industry would hear of their corrupt deals

# The clock on Langley's desk chimed five o'clock, he snorted irritably. The untidy mounds of paper that lay about his desk, containing information that required his attention, did not appear to be getting any smaller. He had wondered many times, whether there was not a better way of obtaining information. Certainly it did produce results, but often at the cost of so many of his working hours spent poring over endless sheets of barely discernible writing.

# Removing his spectacles. He rubbed his eyes, and was about to ring for Madame Hofman to bring yet another pot of her strong coffee, before she left for the night, when he heard tapping on his office door.

# " Come, " he called.

# The woman who entered was disturbingly handsome, tall and well made. Langley wondered again whether the widow's persistent invitations to join her small family for luncheon sprang from pity for his unmarried state or from something else.

# " Yes! Madame?" He replaced his spectacles, and looked at her.

# She spoke English with a soft rounded accent, so that the words seem to float from her lips. Yes! Thought Langley, next time I will definitely accept her invitation.

# " There is a Monsieur Broughtman, to see you Captain."

" Alexander Broughtman?" He was surprised. He had no idea the man was even on this side of the channel

# He had never met Broughtman; though they communicated frequently .It was through Broughtman, that he had first made contact with the smuggler Geyntain. Strange, he thought, that on the very night he was expecting one of Geyntain's rare visits, Broughtman should appear. He felt suddenly nervous, and yet, he reasoned, Geyntain's visit was in answer to one of Broughtman's requests for information. So maybe he could kill two birds with one stone.

# Though he had no official authority, Broughtman had gained a formidable reputation, having brought off several outstanding coups, not least gaining access to the German General Staff. Unlike many of his colleagues who found Broughtman's success hard to stomach, Langley had only admiration for the man. His latest achievement was only now beginning to filter through. His ingenuity was remarkable. Not only had he extracted the plans of the enemies latest artillery piece while spending a weekend on the Krupps estate, but had calmly walked from Germany into Neutral Holland, disguised as a refugee, accompanied only by a young woman and her two week old baby? Regardless that both had been subjected to many hours of interrogation and had suffered the indignity of being searched in a most intimate manner in front of leering brutal guards, the plans had not been found. It was only when they arrived on the steps of the British Embassy in the Hague, that it was revealed that the drawings had been concealed within cotton padding inside the baby's nappy. The child had been deliberately left unattended for nearly twenty-four hours. Langley grimaced at the thought of the border guard being faced with such a prospect and could readily understand Broughtman's confidence. He laughed quietly.

# "Show him in."

# Strangely the first thing that Langley noticed was the man's feet. How small they were, almost like a child. He had always imagined Broughtman as a typical Englishman, tall and thin, a Scarlet Pimpernel of a man. Instead in front of him stood a person who could have passed himself off, as a farm worker, or an engineer, someone who worked with their hands. For although Langley's great fist swallowed Broughtman's, the smaller man's grip was strong and it was obvious to the Navy man that this was no Whitehall Lily. The other surprise was that his guest spoke with a strong German accent as though English was not his first language.

# They exchanged the normal pleasantries, although Langley could feel that there was suppressed anger in Broughtman's manner, as though he were the bearer of bad news and Langley was someway responsible for it. It put him on edge and made him cautious.

"What's happened?" he said in his blunt manner, inherited from his father who still farmed in the Yorkshire Dales.

"Have you heard from Geyntain?" Broughtman sounded anxious. It made Langley wary. He needed to find out more of what was going on.

" I get periodical reports." He replied, implying that he did not remember the request Broughtman had made. He didn't feel inclined to tell him that he was expecting Geyntain that evening.

"There could be something in there," he added, pointing to a pile of reports on his desk.

### Broughtman sat there staring out through the window at the late afternoon sunlight.

"What has happened?" Langley's voice rose. He was beginning to get irritated with the man. "What has gone wrong?"

"I do not know, I have this strange feeling. I need to speak to Geyntain urgently."

"Is it to do with the Shoemaker?" It was a wild guess on Langley's part.

### Broughtman quizzed him through half closed eyes. "What do you know about the Shoemaker?"

"Only that you asked me to get Geyntain to find out about him.... You want my help...then I suggest you tell me what...you... know about this Shoemaker."

### Broughtman shrugged his shoulders. "There is little to tell, just a lot of rumour and guesswork."

"Carry on! I'm listening," Langley leaned back in his chair and lit a thin Javanese cigar.

"The Foreign Office have received copies of several telegrams sent from America. Our friends in Weston Union keep us informed regularly. The F.O. would have kept these firmly to themselves had I not found out by accident."

### He looked unhappy and shook his head despondently.

"This jealousy will lose us the war if we are not careful. But to continue, it seems that the Irish community in America are getting very excited about something, while that is probably a seasonal occurrence, and would normally be passed off as unimportant."

### He hesitated, as though mentally rearranging his thoughts. " Intuition, I find, is a mysteriously powerful force. At the moment, my intuition is gnawing away at me, especially since the gossip circulating the Teirgardens, in Berlin, is that an Irishman has been vainly trying to recruit Irish prisoners of war to join a Rebel Brigade, which the German General staff would then transport to Ireland to support a rising. That would cause havoc if it succeeded."

### "How many recruits have joined?"

### "It is hard to tell, about fifty."

### Langley gently knocked the ash from the end of his cigar. "That's hardly enough to cause a problem."

### "Exactly!" agreed Broughtman. "So tell me, why does this apparent failure cause so much excitement in America...? or is it something else, something we don't know about as yet...hasn't Geyntain produced anything worth while ?" His voice rose hopefully. "I know he has some very senior army contacts."

"And you think this Shoemaker is involved?" probed Langley.

" So, such a person does exist!" Broughtman's face brightened and he sat forward expectantly.

" Apparently so," It suited Langley to let the man believe this, "weren't you sure?"

" Frankly it was a guess. There was a lot of mundane radio traffic going back and forth and then suddenly in the middle." He reached out and passed Langley a sheet of paper. " This arrived."

'Der Schuhmacher ist fertig '

### Langley looked at him puzzled. " What does it say?"

"The shoemaker is ready," translated Broughtman. " It didn't make a lot of sense to me either. Then ten days ago we intercepted this." Broughtman didn't bother handing this one over, but read it out loud.

" Der Schuster geht uber.."

"The cobbler is crossing over." Broughtman laughed nervously.

" Somehow that frightened me. We had to find out what was going on. At one time we thought that cobbler or cobble was a Celtic word for boat.... The boat is crossing over... Link this with the excitement in America and the Rebel Brigade, did we have an insurrection or even an invasion on our hands? We desperately need to know more. What has Geyntain found out?"

# Langley drew on his cigar and watched the smoke spiral lazily to the ceiling.

# " Well on the face things, not a lot." He looked at Broughtman thoughtfully. " Geyntain has told us that there is an agent, code name 'Shoemaker'."

# Broughtman looked angry at being forced to disclose so much information to Langley. The Navy man appeared to take no notice. He simply continued speaking.

# " Geyntain had no idea what his mission was. Only that he was to cross through our lines, under cover of a diversionary attack, on the night of the twelfth. He was to hide in the vaults beneath the old church at Villenue. The idea being that the Bosche would retreat leaving him behind our lines."·

# Broughtman sat forward. " So what happened?"

# " Well we passed the word down to the front line and our lads obligingly retreated and gave them enough time to get in place. That's when things began to go wrong. Our artillery opened up to force the Hun to retreat. Only somehow the orders got muddled and they plastered the place with every thing they had. Consequently the Hun opened up and every body was pinned down. By the time our lads reached the church all that was left was a lot of German bodies, amongst them was a Officer with a satchel of civilian clothes."

# Broughtman shut his eyes, and clenched his fists. " I don't believe this," he growled. " The one man who could have given us some real information and those bloody gunners blast him to kingdom come!" He crouched forward in his chair, nervously biting his lip. "We don't even know if this chap was the Shoemaker."

# He looked at Langley, "Suppose the whole thing was a diversion....a charade... just for our benefit." He stopped and stared into space. "This is just the sort of trick Malinin would pull."

"Are you suggesting that this dead officer is not the Shoemaker?"

### Broughtman shrugged his shoulders. "Does Geyntain have any other information?"

### Langley blew on the end of his cigar. He imagined Geyntain, at this moment, in the café opposite, waiting."

"He could be back in Rotterdam tonight, I'll make a few enquires.. Leave it to me..... I'll meet you for dinner....9 o'clock"

### Broughtman nodded." I'm at the Hotel Philippe!"

### The Hotel Philippe was a quiet, respectable, hotel situated to the rear of Leopold Square. It had been owned by the Meyssac family for generations, Captain Langley was a welcome guest, and at a few minutes before 9 o'clock was being shown to a quiet corner table, where he could dine and talk with out being overheard. Broughtman was already waiting.

" Have you been in contact with him?" he demanded as soon as Langley was seated.

"The food here is excellent and I am hungry. So I intend to have my dinner before we talk."

### He sat and watched Broughtman pick at his food as he enjoyed an excellent Sole Corbert partnered by a bottle of Meursault Goute D'or, chilled to perfection. To follow there was a delicious Tournedos Rossini, and then crepes a la Bordelaise and a bottle of Chateau Lafitte. Even Broughtman capitulated in front of such delicacies and was soon eating heartily. With a fine brandy and cigars at their elbows the two men relaxed.

# " I take it you have seen him?"

# Langley nodded. "Geyntain is confident that this information is accurate. It comes from sources very close to General Ludendorff himself. The Shoemaker was to be an agent provocateur, planted by Prussian Intelligence to seek out information regarding the German Socialists and their Swiss spy ring. I take it they mean the Romulus organisation? He was on route to contact the British Socialists but in reality, he was to try and establish a revolutionary group, and to use the peace movements to cause trouble in the industrial north. Nothing at all to do with the Irish."

# "Rubbish.......I do not believe that." said Broughtman stubbornly. "Surely you don't either?

# Reluctantly Langley had to agree. It was highly unlikely.

# " Unless," Broughtman continued. " There could be a connection between one of the smaller Irish groups, but there's dozens of them.. It doesn't look good."

# Langley said nothing, just sat and stared at his glass. He lifted his head and met Broughtman's eyes. " Either way, it's irrelevant now. Geyntain is positive that Lt Colonel Malinin, Head of Intelligence, reported to General Ludendorff that the Shoemaker had been killed, and whatever they had planned the General has cancelled it."

# " How very convenient," replied Broughtman sarcastically? His naturally suspicious mind refused once again to accept the obvious. He made a mental note to study all intercepted telegrams from America for the next few weeks.

#

# 

# Chapter Seven .

#

# 12th July German Bunker Western Front.

# Richard Khan mentally forcing himself, like an experienced actor to think ,to believe, that he was in fact George Bagworth, woke choking. He had sucked in the dust that had fallen from the roof of the bunker. He searched the inky blackness and could feel his eyeballs stretching as he hunted for a pinpoint of light. His stomach tightened. Panic began to grow inside him , was he buried alive?

# He began to breath in and out carefully, forcing himself to drive the seeds of panic from his mind. Before the war he had spent years in this environment and knew how to deal with it; slowly he felt himself regain control of his emotions. Fumbling inside his pockets, he found a box of matches. Slowly and carefully he gathered several together and struck them. They flared long enough for him to see the outline of the bunker and the remains of a candle lodged into an empty tin before he was, once again, plunged into inky darkness. Slowly he felt his way across the floor until he found the leg of the table that he had seen momentarily. He raised himself carefully to his knees and with his outstretched arm found the empty tin containing the candle. Once again he gathered the matches and carefully touched the flame against the wick and was relieved to see it light.

# He was in one of the deep company bunkers that he had helped build earlier that year. The remains of the fortified redoubt would be directly above, that is, if the shaft had not collapsed trapping him. From the size of the beams and roof supports, he estimated that he must be at least fifteen metres underground. Racking his brain, he remembered the layout of these large underground bunkers. He was in the main company mess room where the majority of the troops would eat and sleep. He lifted the candle higher and could just make out the entrance leading to the foot of the shaft. On the far side would be the officers quarters; above them would be the main command bunker and the off duty section bunker. In this way, only the reserve section was left down here sleeping so that they could rush up and reinforce the redoubt if necessary.

# George looked closely at the flame worried that the air down here might be poisoned, but, except for the all-pervading dust, it seemed breathable. The departure from the bunker appeared to have been orderly. There was no indication of equipment or clothing being left behind. He could see that the roof at the back had collapsed, but the entrance to the shaft appeared clear. Cautiously, he made his way past the debris of broken tables and bunks and reached the entrance. The boards beneath his feet seemed in good order and he had gone down the tunnel about ten metres when he stumbled. He stopped and peered down at his feet.

### He lowered the light slowly until he could see the boots and trousers of a infantry man, who seemed to be buried beneath a pile of rubble. His first thoughts were that the tunnel had collapsed, but as he lifted the light higher, he shuddered with horror: he had found the remains of the company. The tunnel was choked with bodies, jammed tight, piled one on top of the other. Like some terror-stricken mass, they had scrambled frantically to get away from the unseen danger. Then the smell struck him, the sickly sweet smell of rotting flesh mixed with the bitter tang that stung his eyes.... GAS.

### He backtracked furiously along the tunnel and into the bunker he had just left. Some how or other a gas shell had penetrated the bunker, first killing those in the shaft, and then slowly choking to death the remainder as they desperately fought to get out. He was trapped. The shaft could no longer be used.

### Yet he had not suffocated! The gas down here would linger for many days. He turned and carefully made his way back to where the roof had collapsed. In the dim flickering light, his situation looked hopeless: in front of him lay a jungle of beams and rocks disgorged by the roof. George sat and stared, hypnotised at the candlelight, his mind a blank. His wounded face throbbed. He could feel the warm stickiness of blood once again oozing through his dressings. The light flickered and then flickered again, and slowly it dawned on him why the candlelight moved. Cautiously he lifted the light and began to move it across the damaged roof, searching every crevice until at last he was certain that he had found the source of air.

### Once again he returned to the tunnel entrance. He placed the candle to one side and using a hook tied to a strip of timber, he carefully retrieved a rifle and bayonet from the pile of bodies. He retraced his steps and began digging into the roof, constantly watching for collapse. Eventually he managed to make a hole, just large enough for him to crawl through. He had no idea what was in the compartment above.

### Gingerly, lying on his back, he began to force his way through the mass of splintered beams and rocks. With the candle firmly gripped in one hand, he reached out into the darkness and clawed his way through. The massive splinters tore at his arms and legs, ripping his uniform. Pushing with his legs, he levered himself through, finally collapsing onto the floor above. He lay there gasping, his whole body wracked with pain. The nerve ends of what remained of his teeth savaged his brain unmercifully. Unconsciousness was once again a blessed relief.

# Whether he had lain there for hours or days, he had no way of telling.

# Only occasionally, did he become subconsciously aware that around him the earth rose and fell. Shells were once again raining down upon the earth above him yet he felt safe, down here in the bowels of the earth. Nothing seemed important. He just lay there, unable to move. He hadn't even the strength to reach for the last of the morphine tablets that could have given him some relief. He seemed to he floating as though in a desert, with a tongue like leather filling his mouth. Out beyond the horizon a bright light shone. It seemed so peaceful. Sometimes it got closer, as though he could reach out and touch it. Suddenly it began to fade and he became aware of the silence. Opening his eyes, he saw a faint glimmer of light. It attracted him like a moth. Rolling slowly and painfully onto his side, he struggled to his knees. The thick coating of dust that covered him from head to foot clogging his eyes and mouth fell away from him. He hobbled across in the direction of the light. It was as though he were appearing from a subterranean cavern, for he crawled into the bottom of a huge shell hole.

# The shaft and redoubt were no longer there. They had taken a direct hit from one of the huge mortars, either a German 420mm or a 15-inch British Howitzer, these being the only artillery that could cause this much devastation. George, he was beginning to convince himself of that name, lay there trying to distinguish the mixture of sounds that reached him. He slowly climbed, from the depths of the hole, the edge getting tantalising closer, until he finally reached the rim. He could hear voices, the cries of men in pain and anger. He raised his eyes to the rim and cautiously looked across into the early morning mist. He could make out the shadowy figures, in the half-moon shaped helmets of British troops, struggling back through the tree-stunted moonscape.

# He crawled after them, his wounds now bleeding freely, his dressings torn. Slowly the sun climbed into a clear blue sky. George felt sweat running down his face and body; now barely conscious, he stumbled blindly on.

# 'Halt' spoke a voice in English. He stood looking down into the trench at the face of a frightened youth. The barrel of the rifle pointed directly at George's chest. He shut his eyes and felt his knees buckle under his weight

## In the British Trenches 'mid morning 13th July

# ....................................................................

# He became aware of images moving, and shadowy figures passing him. He could feel the earth against his back, the sun fierce against his head. The musty smell of damp humanity was strong and pervasive. The cries and groans of men in pain filled the air. The sound of heavy boots scrambling past, of men struggling, panting, cursing, as they heaved waterproof sheets full of the remains of wounded men. Although barely conscious, he was instinctively aware of the danger he was in. He stayed perfectly still and waited until his vision cleared. Sergeant George Bagworth, as he was now, slowly moved his head and looked round. He was half squatting, half lying on the firing-step of a deep trench. Either side of him were other solders huddled together. No one spoke. A line of struggling figures seemed to stretch away, until they disappeared from view round the next traverse. He jumped as a machine gun above him opened up. He twitched nervously, as the empty shell cases clattered onto the duckboards beside him.

# He could hear the heavy pounding of the Howitzers away to his left, so distinctively different from the sharp crack of the quick firing French 75's.

#

# Suddenly he had an overwhelming desire to run, to run far away from this place of death and horror. Doubts began to fill his mind. He head ached and yet his jaw and face seemed numb. Looking down at his hands, he saw how the skin had been shredded leaving them a pulpy mess. He felt suddenly terrified. He had survived so far, but for how much longer? Would he pass the scrutiny that lay ahead?

# He felt his arms gripped on either side. Two soldiers were lifting him to his feet.

# 'Come on, you're next,' the voice was dull and dispassionate.

# He offered no resistance but stared vacantly into the faces above him. He saw blood-shot eyes that had become indifferent to all the pain that surrounded them.

#

# They forced their way between rows of men and into a deep bunker that acted as the Regimental First Aid Post. In the light of an oil lamp, the young round-faced doctor struggled to examine the wounded. Some of them he hardly glanced at before passing them straight out again, a sure sign that death was not far away. George waited anxiously for the doctor to examine him.

# Tired eyes peered at the mangled mass of flesh and bone that had once been his lower jaw. The Doctor shook his head. George tensed. Was he to be condemned?

# 'When did you get hit? The Doctor indicated George's face.

# George shrugged. Inwardly he was relieved. He could understand what they were saying. His English was almost perfect, but having not spoken it for two years he was worried.

# "One day? Two days?" the Doctor persisted.

# George held up four fingers.

# "Four days," muttered the astonished Doctor. "I'm amazed you've lasted that long... I can't see any infection."

# He bent closer and took a deep breath.

# "It smells alright.... there's not much I can do here, you will have to wait until you reach the Casualty Clearing Station.

# George gripped the wooden box he sat on and breathed deeply as he fought the pain, as the orderly redressed his face.

# "You been stuck out there all this time?" asked the orderly. "You must have been lucky. We've had a right pasting these last two days. Bloody murder it's been. They must have known we were coming to relieve you lot. We'd hardly settled in before they started bunging everything our way. Those 420's tore bloody great holes in our lads. I'd like to get my hands on those bastards. Just give me five minutes, that's all I'd need."

# "You there! Cut the cackle and get on with it,"

### "Bloody Sergeants," muttered the orderly. "Nothing personal Sarge.... There you are, that should keep you until we get you back tonight.

The orderly had made no attempt to remove all the old dressing, merely replacing that which had been torn off. George just sat there, quietly dwelling on what the soldier had said. The mood of the men caused him to remember the French officer's fate, that day in the courtyard.

### The journey back took most of the night. The slate-grey dawn began to creep into the sky as the motorised ambulance finally jolted its way through the gateway, and into the yard of a bombed out farmhouse.

### The Casualty Clearing Station was still within range of the heavy guns and the dull roar and crack could be clearly heard away towards the east. Tension and fear lay heavily upon everybody: They could still be blown to pieces.

### George struggled out of the ambulance, and followed the stretcher-bearers. The orderly had been right, they had suffered badly. The rows of cape-covered stretchers, with only the legs of the dead showing, extended far across the yard. He entered into what remained of the farmhouse and with relief sank down against a wall. He had forgotten when he had last had any proper sleep, yet he dare not relax in case he made a slip that would cost him his life. He lay there listening to the noises around him and waited for the doctor and orderlies to reach him. His head and face were completely swathed in bandages, leaving only his eyes exposed.

### He did not have to pretend to be mute; it was obvious. There was nothing he could do except wait, and let events move at their own pace.

# It was beginning to rain, when they finally reached George. He had been lying on a stretcher, amongst the hundreds of other wounded, for what seemed hours. He recalled very little of what had happened since he had arrived at the Casualty Clearing Station, except that it had been a nightmare of pain. The Doctors had treated him, without using either anaesthetic or gas. He had no idea how he had survived. He was only dimly aware of the faces around him as he felt himself being lifted into the ambulance train. He watched as the mass of wounded soldiers shuffled endlessly by.

#

# Aboard an ambulance train heading for the coast.

# A face appeared above him, a young nurse, pale, and nervous.

### "Can I help you?" she asked. She looked ill as though she was about to vomit.

### He reached out for the cup of water she carried. He was dying of thirst. She reached down and placed the cup to his lips.

### "For God's sake! Don't you.. DARE.. give that soldier a drink from that cup," cried Nurse Glenfield. Her voice filled with desperation, as she struggled through the throng of wounded that lay spread about the floor of railway carriage. She reached across and snatched the cup from the young volunteer," You'll choke him; can't you see he has a head wound."

### The young volunteer looked flustered, "But he begged me."

"Never mind that." Nurse Glenfield reached across and read the label tied to the soldier's tunic. "Bagworth Sgt. wounds in head and neck, just as I thought you could have killed him.... he's going to have enough problems without you adding to them."

"I'm sorry," cried the Volunteer Nurse, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks.

"Snap out of it girl....if you can't stand this, you should never have volunteered."

"Can I help Ma'm?" Nurse Glenfield turned, relieved that an R.A.M.C. orderly was standing by her side.

"Yes! Thank God. Give this man a drink and show her," she pointed contemptuously at the young volunteer," how it's done properly...I must get on and see to these others."

### Taking the nursing cup the orderly reached down and lifted George gently, easing the spout between the torn lips, he allowed water to drip slowly onto his outstretched tongue.

"You been out long?" he remarked to the young girl, without taking his eyes off George.

"This is my third day," she wept.

"Bit of a shock," remarked the orderly glancing sideways at her. "Haven't you done anything like this before?"The girl shook her head and looked around, "I never dreamed it would be like this...it's so horrible.... these poor men.... what can I do?""What did you do before the war?" the orderly asked." I used to help Mummy with her charity work," she replied.

"It's not quite what you expected...is it?"

"No! not really... it's just that I never expected to have to do so many intimate things," she blushed. "I've even had to help them," she hesitated, "go to the toilet." She whispered wiping her hands on her apron as though they were still contaminated.

"What's yer name?"

"Stoddart Vera," she replied. "Is it always like this?"

"More or less... there must have been a lot of heavy fighting: the C.C.S. haven't even been able to get these men undressed and cleaned up...look at that lot straight out of the trenches."

"Stoddart," Nurse Greenfield's voice rose above the cries of the wounded, "Come here and make yourself useful."

### Vera Stoddart carefully made her way down the carriage, stepping over the sprawling bodies that lay everywhere. It was difficult to keep one's balance as the train moved off, and gathered speed. She didn't know how she was going to manage to stay on her feet. She had imagined so many things, but nothing like this. It staggered her how vermin - ridden and filthy the wounded men were; she nearly choked on the smell. Their cries and whimpering tore at her heartstrings, and she felt so inadequate.

"Come on girl," Vera looked up, Nurse Glenfield was standing by a bunk, holding a tube that was fixed into a young soldier's side. Her apron was stained with blood and mucus. Vera was amazed at the older woman's stamina. They had been on the train for over twenty-four hours and she had not seen her sit down, nor eat or drink.

"Now let's see if you can do this," directed the nurse. "Hold this tube into the basin and make sure that the pus keeps draining off."

At last, Vera felt that she was making a real contribution. She crouched there, on her knees, guarding the bowl with her body as the never-ending stream of men struggled past with stretchers. "He's no older than I am," she thought wiping the thin strands of moist fair hair from his forehead. He opened his eyes and smiled painfully at her.

# "We will get you home soon," she whispered, "What's your name?"

# "Chapman," he gasped "Thank you nurse....God Bless"

# To Vera those few words made it all worthwhile. She was now determined that this boy would survive. She knelt there, ignoring the pains in her legs, diligently watching the tube. The smell that issued from it made her want to heave. Leaning across she looked down at his young face. His eyes were shut. He seemed to have fallen to sleep for the pain had left his face, and he now looked peaceful.

# "How is he?" Vera had not noticed Nurse Glenfield standing by her.

# "He's asleep," Vera looked up proudly.

# Nurse Glenfield glanced down at the young soldier and her shoulders slumped.

# She looks exhausted, thought Vera.

# "You've done well," encouraged the nurse, "now go back and help the orderlies undress and clean up those other men."

# She watched the young volunteer walk back down the carriage, and noticed how her shoulders were straighter and her step more positive.

# Nurse Glenfield lifted the limp wrist and checked the pulse it was as she expected. Quietly removing the tube she drew the blanket over the dead soldier's face. The young volunteer would learn soon enough the difference between a sleeping man and a dead soldier. Even she thought that sometimes they were fighting a losing battle.

### From where George lay, he had a perfect view down the entire length of the carriage. He watched with trepidation as the young nurse walked steadily in his direction. Judging from the way she had been shouted at by the older nurse, and the fact that he could see stretcher-bearers carrying her last patient out at the far end, he was not looking forward to being left to her tender mercies. He was thankful for the competent help he had received from the orderly but he had hardly quenched his raging thirst. The carriage was stuffy, packed as it was, and the noise and smell made sleeping nearly impossible. An orderly carrying what appeared to be bundles of shirts, now accompanied the approaching nurse. His position at the rear of the carriage and against the adjoining door meant that he was first to be dealt with. Though he was relieved to be rid, at last, of his filthy torn uniform. George still felt nervous and tense and watched the nurse keenly as she removed his clothes.

### Vera was relieved that she had the orderly to help her; her experience in undressing heavy, wounded men was very limited. She had never realised just how much clothing a soldier wore. She wondered who was more embarrassed as she cleaned the filth from the naked male bodies. The sergeant watched her every move especially when she touched his wounds, but he seemed more concerned about his papers and effects, especially his wallet, and was relieved, when clad in his hospital shirt, that he had his papers safely back in his possession.

### Vera made her way back through the throng to where she had left her young soldier. In her mind she had adopted him. If she could see him through it would be an achievement. At first she thought she had mistaken his bunk, but on the third attempt she realised he was no longer there. Looking around anxiously she became conscious of the sergeant still watching her. It was unnerving the way his dark penetrating eyes never left her, as though he was judging her every move.

### She found Nurse Glenfield in the little cubby hole they called their quarters. She was sitting at the tiny table, taking a well-deserved break. The cup of tea she held was the first since they had boarded the train.

"What happened to the young soldier with the stomach wound?" asked Vera.

"Which one?" asked Nurse Glenfield sharply, her head sunk forward a though too tired to lift it.

"The one I was draining.... Chapman was his name." Vera was now beginning to fear the worst."He died," the nurse's voice was tired and strained."Oh my God, What did I do wrong?" beseeched Vera.Nurse Glenfield looked up, and indicated the stool opposite. Vera slid uncomfortably onto it."It wasn't your fault.... he had no chance." The older woman dropped her eyes and seemed to stare into her cup. Vera said nothing but looked at the hunched shoulders of her companion. Slowly she realised that the older nurse was sobbing, her shoulders shaking, tears falling into her tea like tiny drops of rain. "It had turned gangrenous," she sobbed. "We're losing.... I am doing my best, but we're losing them." Vera was filled with compassion and reaching across placed her hand upon the older woman's; suddenly she felt there was bond between them. The nurse's despair seemed to match Vera's feeling of inadequacy. All they could do was keep on trying.

"Doctor's coming!" Shouted an orderly as he rushed past.Nurse Glenfield shook her head, looked up and, blowing her nose, sprang once again to her feet."Quick get your list," she ordered. That moment of despair and compassion was gone, but Vera still felt the bond that now existed between then."Now remember," Nurse Glenfield called over her shoulder, as Vera hurried behind, "you listen to the Doctor carefully. He will say whether the soldier is to go to the Abbeyville Base Hospital or be repatriated to England just mark your list A or E, then afterwards you can go round and mark their labels accordingly."The Doctor, was an elderly officer, briefly acknowledged the nurse and completely ignored Vera, who quickly formed a dislike for him, for he hardly looked at most of the men, just muttering a barely audible A or E.it was late evening before they had finished cleaning and dressing the wounded. Those who had been lying on the floor were now lifted into those bunks vacated by the dead. The bodies were removed to another wagon that had been converted into a temporary morgue.Vera had just returned from taking a bundle of dirty uniforms into this wagon and had been horrified at the number of dead stacked there. If nothing else, she would never forget that; .It made her quite faint. As she leaned against the doorway of the carriage, catching her breath, she realised that someone was gripping her arm. It was late and many of the wounded were trying to sleep, regardless of the moans and cries of those in pain. Looking down, she found George struggling to read what had been written on his label. Lifting her light so she could help, she looked. There was a large "A" written on it.

"You are going to Abbeyville,"she said.

### George leaned up painfully and still holding her arm stared at Vera intently.

"Where is that?" he tried to mouth.

### Puzzled Vera stared back. "What are you trying to say?" she asked.

### Holding the label and pointing to the letter A he mouthed again, "Where is that?"

"Can't you speak?" whispered Vera.

### George shook his head. He was becoming angry, "Where is that?" jabbing a finger at the label aggressively.

"It's Abbeyville... that's in Northern France."

### Vera cried out in pain, for George's fingers dug viciously into her arm. "You're hurting me," she protested, pulling away.

### With his other hand he tore the label from his collar.

"Stop!... You must not do that." cried Vera. He seemed to sink into himself as though he was giving up.

### Vera shuddered. Not again she thought. She had seen so much death that day; she could not bear to see another slipping away.

### George lay back and stared up at the roof. He shut his eyes, desperately trying to think how he could overcome this. After going through all this pain and agony, he had felt sure that he would he sent to England. It had never occurred to him that he might he hospitalised in France. He was still confident that eventually he would be sent to England but it could be months. Losing his temper hadn't helped. The stupid nurse had his label now, and he had no chance of altering it. He must somehow try to attract her attention and get her to change it. How was he going to do that, when he could not even speak Raising himself on one elbow he watched the nurse as she went about her duties.

### Vera was conscious of the wounded soldier's eyes, even when her back was to him. They seemed to bore right through her shoulder blades. He seemed to be blaming her for all the deaths that day. It was not fair, she thought, he had no right to be her judge and jury. She tried to avoid his eyes, concentrating on the care of others, but eventually she had to attend to his dressing.

### The poor man was in a terrible state. His arms and back had been peppered, but it was his face that was the worst. No matter how gently she tried, she could feel him flinch in pain as she removed his dressings. She stared mesmerised, by what she saw. His face and neck were hardly recognisable, just a mass of angry blood soaked flesh through which tiny white flecks of bone showed.

### He cried like a baby when she applied the antiseptic, and had to be held down by one of the orderlies. At last it was finished. She was trembling from the ordeal; his hand held hers, this time like a child seeking the comfort of its mother, too weak to harm her, yet those eyes still pierced her soul.

"I'm doing my best," she pleaded. "Please don't die."

### His mouth moved.

"Yes!" She said eagerly "What is it?"

"Help me," he mouthed. "England."

### She looked for his label, remembering that he had torn it off, and that now it was in her pocket.

### Pulling it out, she looked at it. "But it says Abbeyville."

"England," he mouthed, his eyes imploring her to help him.

### She looked at him, undecided, unsure, afraid of what might happen it she did change the label.

"I don't know," she replied hesitantly. She backed away from him, unable to take her eyes from that beseeching look that came from within the bandages.

### It was nearly four hours later when the train finally arrived at Quarnville Junction where two other trains were waiting. The wounded would be disembarked here before being once again entrained either for Abbeyville or England.

### George lay there, fuming inwardly, he had racked his brain seeking someway that be could get himself onto that England train, but to no avail. He would have to rely on the nurse. She still had his precious label. The question was would she alter it.

### A large mobile kitchen dispensed food. This was the first that many of the wounded had had in days. George was grateful for the warm broth that could now be carefully spooned into his sore mouth. He lay there watching as the troops began lifting the stretchers from the train. Although he kept Vera steadfastly in view, she appeared to be too busy looking after others.

# "Where's yer label mate?" George looked up and saw a large faced sandy haired soldier looking down at him.

# "Yer label?" repeated the soldier as he peered round in case it had dropped off. George saw the opportunity and grabbed the soldier's sleeve. Perhaps he could persuade him to put him on the train to England.

# "England," he mouthed desperately.

# The soldier looked confused and frowned. "What's up with this one?" he shouted.

# George saw Vera look up. Lifting her hand, she beckoned to the soldier. It was too far for George to make out what was being said. All he could see was Vera shuffling in her apron pocket, finally producing a label that she gave to the soldier.

# George shut his eyes and resigned himself to the fact that he was to spend possibly months in a French Hospital. How this was to affect his future plans, he had no idea. His contact in Nottinghamshire was bound to assume the worst. The longer it took him to reach his destination, the more chances of him being exposed. He could eventually find himself standing at the wall facing a firing squad.

# "Where's he for Jack?" called the other stretcher-bearer. George opened his eyes, and found the sandy haired soldier grinning at him.

# "He's got a blighty one!" he replied. "You're going home mate. Soon have you right. Be back with your old lady in no time".

# Vera stood by the carriage door, watching, as they lowered George's stretcher to the ground. He raised his bandaged hand in thanks. To Vera that seemed to be a reward itself, for the past few days had been the most traumatic in her short life. Her baptism of fire now complete, she would be able to face the future and, as she let the torn pieces of the label flutter to the ground, she decided that disobeying an order had been a small price to pay for the satisfaction she now felt at seeing one of her boys being taken safely home. Did it matter all that much if one went to England instead of Abbeyville.

# She quietly prayed that the two other men in her life, her brother Ian and her fiancé Timothy Broughtman, would be returned to her safely. She thought often how Ian would face up to his first days at the front, since being commissioned in their father's old regiment. She felt easier regarding Timothy for, as a Doctor, he was at this moment at the Base hospital at Abbeyville.

# "Stoddart," Nurse Glenfield's voice echoed through the now empty carriage. "Come on girl, we have too much to do to stand around and gawk."

# 

# Chapter Eight.

#

# British Lines

# 'A' Company Dugout 1st Battalion Rifle Brigade

# Western Front.

# Second Lieutenant Ian Stoddart sat and stared at the blank sheet of paper that lay before him. He could hear the dull growl of the shells as they passed overhead: the Artillery had begun to lay down a barrage. He could feel the cold sweat running down the inside of his uniform tunic. His mouth felt dry.

# "Dear God! Let me have the courage to go forward," he quietly prayed.

# It had been his proudest moment when he had succeeded in joining his illustrious father's regiment. Lt Colonel Stoddart and his eldest son, Captain John Stoddart had both fallen during the dreadful retreat from Mons. It was now up to lan, the youngest son, to maintain the family honour.

# Soon he would be leading his second raid on enemy lines. Perhaps this time he would win a decoration. More than anything else he knew inwardly that he wanted his mother, the formidable Lady Alexandra, to be proud of him.

# He picked up his fountain pen and, determined to fight back the butterflies in his stomach, he began to write with false bravado, more for his own benefit, than for anyone else's.

# Dear Vera,

# Saw my first action, just over a week ago. It was terribly exciting.

# I got wounded. Now don't worry, old girl, it was only scratch but it's meant that I have been laid up for a couple of days and so have joined this new outfit. Not to worry I'm fit again and raring to go.

# I've just been told that my old C.O. has recommended my previous sergeant, a chap called Bagworth, for a decoration. He did terribly well, fought like a tiger. We would have been overrun if he hadn't stuck out there all on his own. Must have known he didn't stand a chance. They must have got him during the night but by then our reserves had come up and by dawn we were ready to counter attack. We almost reached the poor fellow. I reached the rise and could see him quite clearly through the glasses. He was just sitting there, looked as though he was asleep except for the neat round hole in his forehead. Then they started shelling again and we had to retreat. It took us till the following night to regain our position. When we got there the sergeant's body had disappeared. Can't think what the Boche want with a dead man.

# Tim tells me you have joined the Volunteer Aid Detachment. So the next time I get wounded I'11 have you as my personal nurse.

# Well not long now, another three months and you'll be Mrs Timothy Broughtman MD.

#  Affectionately,

# Your Brother,

# Ian

# Sealing the envelope, Stoddart placed the letter against the mess box.

# "Cup of tea before you go, Sir?" asked Mitchel, the officer's cook, as he poked his head through the entrance that led to the company kitchen.

# The young officer looked up quickly.

# "Thank you!" He pointed to the letter. "Could you give this to the Quarter- Master Sergeant when he comes round?"

# Mitchel grinned, "Right you are Sir!"

# The tea tasted of onion soup. Stoddart looked at his watch for the umpteenth time. This was always the worst moment. He jumped nervously at the sound of heavy boots clattering on the steps.

# "The men are ready for inspection, Sir," stated the Sergeant, his helmet fixed securely upon his head.

# "Right!" replied Stoddart. "We had better get on."

#

# The following morning the runner from Battalion Headquarters ducked instinctively as a shell landed to his left. He crouched, sweating beneath his pack. Ahead lay fifty yards of collapsed trench, and 'A' Company, his destination, lay on the far side. If it had been a pattern of shells they would have landed by now. He rose cautiously onto his haunches, and tensing his leg muscles, waited for the right moment, before hurling himself forward across the exposed fifty yards. He had almost reached the other side when he heard the distinctive chatter of a machine gun commencing fire. Launching himself, he dived full length over the parapet and into the safety of the trench below.

# "Where's yer C.O.?" he gasped. The sentry pointed to a dugout entrance half way along the trench

# Captain Fletcher had just drunk his third whisky since morning stand to. It was the only way he could stop himself from cracking up. Better to be semi comatose than conscious of the world around him. Out of the original 1st Battalion's complement of officers and men who had landed in Sept 1914, he was the only Company Commander left. He knew it was only a matter of time before he got his comeuppance.

# "Brigade Major's compliments, Sir," saluted the runner. "Would you report to Headquarters immediately?"

# Fletcher nodded acceptance of the order. The runner disappeared out through the entrance and proceeded on his journey.

# Fletcher looked down at the report he had just finished on the previous night's raid.

# A damn waste of time, he thought. The Colonel wouldn't see it that way, he was only interested in the prisoner they had captured. The fact that they had lost one officer and twelve men in doing so was of no importance.

# "Archie!" he shouted. His second in command was sleeping in a nearby bunk." I'm going up to H.Q,.........Brigade wants to see me."

# "Hope it's not another bloody raid," came a grumpy voice from the corner.

# Fletcher also prayed that it was not.

# "Oh! Skipper can you take the young lad's gear?"

# Fletcher looked across to the empty bunk where the dead officer's effects lay.

# "Get them parcelled up and I'll take them," he muttered sadly.

# It was almost an hour later that Fletcher found himself sitting opposite the Brigade Major.

# "It's a dashed nuisance," insisted the Major. "It's good of you to understand our problem, Fletcher, but there is no alternative. We simply must get another prisoner to confirm this chap's story,"

# Fletcher sat there and stared straight ahead. He felt numb. The major had not even read his report and here he was calmly ordering them to go back out again to get him another prisoner. He felt a cold thread of inevitability about it all. It no longer seemed real. The enemy would still be tense and expectant from last night's raid. The sentries would be keen and alert, more watchful than ever. It would be a death trap.

# "I'll sort out some volunteers and lead it myself," he replied, his voice flat and dull, as though he was hardly listening to his own words.

# The Major leaned back in his chair and breathed a sigh of relief.

# "Excellent! Pull this off and I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't get a bar to your M.C. --- Oh! That reminds me, got a note from Divisional Headquarters. They have a query about a report involving one of your subalterns"

# The Major continued speaking as he rustled through his files looking for the note.

# "Witnessed an action involving a sergeant from the 3rd Battalion. The Sergeant saved their bacon by all accounts. H.Q. has decided to forward it onto High Command because this young fellow states he saw this Sergeant killed, while the medics report that in actual fact he is sitting up in bed at Abbeyville Hospital at this moment. They are rather keen to get the matter tidied up. Ah! Here we are!" The Major produced the note with a flourish."...... "Yes! That's right...Second Lieutenant Stoddart... that's the chap. Tell him to report when you get back, will you old boy."

# "He can't," the words choked in Fletcher's throat

# The Major leaned forward. "What's that?" he demanded.

# Something snapped inside Fletcher. He jumped to his feet.

# "HE CAN'T," he screamed into the Major's face.

# Turning, swiftly, Fletcher stormed towards the office door.

# Fletcher stopped, his hand still holding the door handle. He looked over his shoulder.

# "It's in the report... the one you haven't read yet... Stoddart can't. He was killed during the raid last night."

# The Major said nothing but just stared at the door Fletcher had just closed. He chose to ignore the Captain's insubordination but was even more certain that it was time for Captain Fletcher to be sent on long leave, before the man cracked up completely.

# He glanced at the paper he was holding. Well Stoddart won't be able to straighten this matter out now, he thought. Must have made a mistake. Yes, decided the Major, he would tell H.Q. that the subaltern had made a mistake.

# Father Mayhew looked down at the small parcel of personal belongings that Captain Fletcher had left. He turned the letter over in his hand and studied the neat handwriting. He knew Vera Stoddart; in fact he knew the whole family very well. Now there was only the Old Lady and her daughter left. Vera was here in France. He could find out where she was stationed and take the opportunity to visit the regimental wounded at the same time. It wasn't much, but at least he could be of some comfort to her.

# It was a great relief to Father Mayhew that Dr Timothy Broughtman, the young lady's fiancé was present, for he was sure that he would not be able to handle the distraught ravings that he expected. Sympathetic as he was, he somehow always felt uncomfortable with hysterical young women. Having never married, and having decided on an army life from an early age, he had little or no experience of the opposite sex so it was to Timothy that he first broke the news of Ian's death, upon his arrival at St Omer.

# Although Vera had been on her feet for over twenty-four hours, her tiredness faded when she saw Tim standing by the railway line. The ambulance train came to a halt. She was filled with boundless warmth and loves and, leaning far out of the carriage window, called his name and waved excitedly. He was still too far away for her to see him clearly. He raised his arm acknowledging that he had seen her, and strode purposefully through the mass of soldiers that lined the railway track. She turned and began to open the carriage doors, so that the bearers could begin disembarking the stretcher cases.

# "Vera?" Tim's voice had a tense sombre quality that made her look up quickly. She saw that another Officer, a small, tubby, grey haired man, accompanied him. It was seconds before she recognised Father Mayhew. She rose slowly to her feet, her stomach suddenly tight and queasy. She looked at Tim searchingly, her mind racing, trying to think what might be wrong, for it was definitely not good news that Tim had brought.

# "Vera, old girl! It's lan," Tim reached out, and took her in his arms. "He's been killed."

# It felt as though she had been hit in the stomach. She found it difficult to breathe. First her father, then her elder brother John, and now the baby of the family, Ian. There was no one left.

# She was glad of Tim's strength, as she felt his arms around her. In the fortnight she had been out here, death and sickness had become common. She felt insulated against the news of her brother's death. There was just a cold numbness. A month ago, and she would have collapsed in hysterics, but that was a lifetime away. Pushing Tim gently away she looked up into his face.

# "Did he suffer?"

# Tim shook his head. He really had no idea. Ian could have laid there slowly bleeding to death in excruciating pain for hours, what would be gained by telling Vera that, other than making her pain worse.

# "No it was very quick", he lied "Father Mayhew has kindly brought Ian's things down for us... I've spoken to Matron. She says you can have a few hours off." He guided her down from the train and together they walked across the railway lines to a group of buildings where other nurses were gathered.

# She sat, with Tim's arms round her, as she quietly read Ian's last letter. It was disappointing. Last letters should be full of poetic phrases about a better life, but this...this, just spoke of a soldier called Bagworth. It meant nothing to her. She was not conscious of its importance, for in the last fortnight she had seen thousands of names. She placed the letter back in its envelope, and handed it to Tim.

# "Can you look after this for me?" she asked. "Put it with the rest of Ian's things, I've nowhere to keep anything at the moment."

# She watched Tim stuff the letter into his tunic pocket. Suddenly it struck her that this was the very last thing she would ever receive from her brother.

# "Take care of it.........it's precious!"

# Tim took out the envelope, and smoothing it out, placed it carefully in his wallet.

# "Let's go for a walk."

# He took her arm and together they walked down the narrow track that led away from the railway sidings.

# Chapter Nine

# Boulogne.

#

# The paddle steamer, Princess Elizabeth, was well past her prime. Her owners had only been saved from bankruptcy, when, on the day war had been declared, the Government had requisitioned her as they required every vessel that could be found to ferry troops back and forth across the Channel. Her once green hull was now streaked with rust and her white superstructure, grey from soot that belched from its tall thin funnel.

# George, he now mentally thought of himself by that name, stood at the warehouse entrance and watched the seaman throw a long curving line that snaked across the water and landed with a thud on the stone quay. French dock workers, scrambled clumsily to retrieve it; their wooden clogs clattering on the stone cobbles. Slowly they heaved the heavy hawser up out of the water and onto the bollards.

# George looked up at the bright round faces that thronged the ship's rail. All fit young men eager to march into the fires of hell that awaited them: Laughing and joking they seemed in good spirits. A strange feeling of despondency came over him. He felt sad when he should have been elated. What chance did these young boys have against that hardened fighting machine, the Prussian Army? Mentally, he rebuked himself for such foolishness. He was a professional and had a job of work to do. Perhaps these young men would thank him, when it was all over. That is if any of them survived. Yet he could not shake that feeling that these were not his enemies. It left him disconcerted and worried.

# "All right you lot, back inside." The thin faced military policeman, his pencil moustache twitching ominously began to drag the heavy warehouse doors closed... "Can't have these fresh faced innocents seeing you scabby lot! .. Might scare them to death before they even reached the front." He chuckled cynically.

# "Not that you would know anything about that," came a voice from the back.

# "That's enough of that," the policeman growled harshly.

# He gave the door an extra hard shove and it closed quickly causing some of them to scramble clear, for fear of being crushed.

# "Poor bastards!" a soldier on crutches next to George muttered, "Lambs to the slaughter."

# The heavy doors clanged shut, shielding from the eyes of those bright young men, the hundreds of wounded who lay about on the floor of the warehouse, waiting to embark.

# The Red Cross train had entered the docks during the hours of darkness and had disgorged its cargo of wounded into the shelter of the warehouse before the sun had risen. They had stayed there all day waiting for the Princess Elizabeth to dock. At least they had received their second meal since leaving the front.

# It was several hours before the Princess Elizabeth slipped her moorings, and, with the great wheels churning the murky water into raging white foam, she slowly steamed out of Boulogne and across that narrow strip of water that divided England from the great battlefields of Europe.

# Standing by the side rail, George looked back at the receding coastline, and watched the few dim harbour lights being extinguished as the vessel cleared the buoyed channel. Close by, the shadow of their navel escort could be seen. There, to protect them from the dangers of submarines or torpedo boats out of Zeebruggee and Ostend.

# George moved silently through the throng that crowded every corner. He walked carefully forward into the darkness that enveloped the forward half of the ferry and was relieved to find a space under a steel ladder where the air was clean and fresh, no longer permeated by the sickly smell of wounded humanity.

# This was the first moment that he'd had, since becoming George Bagworth, to fully consider his position. He was quietly confident and Malinin's instructions had been clear and concise. There had been doubts; and it had taken a while to convince Malinin, that if he was to carry out this mission, it was best he did it his way. It was he, who had decided not to know what the final target would be; he had his reasons. When the time came, it would be his decision as to how it would be achieved; he would have control. He had insisted that they use his jigsaw system. Nobody was to know the complete plan, other than Malinin. Only when he had gathered all the pieces would the complete picture be seen.

# He was not entirely convinced that Malinin was being completely open with him. There were things about the man he did not trust, his motives for one. The way he had enthused about the fatherland and how they were justified in going to war.

# How Malinin had pontificated about the German Empire being young: how it was barely forty years since it had ceased to be a collection of principalities and prey to either the French or Russians, and that it was our right to be allowed to grow. How it had become, through the guidance of Prince Bismarck, a great and powerful nation, full of power and energy, bursting at the seams like a young eagle fighting to escape the confines of its shell. Malinin had rambled on about their Teutonic culture, and the arrogance of the British in wanting to keep them tied down, while they went on to create a larger Empire. The war was dragging on: thousands of our young men were dying, throwing their lifeblood away in the fields of Flanders. "Succeed and you will stop this killing, they will be forced to agree to our peace terms. Think of the young men you will send home, safely back to their families."

# He had not found Malinin words inspiring and had listened dispassionately. When invited to volunteer, he had calmly weighed up the pros and con's before accepting. He knew what would have happened if he had declined. He was certain that having disclosed even a limited amount of information, Malinin would never allow him to walk away with that knowledge and that by now he would be rotting in some secret, unmarked grave. Besides, it was an irrelevant thought, for having agreed, he had to commit himself to the project if only to survive.

# He sat and looked out across the calm moonlit sea. He looked back hoping that perhaps he might catch one last glimpse of the French coast. He felt a moment of sadness and yet at the same time was exhilarated for he became aware that he might never see his homeland again and perhaps would be imprisoned within this new identity forever.

# He looked towards the English coast, still hidden in darkness. He felt pleased to be once again approaching this green and pleasant land. Although his memories of England were pleasant, he had to remember that now he was its deadliest enemy.

# His cold clinical mind and lack of imagination had enabled him to be aware of the dangers that lay ahead, but without clouding the main issue. Thankfully his scientific training and research still allowed him to view problems calmly. He felt no passion, just professionalism.

# Away to the East, the sky lightened in preparation for another day. The dim outline of the coast ahead was becoming visible. This was his Rubicon.

#

# Allendale Red Cross Hospital: Kent: Sept 1915.

#

# George must have been sleeping very deeply, for it was several moments before he became certain of his whereabouts. The cotton hood that masked his head and lower face irritated his newly healed scars as he lay there in the late afternoon sun.

# He had been moved from the surgical ward within the last few days. The Doctors had been able to mend his physical wounds, but could do very little for the mental trauma he now pretended to have. He felt pleased with his acting ability. Yet had a strange feeling of detachment as he looked at his fellow patients who were truly suffering from a variety of mental problems. He felt a sense of guilt at his own pretence, but this did not prevent him from watching and observing those around him and using this new found knowledge to his own advantage. His companions took no notice of his strange ways. It was convenient wearing the mask. It hid his mouth in case he spoke indiscreetly while he slept.

# George opened his eyes and looked up into a large beech tree that towered above him like a huge umbrella. He felt comfortable lying there. The wicker lounger had been placed there for him on the lawn. Pulling the hood from his head he allowed the sun to warm his face. His hand passed across his jaw, his fingers gently touched the barely healed scars, the deep weals that laced his face and neck. The left hand side of his lower jaw and cheek were depressed giving him a lopsided look. He could feel the sharp stubby growth beginning to grow around the scars. The beard would eventually hide his disfigurement and would explain why he no longer resembled the man he was impersonating.

# He stretched back, placing his hands behind his head, and gazed through half closed eyes at the figures playing cricket on the lawn in front of him. It had been an outfielder running close by that had woken him. He had a great affection for the game, for although he had difficulty in understanding its complexities, it somehow typified all those elements of the English character that he admired. A monarchist at heart, he found that the concept of gentleman versus players suited his frame of mind. The gentleman representing all the basic good qualities while the players he visualised as the politicians of this world, corrupt and dishonest. It was them he was fighting against.

# Under the trees, the grass was still damp from an earlier shower of rain. The earth gave off that rich, heady smell of loam, a musky aroma that placed the war and all its horrors a million miles away. It was beautiful here, and the autumn tints were beginning to fill the trees.

# That nervous tension that had been his constant companion for so long was beginning to recede. He had reconciled himself to the fact that there was little he could do, but wait. His physical wounds had almost healed, but the mental and speech problems that he pretended to have were another matter. Yet this still did not prevent him from feeling frustrated on occasions. Would his contact, in Nottinghamshire, be aware of his delay?

# His apparent inability to either speak or remember anything about his past life forestalled many embarrassing questions. There had been times in the beginning when some of the older doctors had frankly not believed him, and had more or less accused him of cowardice. It had been a hard struggle to keep up the pretence but knowing that his life literally depended upon it, did make it easier. He was not alone, for there were now two others who really had been struck dumb by the horror of their experiences. One had been buried in a shell hole that had slowly filled with water. He had screamed until his shredded vocal cords could stand no more and, since then, had not uttered a sound. The other had lost his voice during a gas attack.

# This seemly idyllic atmosphere was spoilt by one thing only. The new Chaplain had become the bane of George's life. Father Mayhew had returned to England on the orders of his senior chaplain who had feared that the good father was on the verge of a breakdown. The Roman Catholic Chaplain had got used to his feeling of inadequacy. He had been confident that his own faith was strong, and yet knew that no amount of fine words could help those who had not only lost their faith but any hope as well.

# The gas attack that had swept across their lines and through the Casualty Clearing Station had been the final straw. They had tried desperately to get the wounded to safety. The medical staff struggled on, until they too collapsed. He had lost his faith that day. He would never forget the look of absolute despair on the face of his friend, Doctor Timothy Broughtman, as he gasped for breath, and yet continued to treat the wounded. Both of them had been repatriated: Doctor Broughtman out of the army, and he to this hospital.

# Father Mayhew did his utmost to care for the wounded men's souls. Some rejected all his offers of solace. He hoped the news he had, might bring joy to one of those who had rejected him.

# "Sergeant Bagworth," he called softly.

# He was not sure if the man had heard him, for he continued to stare out across the cricket field. George was miles away, thinking of the days he had spent in Yorkshire before the war. It wasn't until he felt the chaplain's hand on his shoulder, that he became aware of the priest.

# He grimaced. The chaplain irritated him beyond measure. All he wanted to do was be discharged and disappear. The fact that he had not received any letters from Bagworth's family, only led him to believe that the family did not exist. That suited him admirably. Now this priest had taken it upon himself to interfere.

# "Good news," the chaplain knelt down on the grass beside the chair. "I've located them." George looked at the chaplain, with a deadpan expression. Father Mayhew's heart sank. This was not the reaction he had expected.

# "Well at least your wife," he continued.

# George looked away and gazed once again out across the greensward. This was just the news he did not want to hear.

# "Do you understand?" pursued the chaplain. George looked at him in silence, a vacant expression spreading across his face.

# It was always the same, thought the chaplain. Whenever I try to help, that same look appears on his face.

# Father Mayhew struggled to his feet, and looking down at George, who seemed to have fallen asleep? Shrugging his shoulders despairingly, he turned, and began to walk slowly away.

# The poor man doesn't understand, he thought.

# George watched him go, through half closed eyes. He understood all right and hoped that by continuing this play act, he might convince him to give up on him but Father Mayhew was a determined man.

# It was mid-afternoon, a week later. The book George was reading had his undivided attention and he was not aware of the three soldiers who had entered the ward and were chatting to one of the nurses. Neither was he was aware of the glances in his direction, and only became conscious of them when he heard his name called.

# "George?"

# He looked up. The three soldiers were now clustered round the foot of his bed, staring at him with puzzled amazement.

# "George Bagworth?" one asked, not sure if he was talking to the right person.

# George said nothing, but looked at each one in turn, studying their faces. Two of them looked like brothers, short and wiry, their thin, creased faces wreathed in smiles, eager to be recognised. The third soldier was much taller, a broad shouldered man who had been fit at one time, but had now run to fat. His smooth once handsome face was now blotchy with the first signs of a double chin, but still vain enough to try and squeeze himself into a uniform that was too small for him. He looked at George unblinkingly, unsure whether to believe what he had been told by the nurse, that the man he had known all his life was now so disfigured as to be completely unrecognisable and would not remember him.

# "George! You remember us?" one of the smaller men protested mildly, looking across at his companion for support. "It's your old pals, Alf and Sid Pearson.... You remember from Maxwell Dyers on Prescott Street, just behind where your Aunt Gladys used to live. We used to belong to the same football team."

# George let his face relax, the two brothers looked at each other, assuming that he had remembered. He looked closely at both of them, as though desperately trying to place them. This was the first introduction to a past life he knew nothing about. At least now, he knew something. Alf and Sid grinned from to ear-to-ear waiting for him to recognise them. He looked down and frowned, making out that he had tried but not succeeded.

# The grins slowly disappeared from their faces. Sadly they turned to the taller man.

# "Wilf, you try, surely he must remember you."

# Wilf moved slowly round the bed, until he was standing almost alongside George. There was something menacing about him as he stood there, looking down, and not saying a word. Slowly a grin spread across his face and he held out his hand.

# "Aye yer bugger put it there!"

# George didn't move but just looked at the outstretched hand. It was large and powerful, the fingers short and thick, the skin tight and cracked, with heavily ingrained calluses. A pitman's hands, thought George.

# Cautiously he reached out and took the hand. Wilf's grip was fierce and would have crushed George's fingers, had he not pulled violently away. Wilf just stood there grinning unrepentantly.

# "Yer getting weak in yer old age, lad!" he chuckled.

# "Give over Wilf!" protested Sid. "You can see he doesn't savvy any more."

# "Perhaps he'll savvy this then." Wilf reached into his pocket and drew out a watch. He didn't offer it to George, but placed it on the bed. They all stood and watched, as though expecting some reaction. George looked down at it. It was a gold hunter of unusual design. It was larger than most and had a series of curved inserts spaced at regular intervals round the case although the top inserts did not match up with those on the underside. It was this that reminded George that he had seen it before, but he could not remember where. Something nagged away in the back of his mind.

# Once again he looked at Wilf, and that same menacing look was back in the man's eyes. He may not have been endowed with a lot of brains but he had enough natural cunning to suspect when something was not quite right. This was his way of testing George.

# George reached forward and picking up the watch looked at it carefully. There didn't appear to be a hinge. Turning it over slowly he could just make out what appeared to be, the beginning of a machine thread. Suddenly he remembered. The irony was that this watch was German in design. It was an Overmans watch, designed to be used below ground and hinged in such away that the dust would not impregnate it. Gently holding it with both hands he gripped the edge and twisted. The lid sprang open.

# The three men clapped their hands in delight.

# "There, I knew he'd know how to get into that," remarked Wilf as though it had allayed some private suspicion he might have had.

# George had not heard, for his attention was drawn to the inscription inside the lid of the watch.

# Daniel Bagworth Overman... Centerfield Colliery.... Forest of Dean... Gloucester....1890.

# This must have belonged to the father. He was conscious that he was being spoken to.

# "Have you heard from Lily?" asked Alf Pearson.

# There was embarrassed silence, as though the unspeakable had been mentioned. George guessed that Lily was the wife he had been hoping not to meet. He looked puzzled and shook his head. The three men looked at one another wondering who might speak first.

# George lapsed into a vacant silence while the men began to argue.

# "What did you have you say that for... bloody stupid! You know he'll not hear from her." demanded Sid.

# His brother grimaced with annoyance. Wilf was only half listening; the pretty nurse stretching across the adjacent bed had distracted him, as she tucked in the sheets.

# "It's not his fault," defended Wilf, turning back and paying attention to what was being said. He looked pensively at George. "Look at him. He doesn't understand. He's better off without the bitch."

# "I still think it's a rotten shame!" persisted Alf. "He goes off to fight for King and country and she runs after the first pair of trousers that appears."

# George lay there, listening intently to what was being said. So that was the reason why he had heard nothing. There was a wife, but she had run off. That suited him fine. He continued to stare vacantly ahead, letting his jaw go slack, as he had seen other patients do, and allowing spittle to dribble slowly from his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Alf sitting there, teeth clenched in frustrated anger.

# "It's not right to keep it from him...he should be told, even if he doesn't really understand. Any rate how do we know he doesn't savvy, just because he can't speak and looks stupid."

# "Ooh! Heck, Alf." His brother protested. "What's the point... Look at him. It's a crime, knocked silly he is, doing his duty. Why things make worse?"

# "No!" insisted Alf, "He must be told." There was a silence; Wilf was again watching the young nurse as she moved about the ward. George felt a hand on his arm. He looked up.

# "George! It's about Lily.... your wife. She's left yer mate... gone off with Raddle the Draper."

# He stopped and caught his breath....waiting till he could go on.

# "Oh! Mate. It's heartbreaking to see yer laying there, not even knowing what the bitch is up to."

# George sank back and continued to stare into space. Gently he breathed a sigh of relief.

# The lads continued to sit there chatting amongst themselves. Soon they rose and bade George farewell, each knowing it was doubtful if they would ever see him again.

# "You know," remarked Wilf as they slowly walked down towards the main road, where they would catch the bus to the railway station "if I didn't know better, I would have sworn he looked pleased when we told him about Lily."

# The others grunted non committally. "Probably thought he was being offered a fag," replied Sid.

# Back in the ward, George lay in bed and took a deep draw on his cigarette. He gazed up at the ornate gold and blue cornices that adorned the ceiling. He was relieved that he now understood something of the man's past, and hearing that the wife had run off, was very good news indeed. It was time to get out of this place.

# 

# Chapter Ten

### George sat on the edge of his bed...His eyes followed the nurse, as she moved slowly round the ward. She had reached the blind soldier, two beds from his, when George slipped the small piece of soap into his mouth. He turned his face away and began to chew vigorously. Suddenly he threw his head back, and stiffening his arms and legs, arched his back and fell out of his bed,

### "Quick!" he heard the young nurse ca11, "The sergeant's having another fit."

### Keeping his eyes tightly shut, he allowed foam to dribble slowly from his mouth.

"My God' He's foaming from the mouth!"

### Feet clattered on the floor, as orderlies rushed to his bedside. He felt hands grasping his arms and legs tightly. He began to rear even more, as though possessed. They hung on to him desperately, until he relaxed and slowed his gyrations. He felt himself being lifted back onto his bed.

### He swallowed the remaining piece of soap, and opening his eyes, stared blindly at the ceiling. He felt the manacles and leg irons being fitted.

### They would now leave him for perhaps an hour. Then the Sister would come along and look at him, and judge if it was safe to release him.

"We only do it for your own good," she would explain, "We don't want you hurting yourself."

### George was surprised how easy it had been and how convincing he had become. Studying the other wounded had enabled him to react in different ways. He might sit in bed and rock back and forth, until he almost fell out. This only happened during Matron's inspection. On other occasions, having concealed a small piece of onion, he would smear it in his face. He would then break down and sob, tears streaming from his eyes in a most convincing manner.

### It was later that evening, his arms and legs having been released, that he sat quietly reading. He saw the nurse and beckoned to her.

### The nurse came and stood by him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He quickly wrote on his pad.

.....WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO ME....

### He looked up at her, an expression of abject sadness on his face. She looked at him compassionately.

"We don't know yet." She replied. He wrote again on the pad and eagerly showed it to her.

....CAN I GO HOME...

### There was something in her face that startled George. It was a mixture of sadness and reluctance to be honest, the kind of look given to a condemned man.

"Perhaps!.. You might have to go and live in another hospital."

### She patted his hand and walked away.

### George shut his eyes to hide the surge of fear that he felt. Had he acted out his role too well? Was he to be committed to an asylum? He needed time to think. It was something he had not considered.

### He sat by the window and watched the nurse as she moved about the ward. She looked up and saw him watching. She walked back to where he was sitting.

"Do you think I am mad?" he mouthed silently.

### She looked at him for several seconds before speaking.

"They are not sure," she replied "Do you think you are mad?"

"I don't feel mad," he mouthed carefully. "Its just that I can't remember anything and my voice is silent."

### She watched his lips, nodding finally that she understood him. The nurse was in her early forties, matured and experienced, widowed with a son of fifteen, and felt compassion for those around her.

"Perhaps you should convince the Doctors that you are not like these others." She looked in the general direction of a group that sat huddled round a table staring into space or gently rocking back and forth . She had a lot of sympathy for this silent man. He seemed out of place here. He neither screamed or fought, and except for his fits, just sat silently waiting.

"You surprise me!" she said. He looked up alert, his eyes full of concern. "All this time and now you try and say something, even if it is silent." She smiled suddenly and re-positioned a jug of water on a nearby table. "What else have you got tucked away in that mind of yours? Old Doctor Michel always said there was more to you than meets the eye."

"I am no good to the army any more. They might as well give me my discharge."

"What will you do then?" she asked. "Supposing the Doctors do let you go."

### George shrugged. He could hardly say that he had people waiting for him.

"Well then, we will have to wait until the Doctors make up their minds. I'll put in a good word for you."

### He smiled his gratitude.

"In the meantime be patient, nothing much is going to happen."

### George was aware of the woman as he walked down the corridor. She was tall and slim, with a sallow skin and high cheek bones, and an expression of superiority implanted upon her face. She strode briskly towards him, brushing aside all those that got in her way as though they had no business to be there. As she approached, he became conscious, that she was staring at him. Her look was investigative. He felt annoyed, assuming it was because of his disfigurement, not yet completely hidden by his partially grown beard. It amazed him, the fascination some women had for ugliness. He did not return her gaze but walked stoically past...

### Lillian Bagworth did not look back, but she felt suddenly flushed and conscious that she had seen the face of her disfigured husband even if she had hardly recognised him. He had not recognised her at all.

### Later, when she had time to think about it, she concluded that it was his eyes she had recognised.

### After making perfunctory demands of a nurse, she was shown into Major Jocelyn Barker's office. Upon entering, her attitude changed. Gone was the expression of superiority. Now she was the dutiful wife only seeking the best for her poor, wounded husband.

### To Lillian, it had been a relief when her husband, having enlisted, was finally posted to France. The joy had long gone from their marriage and she found him boring to the point of desperation.

### Henry Raddle, the owner of Raddle's Drapery and Merchandising Store, for whom she had gone to work six months previously, was an entirely different kind of man: an ambitious man, who clearly intended to turn his father's small business into the biggest in the area He soon made it clear that he wanted Lillian to leave her husband and to marry him. He had been attracted as soon as he saw her. Her style, dignity and the way she could charm the customers, had captivated him. Lillian had soon made up her mind that her hard working husband, who was happy and contented with his lifestyle, was going to be cast aside one way or another if she had her way.

### The buff telegram informing that her husband, Sergeant George Bagworth, had been reported missing, presumed killed in action, brought no tears of anguish from her; quite the reverse. That night she and Raddle quietly celebrated their good fortune in his new dining room behind the store.

### Over the next few weeks, whilst outwardly going through the motions of mourning, they made plans. They would allow a safe period and then marry.

### Lillian's screams had brought the neighbours running, they found her sobbing over the telegram that lay on the kitchen table. It informed her that George had been found and was now in hospital in Kent. The neighbours mistook her sobs for joy instead of the anguish she truly felt.

### Major Barker was surprised. Mrs. Bagworth was hardly the sort of lady he had imagined married to a non commissioned officer. She was a lady, and any man would have been proud to have her on his arm. The dazzling smile she gave him left him quite breathless. This was truly a beautiful woman he thought. He also felt very uncomfortable as his entire childhood and most of his adult life had been spent amongst the tea plantations of Assam. He had little or no experience of a memsahib.

### She coughed politely. He looked down and realised that he was still holding her hand. He let go suddenly as if he had burnt his fingers. The corner of her mouth turned up deliciously as she noted his embarrassment.

"It's good of you to see me Major," she spoke in an educated voice, soft and demure.

"It's a pleasure Ma'am," the Major stuttered. "If I can help in any way."

### She hesitated, as though unsure how to proceed. "My husband.....what exactly is the matter with him?" her voice hardened.

### The Major felt safer now they were beginning to discuss medicals matters.

" Your husband suffered severe wounds to the head and neck, which I am glad to say he has nearly recovered from, but....." he stopped and settled himself more comfortably in his chair, " he has suffered severe trauma in so far that he has completely lost the use of his voice and has also lost his memory. In most cases this is temporary and we would expect it to return in due course. Only rarely does it become permanent. I'm afraid Mrs. Bagworth it would seem that, in your husband's case, it has become permanent."

### Lillian gave a small but delicate gasp and held her handkerchief to her mouth.

"Would you like me get a nurse to show you where your husband is at the moment?"

"Thank you," she muttered. He started to rise, but stopped in mid-track when he saw she wanted to say more. "Do you mind if I ask you something?"

"Of course...please do."

"My husband...has his violence got any better?" she asked.

"Violence!" he looked shocked. "I'm not aware he has exhibited any violence."

"Does he show any emotion at all?"

"Now you mention it, quite the reverse. To my knowledge he appears to be very calm."

"Oh! My God!" she cried. "I was hoping that this might have changed him for the better."

"What do you mean?"

### She looked at him, wondering if she could say what was on her mind. She coughed and cleared her throat.

"Major! I'm sorry to say but my husband is not what he seems. How can I describe it...? He is... it's as though he were two different people on occasions. One minute calm, the next a raging monster. I thought perhaps he might have change, but, from what you say, he hasn't."

### Reaching across she placed her hand on the desk.

"I'm frightened," she pleaded, and then turned away. "I'm sorry to burden you with my problems." She gently dabbed her cheeks with her handkerchief.

### The Major rose and, moving round, sat down next to her. "There Ma'am, please don't fret." He was surprised at himself, but she made him feel confident and protective. "If I can help in any way."

### She blew her nose and looked up at him beseechingly, taking a deep breath,

"I think I should be honest.... I feel I can tell you... When my husband went to the front... I was glad." That was the first truthful thing she had said since arriving. "Yes! I realised you must be shocked.... But I was... at least the beating stopped."

"Beating!" gasped the Major. "This is outrageous!"

"Please I'd rather you say nothing." She lowered her eyes, but allowed her hand to rest upon his arm. "So you see, I'd rather not see him... I just don't know how he would react."

"Madam! I have not had a lot of experience with mental disorders," (how convenient she thought.) "But it would seem that your husband, Sergeant Bagworth, is suffering from schizophrenia."

"Oh! My God," she gasped, pleased that she had described the disorder so accurately. "Is that bad?" she asked.

"Bad enough!"

"What can I do?"

"I'm afraid there is little anybody can do... he will have to be restrained...Yet!" The Major looked puzzled. "It's strange he hasn't displayed any of those symptoms since he has been here."

### Lillian Bagworth looked sideways at the Doctor. So far the conversation had been going just as she hoped. She didn't want doubts to start growing in his mind.

### She began to sob quietly. The Major reached across and took her arm. She jumped and, crying out, pulled her arm away.

### The Major looked alarmed. She smiled at him her face full of restrained pain.

"It's nothing! After all this time, my arm," she said softly. "It still hurts from the accident."

"Accident... what happened?"

"I fell down the stairs, and fractured my arm, just before he left for the front, I'm sure it was an accident. I mean surely my husband didn't mean to push me deliberately?"

"I see," contemplated the Major seriously. "Mrs. Bagworth have you considered allowing your husband to be hospitalised?"

"Hospitalised!" queried Mrs. Bagworth. "Do you mean, mental institution?"

"It is an option!"

"Oh! No I couldn't." She looked sideways at the Doctor. He appeared to accept her decision. "Isn't there any other way?" she asked.

"Under the circumstances.....No!" he replied firmly.

### She stood up and clutching her hands together, "Oh! Its awful... after all he's been through." She stood staring into space. Finally she looked down at the Doctor. "If you think it's for the best."

"I do," he replied.

### It was nearly eight o'clock that evening when the London train finally steamed into Temple Mead station Bristol. Lillian Bagworth was overjoyed that Henry Raddle was there to meet her.

### Later in the darkness of his car, she welcomed his kisses and shut her eyes as she felt his hand reach inside her coat and caress her breasts.

"You're amazing," he repeated for at least the third time. "Tell me again."

### She smiled confidently. "It was easy... I just put on the charm and convinced them what a monster George had been and the Doctor has agreed to have him certified and committed. Once we get that, as I am his next of kin, then I can get a divorce on the grounds of his cruelty and insanity."

"When does that happen?" Raddle asked.

"The Doctor has to get the papers countersigned by his commanding officer. Now that could take months, but he tells me they are having an inspection in about six weeks, so, as a favour, he will request this General to sign them then."

### Raddle leaned back and laughed out into the night. "So, soon, Sergeant Bagworth will be locked away in an asylum and you will be a free woman."

### The War Office dispatch arrived a week later.

### George slowly became aware that something unusual was going on. He noticed a group of officers clustered around the Sister's small office at the entrance to the ward. George kept them under discreet observation. He began to get a little nervous when they appeared to be looking in his direction. He felt a tingling sensation as the muscles in his stomach tightened.

### He could see a staff officer, as well as Major Barker, and a fierce looking elderly nurse, who was the matron. They were looking at papers, and glancing in his direction. George could feel sweat beginning to form under his arm pits and between his legs.

### There did not appear to be any armed guards, but perhaps they were out of sight in case he made an attempt to escape.

### His mouth dried as he saw the staff officer begin to march down the ward towards him, closely followed by the others. At the foot of the bed he halted. George sat and stared at them, waiting for them to arrest him of the charge of spying. His efforts had been so fruitless, lives had been wasted and yet he had failed.

"Sergeant George Bagworth of the 3rd Battalion Rifle Brigade," the Colonel's voice resounded through out the ward, causing every head to turn. "By order of the High Command I am instructed to inform you....."

### George could hardly breathe. He could not look the speaker in the eyes.

"......that for actions performed by you on the 8th of July 1915, whereby having ordered your men back to the safety of their own lines, you did defend your position to such effect that the enemy suffered great loss, enabling your men to reach safety unscathed. You did this without thought for yourself and with bravery beyond the call of duty until you were overwhelmed. His Majesty has graciously awarded you the highest honour this country can award,

### THE VICTORIA CROSS."

### George slowly breathed out. His mouth dropped open. He was thunderstruck.

"Congratulations," said the Colonel, grasping George's hand and shaking it vigorously. George just sat there. The cheers resounded round the room. Faces clamoured at the window as the news spread. What should have been the proudest moment of a man's life left George bemused and angry.

### After the Colonel had left, George wondered if he would ever be allowed to sink back into obscurity. He was now famous. Streams of people would come to his bed side to shake his hand or to clap him on the back, or just to stand there and admire. Every window was packed with onlookers. George just sat there and smiled. There was nothing else he could do, but just nod and smile. He felt like something from the zoo. How should he react? Finally one of the nurses came by, and George waved her over. He smiled but looked puzzled.

"What have I done? Who was that?" he mouthed.

### She stood and stared at him in open amazement.

"Its all right Sergeant," she said kindly. "I'll tell you in a minute."

### Turning she walked off down to the Sister's Office.

"Sergeant Bagworth doesn't understand what has happened," she said to the elderly Sister. "He doesn't realise what it means."

### On the contrary George did realise what it meant. The very image he had been trying to create, that of a very ordinary but badly injured shell shocked soldier had just flown out the window. Instead his picture, or rather not his picture but one of the original George Bagworth would be in all the newspapers. All sorts of people would now be taking an interest in him. The chances of slipping away unnoticed, were very slim.

### There were many things he did not understand. How did they present these medals? He shuddered to think how he was going to manage to convince all those prying eyes that he was a British Sergeant in the Rifle Brigade. Did they not have a special way of marching? If he had to parade, he was doomed. He was a Prussian Infantry Officer trained in the ways of the Imperial German Army.

"Sergeant Bagworth," the Sister's abrupt manner did nothing to calm his jangled nerves. "Nurse tells me you don't understand what has happened."

### He smiled lopsidedly and nodded. She stood looking down at him. He stared back blankly. She sat down.

"You were very brave......do you understand?"

### He shrugged his shoulders. She carried on speaking.

"The King has given you the highest award......it's a great honour."

### Occasionally George still used his pad, and now was one of those occasions.

### SHALL I SEE THE KING.

### She did not reply straight away, and he could see she was trying to think of a suitable answer.

"Perhaps!....if you get better."

### During the days that followed, George seemed to lapse into periods of depression and became very morose. The nurses could not understand. They became very concerned when once again he began to rock back and forth in his bed, and just stare into space with a vacant look on his face for hours on end.

### Major Barker and the Sister on their rounds could not help but notice George as he sat gently rocking from side to side.

"It's amazing after all these weeks and now he's beginning to show the exact symptoms that his wife described." commented the Major.

"It's similar to Mackenzie, just before he went completely mad and wrecked the ward.... I had better keep the straight jacket handy, just in case," replied the Sister. "I have no intention of allowing that sort of thing to happen again in this ward."

"He certainly can't be presented to the King in this state," commented the Major. "It's a good job we're having him committed.

### George may have been acting dumb, for he had observed the antics of Gunner Mackenzie and knew exactly what they were referring to, but why they thought he was deaf as well, was beyond him. He sat very still and followed them with his eyes as they proceeded down the ward. The news that the wife had been in contact with the hospital was a severe blow. What did it mean? What symptoms had she been referring to? This was becoming serious:If he was not careful, he would be locked away for ever.

### George seemed to pick up the next day. Sister heaved a sigh of relief. He continued to improve and even began to help a little around the ward. His strength slowly returned and he had just helped to restrain one of the newcomers who had suffered a fit, and was sitting in Sister's Office with a cup of tea.

"You know, Sergeant," remarked the Sister. "If you carry on getting better, you'll soon be fit enough to be presented to the king at the Palace."

### It was that night he had another of his fits. It took three soldiers to restrain him. The Sister had just ordered the straight jacket when George seemed to recover enough for him to be manacled to his bed. He was calmer the following morning but the rocking had returned.

"It's a complete mystery," pondered the Major. "Some days he is perfectly all right. Then on others?....just as his wife described."

"He can't be trusted," said the Sister. "Perhaps you should accept the medal on his behalf. The Palace would understand."

### A little over a week later, a communication from High Command informed the hospital authorities that the King would be arriving to inspect their command in the very near future, and they were to hold themselves in readiness. Any awards and decorations would be distributed by the King during his inspection.

### The date of the King's inspection was not generally known, but patients and staffs were soon made aware that it was getting nearer. An army of cleaners descended upon the hospital and soon the wards echoed with the sound of buckets and scrubbing brushes.

### The following afternoon, a brand new tunic and trousers appeared at the foot of George's bed and soon afterwards an orderly brought new stripes and emblems for George to sew on.

### Very early the following day, George was woken and although his facial wounds had almost healed and were now covered by a healthy growth of beard, bandages were carefully replaced round his face. His uniform was taken away and came back immaculately pressed. It was then he noticed the wheel chair parked at the end of the ward. Having dressed in his uniform he was guided to the wheel chair and directed to sit in it. A regulation blanket was placed tightly round his waist and legs. George realised that all this fuss could only mean one thing.

### At precisely two o'clock, he was wheeled out of the, now empty, ward for all the other patients had been assembled elsewhere, along a corridor and into what appeared to be a large indoor courtyard. A gallery above was lined with patients and staff. At the end of the court yard was a pair of large doors, which had been thrown open.

### Along one side of the court yard, the senior doctors and nurses were assembled. The orderlies pushed George to the end of the line of staff and there they waited.

### Suddenly there was a crash of feet coming to attention, followed by the sharp slap of hands against webbing as the honour guard presented arms. The sound of a motor vehicle approaching caused those nearby to straighten up. Without thinking he lifted himself in his chair. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a group of officers in highly polished boots approaching.

### Then, all of a sudden, in front of him stood a young officer with A.D.C. chevrons, and a velvet cushion held between his hands. George was unable to see what lay upon the cushion. He could feel the nervous tension rising once again in his stomach.

### A small bearded man dressed in the uniform of a Field Marshal stepped into view. He was the most powerful monarch in the world. George V. Emperor of India.

### George was surprised how small the King was. There was a strange ambivalence about the group that surrounded the Monarch. There was no arrogance about him. Those nearby treated him with more than respect and loyalty. There was a feeling of reverence and worship and yet there was steel like simplicity about him that was reflected in his grey green eyes.

### George watched, fascinated, as the King reached across and lifted the small bronze cross with its purple sash from the velvet cushion.

### He leaned slightly forward, and fastened the medal firmly to George's tunic. George seemed mesmerised by the man in front of him, a cough made him realise that the King was holding his hand out. Tentatively George took it. The grip surprised him, for it was firm and solid through the soft leather glove.

"Congratulation! I read with interest the action you took part in. I admire your fortitude and bravery in withstanding the traumatic events that followed."

### George hesitated, unsure what he should do. He let go the King's hand. The King's expression hardened. A senior Doctor explained George's silence.

"Such sacrifices these men make." George heard the King say, as the group passed on to the next man.

### George's gaze followed the Royal party as they moved down the line of troops

### He was now conscious of the difference between his own sovereign, the Kaiser, who was respected but feared, and this man, his cousin, who was every bit as powerful but was loved as a father is loved by his children. It gave George a strange feeling, listening to the murmur of adoration that came from the crowd around him. He wondered what they would have thought if they had realised that their King had just decorated, not Sergeant George Bagworth, but Reservist Leutnant Richard Khan of his Imperial Majesty's Prussian Guard, who had come to their country to cause such devastating havoc, with the help of others.

........Brigadier General Sir Alexander Mitchelson, Physician to the King, sat and read the report from beginning to end. When he finished, he placed the papers neatly on the desk and folded his arms. He looked up and glared, first at Colonel Philipson, R.A.M.C Officer commanding southern area and then at a rather uncomfortable Major Barker.

### Still the Brigadier General said nothing. His eyes flicked from one to the other. He rose to his feet. The officers stiffened.

"His Majesty has just awarded this man the highest honour for bravery and you, Sir," he bellowed at the Major, "are suggested we have him certified insane and committed... are you bereft of all intelligence? For a start it is an insult to his Majesty to suggest that he would decorate an insane man. Secondly, if he is suffering from the disorder, he would have been found unfit at the beginning and not accepted." He looked down at the papers on the desk. Reaching forward, he picked them up.

"Get Sergeant Bagworth V.C honourably discharged and off these premises as soon as possible. As far as this report is concerned, there is only one thing to be done."

### With this he tore the papers into shreds and threw the bits back on the desk.

"This is the end of the matter."

## Chapter Eleven

### Dublin ..October 1915.

"Wasn't that the most moving thing you have ever heard?" The short, thin faced man seemed to be impervious to the bitter, rain- filled wind that blew across the cemetery. The ends of his long black moustache fluttered like the wings of a bird, as did the tails of his old well worn overcoat. His wife coughed irritably.

"Come now, you silly man, Henry Wilson, do your coat up before you catch your death." She reached out to button his coat, as a mother might to her child.

### Kairda stood an the other side of the burial mound, watching them. She saw the change in his eyes. Gone was the look of adoration, and in its place a sharp glint of anger. She felt sorry for his wife, for she knew that the old woman's action had only been for the best. The muffled slap of a hand against the sleeve of Kathleen Wilson's coat was accompanied by the short sharp cry of distress that came from the old lady's lips.

"Will you be done woman!" Henry Wilson snorted. "Have you no soul or respect?"

### He left her standing there alone in her misery as he pushed through the small crowd that surrounded the grave and, reaching out, grasped the hand of a tall well dressed man, who was receiving the congratulations of many who surrounded him.

"Pearse! They were the finest words that have issued from a beloved Irishman."

### Padrag Pearse smiled gratefully. Only his mother had ever referred to him by his Christian name , "From you dear friend, I deem that a true compliment," he replied.

### Henry Wilson looked round expansively, "There can't be a man.....or woman," he added hastily, "who wasn't moved by those words. You've done the cause a great service this day ... O'Donovan Rossa, God rest his soul," he crossed himself fervently. "would have been proud that you said those words over his grave.''

### Pearse smiled over the small man's shoulder, "I think Kairda is trying to attract your attention."

### Henry frowned.. Irritated that his thoughts should be disturbed. He looked round and peered at the young woman over the top of his heavy rimmed glasses.

"I'll take Aunt Kathleen back to the shop," she called. "You've hurt her deeply with your cruel words, and the Higgins have offered us a lift." Henry snorted dismissively, but nodded his agreement.

"I'll bring your uncle back with us," called Pearse.

### Kairda waved, and then realising she had not congratulated Pearse. "I thought your oratory was inspiring Pearse."

### He nodded, and flushed slightly with embarrassment. "Will you be at the meeting tonight?" he called.

"Shush man," Henry Wilson mumbled, tugging at Pearse's sleeve. "Don't encourage her; she's bad enough as it is."

"I most certainly will be," said Kairda determinedly, for she had seen her uncle's action. "I wouldn't miss it for the world, regardless of some people's opinions."

### Henry Wilson appeared not to have heard that last remark, or chose to ignore it, but stared attentively at the fine head stone that was being moved into position.

"Well then, till tonight!" Pearse replied.

### Suddenly he was attracted by some movement on the far side of the cemetery. "I see the men from Clare are here. I think we should go and have a word."

### Kairda stood and watched the two men walk slowly through the crowd. She was unsure of her feelings for Pearse. He moved her, though, but as an intelligent and fiercely independent minded young woman, she found his idealistic view of Irish life more that she was prepared to accept. She spotted the dumpy figure of Kathleen Wilson standing next to the Higgins carriage, patiently waiting for her.

"It will take a good hour before we are back at Amien Street," announced the old lady.

### The carriage bounced its way along the rutted lane that led to the Dublin road.

### Kairda did not reply, but drew her short cape closer, as the damp twilight chill seeped its way through the cracks in the door of the old carriage. She sat there letting the fiery words she had heard that day, fill her soul until she shivered with emotion. The adrenaline raced round her body until she felt as though she had the fever. She longed, with a burning fierceness, to do something real for a change. She blushed inwardly as she imagined herself as Madame Liberty, the French heroine, bare breasted, standing at the barriers fighting the enemy.

### That evening Kairda ignored the disapproving looks of many of the men, and went boldly to the front of the auditorium. She sat close to the speaker's lectern, so as not to miss a word that was spoken that night. She felt isolated, for, although nearly everyone there had been at the funeral, no one approached her. Even the few other ladies in the room seemed to be either in deep conversation or had some fascinating object to study in their purse.

### It made Kairda inwardly fume. What right had they to display their disapproval of her?

### She heard someone behind her.

"It's because they are afraid of you."

### The sound of his voice, echoing her thoughts, made her jump. Pearse stood there, smiling down at her.

"They don't like young ladies who have just qualified from Trinity College."

"Rubbish!" she retorted. "I'm not the only educated person here, far from it; there's plenty here who could leave me in the shade."

"You still frighten them." He smiled at her puzzled expression. "It's this fiery crown of hair," he whispered, softly fingering one of the long tresses that flowed across her shoulders. "It's like burnished copper."

### She looked into his eyes, those eyes of peerless blue. For a while they seemed lost in each other.

"And those fathomless eyes," he added and then suddenly realising what he had said, he went red and looked down.

### Don't look down, she pleaded to herself. Why must she always force him to look away, when really she craved for him to force her to look away? Oh Pearse, lovely Pearse. She looked at him, her lips pursed as though undecided whether to say her thoughts out loud.

### Before she could make up her mind, she saw her Aunt and Uncle walking towards them. If she took after her uncle then she was not surprised that she frightened people for his expression was that of a fierce little terrier. His nose jutted forward as though giving direction to his tiny sharp eyes that seemed to protrude further from their sockets the shorter his temper became. His heavy black moustache covered lips that were nearly always turned down, giving his face a permanently doleful look. Kairda had hardly ever seen him smile, and from remarks, neither had her aunt. She had blamed it on his early years in prison. Tonight his eyes shone excitedly and there was almost a spring in his step as he approached them.

### "We have received news from America," he announced eagerly, addressing Pearse. "Come back to the shop after the meeting..... I've told the others."

### For the next hour Kairda sat and listened, transfixed, as Pearse once again spun a magic web of words. By the end of the evening every one there was ready to break out the flags, beat the drums and march upon the castle.

### To her, Pearse echoed the chants of 'Cu'Chu Laind', the legendary hero of Ulster, who fought to the death against the invaders.

"I care not, though I were to live but one day and one night, if only my deeds live after me"

### Yet while she felt the passion of those words deeply, this need for the gallant loser to see victory only in death, gave her a grey feeling of emptiness and despair which her trained mind rebelled against.

### The committee meeting of the Hibernian Society always met in the long room above the flower shop in Amien Street.

### Kairda stood at the kitchen sink washing the last of the supper dishes. The door leading to the shop was open. The rich perfume of the blossoms, held in great tubs of water, wafted in, displacing the aroma of cooked food. She could see who was coming and going. The first arrivals she didn't recognise, and they in turn stared suspiciously at her. She could hear low grumbling tones as they climbed the stairs leading to the room above.

"Whose the girl, Henry?" one of then demanded.

"She's my sister's daughter from Sligo," she heard her uncle explain, "She's all right ...just finished at Trinity..... Going to be a school teacher."

"She's all right, going to be a school teacher," Kairda mimicked sarcastically.

### Damn cheek, she thought. Why did she have to justify her existence to them?

### Gradually more people arrived, some of whom she recognised, and who in turn recognised her. While they were pleasant and asked kindly after her mother, Kairda could feel the tension in the air. She was relieved when at last she saw Pearse framed in the doorway.

"Well good evening, ladies!" He went forward and took hold of Aunty Kathleen's hand.

"Kathleen you look a picture, sitting there all soft and glowing against the light of the lamp, as beautiful as your niece here." He winked mischievously at Kairda.

"Ah! You are a terrible man," laughed the old woman, happy to accept Pearse's teasing.

### Kairda wiped her hands on her apron, and quickly untying it, hung it on a hook against the ovens.

"I'm glad you've come Pearse. I didn't really fancy going up there by myself. There are so many strangers."

### Pearse's smile faded, "I'm sorry Kairda you must wait here."

### Kairda stood, and looked at him witheringly. "Are you going pompous on me now Pearse?"

### In all the years they had known each other Kairda, had never seen him look so intently serious. There was a new hardness behind the eyes.

"I'd trust you Kairda, with my life. You are a brave intelligent woman, one of our finest. So when I say to you ...you shall stay here ... I know you will realise that this is no idle whim...but an order." His voice sent a cold shiver through her. She could feel the hot bile of rebellion rising inside her She was angry for he had spoken as though she were a child.

### Once again, he must have read her thoughts, for he reached across and took her hands.

"Trust me" he pleaded. "I will tell you everything, afterwards... its important." With that he turned and climbed the stairs leading to the long room.

"What was all that about?" Kairda asked, looking at her Aunt with puzzlement. The old woman seemed to concentrate harder on her knitting. "It's the Brotherhood."

"The what?" queried Kairda.

"The Brotherhood!" repeated her Aunt, wondering if she had said too much already. Kairda knew nothing of this 'Brotherhood', but was not prepared to admit that, to her Aunt.

"Oh! the Brotherhood," she echoed, nodding as though all had been revealed.

"Then you'll mind why you can't go up then." stated her Aunt irritably.

### Ireland was full of Brotherhoods and clubs for this and that, and numerous associations. Nearly all of them were republican based. They provided a forum where men would talk of freedom and glory, and how they intended to break away from the yoke of British Imperialism, as their forefathers had tried to do, Tome, Parnell and O'Connell.

### The Brotherhood? Which Brotherhood? What Brotherhood? Thought Kairda.

"Do you mean the Irish Volunteers" asked Kairda.

"No! This is the Irish Republican Brotherhood." Kathleen Wilson squinted at her out of the corner of her eye. "Your Uncle joined while he was in America."

"I've never heard of them before," declared Kairda.

"You're not supposed to have," replied her Aunt tartly.

### They each sat, deep in their own thoughts, listening to the low rumble of voices that came from the room above. Occasionally there were angry outbursts of noise and muttering of agreement.

### The two women looked at each other. Nearly two hours had passed and midnight was fast approaching.

### Have you found yourself a position yet, Kairda dear?" her Aunt asked.

"Not yet...I've written to lots, both here and across the water."

"Will you go and work for the British?" Her Aunt looked indignant.

"I've no desire to do so," replied Kairda. "I would like to go to St Benedicts."

"Ah! Yes, that's a fine school, with good Irish traditions." The old woman sighed and looked pleased.

"But!" Kairda added emphatically. "If needs be, then I shall teach in England."

### Her Aunt pulled a face. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

### A loud banging on the ceiling disturbed them.

"It's them," Kathleen Wilson got quickly to her feet. "They'll want their tea. Henry doesn't allow any strong drink on the premises. Help me get the pot and cups ready."

### Kairda felt pleased. Now at least she would be going up into the long room, but the sound of heavy feet on the stairs told her this was not to be. The men gathered the large tea pot and cups, and once again retreated behind the door at the top of the stairs.

### Kairda stood and looked at the closed door, frustrated and angry.

### Finally, the last of the men left, leaving just her Uncle Henry and two others, Pearse and a man called James McDowell. They entered the kitchen to find the old woman asleep in the corner, and Kairda sitting bolt upright, tight lipped, her eyes flicking angrily from one to another.

"Well!" she demanded. "Are you going to tell me what's been going on?"

### Her uncle eyed her coldly. "It's none of your business."

"None of my business....How dare you....I have just as much right to be a loyal republican as anyone," she cried, tears beginning to form in her eyes. "Just because you're wearing the trousers."

"Don't be vulgar, girl," her uncle snapped angrily, his eyes popping ominously.

"Me vulgar! I'm not some muling country girl now you know!"

### Henry Wilson looked at her, aghast. His mouth hung open, lost for words. Turning he jabbed a finger at Pearse.

"I blame you for this, filling her head with these high falluting ideas since she has been at that college."

### Pearse raised his hands, placating, "Now calm down, both of you."

### Every since that day, her eighteenth birthday, when she had first met him, Kairda had never been able to stay angry with this tall man, whose limpid eyes had made her go weak at the knees. That same look was once again there, only now there was flash of blue steel in them.

"You promised," beseeched Kairda. "You promised you would tell me."

"Kairda," Pearse placed his hands upon her shoulders and looked deeply into her eyes. "Did I not say that I would tell you?"

### She nodded reluctantly.

"Then I shall...., but you will have to be patient."

### Uncle Henry looked from Pearse to Kairda and back again. "You are not suggesting?" He looked alarmed.

### James McDowell who had been standing quietly by the doorway while this was going on now looked at Kairda as though seeing her for the first time. His expression was one of supreme confidence looking upon those in the room, as a master looks upon his pupils, a soft smile playing across his lips as he began to realise what Pearse was proposing to do, but turning his face away as a deep worrying thought passed across his face; would it work?

### Pearse looked tired and drawn. The long day was telling. He shifted his shoulders as though shrugging the weariness from him,

"Listen all of you, you entrusted me with the organisation of this.. You either allow me full control or find somebody else...is that understood?" He looked at both of the men, as though daring them to answer, or defy him. Neither did.

### He relaxed and smiled once again at Kairda.

"Tomorrow I shall meet you in the park, at 10 o'clock by the little pond at the far end where it is quiet. I shall greet you as though we were sweethearts, for you never know who is watching and there is nothing more natural than sweethearts meeting in the park.... Good night dear Kairda."

### Later, as Kairda lay in bed, unable to sleep, she thought of that summer when she had first met Pearse, when she had fallen in love with this Celtic Poet whose words had melted her heart. It had been such a sweet summer and their love had been so innocent. Four years later she could see that the idealistic, innocent love still shone in his eyes, but she had changed. She had felt the change coursing through her body. Her years at Trinity had left her with a desire to experience life, and love. She had learnt more at Trinity than just books. Her healthy young body craved to taste this new learning, even if spiritually she disapproved of it. She had confessed her feelings to the priest whenever this had swept over her. She lay there touching herself, tingling with the new sensations until she buried her head in her pillow in desperation.

### The following morning was grey. Low clouds scudded across the sky threatening rain. The wind still had that cold feel about it, sending the autumn leaves dancing across the street.

### Kairda stepped out of the shop, sharp on 9.30am. It would take at least thirty minutes to reach the park. She had been undecided whether to wear her new green suit, but had finally plumped for the dark raffia hat and the grey coat with the velvet collar that had been a present from her mother the Christmas before. She felt smart and crisp as she walked along: Not sophisticated because that indicated superiority, but efficient, just the sort of impression she would like to create as a teacher.

### At first she thought she was late and peered at her little fob watch. There was no sign of Pearse. Walking slowly round the edge of the pond she watched a young child sailing his boat. A man on the far side seemed to be idly throwing bread to the ducks. She had just circumnavigated the pond and was becoming anxious when she saw Pearse walking briskly along the path. Seeing her he waved enthusiastically and broke into a trot. When he reached her, he swept her into his arms and spun her around. She cried out in surprise.

"Nothing like drawing attention to yourself," she smiled as he tucked his arm in hers, and guided her along the narrow path leading to a sheltered summer house on the crown of a small hillock.

"But then we are sweet hearts," he protested. When they arrived at the summer house he sat down on one of the benches. He stretched out his legs and seemed to be entirely relaxed. Kairda sat primly by his side and looked out across the parkland that surrounded them. It was a good place to talk for no one could get close enough to listen.

### Kairda felt herself bubbling with expectation. "Tell me," she asked placing her hand upon his arm. "What was said last night?"

### He stared back at her, a huge question mark in his eyes, and then placing his hands behind his head, took a deep breath.

"You're not a pretty girl," he said.

### Kairda could feel herself getting annoyed. Why was he playing around like this? At this moment she didn't care if he thought she was pretty or not. She looked aside, so he would not see how annoyed she felt. There was no one in sight, except a man seated on the far side peering into the trees with a pair binoculars, bird watching.

"No!" he went on, "You are the most beautiful creature in the whole wide world. I love you completely."

### Kairda shut her eyes, and desperately tried to keep the exasperation she felt from her voice, "Did you bring me out here to tell me that."

"There is going to be an insurrection within the next six months."

### He said it so matter of factly that at first she didn't catch what he had said.

# "What did you say? she whispered.

"There is going to be a Rising. We are going to drive the British out of the country once and for all."

"My God!" she muttered, making the sign of the cross.

"Only this time with a difference," he continued. "Last night we received assurances from America ... Germany is going to help us."

"But Pearse," Kairda protested kindly. "This has happened before, and with such tragic results."

"No!" He said venomously. "This is the first time we have had outside help. They are going to supply us with men and arms."

"Will they not step on us, use us as a foot hold to invade England? You'll never get the people to side with you, if that is the case."

"It's not going to be like that. We have written assurances that that they will only invade to help us gain our independence. Don't you see, Kairda, at last we have a real chance to gain our freedom?"

### Kairda stood up and looked up into the sky. She was filled with such emotion that she didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. When suddenly a dream that you have been holding dear for years looks as though it will become real, it is hard to believe, and you suspect fate has a trick round the corner. Then slowly you begin to realise that this dream is going to become reality. The excitement boils up inside you until it's impossible to contain. She wanted to dance and sing.

### She turned and looked at Pearse, reaching out she put her arms round his neck and hugged him passionately. She could feel his arms squeezing her until she could hardly breathe.

"Let me go," she pleaded. "I want to shout for joy."

"Now calm down," he insisted. "We have to be careful. That man out there ...the bird watcher." Kairda turned and looked in the direction Pearse indicated. The man in question just sat there staring up into the trees occasional looking through his glasses. He was too far away for them to make out his features clearly. The broad rimmed hat he wore hid his face. "He could easily be from the Castle .... any rate that's not what I want to discuss with you."

### He stopped and looked into space, a tight anxious expression on his face as if unsure whether to continue.

### Kairda sensed this. "Last night you said you would trust me with your life."

### He searched her face, desperate for re-assurance. It gave her strength and courage. She pushed herself away from him and walking across, once again looked out in the direction of the bird watcher. She turned and leaned against the stone balustrade.

"Then you had better begin to do so."

"Have you heard of the Brotherhood?" he asked.

"Aunty Kathleen told me something last night .... but not a lot."

"Its a secret society, within the Irish Volunteers."

"Does James McDowell belong to it?" she inquired.

### He ignored her question, and carried on as though it had never been asked.

"As a member of the Supreme Council of the Brotherhood. I must accept that the Council is the only legitimate Government of Ireland. In 1914 the Council declared war on Great Britain. Your uncle and I were ordered to form a military committee. The prime object was to plan an insurrection. Since then we have had people going back and forth between America and Germany. When every thing was ready we, your uncle and I, were to report to the Supreme Council, this we have not done".

"But last night?"

"The Supreme Council was not aware of that meeting. The point is that to obtain the German support we had to agree to help them....They want us to mount attacks on the mainland, as a diversion. We are to strike at the very heart of the country. We shall be cutting the head from the English chicken."

### Kairda's heart sank. "That's impossible." Once again she felt that the plan was doomed, for to attempt such an attack would be suicidal.

"Its not," Pearse answered coldly. "The plan is foolproof, this is not one of our gallant but futile attempts that leads only to the firing squad. The Germans are sending us an expert, one of their best men, but we need someone brave and determined who is yet unknown, who is capable of organising this efficiently and logically. Who won't actually be involved but will be the central pin from which the spokes will lead. Our German friends have taught us well and this time we will not fail."'

"Who is going to be this person." she asked.

### He hesitated..

"YOU!"

### It was past midday before they walked slowly back through the park. Kairda felt as though her heart was bursting. She gripped her hands tightly to prevent them shaking, her mind a turmoil of thoughts, excitement, fear, pride.

### At last she was to be allowed to show just what a true Irish woman was capable of. Her only regret was that Pearse had insisted that only they were to know the part she was to play in this affair.

### Pearse stood, and watched her walk away. He did not share her enthusiasm. He felt bitterly ashamed, for she had trusted him, believing every word he had told her. What he had told her had been the truth. It was what he had not told her that made him feel ashamed.

### He had started out along this road with such high hopes. Hopes that had carried him forward for nearly all his thirty years; but as he saw those hopes beginning to germinate, dark clouds of intrigue began to loom, threatening to block his dream, unless he followed their chosen route, and now, there was no going back. He was enmeshed in their net of political nightmares, no longer the real leader but merely a pawn in the same.

### He stood and waited as the bird watcher drew near. McDowell placed the binoculars back inside the case and walked casually up to Pearse. His bland facial expression revealing nothing of his inner thoughts.

"Well" he asked, as he looked carefully at Pearse, his eyes studying every muscle in his face. Pearse looked back with sullen contempt.

### He nodded reluctantly.

### McDowell smiled.

"Good" his voice sharp and final. "It's as I expected."

"Bastard!" spat the other.

### McDowell stepped threateningly closer. "You listen to me...step out of line and the Brits will drop on you like a ton of bricks...you and all your Celtic dreamers. You haven't got a hope in hell unless you do as we say. Never mind your precious independence, that's nothing compared with what we want and the girl is going to get it for us. If she falls by the way side so be it. The end always justifies the means........do you understand? It's the party that counts and only the party."

### Pearse looked into McDowell's face whose eyes blazed with fervour and began to doubt the wisdom of being involved with this man.

"You touch a hair of her head," he threatened.

### McDowell stepped back and smiled cynically, casting a glance in the direction that Kairda had taken.

"You are in love with her," he mocked. "Well I can tell you, she doesn't love you."

### McDowell began to walk away. "She wants a real man....any one can see that...someone who has blood in their veins.... not just hot air."

### Pearse stood there. At that moment he would have gladly killed McDowell, for he knew that the man's words were true.

### Chapter Twelve...

### Sheffield

"The meeting's been a right success," Alfred Parson had cause to be pleased. "There must have been at least a hundred and fifty there tonight."

"I saw them standing at the back," his son Harold added enthusiastically.

"You've a fine way with words, Mr. McDowell."

### The tall man smiled and nodded his thanks as he gamely tried to eat another piece of Mrs. Parson's fine fruit cake.

### The meeting had been a success, of that there was no doubt. Held in the large Methodist hall, that had been built in Sheffield some forty years before, it gave James McDowell an exce1lent platform for spreading the word. It also gave him a reason for travelling throughout the country. It was three weeks since the meeting in Amien Street, and he was anxiously awaiting further news.

"More tea?" Mrs. Parson offered, presenting the brown tea pot. "Thank you, no!" he said. "You've been more than generous."

### Mrs. Parson replaced the pot, on the large fire range.

"You've been an inspiration to us all," she said. "It's given us courage to press on."

"I'm glad to have been, of some assistance; it's a hard enough struggle", James McDowell replied.

"Aye! It is that," stated Mr. Parson, "This damn war is nowt but an excuse for them capitalists to make money. The sacrifices those poor boys are making. It makes me right furious."

"Now! Now! Alfred," said his wife. "We are people of peace. If we resort to violence, even if it be verbal, then we are no better than they."

"You are very brave," James McDowell said looking concerned. "You must be careful. The police are persecuting your compatriots more and more....I wouldn't want you to get into trouble on my account."

"We regard it as an honour to be of service."

"It's not me you serve," replied McDowell, leaning forward, his eyes brightening as he spoke. "You serve humanity. I admire your stand but, alas, I fear until we have broken down the class barriers that have caused this war, there will never be any peace." He smiled quietly to himself. It never ceased to amaze him, how easy it had been to convince these gullible people. The right words in the right place and they had become putty in his hands.

"Aye, just give us the word and we'll be there," proclaimed Harold, his clenched fist raised in support.

### His mother looked disapprovingly at him.

"Soon, my friend," said McDowell softly. "But at the moment let us prepare ourselves for the work ahead."

"We are doing our best," replied Mrs. Parson, worried that they should be thought lacking. "I hear that there are two more lads at Turners wanting to go into hiding. Young Harold here is going down there to have a word with them tomorrow."

"'Mrs. Parsons if all our comrades were as courageous as you, the battle would be won already," smiled James McDowell.

"Oh!" Mrs. Parsons face flushed with embarrassment.

### James McDowell reached into his waist coat pocket.

"Its time we left Alfred." he said looking at his watch. The two men rose to their feet, and gathered their hats and coats.

"Harold, go out front and look to see if there are any police about," his father ordered. "You look out back, mother ........ I'll put out the lights."

"There's a policeman at the end of Clarence Street," reported Harold, but the back was clear. The two men slipped quietly out through the back door and, cautiously feeling their way along the darkened alleyway, reached a gate that led into the back yard of another house. Alfred fitted a key into the lock and they slipped into the empty house, through and out into the street beyond.

### Five minutes later found them outside the back door of the Boiler Maker public house in Palmerston Street.

"Thank you Mr. Parsons, its best you leave me here." Reaching out McDowell shook the old man firmly by the hand.

"Just as you say, Mr. McDowell," he replied. Without a further word the old man turned and walked off into the night.

### McDowell entered a narrow, dimly lit corridor that smelt of stale beer and cooking. From the far end came the noise of the public bar. It sounded crowded. Closing the door quietly behind him he walked to the far end, and turned the key in the door leading to the public bar, it would delay the police, should there be a raid.

### The two men who were waiting for him, in the back room, sat crouched over a small fire. They stood up as he entered. He shook each, firmly by the hand.

"Well Jack! What news have you?" inquired McDowell

### Jack Taggart had been courier for the Brotherhood from the beginning.

### Jack was a dark skinned wiry man who had spent almost all his life with horses, the smell of which seeped from his skin. As a Waggoner his frequent journeys between Ireland and the mainland gave him the perfect cover, allowing him to travel freely throughout the countryside.

"No news as such, Mr. McDowell ," replied Jack respectful touching his forehead. "These was all Mr. Wilson gave me Sir" With that he pulled two letters from the inside of his heavy coat.

### The other man looked on in silence. A sullen young man in his mid twenties, Thomas Kemp, was now thoroughly disenchanted with McDowell and his plans. For over a year, all they had done was talk, a habit he found common amongst his Irish acquaintances. He, had journeyed throughout the countryside doing their bidding, some of it mighty dangerous. He had received no explanation, and now felt bitter and angry. He craved for action; he was a natural rebel, detesting any form of authority. They could go to hell, he thought.

### He would have told them, but had a deep fear of McDowell. for he had already overstepped the mark and had set fire to a large engineering works in Sheffield. He just couldn't stand this inactivity. As a fervent anarchist he could not allow himself to be contained by any form of discipline.

### As far as McDowell was concerned, Thomas was still living at the farm at Cresswell. If Thomas had known back in May that he would be expected to stay at the farm all these months, he would never have agreed to it.

### The girl had been an attractive distraction, even if he had had to marry her to get her into his bed. It was not his first marriage. He had several wives around the country, but this one had been a mistake. He should have never got involved with that family. Their feud with the gypsy, Wellington Carnfield, was none of his business. The slimy toad had tricked him that night. Carnfield had never intended joining them.

### It had been foolish of him to drink so much, and if the girl hadn't resisted the gypsy, when he had tried to seduce her, then her father would still be alive, and he would not be in this situation.

### He watched McDowell read the letters, first one and then the other, he could feel his temper rising. Come on, tell us something, he was sure that McDowell was conscious of his agitation but the man ignored him.

### McDowell read the letter for a second time. Henry Wilson's letter confirmed that Kairda had been appointed assistant teacher at the Grassmoor Secondary School. Originally she had been asked to start in January, but because of some unforeseen accident to one of the other teachers, they wanted her to start straight away.

### McDowell smiled quietly to himself, accidents will happen, only this had not been an accident. The other letter was from Malinin. It contained guarded details about the Shoemaker's false death and his new identity, about how he had been wounded, and that the man would reach the farm as soon as he could. In the mean time they must wait.

### McDowell now became conscious of Thomas Kemp's unblinking gaze. The young anarchist worried him, he felt nervous. The young man was too impetuous and he had that uncomfortable feeling that he could no longer be trusted.

### Malinin's letter also contained the matching half of the photograph which McDowell had intended to give to Thomas, but now he changed his mind. He would give it to the teacher, and let her deal with Thomas Kemp. It would be a test of her abilities. The decision to allow Kairda into the organisation had been one of impulse. For a moment he reviewed his motives critically, there were personal reasons, but that was not all; he felt satisfied with himself.

### McDowell shook his head.

"No news yet," he lied. He studied the young man's face. A good looking lad, a bit flashy, the sort that attracted young gir1s. He'd grown a moustache, it gave him an older look, but that churlish rebellious look was still in the eyes,

"You stay where you are," he ordered . "It's vitally important that you are there when the man gets through. l don't want any trouble, this man who ever he is, is going to need a safe house, and the farm is ideal. The old man and his daughter have no idea. Let's keep it that way. The less people know the better,"

### He spoke each word slowly and precisely without taking his eyes from the young man opposite, "Do you understand ?"

### Thomas said nothing, but nodded. Yes he thought, he understood. McDowell did not know about his problems. Let's keep it that way. Perhaps he could go back to the farm unnoticed.

"Right, you had better get back down there tomorrow," continued McDowell. "Where are you staying tonight.?"

"I use a room over the back of old man Wilson's factory." replied the young man.

"I'll be back here," McDowell thumbed through his diary, "on the 16th of December by then we should have some more information. Jack will get the news through to you, if necessary."

### Thomas Kemp rose and left. The two men sat in silence until they heard the back door close.

"He's too much of a hot head for my liking," remarked Jack Taggart.

"Well he can't do much trouble down at North Cresswell," answered McDowell

"I'm not so sure .... I have a feeling that he's been causing them some bother. There was a big fire the other night at one of factories nearby. They were saying out front earlier tonight that it sounds just the sort of thing that our friend gets up to."

### McDowell sat and stared into the dying embers. "Well Jack if that young man disobeys orders, he'll be found floating in the canal ....... incidentally Jack, there will be another address to add to your post bag."

### They left the public house separately, McDowell walking quickly through the darkened streets to the railway station, to catch the last train to Liverpool, From there he was booked to speak at several pacifist meetings during the coming weeks.

### Thomas Kemp was nearing his lodgings. He felt a mixture of emotion and anger, as well as excitement. He had already been given the tip off that the police were out looking for him, over that business at Turner's Engineering. He knew he was suspected of causing the fire in the stores, but they could not prove anything.

### His lodgings were at the far end of Abbott Street. Normally he approached from the other direction, but tonight he was coming from the opposite end because of the meeting. Fifty yards from his front door he saw something move ahead of him, in the shadows. Stopping, Thomas stared into the darkness. It was a man crouching. Then across the road he saw a second shadow move, and the outline of a police helmet could be clearly seen. The police were lying in wait for him.

### Easing himself down the steps heading to a nearby basement, he became conscious of someone breathing close by. He froze, and gently reaching into his pocket, he took hold of his knife. Suddenly he sniffed. There was a distinctive smell of bone meal, the sort used in the Glue Factory. A hand descended on his shoulder.

"What's going on Robbo?" Thomas asked without looking round.

### Robbo Potter had been a stacker in the glue factory since he was a boy; the distinctive smell of bone meal clung to his body, signaling his approach from yards away.

"It's the coppers, they're waiting for you son ...... it's the fire at Turners. I heard them saying they had evidence to fix you for good this time."

### "Like Hell they have," Thomas replied. "I'm too careful for that."

"Don't be so cocky lad," replied Robbo. "Did you know that old George Mathews was sleeping in back of waste bin."

### Thomas cursed under his breath. A cold pin pricking sensation ran across the back of his hand. "Bloody hell. The old fool had no business being there."

"Aye! They found his body the following morning. It wasn't a pretty sight," whispered Robbo "Its murder, my old lad, you'll swing for this one, sonny Jim."

### Thomas felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stiffen. He sat on the steps and leaning back against the damp wall wiped his face on the back of his sleeve. "What am I going to do?"

"Run boy!" whispered his companion.

### Thomas turned and looked down at the stinking old man who crouched just below him on the steps. You're enjoying this, he thought, you rotten old sod. "You'll not say you have seen me , will you Robbo?"

"Not I, lad, you can bank on that," Robbo replied.

### Thomas screwed his head round and stared back down the road. Somehow he was not afraid of the police. It was McDowell who frightened him. He knew that disobeying the man was unwise. The last man to do so had been found on a deserted Welsh beach with his neck broken. It had looked like an accident but he knew different.

"Can we get through here?" asked Thomas, indicating a small door leading to the basement.

"Aye! it will lead you out to the back, you can then duck through the alley and you'll be miles away in no time."

"Lead on then," he ordered.

### Robbo pushed the basement door gently. It creaked as it opened and they both slipped through. Inside was pitch dark and appeared deserted. Robbo led the way out to the back. He stopped against the old brick lavatory.

"I'll leave you here then," he said.

"Right," replied Thomas. "Thanks Robbo, you've saved my bacon. Let me shake your hand."

### Thomas extended his hand and felt the old man grasp it. Robbo gasped as Thomas tightened his grip jerking Robbo towards him, at the same time twisting his arm round behind his back. He drew his knife from his pocket, and plunged the blade deep into the old man's scrawny neck. He heard a gurgle as the windpipe was cut, and then swiftly drawing the knife back he severed the jugular. He twisted round, and kicking open the lavatory door plunged the old man through, pushing him downwards until his head struck the wooden seat. There was a sound of wood cracking as the body slipped from his grasp and fell through into the pit below.

"Oh! Yes you'll leave me all right and go straight to the police....you can stay down there with the other rats."

### For a moment Thomas stood there, and listened for the sounds of running feet, but all was silent. He slowly eased his way along the alley wall until he was several hundred yards away. Then, safely out of ear- shot he turned and ran and kept on running.

### It was time to disappear from view. It wouldn't take McDowell long to find out that he had not only disobeyed his orders but had also married the old man's daughter.

### It was times like this when he felt he ought to visit his family in Newcastle. There were few that knew of the existence of his lawful wife and his two children. Yes, now would be a good time to visit them.

### McDowell stamped his feet impatiently, his hands clutching the bowl of his pipe seeking what warmth it might give him. The train was late and the wind felt cold as it whistled down the deserted platform. The strain of the past months was beginning to tell.

### There were times when he felt dreadfully alone, with no one to trust. He had to force himself into believing that their ultimate object could and would be achieved. Compared with his compatriots on the continent his problems were small..

### He had men he could trust, fine steadfast working class men, the salt of the earth. Men who like him were ready to fight through the chaos and come out into the new world beyond. They were expecting him to lead them; for a moment he was filled with humility, before that glorious sense of power filled him once again.

### They had achieved much and all thanks to a small Russian lawyer by the name of Lenin, who now sat patiently waiting for his people to call him back to his own country.

### James McDowell rose to his feet and began to pace the empty platform. It eased his aching limbs and helped him to think. He had the appearance of a teacher, his tall frame stooped from constantly bending forward to explain a point. Lines etched into his forehead gave his face that permanently worried look. Yet his mouth was tight and forbidding, his eyes half closed.

### Since the summer of 1903,when he had come to the momentous decision. and had left his previous calling and joined that elite band of modern day pilgrims, his one purpose in life was to create, through their combined strength and spirit, a new order, a new world. He was determined to win through.

### Slowly he had converted, persuaded and guided his small band throughout the country. The dock workers, miners, cotton workers, railway men and drivers, every sector of industry had one of his small soviet cells. He had infiltrated his men into the trade unions until they were now poised ready. Soon those old trade unionist, the traditionalists, would be pushed aside and his own men would take over. Then they would break out, cast off their chains and give the power to the people.

### The train arrived and he was relieved to find an empty compartment.

### In the meantime there were things to be done. His visit to Berlin in the summer of 1914 had been fruitful for the party. He had originally gone there on behalf of the Irish Brotherhood to enlist the help in obtaining Irish freedom from the tyranny of British rule. This had been merely a cover, for he really needed to talk to Rosa Luxenburg and Karl Lienknecht, he had been depressed and demoralised. It was then he had met Karl Malinin.

### He had, at first, regarded the Prussian with intense suspicion. The man was obviously a manipulator, on a grand scale, and his arrogance and self belief were breathtaking.

### McDowell smiled to himself as he recalled how fervent was Malinin's belief in his Total War theory. From the very beginning he decided to allow Malinin to believe that he was a willing pupil, it was easy to see that the German's understanding of Irish history was poor, for he did not realise that McDowell was not Irish but, in fact, a Scot.

### It was Malinin's arrogance, in thinking that the party would allow itself to be placed in his debt, that finally persuaded him to agree to the German's plan although he had decided there and then to usurp it at the first opportunity, for his own purpose.

### He had been right in thinking that he could persuade the Brotherhood that Malinin's plan would effectively sabotage the British War effort and that would help the Irish to gain their freedom.

### His letter to Switzerland that evening would be full of encouragement in his belief that the destruction of the state was at last moving forward.

### He took out Malinin's letter and read it once again. The Shoemaker was now a Sergeant George Bagworth. According to Malinin, he had crossed on the 12th July that was nearly four months ago.

### Where was he? Was he alive or dead? How much longer would they have to play Malinin's game?

# 

# Chapter Thirteen.

### London ..Kings Cross Railway Station

# George stood, and looked up at the great steel arches spanning the station. The whistle of steam, as well as the crashing of steel, merging with the noise of hundreds of pigeons that lived high up on the ledges above, did nothing to make him feel any easier. He had somehow made a mistake. He began to walk slowly across the marble ticket hall. On this cold November day, he could feel unfriendly eyes staring at him.

# He had remained in hospital for a further three weeks until the publicity surrounding his decoration had died down. He occasionally wore his balaclava helmet, pretending that he was sensitive about his face being disfigured, so the image of mental instability continued, along with his inability to talk or to remember anything. He was finally discharged as unfit for further service. His beard had now grown sufficiently to almost cover the scars on his face. He had been issued with civilian clothes; a suit, shirt, socks and underclothes along with a cheap suitcase, a thin rain coat and a hat. He had received the remainder of Bagworth's back pay and was handed his silver- badge and a single cloth chevron, indicating that he had been wounded. On the last night, he checked that his papers were in order and that the cut half of his parent's photograph was securely placed in the cover of his old pay book. They had tried to give him a travel pass to Bristol, but after some difficulty, he'd been able to convince them that he had been offered a place to stay with his family at North Cresswell in Nottinghamshire.

# The following morning found him being taken to London along with a number of other discharged wounded. Balancing his notebook on his knee, he wrote carefully, as the lorry jolted over the cobble stones.

# 'I WISH TO GO TO NORTH CRESSWELL IN NOTTINGHAMSHIRE'

# It had been midday by the time they reached the station, and it was now bitterly cold. Snow was beginning to fall. Walking through the colonnade that led to the platforms, he could feel the biting wind cutting through his thin rain coat. He shivered. He had noticed that his companions had sewn their chevrons onto their coats. His was still in his pocket. No time now he thought, besides he didn't think it was important.

# The station was crowded and nearly every one was in uniform. He felt isolated and exposed in his plain brown suit and cheap raincoat. As he walked slowly past, he noticed a column of soldiers. These were hardened troops, veterans who had seen the full horror of the trenches. They looked tired and exhausted. Their uniforms were stained and worn. They were watching him, as he passed, their faces sour and grim. What had he done wrong? He could not understand. The murmur their voices sounded bitter and angry.

# Now he felt certain that he had made a mistake. Inwardly he struggled, vainly trying to think what he had done. Even on this bitterly cold day, he could feel himself beginning -to sweat. He continued to walk, conscious of the men's eyes following him. Suddenly he was brought to a stop. In front of him stood a soldier, a corporal, not much older than the one he had lost in August, a life time ago. Their eyes met, and the corporal hesitated for a moment, as though he saw something in those tired sunken eyes. But the moment passed.

# "Conshie," the corporal shouted, his spittle striking George in the face. He did not understand the word, yet its meaning was only to plain. George breathed deeply and a feeling of anger surged up with in him. It must have shown on his face for the young soldier stepped back. George fought the temptation to strike, knowing- that it would spell disaster, and forced himself to turn away. He could still feel their eyes and hear the dull muttering of angry voices as he walked to a stall where cups of tea were being handed out. He could see military police standing at the end of the platform. Moving yet further away he reached inside his coat to see if his papers were safe. A nurse, standing nearby, noticed the silver, badge pinned to his lapel.

# "They think you're a conscientious objector." She said reaching up and unpinning the badge. "Pin this to your raincoat, and then they will see you have done your duty ...... Where is your wound stripe?"

# Puzzled he reached into his pocket, and pulled out the chevron. The nurse produced a pin and fastened it to his raincoat. She looked across at the soldiers.

# "They are just back from the front. They're all that's left of the Middlesex Regiment."

# George felt a cold shudder go through him. The pay book he carried stated that he too was part of the Middlesex Regiment. There could be men among them, who had known the real George Bagworth. He nodded his thanks, and walked quickly to the other side of the station. He wanted to put as much distance between the soldiers and himself as he could. With the chevron now clearly visible, he was regarded sympathetically, and approaching a group standing around drinking cups of steaming tea, was surprised when one was thrust into his hand.

# "There you go chum."

# George grinned back, and gratefully accepted it.

# A young ginger haired soldier stood there, a grin on his face.

# "Where did you cop it?" he asked, pointing to the chevron.

# George grinned, and shrugging his shoulders, pointed to his mouth, making a cutting action.

# The hot tea warmed him through, and gave him renewed confidence.

# "I'm sorry mate," replied the ginger haired soldier, and reaching up he tapped George on the shoulder compassionately. George fished in his pocket and brought out his note book, showing it to the soldier

# "Blow me, never heard of that place. I'm from Chiswick."

# Turning to a group nearby. "Anyone know where North Cresswell is?"

# "Aye! he needs the Sheffield train," came a voice from a mound of kitbags.

# A tall dark haired soldier leaned across and tapped George on -the shoulder. "Follow me, lad," he said and began to walk towards the ticket office.

# "You got family in North Cresswell?" He asked, as they stood in the queue. George just smiled and shrugged his shoulder. "Well I suppose you must have," went on the soldier more or less to himself, "never mind."

# With a railway ticket safely tucked away. The two men walked back out to the platforms.

# George's companion dropped his bag and settled himself down. "We've got two hours to wait."

# George nodded wearily, and placed his case against a bill board. The tall soldier soon struck up a conversation with others nearby; pointing out that it was a waste of time trying to talk to George.

# George was happy to be left alone. He was content just to listen. They stopped talking and watched a party of heavily armed soldiers march past with two civilians and a policeman.

# "Spies or Pacifists, I reckon," remarked someone. "There's nowt to choose between them, string em all up if I had my way."

# "It's them Irish bastards that tried to bomb Lloyd George at Derby," replied a voice nearby. At this George looked up and studied to two civilians, they looked fresh faced and defiant.

# "That's near where you're going." The tall soldier said nodding in George's direction. George took a deep breath. Could one of them be his contact? Had he already been captured? Was this all now a waste of time?

# The greyness of the day only made it seem colder. The wind cut through him, chilling him to the bone. They huddled together for a further hour before the train finally pulled slowly in. They waited impatiently while a column of troops boarded. Eventually they were allowed to scramble aboard. George and the others only just managing to find somewhere to sit, before the remainder of the train was packed solid. At least now it was warmer, and he soon felt drowsy.

# How long he had been sleeping George had no idea. It was pitch black outside. The light from a tiny bulb at the back of the seats barely illuminated the carriage. George looked across to where his companions had been. They were gone and next to him was a large woman in a fur coat. He felt muggy and thick headed, his arms and legs ached and he had a pain in his stomach.

# He looked at the woman out of the corner of his eye, and carefully reaching into his coat pocket he took out his note book.

# "WHERE ARE WE?" he wrote, and showed it to the woman.

# She looked startled, unsure of what this meant. It was several moments before she realised that George could not speak.

# "I'm sorry," she muttered. "We are near Nottingham."

# 'NEAR CHESTERFIELD?' he wrote.

# She looked at him and smiled, pointing to herself. "That's where I am going."

# 'NORTH CRESSWELL' he continued eager to extract as much information from the woman as he could. She looked puzzled for a moment.

# "That's on the way to the Dukeries." she explained. "Used to be a nice place," she added. George began to regret asking, for she started to tell him about all her relations who lived in the area.

# "Not much of a place now. Not since they dug pit before war. Its right spoilt place. Do you work down pit?" she asked.

# George pretended not to understand. Reaching across she snatched his pad out of his hand.

# "DO YOU WORK AT PIT." George shook his head.

# "Then what are you going to North Cresswell for?" persisted the woman. "There's nowt else there."

# George wanted to end this conversation. His sighed and sank lower into his seat, shutting his eyes as though he was dropping to sleep. He could hear the woman muttering indignantly to herself. The countryside was now cloaked in darkness. Only a fleeting glance of a snow covered landscape appeared when the moon slipped from, behind the passing clouds. He remained dozing, only half conscious of the other people in the carriage, occasionally glancing out into the wintry night. He was not cold anymore, in fact he felt uncomfortably hot. He loosened his collar.

# The dirty coal stained clock read 11.30. George stepped onto the platform of Chesterfield Midland Road Station, and waited until nearly everybody had passed through the ticket barrier. The woman, he had sat next to had been met, and had gone quickly off into the night. There were now only a few people left on the platform.

# George got out his note book and, walking across to the barrier, showed it to the ticket collector. The man gave him a strange look and glanced over George's shoulder. He felt his shoulder gripped. Looking round he froze, for standing behind him were two very large policemen.

# "What's this then?" inquired the police sergeant, reaching across and taking the note book from the collector. He peered at the note for what seemed ages, eventually looking up.

# "Why are you going to North Cresswell?"

# George thought frantically. Why was this policeman regarding him so suspiciously?

# "You got a family there?" questioned the Sergeant.

# George shook his head. Carefully he adjusted his coat so that his silver badge was clearly visible.

# "He's not a deserter," said the ticket collector in his defence. He's a discharged soldier. You can see he's done his duty."

# The policemen were not convinced. "Let's have a look at your papers."

# Slowly George handed over his pay book. His mouth became dry and he felt a vein beating in his forehead. His collar felt tight. His throat was on fire. He felt hot and yet he could not stop shivering.

# The Police Sergeant studied the contents. "George Bagworth," he pondered, "Sergeant."

# George could do nothing but just stare ahead. He was having difficulty breathing. He coughed, and it seemed to rack his body.

# "You got a family in North Cresswell?" repeated the policeman.

# "Christ man," protested the collector, "Can't you see he's sick." Again George shook his head.

# "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" demanded the policeman, he was becoming aggressive.

# Desperately George took the pad and wrote.

# DUMB .. CANNOT REMEMBER..AM LOOKING FOR MY FAMILY-LIVE NEAR NORTH CRESSWELL.

# The Sergeant studied the note. Finally he handed back the pay book and nodded in the direction of the collector.

# "He'll tell you how to get there lad." Without a further word, he turned and began to walk out of the station, closely followed by his fellow policeman. Under the wrought iron entrance, they stood looking out across the snow covered goods yard.

# "Did you think he was one of those pacifist agitators?" inquired the young constable.

# "You can never tell," remarked the Sergeant. "I thought for a moment he might have been that Kemp chap, especially as he said he was going to Cresswell."

# "What? Thomas Kemp? He'd be crazy to try and come back to these parts." The older policeman nodded in agreement, and blew on his hands to thaw his freezing fingers.

# George watched as the policemen walked away. He was too far away to hear what was said but he was conscious that the police sergeant had not been satisfied. At least they had not dragged him off to the police station. He became aware that the ticket collector was talking to him.

# "You'll need to catch -the work's train from t'other platform." he said. "Have you anywhere to stay?"

# George shook his head.

# "Oh I expect there'll be one or two only too glad to have a lodger. You might do yourself some good over there." He winked and retreated back into his cubbyhole. "In meantime you'd better get into the waiting room. You'll freeze out here. Don't worry I'll give you a knock when train arrives."

# George shivered violently. He now felt very sick. His head ached and he was very thirsty. The snow was blowing horizontally down the platform and the wind buffeted him, making it very hard to walk. George staggered into the waiting room. At least someone had stoked the fire up. Several men were already there, endeavouring to sleep on the narrow wooden benches that lined the walls. He found a vacant corner, and stretched out to wait. He seemed to be burning up.

# The crash of carriages shunting together and the high pitched scream of a train whistle woke him. Struggling to his feet, he gathered his things together and went out onto the platform. It was still bitterly cold, and while his throat seemed on fire, the intense cold seemed to drive away that feeling of sickness.

# It was still dark. The station clock read 2.30am. A train was slowly drawing to a halt on the opposite platform.

# "There you are, lad?" called the ticket collector. "This is the one you want."

# George walked quickly to the end of the platform, down the ramp and across the line. It had been snowing hard and there were several inches lying on the tracks. The platform opposite was crowded with men in flat cloth caps, and scarves wrapped tightly round their necks, the ends tucked firmly inside their jackets. There was a general sound of voices before it was whipped away by the wind. He joined the struggling mass that clambered aboard the early train, squeezing himself between two colliers. It reminded him of the days before the war. There was no mistaking the men. No matter how much they scrubbed themselves, that pervading heavy dusty smell seemed -to cling to them. They all had that same drab, tired, look about them. Lack of sleep and too much heavy work had drained them, giving them that sunken look around tight sore red rimmed eyes. Some had -the ruddy look of men who spent all their, working hours outside regardless of the weather, heavy pipes -firmly clamped between yellow worn teeth; and then there were those, grey faced, that rarely saw the light of day, attacked by damp at home and in the bowels of the earth. No one spoke to him. They had already categorised him. His suit and crumpled hat and coat, stamped him as a travelling salesman starting out early on his rounds through the surrounding villages. Not real men's work.

# The train moved off with its passengers sitting stony faced, passing the occasional mumbled word one to another. Brick built factories lined the track, allowing George to peer into the shadowy recesses where men struggled to earn a living. These were the foundries, their- stacks belching forth black smoke into the night sky. The flare of molten metal being poured was the only light to be seen and the snow fell steadily. Regularly the train would halt, disgorging men ready for the early morning shift. Tired faced men would clamber aboard, some dropping where they stood, exhausted -from their nightly efforts. Slowly the train worked its way along the valley bottom, heading back south towards Nottingham, letting off and taking on at the various little halts that lay scattered along -the way. They were now drawing in-to a pit yard. George could see the coal laden trucks waiting to be coupled on before starting their journey to the steel works. It was nearly daybreak and the wind was picking up the snow and whirling it round, driving it into the faces of the trudging men. It had taken over -four months but he had at last arrived at his destination.

# The yard, where the track ended, was smaller than he had imagined. He stood there, scuffing the coal dust that lay inches thick beneath a covering of snow. He felt a bond with these men. He remembered the days when he had accompanied his father along the river to the pit at Litz: it was not unlike this. He could see the windings reaching up into the sky and the office block and stores that lay to the right. At the far end would be a small, well built, stone building, where -the explosives were kept. Screwing up his eyes he searched for it. Yes it was there.

# Suddenly he felt his head throbbing again and began to shiver violently. He must find shelter soon, he thought. At the gate house he saw a sign to North Cresswell.

# One of the few things he had committed to memory was a simple map of the village ahead. He stood on the foot bridge that spanned the railway and looked up the track. He could just make out the road bridge that was just over three quarters of a mile away. He needed to reach that bridge, for just beyond, lay the farmhouse. He could take the easy route and follow the cinder track that led down to the miner's cottages, but that would expose him to prying eyes even on a day like this. He looked down it into the gully where the track lay, it was filling with snow, but it was a shorter route to reach the farm unseen.

# Choosing his moment, he ducked through the fencing- and climbed down onto the track. He began to walk quickly towards the other bridge. The snow was drifting and soon his shoes and trousers were soaked, and his legs numb from the cold. The pain in his chest worried him. He found it hard to breathe and felt light headed. He was relieved to find a flight of wooden steps that led to the road above, for he doubted if he would have made the embankment otherwise. He crossed the road and paused for a moment on the corner, in the shadow of the Blackfield Arms, watching the last of the school children hurrying to -their classes, their young faces cherry red from the biting cold. Soon the road was deserted again; he turned and began to trudge slowly up the hill that led in the direction of the farm.

# He followed the high stone wall -that curved beneath the empty branches of the beech trees above. The village appeared to be deserted on this bitterly cold day. He had walked for about twenty minutes and had left the houses behind. He was now heading out into -the snow covered country. The pain in his chest made breathing difficult. Had he missed the farmhouse in the snow?

# It was with great relief that he spotted the outbuildings and at last reached the gate. He prayed that there were no dogs on guard. Looking across the yard, he was conscious of an air of neglect that hung over the place. The yard was piled high with accumulated straw and rubbish. There was a large hole in the side of the barn into which snow was blowing. Several of the doors on a long stable block were banging back and forth in the wind; some had already lost their hinges. It made a depressing sight as he walked across towards the house. A tapping above him caused him to look up. He saw a woman's face framed in the window, before she disappeared from view. He had lost the feeling in his hands and feet and was beginning to suspect that he might be getting frost bite. He had no time to stand on ceremony. He must get out of this freezing weather. He tried several doors before finding one unlocked.

# He rested against the wall, relieved to be out of the biting wind. George dropped his suitcase to the floor and looked around. The room had a deserted and neglected air about it. A long table, with chairs around it, occupied the centre. The stone fireplace was empty and cold. He looked round, hoping that he might find some way of attracting attention. He noticed a narrow door in the corner. Trying the door handle he found it open and slowly he looked in. The room was empty, but was warm and spotless. The smell of lavender and polish filled the air. He stood gazing at the neatly arranged furniture, delicate white lace covers protecting the arms and backs of the chairs. A bright fire roared in a shiny black grate. The difference between the rooms was marked. There were ornaments arranged neatly upon the mantelpiece. It reminded him so much of the little house he and his mother had lived in, and a sudden sense of homesickness swept over him. Without thinking he reached up and took hold of a small china pot. Turning it over he saw the word Dresden. He felt confident that, at last, he had found his contact.

# "Who are you?" the woman's voice sounded angry and indignant. It made him jump so that he nearly dropped the china pot.

# "Who are you?" she repeated, and her voice trembled. "What do you want?" He looked at her, his mouth opened to speak, but no sound came forth. He could feel himself falling forward......

#

#

# Chapter Fourteen

# Cross Keys Farm, Derbyshire. November 1915.

# Rosemary Kemp placed her hands against the small of her back and stretched her aching limbs. She had been up since dawn, now that she was forced to do a man's work as well as her own. She was not afraid to wear men's clothing and yet she still had sufficient pride and dignity to change back into her own clothes afterwards. The trousers had been thick and uncomfortable but thankfully her mother's old silk bloomers not only protected her legs but also kept her warm on these freezing winter morning. She placed her foot upon the shallow blanket box that stood beneath the window, and bending forward to fasten her soft leather boots, she glanced out into the driving snow, and saw a shadow moving at the entrance of the yard. She peered closer.

# "Is that Thomas?" she wondered, amazed that he had dared to return, a feeling of indignant anger swelling up inside her. Wiping the moisture from the window to see better, she was surprised at his untidy bedraggled appearance; his rain coat was buttoned tightly round his neck, as he trudged slowly across the yard one hand clutched grimly to a trilby hat that obscured his face,the other gripped a suitcase. She tapped sharply on the window pane to attract his attention. The figure stopped and looking up, scanned the windows to locate the noise. Rosemary waved but then recoiled back into the room. It was not Thomas. Suddenly she was frightened. Who was this unexpected, and at that moment unwelcome, stranger? Looking round in momentary panic, she felt unsure what she should do. He could be a passing salesmen, she thought. In this weather, the poor man. On the other hand he might be someone who had come to cause her even more trouble. She made up her mind. She would not let him enter the house.

# The noise of her heels clicking on the stairs reassured her, as they echoed throughout the empty house. Lately she had begun to talk out loud, as she tried to blot out the silence that filled this once full and noisy home. She hurried quickly to bar the doors. The memories of the last six months were sti1l vivid and left her fearful and angry. At this moment, fear was the stronger, for the bearded stranger had a forbidding appearance. She peered, through the pantry window. The stranger was nowhere in sight. As she walked quickly across to the back door, she shivered with nervous energy and turned the key in the door. She had used no other door that day. With a sigh of relief she stood there, her hands resting upon the edge of the table, trembling and on the verge of tears.

# She sat down and gazed into the red embers that flared and danced in the old range. She looked up at the walls and ceiling that had once been her warm and comfortable home and was now fast becoming a self made prison. In the last twelve months she had changed from a carefree young girl into an exhausted and lonely woman. She remembered what a close family they had been, only a year ago. Her brothers, Walter and Joseph, had been inseparable, but within days of the war being declared they had both volunteered and like young knights, had ridden off, leaving her to wave frantically as their father had taken them to the station.

# The news that Walter had been killed in France still hurt deeply. She rose to her feet and crossing to the mantelpiece, took down the letter that Joseph had written. It had been such a sweet letter, telling them how Walter had died. She had felt so proud. and tears once again filled her eyes as she remembered. There had been no one to write, when Joseph had been killed, three months later. Just a cold buff telegram. Joseph's letter was all she had left to remind her of them. Even now she would sit and wait as the clock ticked on, dreaming that one of them would come and throw open the kitchen door and call out for her. It had taken months for her to not wake up during the night and to lie there listening, for she was still sure that she could hear them stumbling about, desperately trying not to wake the house, and incur the fury of their father.

# It was only a month since the night her father had been killed. Her mind suddenly stopped in mid thought. She froze, an iron band gripping her round the chest, her heart pounding against her rib cage. She could not catch her breath, and the soft hairs on the nape of her neck turned rigid. Someone or something was moving in the parlour next door. There it was again, the clink of china being moved.

# "Please God," she whispered. "Not again!" she stared at the door, terrified. Had her father's killer returned?

# Thoroughly alarmed now she looked round, and saw the heavy iron poker resting against the range. Its solid weight gave her courage and gripping it firmly, she slowly and steadily turned the handle of the door and then with all her might threw it open.

# "Who are you?" she demanded. "What do you want?".

# George Bagworth looked up apprehensively. He stepped back and opened his mouth, as though about to cry out, but made no sound. He just stood there staring at her, water dripping from his hat and coat.

# He closed his eyes and began to rock back and forth. He reached out to steady himself. Sweat glistened on his face.

# "Who are you...What do you want?" she repeated. She stood and looked grimly at him.

# George shivered violently and began to cough, a deep racking cough. He took a step but his knees began to buckle.

# "Oh no you don't," She said, dropping the poker. She grabbed hold of his arm, and even through the wet coat she could feel that he was thin undernourished. "I'll not have you making a mess of my carpet."

# He offered no resistance as she pulled him through into the kitchen and onto a chair by the fire she felt angry with this man. The very thing she wanted to avoid was now happening. Not only had this stranger invaded her home, now he had collapsed and was in need of help. She stood, staring down at him, furious that he had forced his way into her home. He sat there shivering, his eyes closed, his arms wrapped tightly round himself, as though in pain. Coughing racked his body once again, and mucus began dribbling from his lips and into his beard. He began to heave. Although she still felt angry it was now tinged with fear, not for herself, but for this stranger. He looked dreadful. There was the look of death about him...Snatching a towel from above the range, and grasping the man by his shoulders she placed it under his chin. Suddenly a great weariness came over her. She felt tired so tired, and now once again a man was invading her home, just as Tom had done. She felt bitter at the thought. Cold hands cupped hers, as she held the towel. Quickly she withdrew them, allowing the stranger to hold it himself.

# Yet, without thinking, she removed the dark trilby and dropped it onto the table. George stopped heaving and lay back in the chair and looked up at her. His eyes were tired and full of pain. His eyelids fluttered as though he wished to sleep.

# Rosemary was still annoyed with herself for allowing this to happen, but in her heart of hearts she could not have turned this stranger out, he would surely have died. Outside she could hear the wind howling and the snow beating against the window, tomorrow she would harness up the trap and go over to Grassmoor, and ask the new doctor to visit, that's if he would. Reaching down she began to unbutton -the sick man's raincoat, she felt him relax, and lifting him forward she eased his wet coat from around his shoulders. A deep racking cough shook his whole body once again. He seemed to be having difficulty in breathing and a strange grunting sound came from him every time he inhaled. The sound reminded Rosemary of her mother before her eventual death. The man's breathing was frighteningly shallow. She now saw faint flecks of blood on the towel he was holding and she knew that she must get him into a warm bed before he got any worse; he had pneumonia. The couch, upon which her mother had lain during her last days, was in the parlour. Rosemary positioned George against the stone fireplace so as to prevent him toppling from the chair. She walked back into the parlour and began to drag the couch into the warm kitchen.

# George had not moved. His face had a dark flush and his lips were almost black. Now Rosemary felt really frightened. He might die before she had got word to the doctor. Then the police would come again, and she would have more explaining to do. She really couldn't face that again. She glanced about the kitchen and decided to place the couch in the alcove next to the range where it would be warm and away from the draughts. After clearing the alcove, she heaved the couch into the corner. He now looked very bad with his face the texture of putty, and swathed in sweat. Upstairs, she delved in the old linen chest, and produced clean sheets and blankets. She made up a bed. She had no idea who he was or whether he would be friend or foe, and yet, now for the first time in weeks, she was beginning to feel needed. He would be grateful, and she no longer felt so alone, for she now had a task.

# She laid her hands on his shoulder. His jacket was wet as were his trousers. They would have to be removed. Like a child in her hands, he offered no resistance. Soon his jacket and shirt were in a pile upon the kitchen floor. Placing her hands under his shoulders, she lifted him up out of the chair and eased him onto -the couch. She hesitated, unsure whether to remove the rest of his wet clothes, but this was no time for false modesty. Swiftly the rest of his clothes joined the pile on the floor. She tried desperately to remember the treatment they had given her mother. He coughed and groaned in pain. If only there was some way of relieving the pain, she thought. Was he warm enough?.

# A hot poultice that was what had relieved the pain. She gathered towels and placed them in an old steamer and waited for them to heat up, before gently applying them to the sick man's chest. With relief she saw that soon he was breathing more easily. Finally, wrapped tightly in sheets and blankets the man lapsed into a fitful sleep.

# Rosemary sat at the table and with her chin in her hands, studied him. Curiosity had now replaced her initial fear. She was not inquisitive by nature but felt that she had the right to know. Reaching down, she began to go through his pockets, carefully laying the items out on the kitchen table. So you have a name, she thought, looking at his pay book.. Sgt. George Bagworth.Then her attention centered on his note book. She was puzzled, for it was as though he had written his replies instead of speaking. Was he perhaps suffering from some affliction and could not speak? Leafing through the pages, she slowly read his requests for directions. First at London and then finally to North Cresswell. She glanced across, to where he was sleeping quietly. The lines on her forehead deepened with suspicion. It gave her a strange feeling of trepidation as it dawned on her that his arrival here was no accident. He had deliberately set out from London with the intention of coming to this little village. She picked up his wallet, the old brown leather now sticky and pulpy from the rain. 0pening it cautiously, she looked puzzled at the photograph, cut in a strange zig zag manner, showing the picture of an old lady. Rosemary continued to stare at it for several moments as if it was important in some way, before placing it on the table. There were three pound notes and a ten shilling note. The ten shilling note had been folded in a very precise manner.

# Without thinking Rosemary unfolded it. The tiny letters seem to jump at her. She dropped the note as though it had burnt her fingers. Fear, once again, squeezed tightly round her chest. She felt flushed and apprehensive, for written in very small neat hand writing upon the top edge were the words

# THOMAS KEMP ......... her husband.

# She laughed grimly at the word, for he had deserted her when she had needed him most. Events, she did not understand, seemed to close in around her, trapping her. She felt as though she were being forced along an unknown path. Her life, which had been so orderly, was now dissolving into chaos. Once again she felt angry. She cursed herself for not making sure that all the doors had been securely locked and bolted. Then this Bagworth would not be here She felt so miserable, and confused, and at the same time she felt ashamed. She knew that the man would have surely died if he had not found shelter.

# Darkness came early, and Rosemary went round the house. This time she made sure that all the windows and doors were secured. She wanted no more surprises that day. Lighting the oil lamp she made sure it was burning brightly, before once again returning to the kitchen, and placing it on the table. She felt uneasy as she looked at the sleeping man.

# "What do you want? Why have you come here ?"

# He began to cough and started to choke. She moved back to his side lifting him gently and wiping the mucus from his lips. Once again she noticed the flecks of blood on the towel. George opened his eyes and licking his parched lips stared beseechingly up at her.

# "You need water," Rosemary remembered. "Lots of water." Relieved that at last she was beginning to remember, she began to feel more confident. Lowering George back on to the pillows, she went and fetched a jug and filled it with water from the tap in the pantry. She poured some into a glass, and putting her arm round his shoulders, she gently lifted him, placing the glass to his lips so that he could drink. He took the water gratefully and smiled his appreciation. Rosemary looked down at him and without thinking, brushed a lock of hair off his forehead.

# He stared at her as though seeing her for the first time. His eyes were grey blue, not unlike her father's, yet his eyelashes were long almost like a woman's. His eyebrows were thick and bushy, workman's eyebrows, her father had called them, and they would stop the sweat from running into his eyes. She gave George the rest of the water, and as he relaxed and drifted off into a sleep, she laid him back onto the pillow.

# Going to the window, she pulled the net curtain aside and peered out into the snow filled gloom. She could just see across the yard and could hear the sound of the small engine and tender as it hauled the coal wagons up the steep gradient. The driver opened the throttle to reach the top before it began the long run north to the iron foundries at Staveley. Soon the driver would sound his whistle, its piercing sound warning of its approach, a constant reminder of that day when one of the village boys, Luke Carnfield, blind from birth, had stumbled beneath its steel wheels and had his young body crushed beyond recognition.

# Her feelings for the colliers and their families, who lived in North Cresswell, now bordered on hatred. She had despised their ignorance and bigotry, and now despised them even more when she remembered how she and her brothers had attended the village school. It had been their father's wish that they sat alongside the colliers' children, even though her mother had complained bitterly when they returned tainted with that ever pervading smell of the pit. Its distinctive dusty coal tar smell seemed to get into every pore, regardless of the never ending scrubbing they received. They had never been completely accepted, even though she had lived here all her life. Walter and Joseph's decision to follow their father into the horse trade, instead of going down the pit, had offended the locals. Yet, she'd always been on good terms with the women folk, occasionally helping Mrs. Davies, at the Post Office. She and the family had gone out of their way to be friendly, and this was how the village had repaid them.

# She felt bitter, for they had ostracized her, not when her father and brothers had been alive but now, when she was alone and defenseless. All because of the man she had foolishly married. Her stupid husband had got drunk and had revealed her father's secret that had been hidden, even from her, for over thirty years. Rosemary let the curtain drop back, shutting out the winter. She felt oppressed and weighed down by events that were not of her making.

# So much for hopes that 1915 would see her wounds heal and her life to begin again. She remembered that April had been a pleasant month, just the right amount of rain and sunshine to start things off in the ground, and May had all the hall marks of being just as good. She had started to dig over the small kitchen garden at the back of the house. The men had always done this before, but with the boys gone, her father had found it too painful, even to attempt. It held too many memories. He had gone out with her but had wandered off to sit on the far wall just staring out across the railway track to the fields beyond. She saw how he had aged beyond all recognition and had lost the will to live, his head sunk forward, and his shoulders shaking as he sobbed for his boys who would never return.

# He had looked so unhappy, Rosemary recalled. She had put down her trowel and had been walking over to console him, when she had noticed the young man standing by the yard gate. He had looked nervous and glanced round furtively as though looking for someone or something. Her father had seen him too, for he had raised his hand to draw her attention. Although this had happened five months ago, all of it, her thoughts and words, what they had said to each other were still imprinted vividly on her mind.

# By walking along by the garden wall and through the narrow gate, she had been able to study him without the young man realising. He appeared neat and tidy but had shuffled his feet nervously in the dust, covering his shoes with a fine powder.

# She had almost reached him before he was aware of her. He had swung round, causing her to step back in surprise. His nervous expression evaporated into a broad cheerful smile; his eyes bright and slightly feverish. Rosemary still remembered how boyish he had looked, not tall for a man for she could look him in the eye. His hand had bobbed quickly to the rim of his hat.

# "My Golly you make a man jump, creeping up on him like that," he'd said. His voice had had that soft lyrical quality, none of the harsh clipped tones of the local men. Either Welsh or Scottish, she guessed. She had been lost for words and had almost muttered an apology, only realising that he had been teasing her, when she noticed, the tiny twinkle in his eye and the cheeky smile that spread across his face. He had reached into his pocket and produced a small yellow card.

# "I've just arrived in the village. The lady at the post office gave me this." He had held the card up for her to see. "You are looking for a lodger."

# Rosemary had completely forgotten about the card. It had been stuck up in the post office window shortly after the boys had gone to the front. It was something her father had suggested. They had certainly needed a lodger then, but she had doubted whether her father would agree, not since the boys had died. She explained this to the young man, but it did not seem to bother him. How casually he had leaned on the gate, she remembered, as though he was merely passing the time of day, he had seemed so full of confidence.

# "Well lets go and ask him.....shall we?" he had said

# What a foolish young woman she had been, for he had guessed that she would be rather pleased to have him stay, but had been afraid to ask her father.

# "What's your name?" she had asked innocently.

# "Thomas Kemp," he had replied.

# Her father's belligerent gaze, had embarrassed Rosemary. It was as though he suspected the young man's motives and had been trying to read his thoughts.

# "Do as you wish," the old man had grunted and, turning, disappeared round the corner and back to the far wall. In no time they had settled the rent. Seven shillings and six pence a week, all found, and he had quickly settled in, and even helped her in the garden by the end of the afternoon. As they stacked the tools away at supper time, it was as though he had been with them for days rather than just a few hours.

# By the time supper was ready she had six weeks rent in her purse and had made sure that Tom had a generous portion of beef on his plate.

# Rosemary sat up. The racking cough of the sick man had disturbed her thoughts. The fire needed tending. She got up and riddled the ash through. Then lifting the coal scuttle poured more coal upon the fire. It spat and blazed as the dust ignited. She stood at the scrubbed table. It was hard to believe that it was barely a few months since they had sat round it, listening to Tom talk about his travels and the people he had met. Rosemary begrudgingly remembered how he had made them laugh for the first time in months. Even her father who had, at first, remained silent and aloof, began to take an interest and had even shed his somber expression. Yet, for all Tom's chatter, it was only now that Rosemary realised just how little they had ever known of Mr. Thomas Kemp.

# 

# Chapter Fifteen

#

# Snow had fallen heavily during the night, but the wind had eased and there were no drifts to be fought through. Templeton, the only stallion the army had allowed Rosemary to keep, was gamely pulling the small trap along the snow-covered lanes that led across the moors. This was yet another reason for her to be bitter and angry at Thomas Kemp. She could sympathise with old Doctor Whittaker, who was nearly seventy and a widower. He depended on the colliers' families in North Cresswell for his livelihood and support. He had no choice but comply with their wishes, in refusing to allow Rosemary to attend his surgery.

# It was a seven mile journey to the small market town of Grassmoor. Even there, rumours were rife, but so far nothing had been said. She was relieved to find out that a new doctor had bought the practice. It would make a change to have a fresh mind in these parts. On reaching the top road, the old horse lifted his head in triumph, and jets of frosted air spurted from its nostrils. He pulled the trap out onto the broad roadway that led down into the town. Watching the strong muscles in the horse's back move rhythmically, gave Rosemary a feeling of reassurance, here was one creature she could trust, and between them they could still win through.

# The fine French, Anglo-Arabian had been part of her life for as long as she could remember. Templeton had been retired for some years, but had sired many of their best horses. They had been good hunters, good working beasts, strong and reliable. The wide expanse of snow was beautiful. It looked so clean and virginal. Rosemary bit her lip . That was another thing that Thomas had taken away. What a fool she had been, how gullible. Those six weeks, stretching from May into June, had brought new life into the house.

# Thomas had been charming and persuasive, his cheerful banter infectious. Rosemary had laughed for the first time in months. Even her father began to accept the fact that the boys would never return, though she still found him sitting on the far wall from time to time. She had taken Thomas at his word when he told her that there was no work locally, even though when shopping in the village, she overheard the colliers' wives complaining, that now so many of the men folk had volunteered, they were hard pressed to find enough men for the pit. The work he did find, took him away for days on end. She did not press him with questions for she was delighted at the small presents he never failed to bring back with him, tobacco for her father and scented soap and toilet water for her. Did it matter where he worked? He had given her back life and happiness, and she was grateful. What a fool she had been. He had bought her, as a man might buy the services of a prostitute. What hurt more than anything, was the fact that she had actually loved the man. She now realised that very little divided love and hate. Hers had been a foolish love, she could see that now. She had ignored her head and followed her heart completely. She had longed for the warmth and comfort that only his arms could give her. Now, too late she knew that really she had been seeking a replacement for her lost brothers.

# Even so, she had been intensely happy those first weeks and her father too seemed to find some kind of peace. May had slipped quietly away, leaving a blazing June to take its place. That was how Rosemary remembered it, so different from this bitterly cold November that had descended upon them. She felt Templeton quiver. The noise of a motorcar passing brought her back from her memories.

# They were approaching the Doctor's house and the snow beneath the wheels had turned to slush, making driving difficult. She gathered in the reins and swung the trap into the gateway of a large double fronted building. She dismounted, and waited by the front door. The sound of the bell died away in the distance. The door was answered by a woman, who was neither a nurse nor the maid. She was dressed in a thick plaid dress that had a simple elegance.

# "Can I speak to the Doctor?" asked Rosemary.

# Mrs. Vera Broughtman, she was only just beginning to get use to her married name, looked at the young woman. They were of similar age.

# "He's not here at the moment," she replied.

# Rosemary felt agitated, and unsure what she should now do.

# "He won't be long. You can come in and wait." suggested Vera.

# Rosemary felt relieved and followed her into a side room, where she was invited to sit.

# "I don't think we have met," smiled Vera. "I'm Mrs. Broughtman.

# "Rosemary Kemp," Rosemary didn't feel inclined to call herself Mrs. just in case the woman had heard of the name. She sat and watched the woman opposite, waiting for her reaction, but Vera Broughtman did not appear to recognise the name. Rosemary relaxed.

# "I have a very sick man at the farm. Can the Doctor visit?"

# "I'll get him to come over as soon as he gets in." It had been Vera's choice to act as her husband's secretary. She couldn't sit and do nothing all day. "Where do you live?"

# "Cross Keys. It's at the foot of Cresswell Moor, just above North Cresswell."

# "Then surely you're one of Doctor Whittaker's patients?"

# Rosemary hesitated before replying. A look of doubt came into Vera's eyes. "Are you the horse trader's daughter?" She spoke slowly.

# Rosemary tensed. "You've heard the gossip then.?"

# "Is it gossip?"

# "Do you mean about my father being a German spy?"

# Vera nodded.

# "It's all lies." protested Rosemary. "But then no one is interested in the truth."

# "I am."

# Rosemary looked at her. This was a perfect stranger, and yet there was something about the woman. Something that gave her confidence.

# "The only thing I am guilty of, is being a fool."

# It was a relief to be able at last to tell someone her side of the story.

# She told her about Thomas, and how he had charmed his way into her heart, and then asked her to marry him; how she had had her doubts; how finally she had agreed. She told her how they had taken the train to Chesterfield and got married at the registry office, and afterwards taken tea at Woodhouse's Tea rooms. When it was nearly dark they had walked back to the Midland Railway Station, passing beneath the twisted spire. She told her how Thomas had whirled her round in its shadow for good luck.

# When she had finished, the two women moved to the kitchen, and Rosemary helped Vera to make tea.

# "Weren't you happy?" ask Vera.

# "To start with," Rosemary replied. "The trouble started shortly after my father's first heart attack. We got him up the stairs and into bed and while Thomas went off for Doctor Whittaker. I managed to make Father as comfortable as possible. It was nearly midnight by the time the doctor left. I remember how pleased I was, when Thomas volunteered to stay and read to Papa. At least it gave me time to get some chores done; in fact it became a regular occurrence. Thomas seemed quite contented to stay indoors.

# I suppose that was when Thomas found the photograph of mama and papa's wedding". She held the door for Vera, as she carried the tea tray back into the sitting room.

# "I'd never seen it. In fact I didn't know of its existence. The effect it had on Thomas surprised me. He just came down, saying that the old man was asleep. He seemed nervous and sat at the kitchen table. I was busy shelling peas and hardly noticed what he was holding in his hand. Then he asked me why I'd not been honest with him. I was astonished at the question, and felt hurt. I'd no idea what he meant".

# Vera sat patiently listening. She said nothing. Rosemary sipped her tea and then continued.

# "Thomas said nothing, but just pushed the photograph across to me. I recognised my mother, for they always said that we were alike. She looked beautiful, dressed in a long white lace gown. She looked so happy." Rosemary paused, as though lost in thought. "You could tell, it seemed to radiate from the picture. The way she stared adoringly at a tall Cavalry officer holding a fine black horse, at her side.

# Although he had changed over the years, I recognised my father. He looked magnificent, so dashing in his neat fitting uniform with his short cape thrown across one shoulder; his long shiny boots and Busby planted squarely upon his head; his hand resting on the hilt of his long cavalry sword. Then Thomas asked if I recognised them. He sounded angry."

# I told him. "It's my mother and father on their wedding day. I couldn't understand why he was upset. He asked me if I recognised the uniform. He was getting angry and it frightened me. I told him. I wouldn't know one uniform from another. I couldn't fathom out why he looked so agitated, and then I realised....."

# She looked at Vera.

# "He was frightened....then he said, has he registered with the police? That frightened me.... No! Why should he?" I demanded. "Then he accused them of not being English."

# Rosemary rose to her feet, and walked to the window, as though it relieved the tension she felt. She turned back to Vera.

# "That made me very angry, how dare he doubt their loyalty? I had always known that they had come to this country in 1872 just after the Franco-Prussian war. The opportunity to become one of the Duke's Grooms had been a blessing, for they had both said, it was difficult for them to continue living in France. For twenty years they served the Duke faithfully. First Papa was a groom, before becoming eventually head groom; Mama taught the Duke's children French. They were devoted to the Duke and when my brother,Walter was born, they changed their name to Franklin. Joseph was born and finally me. We were all educated to believe that our first loyalty was to this country." At this Rosemary stopped. Vera looked up.

# "My brothers have proved that." Her eyes filled with tears.

# Vera cocked her head sideways in puzzlement.

# "They volunteered within days of war being declared and were both dead before Christmas." Rosemary clenched her fists in silent fury. She blew her nose before continuing.

# "I was too young to understand why the previous tenants, the Carnfields, had been evicted, after living at Cross Keys for generations, or why the lease had been offered to my father. It was only years later that I slowly learnt about the terrible goings on: the inbreeding; the incest that had led to the Carnfield's departure. I truly felt sorry for the, children. The girls had little or no brains between them, and the youngest Luke, had been blind from birth. I'd been sorry for the eldest boy, Wellington, but not any more."

# Still Vera sat there. It felt to Rosemary as though a great weight was being lifted off her shoulders, just being able to tell someone.

# "I still remember, how excited we all were, the day we moved from our old home above the stables and travelled throughout that day until we finally reached the farm, our new home. Rosemary looked intently at Vera, as though trying to convince her.

# "Believe me, we never tried to hide our background, it was just that we never spoke about it, even between ourselves, let alone anybody else. Yet it seemed to send Thomas into a panic.... "Why hasn't your father registered then"? He said .."Is he hiding"?

# Up to then I wasn't sure whether Thomas was being serious, but now I was sure he was being foolish. I told him not to be stupid. I was beginning to get angry. As far as I knew, they had come from France and I told him so.

# At that he became really horrible ... he said he didn't know about my Mother, but my father certainly wasn't French. Then he thrust this photograph at me, twisting it so that I could read the writing on the back.

# It was faint but I could just read it.

# RITTMEISTER AND MADAME OSCAR FREIDMAN.

# THE PRUSSIAN ZIETAN HUSSAR REGIMENT.

# PARIS 1871."

# "Prussian!" It was the first word that Vera had spoken. Rosemary looked at her, frightened that she had said too much, but Vera waved at her to continue.

# "I remember being very frightened. Thomas hardly seemed to be the person I had married. He just sat there gloating....

# "What does it mean?" I asked.

# "I couldn't believe his reply. Your father is an officer in the Prussian Cavalry, the same cavalry that has been butchering civilians in Belgian. I was furious, I remember screaming at him, "this is ridiculous".

# I was horrified when he told me that Prussian Officers are never allowed to either resign or retire. His voice was quieter and calmer. Didn't I realise that because he hadn't registered, if the police found out, they would think he was a spy? I told him, this is madness, he's lived here nearly all his working life, how could they think he was a spy."

# "Where is your father now?" Vera asked.

# "He's dead. He's been dead these last four weeks."

# The sound of an motorcar grinding its way across the gravel outside, brought both of the women to the front windows.

# "The Doctor's back," announced Vera. She went quickly into the hall to greet him.

# He was much younger than Rosemary had expected. A well built, handsome man, except for the gaunt look about his face. His cheeks were sunken and pinched, as though he had suffered from a serious illness at one time. His wife fussed about him, gently chastising him for allowing his scarf to come loose. He smiled at her attention. He caught sight of Rosemary but allowed Vera to explain the reason for her visit. He listened, before saying that he would be able to visit the farm later that day.

# Rosemary left to buy some groceries, before heading once more across the moor. She felt pleased and relieved that the doctor had appeared when he had. She had no desire to tell of the events leading up to the night of her father's death. Her mind was still a turmoil of memories and conflicting thoughts. She was now sure of one thing. Thomas Kemp may have deserted her, but in reality he was a fool. Wellington Carnfield was not, he was evil and very dangerous.

# 

# Chapter Sixteen.

# Rosemary barely had time to unload and put her groceries away, before she heard the distinctive clatter of Doctor Broughtman's motorcar entering the yard.

# She shut the cupboards and went out to greet him. Mrs. Broughtman was with him. They both sat there, looking at the piles of rubbish and straw. Rosemary felt embarrassed, for the yard was a mess. Doing the bare essentials was bad enough: she had neither the time nor the strength to remove and burn the piles of dirty straw that lay scattered about. At least, she thought, the snow helped to hide the worst.

# She stood at the doorway and waved. The Doctor raised his hand half heartedly.

# "I'm sorry," she pointed to the mess and shrugged her shoulders. "Go round behind the barn, it's cleaner. I'll open the side door for you."

# The doctor acknowledged that he understood. Rosemary ducked back inside and made her way through the house to the far side. She stood and watched as he negotiated the narrow cobbled lane. Now he followed her through into the kitchen, where George lay. Rosemary busied herself making a tray of tea. The doctor bent over the patient and pulling the covers back began to examine him. Vera Broughtman sat herself down at the table and began to survey her surroundings. Finding them acceptable she condescended to remove her grey, chamois leather gloves.

# "Well we meet again," she said cheerfully, as though this were a social call.

# "I decided that I ought to get to know my husband's patients, and help whenever I can."

# Having spent those eight dreadful weeks in France, she now felt she was qualified to act as her husband's nurse, even if only as a temporary measure. Much as she regretted Timothy suffering from that awful gas attack, she was secretly glad, for it had got him out of the army and into a safe practice.

# "Do you need my help... dear?" she asked.

# George awoke. He still felt sick and muggy, unsure of his whereabouts. The pain in his chest was fierce. For a moment he thought the man leaning over him was Kemp, until he saw the stethoscope. The Doctor's cool hands prodded and patted. George lay there and listened, grateful that the questions were being directed at Rosemary.

# She felt tight and pensive. So far her answers had been accepted without question, yet still the Doctor had not asked the question she feared. "Who is this man?"

# She knelt, raking the fire, as she tried to answer that question herself. To say he was a friend of Thomas Kemp's would attract the police again and then these people would turn against her. Yet to say he was a stranger and see him taken to the local cottage hospital would leave her, once again, alone. Somehow, she dreaded that even more. There was no right answer.

# Without being asked, she offered. "He's a cousin.....My mother's family have sent him to help out."

# The Doctor merely nodded. She stood looking down at the patient. George's eyes popped open in surprise. Then his expression darkened and he turned his face quickly away, burying it into the pillow.

# "Will he need to go to hospital?" asked Vera. Rosemary turned and found the woman at her shoulder.

# Hearing Rosemary say that he was a cousin had indeed surprised George. Why had she said that? Unless she knew who he really was. He had looked into her face, seeking some hidden message, but she revealed nothing. The face of the woman, which appeared over Rosemary's shoulder, had been a nasty surprise. It took only seconds for him to realise that he was looking at the nurse who had helped him on the train. Had she recognised him? From her bland expression, it looked as though she had not. He turned his face away all the same.

# Rosemary stood patiently, as the doctor gave her instructions on caring for the sick man. She placed the medicine carefully on the mantelpiece, out of harm's way, and followed them to the side door. The doctor turned.

# "I'll return at the end of the week. Mr. Carnfield should show signs of improvement by then."

# "Carnfield!" Rosemary was staggered. "Why do you call him that?"

# The Doctor shrugged . "I'm sorry... I just assumed that that was his name."

# "For heaven sake why?" Rosemary was now alarmed and frightened.

# "Well...em. Last week a man came into the surgery, I was out. He called himself Carnfield and gave this farm as his address."

# Rosemary watched the motorcar leave. A feeling of panic began to creep through her. Back inside the house she ensured that all the windows and doors were securely locked and barred. She had been reminded of the night her father had been killed.

# Wellington Carnfield, she remembered, had been one of the trouble makers in Miss Somerfield's class. He'd always been a fighter, a bully. At heart though, he was a coward, for whenever he had received a thrashing from Mr. Potter, he had thrown himself to the ground and frothed at the mouth. She, along with the other girls in the class, felt sure he was pretending in order to gain sympathy. They had said he had been sweet on her. She now shuddered at the thought of it. However in her youth, she had never been able to dislike him quite as much as her brothers had. Wellington had even tried to be pleasant, giving her a posy at the fair one year. It had ended in a fight between him and Joseph. The knife he had drawn against her brother, had frightened her and she had agreed never to speak to him again.

# Time passes and childhood memories fade. Although she had not objected, she was still surprised when Thomas announced, that he had invited Wellington home for supper. She had doubts about Wellington entering the house. After all it had once been his home, which he had been forced to leave, even if it was many years ago:

# Wellington had arrived, dressed as though it were a party. The velvet coat with the gold buttons gave him a theatrical air. That, and the red and black neckerchief, had made him look so ridiculous that Rosemary had barely managed not to laugh out loud. He had swept in like the returning prodigal. He'd looked much older than she had imagined. His hair had thinned, and what was left had been slicked down with something. His face was lined and his eyes were red rimmed with enormous bags beneath, but his expression had not changed, that same indolent smirk was still there. For one embarrassing moment she had thought that he was going to embrace her, but Thomas had deflected him. She felt suddenly resentful, remembering how Thomas had behaved, in that silly exaggerated manner, almost as though Wellington was an important guest.

# Both men seemed to be showing off and it had amused her. Thomas had bought some bottles of beer, which he had promptly opened and poured into two glasses. He had offered her some but she had refused. The evening took on a celebratory atmosphere as though it were a birthday or Christmas. Like a conjurer, Wellington had suddenly produced a bottle and thrust it into Thomas's hands.,

# "By Golly! Rum," Thomas had cried, holding it out for her to see. Quickly he'd rushed around, hunting for a corkscrew.

# "This is going to be a party," he'd said, laughing.

# She had stood at the range, and with the long copper spoon, poured the hot juices over the roast. Wellington had leaned across breathing in deeply.

# "That smells good," he grinned. His yellow teeth and rum soaked breath forced her to turn away.

# The meal passed off without incident. Her father had chosen to remain upstairs. She had found Wellington's exaggerated compliments tiresome and towards the end was relieved when Thomas took him off into the small parlour.

# She had taken a tray up for her father and when she returned to the kitchen, she had heard Thomas begin to sound off on his favorite hobby horse, the plight of the down trodden masses. They had not been a politically active family prior to Thomas's arrival. Politics meant little to her. Though neither rich nor very poor, they had enough and she was satisfied. She was much wiser now.

# Thomas on the other hand had got very excited, ranting on about the iniquities of the system they lived under, and how the working man should rise up and throw off his shackles. These occasions usually happened when he had been drinking. Yet the following morning he would go to great lengths to play down what he had said. Inquiring anxiously if anyone had been within earshot. That particular evening he seemed unconcerned, for when she looked in to say that she was going upstairs, he was standing by the fireplace vigorously emphasising a point with his clenched fist raised in anger.

# Wellington was sitting opposite, his legs stretched out, his feet resting on the fender. Rosemary remembered how intently he was gazing at Thomas, taking in every word. She would never forget the expression on his face. His eyes were narrow and his mouth set tightly, his lips almost invisible,

# She had felt herself tremble, as she wished them good night. Thomas's face was red and sweat glistened on his brow. The rum bottle was already half empty. She moved back, involuntarily, as Wellington had uncoiled himself from the chair, rising effortlessly to his feet.

# "Thank you for a sumptuous banquet." She remembered how they had all laughed politely at his exaggeration. "It's very nice of your husband to invite me back to the old house."

# The menace in that phrase, that remark, still sent a cold shiver through her, all these weeks later. The events were still so vivid. She remembered hearing the sound of Wellington's laughter, as she went upstairs. There was something unnatural about it. The high pitched cackle had an element of madness to it.

# She remembered thinking that it felt as though she had been asleep for some time when something woke her. She had lain there, unconcerned, trying to distinguish the noise. At first, it had sounded like a cat purring but it was loud and rasping. She'd reached across to wake Thomas, thinking that perhaps a cat had got in through an open window. She found only empty cold sheets, Thomas was not there. She was now wide awake, frightened. She had laid there rigid, desperately trying to identify the noise. Reaching out she had hunted for the matches she kept on the small bedside table. They- gave a comforting rattle as she grasped them. The memory of those cold sinewy fingers grasping hers in the darkness still frightened her. She'd snatched her hand away and wriggled frantically to the far side of the bed. Her fingers fumbled to light the match. Wellington was sitting on the side of the bed, his yellow teeth and sunken eyes giving him, in the half light, a haunted look.

# "What are you doing? "she'd asked. "Where's Thomas?"

# Wellington had just sat there, and looked at her. He licked his lips. "Can't take his liquor ...... your man," he'd said, shaking his head slowly.

# "He's downstairs, fast asleep, just like a baby!" he'd given a low chuckle.

# She remembered how she had tried to remain calm, and not show just how frightened she really felt.

# "Then I think you had better leave." She had reached for her dressing gown. With out taking his eyes from her, his hand had flicked out, grabbing hold of the tail of her dressing gown. "Why should I?"

# Then he'd begun to tug -the gown, slowly playing with her, as he would a fish he was about to reel in.

# "I see!" she had tried to keep the panic out of her voice. "This is how you return someone's hospitality when you're invited into their home."

# Wellington's reaction had been swift and violent. With a vicious snarl he had heaved the dressing gown out of her hands. His face was dark with rage, the blood vessels in the side of his face swollen and angry. He had leaned on the bed. She could almost smell the hate in him.

# "Your home...this, is my home." He had spat out the words, at the same time stabbing a finger to his chest. "Your family had no right to this place. That bastard agent had no business turning us out."

# He'd leaned over until he was a few inches from her. The foulness of his breath made her want to be sick. "Do you hear me?" he'd screamed at her. The fear and panic, must have shown in her eyes, for suddenly he had leaned back and laughed.

# "What's so special about your family that makes you better than us?" he'd gloated.

# She'd gathered herself and the blankets up, and tucking her legs beneath her, tried to get as far away from him as possible.

# "At least we're not traitors and saboteurs."

# She was shocked by his words. "What do you mean?" she'd asked.

# He seemed to relax and appeared to be in no hurry to answer.

# "A real rat's nest ....if you ask me"! He had a smug, self satisfied look on his face. "Trouble with your man is, that once he gets going he don't know when to stop."

# She'd watched as he reached inside his jacket. "You'd be surprised what we talked about."

# There was a card in his hand, that he was casually flicking with his thumb nail. With cold dread she had realised what it was. It was a photograph. Somehow or other he had got hold of the photograph of her parent's wedding.

# "Thomas has told me all about this." He'd waved the photograph back and forth as though fanning himself.

# "All about your darling Papa being nothing but a filthy German Spy."

# Fear had suddenly turned to rage. "That's a lie," she screamed, fight back the tears.

# He had dismissed her contemptuously. "Your Thomas was simply bursting to tell me all about his plans for the revolution and chaos. Just because I agreed with him, he assumed I was on his side..:,. Won't the police like this? By the time I'm finished with you, You'll be glad to crawl away and die in some stinking corner."

# Those words still rang in her ears. She had never believed that she had acted in any way to warrant the blind hatred that had poured down upon her. It had been hard to imagine that any one could have bottled up so much poison. She had cringed, not because she was afraid, for she had seen a few seconds before a shadow at the open door. She had striven to keep Wellington's attention, to allow Thomas, time to get behind this beast and crush him to the floor.

# When the blow came, it was as much a shock to her as to Wellington. The heavy riding crop struck him on the back of the head. At the same time the soft leather tail hissed round his face, biting viciously into the soft skin near his eye. Like a knife it had cut through, splitting the flesh like a soft peach, till blood filled the crevices and poured down his face. Wellington had screamed like a tortured animal, and whirling like a demented soul, had swung his arm out in defence, the flat sharp side of his hand curving an arc through the air. She would remember the face that seemed to hang like a head seeking its body for the rest of her days. She had screamed as her father's head jerked like a lifeless doll. Wellington's hand had struck the old man's neck just below the ear. The crack sounded like the snapping of a branch. Her father's body wavered as though unsure what it wanted, before it slid against the wall, crumpling untidily to the floor.

# She had become blind. Madness had filled her mind. She felt her legs uncoil beneath her like two great springs. Her hands and fingers stretched out like claws, seeking only to fasten upon the evil face that had stood staring down at her prostrate father. Uncaring, unconscious, she had crashed into him, forcing him back against the wall. She had clung to him like a savage lover, her nails digging into his flesh. She had felt exhilarated as she fastened her teeth into the softness of his lower lip, and tasted his blood on her tongue. She cried out at a fierce pain in her head. Her hair was being pulled -from her scalp. She was forced to loosen her grip. The blows against her body sent her spinning away. She fell back over her fathers outstretched legs and struck her head against the stone wash basin top. Noise and cries persisted. She could just make out two figures struggling. Then a tortured cry before the sounds of crashing feet, descending, tailed away into silence.

# She had forced herself to move across to where her father lay. The blank eyes stared. What her heart had refused to accept, her head knew to be the truth, he was dead. She had lowered her head to his silent chest, and rocked back and forth. From below, a voice called.

# "Rose ... Rose are you there?" It was Thomas.

# She remained clutching onto her father. Thomas's face, illuminated by shallow candle light, appeared in the doorway.

# "It's no good," he'd panted. "He's got away".

# "Oh Thomas," she had reached out for him, longing for him to comfort her. "Father's dead."

# The news struck Thomas, as though it had been a physical blow. He had grasped the door frame for support.

# "Don't you understand?" she'd screamed. "He's been killed..... Wellington Carnfield has murdered him."

# It was as if he could not understand what she was saying. He looked at her as though seeing her for the first time. His mouth opened but no sound came forth. He still had on his clothes from the previous evening, crumpled and dirty. He'd stood there, red eyed and frightened.

# "I'll get the doctor."

# It seemed like an excuse, as though he could think of nothing better. He had begun to pluck his coat and muffler from the back of the door.

# "It's no good," she'd sobbed, holding out her arms. "The police ..... drive quickly and get them before he gets too far away."

# At that, he had backed away, with a look of sheer terror on his face. "Not the police .......... I'll get the doctor."

# She looked at him, puzzled. He was reaching beneath the bed and pulling out a suitcase.

# "What are you doing?" she demanded. He looked at her, as if in shock, constantly moving away from her. He dragged clothes from the drawers and pushed them hurriedly into the suitcase.

# "Get away!" he was panic stricken, holding his hand out as though warding off some evil spirit. "I'll get the doctor, but not the police."

# By that time, he had worked his way to the door and was clutching the suitcase. She had raced round the end of the bed.

# "What do you mean?" she grabbed him by his jacket collar. "What are you doing?"

# He had refused to look her in the eye. There was a strange vacant expression on his face. She saw his eyes scan her body, to her waist. Her nightdress had been torn from her shoulders and hung in drapes around her waist. Her ribs ached and her breasts were sore and swollen. He reached out to caress them, desire conflicting with his urge to leave.

# It was then she realised he was running away, deserting her, when she needed him most.

# She had slapped his hand down. In that second of time, love had turned to contempt and hatred.

# "I'm sorry," he'd blubbered. "You must understand .... I have to get away.... I'll get the doctor.... it's the police, they must not find me here."

# At that moment, she had neither understood nor cared. She felt nothing and slid silently to the floor sobbing uncontrollably

#

# 

# Chapter Seventeen.

# She remembered nothing, until daylight. There was a voice calling her name. She lay there feeling the hardness of the floor beneath her. Lifting her head caused fierce pains. She tried to move, gathering the remnants of her nightdress to cover her nakedness.

# "Hello, any body there?" the voice called. She felt befuddled. Why was she on the floor? It was then she remembered.

# "Hello Mrs. Kemp? It's the Doctor," the voice had called. She'd heard footsteps slowly climbing the stairs, unsure of what lay ahead.

# What followed was vague and indistinct. She had somehow got from the floor to her bed, unable to remember whether the Doctor had examined her. She had been given something to drink and wrapped in blankets before sinking, gratefully into a deep sleep. It was late afternoon before she woke. She'd eased herself out of bed. Her father's body was no longer in the room. Slowly and carefully she bathed her bruised and tender skin, before getting dressed. She still felt light headed as she made her way down the stairs to the kitchen.

# She found Mrs. Strettan, the Vicar's wife, pouring tea for a dark haired man in shirt sleeves, and a fresh faced youth. Mr. Greeves, the undertaker, had risen from his chair and quickly slipped his jacket back on. She remembered feeling limp and tired. She hardly heard him, as he explained that they had moved her father's body to the next bedroom, and had laid him out.

# Now, a month later there were times when she could remember events with such clarity that they might have occurred only yesterday. Yet there were other occasions when she could barely remember at all and then only in flashes, as though she was looking at a photograph, just a single, picture to remind her of all the other events.

# Both Mr. Greeves and Mrs. Stretton had been very kind. She was grateful, leaving them to get on with it. She had declined Mrs.Stretton's offer to stay at the vicarage, afraid of what might happen if she left the farm unoccupied. It was the following morning, when the police sergeant and his constable finally arrived. She had been amazed and horrified, when they told her, that it was Wellington Carnfield who had reported the dreadful news of her father's accident.

# "Accident!".. She had exploded, beside her self with rage, and had told them exactly what had happened during that dreadful night.

# The sergeant merely nodded and tutted sympathetically as he noted all she had said carefully in his pocket book.

# "Why aren't you sending someone after him?" she had cried.

# The Police Sergeant seemed indifferent to her distress. "Patience, Ma'am we will get to the bottom of this, don't you worry about that."

# Rosemary snorted contemptuously.

# The Sergeant frowned. "This brings me to another matter."

# Even now, a month later, she felt her mouth go dry when she remembered those words. The Sergeant's manner had been intimidating. She felt sure that she knew what was to follow. Ever since Thomas had revealed her father's secret to her, she had been dreading that moment.

# "You born in these parts?"

# "Yes," she had replied.

# "But your folks weren't?"

# She had tensed, realising what he was beginning to refer to.

# "No! My mother and father came to this country when they were first married...on the invitation of the old Duke."

# This had caused the Sergeant to hesitate.

# "Your mother was French?... is that correct?" His tone had moderated. Again Rosemary had nodded.

# "What about your father?"

# At this, she shut her eyes, and breathed deeply. There seemed little to gain from hiding what she felt sure they already knew.

# "It seems that my father was in the Prussian Cavalry during the Franco Prussian War."

# "Yet he hadn't registered as an alien."

# "No," She had remarked bitterly. "It doesn't really matter now, does it?. An old man spends all his working life in this country, bringing his children up to be loyal and devoted subjects. Even sending his sons to be killed in France for King and country," she paused and hurried on, "and all you are worried about is, has he registered as an alien?" She got from the table and walked across to the door. "You make me sick".

# With that she had walked out, slamming the door behind her.

# She had been standing by the back wall, watching the shunter back the empty coal wagons down the line and into the pit yard. when she saw the sergeant approaching.

# "Mrs. Kemp! I haven't finished," the sergeant had sounded annoyed "What about you husband?"

# She had not responded to the Sergeant's question but had remained staring out across the fields.

# "Where is your husband, Mrs. Kemp?" He had shouted. Suddenly all the fight seemed to drain out of her.

# Her shoulders slumped. "I don't know," she'd sobbed. "He left last night."

# "Did he say where he was going?"

# She shook her head.

# "Did you know your husband had a criminal record?" The policeman's voice had then softened. "I'm sorry but you're not the only Mrs. Kemp. Yours is a bigamous marriage."

# Rosemary shut her eyes and quietly sobbed. She didn't hear the policeman walk away.

# There seemed a lot of things she had not know about her so-called husband. Remembering now she looked once again, to where George lay sick in the alcove. Was he also like Thomas Kemp, a criminal, a saboteur?

# Her father's funeral had been held on the following day. It was nearly noon when Mr. Greeve and his son had guided the horse drawn hearse into the yard, closely followed by the Reverend and Mrs. Stretton, in their little dog cart.

# They had dismounted and stood together, quietly talking.

# When Rosemary appeared, they had stopped. They appeared embarrassed and Mr. Greeves shuffled his feet.

# "Are we ready?" she remembered asking. The Reverend Stretton walked across, gently taking her outstretched hand.

# "My dear!.. the villagers," he seemed to have difficulty in finding the right words. "Its just ...there is a lot of strong feeling,"

# "Good God' Reverend," Mr. Greeves had joined them. "It's that trouble maker Carnfield...he's been spreading malicious gossip and lies. But those stupid fools down there," he pointed towards North Cresswell. "will believe anything."

# He had turned to Rosemary. "I'm sorry Ma'am but they won't let us bury your father in the cemetery."

# This had felt like the final blow.

# Mrs. Strettan reached out to comfort her. "It's all right, my dear. We've had word that the Duke will let us use the small cemetery across at Charnwood. It's quieter there, and in summer it's very beautiful. He'll rest in peace there".

# Rosemary remembered little of the journey to Charnwood House, or of the burial. To get back to their homes, both the Vicar and the Undertaker had to return past the farm at Cross Keys,

# Mr. Greeves, who had been leading, was the first to see it. He turned and looked back, his face creased with grim concern. It was then she saw it too .Written in bold letters for all the world to see. A hot flush filled her face, and her heart pounded with anger and humiliation. She had clenched her fists, resolutely ignoring the whitewash lettering that announced to the world, what the village thought of her father.

# '..ROT IN HELL PRUSSIAN SPY...'

# She felt the comforting hand of Mrs. Strettan upon her arm.

# "They are not all wicked!"

# Perhaps not, thought Rosemary, but she knew one who was. Wellington Carnfield would rot in hell if she had her way,

# 

# Chapter Eighteen

# December 1915,

# "Mein Got t rette mich" (My God save me)

# George's eyes flew open in panic. He went rigid with fear. It was as though every muscle in his body was paralysed. His body hairs tingled. The words still rang in his ears. He waited, tensed. Had anyone else heard? He lifted his head from the pillow and looked round, breathed a sigh of relief that he was alone. Lying there, he allowed the drowsiness to slowly fade from his mind. Now wide awake, he surveyed his surroundings, and for a moment did not recognise the room. Then he remembered, but how long had he been there?... several days or weeks? He could not recall.

# This was the first day he'd woken and felt clear headed, free from pain. He was aware that he had been ill, and that the pain had extended from his head to the pit of his stomach, but who had nursed him back to health? He lay there, gazing up at the ceiling. It had been a young woman. Who was she?...what was her name?.... Kemp.. no that was the man he had expected see, but he was not here or at least he could not remember seeing him.

# It had been the recurring nightmare that had woken him, paralysed with fear. It got worse every time. It kept taking him back, into the bunker. He was on his knees, his fingers gripping the edge of the pit that had to be destroyed. He seemed to have no control over his limbs as he reached into his satchel and drew out the bomb, igniting it. He was forced to throw it deep into the pit....No...No, he cried. The explosion forced him back and a strange light seemed to rise. Suddenly he saw a hand, torn and bleeding, reaching up from the depths of the pit. The flesh hung like ribbons from the bones and an unearthly screaming came from below, forcing him to clamp his hands over his ears. He had scrambled back, away from the unseen monster. Then a second hand reached up, the fingers merely stumps where they had been blown away.

# It seemed to George that, as he scrambled back, desperately trying to get away, he suddenly came up against a solid wall and he could retreat no further. A tattered arm now rested upon the edge, as, who ever was below. slowly climbed from the pit. Unable to pull his eyes away, George desperately felt along the wall seeking escape. Slowly the helmeted figure appeared. George hypnotically remained staring at the rising apparition. The eyes when they did appear, were merely bloody sockets, the nose and mouth having exploded into a mess of teeth, flesh and bone. Despite the disfigurement George was still able to recognise the unmistakable stance of Sergeant Gage. The ghostly figure began to climb from the pit and stare blindly at George. Beyond this he could see rising, the figures of the other miners who had been ki11ed.He could not escape. He stood and watched them slowly approaching.

# Each time they got closer. Last night the sergeant was reaching forward to grasp him. George fell to his knees and pleaded .

# "Das habe ich tun mussen" (It had to be done)

# George lay there sweating,

# "Das habe ich tun mussen" he whispered under his breath.

# He caught himself, furious that he should even allow himself to think in that language. This was the first time he had been conscious that he had in fact, talked in his sleep. Had he already betrayed himself? If so why was he not gazing at the dull greyness of a prison cell? If he had not been arrested, was this perhaps a some devious trick? Was he being watched until they allowed him enough rope to hang himself? For a man pretending to be dumb, talking was bad enough, but to talk in German was death.

# Rosemary lowered her hands, her black straw hat in one the hat pin, she had been about to fasten it with, in her other. Placing them both on the kitchen table she turned and listened. Even through the two thick doors that separated them. She could clearly hear that George was uttering a cry of anguish. In the three weeks that he had been there, this was the fourth or perhaps fifth time she had heard him cry out. Each time she was sure they had been words that she had heard. It had sounded the same each time, yet she was still, unable to make out exactly what he was saying. It meant one thing. The man was clearly able to speak, why had he been pretending to do otherwise?

# She now pondered on the wisdom, of allowing him to stay in her house. Perhaps she should have taken the Doctor's advice. Yet George, she now thought of him by his first name, had been no trouble. Apart from feeding him, she had hardly noticed his presence, for he had slept most of the time. But was this a11 a trick, to gain her confidence? He had not referred to Thomas Kemp; in fact he had not referred to anything, mostly communicating by hand signals. She worried as to what she should do once he was stronger and could move about. Would she be safe with him in the house? Yet, almost without thinking, she walked towards his door.

# He lay there, his nerves on edge, conscious of the slightest sound in the house. He heard her stop outside the door and wait, had she heard. The door opened and she entered, as she had done on many occasions.

# "Are you all right?" she asked.

# She was dressed to go out. This was the first time he had seen her dressed so neatly. The high necked blouse with its lace collar framed a pretty face that would have been beautiful but for the months of hard work leaving a strained tired look about the eyes and the hard set of the mouth. Even so he could not fail to notice the fine head of flaxen hair that flowed to her shoulders a ribbon holding it under control. Her neat grey woollen dress, fitted to the waist, and reaching almost to the ground, had seen better days but black filigree decoration gave it an appearance of quality. Her bearing made her seen taller than she was. There was a grace and dignity about her that he admired. She always seemed to be in control, of both herself and those around her.

# He struggled to get up. He felt very weak. She came across and lifted his pillows. He was suddenly conscious of her closeness. He could feel her warmth and the smell of her scented soap. She stepped back from the bed, and the moment was gone.

# "It looks as though the rain will hold off," She said looking out of the window. I need to get some things from the market so I am going to Grassmoor." She hesitated her voice became sterner. "I also need to go and pay the Doctor for your medicine and treatment."

# She folded her arms and frowned at him.

# George realised what she meant, and reaching across, picked up his note book.

# I HAVE MONEY, PLEASE USE IT. He wrote, and handed her the note.

# She looked puzzled and then her face darkened with anger. Her mouth tightened, as she reached across and almost snatched it from him. She read it.

# "Thank you," she said abruptly. "I should be back in an hour or so, if you feel strong enough to get up, I have left some warm food in the kitchen, I suggest you stay indoors or at least wrap up warm, there is a bitter wind blowing," she added coldly.

# Back in the kitchen, she once again began to fasten her hat. She bit her lip. Up to now she had felt confident that, with the Doctor's assistance, she had handled the situation well. Under the Doctor's guidance, she had nursed the patient through the worst. Now she did not feel so sure. Why was he pretending to be unable to speak, when he must know that she had heard him. The question of why had he come here in the first place still remained unanswered. There were so many questions she needed answers to.

# She decided, on the spur of the moment, to go into the cellar and find her father's old rifle. That made her happier, even if she had no idea how to use it. It at least boosted her morale to feel it in her hands. She cleaned it as best she could and concealed it in the cupboard beneath the stairs. She put on her winter coat, still preoccupied with these nagging questions, and gathered up her bags. In the yard Templeton stood patiently waiting.

# George watched from the window as she skillfully guided the horse and trap out through the gates and up the hills, heading out across the moors. This was the first time he had been out of bed unaided. He felt drained, but also very hungry. He found his clothes neatly folded upon a chair. Anxiously he searched through his wallet: it was all there, and most important the photograph was still intact. He put his clothes on, and made his way into the kitchen feeling weak and light headed. The kitchen was warm and the clothes horse was covered with washing. It was arranged round one side of the kitchen fire and gave off that thick heady smell of soap. It reminded him of the house at Borken which now seemed a lifetime ago. There were other things which reminded him of his old home: the great heavy oak dresser that was full of crockery, enough for a large family. Where were they? For he was sure that she now lived alone. Carefully he picked a bowl from the dresser and a spoon from the cutlery drawer and using a thick cloth, removed the heavy saucepan lid from the pot that bubbled gently on the range. It smelt good. He filled his bowl the brim.

# Back at the table, he ate slowly. According to Malinin's instructions he had reached his destination. It had taken many weeks, perhaps longer than had been planned, for the man Kemp was no longer here, if he had ever been here at all. Having arrived he had to stay here, otherwise where would he go? At any rate at the moment he was not strong enough. Somehow or other he had to persuade the woman to let him stay. The nagging fear that she'd overheard him talking, worried him greatly, for her mood had changed that morning. He knew he'd done something to annoy her as she had been cold and angry when she left.

# Having cleaned and replaced the dishes. He decided to get some fresh air. A man's coat hung on the back of the door, and wearing that and a pair heavy boots he found close by, he stepped out into the yard. The farm had been badly neglected. Many of the stable doors needed re-hanging and the yard was strewn with straw. A larch broom lay on the ground where someone had dropped it after making a half hearted attempt to gather some of the muck together into a pile. He walked across to the barn and pulled open the doors. Inside were pens, originally used to hold cattle and sheep. Now they were filled with a motley selection of small animals in cages, as well as a few fowls. Nearby a stall held a couple of goats. Against the far wall were bales of straw, stacked almost to the rafters. Many of the bales had burst, allowing the straw to cascade down in great pile.

# George opened another set of doors at the back of the barn. This led to an area of open ground, encircled by a dry stone wall, beyond which lay a grass meadow. He looked up into the sky, and shielding his eyes against a bright wintry sun, drew a deep breath. Then taking off the heavy coat. He picked up a rake lying nearby, and walked back into the barn.

# Rosemary was daydreaming. Templeton, sure-footed, negotiated the rutted track that led down to the farm. Although there was a cold wind blowing, the sun was bright. Rosemary was remembering the days when she and her brothers used to climb this track and have picnics amongst the old stones on the moors above. At first she had mistaken the column of white smoke for a cloud on the horizon. Then she got the first whiff of burning straw. She stopped the trap, and rising to her feet, squinted, trying to focus more clearly on the farm below. There was no mistaking it. Smoke was billowing out of the barn doors.

# "My God! The farm! Its on fire" Her blood ran cold as she urged Templeton forward.

# They pressed on as fast as they dared. Her mind was in turmoil. She could not understand why the man, who she had nursed for all these days, should turn against her. For she assumed it was George who had started the fire. What could he gain? Unless he was in league with Wellington Carnfield. At the thought of Carnfield, Rosemary felt cold fury well up inside her. She cracked the whip forcing Templeton to break into a gallop. Ignoring the dangers of the rutted track. The trap careered through the gateway and into the yard. She heaved on the reins, forcing the old horse to rear back in the shafts, as the trap came to a halt.

# She could see thick smoke issuing from the barn as she jumped down from the trap and raced into the house. The man would not get away with this, she thought; as she threw open the cupboard door under the stairs.

# George sat his back against the wall of the barn. He was out of the wind, and the late afternoon sun took the chill out of the winter's day. He was sweating - had overestimated his strength - and yet he felt pleased with himself. The pile of burning rubbish and straw, that now belched smoke high up into the sky, had taken him most of the afternoon to gather. He hadn't finished by any means, but at least it was a start. He felt that he had, in someway, repaid the woman for her kindness. The wind eddied, sending the smoke swirling around. He coughed.

# Her voice made him jump. "My God! what are you doing?"

# She was at the far end and partially obscured by the smoke. George smiled and rose to his feet. It looked as though she was holding a broom. She emerged from the smoke looking flushed and angry.

# "What are you doing?" Her voice was cold fury. He froze and stood rigid.

# She was standing there, a rifle held firmly in her hands, the barrel pointing at his chest. It was cocked, ready to fire. Instinctively, he raised his hands, passing his tongue over his lips. He was surprised how steady she seemed. No sign of nervousness, the barrel never wavered.

# "Who are you?" She demanded, her voice cold and determined.

# He closed his eyes, forcing himself to quieten the turmoil that he felt. To fail, after only just managing to reach his destination, was crushing.

# He looked at her, seeking some way to escape. She had not moved. The same angry look was there, determined, unbending.

# He 1ifted his hands, a look of puzzlement on his face.

# "Who are you?" her voice became louder and more strident. "Tell me. Who you are?"

# He pointed to his tongue and shook his head from side to side.

# "Don't lie!" She lifted the rifle menacingly. He would never have thought that a woman would have had the determination to fire, but now he was not sure. There was coldness in her eyes that sent a shiver down his spine. This woman would not report him to the police. This woman would shoot him, and to hell with the consequences. A strange sense of exhilaration raced through him. It was exciting, such spirit. It made her very desirable.

# "I've heard you speak," she insisted.

# So she had heard, but had she been able to hear the actual words? He prayed that she had not , for if she had, he would have to kill her. He had no desire to do that. He admired her, and she had been good to him, a perfect stranger. He took a deep breath.

# "What did I say?" It seemed strange to hear his own voice after so long. It was hoarse and cracked.

# "I couldn't make it out."

# Was she lying? Did it matter? There was now just the merest glimmer of hope, just the merest chance.

# "My name is Andreas Sol," he lied, "I am a Dutchman.

# He watched her, his gaze never wavering. Did she believe him?

# "Why are you pretending to be English?" she asked. The rifle never moved. It remained pointing at his chest.

# He licked his lips again, they seemed so very dry. He took another deep breath. He was about to take an enormous risk.

# "I'm a deserter from the German Army!" he tensed, expecting to hear the crash of gun fire. "I can explain," he implored her.

# She still looked at him, her face expressionless.

# "As I said, I am Dutch, but my family lives just across the border in Germany. For many years I worked in this country since I left school."

# He saw her open her mouth, as if to ask a question. Quickly he continued. "I worked in Sheffield, doing many things. I lived with my uncle while he was alive. About a year before the war I met this girl and we were married."

# He watched as the woman's face began to relax, just a little.

# George lowered his hands and continued with the story. "About a month before war was declared I went to see my parents and before I could return, they had closed the border and I was conscripted into the German Army. I had been at the front about six months, when I got a letter, smuggled through to me, telling me that my wife was i11. She had been expecting a child. I nearly went crazy with worry. I just didn't know what to do,"

# The end of the barrel dipped just a little. George could see that the woman was listening. He prayed quietly that she would believe him, for her sake.

# "One day I was trapped out in no man's land and I found this dead British soldier, I could not believe it. He could have been my twin."

# A look of doubt crossed the woman's face. He found it amazing that the truth always seemed the hardest to believe.

# "Please! Its the truth." He was now really pleading. "So I changed out of my clothes and into his, not really knowing how I was going to get away with it, but I was desperate. I began to crawl towards the British lines when a shell landed near me. I was wounded in the face." He looked round. Suddenly he felt drained and weak.

# "Can I sit down?. I mean you no harm, quite the opposite."

# She nodded in agreement.

# "Please can you point that in another direction?" he asked, indicating the rifle. He felt that she had believed him.

# "Why have you come here?" she asked, placing the rifle against the stone wall.

# "I was in hospital for many weeks. At first I really could not speak, but then later I decided that because of my accent it would be better if I remained silent. Also I pretended to have lost my memory and eventually they set me free of the army,"

# "They discharged you," she corrected

# "Yes, that is right. Then I travelled to Sheffield to find my wife and child. But they had both died." He heard the woman gasp, and looked up. Her face had softened. He was now confident that she had believed his story.

# "The people next door. They tell the police who I really am, and I have to run away. I'm hiding in this old factory, when this other man tells me that I should come here and look for the man called Thomas Kemp. He will hide me until the war finishes. Do you know this man Kemp?"

# Rosemary turned without answering. Her eyes stung as she tried to keep the tears from running down her cheeks. She blew her nose, and walked back through the barn in the direction of the house. George noticed that she had left the rifle.

# Reaching across he picked it up.

# "The rifle!" he called

# "It's all right. It's not loaded." she called back "Will you bring it in?"

# George cradled the rifle and casually turned it over, as he followed her through the barn. He stopped and began to examine it closely. This was no ordinary shotgun, for potting the occasional rabbit or pigeon. During the early months of 1914 he had won many regimental shooting competitions, and would have gone on to compete for the Imperial Shield, had war not been declared. He had been regarded as one of the best shots in the regiment. He recognised the rifle that lay in his hands. Outwardly it appeared to be a single shot Mauser, 11mm,1871 model, but the closer he looked at it, the more astounded he became. It had been sadly neglected, but its beauty still shone through. Several radical conversions had been performed on it. Now it was nearer the small calibre French Lebel rifle. He recognised it as one of the experimental rifles produced in Switzerland by Vetterli - Vitali. The markings were faint and hard to read. Just one was visible in the half light: the double headed Imperial Eagle. Whoever this rifle belonged to, had received it from the hands of his Imperial Majesty, the Kaiser.

# This had one of the highest muzzle velocities ever produced. It had a killing range of over a mile. He lifted the bolt and drew it back. His heart missed a beat as a cartridge lifted into the chamber. The damn gun was loaded. Rosemary looked up from the washing she was folding as she heard him place the rifle on the kitchen table.

# "I'm glad you didn't know how to fire this," he remarked. Rosemary went white, as she saw him place five cartridges on the table.

# "Oh my God!" she whispered,

# "Amen", he added, for it would have put a bullet straight through him and then carried on for a further four hundred yards of uninterrupted flat trajectory flight.

# There were questions he needed to ask. Just what the hell was going on here? He felt unhappy about the events that were unfolding.

# "Thomas Kemp..."he asked once again. "Do you know him?"

# "He w..." she stopped, "He is my husband," she corrected, "I am Rosemary Kemp."

# George's explanation had been a great relief. It didn't occur to her that he might be lying. She wanted to believe him. She wanted him to be on her side, to defend her, if it were necessary. Yet, she still felt cautious enough, not to give away the fact that she was now entirely alone, just in case.

# "Is your husband here?" he asked.

# She hesitated, "Not at the moment, but I an expecting him back any day."

# "Now I am better, would you let me stay? Would your husband mind?"

# She pretended to hesitate, as though unsure.

# "I can use the room in there," he pointed across to the small parlour that had been his sick room for the past weeks. "And you can lock this door and I shall use the outside door."

# She smiled inwardly. He reminded her of her brothers, trying to persuade their father to do something against his will. She was glad he wanted to stay, but did not want him to see that she was glad. She frowned.

# "Are you afraid of what the neighbours might think?" For a moment, he thought he had said the wrong thing, for her face darkened,

# "I'm sorry did I say the wrong thing?"

# "No! It's just that the people round here aren't very friendly. I don't care what they think. Yes, you can use that room." She looked relieved that it was settled.

# "I'll get supper," she said smiling

# George looked at her, "You should smile more often."

# "There hasn't been a lot to smile about lately,"

# "Perhaps that will change now," he got up and walked to the table, and, removing the rifle, propped it against the wall.

# "Is the rifle your husband's?" he asked .

# "No! it belonged to my father."

# George looked out of the kitchen window, trying to work out, why a farmer would need such a powerful rifle. He would need to probe deeper, but now was not the time.

#

# George knelt, and, holding the piece of timber securely beneath his knee, began to drill the last hole, using a brace and bit he had found amongst the tools in the barn. The tool bit into the timber cleanly and soon he rested back on his heels and surveyed the yard. The straw was now gone, burnt, along with a lot of other rubbish. He had got the hand pump working which had enabled him to wash the yard down. He had found panes of glass, from a disused green house, to mend several of the broken windows around the house. Now he had started on the stable doors.

# Nearly a week had gone by. At first he had been on constant lookout, in case any strangers happened by. He was still nervous about accounting for his presence and certainly did not wish to speak. It was Rosemary who brought the matter to a head. She had, without thinking, stood at the door and called him.

# "Mr. Sol."

# For a moment he had not responded. It was only when she repeated the name, that he realised his mistake. Over their midday meal he had explained that it would be wiser if she referred to him, as George Bagworth. It would be safer as he had papers to prove his identity. He had better remain dumb in the presence of others. It was then he recalled that she had told the Doctor that he was her cousin. This had given him a chance to question her. With some reluctance she had explained how Wellington Carnfield had invaded her home. She mentioned nothing about her father, or that Thomas Kemp had left soon after. Just having George in the house had made her feel better.

# George lifted the stable door up on end and began to manoeuvre it into position. It took him nearly an hour, before he was satisfied that it was hanging properly. It was nearly dark when he finally walked back across the yard to the house. The day had been dry, but cold. Now it had the feel of snow. Opening the kitchen door released the rich smell of freshly baked bread cooking. It exuded warmth and comfort, a feeling he had not experienced for many years this feeling lingered, as he stood with his back against the kitchen fire. He eyed the trays that lined the kitchen table. Even Rosemary's rebuke, when he sneaked one of the still warm scones, had a relaxing comfortable air about it.

# The war, and, his part in it, seemed a long way off. Perhaps this man Kemp or whoever might never appear. He looked across to where Rosemary stood, her lower arms bare, and dusted with flour. He was in no hurry.

# 

## Chapter Nineteen

##

## The muscles in Kairda Brandon's legs ached. She was not use to this physical exercise. Relieved that the farm was now in sight, she dismounted from the heavy bicycle. It had been difficult to keep her balance, riding over the stony track.

## She'd left Grassmoor soon after breakfast. The day was sunny, and out of the wind, quite warm. It was nearly midday by the time she reached the meadows, that overlooked the farm. She was in no hurry. She would sit and eat the sandwiches Mrs. Cogan, her landlady, had made for her.

## The ground was still wet from the previous night, but a large flat stone made an admirable seat. From where she sat she could see the farm, sandwiched between the narrow road, and the railway track.

## Dark clouds gathering in the east, warned her not to idle any longer, so mounting her bicycle once again she followed the track until it reached the tarmacadam road that went past the farm..

## It was a relief to ride upon a smooth, even surface. Free wheeling down the hill, she laughed with exhilaration. The wind, tugging at her hat, threatened to sweep it away.

## She placed her bicycle against the stone gatepost, straightened her hat and coat, and began walking across the cobbled yard. She noted with pleasure how clean and neat everything was: how the wet stones glistened in the winter sunlight.

## She paused at the doorway, and looked round: it felt as though someone was watching her yet the yard was deserted. Sti11 that uncomfortable feeling of being watched, persisted. The sound of the heavy brass knocker, green and encrusted, echoed through the house. She waited. The young woman who answered the door was no older than herself. Kairda was dark and s1im.This young woman was fair, and had the healthy good looks of someone who had spent most of their life in the country.

## "Good day to you," Kairda, allowed her Sligo brogue to become heavy, as it did whenever she went to stay with her mother, yet at the same time, trying to keep it light and pleasant.

## Rosemary acknowledged her greeting noncommittally.

## Kairda held out her, gloved hand. "My name is Kairda Brandon. I teach the kiddies their reading and writing at the school, over at Grassmoor."

## Rosemary began to wipe the flour from her hands.

## Kairda smiled. "Well! Will you look at you, with your arms all covered in flour," she laughed gaily. "That makes a wonderful picture." Rosemary's face darkened, and Kairda, realising she had offended hurriedly apologised.

## "Oh! Dear, my foolish tongue, I meant no offence. There's nothing in the world like the smell of fresh bread."

## Kairda was relieved to see that her apology had been accepted, for Rosemary broke into a broad smile.

## "Is there anything I can do for you?" she inquired politely.

## "Will you listen to me, prattling on I am. Am I right in believing that Thomas Kemp lives here?"

## Rosemary said nothing. She looked at Kairda, as though seeing her for the first time, particularly her green tailored coat and matching straw hat.

## "Are you a friend?" Rosemary asked. Her voice was quiet and guarded. Kairda forced herself to sound calm and matter of fact.

## "My mother's a great friend of Thomas's. When she heard I was coming to these parts, she insisted I called." The lie sounded convincing. Rosemary relaxed.

## "I'm sorry, you have had a wasted journey, my husband is not here."

## "Your husband!" said Kairda, doing her best to keep the surprise from her voice.

## "Yes, I'm Rosemary Kemp."

## Kairda tried to conceal the anger she felt. McDowell had been quite clear. Kemp had been told to stay at the farm until her arrival. She had the other half of the photograph that Thomas needed to show the German Officer when he arrived.

## There it was again. 0ut of the corner of her eye, she was certain that she saw movement. Now positive that she was being watched, she became more determined still to get inside the house, to find out more from this woman.

## She stamped her foot with annoyance.

## "Would you believe that, and I've ridden all this way for nothing. I'm absolutely parched, and now I've got to struggle all the way back up that terrible road. I'll be exhausted by the time I get back."

## Rosemary tutted sympathetically. "Come in and rest a while, before you go back. 1've just brewed a fresh pot,"

## "You're an angel you are, that's for sure," Kairda remarked.

## From his position in the hay loft. George clearly heard the two women laugh as they disappeared into the house. George crouched down, with his back against the hay loft wa1l. Kemp's disappearance had become a severe irritation. George now realised that perhaps relying on other people to supply him with vital information had been a mistake. Now he was stuck. Unless Kemp reappeared the whole affair had been a waste of time. Yet he was surprised at how calm he felt. He found himself viewing the affair, as though he were an onlooker and not the lynch pin. Did these so called revolutionaries have the ability to carry this thing through?

## He was supremely confident of his own abilities but, as the days passed, he became more and more concerned that they might place him in a position of great danger. His confidence in them was beginning to wane rapidly. On the other hand, Rosemary seemed to have accepted him completely. In some ways her trust was unnerving. She seemed to have taken the pretence, that he was a distant relative, completely to heart. She was happier, and more relaxed. He was conscious, that he was living alone with a very beautiful, married woman.

## He had, right from the outset, resisted the temptation to become involved. He remained polite and courteous, but distant. Yet as the days went by, he began to notice that he was complimenting her beyond the normal limits of politeness: on her cooking, on how nice she looked. In turn, he had noticed her several times staring at him, as he sat at the table cleaning his boots. Her face serene and contented. He had been careful to feign tiredness then and retire to the small parlour that had been converted into his room. He was not made of stone and was relieved to hear her lock the communicating door.

## It was nearly an hour later, when he saw Kairda leave the house. He'd been aware that, although she hadn't seen him, she had been conscious of his presence. He watched her ride slowly up the hill and look back towards the farm, before finally disappearing out of sight.

## He finished his repairs, and returned to the house. The sun had disappeared behind dark snow-filled clouds. He thought of the woman cycling across the moors, seeking the warmth of her home, before darkness fell.

## George sat and listened to Rosemary, as he ate his supper. She spoke of this and that, nothing of consequence. He became quite impatient, waiting for her to say something about the visitor. He was relieved, when finally she did.

## "What brought her here?" asked George.

## "She came looking for Thomas," she replied nonchalantly. "Said, their mothers knew each other."

## "Did you believe her?"

## "Why shouldn't I?" She looked at him startled.

## "Well he is wanted by the police. You never know, she may have belonged to the secret police."

## She looked at him strangely. As soon as he said it, he realised how stupid he had been.

## "That was stupid!" He laughed self-consciously. "At least that's something they don't have over here."

## "She's a teacher from Grassmoor," Rosemary said.

## "Did she say where she lived, before coming here?"

## Rosemary shrugged. "All she said was that she had trained in Dublin."

## Later he sat in his room, and gazed at the jagged half photograph, he had removed from his wallet. He found a drawing pin and pinned it to the frame of the mirror, above the chest of drawers. The young woman gave him an uncomfortable feeling.

## The following morning, George stood holding Templeton's head. The old horse was contented to stand there and wait, while Rosemary climbed into the trap.

## "Why you should start thinking that now, I shall never know?" she commented. "It is not the first time I've been across to the market at Grassmoor,"

## George nodded, "I know," he agreed. "It's just that I think I should come with you."

## "That's not wise. What if the police spot you? Then what would you do?" She looked down at him, a look of concern on her face. "No, you're safer here."

## "I have a strange feeling, perhaps it's the weather," he said, trying to find some excuse, for her not to go. "The snow might be quite thick on the tops."

## "I doubt it," she laughed. "Very little has settled down here."

## She gathered up the reins. "Don't worry I shall be all right."

## He stood and watched her leave. The nagging worry he had, persisted.

## It took her less than an hour to drive into the small market town. The journey was a constant reminder of the day her father had been buried. The hurt and humiliation of that day still burnt deep inside her. She still found it hard to believe that people, she had been to school with, and had regarded as friends, now ignored and insulted her. Their narrow, bigoted, minds, preferring to believe the wicked lies that Wellington Carnfield had spread before he disappeared.

## Tethering the horse near the outskirts of .the market, she gathered up her baskets, and walked the short distance to where the stalls were assembled. The market was crowded. It made her nervous. She moved amongst the stalls, buying the things she needed. People were happy and noisy for it was near Christmas. Gradually Rosemary relaxed and began to enjoy the atmosphere. The stalls were mainly set out in the centre of the Market Place. A few were positioned along the road side, leaving just enough room for the carts to get by. Rosemary was so engrossed in choosing some lace edging, with which she intended to trim a dress, that she did not notice she was being watched.

## Wellington Carnfield watched her with increasing interest. He had been drinking most of the morning. Suddenly, downing his glass of rum he began to shoulder his way through the crowd, ignoring the cries of protest.

## He emerged from the side entrance and stood in the shadows watching Rosemary getting closer to where he was standing. He reached out and gripped her arm.

## "What we got here then?" he slurred, delighting in the look of horror that spread across her face.

## Rosemary pulled her arm away. She turned, tried to walk away but for all the drink Wellington had consumed, he was still able to move swiftly, and block her path.

## "Where you going?" he asked with false astonishment, trying to place a hand, once again on her sleeve. "I thought you would be pleased to see me."

## She looked at, him contemptuously. "You are the last person I want to see, considering what you have done."

## Wellington laughed.

## "She's not your type," shouted a collier, one of a crowd of men nearby, who were beginning to take an interest. The others laughed. "Too posh for the likes of you, Wellington."

## Wellington went red in the face. "Too posh! She didn't say that the last time I was in her bedroom." he sniggered, turning his face sideways so that his voice could be heard. Loud raucous laughter came from the crowd. There were gasps of disapproval from several of the women.

## Rosemary felt the blood rush to her face and tears welling up in her eyes. Not again, she thought.

## "Aye!" she cried out, "Murdering my father, he was; that's what this monster was doing.

## There were gasps of astonishment from the crowd.

## "You believe this Prussian whore, do you?" Wellington shouted. At this the crowd fell silent. "Didn't you know that her father was a Prussian spy. Tried to kill me."

## The silence was frightening,

## "It's not true," protested Rosemary tearfully, the anger she felt quelled by the sudden malevolence of the crowd.

## Suddenly from the bottom end of the market, came the noise of a horse and cart being driven at speed, the crack of a whip followed by the clatter of hooves upon the cobble stones.

## "Look out!"... "What's she doing?"... "She's mad!" came voices from the crowd.

## Cries filled the air, as the crowd parted in panic.

## Rosemary turned and saw to her horror, a horse and trap bearing down upon her. She too, tried to move back, but the crowd was too dense. The trap stopped just by her, its wheels barely missing her.

## "Get in!" a voice above her ordered and looking up Rosemary saw that it was the young woman who had called the previous day. Relieved, she quickly climbed aboard and hung on as her rescuer cracked the whip, forcing the horse forward and out of the reaches of the crowd.

## Neither of them spoke until they were clear of the market.

## "There, I think we're well clear of those roughens," Kairda panted, allowing the reins to drop. "It's a bad state of affairs, when a respectable woman can't go about, without fear of being molested."

## Rosemary sat there, in shock.

## "Are you all right?" inquired Kairda gently.

## "Yes! I think so." replied Rosemary. "It was frightening, all those people. How can I ever thank you?"

## "Thank goodness we were passing," replied Kairda. She sat back, and studied her companion carefully.

## "We?" questioned Rosemary.

## "My Headmaster, Mr. Simmons, had kindly offered me a lift."

## Rosemary swayed and would have fallen, had it not been for Kairda holding on to her.

## "You're in no state to drive home yourself."

## At that moment, Mr. Simmons appeared accompanied by a tall, round shouldered man in a heavy coat carrying a bag.

## "Miss Brandon, what have you been doing? The market is in turmoil." Kairda looked at him unrepentant.

## "And so it should be! This good lady has been molested by a crowd of roughens... She needs to see a Doctor."

## Mr. Simmons could not fault Kairda Brandon. Young as she was, she was a natural born teacher. Her manner on the other hand was something else. He found her forthrightness overwhelming. A gentle man by nature, he was struggling to maintain his position against such a determined personality. He opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the round shouldered gentleman.

## "Perhaps I can help, Miss Brandon."

## "And who might you be?" she asked directly.

## "My name is Broughtman, Doctor Timothy Broughtman."

## "You're very young to be practising in these parts," Kairda stated bluntly. "Aren't you all fighting at the front"?

## Doctor Broughtman looked at her silently, as though undecided whether to reply.

## He chose to ignore her and Kairda felt herself redden with a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

## Turning to Rosemary he smiled. He climbed up into the trap and felt her brow, before taking her pulse. "There's nothing a good night's sleep won't cure; incidentally, how is your patient? Has he fully recovered yet?"

## Kairda turned her head slightly, straining to catch what the Doctor was saying. so there was someone else at the farm, after all.

## "She can't possibly drive herself back," she protested loudly. "I'll drive her back and Mr. Simmons will follow in her trap, wont you!"

## Mr. Simmons did not look pleased, but he agreed.

## Just then Doctor Broughtman had a severe attack of coughing. Kairda looked across, "Physician cure thyself," she called.

## The Doctor looked up. "Miss Brandon there are times when your candour is refreshing. This is not one of them. One does not recover readily from the effects of a gas attack. Perhaps that answers your question about whether I should be at the front or not."

## He lifted his hat, turned and walked off.

## Kairda stood staring after him. Then she looked at Rosemary and smiled rather sheepishly.

## "Well that put me in my place, didn't it?"

## They drove in silence for most of the journey, and had reached the crown of the hill, leading to the farm, before Rosemary mentioned Christmas. She was surprised that Kairda was not going home but was staying at her lodgings.

## "You must come and have Christmas with us," Rosemary proclaimed.

## "Us?" exclaimed Kairda. "Has your husband returned?"

## "Oh! No I'm afraid he hasn't," Rosemary bit her lip, annoyed at her slip. "My Mother's family, who live in Wales, have sent one of the boys to help me."

## "I see," replied Kairda. "Is it he, who's been poorly?"

## Rosemary nodded. Kairda was disappointed, for a moment she had thought perhaps Kemp had returned, but never mind it would be better than Christmas in her lodgings.

## "Yes, I'd love to spend Christmas with you."

## Kairda swung the trap, through the gates, and into the yard. George was struggling with a wheelbarrow full of stones, to mend the hole in the barn wa1l. He looked up, alarmed, at the sound of the horse end trap clattering on the cobbled yard.

## "Come on, don't just stand there!" Kairda called. "Mrs. Kemp needs your help. She's been accosted by roughens."

## George frowned, and moved quickly across to help Rosemary down. He said nothing, but looked questioningly at her.

## "It's all right, I'm better now."

## Kairda came round from the other side.

## "You'd no business letting her go out on her own." She wagged a scornful finger at George. "I'd have thought you'd have had more sense. A lot of help you are."

## George frowned, and looked from one to the other.

## "Haven't you anything to say for yourself?" demanded Kairda. She turned indignantly to Rosemary. "What's up with him? Cat got his tongue?"

## Rosemary looked alarmed. George put his hand to his mouth

## "He can't speak, the war." said Rosemary defensively.

## Kairda mumbled a reluctant apology.

## The somewhat timid voice of Mr. Simmons, from the gateway, reminded her of his presence.

## "I have to go," she smiled. "I look forward to Christmas."

## George followed her to the gateway and watched until they disappeared from sight,

## Rosemary had gone into the house.George found her sitting at the table.

## "I told you it was not safe."

## Rosemary looked up. "How was I to know that Wellington Carnfield would still be around these parts?"

## "This man, Wellington Carnfield. He causes you much trouble.?"

## Rosemary nodded.

## "Perhaps, it is a good thing that I stay here. That woman, did she save you?"

## Rosemary looked up eagerly. "Yes! I was lucky she came by, She's not going to her home for Christmas and so I have asked her here."

## "You have invited her here....for how long?"

## "Just the two days. Does it matter?"

## Rosemary had not considered how George would react. In truth, she had not given it a lot of thought. George remained silent, Rosemary could see that he was not very happy about it.

## "You don't like the idea?"

## He said nothing, but just looked at her.

## "Well?" she insisted.

## "Now you speak of it. No! I don't."

## "Why not?" protested Rosemary. "She's alone. It would make me happy to have the house full of people again, anyhow this is my house!"

## George stood looking into space for several seconds. Then he nodded reluctantly. "You forget, I am supposed to be unable to speak."

## Rosemary put her hand to her mouth. "I'm sorry, I had forgotten."

## He looked sideways at her. "It doesn't matter. I talk too much!" He smiled at her indulgently.

##

## The boy sat astride the low stone wall kicking his legs back and forth. On seeing Kairda approach, he swung his leg over and dismounted as though it had been a horse. Her landlady's twelve year old son was a stocky youth, for his age, and could pass for sixteen without any trouble. He had learnt to do as he was told from an early age, and keep silent. Now he was trusted with messages of some importance.

## Kairda braked and dismounted from her bicycle. The boy stepped forward.

## "Me Mam say's the man (James McDowell) is waiting for yer against the reccy's old pavilion." He didn't wait for a reply, but sped off in the direction of the heap where his pals would be waiting.

## Kairda looked after him, she felt nervous, and immediately rebuked herself for there was no reason for being so. She had carried out her instructions to the letter. She had passed on the various messages to those who needed to know. The method avoided Post Office and the censor.

## Her visits to the local railway station and the parcel, which looked like food, that she gave to a small cheery faced guard, aroused no suspicion, neither did the small parcel of books, addressed to the school, that she received in return. She would then, in the safety of her lodgings, retrieve from the hard book cover, fresh instructions. She felt confident that everything was moving smoothly, except for one thing.

## She approached the pavilion on foot: a dilapidated building infrequently used these days, now that so many of the young men were at the front. The ceiling of the wide veranda beneath which on previous summers cricketers had lounged, had fallen in, rain having leaked through the roof. She leant her bicycle against the wood rail and walked carefully past the fallen timbers and pushed gently at the glass panelled doors that led into the main room of the pavilion.

## She jumped: McDowell was sitting on a box directly opposite, his dull brown raincoat done up to the neck, a soft felt hat pulled down over his eyes. He was writing in a note book. He looked up as she entered, for a moment he looked threatening. He stood up and pushing the book into his raincoat pocket, took off his hat.

## He smiled expansively, "I'm sorry I made you jump."

## He stepped forward and taking hold of her arm, guided her to the box and offered her his seat.

## "It's the best I can offer." He laughed and for a moment said nothing but just looked at her admiringly. Kairda felt embarrassed.

## "You've done well, everybody is most impressed." Kairda breathed a sigh of relief.

## Putting his hands deep inside his pockets, he began to pace up and down the empty room. There was a strong smell of mould and damp.

## "The main targets have been identified. The railway junctions at Crewe, Carlisle, Leeds, and Tinsly at Sheffield. The times of the ammunition trains are known and now we just need to pin- point their location in the marshalling yards

## He turned and taking his hands from his pockets began rubbing them together. He looked down at Kairda, a self- satisfied look on his face,

## "All we need now is our expert. Have you been to the farm?"

## Kairda nodded indicating that she had. McDowell's face lit up.

## "And what did Kemp have to say?"

## Kairda drew in a deep breath and prayed quietly to herself that McDowell's temper would not be directed at her.

## "He is not there, neither is the German Officer." She watched as McDowell scowled. "Just Kemp's wife."

## "Wife ..." The words hissed from between McDowell's clenched teeth. He turned away, obviously trying to control himself. He stood looking out through the dirty, cracked windows.

## "I've made friends with the woman," Kairda offered in way of conciliation. "She's invited me for Christmas, so I'll find out what is going on."

## McDowell continued to look out across the grass field, deep in thought. Kairda rose to her feet and moved to his side, looking up into his face. She saw doubt and concern line his forehead; his eyes were closed, he appeared to be concentrating deeply. Suddenly, he jerked his head upright as though his mind was now made up.

## "Very well....Do that." He looked confident once again. "I shall be staying with a friend over Christmas; I'll," he hesitated for a moment, "see you here, noon Christmas Eve."

## He adjusted his hat and, wishing her good day, left.

##

## 

# Chapter Twenty.

# Charnwood Estate 23rd December 1915.

# The problem regarding the German officer and Thomas Kemp, whilst impinging upon his inner most thoughts, did not prevent James McDowell from feeling generally pleased with 1ife. A born optimist, and with Christmas approaching, he was confident that within the next twelve months he would reap his just rewards; but the question " what if" persisted. Thomas Kemp could be dealt with swiftly, he merely had to give the instruction and Kemp would suffer a fatal "accident". The German Officer was another matter but it was nothing he couldn't deal with. McDowell shut his eyes and allowed the glorious sense of power to wash over him. The heat from the fire, in front of which his legs were gently roasting, filled the room with a soporific atmosphere. He lifted the glass of brandy to his lips and sipped slowly. From over the edge of the glass his eyes scanned the room. It was small, yet pleasantly furnished. There was a soft sensitive touch about the decorations: it had a comfortable feel about it.

# He was grateful to the young man, whose guest he was, for inviting him. The strain of the past few months had worn him out, he needed to rest, and regain his strength. This tiny stone built house, tucked away in a far corner of the Charnwood estate, suited him admirably. Near to one of the smaller gateways that led to the main house, some five miles away, it allowed him to come and go as he pleased. This refuge, this haven, was a blessing, as was its tenant.

# Stuart Ibreac was an aristocratic young man, a wispy youth who, while displaying a certain grace that had attracted McDowell, had that languid, flower-like expression of an aimless existence? He regarded himself as handsome and debonair and could not understand why he was not universally popular. He knew he was not liked by the Duke's close family, but then it was mutual, for he regarded them as uncouth, only interested in hunting and the like. What cut deeply was the disrespect shown to him by the staff, for although he was only distantly related to the old Duke, on his mother's side, he was still family. He felt bitter towards them all, and felt no sense of gratitude at having been taken in when his devoted mother had died. That bitterness had turned to hatred after he read her diaries. Diaries that revealed secrets of his birth beyond his wildest dreams..

# The plans that James McDowell had disclosed to him, had turned what had been a romantic dream into hope and ambition. It gave him the strength to withstand the rebukes and taunts cast upon him. He accepted his position as assistant to the agent with the inner satisfaction that one day he would reap his revenge.

# The man who had given him that strength, that comfort, love and sympathy, now sat across the fireplace from him. They were a solace to each other. It pleased Ibreac that here was someone that he too could comfort and could offer words of encouragement to, during those times of despair. There had been many evenings he had sat at the knee of the older man and listened to his inner most thoughts.

# "Why do we need this German fellow?" he asked naively.

# James McDowell smiled condescendingly. Ibreac didn't mind.

# "The Germans will help us and the Irish, provided we help them" McDowell explained. "It's as simple as that. They need us to destroy the vital railway junctions, through which all arms and ammunition are pouring, to prevent both French and British forces from building up their supplies for the big offensive in the spring." McDowell frowned. "The trouble is, we can't get near enough; they are too well protected. 0ur compatriots in the marshalling yards can do so much, but not enough. It's a11 a matter of getting a bomb into one of the munitions trains with a delayed timing, but there is no one who we can trust, who is capable of building it accurately enough. That's why we need this German Engineer, he has the reputation of being the best."

# This seemed to satisfy the young man. What McDowell had said had been the truth, but not the complete truth. It was all he felt the young man needed to know. Stuart Ibreac sat up and leaning across, poured a fresh measure into his friend's glass.

# "This offensive you speak of," he remarked nonchalantly. "The big push," he added mockingly.

# James McDowell murmured his acknowledgment.

# "They meet here to discuss it.... did you know that?"

# McDowell's eyes popped opened. He sat up and leaned forward in the chair.

# "Explain yourself," he demanded

# "Every few weeks, they have a shoot here or that's what it's supposed to be." The young man felt very pleased with himself. "But in fact they gather across at the Old Hunting Lodge and do most of the planning. They talk about other things as well, to do with the war but it's mainly about civilian law and things like that."

# "How do you know this?" McDowell looked sceptical. "You're not exactly privy to the innermost circle around here," he mocked.

# Ibreac reddened; he glanced to the floor tight lipped. After a few seconds he lifted his head and looked McDowell full in the face, defiantly. "I have a young friend, a footman over at the big house. Our so-called masters are so arrogant that they never acknowledge his existence. So when these meetings are held, he's often brought along to help and they are just not aware of his presence and talk quite openly about anything and everything."

# "Who attends these meetings?" McDowell was now giving Ibreac his undivided attention,

# "Most of the War Committee."

# McDowell sat forward on the edge of the chair.

# "You mean Lloyd George, Minister for Munitions and Field Marshal Kitchener, Secretary of State for War?" he suggested incredulously

# "I'm also told that the First Lord of the Admiralty Winston Churchill, as well Sir William Robertson and Lord Fisher have been there." Ibreac added.

# McDowell whistled softly between closed lips, "Chief of the Imperial General Staff, and the First Sea Lord."

# "Even the union leaders, Arthur Henderson, David Kirkwood and A.J.Cook, the miners' leader have attended."

# McDowell rose to his feet and, turning, looked out through the window into the gathering darkness; he was fighting to regain his composure, fearful that the horror and anger he felt would show on his face. His inside had turned to ice, and something gripped his throat. He swallowed, fighting for breath. He could feel a hot flush of rage and frustration beginning to boil up inside him. He hated and dreaded the unknown. What was going on, he thought. Nothing good, as far as he was concerned, that was obvious.

# No secret meetings between the War Committee, the Chief of staff, and union leaders could produce anything but a sell out for the working man, not to speak of his own plans. But No! Through his rage he suddenly realised that this was not a disaster but an opportunity, and what an opportunity. Never mind the marshalling yards; this was the place where he could use the German engineer's skills to real effect.

# He looked back at the young man. Stuart Ibreac had now become an important cog in his machine. He smiled at the lad, and reaching over, stroked the boy's cheek.

# "You've done well."

# Ibreac looked pleased.

# "I need to know more about these meetings," pursued McDowell. "Can you do that for me?"

# The young man looked frightened. The older man placed an arm round his shoulder, "It will help me to get for you, what you richly deserve."

# Stuart Ibreac smiled, he was still frightened, but he would do it.

# McDowell made a mental note to tell Kairda of the new developments when he met her tomorrow.

Cross Keys Farm. Christmas Eve.

# George toyed with the food on his plate. He was annoyed. He was also suspicious of their guest. Kairda had arrived at the farm just before dark, her meeting with McDowell had taken longer than expected. She had little to add to what she had already told him and yet he had seemed to be very edgy. He said nothing of consequence but seemed to indicate that there had been a change: something had happened, some thing closer to home, he mention the name Charnwood.

# Although Kairda had outwardly accepted Rosemary's explanation of George's presence, judging from the way she looked at him on occasions, with never wavering eyes, George was not sure that she was entirely convinced. For all her amiable manner, Rosemary did not seem happy in their company, Some of Kairda's remarks were provoking, as though she were trying to seek hidden information. Time and time again, she would refer to some family matter, as though trying to draw Rosemary to talk about her past. This, he could see, made Rosemary feel uncomfortable. He felt frustrated that he was unable to help.

# He himself was relieved that her father had come from Prussia, for it explained why she had so readily accepted his story, but it did worry him that this had caused antagonism from the local community, casting suspicion on all who stayed at the farm. He was relieved to hear Rosemary keeping the chatter light and pleasant, avoiding any reference to her family, other than to say that they were all dead.

# Kairda, on the other hand, was finding this irksome. No matter how hard she tried, Rosemary would not talk about Thomas Kemp. Kairda was sure that she was hiding something: whether it had anything to do with her, she couldn't tell.

# Kairda felt dispirited. Perhaps she had expected it all to slip into place too easily. Listening to McDowell as he had explained her part, she had been impressed by his confidence and his assured manner. He was so different from Pearse. She loved Pearse in the same way as she loved beauty and music. Pearse's oratory lifted her spirits until she cried out for joy. McDowell was more dynamic, earthy and physical. He had a presence she found intense, so much so that even now she would find herself blushing at the thought of him. His words had been exciting, his plan audacious, without doubt, dangerous. The danger only added to the powerful surge of adrenaline she had felt.

# Now it was dissolving, she felt as though she was failing to live up to their expectations. Success depended on everyone playing their part. Her instructions were precise and she had followed them, yet she had hardly begun and things were going wrong. Kemp, had caused repercussions beyond her control, and the appearance of this cousin was an additional problem. Now McDowell would not be able to use the farm house to store the equipment and the German Officer would not be able to arrive here discreetly. It was later, when George rose from his chair and went outside to refill the coal scuttle that Rosemary took Kairda across into the room George now occupied, to gather extra blankets and linen from the deep chest in the corner.

# Kairda followed Rosemary in, and glanced round the room. There was a small bed in the corner and heavy ornate furniture that in some way seemed too grand for such a place. Rosemary was busy sorting out the sheets and pillowcases, when she heard Kairda gasp, she looked up and saw Kairda staring intently, at something out of sight behind the door.

# Puzzled, Rosemary reached out and pulled the door back. Kairda was gazing at a photograph. She reached out and took hold of it in her hand, gently rubbing her finger down jagged cut edge.

# "Who is this?" Kairda asked her voice husky with emotion.

# "I don't know," replied Rosemary nonchalantly. "It belongs to George."

# Again Kairda gasped,

# "Is there anything wrong?" inquired Rosemary.

# Kairda hurriedly replaced the photograph against the vase. Turning she forced a smile.

# "There's a remarkable resemblance to my own. Mother," she lied, and then a puzzled look crossed her face.

# "You didn't know the lady?" she inquired, her voice now intense and tight.

# With that she walked out of the room.

# Rosemary quickly gathered up some blankets.

# "It was a big family," she muttered. "Can you bring the sheets?"

# George rose early on Christmas morning. He riddled the fire and then went outside and looked out across the railway track to the meadows beyond. He was, to all intents and purposes, the man of the house, for as the weeks passed and there was still no sign of Kemp, he had begun to settle into this way of life. Rosemary was beginning to impinge upon his emotions more and more as the days went by. He was now very conscious of her as she moved around the house, the rustle of her skirts, the aroma of the heather and musk which she placed amongst her clothes. The temptation to place his hand upon hers, to touch her, was becoming harder to resist each day but resist he had to, if only for her sake. She must not know why he was here, for it would place her in great danger. If anything happened to her, it would only add to his existing nightmare. He prayed that Kemp would arrive soon, for then at least his feelings for Rosemary would have to be thrust to the back of his mind.

# "A penny for your thoughts, Mein Herr!"

# He jumped, and looking round found Kairda standing beside him. He had not heard her approach.

# He looked at her, a puzzled expression on his face.

# "Oh! I'd forgotten you can't speak," she said.

# Her tone of voice put George on his guard. He was relieved to see Rosemary walking across towards them. He left the two women and went through to the hen house to collect any eggs. He could see Kairda from there; she seemed in good spirits, eagerly talking to Rosemary.

# It was after breakfast when Kairda broached the matter of a Christmas tree, or rather the lack of one,

# "Its not Christmas without a tree to decorate," she protested mildly.

# It was something that neither George nor Rosemary had thought about. Kairda was right of course, but it was too late now.

# "Oh! No." Kairda cried. "Aren't there some firs on the far side of the valley?"

# She cast all their argument aside, while Rosemary stayed here at the farm, she and George would ride over and get a tree that morning.

# "It'll only take a couple of hours, and it'll make all the difference."

# She helped George to harness up the small trap and soon they left the farm, and began to make their way down through the village. It was still early and hardly anyone was about. They turned at the bottom of the hill, where the hotel was situated, and began to make their way towards the railway bridge. The sight of a man sitting outside the hotel, so early, struck George as strange, for the pit was shut for the day and not another soul was in sight. The man was dressed strangely. He wore a vivid blue velvet jacket, which was worse for wear, and a pair of green corduroy trousers. A passing gypsy George thought.

# He nodded as he passed. The man looked at him, but did not return his greeting. Instead he scowled, as though George had done him some harm. George turned away. He could not recall ever seeing the man before. He wasn't to know that Wellington Carnfield had recognised the horse and trap, and therefore knew that George was from the farm. They passed over the railway track and out across the bottom of the valley until they began to climb slowly through the cutting and up into the gorge that led to the fir plantations on the ridge ahead. They rode in silence. George occasionally squinting out of the corner of his eye at the woman seated beside him. Kairda seemed composed and relaxed. It was a crisp, sunny morning, and the church bells could be clearly heard, calling the parishioners to the Christmas morning service.

# George felt uncomfortable in this woman's company. At first he had felt indifference exuding from the woman, later this had turned to irritation, and even aggression. Then suddenly, after he had returned from banking up the fires and the two women were in the kitchen, her attitude had changed. He was in the pantry when he first noticed her looking at him strangely, in an almost flirtatious manner, as though they now shared a secret.

# Kairda guided him now, offering clear directions till he began to think she had been here before. Slowly they wound their way up the narrow track that led to the crest of the ridge.

# "Look?" Kairda cried, "There's one.... Just the size for us."

# Relieved that at last they had reached their destination, George halted the trap and jumping down, dragged a spade from the back. He walked to the edge of the copse and began to dig up a small spruce, breaking it free of the ground and holding it aloft in triumph. Kairda was standing up in the trap studying what looked like a small map. She noticed George and smiled a slow confident smile. She seemed almost to be challenging him, to what he had no idea.

# She folded the map and replaced it carefully inside her bag. George tied the small spruce to the rear of the trap. Kairda was now holding the reins.

# "You don't mind, do you?" She smiled.

# George shrugged his shoulders, and walking to, the other side, climbed in. He watched with silent admiration, as she skillfully manoeuvered the trap round on the narrow track and proceeded to guide it down the slope. On reaching the bottom, instead of retracing their steps, she swung the horse round and headed away from the direction they had come. George touched her arm and pointed. She smiled, and placing a finger to her lips, indicated that he should be patient. She sat there as though amused and was about to disclose a great surprise.

# They travelled for about half a mile, until they had reached another part of the ridge. She stopped and climbed down, indicating that he should follow. He followed her through the trees, until they reached a point overlooking the next valley. Here she halted and waited for him to join her. She was leaning with her back against a tree, her arms folded. On the far side of the valley George could just make out the shape of a large house hidden amongst the trees.

# "Don't you think this is a beautiful view, George......... or would you prefer me to call you Richard, personally I think that's a much nicer name?" Her voice had a soft lilting tone.

# He drew in a deep breath, releasing the air slowly from his lungs through pursed lips. He had been looking away from her, and was able to hide the consternation that he felt. The wounds in his face tightened, the nerve ends stinging. He could feel the thump of his heart against his ribs. He began slowly to turn, allowing himself as much time as possible to gain control of himself.

# She was still leaning against the tree, her shoulders pinned back against the rough bark, and her hips thrust forward. She was much slimmer than Rosemary, her small breasts barely giving shape to her fitted coat. A strong-faced woman, attractive in a masculine way, with deep penetrating eyes, and high cheek bones she looked proud and rebellious. Yet, there was a great sensuality about her. His eyes focused on the object she held in her gloved hand. It was the jagged half of a photograph: which half he could not see, had she removed it from his room? And how did she know his real name? He felt himself sweating from uncertainty

# He said nothing, but walked back away from her as though surveying the terrain whilst keeping her in view until she disappeared behind the tree. He continued walking round the tree until he could see her once again.

# She had not moved, supremely confident and assured, as though certain of her role. Quietly he walked towards her; she gave no indication of hearing him.

# "Have you made up your mind?" she asked mockingly. She was on the verge of turning her head, when his right hand snaked over her shoulder and seized both the photograph and the hand holding it. His left grasped her throat in a vice like grip, between the fingers of her gloved hand he could make out the features of his father.

# He clasped her to him, as though they were lovers.

# "Where did you get this from?" he growled.

# Gone from her eyes was the smug self-assured look, and in its place were pain, anger and fear. She struggled, wriggling to free her other arm. She thrust into his face a hand holding the jagged photograph of his mother that had been in his room at the farm.

# "They match perfectly," she gasped in a strangled voice.

# George eased his grip, but he did not release her.

# "You haven't answered my question'?" he demanded.

# "Suddenly you've found your voice:.:.., Herr. Shoemaker...... perhaps that answers your question." she replied.

# He released her, and went and squatted on his heels some yards away, watching her as she brushed her self down and straightened her hair.

# "Where is Kemp?" he asked.

# "I don't know." She suddenly felt very nervous. George's reaction had been a surprise, an unpleasant surprise. It disturbed her confidence. Her throat felt sore where he had gripped her. Would he have killed her?

# "What are you doing with that?" he said pointing at the photograph. He felt agitated; it had been a severe shock. After waiting all these weeks and expecting Kemp to appear, to be suddenly confronted by a woman, he shivered suddenly, a woman who knew who he really was. This whole affair was beginning to frighten him. Was their organisation so lax that they even told couriers such details? What if she had been caught by the police. She could ruin the whole affair.

# "I was instructed to give this to Kemp," she replied.

# "Is that why you came to the farm?"

# She nodded.

# "Who sent you?"

# She ignored his question. She was angry at the treatment that George had meted out and objected to his intimidating manner. She was not inclined to tell him any more than was necessary.

# "All you need to know," she replied, "Is that your targets are ready." She looked out across the valley, towards Charnwood

# George followed her look, all he could see was the roof of a house on the far side. Had he travelled all this way and suffered so much just to blow up a house, something the average quarryman could easily accomplish in his dinner break.

# He remained squatting on his heels. He reached down and gathered a handful of rich loamy soil. It was soft, the result of leaves rotting beneath this ancient oak for many years. He pondered how deep it might be? He rose to his feet, and strolled back to where she was standing. Once again he turned and studied the house. Suddenly he swung round. His hand shot forward and gripping her by the throat with his thumb and fore finger, caressed her cheek with the palm of his hand, his face only inches from hers as about to kiss her.

# "You are the only person who knows my identity. Tell me the truth. Where is Kemp? And who sent you?" He lifted his other soil filled hand and showed her how easily the soil slipped through his fingers. "If you don't, I shall bury you beneath this tree in the deep soft earth...Do you understand?.... You won't be the first one," he added

# Her eyes were wide and filled with panic, as she looked into his eyes. There was a calmness about the man that frightened her, as though killing his fellow human beings was a natural occurrence to him.

# Yes.. She understood.

# Chapter Twenty One.

### Mrs. Benton's Lodgings Derby

### Thomas Kemp lay half awake, half asleep. There was something soft and warm lying on his left arm. He could feel pins and needles in his fingers.

"Come on Tom, its getting light," a voice whispered urgently in his ear.

### Without opening his eyes, he reached across and began to caress the soft smooth stomach of the girl lying beside him. He lifted himself onto his side, and leaning across, gripped her ear lobe between his teeth, his hand gently moving down her stomach as he searched her body.

### The girl moaned softly, as he began to lift himself above her.

### Suddenly she stopped and opening her eyes wide, pushed him violently away.

"No! Tom, there isn't time. Mum will be getting up any moment, and she mustn't find you here."

Thomas flopped back and stared up at the ceiling. Reluctantly, he pushed the covers aside and crawled out of the warm bed. He shivered as he pulled on his trousers for the bedroom was freezing. Quickly he scrambled into the rest of his clothes, and tiptoed to the door. Opening it, he looked back to where a pair of eyes peeped out from beneath a pile of bedclothes. Winking, he closed the door quietly behind him. Thirty minutes later, Mrs. Benton looked at him suspiciously as she took away his empty porridge bowl, and put a plate of bacon and tomatoes in its place.

"Good morning, Mrs. Benton," Thomas said jovially. The woman just snorted, as she gathered up the bowls and headed for the kitchen.

The small, compact man seated next to Thomas, chuckled, and leaning across, whispered, "You see that walking stick by the door?"

### Thomas nodded.

"If she ever catches you in Mary's bed, she'll lay that across you so hard that you'11 never forget it."

"She's got to catch me first," grinned Thomas .

"She will, mark my words." stated his table companion." You know why? Cause you're getting too cocky."

# "That's what Mary's getting," Tom laughed.

# The older man just shook his head despairingly.

# "Any rate," Thomas added. "You'll not split on me, will you Alex?"

# Alexander Broughtman looked at the young man, and chuckled quietly to himself. Other people's morals were not his concern.

# He pushed away his empty plate and finished off the remainder of his cup of tea. He rose and crossed to the sideboard, where Mrs. Benton had left their dinner boxes. Gathering one up, he looked across to where Thomas sat.

# "Come on, we've got those new wagons coming in this morning."

# Thomas gulped down his tea and got up from the table.

# Alexander Broughtman enjoyed the walk down London Road and across the yards to the railway workshop where they worked. It gave him time to think, to sort out what he needed to do. He had been up here nearly two months, and reckoned it was time he made his move. He had spent most of the autumn trying to find out more information about the Shoemaker, but the telegrams from America had stopped, and the whole matter seemed to have died a death. He was forced to accept that, probably Langly had been right and the man had been killed trying to cross through British lines. Before leaving Rotterdam, he had arranged with Langly, to be kept informed of anything Malinin did, or said, that might be useful and the Sea Captain had kept his word. Periodically Broughtman would receive a letter .

# Meanwhile, although he strove to maintain his independence. Broughtman felt that he was duty bound to help his masters where ever he could. The sudden increase in fires and other apparent accidents that were occurring in and around the Derby Railway Workshops, prompted him to accept the suggestion that he might get a job in that area. He was a trained engineer, and had a good chance of locating the cause of these accidents. If they were accidents.

# Having convinced his work mates of his extreme socialist views, he had been directed to Mrs. Benton's lodging house. Mrs. Benton's husband was serving five years hard labour, in Dartmoor Prison, for nearly killing a policeman during a Union riot in 1913. Since then, the Benton's lodging house had been used as a safe house for all those who defied the authorities.

# There had been a hard frost and pools of rainwater were solid. A biting wind, funneling its way between the long loco sheds, froze them to the marrow. The two men struggled across the yard and into the shelter of the main engine shop. Out of the wind they stopped. Alexander lit his pipe, and looked across to the burnt out remains of the Joiner's shop:

# "Who ever did that, was an idiot," he remarked. He looked sideways at Thomas. The young man was calmly lighting a cigarette and appeared not to be listening.

# "They'll have it repaired, inside a month," he added,

# "I suppose you could do better," insinuated Thomas.

# "Easily" answered Broughtman. He placed his canvas bag on a bollard, and looking round to see that they were not observed, undid the straps and opened it just enough for Thomas to see the contents.

# "I'd use these," he said indicating two sticks of dynamite.

# Thomas said nothing, but looked, first at the dynamite and then at Alexander.

# "How do you expect to use those?" he asked sarcastically. "Without being caught or blowing yourself up in the process?"

# Alexander snorted contemptuously. "You see that boiler house." He pointed to a small building on the far side of the yard.

# Tom followed his gaze, and then looked back.

# "Well?" he asked.

# "I'll blow that up tonight, and be sitting in the General Gordon public house drinking with you at the same time."

# "How do I know that you won't get someone else to do it?"

# "Because you're going to keep a look out while I set it up, during our dinner break."

# Slowly Thomas let out a soft silent whistle.

# "Dear God! In front of a thousand men?" he whispered.

# "And not one of them will know it's being done," answered Broughtman.

# Midday found Alexander seated next to a stack of chimney cowls that had been scraped and painted ready to be put back. Thomas watched as the older man began to cut open a small drum of tar, until all that remained was a hard cylindrical block of tarmacadam. Using a carpenter's brace and a two inch auger, Alexander slowly began to drill two holes into the top of the block. This done, he carefully inserted the two stick of dynamite, fuses pointed downwards. He then sealed up the holes with the thin twists of tarmacadam.

# "Fetch one of those cowls," he said.

# Thomas lifted the steel cowl and placed it in front of Alexander. The lid was removed and, slowly and carefully the block was cut, so that it fitted snug inside. Then the lid was replaced.

# Alexander swept up the small pieces of tar and put them out of sight. Then going to the doorway he called two lads.

# "You see that boiler house stack over there?" he said, pointing across the yard. The two lads nodded,

# "Get that ladder and climb up, take that cowl down and bring it over here," he instructed. He watched as they did his bidding. He then told them to place the cowl with the others.

# "Now you can put this one in its place," he said indicating the cowl, in which he had just placed the dynamite. "Be careful, it's heavy, and make sure that hat doesn't fall off."

# Both Alexander and Thomas stood and watched, as the two lads struggled to place the new cowl onto the boiler house stack.

# "There, that wasn't hard was it," remarked Alexander.

# "What happens now?"

# "Nothing! We go about our business and at six o'clock we'll walk slowly down to the General Gordon and have a glass of beer."

# It was just after six, when Thomas and Alexander walked into the General Gordon. Thomas looked nervous and kept glancing towards the older man, who sat there quite calmly, only occasionally pulling large hunter watch from his waistcoat pocket and looking at it. Finally, Alexander placed the watch on the table between them, so they could both see the clock face. He looked at Thomas and smiled.

# "That old boiler man is a remarkable creature of habit. I'd bet money on the fact that, forty minutes ago, he walked into that boiler house and began to light the boiler. That stack will be quite hot now, and our block of tar has softened enough to start slipping down inside the cowl. Soon it'll have melted enough to drop onto the grill, above the furnace" He paused. "Slowly the tar will drip onto the red hot coals and the fuses will be exposed." He stopped and looked once again at the watch..

# "About now, the boiler man goes for his supper. Another ten minutes should do it."

# The two men sat and drank quietly.

# Fifteen minutes went by, and then suddenly the door of the public house flew open.

# "The boiler house has just exploded!" a man shouted from the doorway. Alexander got up and walked across to him.

# "Was anybody hurt?" he asked.

# "No! The old man was having his supper."

# Alexander looked back to where Thomas sat and smiled Later as the two men walked back to Mrs. Benton's, Alexander placed a fatherly hand on Thomas' shoulder.

# "So you see, it was easy wasn't it? No one is going to suspect us in a million years." Thomas lifted his head to the sky and laughed. "That'll teach the bastards."

# "Now, now." cautioned Alexander. "It won't be that easy the next time."

# "Next time?" Thomas' eyes were bright. "What have you got planned?

# "Hold on....don't get excited. The one I have in mind is going to require a lot more men, and that's going to take time, to recruit and train,"

# "You don't have to worry about that," exclaimed Thomas. "I can get hold of all the men you need."

# "I don't want a bunch of young, excitable lads. That's the quickest way to get ourselves caught."

# "You don't have to worry about these lads," said Thomas indignantly. "These men are dedicated."

# "You think they can be trusted?" Alexander asked.

# "Completely," said Tom emphatically. "What have you got in mind?"

# "The engine sheds, during the next overhaul. There'll be at least six locomotives in for a boiler clean,"

# "Jesus! Mother 0'Reilly," Thomas whispered.

# It took nearly a fortnight for Alexander to organise the raid. The men and equipment were ready; they had been rehearsed. Alexander had proved a hard task master and Thomas Kemp had been very impressed. Nothing had been left to chance. The raid would be a success, except for one thing. Alexander Broughtman had informed the police of every name involved and every part they were to p1ay. On the night, no one would escape the drag net. To ensure complete secrecy, policemen from another area were drafted in. None of the local constabulary were aware of what was going on. Alexander had insisted on it, just in case.

# It was a complete success. By midnight the police had twenty men in jail including Alexander Broughtman who was placed in solitary. Six hours had gone by, and as he sat listening to the Police Inspector's report, Alexander Broughtman could not help but admire Thomas Kemp's tenacity.

# "He's got a skin as tough as a rhinoceros," reported the Inspector. "It's either that or he's stupid."

# "Hasn't he admitted to anything?" asked Alexander.

# "Oh! Yes, he's admitted to everything, but he just doesn't seem to care. It's as though he was laughing at us."

# "He didn't strike me as being loopy!" Alexander fiddled with the objects on the table in front of him. "Are these his things?" he said,

# The Inspector nodded.

# "Not a lot here." Alexander picked up the stub of a railway ticket; he twisted it round, so that he could see it clearly. It was the return half of a ticket to Chesterfield. What had Thomas Kemp been doing in Chesterfield?

# The Inspector leaned forward and began to rummage through Kemp's belongings.

# "What are you looking for?" asked Alexander.

# "I'm looking for the cobbler's ticket; it could tell us where he was staying before. According to Kemp, he still had to collect his shoes."

# Whether it was because Alexander had concentrated so much on the affair in Holland, he didn't know, but the reference to cobblers rang alarm bells in his head. He looked up

# "What exactly did he say about his shoes?" he asked.

# "He was overheard muttering about collecting his things from the Shoemaker's."

# Alexander said nothing just stared ahead. Was it possible? Could there be a connection, or was it just a coincidence?

# "Is he in a cell on his own?"

# "He is now."

# "Put me in with him."

# Thomas Kemp was lying on his bed, when the door of his cell was flung open. Two very large policemen entered dragging a body between them, which they flung onto the opposite bed.

# "You can thank your lucky stars you're being transferred to Lincoln, otherwise it's your turn next, you Irish bastard," one of the policemen growled as he slammed the door shut,

# Thomas swung his legs down onto the floor and sitting on the edge of the bed looked at the battered face of Alexander Broughtman. It was red and swollen, blood dribbled from the nose, and the start of two very large black eyes was obvious.

# "What have they done to you Alex?"

# "Beaten seven bells out of me," muttered Alexander through sore lips. The two policemen had taken him at his word, and had given him a thorough beating. He suspected that they had enjoyed it. He only hoped he didn't have any broken ribs.

# "The bloody savages," Thomas whispered.

# "I can't stand this for much longer. They'll kill me. I'm going to make a break for it, while we're our way to Lincoln."

# "Where will you lay low?" asked Thomas,

# "I don't know. Can you help me?"

# Thomas did not reply, but just sat there. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something about tonight that stank. They had been betrayed, but by whom? At first he had suspected the man who now lay on the bed opposite. The beating he had received had disproved that. It had amused him to drop those tantalizing references about the Shoemaker. These stupid policemen had not realised what priceless information he had. Perhaps it would be wise to tell them all, before McDowell got to know of his whereabouts.

# He smiled to himself. It would be priceless. So Alex wanted a favour.

# "I'm not sure; most of my safe houses are finished. The only person I know who might help you is a chap called Carnfield, Wellington Carnfield. He hates the police almost as much as we do."

# "Where will I find him?"

# "He hangs around with the gypsies, near a place called North Cresswell."

# "Where's that?"

# "Near Chesterfield."

# Chapter Twenty Two

### North Cresswell Derbyshire

### Wellington Carnfield felt supremely confident. He stood there, the darkness enveloping him, concealing him, making him invisible. He felt in tune with it and the woods that surrounded him. He crept across the leaf- strewn ground until he reached the tree line.He crouched down and looked across the meadow to where the farm buildings could just be seen. The new moon hung just above the roof tops.For once his mind was not clouded with the madness that so often affected him. As he looked at the buildings once again anger and frustration filled him. This was his home and it had been stolen from him.

# The wind began to stir the trees. The rustle of the branches would deaden his footfall. Even so, he still walked on the balls of his feet, keeping tight to the hedge bottom so that his footprints would not show in the morning dew.

# He judged that it was three hours past midnight. The Hun's daughter and the stranger would be well asleep.

# He moved silently, skirting the edge of the meadow until he finally reached the railway track. The wind eased and the night was silent. This was the most dangerous moment. He crouched down and reaching forward, found the steel track and then one of the heavy wooden sleepers. This would be his bridge; for he knew that to place a foot on the gravel would set the hens and ducks cackling. He worked his way across the track and, gasping with relief, crouched behind the low dry stone wall. He knew exactly where to go. The small barn that lay alongside the stable was where they had stored all their winter feed, as well as the remains of their stock. They would rue the day they'd decided to put it all under one roof. It made it easier for him and he was prepared to sacrifice one building if it meant that they were driven from the farm, leaving him to claim what was rightfully his.

# The wind rose, moaning gently in the night. He moved silently across to the barn. Inside he could hear the soft clucking of the hens. The wind had disturbed them. He moved round to the back and found the old trap door, low to the ground, through which he and his sisters used to escape when their father returned home from one of his drinking bouts. As he struggled with the door, he brushed against something. It began to topple, but, reaching out he caught it before it clattered to the ground. It was a can. He unscrewed the top and sniffed. It was paraffin. The trap door was open now, and he wriggled through, taking the can with him. He struck a match. It was just as he hoped, the feed and straw had been stacked high against the walls, and the animals were penned in at the back. In the deep shadows that surrounded him, he failed to notice a pair of frightened eyes staring at him, nor did he hear the faint snort of fear, which came from the old stallion tethered in the stable next door.

# Wellington took a long bill hook from the wall and began to drag down the bales of straw until they lay across the doorway leading to the yard. He began to pour the contents of the can over the bales of straw. It was dry and would burn fiercely. Finally, he gathered a handful of straw and struck a second match. It caught immediately; Wellington went swiftly round igniting the bales. Without waiting, he returned to the trap door. The animals began to panic. The flames were already reaching to the top of the stack. The place would be an inferno in minutes.

# He ducked out through the trap door and ran off into the night. He ran until he reached the top of the rise, and then, resting against a stone wall looked back to where an orange glow could already be seen. He had just one more thing to do, before he could claim the farm as his own. It concerned the girl.

# George woke suddenly. At first he lay there staring up into the darkness, trying to work out what had woken him. Suddenly he heard it, the screaming of animals in pain, a raw savage sound; it jerked him upright. As he threw back the covers, his door flew open.

# "The barn! It's on fire." Rosemary's voice trembled on the point of panic.

# He struggled into his trousers, hearing the slap of Rosemary's feet running across the stone flags of the kitchen.

# In the yard, he saw Rosemary, a shawl wrapped tightly round her shoulders, and her nightgown flapping wildly around her legs, rushing towards the stables.

# "Get the animals out," she called. "I'll get Templeton from his stable."

# He ran to the barn door, lifted the bar and began to pull the door' open. As it swung clear, his foot caught against something and he tripped and fell. As he did so a sheet of flame roared out through the doorway, the heat searing his skin as he rolled to one side. The blazing bales of straw blocked his pathway completely. The stock was trapped at the back and he could not reach them. Could he go through Templeton's stall, and use the inside door?

# He rounded the corner only to find Rosemary tugging at the stable door. "It's jammed," she cried.

# He pushed her to one side, and grasped the handle. It was hot. Smoke and flames were now billowing from the roof. He put both his feet against the frame of the door and exerted full pressure with his legs. It would not budge. Something had jammed the door securely.

# "Get the axe!" Once again he took hold of the handle. It was becoming too hot to touch

# Then he heard Rosemary begin to scream. He looked round. She was standing, staring at the burning building, her hands clamped tightly over her ears. It was then he too heard it. It was the sound of Templeton, mad with panic, screaming with terror and pain as it fought to escape the flames.

# Rosemary looked at George beseechingly, tears streaming down her face.

# "My God! He's being burnt alive.... is there nothing we can do?"

# George looked at the flames and turning back, ran to the house,

# To Rosemary, the screaming of the old horse seemed to come from within her. It represented all that had been good and was now gone, destroyed. Her brothers, her father and now Templeton, who as a young foal, had been with them the day they arrived here. She looked round, but George was no where to be seen.

# She turned again towards the sound, mesmerised by its intensity.

# "It's all right old boy. I'll get you out," she whispered. She began to walk towards the flaming barn, oblivious of the heat that beat against her, and the flames that towered above her. The crack of rifle fire broke the spell. In pain and terror she dropped to the ground. There was another sharp crack and the screaming stopped. With her face close to the ground she saw George poised on the roof of the kitchen, her father's rifle in his hands. He looked past her, and throwing the rifle to one side, leapt from the roof. He ran across, and grabbed her under the arms and began to drag her across the yard, towards the house. She heard the crack of falling timber, and looking up saw the front of the barn toppling towards them. Together they scrambled to get clear, rolling and rolling until she felt George's body covering her. The front of the barn hit the ground, sending showers of hot sparks flying into the air. She felt him rear up against her, as he cried out in agony and saw him pushing himself away to tear his smoldering nightshirt from off his back.

# "Get them off," he cried.

# She brushed at the hot embers that had stuck to his flesh. They watched as the barn burnt. There was nothing they could do now. The flames would consume the stables as we1l. Then it was as though God had at last heard their cries, for they felt the sudden cold droplets of rain within minutes the rain had become a freezing deluge, which sent great clouds of steam spiralling into the night sky.

# In the kitchen, George winced with pain.

# "I'm sorry, I'm being as gentle as I can." Rosemary covered the burns on his back with boracic ointment. "That's all of them covered."

# Rosemary stood there, looking down at him as George reached forward, and poked the fire into life. He leaned his head back resting absent mindedly against her. She didn't move, but allowed him to remain there. Neither of them spoke, there seemed to be no need. Her hands rested on his naked shoulders. She could feel him tremble, though not from cold, for the kitchen was warm. She craved to comfort and be comforted. She stroked his hair, as a mother might. Then she too trembled. She put her arms around his neck and laid her cheek against his hair.

# He moved. She lifted her head, unsure of his reaction. Then he twisted round in the chair, until he faced her, and placing his arms round her thighs, drew her to him. She could feel his arms tightening around her. He clung to her. The muscles in his shoulders were tight. Desire filled her body, until she throbbed. He nestled his face against her breasts, and she could feel her nipples harden. She wanted to cry out. She wanted him so much, as his hands bit into the soft flesh of her buttocks. She reached down, and smiled, cupping his face in her hands. It was as though her whole face lit up. He rose to his feet, and lifted her from the ground. His mouth covered hers, consuming her. She gasped with pleasure as his lips caressed her eyes, her cheeks, her neck. His sinewy strength carrying her to his room and into his bed. Her nightgown slipping from her as she moved, lifting her breasts for him to caress: his lips gripping her hard nipples; his hands stroking her thighs until they rested amongst the moist soft hair.

# "Oh! please," she whispered. "I need you..... "

# He could feel her pulling at him. He lifted himself and she slipped beneath him. Her legs rose, desperate for him to enter. He felt huge. He towered over her. She seemed to fill him with such strength that he became all powerful. His whole body vibrated. He looked down at her, her eyes huge as though she too felt his strength. They moved together, possessing each other. Her cries rose to crescendo, louder and louder until she too, shook uncontrollably. The spasm held them both in suspense, as he exploded within her. His head dropped forward and he watched, with strange fascination, as a bead of sweat dropped from the end of his nose to land on her top lip. He watched as her tongue reached out and licked it from her lip.

# Later, he gathered her into his arms. She was warm and euphoric. Her body tingled. Barely awake, she became conscious of his touch again, setting her on fire. She drifted into a dream world as she felt him slip inside her. She craved for him. It was heaven. The pain, delicious as it rose and fell on ever increasing waves of exquisite torture. It became almost unbearable and yet she wanted it to go on for ever. At last with a wild surge of delight she clung to him, her nails raking his back, her teeth sinking into the flesh of his shoulder.

# He lunged at her, his face contorted with rage, as though, through her he could drive forth the dark memories from the deep recesses of his mind, He convulsed, she felt it, like a flame that ran through her. The strain and tension had drained from his face: twisted and broken beneath his dark beard, it was at peace. Lowering himself, he kissed her tenderly. She began to sob with happiness. Nestling against him, cocooned in the heat of their passion, she felt released from her past.

# She woke slowly, for she had slept a deep and dreamless sleep, becoming aware that she was naked as her hands passed over her thighs. Then she remembered and, smiling, turned over on her side, reaching across to find George. He was not there. She opened her eyes, thinking perhaps it had been a dream. It had not been. She lay back and stretched. She felt sensuous, she could still feel his body against hers. The sound of timber snapping, broke into her dreams. She got out of bed and, slipping a blanket round her shoulders, went to the window. The sight of the yard brought back the dark cloud of reality. The remains of the barn were everywhere. Blackened spars pointed to the sky like thorny fingers. George was amongst it, pulling at the remains of the frame, trying to bring it down .

# He was black from soot and charcoal. He turned and saw her. He raised his hand as she opened the window. The stench, made her cough and splutter. She slammed the window shut. It made her feel faint, that pungent sweet smell of burnt flesh. Putting her head into her hands, she began to sob, remembering her beloved Templeton.

# She stayed in all morning, listening to the noise George made, as he tried to clear away the mess. There was little he could do. In some ways, the fire had solved it own problem, for beneath the barn, he had discovered a large, unused pit. Into this he dragged the remains of the horse along with the carcasses of the other animals. He scattered lime over the remains. This would at least prevent disease ,Finally he emptied into the pit, the remaining burnt timbers until it was full.

# It was nearly noon before he staggered back into the kitchen, exhausted. Rosemary had pulled out the large tin bath and had spent the morning heating water. He felt no embarrassment as he stripped off his clothes and sank into the warmth. Rosemary leaned over him and began to wash the dirt from his back.

# He sat, watching a circle of black scum become wider and wider. Her fingers dug into his shoulder muscles. He leaned back and for a moment wallowed in the luxury, revelling in the sensuality of her hands. The fire had resolved one problem but had made others. Up to then they had been virtually self sufficient, which had suited him fine. Now it had all been destroyed. The loss of the horse was a blow, for it was their only form of transport.

# "Is anything left?" asked Rosemary.

# "Nothing, it's all gone. The livestock, everything."

# "What are we going to do?" cried Rosemary. "There's nothing left to sell and I've little money left,"

# George shivered; he rose and began to towel himself down. Rosemary turned away, suddenly embarrassed at the sight of his nakedness. Memories of the previous night flooded back.

# "You will stay?" Her voice was tinged with panic.

# He looked at her in surprise. He felt ashamed, and dressed quickly:

# "You think I would desert you?" He was flushed and tongue tied. "Last night .... it was I know no words to describe it." He grasped her shoulders and turned her to face him. "If it is about your husband. I will stand by you." His accent became heavy and stilted.

# She frowned, and bit her lip.

# "Thomas Kemp....my marriage to him....it is not lawful."

# George looked at her, his forehead creased with concern, "I do not understand?"

# Rosemary took his hand in hers.

# "He was already married to another woman. They have children, apparently. His marriage to me was bigamous."

# George put his arms round her, and gathered her close to him "Do not worry." He said. But he himself did worry. This changed everything. No wonder Kemp had disappeared and now he would not be returning.

# George felt vulnerable. To protect Rosemary, he would need the cooperation of the Irish woman. His threats had forced her not only to reveal McDowell's identity, but that they wanted him to help them destroy a house. The railways he could understand, that he felt quite confident about. There was purpose and direction about it. The explosive should now have arrived and be hidden; there was more than enough for what they wanted. Its stowage did give him a moment's concern but he was confident that it could withstand both the passage of time and the transporting and he had allowed for that in the manufacture. The timing devices he could make provided the materials were available. It gave him a good feeling that his talents were to be used at last. He felt excited at the challenge. This was the war Malinin spoke about.

# The house was a different matter; he was not convinced. Why did they need him? If he was to succeed in getting the charges onto the trains, he needed to stay incognito. The house on the other hand would leave him exposed. He would need to meet others who were not involved: his accent would betray him, besides there was nothing extraordinary in planting explosive charges to demolish a house. If that is what they meant?.

# Yes! he would go and see the Irish woman. The information about Kemp would be of use. Also he must talk to this McDowell...

# Chapter Twenty Three,

### Outside Grassmoor Pit

### The colliers jostled each other as they gathered on a street corner, pushing and shoving, waiting for the day shift to start indifferent to the passers by who were forced to walk in the gutters. Kairda stood there for several seconds staring at them, as she would her pupils, unblinking and scornful. Slowly her presence was felt by the men. They giggled and nudged each other, as young children might. Then slowly they parted and stood politely aside for her to pass. She said nothing but cast disapproving looks from side to side, daring them to say anything. The men remained silent.

It was then she noticed George leaning nonchalantly against the wa11. He was indistinguishable from the other men, his flat cloth cap pulled down over his eyes and a scarf tucked firmly into a dark serge jacket. He pushed himself off the wall and began to walk with her.

# "So you've decided to join that rabble, and go down the pit?" she said.

# He smiled condescendingly, ignoring her sarcasm.

# "You look down on these men....this rabble?" He looked at her directly. Although his face was expressionless, she knew he was mocking her. She said nothing, but walked on. He reached out and placing his hand on her sleeve, restrained her.

# "Please... I wish to speak to you."

# She stopped and looked at him as though seeing him for the first time. He was neither short nor tall, fat nor thin. His dark beard covered a somewhat twisted face, and yet he was indistinguishable from the thousands of other men that frequented these parts. She could not help but admire who ever had chosen this man: the aura of ordinariness completely masked his true identity. Yet, the anger that had filled her on Christmas day still lingered. There had been no subtlety about his approach, forthright and direct, she had been left in no doubt as to his feelings. The railway project he accepted without question, but his attitude to the other business was uncompromising. He had ridiculed not only the whole affair but also her authority,

# "I thought you had expressed your self quite positively, the last time we met."

# Why employ a thoroughbred when a cart horse would do, you arrogant pig, she thought.

# "I wish to apologise for the way I treated you."

# She looked at him suspiciously, not sure whether to believe him or not.

# "I need your help, and there are many things I need to talk to you about."

# She smiled, yet resisted the temptation to mock, "Go on."

# "There has been a fire at the farm. We need money to buy food, also we need to buy a fresh horse. The last one died in the flames."

# Kairda shuddered at the thought as George continued.

# "I need to talk about this hunting lodge at Charnwood. You tell me some things, but not all."

# "I've told you everything," Kairda said angrily. "I had no desire to end my days beneath a load of leaf mould."

# George smiled to himself pleased that his threat had been taken so seriously. Yet her words worried him.

# "I do not like to speak here in the street, in case others hear us."

# Kairda looked round, getting her bearings.

# "There's a small tea room just a little way from here, we can talk there."

# They walked in silence. George following Kairda as she turned down a narrow side street and into a double fronted bakery. The tea rooms were at the rear and reeked of faded gentry. Now situated at the poor end of town, the tea rooms had been abandoned by the middle classes and left to the stall holders from the nearby market, and other working folk to frequent. Its air of dignified refinement made it look slightly ridiculous: tiny marble top tables perched on wrought iron legs, surrounded by straight-back wicker chairs. Kairda weaved her way past empty tables until she found one in a quiet corner against the half paneled wa1l. They waited, while a young waitress brought them tea in a small brown china pot and a plate of rather dry stale cakes. The girl apologised and blamed the war.

# "This house, who lives there?" His voice was low so that others, at the nearby tables, would not over hear. He was worried about his accent.

# Kairda was not sure, and any rate was not inclined to tell him.

# "I don't know," she answered. "Does it matter?"

# He looked at her exasperated.

# "Don't know, maybe, perhaps. Is that all you people can say."

# He was not only angry but extremely apprehensive. Things had changed; no longer did he feel a sole agent, and he had Rosemary to think of. At the worst he was prepared to face a firing squad because he had chosen this life, but not Rosemary, all she wanted was to live in peace. Death might end it all for him, but she would have to live on and face the retribution. It all suddenly seemed to boil up inside him. He leaned forward until he was only inches from Kairda.

# "Then find out, it's a simple enough question."

# He leaned back, he felt calmer. "Also I want to speak to this McDowell."

# "That might not be possible," Kairda hesitated.

# His nostrils flared angrily. "But I can get a message to him," she added, endeavoring to keep him calm.

# He turned his face away, as though dismissing her excuse. She felt humiliated and felt her face redden. He turned back and looked at her directly, leaning his elbows upon the table.

# "There are things I need," he whispered. "I need to examine the explosives, and I need that money, fifty guineas." He looked grim. "Get that, and then perhaps I might look at this house of yours."

# Kairda stood by the kerb side and smoothed her soft leather gloves down over her fingers. She watched as George disappeared round the corner. She felt angry, this time with herself. She had agreed to George's request, but felt that she had been manipulated, forced to become a mere messenger. This was not as she had imagined it. Her mind still full of George's words, she paused to step forward into the road when the raucous sound of a klaxon made her jump.

# "Careful, Miss Brandon, or you'll end up beneath the wheels of my motorcar." She looked up, startled. Seated in the passenger seat was Dr. Timothy Broughtman, wrapped in thick tweed driving coat. Even Kairda could not fail to notice the man's sickly pallor. She did not recognise the driver immediately, hidden, as he was, behind a pair of large goggles, and upon removing them, found his inquisitive gaze embarrassing. She would have remarked about his rudeness if her mind had not been on other things. She returned his look coldly and with that turned and walked away.

# The driver continued to watch her for some moments, before replacing his goggles and putting the car into gear before moving off.

# "One of your patients, Tim?"

# "No she teaches at the local school," replied the Doctor.

# Alexander Broughtman manoeuvered the vehicle between two large coal wagons.

# "A handsome woman," he commented.

# Timothy Broughtman clucked disapprovingly. "That young woman's got too much to say for her own good."

# Alexander Broughtman chuckled. "One of Mrs. Pankhurst's suffragettes?"

# "You were lucky not to have received an ear bashing, considering you nearly ran her over."

# "It would have been her own fault. She wasn't thinking what she was doing. Probably daydreaming about some young man."

# "Knowing her, I'd find that hard to imagine," grumbled the Doctor.

# Alexander glanced out of the comer of his eye, at his younger brother. For all his good humour Alexander could not help but feel sadness.

# Although he'd been welcomed when he arrived unexpectantly at Grassmoor, he quickly sensed a strained atmosphere. Since being repatriated from France, his brother had aged considerably. Alexander had no idea how much damage the mustard gas had done to Timothy's lungs, but in the few days he had been there he had noticed a marked difference. The sound of Timothy's racking cough could be heard throughout the house. Timothy and Vera had been married barely six months, but already had been forced to occupy different rooms. There was almost a permanent look of pain on his face and his temper was shorter than ever. Alexander felt very sorry for Vera for, although she did her best and behaved stoically, he knew it would never be easy for her.

# Alexander had successfully contrived his escape from the prison transport on route to Lincoln prison and visiting his brother gave him a reason for being in the area. He had been unable to get any more from Thomas Kemp in the way of hard facts. The man had persisted, with an inane sense of confidence that he would finally win through. Alexander had found this progressively more frustrating, as, at times like this, his memory of encyclopedic proportions could be more of a nuisance than it was worth.

# He had in his head a jumble of unrelated facts. Yet his instinct had guided him to these parts. Would this Wellington Carnfield be able to supply any answers or would it just lead to more questions? What was even more annoying was that sitting in the dark recesses of his mind was the Shoemaker, who regardless of all Alexander's efforts, refused to go away.

# He became aware that his brother was talking to him.

# "We're nearly there,"

# Heavy, wrought iron gates were being opened as they approached. A large, gold painted crest announced that they were entering the grounds of Charnwood House, one of numerous grand houses, owned by the Duke's family that had been resurrected from the ruins of a civil war castle. This had been achieved by using the profits of many of the coal fields the family owned. The house nestled on the side of a small valley surrounded, and somewhat hidden, by a large rhododendron forest that had been allowed to grow wild.

# Doctor Broughtman had been surprised when a young groom had called, handing Vera a letter from the house. There had been a riding accident, one of the staff had fallen and had been dragged through a large hawthorn hedge. He had suffered severe cuts and bruises to his back and thighs. Could the Doctor come straight away?

# Usually the estate had its own physician who looked after their needs, but apparently not on this occasion. Timothy was still suffering from a severe cold that had laid him low for several days, and Vera was worried that the journey out to the house would do him harm. She was relieved when Alexander suggested that he should drive Timothy.

# Over the centuries, the house had had numerous additions and alterations. Now it was not of one style or another. The stone archway they drove through led to the older part of the house. The small courtyard was deserted. On the far side a heavy wooden door opened, as if in answer to the sound of the motorcar. A footman, the vertical stripes of whose waspish waistcoat made him seem unnaturally tall, was there to greet them. He led them into a long, unpainted corridor. Alexander quickly realised that they had entered one of the rear entrances, for ahead he could see what appeared. to be the main entrance but before reaching that, the footman indicated that Alexander should wait in a small side room. He and the Doctor then climbed a set of narrow stairs. The room he had been left in was sparsely furnished there were two hardback chairs and a small desk pushed into one corner. It reminded him of a cloak room. There was only one window, a narrow affair that gave only a limited view of the front of the house.

# The sound of voices and the scurrying of feet coming from the hallway attracted Alexander. He strolled casually to the doorway. Guests were expected from the look of things. The hall was full of footmen and chambermaids being ushered into a line by a grim faced butler. Alexander became aware of somebody standing behind him, and swung round. Standing at the foot of the narrow staircase was a young footman. The lad was medium height and slim, a handsome young man, almost pretty, with limpid eyes and long blonde hair. The lad fidgeted from one foot to another and he plucked nervously at a pair of white gloves he carried.

# "Are you the Doctor from Grassmoor?" he asked. His soft Irish voice was lyrical, almost like a young girl's.

# "No," replied Alexander, as he studied the young man's delicate features.

# "He's upstairs with the patient."

# "Do you know if he will be all right?" the young footman asked.

# "What happened?" asked Alexander.

# "He had a riding accident." The young man looked away, embarrassed.

# "Yes, I heard ..... Is he a friend of yours?"

# At this a look of terror filled the footman's eyes, eyes, that Alexander had only just noticed, were red rimmed from crying.

# "Yes...I mean No! ...not a friend, but Mr. Ibreac has always been very kind."

# "How did it happen?"

# The sound of vehicles drawing up outside on the gravel drive, distracted them both. Before the young man could answer, Alexander turned and looked through the narrow window and saw several large Rolls Royce.

# "Who are the guests?" Alexander asked turning back to the footman, but the young man had gone. Looking back towards the hallway, Alexander found his passage barred by a huge barrel chested man dressed in tweeds. The man scowled and indicating that Alexander should remain where he was and slammed the door shut, but not before Alexander had caught a glimpse of the guests arriving. For several seconds he remained staring at the blank wooden door, before sitting down an one of the hardback chairs. Leaning forward he held his head in his hands. The newly arrived guests had changed his perception of things. Before, events that had drawn him to this place had intrigued him....now they frightened him.

# Chapter Twenty Four

# It was an hour later when the footman escorted Doctor Broughtman back to the lobby where Alexander was sitting and without further delay, they were shown back to their vehicle, and wished a polite but firm farewell.

# Alexander drove straight through the gates and onto the main road. The brothers were both strangely silent, deep in their individual thoughts,

# What Alexander had seen, had disturbed him greatly. The frustration was that there was no reason why he should feel this way. The gathering had every right to be there. It was annoying that he could find no reason for his fear, and yet, it still persisted. He felt that his head was full of pieces of a jig saw and he couldn't even determine if they belonged to the same picture. Timothy seemed to have sunk further into the heavy car coat. He looked morose and unhappy

# "Were Mr. Ibreac's wounds serious?" asked Alexander, hoping that a change of subject might ease his disturbed mind.'

# "What?" grumbled his brother, hardly looking up.

# "Mr. Ibreac's wounds..., from his riding accident?"

# Timothy Broughtman looked up and took notice of what his brother had said. "What riding accident?" His voice was full of mocking surprise.

# "Well didn't he have a tumble while riding his horse..... Got dragged through a hawthorn hedge."

# "Who told you that?"

# "One of the young footmen."

# Timothy Broughtman laughed cynically.

# "Well that might be the story they're putting about, but I can tell you this, Alex!, I'd guess that Mr. Ibreac was caught in a comprising situation with one of the young footmen, because he has received a thrashing. Judging by the weal's and bruises on his back, I would say a horse whip."

# Alexander gasped in astonishment.

# "I've no time for these pansies," continued his brother, "but no man deserves the thrashing he received. Whoever did it has certainly made a enemy of that man. Mr. Ibreac will want his revenge, you mark my words."

# The March wind felt as though it had come straight from Siberia. It was raining before they reached home and Alexander pressed on with all speed. He could see that his brother's face was pinched and that he had begun to shiver uncontrollably. The two men were soaked by the time they got through and into the warmth of the house.

# Vera rushed around, afraid that Timothy's cold might become pleurisy, for his coughing now racked his body. He made no complaint as she ushered him upstairs and into bed, leaving Alexander to warm himself against the open fire. The small desk at which Vera had been working was littered with photographs and 1etters. A large scrap book was open at a blank page. After a little while she bustled back into the room, satisfied that her charge was safe, a tray of tea in her hands.

# "He's a very lucky man," remarked Alexander, "to have you to look after him."

# She smiled wanly. "Well, I need someone to look after. He's all I've got now." There was a great sadness in her voice.

# "You were very brave, considering Timothy was wounded before you got married."

# "Are you suggesting I should have deserted him?". She sounded hurt and annoyed.

# "I'm sorry," apologised Alexander. "There are those who would have done so."

# "Well I'm not one of them," Vera insisted. "I need Tim as much as he needs me. Since Ian's death, mother has shut herself away: I would have been completely alone."

# She reached across and handed him a cup of tea.

# "He's lucky you can nurse him. Your time in France must have been a blessing."

# She laughed, relieved that the subject had changed.

# "You wouldn't have thought so if you'd been left to my tender mercies." She was silent as she recollected.

# "Those first few days were the worst I've ever spent. I tried so hard and failed so miserably. There was this beautiful young man...his name was," she paused for thought as she tried to remember. "Chapman. He had a terrible stomach wound. I did my best, but it was no good."

# Vera got up and looked out of the window, at the high branches of the trees opposite swaying in the wind.

# "Then there was that awful sergeant, with his head and face bandaged up. Just a pair of dark accusing eyes that followed me everywhere. My Judge and Jury...At least I sent him home."

# "You sent him home?" queried Alexander.

# "Yes! I disobeyed orders for him. He was supposed to go to Abbeyville but he made such a fuss and I felt so guilty about letting the young boy die. I changed the label on the sergeant's tunic and he got shipped to England instead,so at least Sergeant Bagworth should be grateful."

# She stopped speaking, as though her own words had reminded her of something. A puzzled look crossed her face and moving to the desk she began to rummage amongst the letters.

# "It's just that I've been reading Ian's last letter again and that Sergeant's name rings a bell."

# She picked up the letter and began to read it. Suddenly she stopped and pointed to a place on the page.

# "Yes! I was right." She looked up and faced Alexander.

# "In Ian's last letter he spoke of one of his sergeants staying behind, so that the rest of the men could escape. His name was Bagworth, same initials and everything. For a moment I thought they might have been one and the same man, but I see from Ian's letter that his Sergeant Bagworth was killed, shot through the head."

# Alexander sipped his tea and toasted his legs in front of the fire. He nodded as he listened to Vera, but his eyelids were heavy and he let his head drop forward as he dozed in the chair.

# Vera smiled, and removed the cup and saucer from his fingers before it slipped from them. Then she went to the desk and began to sort through the letters.

# It was nearly dusk when she heard footsteps on the gravel outside. The telegram boy had knocked several times before she reached the door.

# "Telegram for Major A Broughtman," said the boy, thrusting the cable into Vera's out stretched hand.

# "No reply." At that he turned and climbed back on his bicycle and cycled away.

# As Vera walked back into the lounge it occurred to her that she had never realised that her brother in law was a serving officer. .

# Alexander woke and reaching into his pocket drew out a large purple handkerchief and blew into it vigorously.

# "It's for you." Vera handed the cable across and resumed her seat at -the desk. "I didn't know you were in the army?" she asked.

# He looked up.

# "I'm not," he hesitated and then corrected himself.

# "Well at least not now. Let's say we parted company on fairly amicable terms."

# The truth of the matter was that Alexander had never served with the colours, but had assumed the rank of Captain purely as a convenience. His superiors were aware of this and had not complained. On the contrary, much to his surprise he discovered that somehow he had been promoted to the rank of major some months before. He opened the cable and read it. Then leaning forward, he allowed the flames to consume it completely.

# "I shall be leaving for a few days. I have to go and see someone at Lincoln. I'll be back in about a week if that is convenient."

# Vera stared as he rose and left the room.

# Chapter Twenty Five.

### Deputy Governors Office, Lincoln Jail.

### McDowell admired himself in the small mirror that hung on the wall. The dark blue uniform he wore fitted him well; it made him feel confident and self assured. A slow smile of amusement played on his lips as he watched, through the mirror, the office door begin to open. A tall grey haired man in his late fifties: entered a portly man who in his latter years had gone to seed. Superintendent Donaldson of the Irish Special Branch stopped. His hand rested on the door handle as his tired, slightly watery, eyes observed McDowell.

"You've a damn cheek wearing that uniform," he said angrily.

"The uniform of a police inspector seemed most appropriate, considering;" McDowell's voice was heavy with sarcasm.

Donaldson ignored him and sat down behind the desk. A solid, reliable policeman for the best part of forty years. Within the metropolitan police he had attained a reputation of solid dependability. His appointment as officer in charge of the newly created Irish Special Branch should have been the climax of his career, and would have seen him through to his retirement. However, what should have been back water had become a swollen torrent of intrigue that threatened to sweep him away. While he hung on doggedly, his ability to discern who could, and who could not be trusted steadily diminished.

### "Well, what have you got to tell me?"

McDowell had been a police spy since before the war. It suited him to play one side against the other. In this way he had removed virtually all his enemies and rivals in the various trade unions and had manoeuvered his own men into their places. No matter what they thought of each other personally, McDowell had built up a relationship with the policeman. McDowell's information was reliable, of that Donaldson was assured. The irony was of course, that it was not what he told the policeman that really counted but what he didn't tell him.

"There's to be an attack on Dublin Castle." He spoke quietly anticipating the policeman's reaction.

### Donaldson felt himself jump involuntarily: he hoped that McDowell had not noticed.

"Who by?" The Superintendent appeared calm, and for a moment this worried McDowell.

# "The Irish Volunteer Force."

# Donaldson laughed with relief. "That's impossible. Most of them are in France with Carson's Ulster men. They've been safely moved out of the way."

# "On the contrary, Superintendent, there are nearly twelve thousand men waiting and ready, almost all of them belonging to the Irish Republican Brotherhood."

# Donaldson frowned but said nothing. It was now McDowell's turn to laugh. "All they're waiting for is a shipment of arms to arrive from Germany."

# "When will this happen?"

# "The German trawler, 'Aud,' left Lubeck on the 9th April. It's supposed to be carrying twenty thousand Russian rifles, one million rounds of ammunition, ten machine guns, plus bombs and explosives."

# McDowell watched as the Superintendent laboriously noted it all down. "Where's this due to be landed?" the policeman asked without looking up.

# "On the west coast, a place called Tralee. It's on the north side of the Dingle peninsula, in county Kerry," McDowell paused.

# Donaldson looked up,

# "Go on."

# He might dislike the man but the information had now become vital.

# "It's to coincide with Sir Roger Casement's arrival. He's aboard a German submarine."

# "When's that going to happen?"

# McDowell hesitated, he knew the exact date and time but, if he told Donaldson, the leaders would be arrested and little would be heard of the affair. That didn't suit him at all. He needed the attack to succeed, if only for a short while. Buildings had to be damaged and blood spilt.

# "I'm, not sure," he lied. "There's to be a meeting soon. Then I can let you have the date and also a list of the men involved."

# "Where does the Shoemaker fit into this?" What ever prompted Donaldson to ask that question, he would never know. The name irritated the policeman because Broughtman placed such importance on it.

# To Donaldson, police work was a matter of fact and evidence, not intuitive guesswork, even if on occasions it did produce results. More luck than good judgment was the policeman's view. To him the Shoemaker was a figment of Broughtman's fertile imagination, which he found was generally more of a nuisance than a help. He didn't get on with the man. Broughtman made him feel uncomfortable and although he would never admit it, inadequate. Donaldson found him a strange man, as though he didn't belong anywhere. Certainly not receptive to discipline as Donaldson had quickly found out. It was as though he was being used by Broughtman, as sort of convenience, and if the man had time he would help out. Where Broughtman fitted in was a mystery, his inquiries amongst the corridors of power left Donaldson confused, for depending upon who was asked, he was either a paragon of virtue or a wolf in sheep's clothing.

# McDowell on the other hand never pretended to be anything else but a police spy, to Donaldson it was merely a matter of logistics. Over the years that he had used him, Donaldson had found his information reliable. In his book that made him preferable to the haphazard moods of Broughtman. For a moment McDowell was unable to answer. His mind froze. He let his uniform cap slip from his fingers, and it clattered to the floor. It gave his time to think as he bent to pick it up.

# "Well?"

# "Shoemaker?" McDowell repeated, a puzzled look on his face. "It's not a name that I've come across."

# "Are you sure?" questioned Donaldson. McDowell nodded.

# "Hm!" Donaldson leant back in his chair, and continued to watch McDowell closely. Broughtman's insistence that the prisoner Kemp be kept in solitary confinement had been a waste of time. The man's ramblings had meant nothing to him. Kemp was nothing more than an anarchist, pure and simple.

# "I knew that the information about this Shoemaker," he sounded contemptuous, "was rubbish." ,

# McDowell sat very still, trying to conceal the nervousness that he felt.

# "How do you know its rubbish?" he asked.

# "Well if you've never heard of this Shoemaker."

# "What have you been told? Perhaps I can tell you if it is rubbish. You can never tell ...was it a prisoner?"

# "Mm, a chap called Kemp," confirmed Donaldson. "Know of him?"

# McDowell breathed deeply. "Kemp...he belongs to an anarchist group based in Manchester, although originally he came from Newcastle. He's an arsonist." Donaldson slapped his hand against his thigh. "I knew as much. I bet he caused those Sheffield fires," he looked enquiringly at McDowell.

# McDowell nodded his head slowly in agreement.

# Donaldson sighed with relief. He would depend on his own judgment in future, none of this imaginative rubbish for him. Facts, that's what really count.

# McDowell closed the door behind him. He stood for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He hoped that he had convinced Donaldson about Kemp, but it was a matter that required his immediate attention. He turned and began to walk swiftly through the starkly painted corridors, that heavy smell of urine and carbolic filling the air. They led to the main part of the prison as Superintendent Donaldson frequently used the Deputy Governor's office in Lincoln Jail. It could be reached without entering the main body of the prison, thus allowing Donaldson to meet all manner of people without arousing suspicion. The door leading to the gallery above the exercise area was open and McDowell slipped through and made his way to the warden's office.

# "The prisoner, Kemp, which cell is he in?" McDowell asked.

# "He's in solitary."

# "Right. Give me the keys; I have to question him, Superintendent Donaldson's orders."

# "Superintendent Donaldson's orders?" replied the warden sarcastically, you'll have to do better than that. If you want to speak to a prisoner in solitary, you need to get an order from the governor in writing."

# McDowell stood and glared at the man.

# "Right I'll do that," he said and stormed out of the office.

# He hadn't expected to get the keys, but at least he now knew where Kemp was. McDowell stood by the cell door and waited till the jailer had turned the corner. It hadn't taken him long to find out that the elderly man had lost both his sons in France. He was easily persuaded to turn a blind eye, while McDowell questioned the prisoner Kemp on matters vital to the security of the realm. The gold sovereigns in the jailer's pocket would ensure his silence.

# "I've got a real deaf ear when these bastards are questioned. So if you have to get tough with him, that's all right by me." The jailer had winked.

# The key turned smoothly in the lock. Kemp didn't recognise McDowell at first, and would have cried out if the Scotsman hadn't signalled to him to be silent.

# "Well Thomas what have you been up to?" McDowell pretended joviality as he positioned his cap over the tiny window in the door. "Been leading them a right dance by all accounts."

# Thomas Kemp relaxed, and grinned.

# "They don't know whether they're coming or going," he replied.

# "So it seems."

# "My God James, you've got guts coming in here dressed like that." Thomas laughed. "You going to get me out of here?" .

# McDowell sat down on the stool.

# "I'm supposed to be questioning you. There are a couple of matters I want to clear up."

# Thomas frowned and sat down on the bed. "What matters?"

# "What made you leave Cross Keys?"

# "There was this crazy gypsy who attacked the old man, killed him. I had to get away, couldn't afford the police snooping around."

# "Was that because of the business in Sheffield?"

# "What business was that?" Kemp sounded edgy. McDowell appeared not to notice.

# "And you've not said any thing about our German friend, the Shoemaker?"

# "What! Do you think I'm crazy?"

# Once again McDowell did not reply. He stood up.

# "You can't stay in here. We've got about three minutes before the jailer returns. We'll leave here, you'll be handcuffed to me and we'll go to the back stairwell. I've hidden a spare uniform in one of the lockers. You'll get changed and then we'll get out of here."

# Thomas believed him and was visibly relieved for he had been unsure how McDowell would react.

# "Get your things together," McDowell ordered.

# Thomas turned and knelt by the bed side as he gathered his few belongings.

# "Oh Thomas ......."

# Kemp looked up from his kneeling position. McDowell was standing behind him and dropped the loop of electrical flex, he had taken from his pocket, over the man's head and round his throat. He forced his knee between Kemp's shoulder blades and began to garrote him.

# "I've... changed my... mind," he squeezed harder. He felt Kemp rear up, his fingers seeking the flex that bit deeper into his flesh.

# "You disobeyed my orders," McDowell pressed down with all his strength, "I don't...allow that....ever." He felt Kemp convulse.

# He waited, then eased the dead man back onto the bed and arranged the body so that anyone looking in would assume the prisoner was sleeping.

# McDowell found the killing of another human being intoxicating. It was almost as satisfying as having sex, whether it was with a man or a woman it didn't matter. He felt the pressure in his groin become almost unbearable. He trembled, and found it hard to breathe. Slowly he calmed down. It got easier each time, although the desire to masturbate was as great as ever.

# He removed the key from the cell door. The alleyway was empty and he had reached the end before seeing the jailer approaching.

# "Every thing all right, Inspector?" asked the man.

# McDowell nodded. "Getting the information out of these people is hard work."

# "Expect it is. You look exhausted."

# McDowell laughed," Not nearly as exhausted as he is." The jailer laughed too.

# "Leave him be for a few hours. I doubt if he'll bother with any food till the morning."

# "Right that'll save me a job," replied the Jailer.

# By the time he had reached the main gates, McDowell once again felt calm and assured. He returned the salute of the policeman on duty, even stopping to have a word. He turned to walk through the small gate and cannoned straight into a small, stocky man, who was entering from the other direction.

# "Good God, man!" rebuked McDowell. "Can't you watch where you are going?"

# The stocky man muttered under his breath, but stood aside to allow McDowell to pass.

# Alexander Broughtman watched as the arrogant police inspector disappeared into the evening gloom. He felt that he should know the man but couldn't place him.

#

# 

# Chapter Twenty Six.

# Alexander Broughtman read the letter that Captain Langley had sent him from Holland. He admired Langley, for the seaman ran his operation as a business and charged those who wished to use his service. At first this had offended the Mandarins of Whitehall, but such was the quality of Langley's information that they quickly changed their attitude. The letter contained a neat précis of those areas that interested them both, only elaborating where Broughtman had requested. Langley relied on the steady collection of intelligence, often boring and mundane, while Broughtman dug amongst it, finding an odd gem and then using his ingenuity to develop it into something worthwhile. He read with interest the synopses of various meetings held by the German General Staff, stopping at a brief mention that Malinin had ordered a copy of the London Times to be filed.

# Superintendent Donaldson coughed. Broughtman looked up. The superintendent looked irritated, Alexander was aware that the policeman had little time for amateurs such as him, regardless of the good work he did. Mumbling an apology, he passed the letter across. It must be very frustrating for the old man, thought Alexander, having people working for you who actually had better contacts than you did yourself.

# "There's nothing more about the Shoemaker," he grumbled for he had hoped that by now Langley might have found out something.

# "I think that was a red herring," commented Donaldson without looking up from the letter. Broughtman watched as the superintendent's eyes raced over the written lines.

# Donaldson felt relieved that McDowell's information had been confirmed. General Ludendorff had indeed authorised arms to be sent to Ireland. The letter listed the quantity, though this differed substantially from what McDowell had told him.

# "What do you know about this Irish affair?" he asked Broughtman.

# ""Nothing more that what we've already spoken about...the telegrams from America.. Casement's ineffectual efforts to raise an Irish Brigade in Germany.. Why?"

# "Your letter confirms what I already knew, about the German arms being supplied to the Irish." He disliked intensely his inability to control Broughtman and his kind: this freelance attitude they had went completely against his nature. So it pleased him to think that he had knowledge that they did not. "There is a substantial difference in the quantity being sent. According to my information there's enough to equip several battalions, but this......" he pointed derisively to the letter he held, indicates hardly enough to cause a riot." He had a self satisfied look on his face.

# "At least we agree that it's being shipped on a trawler, which incidentally left Lubeck on the 9th April." Once again he felt superior.

# Broughtman stretched his legs out and stared at his shoes.

# "Where is it heading for?" he asked, a slightly bored expression on his face.

# "The west coast of Ireland, a place called Tralee." answered the policeman. Broughtman began scribbling figures on the back of the envelope.

# "Well it won't get there before Easter at the earliest, perhaps the 23rd if they're lucky with the weather."

# Broughtman was worried. Could his intuition have failed him for once? Was it possible that the telegrams had been referring to a ship after all? It didn't make sense. He knew perfectly well that the German general staff had encouraged the Irish to plan this insurrection and now they were virtually deserting them, starving them of vital supplies they would need if it was to have any chance of success. In a strange way he felt a degree of sympathy for them; they were fighting for what they believed in. Now they had been betrayed,

# "There's only one way to find out about those arms," he said.

# Donaldson looked at him condescendingly. "And that is?"

# "Get the navy to stop and board her." It sounded so obvious that it made Donaldson feel foolish. He looked peeved.

# "This informer, how reliable is he?" Broughtman asked.

# Donaldson's face darkened.

# "Very reliable," he said in a bland, matter fact voice. "You could say it's almost from the horse's mouth."

# "So you'll inform the Minister."

# "Of course, in fact I shall inform them in Downing Street."

# Broughtman shook his head. "Poor bastards, they don't stand a chance. Well I wouldn't want to be an Irishman for the next month or so. Yet it doesn't make sense..."

# "What do you mean?"

# "There's something else. It's here," Broughtman tapped his forehead. "Inside my head, but it won't come out."

# The policeman muttered to himself, something that Broughtman failed to hear.

# "They are being betrayed by the very people who promised to help them. As far as the Hun is concerned, a successful insurrection in Ireland can do nothing but help their cause, especially in America. It's bound to draw off vital troops, who would be ordered to put down the rising as quickly as possible, and that's bound to cause a lot of ill feeling in Washington. It wouldn't surprise me if Malinin didn't have a hand in this." He rubbed his chin as he thought deeply.

# The mention of Malinin's name made disjointed images fill his mind a garden, people seated round a table, and Malinin amongst them, a woman was also present. But where was it and who were they?

# Donaldson began speaking, but his voice was drowned by the sound of the prison bell: they both stopped and look up. They heard people running, and voices raised .

# "Stay here, I'll go and see what's happened." ordered Donaldson.

# The Superintendent was gone only a few minutes before returning. He stood in the doorway, ashen faced.

# "A prisoner's been found dead in his cell. He's been murdered. Strangled."

# Perhaps it was the studied indifference that Donaldson displayed that made Broughtman suspicious.

# "Who was it?" Broughtman's voice was deep and threatening.

# Donaldson looked at him. His lips clamped tightly together, unsure whether to rebuke Broughtman for his tone of voice and yet realising that the man was justified in asking.

# "Kemp," he finally said.

# "But he was to be kept in solitary," accused Broughtman.

# Donaldson came into the room and shut the door behind him.

# "He was!" He looked nervous and ill at ease, almost as though he might collapse at any moment. Going to the window he looked down into the yard..

# "How the hell?" Broughtman stared at the policeman, whose hands were tightly clenched behind his back. The knuckles white.

# "What's gone on?" demanded Broughtman angrily.

# "The prison warder states that the last person to visit him was a police inspector."

# Donaldson felt dreadful; an ice cold shiver went through him. He was angry with himself; hot tears of rage filled his eyes. He had made a mistake, and was loath to admit it. His pride would not allow it, especially to this man. He longed for the days when all he had to face was the ordinary criminal; he was not cut out to be a spymaster.

# Broughtman clicked his fingers. A light had come on inside his head. The police inspector, he knew he had seen him before, he had been one of the people in the garden with Malinin.

# "That police inspector, I saw him by the gates as I came in. His name's McDowell." He looked accusingly at the Superintendent. "He's your informer."

# It wasn't a question, but a statement. Donaldson kept his eyes fixed on the yard below. He could not allow this man to beat him, he had to fight back, and his self respect demanded it. Donaldson turned back into the room.

# "McDowell is one of the Irish Republican leaders, without his information we would be lost."

# Broughtman laughed. "Is that what he told you?" He went on. "The last time I saw McDowell, he was in the garden of a house .:.... on the outskirts of Berlin. That was a month before war was declared...He was with four other people." He ticked them of f on his fingers.

# "Malinin, Head of German Intelligence; Rosa Luxembourg, the German socialist, the power behind the Spartacus league; Karl Liebrecht he's a social democrat....not much to choose between them if you ask me, he's a member of the Reichstag and openly opposed to the war....," Broughtman paused for breath. "There was also a Russian lawyer, Vladimer Ilyitch Ulianov by name, known to his friends as Lenin, he's the leader of the Russian Bolshevists, and of course our friend McDowell, who incidentally was doing most of the talking." Broughtman hesitated and looked up quickly as if something had occurred to him. "By the way how did McDowell know that Kemp was here?"

# Donaldson sat down in his chair, his face grey and beads of sweat forming across his hair line. He felt as though he was fighting for his life.

# "I've no idea." he lied.

# Broughtman sat there impassively and looked coldly at the policeman. He was sure that he now had sufficient pieces of the jigsaw to enable him to see enough of the picture. All he had to do was arrange the pieces. He would not allow anybody to get in his way, not anybody. The meeting in the garden must have been the beginning.

# The Prussian General Schlieffen's grand strategy would enable the Imperial German Armies to win a European war, but it hinged on one important fact. France had to be attacked and defeated swiftly, using a wide flanking manoeuvre, through neutral Belgium, before the Russian bear could mobilize its vast armies in the East.

# Broughtman knew of Malinin's total war theory. The idea of enlisting Lenin's help in delaying the mobilization, with rail strikes, would certainly buy time. What did Lenin want in return? A free hand to ferment revolution, and finance that would eventually lead to Russia's withdrawal from the war. Broughtman smiled to himself. A dangerous assumption for Malinin to make. He could so easily burn his fingers. Liberalism was a dirty word to the Kaiser and his generals. If Malinin could persuade the Liberal leaders to remain quiet and not ferment trouble, he would not have to throw them in jail and aggravate the people. No doubt he would promise them the earth in return. That would only leave the Western Allies.

# The Irish people's desire for Home Rule was well known internationally. It would have been obvious to Malinin that this was the muddy pond into which he should thrust his stick. McDowell had never pretended to be anything but an out and out Socialist. His powerful speeches across the country, to pacifist groups, and unions, had caused numerous strikes' and protests. He had had several jail sentences. His involvement with the I.R.B. had been a surprise, considering he was a Scot, for up to then it was generally thought that the brotherhood was more interested in promoting Celtic culture than blowing up buildings. Now McDowell had betrayed them, and the Germans were sending only a fraction of the arms they needed. Irish blood would be spilt and that would certainly upset the large Irish community in America...... Perhaps that was it? Like sheep to the slaughter the brotherhood would be massacred, and that would please Malinin, but what would McDowell get out of this? The factories would still produce the merchandise of war: only when the industrial heart land of the country was brought to a standstill would McDowell consider he was succeeding.

# Yet, McDowell had been forced to show his hand, by murdering Kemp...why? Had Kemp known something that had meant he must be silenced, Kemp, who had sent him looking for a gypsy in the woods around Charnwood. Alexander felt a sudden surge of excitement, he remembered the visitors he had seen that day at Charnwood house.

# "What were Lloyd George and Kitchener doing at Charnwood House yesterday afternoon?" He spat the question out and watched the ends of Donaldson's mustache twitch nervously.

# "How did you know about that?" The policeman sounded aggressive and defensive. Broughtman told him of the visit that he and his brother had made. "Oh it's nothing to do with us," Donaldson replied dismissively.

# "I don't agree," replied Broughtman defiantly.

# The policeman glowered at Broughtman, but remained silent and producing a pipe from his pocket, began to suck on it nervously.

# "Good God man, this could be vital," accused Broughtman.

# Donaldson continued to sit quite still twisting and turning the pipe in his mouth.

# He looks ill, thought Broughtman. It suddenly occurred to him what had caused the policeman's malaise. The fool.

# "You told McDowell that Kemp was here." He looked contemptuously at the old man. Rising to his feet he leaned upon the desk.

# "I'll tell you this," said Broughtman, "Either you tell me exactly what's going on at Charnwood, or I shall have no compulsion in telling them at Military Intelligence." He stretched up and towered over the desk above the unhappy Donaldson. "By the time the Commissioner has heard about McDowell, you wont have a cat in hell's chance of ever getting your precious pension or your bungalow at Eastbourne." He dropped back into his chair. "Well what's it going to be?"

# The last vestige of co-existence disappeared between the two men. Sheer unadulterated hatred shone from the policeman's eyes. For Donaldson knew that this was no idle threat, although even now he was tempted to accuse Broughtman of double dealing, but in his heart of hearts knew it would do no good.

# The policeman suddenly looked very old and tired. "The fact is, we're losing the war."

# "My God," uttered Broughtman: "How can you be so sure?"

# "The damn workers aren't producing enough of anything," he sounded bitter and angry. "Shells, guns, ammunition, everything."

# He looked defiantly at Broughtman as though it were his fault. Broughtman remained silent.

# Donaldson went on, "It's all right for our gallant soldiers to die at the front but infringe the workers rights and they go on strike.....Well it's going to stop."

# "How?"

# "The Prime Minister's afraid to grasp the mettle, and the Government's in turmoil. Only Lloyd George and Kitchener have the back bone to face up to the situation."

# There's no doubt where Donaldson loyalties lay, thought Broughtman, although in his own mind it was the Welsh Wizard, Lloyd George, who was actually calling the tune. Kitchener's political influence had waned substantially in the last few months, his weaknesses exposed. Lloyd George as Minister of Munitions had forced him to accept Sir William Robinson as Chief of the Imperial General Staff. This had effectively removed Kitchener, although he still remained the Secretary of State for war, because of his popularity with the public in general.

# "Just how do they intend to do that....Conscription?"

# "More than that," said the Superintendent derisively. Broughtman could see that the policeman was on edge, ready to snap back at the slightest provocation. If he could be provoked one way or another who knows what he might reveal.

# "Conscript the whole of the population..... Kitchener would love that," joked Broughtman, at the same time watching Donaldson's expression closely. He saw the vein's begin to throb in the older man's face. He's getting very angry he thought.

# "Exactly," snapped back the policeman:

# "Just what do they hope to achieve by doing that."

# Donaldson looked at him as though he was bereft of intelligence.

# "I don't think you have any idea of what is really going on," he growled. "What with the submarine blockade and over thirty percent of all the shells being made, turning out to be dud. And now this big offensive."

# Donaldson stopped and screwed his eyes up, looking at Broughtman, having realised what he had been provoked into saying.

# "So," breathed Broughtman. "I can guess what our Welsh friend is plotting. Gather all the trade union leaders together for a nice friendly weekend in the country, sit them down and cast a lyrical spell over them. Get them to quietly lie down, roll over and have their stomachs rubbed."

# "I'd call it patriotism."

# "And what does Lloyd George want,.., no strikes, extended shifts without pay, reverse the Osborne Judgment?"

# "He wants to put the entire population under Military control, subject to the Army Act as well as the Defence of the Realm Act."

# Broughtman looked at him amazed. "He'll want to suspend Habeas Corpus next."

# "It would solve a lot of problems."

# Broughtman tilted his chair back and gazed up at the ceiling.

# "He thinks this is going to work?"

# "Provided it is kept secret."

# "And if it is not?" said Broughtman.

# "Then it would be denied, slanderous gossip.".

# "And this is going to be held at Charnwood House," stated Broughtman rising to his feet.

# "In a month, l2th May...it's a Friday ............ Now our New York Consulate tells us that the Germans are going round, saying that they want peace talks but we and the French are refusing. It's to stop the Americans from entering the war on our side. We need the Americans, but they're very reluctant; they think we're losing the war as well. These unions have got to be persuaded to cooperate."

# "What happens if they don't cooperate?"

# At this, Donaldson leaned across and in a low voice. "It will work; Lloyd George has an ace that no one will trump."

# Broughtman frowned in puzzlement. What did the man mean?

# Sabotaging Lloyd George's plans would give Malinin time, for what, and it would also delay this offensive.

# Did they realise that Kemp had lived and worked barely twenty miles from Charnwood? Now he's been murdered and we're fairly certain, by McDowell, who's mixed up with Malinin and the Irish affair.

# What would happen if this meeting was scuppered and this Ace was trumped? He didn't know, but he needed to find out.

# He leaned across Donaldson's desk and picked up the letter, and read it once again, then stopped and read a sentence out loud.

# "Malinin has ordered a copy of the London Times dated 1st September 1915, to be filed."

# Broughtman looked at the Superintendent. "I want a copy. There's something in there that's going to answer a lot of questions."

# "I see you need a favour?"

# Broughtman looked at Donaldson for a moment and then turning began to walk towards the door.

# "The only favour going around here is the one I'm doing you by keeping my mouth shut ...... You can send that copy to Grassmoor.

# 

## Chapter Twenty Seven.

### Cross Keys Farm.

## To George, life was now intoxicating, his senses fulfilled in every way. In Rosemary there was a fire that consumed him completely. They both craved each other in the fullest sense, from the moment they fell joyfully into each other's arms and until the moment when they fell into the sleep of the innocents. The days were now filled with the beginning of spring. Life came from the earth and produced something new each day.

This morning he awoke to the warmth of her body, her back resting against him. He caressed her naked buttocks, and lifting her nightdress, he slipped his arms round her, his hands cupping her breasts. Half asleep, she moved against him, provoking him, the muscles of her buttocks squeezing him until he could stand it no longer. He entered her, and she cried out not from pain, but with delicious exhortation.

Afterwards they lay there, drowsy and only half awake. She twisted round and kissed him gently. She smiled at him, her face alight with love and trust. Suddenly he felt ashamed, filled with remorse. She had become to him the most precious thing, more precious than life it self, yet his whole existence was false. He was living a lie. He had lain at night wondering whether to tell her the truth, to reveal his true identity yet, he knew it would shatter her trust in him, and God forbid, force him to make the impossible decision between his own survival and hers. No, for her sake it was vital that he kept his secret. Now he was being forced to lie to her again.

In the weeks gone past, he had sat and listened to Kairda, amazed at how devious she could be. The casual remark, the occasional word said here and there, nothing direct but drop by drop she had planted in Rosemary's mind the idea that she, Kairda, could help George to speak properly once again.

Kairda had now become a regular visitor, and the two woman firm friends, or so Rosemary thought. The Irish woman's flattery and persuasive tongue had won her over completely, and so it was Rosemary who had finally suggested, thinking that it had been her own idea, that he should travel to Kairda's lodgings for speech lessons. They had indeed spent many hours correcting his speech, while waiting to hear from McDowell. There was something about the whole affair that frightened George; he could see that Kairda was becoming concerned, when they spoke of it.

### Now, out in the yard, with the sun warm on his back, he lifted the axe high above his head, and brought it down to split the log with one stroke. He saw Kairda ride into the yard. She looked pleased and indicated, as she laid her bicycle against the wall, that she wanted to speak to him alone.

"At last," she panted. She stood there flushed and excited. "I've had a message. You are to meet Mr. Ibreac this afternoon at the crossing on the Warsop Nottingham road. I shall guide you. You're to be dressed as labourer."

Rosemary stood and watched them leave. She appeared quite unconcerned and had not questioned them in any way. George marveled at the difference, between the Rosemary he had first seen on that cold November day and this woman. .Then she had been withdrawn and tired, a thin faced, gaunt woman. Now she had filled out, so much so that he had teased her that she would have to go on bread and water - otherwise her clothes would not fit. Once the farm was out of sight, there was a feeling of relief. At last, he thought, he would be able to get on with the job and urging the mare on, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Kairda's bicycle was securely tied on. He felt an excitement he had not felt since arriving.

"Do you know this man Ibreac?" he asked.

"I've met him once." Kairda replied. "He's a strange man."

"Strange? In what way?"

"Oh you'll see," she replied mysteriously.

"What is his involvement?" asked George.

"I'm not sure," replied Kairda. "Only McDowell knows all the details. All I know is that he lives at Charnwood and is somehow related to the old Duke."

"Can he be trusted?"

### Kairda laughed. "Oh yes, you can be rest assured of that, he hates them worse than poison. He's not like them."

"I don't understand?"

### Kairda looked at him and smiled. "He prefers young boys to young girls."

"McDowell is blackmailing him?"

"So it would seem. "

George frowned. Blackmail was only truly effective if the victim's secret was secure; once it leaked it became useless. The victim could possibly turn and expose his blackmailer and that would prove disastrous.

### He was surprised that McDowell had not thought of that. Perhaps it wasn't blackmail but something else.

### It took nearly three hours to reach the crossing. When they arrived the place was deserted.

"Damn! Are we too late?" exclaimed George.

"I don't think so." Kairda climbed down and walked to the middle of the road and looked up and down. They were on the outer edges of Sherwood Forest; the tree line reached to the edge of the road and nearby a track disappeared from view in amongst the trees. They heard the sound of a cart approaching. When it emerged, the driver, a young man, dressed in ill- fitting tweeds, brought it to a halt while it was still within the shelter of trees. He struggled down with some difficulty and stopped in the shadows.

### Kairda walked slowly to him.

"Mr. Ibreac?" she asked, peering closely, as though unsure of the man's identity. He inclined his head.

### Kairda turned and waved to George to join then.

### Ibreac shuffled and plucked nervously at his clothes as though he found them uncomfortable.

"Miss Brandon." The muscles in his face were stiff and rigid, his lips barely moving as he spoke.

"And who is this?" he asked. He did not move his head, merely his eyes in George's direction.

### George looked back coldly. Ibreac was thin faced with widely-spaced, protruding eyes, he looked in pain. His mouth turned down contemptuously.

"This is Captain Richard Kahn of the Imperial Prussian Guard, the Shoemaker."

### George drew in his breath sharply; he was shocked and astounded. For a time he had come to accept that he was really George Bagworth, and anyway why on earth had the stupid woman revealed his true identity? He looked at the woman his eyes blazing.

"Is he," answered Ibreac, there was a vague, supercilious tone to his voice. "Are we supposed to be impressed? I was under the impression that they were all great big tall men," he lisped.

"You are thinking of the Imperial Grenadiers," George replied, his voice quiet and threatening. Kairda glanced in his direction, a worried, slightly frightened look on her face.

"Well I must compliment you on your English. You could pass for one of us."

"That's the general idea.....Now if you don't mind, I would like to examine this Hunting Lodge or whatever." It was his turn to be sarcastic.

Ibreac stifled indignation with difficulty. "Very well...Miss Brandon will ride alongside me.... You," Ibreac made it sound like a dirty word, "will have to ride in there." He indicated the back of the cart, which had recently been used for carting muck.

### George followed Kairda round and taking hold of her arm began to help her up.

"By the way," he said, and with his finger and thumb he found the nerve just above Kairda's elbow and squeezed very hard. She drew breath and he felt her go rigid with pain. "My name is George Bagworth. Don't ever refer to me by any other name." He addressed them both, only looking at Kairda at the last moment. She snatched her arm away, tears, flooding into her eyes. Her lower arm hung limp and useless by her side. It would be numb for the best part of an hour.

"Not very imaginative," sneered Ibreac.

"It's not supposed to be," snapped George as he vaulted into the back of the cart. "Now... can we get on?"

### They rode through the forest in silence.

The Hunting Lodge was at the foot of a tree-covered hill; a steep craggy place, full of gullies and fissures created by some prehistoric earthquake. Below and to the south a spur of hills stretched round to form a basin, filled by a subterranean spring, so it was now a lake; a wide expanse of water nearly three quarters of mile long. To reach the Hunting Lodge they would need to circle the edge of the lake. As they approached, George studied the structure of the Lodge. It was a two story building of large, heavy stones that had obviously come from a much older building. At the end was, what appeared to be, the base of a tower of which the upper portion had been demolished.

Not too many windows, thought George. That was good and those were small and narrow. On reaching the heavy wooden door that led into the Lodge, he stopped and estimated the thickness of the walls; at least a metre. The power of the explosion would be contained inside, causing even more devastation within the building.

### George moved quickly from room to room, pacing each out and noting the area in small book he carried. He also noted the thickness of each wall, the size of the doorways. Ibreac sat in a high backed wooden chair and gazed about him with studied indifference.

"Will you take long?" he asked, barely concealing his boredom.

"Just as long as it takes," answered George as he descended the stairs from the floor above. "Are there cellars?"

### Ibreac looked at him blankly, and without speaking, merely pointed his stick to a doorway nearby.

### The entrance to the cellars was not man-made but merely a hole through solid rock.

"I'll stay up here," Ibreac said, "and keep a look out."

"Why?" called George, as he descended the steps leading to the cellars below.

"They have begun to search the Lodge at odd times."

"Who are they...? Police."

"No! Men the old Duke has had sent down from London."

"What about these cellars?"

"They are kept locked."

### George noticed Kairda was following him down. He waited at the bottom of the steps, holding the lantern high so that she could see clearly.

"How is your arm?" he asked. "I'm sorry if I hurt you. It's just that you must never use that name again, do you understand?"

### She looked at him and hesitated before nodding in agreement.

### He turned away and began to inspect the cellars. He stared first, at the roof, then the walls, and finally the floor. He whistled softly in amazement.

"Incredible! Look here," he said pointing to the floor. "The stratum is such that the floor and roof are made of limestone, but the walls are soft sandstone. These cellars have been made by digging through the limestone and then gouging out the sandstone, it's soft." He pulled a pen-knife from his pocket and dug a piece of rock the size of his fist, from the wall.

### He shone the lantern round. At the far end was a low door- way, leading to another cellar. In the centre of the floor was a pit.

"You see this is where the strata have changed and all they have done is to continually dig out the sandstone; they could have used this pit for all sorts of purposes. It even looks watertight."

"There's another doorway," pointed Kairda. "How far do you think they could go?"

### George looked through the new doorway. "Difficult to tell. This cellar is full of rubble"

### The actual placing of the charges faced George with little or no problem. He would merely drill into the roof of the cellar and fix his charges to rupture the limestone ceiling with such force as to completely demolish the building above. There would be no survivors by the time he had finished.

### Ibreac was still sitting where they had left him.

"Where have you put the explosives?" asked George as he emerged from the cellar.

"It's all down at the far end of the lake. Kemp put it in one of the old shafts," replied Ibreac.

"Right! I want to see it," demanded George. He had left precise instructions with Malinin as to when and where the explosives were to be made, how they were to be transported, and stored.

### George stood by as Ibreac carefully locked the cellar door and then followed them out to the trap. They retraced their steps until they found the track once again. Half way back to the road. Ibreac turned off and with some difficulty forced the cart through an overgrown pathway. "How long has it been stored?" George asked.

"Since December."

### George looked across to where Kairda sat and frowned. Provided it had been done in the manner he had prescribed then all should be well. He trusted Malinin to have carried out his instructions.

### Ibreac stopped the cart and got down. He forced his way through the undergrowth, until he reached a small stone hut. He grasped the door handle and began to pull.

"Stop!" said George. "For Christ be careful man! You jar that lot and you could blow us to Kingdom Come."

### He eased past Ibreac and slowly and carefully forced the door open. The interior was pitch black. George sniffed the stale air and stood there, letting his eyes become accustomed to the darkness. He could just make out what appeared to be a bundle of sacking in the corner.

"Stay well back," he called over his shoulder. He walked carefully over to the pile of sacking, and reaching down, lifted one corner.

Kairda and Ibreac were beginning to grow impatient. George had been inside the hut for what seemed ages. They were relieved when, at last, they- saw him emerge.

"Well?" asked Kairda. George had removed his coat and was holding it casually by the collar, his face flushed and angry.

"What's happened?" she looked at him anxiously.

"Did you have anything to do with this?" He directed the question to Ibreac and indicated the shed behind him. His manner was intimidating.

"Certainly not," replied Ibreac indignantly, wiping his hands together as though the mere suggestion was repellant to him.

"Then who did store it in here?" demanded George.

"You have already been told..... Kemp," stated Kairda. "What is the matter?" She stood there, hands on hips demanding an answer.

"The explosives in there," George thumbed over his shoulder, "are useless."

"What?" the other two echoed. Kairda flushed and angry, grasped George by his shirt front.

"I know you didn't want to do this, but if you are going to use this as an excuse." She pointed back in the direction of the lodge. "You'll blow this and those marshalling yards."

### George reached down and disengaged her hands from his clothing. He looked at her with complete indifference.

"Madam, there is not enough stable explosive in there to blow the lid off a dustbin. You try and touch that in there and it will blow you to kingdom come."

"You're lying" she protested.

### George shrugged his shoulders. "You'll have to take my word for it." He began walking back towards the cart.

### Kairda turned to Ibreac, "Can we get more?"

"It took months; we don't have time."

They stood there watching George as he walked away.

"What shall we tell McDowell?" Ibreac sounded frightened. Kairda stood and continued to watch George.

"We shall tell him nothing ...... Not for the moment, at least," she said. "I have a feeling that by the time I've finished talking to Mr. Bagworth, if that's what he insists on being called, he'll be only too glad to use those explosive. Or anything else come to that ......"

### Chapter Twenty Eight

They left Ibreac standing by the road side and rode off in silence. Half an hour passed before either of them spoke. It was Kairda.

"What will you do now?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Well! You say the explosives are no good. We can't get any more in time."

### George looked at her, he felt suspicious, and didn't believe that she would give up this easily. Kairda stared back, her face bland and expressionless.

"I hadn't given it any thought," he said.

"Have you thought what effect this will have on Rosemary?"

### George's expression hardened. "She knows nothing of this."

"But what if she did?" Kairda smiled sweetly.

"Who's going to tell her?" There was a threat in his voice.

"You do realise she's in love with you," said Kairda, apparently ignoring his threatening tone.

When George didn't reply. She threw back her head and laughed. He felt his pulse quicken. There was a strong temptation to put his hands round her long, beautiful neck and to squeeze very hard. But he hung his head, he knew he couldn't do it. Perhaps last Christmas, but not now. Too many thing had. happened. He was sick of the killing. Instead he concentrated on Kairda's words.

"Your story about the Dutchman in the German Army was a stroke of genius."

"How did you know about that?"

"Oh! Rosemary and I are confidantes now. She tells me all sorts of things. You knew that her father was a Prussian Officer."

### George nodded.

### Kairda's voice hardened. "And she believes in you utterly."

### George began to understand. "And so....unless I do something about those explosives, she will learn the truth about me?."

"It would be such pity." said Kairda, but her voice was devoid of compassion.

"It would break her heart."

"There are matters of greater importance to worry about, than some pathetic girl who's no better than a brood mare," snarled Kairda

### George swung round, his fist raised. Kairda drew back, but stared defiantly.

"Don't you ever raise your fist to me again. For your information there's a letter addressed to Mr. Simmons, the headmaster, telling him the full story about you. So I suggest you take good care of me, because if anything happens ......." she left the sentence unfinished.

"Well Miss Brandon," said George his voice full of irony. "You don't leave me any options do you, but what do you expect me to do? Wave a magic wand?"

### Kairda ignored his sarcasm. "You're supposed to be a brilliant chemist. I suggest you get your thinking cap on and start using your brains."

### They had reached North Cresswell before George spoke again.

"I need information about the geology of this area." George looked across to where Kairda sat. "Do you know where I might find that information?"

"How should I know?" she grumbled.

"You are a teacher. I was wondering perhaps whether your Mr. Simmons might know."

### At this Kairda looked up. "Why?"

"God Damn it woman! Does he know or doesn't he?"

"He might." She sounded cautious, unhappy about involving her headmaster. "He's the local historian."

"Right! you must find out all you can about Charnwood House and the lodge."

### She still looked puzzled. George took a deep breath of exasperation.

"Now who isn't using her brains? This is a mining area. It's possible that there are tunnels running from the house to the lodge."

The sight of the farm, and what it contained, depressed him greatly. He watched Kairda cycle away up the hill, but did not go into the house straight away. The day had been the first full day of spring and although the sun had sunk behind the trees, the air was still warm, and filled with the scent of wild flowers. From his position on the stone wall he could see across the meadow. He wanted to shut his eyes and drift, such was the peace of this place, but the turmoil within his head prevented it.

### He did not hear Rosemary approach, but was suddenly conscious that she was there beside him. The soft smell of freshly ironed clothes mingling with the scent of heather. It had a clean heady smell of his youth. He suddenly realised that this was where he wanted to be. As though by instinct he offered his hand. She placed hers in it, a hand so perfectly formed that he was tempted to raise it to his lips. Instead he lifted his eyes and looked at her, at the hair drawn back from her face giving her that fresh youthful look. The last rays of the sun cast a bloom upon her cheeks that took his breath away. He had never seen her look so lovely. She smiled a smile so full of trust and love that he felt his stomach turn over. It felt dreadful.

"Did I surprise you?" she whispered.

### There was a deep desire to turn his thoughts into words. It made him almost gag. He sat and with his arms around his knees, balanced precariously on top of the wall looking out again across the meadow.

"This reminds me of a place I stayed at in Scotland," he said. Trying vainly to clear his thoughts.

"What were you doing there?"

"Surveying a mine. The house we stayed at was high on a hill. It was owned by a man from Saxony who'd married a local girl." He gave a short sharp laugh. "You would never have known. He had the broadest Scots accent you've ever heard."

### He smiled to himself as though some hidden thing had amused him. "They had a daughter and I fell madly in love with her. I was heart broken when she ignored me"

### He could feel the soft giggle vibrate through her as she sat beside him, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. He could feel its warmth through his cotton shirt. He twisted round and they looked at each other. No words were required for he felt himself sinking into that emotional cavern that people call love.

### He lifted her hand to his lips and touched it gently, and felt her fingers tighten round his. He looked up, her eyes seemed to grow and grow until they filled his world. With his hand he touched her cheek as though it were the petal of a delicate flower. Her lips were moist and full. A magnetic force drew them together. It was as though their skin burned as their lips touched, fluttering like butterflies.

"Oh! My God I need you," he whispered, slowly his arms went round her, their foreheads touching as he cradled her in his arms.

### He could feel the softness of her pressing against him she relaxed. Hot tears of emotion ran from his eyes and down his cheeks.

He felt angry with the world and himself for forcing him into this tangled web of deceit, and yet he felt pleased with his anger. It gave him the strength, the courage, and the determination to win through. He would do their bidding and they would live to regret it.

# Chapter Twenty Nine

### Grassmoor School House

It was not often that Kairda felt nervous of her quiet, unpretentious headmaster, but she was today. She had spent her dinner hour looking through the school's totally inadequate library, and was about to return to her class when he surprised her.

"Oh! Its nothing really," she replied to his enquiry. "I was merely looking for a book on the Crags at Cresswell. A lady, I met on Sunday, told me of the prehistoric remains that have been found in the caves. I thought I might find a book about the subject."

### Mr. Simmons's face lit up, "You're interested in anthropology?" He sounded surprised, as though finding a fellow enthusiast was a rare event. "Come, I have just the book for you; I keep it in my own small collection." He sounded quite conspiratorial, "I'm rather proud of my efforts."

### He glowed as he opened a small cupboard in his room. It was full of various strange objects, pieces of rock and bone in strange shapes. He drew from the top shelf a box, which he placed carefully on his desk. Lifting the lid he reached in and produced, like a conjurer, a human skull.

### Kairda gasped. Mr. Simmons looked up.

"Oh! I do apologise, have I frightened you?" He looked at the skull, "This is my pride and joy-I found it deep inside one of the caves. I would have gone further but I was on my own and was worried that I might get lost."

He looked up concerned, "It's been known -to happen you know."

"How far do the caves go?" asked Kairda.

"Well no one knows, but my own view is they go for miles, right under and beyond Charnwood."

"Under Charnwood?"

"Yes, there was a monastery there, until the restoration. The monks were bound to have found a way through."

### Kairda could see that Mr. Simmons was warming to his subject.

"You see Miss Brandon, two hundred and forty million years ago, this whole area was covered by a vast river, and legend has it that somewhere down there," he pointed to the ground, "this vast river still runs." He smiled self-consciously.

Only the bell in the playground brought Mr. Simmons's lecture to a halt, and while Kairda was keen to find out as much as possible, she was happy to go back to her class clutching the book Mr. Simmons had lent her.

### George came to her lodgings once a week, usually on a Thursday, which meant a wait of two or three days and Kairda felt that this was too long, especially as now time was becoming precious. She would have to take a risk and send a note via one of the farm lads in her form who lived in that direction.

### She had left George in a state of anxiety. As a woman she found this pleasing for it annoyed her intensely the way he treated her with his patronising manner. She was confident that her threat about the letter, which did not exist, had had the desired effect, but if in the end he was still unable to produce an answer she didn't know what she would do, and worse still she didn't know how McDowell would react.

George was sitting on the low garden wall, outside her lodgings, when she arrived home the following day. She unlocked the front door her landlady having gone round to a friend that day. George followed her through to the kitchen as Kairda unpinned her straw hat, and took off her tailored coat.

"I've something to show you; sit down and I'll get it from my room."

She was back in a moment, with the book in her hand. She handed to George.

"There are caves under the lodge, or so Mr. Simmons believes."

### George opened the book and began to flick through the pages, he would stop now and again and carefully read the script.

"We must get word to Ibreac. He'll need to organise it so that I can have a good search through the cellars, perhaps over several days." George sat there deep in thought. "It'll be best if I could get in there under the guise of being a builder. Can you get a message to him, as soon as possible?"

### Kairda looked at her tiny fob watch.

"If you drive me over now, you can wait, while I go and see him."

### George didn't like the idea, but reluctantly agreed.

### Ibreac's Cottage..

### Stewart Ibreac puffed up the cushion in his chair as he eased himself carefully into it. His back still pained him weeks after the thrashing he had received; it filled him with a cold fury every time he thought about it.

### James McDowell leaned across from an adjacent chair and touched his friend lightly on the knee.

"Don't let them get at you like this," McDowell's voice was soft and affectionate.

"They will suffer," growled his companion.

### McDowell sighed. "You have every right to be angry, but don't let your anger defeat us now. Hold on, for just a little longer. We are so close to victory. When that is achieved just think what your reward will be, that's what you have to concentrate on"

"But how can I?" Ibreac cried. "Their insults, their cruelty, it's more than I can bear." He raised his fists to the ceiling. "I want my revenge. I want my birth right." He sounded like a petulant child, but McDowell ignored it.

"And you shall have it, I swear to you. You shall have it." McDowell sat back in his chair. "Now Stewart, tell me about your visitor, did it till go well?"

"I suppose so," pouted the young man. "Frankly I'm not sure he's every thing he's supposed to be."

### The lines on McDowell's forehead deepened. Ibreac hesitated unsure if he should continue, for he had expected McDowell to explode with rage and was surprised when he had not.

"Oh! He certainly played the part, and was as you described him, medium height, heavy-built man with a dark well groomed beard. His face was certainly twisted from his injuries. In fact he had an amazing resemblance to......."

"That's enough.." interrupted McDowell. "Get on and don't prattle like an old woman." Ibreac's top lip trembled. "I showed him the cellars and everything seemed all right. It was when he examined the explosives, he started making excuses." Ibreac stopped and looked warily at McDowell.

"Go on!" ordered McDowell ominously. "What did the Shoemaker say about the explosives?" There was a tinge of anxiety in McDowell's voice.

"He said he couldn't use them."

"WHAT!" McDowell shot to his feet. Ibreac cringed back anticipating a blow. McDowell crashed his fist on to the table. He stood rigid, his head thrown back, he appeared transfixed, gazing at the ceiling as though searching for some hidden spiritual force to come to his aid. He couldn't believe it; he wouldn't believe it, not after all the months of careful planning. He cursed the day he had ever met Kemp, for it had been his responsibility to hide the explosives.

"What can we do?" cried Ibreac as he perched on the edge of his chair, "what will that mean?"

"Shut up your squealing." McDowell's voice was cruel and hard. Ibreac began to weep. "Christ man you're pathetic."

### Ibreac stood up, a tight contorted look on his face. "If that's how you feel, then there isn't much point."

### McDowell's face relaxed; he crossed over to Ibreac and put his arms round him. He could feel the young man sobbing on his shoulder. He patted him gently.

"Now now, we've all been through a lot, forgive me." He lifted Ibreac's chin. "Will you forgive me?"

"I'm sorry. I'm being foolish." Ibreac turned and went back to his chair. "What are we going to do?"

"Just be quiet old chap." said McDowell. "I need time to think."

"I'm sorry, James," pleaded Ibreac, frightened that his interruption might anger McDowell once again. "But the woman said she knew a way."

"Miss Brandon," McDowell looked pleasantly surprised. "What did she say?"

"Not a lot! But I got the impression that this Bagworth fellow was involved with a woman."

"I wonder if it's Kemp's woman, the Prussian's daughter?"

### Inwardly McDowell raged, he looked coldly at the man seated in front of him. It had required all his self control not to show the contempt he truly felt. Playing on the fantasies of this weak, insipid man had enabled him to find out vital information about when the meetings were being held.

### McDowell felt hot bile rise from the pit of his stomach. These men, his so called compatriots, who were about to betray their comrades and sacrifice all the liberties they had worked so hard for. In a way, the meetings could not have come at a better time; they presented him with a ideal opportunity. It would give his men of iron the chance to seize command of the unions, upon the destruction of these men of clay.

He clenched his fist in frustration, now even the marshalling yards were in doubt; there had to be a way of forcing the Shoemaker to use that explosive. Even at this late stage, if Malinin found out he could stop the Irish shipment. But more important than anything e1se, the news that Stewart Ibreac had brought that day, that the last meeting was to be addressed by the one person who could persuade them to do the Government's bidding, had been the icing on the cake. It was vital, as far as McDowell was concerned, that all his actors should play their part and suffer their fate.

### Now he had to waste even more time in contacting Kairda Brandon once again. Since the death of Kemp, he knew the police would be even more vigilant. He felt pleased at having decided to use the girl as a buffer between himself and the Shoemaker. He knew he was being sought after, but no one suspected her for she was not involved with any of the groups. He had only met her once since seeing her in the Dublin Park. She had made a lasting impression on him. He was captivated by her, there was something about her, her manner, her style, and he found her intriguing. He felt his desire increase, the more he thought about it. He need only to shut his eyes to imagine her, to fantasize on her lithe young body; his hands itched, should the opportunity ever present itself, he would not be able to hold back. He felt his desire increase, the more he thought about it.

### Ibreac, rising to his feet, placed a finger to his lips.

"There is someone crossing the gravel," he whispered. "They are coming here."

### McDowell moved back into the shadow of the alcove. "Get rid of them."

### The sound of knocking reached through the closed door. Ibreac left the room and walked down the small hallway to answer the door.

### McDowell waited anxiously. He could hear Ibreac's voice, but not the callers. What seemed an age went by and eventually he heard the outer door close and Ibreac returning. He was not alone.

### The door opened and Ibreac entered. "We have guests."

### Kairda Brandon entered the room, followed by George Bagworth.

### McDowell stood and extended his hand.

"Miss Brandon, a pleasure,"

"Mr. McDowell, I don't think you have met the Sh ......"

### George interrupted, "Bagworth .... George Bagworth."

"An honour to meet you ........ I have heard a lot about you." McDowell's tone was of calm amiability, considering the rage he had felt only moments before.

"Sit down," he said expansively. "At last we meet. Great events are about to be unleashed. Miss Brandon's country is about to break free of it's chains, and on success of our venture here, a bright new future for us all should unfold. We're relying on you Mr. Bagworth." He observed a sense of excitement in Kairda, as her eyes brightened at his words.

### George looked on impassively.

"You will be able to achieve your objectives Mr. Bagworth?" There was a subtle hardness to McDowell's voice.

### George leaned back in his chair and made himself comfortable.

"Not with the explosives stored in that hut," he said curtly.

He watched McDowell slowly cross his legs. Ibreac seemed fascinated by something in the fire. Kairda watched the two men apprehensively.

"Why is that pray?" McDowell's voice was barely a whisper.

"Because they're not the explosives I had manufactured."

McDowell looked startled; he looked quickly in Kairda's direction as though she could supply the answer. She sat there in silence.

"That's not possible. The cases were unloaded by members of the brotherhood and brought directly to Dublin." He stopped as it dawned on him what had happened, "Then instead of shipping it across the water to us, the brotherhood merely found a similar quantity over here and gave it to Kemp." He frowned. "But surely that shouldn't make all that much difference?"

### George's face tightened as he sat forward. "Well it has. Unless you store gelignite very carefully, the nitroglycerine doesn't last; the wax coating disintegrates and it becomes unstable."

"We only have your word for that," McDowell said angrily.

### George's eyes narrowed.

### McDowell continued, "Your position in this country is precarious." His threat was obvious. "Lt Colonel Malinin praised your talents to the sky, I think you'd better use them. You'll have to make those stable."

George laughed. "You're talking about chemicals, not nuts and bolts. What has happened can't be undone. If your brotherhood," he said sarcastically, "had done what they were supposed to do this would never had happened I anticipated a delay, when I had it manufactured." He looked round the room. "I had no idea how long it would take to get here, so I gave it a greater degree of stability by adding camphor. Camphor gives off a distinctive smell, that's how I knew it was not the correct explosive."

"I have no intention of letting you wipe your hands of this affair," threatened McDowell.

"And you have Mrs. Kemp" Kairda soft voice made George jump; he looked at her.

### McDowell, seeing the look on their faces, realised he had something to pressurise with.

"Mrs. Kemp?" He smiled. "Oh! How touching...Yes my dear, he must consider her position. I should have realised, nevertheless, it's time our friend here used his talents."

### George said nothing for several seconds, but just sat staring at the floor, then he looked up.

"I need to search the cellars again," he announced.

"When?"

"Now."

### The Hunting Lodge Charnwood Estate,,,,,

"Careful," instructed George. "Keep the light shielded."

### George, as well as the other three, made their way carefully across the entrance hall of the lodge and down into the cellars.

### Placing the lantern on a ledge. He opened the map that Ibreac had obtained from the library in Charnwood House.

"It only shows these three cellars."

"Three?" Questioned McDowell.

Yes! These two and the one through the far door, that's full of rubble." George indicated towards the darkness. He twisted the map round and peered closely at it.

"What is this word written against the far wall of the third cellar?" he asked Ibreac, who looked over George's shoulder.

"Catacombs."

"What does that mean?" George looked puzzled. "It's not a word I understand."

"It means, a subterranean cemetery, "Kairda answered.

"So!" George was pleased. "Your Mr. Simmons could be right."

### Kairda nodded.

"Right," George handed the map to her and retrieved the lantern. "Let's see if we can find them."

"What, now?" protested Ibreac?

"It's as good a time as ever," pointed out McDowell.

### They made their way through the cellars. Instructing Kairda to hold the lantern, George began to roll up his sleeves. He looked at the other men.

"Don't stand there. It's going to need all of us to shift these rocks." Indicating the mound that lay against the back wall where the entrance to the catacombs lay.

They had no idea how long it was taking them, but were relieved that it was still dark when they finally broke through into the catacombs. It was too late to go any further.

Both Ibreac and McDowell were hot and dusty. "What is the point of this?" grumbled Ibreac.

### George was non-committal.

"It's nearly daylight," warned McDowell.

"Very well," said George. "It's Friday today. We will leave now and tonight I shall return with Miss Brandon and carry on the search."

"For what?" Kairda asked.

### He did not know. He secretly thought to himself, at least this gives me time to think of a way of getting out of this situation.

### By the time he had driven Kairda back to Grassmoor, dropping her several streets from her lodgings, and made his way back to the farm, it was daylight.

### Chapter Thirty

### Cross Keys Farm

### Rosemary was in the kitchen as he entered. She looked up, her forehead lined with anxiety

."What's happened?" she asked. "Are you all right?"

### George looked at her and smiled. No questions of recrimination, or where he had been. Her only concern was for his welfare. A deep sense of shame and guilt filled him, when he realised that he would be forced to lie to her, yet again. It hurt him deeply

"The police were searching for some deserters." He averted his eyes. "Miss Brandon's landlady is a pacifist, must have thought I was one, as she suggested I slept in their cellar," he shrugged. "It's better to be safe than sorry...Isn't that what you say."

### Rosemary smiled with relief. "You'll be hungry then."

"Starved," replied George.

### At that moment Rosemary dashed into the scullery and could be heard vomiting. George waited and watched. When she emerged she looked pale

"Are you ill?" said George concerned.

"No, it's nothing."

"How long has it been like this?"

"A week."

"Then I must take you to the Doctor-," insisted George.

"No!" protested Rosemary. "It'll pass." She tried to smile, "I'll get your breakfast."

As Rosemary turned the bacon over with a fork, she wondered why she didn't feel confident to confide her feelings to George. She had begun to guess what was happening, her body told her. She had sat that morning before dressing and had felt her breasts, they were now large and swollen, the nipples tender. She had laid her hands upon her stomach confident that she was pregnant. She piled his plate with slices of sizzling bacon and placed it in front of him. He sat and watched her silently as he ate . He swore to himself that, after this, he would take her- to Scotland and a new life. In the mean time, he had work to do.

"I've a chance to earn some money," he said.

### Rosemary stopped, her arms covered in soap suds from the washing she had started.

"How's that?....Is it safe?"

"They're doing building work over at a large house, not far from here. The man in charge is staying at Miss Brandon's lodgings, reckons he's looking for more labourers."

"But what if you are stopped by one of those crazy women with their white feathers?"

### George laughed.

"You've nowt to worry about; this is night work. and it's only this weekend."'

"When does it start?"

"Tonight," he looked up. "I'm to meet the man and work through till Sunday morning. We can go to Grassmoor together and you can visit that Doctor... I'll not take no for an answer."

### Rosemary didn't reply but turned back to her tub. How he would react to being a father, she thought. Please God don't let him desert me.

### It was mid afternoon, and as they approached the road, in which the Doctor's surgery lay, George halted the trap.

"I'll leave you here. It's best we are not seen together."

### He had just descended and was close into the shadow of the wall, when he heard a woman's voice calling Rosemary by name.

"Mrs. Kemp."

George crouched down and squinted through the spokes of the wheels. A well-dressed woman was approaching from the other side of the road. She was accompanied by a neatly dressed man.

"Mrs. Broughtman!" he heard Rosemary reply. "How nice to see you again."

Rosemary glanced down surreptitiously at George. He put a finger to his lips. He was not sure if he had been seen. The woman did not cause him concern, but the man did. In the few seconds he had to observe him he had immediately placed him as a military man. The man's stance and manner, the way he walked, while not rigid, was confident. Alarm bells rang in George's head, because the man was not in uniform. George decided not to wait and find out. Looking over his shoulder he spotted a nearby gate leading to a small enclosure filled with shrubbery. Without further ado he moved swiftly and crouched amongst the bushes and listened to the conversation.

Vera Broughtman was pleased to see Rosemary. She liked the young woman and had hoped to make her a friend, but their paths had never crossed.

## "You're looking well," Vera Broughtman said, "positively blooming; it must be all that fresh air on your farm ... Oh! How's the young man, your cousin."

## George held his breath, what would Rosemary say.

## He heard her cough.

## "Oh! I do apologise," Vera Broughtman said. "How rude of me, allow me to introduce my brother-in-law, Mr. Alexander Broughtman."

## "Thank you for asking after me, but I'm on my way to visit your husband, the doctor."

## "Nothing serious, I hope."

## "I hope not."

## George decided now was the time to leave. Rosemary had deflected an embarrassing question.

## "Can I offer you a lift?" asked Rosemary.

## "No we are just out walking," replied Vera.

## "Well I'll get on...I don't want to miss the surgery."

## Vera stood watching as Rosemary drove away. Something seemed to amuse her. It was as though she had discovered a secret and longed to share it with someone. "What's the matter with you?" asked Alexander." You look as though you've lost a penny and found shilling."

## Vera giggled and placed her hand to her mouth, "Would you care to have a small flutter with me?"

## "I didn't take you as a betting person?"

## "Well not a real bet."

## "Very well, what is it?"

## "The young woman we have just been speaking to."

## Alexander cast a look over his shoulder and nodded.

## "When I first met her, she was a sad-faced, scrawny woman whom I later found out, had been deserted by her husband. Well, she's hardly that now, in fact quite the opposite."

## "What's all this got to do with the bet?"

## "I'll bet you that when we get home and I have given Timothy his favorite dinner. He'll tell us that Mrs. Thomas Kemp is expecting."

## She looked up, a knowledgeable expression on her face. "No more than three to four months."

## Alexander stopped and swung round, "You say that is Mrs. Thomas Kemp?"

## "Yes," replied Vera puzzled. "Don't tell me you know her?"

## "Not exactly."

## They resumed their walk. Alexander thought about what he had just heard. Mrs. Thomas Kemp, three months pregnant. that would have been January. He was confident of one thing. If that young woman was expecting then Thomas Kemp was not the father. What was that about a cousin? Could that have been the man he had seen jumping from the trap as they approached?

## He snorted quietly to himself, while the cat's away ....... he thought.

## George arrived at Kairda's lodgings just before dusk. Her landlady's husband, a member of the brotherhood, although neither of them knew this, had arranged for them to have the use of a small donkey cart. Kairda was dressed in an assortment of men's clothes. A thick pair of corduroy trousers was partially hidden by a long black coat. Her hair was tucked up and hidden in a cap. George could barely contain his laughter.

## "You make a fine builders mate"

## "Will you get on.....how you men can wear this stuff I shall never know?"

## George laughed.

## "That's enough, we have work to do." said Kairda scornfully.

## The evenings were lengthening and so it wasn't quite dark by the time they reached the lake's edge. The Lodge appeared empty and dark. They manoeuvered the dog cart along the narrow path that meandered at the water's edge; the water had a flat oily look to it. They hid the cart behind a wall, away from prying eyes. George began to unload the lanterns, rope, and a small bag of tools. Kairda found the key hidden by Ibreac. George spent several minutes carefully oiling the lock mechanism and the door hinges, before silently opening the door. They deposited the equipment near the entrance to the catacombs. George retraced his steps and relocked the cellar door. By the time he returned Kairda had lit the lanterns.

## The steps leading down into the catacombs were steep and worn. Slowly George began to descend, not sure what he would find. Subconsciously, he had expected to find heaps of old bones, skeletons of a bygone age, but he was surprised; the chamber was completely empty. The floor was covered with a fine dust and as he began to walk across it, it rose like small will o' wisps. He moved the lantern from side to side so that he could see into the corners. He stopped; just in front of him and slightly to one side was a hole in the floor, the size of a small wheel. He moved on cautiously, for he could see there were other holes in the floor. Ahead was more rubble lying in his path; he lifted his foot to step to one side when he heard Kairda descending the steps. He turned to warn her. His foot struck a rock. There was a low rumble and the ground beneath his feet began to move. He flung out his arms but he slipped and slipped into the ground beneath him. His fingers dug into the floor seeking a grip but the rocks around him gave way. Slowly and surely he fell through the hole and into the darkness below.

## How long he had lain there, he did not know. He kept his eyes firmly shut; he could feel dust on his face. He was winded and only semi-conscious. For a moment he was back in the bunker, his face sore, his limbs aching; had he broken anything. He turned his head slowly and carefully opened his eyes. The darkness this time was not so complete; somewhere above him was a dot of light. It moved.

## "George! Can you hear me...... Are you alright?" Kairda sounded anxious as the sound of her voice floated down to him through the darkness.

## George lay stunned and relieved that, as far as he could tell, nothing was broken. He moved his arm out, touching the floor with his fingers. Suddenly his fingers touched nothing but empty space. The light from Kairda's lantern cast a muddled mixture of shadows, a rich assortment of shapes.

## "Miss Brandon," he called.

## "Thank God!" he heard her reply.

## "Now listen to me carefully ...... retrace your steps and get as many lanterns as possible. Light them and spread them out''

## "Yes...all right."

## Slowly he began to see more light above him. He could see that, what he thought were pits, were in fact holes.

## "Miss Brandon" he called again. "leave as many lights as you require and then tie the rest to the ropes and carefully lower them through the holes."

## He rose cautiously to his feet, and stood mesmerized, as slowly the lanterns revealed the secrets of where he had fallen. He had landed on what appeared to be a shelf but nature had truly worked wonders. Centuries of water slowly dripping through the limestone stratum had washed away the soft sand stone until it left a intricate honeycomb, from which a stalactite hung reaching into the depths of the cavern before coming to rest on an out crop of the cavern . Some parts were the thickness of a leaf, whilst others were as wide as a man's body. It was on one of the latter that he was lying. From some where far below he could hear water rushing, hidden by an impenetrable darkness. A few feet either way and he would have plunged to his death.

## "Lift it again," he called, "slowly".

## He could hear Kairda grumbling as she struggled to oblige.

## George laughed to himself in amazement. He could now see clearly how the main stem or trunk of the stalactite was resting on the outcrop perched precariously on what appeared to be the side of a huge glacier cavern. The other side was hidden in darkness.

## He called once again for the lantern and this time made his way round the trunk until he reached one of the walls. It had a smooth ribboned texture where water had run constantly. He tightened his grip upon the lantern carefully. He did not want to slip into the darkness. He began to climb slowly, calling to Kairda so that he would not lose his direction. As he reached into the roof, he moved more carefully. The thin plates of limestone were brittle and broke beneath his hands. It amazed him that nature's fragile engineering had combined to form a structure so strong that it was able to support thousands of tons of earth and rock above it. He stood there balancing his feet against the wall of the cliff , his waist resting upon a limestone spur, not daring to put his weight on it for fear of setting off a chain reaction that would bring it all crashing down.

## It seemed to form an arch of a bridge. He heard Kairda above him and close by.

## "Where are you?" she called.

## He looked up through the honeycombs and could see her standing above him,

## "For Christ sake! Get back," he called softly.

## She disappeared from sight. Slowly and carefully he began to climb back through the honeycombs until he finally reached Kairda, now standing on top of this miracle of nature. It seemed solid. He was now inside the catacombs, the great stone walls resting upon the bridge as they had done for hundreds of years. They retrieved the lanterns and made their way back into the cellars above.

## "Well?" she asked unable to resist any longer.

## He smiled. "It can be done."

## She clapped her hands with relief and pleasure.

## "It's a crime though," he said. She looked at him suspiciously. "One of nature's greatest pieces of engineering."

## She looked at him puzzled.

## "You see," he explained, "the floor of the catacomb, where the holes were, is a thin sheet of limestone, as thin as paper in places, but several feet thick in others. Stretching out across, what must have been a prehistoric river bed? It's supported by a stalactite which in turn supports limestone which is honeycombed with holes."

## "What are you getting at?"

## "Imagine that the limestone floor is the span of a bridge and the stalactite is its main support. By placing only small charges in exactly the right positions. The stalactite will be destroyed. That would crack this floor. The chain reaction would mean that everything above it would fall into the cavern. Thousands of tons of earth and rock, the lodge and everyone in it." He stopped a moment and stared into space, as though contemplating other thoughts.

## "I'm not sure, but it's possible that the lake drains into this cavern. The explosion could cause it to flood down into the caves below, sweeping everything in its path. Once it's gone, it's gone for ever. No going back.

## Kairda laughed, "No going back. Like the Rubicon, the Rubicon crossing.

## They had nearly completed loading the cart once again when Kairda turned to George.

## "So you'll use the explosives then?"

## "No. We only need small quantities. I shall have to make some more..."

# Chapter Thirty One

#

# They rode back in an almost festive mood. Relieved beyond measure, in their own fashion, that a way had been found to achieve their objective. Kairda, because now she felt once again in control of the situation. She had in her pocket a list of chemicals that George required. She had studied English but knew very little about the sciences, yet was surprised that she recognised many of the items as almost household commodities, sulphur, alcohol, glycerene, cotton and camphor.

# George, more than anything else, was relieved that the pressure on Rosemary had been removed. He had just over three weeks to prepare the new charges and get them into position. It was on occasions like this, having overcome major problem that the enormity of what he was doing descended upon him. Generally he felt completely detached, he felt cocooned by it. Let the others be carried away with the passion of it all, he thought. But now he felt full of excitement as he worked his tongue inside his mouth, creating saliva that would take away the nervous dryness he now felt.

# The morning was bright and sunny, the air warm, the hint of summer to come. There was hardly a breath of air. Kairda sat next to him. She had removed her cap and allowed her hair to flow freely. She's not pretty, thought George, not in the same way Rosemary was. Dressed as she was, Kairda had the figure of a young boy and yet her high cheek bones and finely chisiled features gave her a strikingly, bold look that made her instantly noticeable in a crowd. She adjusted the small cape that covered her trousers and drew from her pocket the list and began to read it again.

# "You'll be able to make the charges from this?" she queried.

# "No! I'm going to make the Sunday dinner," he bantered. "What do you think I am going to use it for?"

# "All right it was stupid of me to ask."

# They were passing through the gullies before climbing onto the moors that led to Grassmoor.

# "What is this?" Kairda asked, pointing to something on the list.

# George brought the trap to a halt and, leaning across, placed his arm behind Kairda to see what she was looking at.

# "Collodion," he said. "It's a clear gummy, highly inflammable liquid, made from dissolving cellulose nitrate in equal parts of alcohol and ether."

# He looked at her questioningly. She was still puzzled.

# "Any the wiser?" he teased.

# "You're too clever by half, George Bagworth." She dug her elbow into his stomach. They laughed, suddenly aware of each others closeness.

# "Buy yer sweetheart some lucky white heather Mister?" The high pitched voice made them jump. They parted as though they were illicit lovers.

# Standing close by, with a grubby hand outstretched holding a sprig of heather, was a dirty-faced gipsy girl of no more than twelve years old. Her oily olive skin showed through the tattered dress she was wearing. The small gipsy camp, half hidden, was up a small inlet in the gully. George could see only one caravan: a horse tethered nearby. There were several smaller children clinging nervously to the skirts of a sour faced woman who appeared to be heavy with child. She leaned over, her lank greasy hair falling forward hiding her face. She began to slowly stir the steaming contents of a cast iron cooking pot simmering over the fire.

# "Come on, Mister, a piece of silver to bring you luck." It was the voice of a man. George looked round nervously, trying to locate him. There was harsh laughter from the bank above. A tall scrawny man with dark sallow features and hair slicked back tight against his skull, squatted there watching them.

# "May be he don't need luck eh Mary!"

# He tipped himself forward, and holding out one leg rigid, skidded down the bank on his heels. At the bottom, he rose easily and smoothly to his feet. There was a cat like grace to the way he walked that George found threatening. George reached into his pocket and found a silver three penny piece, and tossed it to the ground for the girl to retrieve. Not waiting for the sprig, he gathered up the reins and flicked them across the pony's back to get the cart moving. The girl bent to pick up the coin. The man's boot struck her hard in the ribs; she cried out as she sprawled in the mud.

# "Leave it girl," the man ordered as he bent and pocketed the coin.

# "That's mine," screamed the girl. "You wait Wellington Carnfield, till me Dada gets back....he'll fix you."

# Wellington Carnfield hardly noticed the girl's outcry. He stood in the roadway and watched as the dog cart disappeared rapidly from view.

# "So!" He licked his blackened teeth. "Stranger's got a new sweetheart; perhaps he's left Cross Keys; perhaps the Hun's daughter has sent him packing?"

# He wiped his hands on his velvet jacket.

# "Time I visited her again and this time I won't be leaving."

# He walked back to where the woman stood by the fire.

# "I'm leaving; tell yer man that he can keep my share of the horse money."

# The woman said nothing but just turned back to stirring the pot. Wellington Carnfield walked off in the direction the cart had taken.

#

# George left Kairda and the cart at her lodgings and began making his way through the back streets to the Methodist Hall, as directed. He entered to find McDowell exhorting the small audience to throw off their shackles and to join him in fighting the good fight. Listening, George was forced to admire the man's oratory. While McDowell's words were not seditious, George could see by the expressions on the audience's face that they understood his true meaning. McDowell sat down and the audience applauded enthusiastically. A few went forward and spoke to him and to the others that were on the stage. George watched as the audience drifted out; he remained where he was seated at the back in the shadow of a large pillar. A tall grey haired giant of a man was occupying McDowell's attention; they both spoke to each other vehemently, as equals. Eventually McDowell shook the man's hand and walked slowly down the aisle struggling to put his coat on. He did not look at George as he left. George got up and followed.

# McDowell was nowhere in sight when he reached the kerb side. He cursed quietly to himself. What was the man doing? Across the road was a row of miner's cottages. A woman, a large kitchen apron wound tightly round her, stood by an open door. George peered at her. It was Kairda. He crossed the road and entered the house. McDowell was sitting in the back kitchen. He was alone, seated at the table. The list laid out in front of him. George took the other seat, Kairda sat in a high-backed chair in the corner.

# "You require all this equipment?" said McDowell surprised at the quantities.

# "I shall also need the use of an industrial laboratory. The kind found in Steel works." George folded his arms. " I shall need it for a week." He waited for McDowell's protests, instead the man seemed to accept it all very calmly. George sneaked a quick glance in Kairda's direction, even she seemed surprised at McDowell's reaction.

# "Very well, it shall be arranged ....... Do you need assistance?"

# "It's best I do it myself, just find me the right equipment." George rose to his feet. "I'd better get back to the farm."

# "Do you have to return so soon?" asked Kairda. She had changed and even with the kitchen apron on, George could not help but notice how neat and elegant she was. He also noticed the fresh spark of interest in her eyes.

# "Well," he hesitated.

# "Perhaps you could stop for a bite of dinner?"

# Without thinking, he glanced in McDowell's direction. The man's face was black as thunder, George looked away.

# My God he thought, he's jealous... Life was confused enough...

# "No, I must get back," and with that he left.

# Chapter Thirty Two

# North Cresswell

# Wellington Carnfield slipped under the wooden rail of the footbridge and slid down the grass embankment to the railway track below. He felt excited and confident as he walked quickly through the town cutting, hidden from prying eyes above by the thick overgrown bushes. He trembled at the thought of finally confronting her. He had no firm idea of how he was going to accomplish his objective and reclaim what he fervently believed was rightly his, Cross Keys farm.

# On reaching the cutting which led out onto the flats that passed the farm, he suddenly became nervous and angry. He remembered how violently the woman had attacked him the night the old man had been killed. A right wild cat, he recalled.

# He crouched down behind the far wall, just beyond the blackened remains of the old barn. The back wall of the stable lay in front of him. He spotted a small window near the end that was partially opened. Carefully he crossed the open space, because with the barn gone he could been seen from the house. He reached up and forced the window open and, gripping the window ledge, struggled up until he wriggled through into the loft. Lying on his stomach, he moved across the straw-covered floor until he reached the hay loft door on the other side. He could now look down into the yard.

# He drew back as a door opened. Rosemary stepped out. He hardly recognised her; my how she's filled out, looking real bonny now, he thought. She was wearing a blouse, open at the neck, and a long skirt that reached almost to the ground. Wellington lay there thinking of the days, long ago, when they had been friends. He had loved her from afar, oh how his heart had leapt that day at the fair when he had plucked up courage and given her a posy of flowers. She'd smiled at him. Pretty as a picture, she was. He would have done anything for her. That is until those brothers of hers had set upon him. Thrown his posy back in his face, made him look a fool. He remembered the knife and look of fear on their faces, but more than that he remembered the look on her face. Gone was the smile and in its place a mixture of anger, fear, and contempt. It was never the same after that. How he had laughed when he heard tell that them brothers of hers had been killed, serve them right.

# The sound of a bucket against the ground drew his attention. Rosemary had been back inside and had returned with her arms full of carpets, which she now proceeded to lay out on the ground. She knelt and with a scrubbing brush and soap, began to scrub the carpets vigorously. From where Wellington lay he could see her clearly. She had knelt down facing him, the front of her blouse had fallen forward, revealing part of her well formed breasts. Wellington felt his mouth go dry at the sight; he could feel himself grow and become rigid. The more he looked the worse it got; it filled his mind until he had to roll away clutching himself. Saliva dribbled from his mouth. He felt his breath get shorter, he was gasping. He could feel his legs, jerking spasmodically and a great weight seemed to fill his chest. Then nothing...

# Wellington opened his eyes and stared at the rafters above. How long the attack had lasted he had no idea. His mind was clouded; he lay there waiting for the dizziness to clear. Suddenly he remembered the girl. He struggled over and looked out across the yard. Carpets were stretched out across the line. There was no sign of Rosemary, yet he could hear the sound of someone below in the yard. He squeezed forward until he could just see over the edge. She had managed to get the last carpet over the line, and stood back, wiping her hands on her apron. Then drawing her hands back through her hair she adjusted her band.

# Wellington remembered what he had seen. He now knew what he had to do to get back the farm. He moved stealthily across the floor and crouching down, eased himself through a trap in the floor and dropped onto the stones below. His arm caught a rake leaning against a stall, it clattered to the ground. He froze. The noise startled her; she looked round idly to see what had fallen. It was then she saw the rake lying amongst the straw in the pony's stall, its prongs upper most.

# That must be picked up, she thought. Otherwise the stupid animal will step on it. She was grateful that George had bought the pony, although it was nowhere near the quality of dear old Templeton. She g1anced in the direction of the derelict barn where Templeton's remains lay. With that she walked into the stables and, bending down, picked up the rake and hooked it back on the wall.

# She sniffed the air, suddenly becoming conscious of a distinctive smell, an earthy animal smell, that seemed to pervade the place, yet mixed with that was the ingrained smell of coal dust that gave off that rich heady smell of man. Her nostrils flared like that of a young mare, aware of danger. She went cold and shivered. She stopped in her tracks; her breathing became laboured. Something moved behind her, and before she could turn, fingers gripped her throat like bands of steel, forcing her back against her unseen assailant. No sound, just the rasping breath against her ear. Craning round she could just make out the shiny blackness of a scuffed and worn velvet jacket and the tarnished golden buttons.

# "Wellington," she choked through strangled lips. For a moment the grip eased, she coughed and spluttered as she sucked in air. A silken scarf was swiftly tightened round her throat. Her neck jerked as her feet were kicked from under her. She felt herself being dragged across the, stone floor of the stable. Her whole weight now hung on her throat. She gagged and began to suffocate, reddish, fog filled her mind. Arms thrashing wildly, she tried frantically to reach hold of him as she landed against something rough and course, sacking of some kind. All she could hear was his laboured breathing as he, jerked her upward, her feet no longer touching the ground. Still no word, just gasping, laughing, crying breath close to her ear. Was she to be hanged? she thought. Within her panic she found renewed strength for she began thrashing wildly with her legs. She reached out her fingers seeking the scarf that gripped her throat. Her years on the farm had made her strong and vigorous, yet her hands were smacked away from the scarf with such careless abandon that she might have been a young child for all her efforts. She could now feel the rough sacking against the back of her head. The scarf eased a fraction. She fought back, only to find herself pinioned by the throat, to a post. Blind fury filled her heart. She would not let this animal defeat her.

# Twisting round, until her neck felt torn from her shoulders, she reached with arms and legs to attack this vile creature. She thrashed as a wild cat caught in a trap. She felt him grip her wrist, now she could reach him. With her free arm she balled her fist and, with almost wild abandoned glee, felt it strike him, again and again. Her heart almost bursting with victory. The blow, when it came, was devastating. It crashed like a rock into the side of her head. A myriad of colours flooded before her, she whirled and whirled into a dark abyss. Her limbs had no strength; conscious that they were being moved but unable to do anything to prevent it. A light appeared and, slowly, the whirling settled. She could not move. Her arms were tied tightly to something on the floor. He was there, towering over her, his chest heaving beneath a sweat soaked shirt. Droplets fell from bushy eyebrows into his eyes, wild and unblinking. He stood there silent and staring, sucking in great gulps of air.

# She looked back defiantly, but shuddered as he slowly removed his velvet jacket and rolled his sleeves up as though about to do some middling chore. His eyes closed slightly and a pained smile crossed his lips. He dropped from view; she craned forward to see what he was about and felt her legs loosen. Had she been freed for some unknown reason? He rose again and stood there provoking her. She flexed her legs and thrust them at him with all her might, and cried out when they jerked tight as they reached the end of the rope. Like a cat, he moved, gripping each ankle He laughed silently, and shifting his grip, faster than she could blink forced her legs up, bending her knees and parting her thighs. Rosemary went cold with fear; his unblinking look devoured her. He reached into his pocket and drew out a long clasp knife. She shuddered and the nerves in her face began to twitch uncontrollab1y. She began to sob.

# "Please, please not that," she gasped.

# He smiled triumphantly and licked his cracked and pealing lips as he gathered the hem of her skirt, and with the knife cut the bottom six inches. Try as she may she could not lift her self out of his reach; she cast her head from side to side, and then stopped and watched in horror as gripping the knife between his teeth, he took hold of the hem with both hands and ripped to her waist.

# She arched her back and screamed. He stuffed the scarf into her mouth, and began to pant once again. She shut her eyes and cried silently for George.

# Oh! George, hurry, rescue me.....from this animal.

# He cut through the waistband of her skirt. He cried out. Her eyes flew open and she watched with increasing revulsion, as with shaking fevered hands he tore the front her blouse and chemise from her; she struggled, but this only seemed to excite him more. He grasped her breasts; his dirt ingrained finger nails digging into her snow white flesh. His head bent forward, spittle dribbling from his mouth dropped on to her. Feverishly he tore at her clothing until she lay uncovered beneath him. Till then her mind had refused to believe what he was about to do, but no longer.

# The baby, she thought, my God he'1l hurt the baby.

# "Don't! Please," she whimpered through muffled lips.

# He looked at her, his face filled with naked anger, "It must be done," he croaked, his voice filled with loathing and passion. He cast the knife aside.

# "Why?" she mouthed painfully.

# "Because all this is mine ... you're mine." Reaching down he placed his hands on the inside of her soft thighs. He no longer looked at her; she was now a mere chattel .He did not see her grit her teeth with fury as she worked her wrists vainly to free them. She could only see the top of his greasy, black hair that smeared her skin; his stink made her heave. His rough hands moved across her naked stomach. She moved vainly away from this revolting man. He sensed it, for he looked up with bloodshot eyes. He reached for his belt, and released his trousers. He knelt there, in front of her, bragging his rigid manhood. He moved forward. She went rigid, blindly pulling her bloody wrists against their bonds. She could feel him penetrating her; she was afraid to resist; he was too strong and she was afraid he might destroy her baby. It hurt. Supporting himself with his arms he looked down at her. He towered above like some nightmarish monster. Lifting himself he thrust deeper, his head now thrown back in conquest. He would rid himself of the madness that filled his mind. He would implant it within this woman.

# No! No! She would not allow this. She felt her right hand slip from its bond; thrusting it into the straw she raked her nails; through the stalks searching for the knife; his grunting thrusts ever increasing. Almost hysterical, now she thrashed with her free hand. For a moment she froze, her hand had touched the knife, and she scrambled to grip the handle.

# The sound filled her mind. The shouting and screaming came from beyond her. A shadow moved from right to left, then it was gone. Once again she was alone. She held her arm rigid and thrust the knife blindly upward. Something forced Wellington to lurch towards her rising arm, the blade arching upwards to his head. It disappeared, dragged from her grasp.

# It was late afternoon by the time George reached the crown of the hill above the farm and walked easily down the last few yards. He was relieved to get back; he'd been on his feet for nearly thirty, six hours and longed for his bed. He'd heard the short sharp scream and had stopped to listen. It was not repeated. A bird, he thought.

# The yard was empty, just the carpets strung out along the line. The door to the house was opened. He stopped in the middle of the yard and looked round; it all looked in place ... yet! The sound of a bucket rocking from side to side attracted his attention. He strolled nonchalantly across and bent to pick it up. It was then he heard the noise. At first he thought it was an animal, a rat, amongst the straw. But the noise persisted, he moved quietly into the stable. In the semi darkness it was, at first, hard to make out what it was, a man crouching over something.

# George opened his mouth to call when the cold dawning of what he was seeing crowded in on him. His brain screamed out its protest, from his throat came a cry of hurt and pain that became the deep growl of rage. He was blinded by hate; the craving to destroy this evil filled him. Rosemary lay there pinned beneath this heathen. With blind instinct his fist closed round the nearest thing to hand. High above his head he carried it, and with all his God given strength he brought the pick crashing down onto the man's head. The knife in Rosemary's hand was merely a flash before his eyes. The body slumped and, like a wild animal springing upon its prey, George dragged the body back, away from Rosemary.

# She lay there supine and limp. His cry became a sob as he rushed to her side. Carefully and reverently he covered her nakedness with the remnants of clothing. He looked round for something to cut her free and spotted the knife protruding from Wellington Carnfield's body. George rose and gripping the body by its hair dragged it back even further; he placed his boot harshly upon the side of its head and lugged the knife free. Gently he cut Rosemary's bonds and with infinite care, lifted her in his arms and carried her across the yard and into the house. Her eyes were shut and for a moment he thought she was unconscious. He placed her on the bed and fetching a bowl of water began to wipe he face clean of grime and blood. She opened her eyes.

# "I've killed him," she wept. "I've killed him George."

# "Gently my love," he crooned. "You're safe now."

# "I've killed him," she cried, her eyes opened full of wildness and despair.

# "Shush! It's alright, 1'll take care of it."

# She tried to sit up. "Don't you understand?" she cried. "I've killed him."

# Even to George, it seemed confusing. It all happened so quickly. I must calm her, he thought.

# "Now don't you worry, they will never find out."

# "Me, police ....?"

# "There will be no police.1 shall see to that."

# "Can you do that George?" She lay back and looked up at him. She seemed calmer.

# She placed her hand on her stomach, and began to sob.

# "He's killed our child.....our baby, George."

# He was stunned.

# "Baby?"

# "You were to become a father...The doctor confirmed it...now I'm not sure." She reached up with her arms and George held her gently. "Please God! Please don't let me lose this child."

# George was overwhelmed by Rosemary's news. It had taken him completely by surprise. His feelings towards Wellington Carnfield and what he might have done seemed to coarse through him like a raging fire. Yet he could wreak no further revenge. Now he must protect Rosemary, that was in the forefront of his mind. There was nothing else of importance. But was the child really dead.

# "Are you sure the baby is dead?"

# "No I'm not sure......We must pray that it will survive."

# George went down stairs and returned with the large tin bath and proceeded to fill it with hot water. Then carefully he helped Rosemary into it and having been assured that she could manage, he left her and went down to the kitchen.

# He was surprised how devoid of any emotion he now felt as far as the body was concerned. It was merely something that had to be disposed of. What worried him more was his position regarding McDowell, now that Rosemary was carrying his child . His child, a great wave of emotion flooded over him. He stood there allowing his imagination to create pictures in his mind.

# The sound of the tender and its coal wagons as it steamed past, on its way to the pit, brought him back to reality. The tender passed the farm at least six or seven times a day. The last being late in the evening well after dark, and then not again until the morning. He stood in thought for several minutes before the answer came to him.

# Chapter Thirty Three

#

# Rosemary sat and stared into space. She felt sick, fits of depression swept upon her like dark clouds shutting out all the light and love that George tried to fill her life with. No woman could wish for a better man, she knew that, and yet she treated him shabbily. She was not surprised when he took him self out of the house.

# She could see the hurt in his eyes when she took herself off and began sleeping alone in the back room. He did nothing, just sat beside her as though it had never happened. She was conscious that she should not blame herself for what had happened, but she could not rid herself of that dreadful feeling that she had killed a man. She could no longer stand the sight of her naked body. It made her feel dirty inside no matter how much she washed herself. It was a relief to know that George had been right. The body had disappeared and there was no sign of the police.

# Three days had passed and although beloved George had been kindness itself, she still couldn't bear him to touch her. That must hurt more than anything, she thought.

# His suggestion that they should pack their things and go to Scotland for good had helped. Still these dreadful moments of depression persisted. If only she could get rid of this feeling of guilt. She loved George all the more, when he had tried to take the blame by saying that he had killed the man, and not her. She knew he was only saying that to help. George was at a loss to know what to do. He did not pretend to understand how Rosemary felt. His method of disposing of the body had so far succeeded. He had waited until just after midnight and then wrapping the body in sacking, had placed it over the back of the pony, and taken it down to the railway track to a point just below the footbridge. Then, unwrapping the body, he laid it carefully on the track.

# The news that Wellington Carnfield's crushed and disfigured body had been found on the track after being run over by the pit train in the early hours of the morning, didn't reach George's ears until two days later. A passing Wagoner had shouted the news.

# "Must have fallen from the bridge drunk." The wagoner had said.

# George was relieved, now time and care would hopefully cure Rosemary of the experience. She had remained in bed, hoping that this would prevent a miscarriage. It was on the fourth night that the screaming brought George to his feet. He flew across the landing and into her room. Rosemary, her eyes full of terror, was clawing her way to the top of the bed. She was staring at the foot of the bed. George swiftly lit the lantern, there was nothing there. She lay there, her face grey, beads of sweat on her brow, The temptation to clasp her in his arms was strong, but he had the wit to realise that it could only make things worse.

# "Rose," he called softly. "Is it him?"

# She blinked and looked in his direction. Seeing George, her face relaxed and with a strangled cry she opened her arms to him. He gathered her up and rocked her gently back and forth.

# "You're safe."

# He had made up his mind. It was a dreadful risk but he had to take it for her and the baby's sake.

# "It's no good," he said firmly. "This place has become a living nightmare. We have to leave. We shall go to Scotland. We'll be safe there."

# She didn't argue. It was as though all the fight had gone out of her. They lay there and soon her steady breathing told him she was a sleep.

# The following morning Kairda arrived with the news that McDowell had found the chemicals that George required and had also found a laboratory for him to work in. George said nothing about Scotland.

# Kairda looked round inquisitively.

# "Where's Rosemary?"

# "She's in bed."

# Kairda looked startled. "There's nothing wrong?"

# "She's not feeling very well."

# For some time Kairda had watched Rosemary's figure fill out, her breasts were heavier, a certain tightness around the waist, and she had wondered if in fact Rosemary was with child.

# "I'll go up and see her," with that she rose and walked swiftly to the stairs and disappeared up them, before George could say otherwise; he frowned.

# "Rose?" Kairda called softly. Rosemary opened her eyes She was pleased to see Kairda because she felt that the Irish woman was her only friend.

# "George tells me you are poorly?" Kairda sat on the bedside and, with one hand, held Rosemary's, while placing the other on her forehead.

# "You've a temperature," she said. A soft intimate smile crossed her lips, as though about to tell a secret.

# "Do you know what I think?"

# "What's that?"

# "I think you're going to have a baby," she giggled mischievously, and knelt by the bed side. "Am I right?"

# Rosemary smiled her agreement.

# "Ah! But that's wonderful....is that galumak down stairs the father?"

# Rosemary blushed.

# "I thought it was, can't leave you two alone for five minutes."

# They both laughed self-consciously.

# Kairda felt a sudden twinge of sadness, knowing that the girl and her child would soon be alone again. She hardened her heart; there was only one thing that was important. She took a deep breath and fixed her smile on her face.

# "Well you must take care of yourself." She bent forward and took hold of the sheet, lifting them slightly to tuck Rosemary in, it was then she saw the bruises on Rosemary's neck and shoulders. She stopped.

# "Glory be!" she pulled the blankets back. "What is this?-Is this himself downstairs that done this?"

# "No! It's nothing.....really," pleaded Rosemary.

# "My God! You're black and blue woman, don't you go protecting the brute."

# Kairda felt angry with herself, for she should never have allowed herself to get carried away like this. She had a mind to let the matter drop and would have done so but for what Rosemary said.

# "I've killed a man."

# Kairda's mouth dropped open. She raised her hand in horror.

# "Why? How?"

# "He raped me," It was as though the flood gates had opened. Words poured forth from Rosemary like a torrent. She told Kairda everything. The relief to be able to tell someone who could understand was breathtaking.

# ".... so we leave in a day or so." Rosemary laid back in the pillows limp and exhausted.

# Kairda rose slowly to her feet.

# "Well that's probably for the best! Both of you leaving here and going to Scotland. In the next few days then?"

# Rosemary's eyes closed, she nodded faintly.

# Kairda closed the door quietly behind her and walked down stairs. It had been a shock, but by the time she had reached the kitchen she felt composed. George had not moved.

# "A couple of days in bed will do her the world of good." Kairda said as she adjusted her hat. My God girl...stay calm....She looked at her image in the mirror. A cool elegant young woman looked back at her.

# "You'll need to go to Sheffield. That's where it all is." Kairda looked at him coldly "Catch the train from Chesterfield tonight. There's the address." She handed him a note, which he put in his pocket.

# "How long will you need?"

# "It depends ... If it's all there, perhaps two or three days ..... Maybe longer." George felt tense, and decided that it was best that he carried on as though nothing had happened.

# "Will she be alright?"Asked Kairda.

# "Yes! I'll tell her that I have more work to do at the big House." It made him feel sick to his stomach all this lying.

# Kairda then left. She pedaled steadily to the top of the rise. Out of sight of the farmhouse, she began to pedal has hard as she could. She had to reach McDowell before he left that night for Liverpool.

## Chapter Thirty Four

## Ibreac's Cottage

## The two of them sat, straight backed and rigid, never taking their eyes off McDowell. He sat in the large ornately carved armchair like an ancient potentate. Kairda shivered involuntarily, her mouth dry, her voice hoarse. She had explained to McDowell exactly what she had found out. From the first few words he had frozen, his face became granite, only his eyes expressed his feeling: pure evil shone forth. In all her twenty three years on this earth she had never felt such fear. Such was the anger that exuded from him that she feared for her own life. He had only spoken in monosyllables, the muscles in his face barely moving.

## "How long?"

## "Two or three days at the most." she replied. She turned her head slightly in the direction of Ibreac who sat on a stool, his back pressed against the wall.

## "The traitor," he snarled. He looked in McDowell's direction. "I told you we couldn't trust him." McDowell turned his head slowly. Ibreac recoiled away from the look on his face. He fell silent.

## "Where is he now?"

## "He's gone to Sheffield, as instructed."

## "So she's alone."

## "Yes!"

## "You," he looked in Ibreac's direction, "go and fetch the uniform." Ibreac got up and moved swiftly towards the door, "and I shall need a car." McDowell added.

## He waited until he heard Ibreac leave the house before he resumed speaking. He seemed a little more relaxed. Letting his head loll back against the chair, he stared up at the ceiling.

## "We can turn this to our own advantage." He lowered his head and looked intently at Kairda. His eyes passed slowly over her, lingering on the soft rise of her breasts and then moving down to her waist. It made her feel as uncomfortable, as a field mouse about to be consumed by a snake. "Providing you play your part correctly."

## He blinked and became more business like.

## "She trusts you?"

## "Completely."

## He sat back, now completely relaxed, His elbows resting on the arms of the chair, his hands held together as in prayer. Only his eyes never changed.

## "When Ibreac returns, I shall exp1ain what we shall do."

## Cross Keys Farm.

## Rosemary decided to come downstairs and make some broth. George had gone across to the big House, or so she thought. She had to keep her strength up, the food would be warm and she would feel stronger. Having unloaded her guilt and depression on Kairda she now felt much better, almost ready to face the world. The food was almost ready, when she heard the latch on the door being lifted. She whirled, there was no time to reach the door and slam the bolt. The door opened and into the kitchen stepped a police officer. He pushed the door wide and stood there, inspecting his surroundings, ignoring her presence. He said nothing; his eyes flicked from side to side, as he tapped his short cane against the leg of his trousers.

## Rosemary caught her breath, she could feel her heart pounding.

## "Yes?" she enquired, trying desperately to keep the panic she felt from her voice.

## "Mrs. Kemp?" the police officer barked. He was looking out across the yard. Suddenly he swung round and fixed her with an unblinking look.

## "Mrs. Rosemary Kemp?"

## She jumped back startled, and before she could open her mouth again, he had stepped across the kitchen and striding to the table sat down, placing his cap and cane in front of him.

## "What do you want?" asked Rosemary anxiously.

## "Sit down!" He pointed to the chair opposite.

## She sat, angry that she had been ordered about in her own home.

## "I want to speak to you about Wellington Carnfield."

## Rosemary felt faint. He looked at her.

## "You do know him?"

## Rosemary felt her face go red. McDowell smiled to himself. The woman was confused and looked guilty. Pressure in the right place would do the trick.

## "Answer me," he said, his voice rising in anger.

## Rosemary felt as though she was about the burst into tears. "Yes," she whispered.

## He didn't want her to admit to the crime, he just wanted to frighten her.

## "He's dead....... found on the railway track not far from here."

## He watched her, she said nothing; she didn't seem surprised. It was giving her time to calm down.

## "It looked like an accident, but we are not sure"

## It was time for more pressure.

## "'When did you last see him, Mrs. Kemp?"

## She bit her lip. "I can't remember."

## "Can't remember," he sneered. "It wasn't four days ago, was it?"

## "No....!" Her reply was too quick.

## "Are you sure?" He rose to his feet, threateningly. "Are you telling me the truth." Rosemary began to cry. The feeling of guilt once again filled her until she could hardly speak. "Yes," she sobbed.

## He walked round the table and began tapping his cane against his leg.

## Thwack!.. Thwack! "I don't think you are.." Thwack Thwack!.. "Mrs. Kemp" Thwack...Thwack! "I think you are lying...."

## The sound filled Rosemary's head until she felt like screaming. Squeezing her hands tightly she looked down at them.

## "You're lying!" McDowell shouted. "You're lying..."

## The door clicked and as it opened, Rosemary looked up in desperation. Kairda stood there puzzled and concerned. She looked first at Rosemary and then McDowell.

## "What's going on ?...Who are you?"

## McDowell straightened himself . " I am a police officer and I'm investigating a murder....Who are you?"

## Kairda moved across the room and placed her arm round Rosemary's shoulder.

## "Look at the state of this poor girl. l don't care who you are.....You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

## McDowell moved away from the table.

## "Madam! A murder had been committed."

## "You mean here?....in the house."

## "Well no!" McDowell seemed hesitant and for a moment unsure.

## "Well, where this is so-called murder?"

## "On the railway track.... About three quarters of a mile from here."

## "Then what business have you got coming here?"

## "We have reason to believe ......."

## Kairda interrupted him, " Well I have reason to believe that you have upset this poor woman so much that she's now ill; she needs rest . You can see she's in no fit state to answer your stupid questions; can't you come back tomorrow, she's not going to run away."

## McDowell scowled. "Very well." he gathered up his cap and tucked the cane firmly under his arm. "I shall return tomorrow and then I shall want some answers to my questions....Do you understand that Mrs. Kemp."

## Kairda clung to Rosemary trying to calm the distraught woman.

## "What shall I do?" pleaded Rosemary. "Thank goodness you came along, how did he know?"

## "Never mind that," consoled Kairda. "We have to decide what to do."

## "What can I do?"

## "One thing is for sure, you can't stay here."

## "Where can I go? What about George?"

## They hardly heard the gentle tap or the quiet cough from the doorway.

## "Excuse me....Miss Brandon," the young man stood there, twisting his cap nervously with his hands.

## "Oh! My goodness," rep1ied Kairda "I'd completely forgotten about you, Mr. Ibreac. I do apologise."

## "That's all right," smiled the young man. "It's just that I saw the policeman leave and I wondered?"

## "Come in! Come in," beckoned Kairda. "Rosemary, dear, this is Mr. Ibreac, from the estate, we're trying to arrange lessons for some of the estate workers' children.... They badly need it..... Don't they, Mr. Ibreac?"

## "They certainly do....You don't look at all well," he remarked to Rosemary.

## "She's been bullied by that awful policeman," pointed out Kairda.

## Ibreac cast his eyes round the kitchen and picked up a small photograph from the mantelpiece.

## "Is this Cross Keys farm, by any chance?"

## "It is," answered Kairda.

## "I thought the tenants were the Franklins?"

## "That was my father," Rosemary answered.

## "Otto Franklin was your father?"

## Ibreac replaced the photograph.

## "Did you know him?" asked Rosemary, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron.

## "Well, I was only a young boy. He was head groom over at Granby. He had two sons."

## "They died in France," remarked Rosemary sadly.

## "Do you remember Mrs. Stanley, the housekeeper," Ibreac asked.

## "Not really, I was not quite four when we came here."

## "She's retired, living in one of the alms houses."

## Kairda interrupted. "You've given me an idea".

## She turned to Rosemary. "You've got to leave here." She looked across in Ibreac's direction. "Do you think your Mrs. Stanley would let Rosemary stay...at least until this has blown over?"

## "I'm sure she would....she was a close friend of your mother and father."

## "What about George?" Rosemary asked again.

## "Now never mind," insisted Kairda. "He can stay with us for the time being." She thought for a moment. "It's best you stay apart for- a while in case the police are watching."

## "Very well, if you think it's for the best."

## "Right, you pop upstairs and put a few things in a case and we'll be off."

## They both watched as Rosemary went upstairs.

## Ibreac slumped down in a chair, "I didn't think the stupid woman would fall for it."

## "Shush! Be quiet." hissed Kairda. "She might hear you."

## Twenty minutes later, Rosemary reappeared carrying a small suitcase and a soft bag. She placed them on the kitchen floor and took out a letter and placed it on the mantelpiece.

## "What's that?" asked Kairda.

## "It's telling George where I am going; he'll be back in a day or so."

## Kairda removed the letter, and gave it to Ibreac.

## "Mr. Ibreac is going to the big house. He'll give it to George." Kairda looked intently at Ibreac, "Won't you, Mr. Ibreac."

## Ibreac placed the letter in his inside pocket, "Of course, I will," he replied.

## As they left Cross Keys, Rosemary looked back wondering if she would ever see her home again

### Chapter Thirty Five

### Sheffield

### George arrived at his destination just as the night shift was gathering before the large iron gates of A.C.Dobson Co Ltd manufactures of chemicals to the steel industry and ancillary industries. He paused and then retreated into the shadows of a nearby doorway. He was looking for two things, his contact and secondly anyone like himself who appeared to be just standing there watching. Since disposing of Wellington Carnfield, he was now conscious of the police's attention. The men, gathering, milled and turned amongst themselves, making it impossible to spot anyone who might be suspicious. His contact was difficult not to notice, as he was head and shoulders above everybody. His giant stature made him a formidable person. George recognised him as the tall grey haired man he'd seen talking to McDowell at the Methodist Hall.

### The Klaxon sounded and a small gate, near the gatekeeper's hut, opened. The grey haired giant stood there barring the way. The long column of men shuffled up to him. Those he chose filed through the gate and made their way to the loading bays, where wagons waited. Those not chosen gathered, disgruntled, on the far side of the road muttering amongst themselves, none brave enough to complain openly for fear of feeling the big man's fists. George joined on the end of the column and waited as it slowly moved up to where the big man stood. As he got closer, he noticed some of the men slipping the man something. They were paying for a night's work. George kept his eyes fixed on the man, occasionally catching his eye. The man appeared not to notice. When his turn came, he stepped forward.

### "James M sent me," he said quietly.

### The big man appeared not to hear, but pushed George through the narrow gate. He walked a few yards and sidled in around the end of the gatehouse, and waited. He stood and watched as the big man reached the end of the column. He still wanted more men. He strolled across to the group and stood, feet apart, his great fists grasping the lapels of his jacket as he studied the remaining men. George felt sorry for them. They were obliged to almost grovel to earn money for their families; stripped of any dignity, they gratefully touched the peaks of their caps when chosen by the man. They scurried through the gate, hardly giving George a second look.

### The big man closed the gate and locked it, no more in nor out, till the end of the shift. He stood under the naked lamp and slowly put the key in his waistcoat pocket. He glanced round; George stepped forward and made his presence known. The big man studied him for several seconds before walking in the direction of some unlit buildings. George followed and drew alongside him.

### "You know why I am here?" he asked.

### The big man said nothing but continued walking. They passed beneath pipes leading into bubbling caldrons of acid, the fumes caught at George's throat; he began coughing. He noticed barrels of industrial alcohol stacked high against the side of a shed in which sacks of sulphur, nitrates and carbons were stored. At the far end were the distinctive canisters containing mercury. Men moved amongst them like darkened dwarfs. The steam and gases swirled and eddied about them making the air barely breathable.

### Through this the big man strolled, while George picked his way carefully, crossing the cobbled yard, avoiding the puddles of pungent fluid that lay about. They reached a long, low building, where the big man drew a key from his pocket, unlocked a small door and disappeared inside. George followed and saw that the door was locked behind him. He was led down an unlit passageway and into a darkened room. There was the heavy smell of gas and ammonia; his companion lit a gas mantle.

### The room was a large, unkempt place. George felt depressed as he looked round. What ever it been used for had ceased some time ago. The equipment was dirty and much of it was broken. He walked along the tables that lined the walls, opening drawers and looking in cupboards. He stopped by a large gas oven, and looked up at the only windows, two skylights. It would not easy, but it was just possible.

### The big man clasped his arms round a heavy iron press and, with a deep grunting sound, lifted it to one side. He began lifting the bulks of timber it sat upon, revealing the entrance to a small cellar.

### He stood aside. "It's all down there," he murmured.

### George climbed down and began to examine it. Wood pulp, carbon, cotton, camphor resin, glycerin, and celloid.

### "What about the other stuff?"

### The man pointed to the far end.

### "It's all through there, any quantity you want."

### George stepped out of the cellar and back into the laboratory

### "Right, that all seems to be in order. When can I get in here and for how long?"

### The man replaced the timbers and lifted the press back into position. He squatted onto a wooden packing case, and began to roll a cigarette.

### "There's going to be a strike here next week and we will be locked out.

### The bosses won't make too much fuss; the warehouses are full so it will be a week before they're squealing for the police."

### He rammed the cigarette in his mouth and lit it.

### "That's how long you have got. You'll have to be out of here in five days."

### "Judging from this place, I had better spend some time cleaning it. Then I should be able to do the job."

### "Well make the most of it," replied the man as he rose to his feet. "You'll have to hang on here until the night gang finishes in the morning."

### It was daylight when the man returned and together they walked back to the gate, where they joined the rest of the men waiting for it to be unlocked.

###

### It was a strange sensation for George to travel back to North Cresswell by train. He had not made that journey since his first arrival in November. He and Rosemary had avoided the village, ever since he had been told of her father's death.

### On reaching the foot bridge, he looked down at the railway track, remembering that freezing day when he had first arrived. He glanced up the track to the other bridge where he had laid the body. It surprised him, for instead of feeling nervous and self-conscious about it, he felt nothing, complete indifference. He walked confidently along the cinder track that went passed the miners' cottages, even pausing for a moment to watch some lads kicking a football. Reaching the main road, he swung left and marched briskly past the church and shops, grocers, and butchers. He smiled mockingly as he passed the funeral parlour. You've another customer, he thought. He didn't even pause as he crossed over the railway bridge. He felt no sense of guilt.

### Rounding the Blackfield Arms corner, he began to climb the long hill that led eventually to the farm. That- strange feeling persisted, as though looking at things for the first time, yet knowing that he had seen them before but not sure where. As he walked past the long, stone wall beneath a canopy of beech trees, it was as though doing this was a water shed of past events and that now he had every thing clear in his mind. He knew what he was to do. He would make their bombs, but then he would disappear, with Rosemary, into the mists of Scottish Highlands and start a new life, It felt as though a great weight had fallen from his shoulders. He felt euphoric as he entered the yard. There was a moment of doubt but it passed.

### He lifted the latch and called out as he entered the kitchen. He stopped, his hand still grasping the door. Something was wrong, he could feel it.

### "Rosemary!" he bawled at the top of his voice. There was a nervous tightness in the pit of his stomach.

### "She's not here," replied Kairda, she spoke quietly and calmly, contrasting with his violent tones so much so that it made him jump. He swung round; she was standing by the door that led to the small parlour.

### "What do you mean....not here?" He demanded. "Where is she?"

### She looked at him as though he were a young child who had just lost a toy. "Now calm down," she insisted, her voice brisk and yet kind. "She's quite safe."

### "What do you mean?" He looked at her aggressively. "If she comes to any harm."

### Whether Kairda felt any fear she did not show it. She sat at the table demurely and calmly.

### "George!" she said firmly. "Sit down...... really she's quite safe .... I can explain.", George sat, still eyeing her suspiciously. "Go on."

### "The police have been here."

### "What!" he jumped to his feet.

### Kairda rose and pushed him gently back into his seat. "For- heaven's sake, George, calm down.......I though you were the quiet, silent type."

### "What did they want?" he asked.

### "They were asking about Wellington Carnfield's murder."

### His fists tightened. He took a deep breath.

### "Murder? I heard he fell off the bridge and got hit by a train."

### Kairda looked at him and smiled benevolently, "George I know what really happened. Rosemary told me."

### He sat perfectly still and shut his eyes. What ever possessed her to do that, he thought. Oh, Rosemary. Why? He opened his eyes and found Kairda smiling triumphantly at him. You cunning bitch, he thought.

### "Why did the police suspect Rosemary.....did you tell them."

### For a moment Kairda paled, but then recovered. "I'm hardly going to do that." George frowned, she had a point, but he did not trust her.

### "The important thing- was that she couldn't stay here." Kairda rose to her feet and looked out of the window.

### "Are you expecting anybody?" he asked.

### "The police said they would return. We don't have a lot of time, and we don't want them to find you here."

### "What are you suggesting we do?" he asked grimly.

### "'You, leave here and stay in one of the safe houses we have got for the conchies; you'll be safe and can work undisturbed."

### She walked back to the table.

### "It's for the best, George." She stood by him and placed her hand upon his shoulder. "When this is all over you and Rosemary can slip away to Scotland."

### So that was it, he thought, they know about Scotland. Rosemary, beloved Rosemary... why.. Did you say anything? What ever the truth was they had effectively kidnapped her to ensure that he did their bidding.

### "Come on, George, we'd better be off. You'd better get your things."

### Chapter Thirty Six

### George took little notice of what Kairda was saying. He was thinking of Rosemary and the child. Kairda's bland assurance that as soon as Ibreac returned he would know where she was, did nothing to allay his fears. His underlying feeling of trepidation persisted. He sat hunched over, hardly noticing where they were going. Kairda's voice sounded distant as she chatted on about this and that. He looked up at the sound of a motor bike roaring past, the rider clad in a heavy leather coat and hood. The pony reared and he reached out to help Kairda control the beast.

### "Idiot," she called, as the sound puckered down and the rider turned into the driveway of a house beyond them.

### Neither of them took much notice as the rider handed a parcel into the house of Dr Timothy Broughtman.

### "Parcel for you, Alex!" called Vera as she placed it on the hall table and continued into the kitchen to fetch afternoon tea. The house keeper was out shopping.

### Alexander Broughtman had spent several nervous days waiting for this, the copy of the London Times that he had requested.

### He took it into the drawing room and carefully tore away the outer wrapper.He held it in his hands as though this would answer those nagging questions. He separated the sheets and layed each out on the drawing room table.

### Vera entered and placed the tray of tea on the large oak sideboard and poured out two cups; Timothy was out visiting patients. She placed a cup for Alexander, near enough for him to reach, but out of harms way.Then she sat down to sip her tea.

### "Is it something special?"she asked.

### Her curiosity about Alexander's work had been answered in part by her husband. Now she no longer asked persistent questions but waited patiently to be told.

### She watched her brother in law go over the paper with a magnifying glass, scrutinising each word.

### "I wish I knew."

### She reached across and picked up one of the loose sheets. "Do you mind if I look?"she asked.He shrugged his shoulders non committally.

### " Just don't use it to light the fire,"he said flippantly.

### The silence was only disturbed by the rustling of the pages as they were turned.

### Vera gasped and Alexander looked up.

### " There's a bit about Ian here and his M.C." she said."It says that Second Lieutenant Ian Stoddart of the 3rd Battalion Rifle Brigade and his Platoon Sergeant fought gallantly, allowing their men to escape the entrapment, until forced back by overwhelming odds." She looked up from the paper, her face full of pride. "That must be what he wrote about in that letter."

### Alexander was scrutinising the paper and appeared not to have heard her.

### "Did you hear what I said?"

### "Mm!" he replied with out looking up " What date did that happen?"

### Vera studied the paper. "8th of July."

### Alexander's head remained buried in the paper. " What was the name of Ian's Sergeant?"

### Vera got up and went to the desk, opening the drawer she pulled out the satchel containing Ian's last letter.

### "Bagworth.G," she replied.

### Alexander said nothing, but sat mesmerised with what he had seen in the paper. He seemed tense, almost unable to believe it.

### "What is it?" Vera asked,

### "Listen to this.....Rifle Brigade Sergeant wins Victoria Cross.. ..While in the front line near the village of Villinue, Sergeant George Bagworth,3rd Battalion Rifle Brigade did, on the 8th of July, gallantly defend his position, enabling the men in his platoon to escape. He did this without regard to his own safety, before being overwhelmed. He lay, severely wounded before heroically fighting his way back. Reaching the safety of Allied trenches four days later."

### "That's amazing," Vera exclaimed. "Ian was sure that he had seen him shot through the head."

### "It's not amazing.... it's a miracle."

### Alexander Broughtman shook his head; he was letting his imagination run away with him. The coincidence that, on the very night that the diversionary attack on Villinue occurred and the Shoemaker was due to cross, this dead Sergeant rose from the grave to appear in British lines. It was too fanciful for words. He laughed at himself for even thinking about it. Yet, something deep in his mind refused to let him dismiss it completely.

### Why would Malinin make a point of keeping a copy of this paper, unless there was something of significance in it.

### He bent over the paper once again. He must find any reference to anything between the 8th and the 12th of July.

### It was nearly midnight by the time he had satisfied himself that there was nothing else in the paper that referred to anything between those dates. He rose from his chair and stretched his aching limbs.

### "Its time I found this Sergeant Bagworth," he commented.

### The following day Alexander Broughtman stepped from the London train onto the platform at Temple Mead Station, Bristol. Through acquaintances at the War Ministry, he had succeeded in tracing Bagworth's movements from the time he had spectacularly reappeared in British lines to when he had been discharged from the hospital. The news that his face had been severely disfigured,that he had lost his voice and his memory disturbed Alexander profoundly. He was beginning to feel that perhaps his imagination had not been so fanciful after all.

### The only information as to Bagworth's whereabouts now, was an address in Bristol. Alexander felt restless and edgy as he hailed a taxi. He felt that he was about to find the key that would help him to fit the pieces of his jigsaw together.

### He sat back and watched the throngs of people who milled about the pavements.So many of the men in uniform he thought. He had got use to the disdainful expression people gave him for not being in uniform himself. The taxi driver was an elderly man who seemed intent on telling him how he had spent his youth fighting in India, and how he had campaigned with Kitchener in the Sudan. Alexander refused to be drawn into the conversation,and eventually the driver sank into a sullen silence.

### No 27 Carrington Terrace, the address he had been given at the hospital, was situated in a respectable working c1ass area. Neat rows of tidy, terraced houses, backed one to another. The front doors that stepped straight onto the pavements, were freshly painted and the door steps white and gleaming. The Bagworth family no longer occupied No 27. The couple who now lived there had only been in for a week and so had no idea where he could enquire. Alexander stood at the kerb's edge, pondering his next move. A woman, across the street was cleaning her windows. She had been watching him and stepping down from her box,waved him over.

### "Who'd you want?" she called.

### Alexander strolled casually over. The woman stood there, her arms folded across her ample bosom, her small eyes squinted from above her chubby red faced cheeks. The street gossip, thought Alexander.

### "George Bagworth."

### " Him!" she scoffed. "He's not been back since he went to the front."

### "Is there a Mrs Bagworth?"

### The woman frowned and scrutinised him carefully through half closed eyes.

### "Who might you be?" she asked.

### "I'm from the Insurance," he replied,

### Her eyes brightened with curiosity. "Has she come into money?"

### Alexander ignored the question. "So you know where she lives now,"

### The woman drew herself up, "I might do."

### Alexander had no intention of putting his hand in his pocket.

### "Then could you tell me, please?"

### "She don't call herself Bagworth no more."

### Alexander raised an eye, I wonder why he thought.

### "She taken up with Randle the Drapers in the high street. Gone all haughty taughty.It's Mrs Lillen toffee nosed Randle now."

### Alexander Broughtman raised his hat politely to the woman and left.

### Randle's Drapery was a broad double fronted shop. Its bay windows full of different materials that cascaded in a waterfall of colour. A young girl was painstakingly pinning folds of cloth together under the watchful eye of an older woman.

### The bell above the door tinkled as he entered. She stepped back from the small door that led the shop window.

### "Can I help you?" asked a cultured voice.

### The woman was tall and elegantly dressed; she smiled and Alexander shivered slightly. The woman's beauty was breathtaking, she exuded a voluptuous sensuality that almost took his breath away.

### He coughed and, recovering himself, raised his hat.

### "I would like to speak to Mrs Randle."

### "I'm Mrs Randle."

### Alexander could not help but feel how fortunate Mr Randle must be. He reached inside his navy blue top coat and handed his card to her.

### "Major Broughtman.......At your service Ma'am."

### Her lips puckered deliciously as she read his card.

### "What can I do for you, major?"

### He looked round and noticed that the young girl was listening. Mrs Randle's eyes followed him.

### "Get on with your work, girl." Gone was the smile and its place was taken by a vicious spiteful expression, "and stop your gawking." The girl retreated swiftly back into the window.

### "I wonder if I could speak to you in private." Alexander requested. The dazzling smile was back on her face. " It is a matter of some urgency," he added,lowering his voice so that only she could hear.

### "Come into the office." She led the way through the shop to a small room at the rear of the premises. Alexander carefully closed the frosted glass door and placed his hat on the desk before sitting down.

### He put his hands together and twiddled his thumbs for a moment. He looked up,Mrs Randle was sitting primly behind the desk patiently waiting.

### " I hope you don't find this embarrassing, but I am endeavouring to trace George Bagworth, who I believe is your husband." He watched her eyes carefully.

### Her expression didn't change.Ice cool, he thought.

### "WAS.. my husband,he's dead."

### "Now Mrs Bagworth..you don't mind me calling you that."

### Her smile disappeared, her face darkened and her lips tightened.She sat rigidly, her eyes never wavering from Alexander's gaze.

### "If you must."

### "You know that your husband is not dead, because you came to the hospital last November and attempted to have him certified.....Why did you do that?"

### ""Who are you?....What do you want?"

### "I would like to speak to Mr Bagworth, do you know where he is?"

### "Major! My life may not be perfect but the last thing I want is people knowing around here that George is alive, if he is alive. So I do not want him to appear on my door step. All I have to do is live quietly here and in seven years I can have him officially declared dead"

### "It's a long time to wait."

### "I don't have a lot of choice, divorce is virtually impossible."

### "So if you found out that your husband was dead, you'd be pleased?"

### "I'm an ambitious woman, Major, and George couldn't give a damn, provided his next meal was on the table." She looked at him and then shrugged her shoulders. "He could never settle to anything; joined the army as a lad, got his coronation medal and then left. Went down the pit but didn't like that , by that time we were hardly speaking , can't think what I saw in him, must have been the uniform. Then he rushed off to enlist as soon as war was declared. So your right , I wouldn't cry any tears if what you said was true."

### "Do you know where he is?"

### "No, that is the truth."

### "When you saw him at the hospital, did he give any idea what he might do?"

### "I never spoke to him.....in fact I never saw him."She stopped and thought for a moment. "No, now you mention it, I did see him. But I hardly recognised him and he didn't recognise me, just walked straight past,as though I was a stranger."

### "Perhaps you were."

### "I don't understand."

### "Never mind," Alexander said. "It's just a thought. You've absolutely no idea where he might have gone after he left the hospital."

### She shook her head."I asked, but all they would tell me was that he had gone to his family in Nottinghamshlre. I didn't even know he had any family up there."

### Alexander Broughtman twisted the gloves in his fists. He hardly dare breath.

### "Where about, in Nottinghamshire....was it a place called North Cresswell?"

### "Yes. I think it was, now you've mentioned it."

###

### 

### Chapter Thirty Seven

### Bristol to London Train. Easter 1916.

### The other passengers in the compartment must have begun to doubt Alexander Broughtman's sanity. He would sit for long periods gazing intently at a photograph, then he would throw back his head, and give a silent laugh, hugging himself. Realising that he was being watched he would smile selfconsciously and resume gazing at the photograph. It had been given to him by Lilian Bagworth; it was the only photograph of her husband she had. The information that George Bagworth had left hospital and gone to North Cresswell convinced him that at last he was on the right track. The pieces of the jig saw were beginning to fall into place.

### Charnwood House was the central piece, with North Cresswell twenty miles away. There Thomas Kemp had lived before something forced him to leave, now murdered, presumably by McDowell, because of what he knew. McDowell was involved with Malinin and through him the Shoemaker. The connection was tenuous, but George Bagworth's journey to North Cresswell did complete the circle.... What was the objective?..., The meeting between Lloyd George and the union leader....What would be achieved by its disruption?

### It was Sunday and the corridors of Whitehall were empty, except for the occasional junior clerk. It left Broughtman little choice but to retire to his club in St James and to wait, fretting until Monday morning. The following morning found him seated in the long gallery that surrounded the wide marble staircase that led to the inner sanctums of the War Ministry.These hallowed corridors of power echoed with the steady tread of senior officers. Their highly polished cavalry boots shining in the sombre light that filtered through the high arched windows as they executed the management of the war.

### Superintendert Donaldson reported daily, Broughtman knew this. He looked, impatiently, at his watch and walked to the balustrade. Below he could see Donaldson mounting the long staircase. The policeman seemed to take an age and Broughtman could hardly contain himself as he watched the tall man progress up the wide, marble staircase, stopping now and then to pass a word with people he met. Broughtman saw a white envelope being handed to him. Donaldson read the letter and began to stride quickly up the remaining stairs. On reaching the top he stopped and eyed Broughtman suspiciously.

### "What do you want?" he growled. His expression contained anger and fear; he had not forgotten their last conversation..

### "I've located the Shoemaker," announced Broughtman

### "Have you ?"

### Broughtman was not sure what reaction he had expected, but the studied indifference, the almost contemptuous disregard annoyed him. The older man simply pulled from his pocket a silk handkerchief and began to polish his glasses.

### "I don't think we need concern ourselves too much with this so called Shoemaker, that's if he exists at all."

### Donaldson placed his glasses carefully on the bridge of his nose and again studied the letter he had been given.

### "We've just heard that Sir Roger Casement had been arrested, attempting to land at Tralee and also the 'Aud' has been stopped. You were right, it was carrying the arms and equipment. So if this ... Shoemaker does exist ..he's been stranded."

### Broughtman frowned, even though the news from Ireland was good he didn't share Donaldson optimism.

### "What about the meeting at Charnwood?"

### Donaldson smiled to himself, as though now on safer ground.

### "Which meeting do you refer to ?" his voice was quiet, his manner confident.

### "The meeting we spoke about at Lincoln," Broughtman scowled, "between Lloyd George and the union leaders."

### Donaldson's face remained blank. " You must have misunderstood me...I've never mentioned anything about a meeting at Charnwood."

### He made a move as though about to walk on, but Broughtman hand restrained him. "What the hell are you playing at Donaldson?"

### The policeman looked down and pulled his arm away.

### "Nothing that need worry you,Mister Broughtman."

### There was something in his voice that worried Alexander. His arrangement with the War Ministry was tenuous. He was aware that he had, in the past, stepped on many toes; had Donaldson managed to make his position even more precarious.

### "So the fact that there is every indication that one of Malinin's agents is working near Charnwood house is of no importance."

### "You're obsessed with this Shoemaker," stated the policeman angrily.

### "With good reason," argued Broughtman.

### "Well I'm telling you officially... there is no meeting at Charnwood........do you understand."

### Broughtman stood there, looking at him. He found it hard to believe what he was hearing. His brain raced, trying to fathom out, just what game Donaldson was playing. He was surely not allowing their private enmity to impair his judgement.

### "I don't know what is going on, but you are a fool !" bellowed Broughtman, his voice echoing round the gallery.

### Donaldson face went purple with rage. It was as though he was fighting to control himself. Suddenly, he relaxed and, stepping back, smiled.

### "No my friend...It is you who are the fool. Your days here are finished." Donaldson began to turn away. He looked back,

### "General Kirkson has at last taken my advice, you will get a letter informing you that your services in this department are no longer required. You'll be free to rejoin your regiment, of course, I had forgotten, you're not in the army; it's all a pretence, isn't it? So now you'll be able to enlist." He laughed and, turning, began to walk away.

### The sound of running feet on the stairs caused them both to pause.

### A staff officer was taking the stairs two at a time. On reaching the gallery he ran past them as though his life depended upon it. Broughtman and Donaldson exchanged glances.The whisper ran through the corridors like a gathering storm.

### " The castle has been attacked.The Irish Republicans have stormed the Dublin Post Office"

### Alexander Broughtman stood there; he felt his stomach turn over.

### "Its begun!" he shouted and raced down the stairs, heading for the railway station and the first train that would take him back to the north.

### It was early evening by the time he reached Grassmoor. The newspaper he had bought at Chesterfield Station had the first news of the attack. It told him little that he didn't know already. He was somehow overwhelmed with sorrow. The bravado and gallantry of the Irish Republicans was undisputed in his mind, but their actions were so foolhardy in the extreme that he felt anger against their leaders for allowing such a thing to take place. With the strain of the war heavy on the shoulders of the War Ministry, he could see terrible retribution descending on the rebels. Their supplies captured and the rest of the country against them, they stood no chance of success.

### As soon as he arrived at the house he changed into some clothes more suitable for walking on the moors. Having a quick bite to eat he set off for North Cresswell in his brother's car.

### He had never been to the village before and entered it from the west. He drove slowly, observing the houses as he passed. It was a mining village first and last.The hierarchy was plain to see; the colliery manager's house was on the hill side, a double fronted two story building with its small but neat garden laid out at the front, at the rear a large yard where were kept poultry to supply the table with fresh eggs, possibly a milking cow might be stalled also. Further on a similar but smaller house for the under manager, then finally a row of neat terraced houses, each with its yard at the rear, for the deputies. The colliers would live nearer the pit head. He could see the great pit head wheels turning in the distance. A tight inward looking community that defended it self and would not readily reveal its secrets.

### He passed the school and the church before arriving outside the public house. Alexander walked up the two steps that led into the Blackfield Arms. The tap room was nearly empty, only two other men sat at a table on the far side minding their own business; they looked up as he entered but then sank back again into their own private world. The publican pulled his ale into a pint jug, and took his money without comment, disappearing into the back room, the door just ajar enough for him to see if there were other customers. Alexander sat and drank his beer slowly; it tasted sour and watery. The two men at the other table silently observed him. He rose from his seat and walked across to where they sat; he could see that their jugs were empty.

### "Will you let me fill your jugs?" he asked.

### Their expression didn't change, but merely pushed the empty jugs across to him.

### With their jugs filled, they acknowledged him with the merest lift of the jug before sucking the narrow white cap from the top of their ale.

### " I've a pal from these parts, served with him at the front, name of George Bagworth...do you know him?"

### The two men shook their heads. "I've nowt heard of him," replied one of the drinkers, "H'bout you Percy?"

### Percy screwed his face up . "Nope! and we know most in these parts."

### "Lived at some place called Cross Green Farm, or something," suggested Alexander. "Ever heard of a place of that name."

### " He means Carnfield's old place," pointed out Percy. "Up on the top there...Cross Keys."

### "Wellington Carnfield?" enquired Alexander, another name to fit into the jig saw.

### "No he was the lad," corrected Percy. "It was the old man who had the farm. That was before they got evicted and those buggers from the other side came."

### "You didn't like them?" enquired Alexander.

### Percy spat on the floor.

### "Turns out the old man was Hun.....hiding he was... or so they say," answered his companion.

### Alexander shut his eyes; he felt he had struck gold.

### "A German.....What happened to him?" he questioned.

### The two men shrugged their shoulders indifferently. "He's dead, there's just her left, been nothing but trouble up there. Its best left well alone if you ask me."

### "Especially now that Wellington Carnfield's dead," added Percy.

### "What happened to him?"

### "Got himself crushed under the wheels of the pit tender, drunk he was."

### "And you never heard of this pal of mine....George."

### Percy curled his lip. "There's been one or two up there. Then I surpose she's had to earn her corn somehow." He grinned slyly at his companion and nudged him in the ribs.

### When Alexander left the Blackfield Arms, it was still light. The two men had been prepared to spend all night telling him anything he wanted to know, provided he kept their jugs filled. It didn't take him long to realise that their information was beginning to become figments of their imagination. Having extracted as much he thought was of any value, he left.

### The motorcar struggled up the steep hill that led to the tops and Cross Keys. He pulled off the road as soon as the farm came into sight. He had no desire to alert the occupiers. The high dry stone walls that flanked the road hid him as he approached. He stopped at the gate and scanned the yard. It was difficult to tell if the place was occupied or not, so he walked on up the lane until he could see the back of the farm. Then he climbed over the wall and walked back, keeping close to the wall ready to dive over at the first sign of any dogs. He moved stealthily through the garden to the side of the house that looked out across the meadow, beyond the railway track. The windows were barred and tight. It was twilight now and there was still no sign of lights or smoke from the chimney. The doors he tried were fastened tight. He did not venture round into the yard for fear of being seen from the road. In one of the outbuildings he found an an assortment of tools. With a small crow bar, carefully fitted between the door and the frame he forced the lock. It led to a small corridor;the place appeared deserted, although judging from the things left behind, it had been vacated in a hurry. He began searching, but so as not to be disturbed he placed an iron poker and a chair against the door, so if any one should come he would get some warning; he repeated this against the kitchen door.

### It wasn't until he reached the bedroom that he found anything of interest.Tucked well out of sight were the two halves of the photograph, he lay them side by side and studied them. The elderly man an woman looked back at him unsmiling and severe. She was dressed in the heavy brocade, a fashion popular at the end of the last century. He wore a dark blue uniform, which Alexander recognised as that of a Bavarian mining surveyor. Were these the Germans they were referring to? As he went to place the two halves in his pocket one fluttered to the floor. Reaching down to pick it up, his eye caught the sight of a package pushed out of sight behind a chest of draws. Moving the chest he lifted the package and opened it.

### He gave a low whistle. "Bull's eye," he muttered softly to himself. He had found George Bagworth.

### The pay book and discharge papers clearly identified him. It was the velvet case that Alexander opened reverently that confirmed it beyond all doubts.

### The dark bronze maltese cross with its purple ribbon sent a shiver through him. This was definitely the George Bagworth who, according to Ian Stoddart, had been shot through the head on the 8th July 1915 and yet amazingly reappeared again on the 12th July. Something prompted Alexander to take from his pocket the two halves again . He looked at them intently,the medal and the photographs were, he felt, connected.

### The sound from the yard disturbed his thoughts, he moved swiftly across to the window and peered out. No one was in sight but he could hear the sound of a key being inserted in the door below.He turned and moved quickly across the room.

## Chapter Thirty Eight

## The sound of the poker crashing against the bucket made Kairda jump. That and the kitchen door scraping across the stone -flagged floor, distracted her completely.

## Alexander barely reached the door under the stairs as the poker fell. He crouched there holding his breath, unaware of who had entered and not daring to open the door even a crack. He rose to his feet, it was pitch black. Thinking he was in a cupboard, he reached out to lean against the wall. Nothing was there and he felt himself plummet into the darkness. He hit the floor of the cellar, and lay there stunned; his breath driven from him, a fierce pain throbbed through his arm.

## God, it's broken," he gasped. He lay there expecting the door above to be thrown open, but no one came.

## Kairda stopped gathering the clothes together that she had placed on the bed upstairs, and listened. She was sure she had heard a noise, but now there was nothing.

## Alexander, his wind sufficiently recovered, struggled into a sitting position. Gingerly he felt his arm and was relieved that it was not broken but sprained. Reaching into his jacket he found a box of matches. He struggled to strike one, and then realised where he was. Several attempts later he succeeded in getting a small oil lamp lit.

## He looked round and pursed his lips drawing air into his lungs; he had barely missed a long steel trunk that lay at the foot of the narrow steep ladder that gave access to the cellar. It was the only thing of any interest down there. He climbed to his feet and crossed to it. It was not locked, but creaked as he open it.

## He whistled softly to himself, for there lying in the bottom, carefully wrapped in tissue paper and a cotton cover was a resplendent cavalry dress uniform of some bygone age. Kneeling down he gently lifted the cover to get a better look; he stopped. The faint smell of engine oil filled his nostrils. He reached under, pushing the uniform to one side, and, gripping firmly with his good hand, he pulled from the trunk an oil skin cover.

## He untied the flaps and opened it, already certain of what he was going to find, but even so there was a sudden tightness in the pit of his stomach. The rifle was a master piece of precision engineering, a thing of beauty. It was in immaculate condition. Yet a small seed of panic now began to grow in him as his mind raced. This could only be used for one purpose, and that was for the hunting of man, but which man?

## He shifted the lamp and studied it closer. He noted the markings, especially the double eagle stamped upon the stock. There was no doubt it was a German sharpshooter's rifle but not a Scharfshutzen--Gewehl 98 the official type. Alexander noted that a telescopic sight could be fitted. He searched the trunk but there was nothing there.

## Something heavy was dropped on the floor above. Alexander froze, and then, carefully shielding the light until he could hardly see, he listened. It sounded as if whoever was upstairs was preparing to leave. Slowly and with extreme caution he began to climb the wooden stairs .The outside door screeched as it was opened. If he was to discover who else was in the house he must do it now. With both hands he lifted the catch and eased the door.

## A woman he recognized as the school teacher, carried out a suitcase and two clothes bags filled with what looked like bedding. He saw her, through the half opened door, place them in the back of a pony and trap. She looked back, forcing him to duck out of sight. From behind the closed door came the sound of a key being turned. He continued to wait until he heard the steel shoes striking the cobbles as the pony and trap left.

## Alexander went back down into the cellar and replaced the rifle where he had found it. To be truly devastating the rifle needed to be fitted with telescopic sights. He'd been tempted to sabotage the rifle, but doing that would have signaled his presence. No, the telescopic sights had to be found.

## It was nearly an hour later when, after searching the house thoroughly, he eventually found the sights wrapped in a soft leather satchel at the back of cupboard filled with bedding. He took the satchel back to the kitchen and laid it out on the table. He studied it for several minutes before beginning to dismantle it.

## It was almost dark when he finally left, having replaced the sights back where he had found them. He felt a great sense of relief, as though he had bought himself time. He smiled quietly when he thought how frustrated the Shoemaker would be, that's if he was the sharpshooter, when it came to zeroing the sights. It might give the victim a chance of survival.

## Alexander had reached the motorcar when his thoughts returned to Kairda. Was she involved? He hoped not. He had not spoken to her and only seen her on one or two occasions, yet there was something about her that he admired. Her individuality, the way she stood out in a crowd. She was no beauty, well not in the conventional sense, but there was something about her that attracted him, of that he was sure. He cranked the engine and was lucky, for it started first time. He jumped into the driver's seat and steered it, back through the village retracing his steps. No! There were a dozen reasons for her to be at the farm.... it was strange that she had a key though.

## Kairda got down from the trap and opened the back gates leading into yard of her lodgings. As she led the pony in, the sound of voices and laughter came from the open door leading to the kitchen. Through the kitchen window she could see people seated round the table. Mrs. Cogens stood up and waved to her, and came to the kitchen door.

## "It's Kairda," she called back into the room, a broad excited smile on her face. She reached in and pulled roughly at one of her lads.

## "Go an take the pony off Miss Brandon."

## She motioned Kairda to hurry and reached out to bring her in quickly.

## "What's happened?" asked a worried Kairda.

## "Oh! It's wonderful news." Kairda had never seen the old lady so pleased and happy.

## "What is it?" insisted Kairda smiling in anticipation.

##  "Shush!" the old lady put a finger to her lips, and tugging a puzzled Kairda through the door, closed it firmly behind them.

## McDowell sat at the end of the table as though presiding, he sat there relaxed, that soft superior look that passed as a smile on his face as though he found the excitement of the others mildly amusing.

## Mrs. Cogens held Kairda by the arms as though presenting her to the gathering.

## "Tell her!"

## McDowell's face broke for once into a genuine smile.

## "Tell me what?" Kairda asked looking from one to another.

## "At dawn this morning, Easter Monday, the Volunteers led by Pearse and Henry Wilson, attacked and captured the Dublin Post Office. The uprising has started."

## Her hands flew to her mouth, Kairda couldn't believe her ears. She looked at Mrs. Cogens who was hugging herself with glee.

## "Isn't it wonderful!" she exclaimed throwing her arms round Kairda's neck, the two woman embraced.

## Mr. Cogens rose from the table and going to the dresser produced a bottle of port.

## "Get some glasses mother; this deserves a drink, to hell with the priest." He uncorked the bottle. "I've had this put by since before the war; there's been nothing to celebrate up to now."

## McDowell rose to his feet, looking ecstatic; he opened his arms to Kairda. She went round the table and embraced him; she felt his arms squeezing her tight1y. She looked into his eyes, they were shining and excited, there was something else she had not noticed before, an hypnotic look. A strange feeling seemed to ripple through her body. She forced her eyes down and felt his lips upon her forehead.

## His voice was soft and caressing, "You must be very proud of them."

## Kairda pushed herself away from him. "I am." She looked on as Mr. Cogens handed McDowell a glass of port. He turned to Kairda.

## "Would you like a glass? Or would you prefer some of Mrs. Cogens's ginger beer."

## "Some ginger beer," she smiled. "I'm that excited, a glass of port's bound to make me giggle, and there nothing I hate more than a woman with the giggles."

## " I'm sure you would look delightful," smiled McDowell. They all laughed. Mrs. Cogens had gone through to the parlour and could be heard playing the piano; she called out for them to come through.

## McDowell resumed his seat at the table, and Kairda sat by him. He seemed to have forgotten her presence, staring through into the parlour as they gathered round the piano, he seemed to be miles away.

## "A penny for your thoughts, Mr. McDowell."

## He looked up startled as though not realising she had been present, he smiled. "Please.. I'd like to think we are friends as well as compatriots, my name is James."

## "You look concerned... James."

## "How will it end?"

## Suddenly he looked despondent. Kairda felt strange1y angry and indignant, that he should feel that her beloved country men could be defeated.

## "In victory and freedom."

## He smiled and his despondency left him. "Of course! With the Post Office in our hands, along with Boland's Bakery, Jacob's Factory and the Four Courts, the countryside is bound to follow."

## "All we have to do is play our part," insisted Kairda.

## "Yes!" McDowell's expression changed, a far away misty look came into his eyes. He reached out and took Kairda's hand gently in his. "We must be faithful to each other... regardless. Do you understand?"

## Kairda wasn't sure that she did understand, but she nodded all the same.

## "We just need to wait for news from our friend in Sheffield."

## Chapter Thirty Nine.

## A.C.Dobson Co Ltd Sheffield

## George locked the door, turned and placed his back against it. He surveyed the laboratory for several seconds; nothing had changed since his last visit. It puzzled him, for a moment. Why wasn't the place used? Perhaps they had built another. He shrugged as it was not important; all he wanted now was to be left in peace to do his work. He placed his bag along with his coat in the corner out of harm's way. He would not be interrupted for another twenty four hours. Horace Johnson, the big grey haired man, who was the charge hand foreman, would arrive with a parcel of food, enough for a further twenty four hours.

## George felt a tremble of pleasure as he walked past the various barrels, casks and sacks. The demijohns of acid were against the wall. From this mixture he would create power, beautiful, clean, devastating power. He felt the adrenalin begin to pump through his veins. He felt as an artist did when faced with a fresh canvas.

## First, he spent time moving the various items into some semblance order. Finally, he rolled two glass vats into position and, tying an oilskin apron round his waist, and pulling on a pair of thick leather gloves, he began.

## Twenty four hours later, when Horace Johnson unlocked the door, he coughed. The air was so thick and pungent, he could hardly breathe. George, with a padded face mask on, waved at him to put down the parcel and then to leave. The air had hurt his lungs and Johnson was relieved to be out of the place, wondering how George was able to stand it.

## When he returned the following day, he was relieved to find the choking smell gone. The parcel of food was where he had placed it, untouched. George was at the far end of the laboratory. All Horace Johnson could see was what appeared to be a large vat with a paddle slowly rotating. He placed more food with the other and left.

## On the fourth day, Horace Johnson unlocked the door cautiously and opened it a crack, fearful of what he might find. The first thing he noticed was the food: it had been eaten, every last crumb. The sound of snoring came from behind a row of packing cases. Peering over he found George sleeping soundly as though he didn't have a care in the world.

## On the bench lay six rectangular blocks, resembling the shape and size of a house brick; at first Horace Johnson thought they were. They were grey in colour and the surface was smooth almost polished, in appearance. Tentatively he reached out to touch the nearest one.

## "Don't!" commanded George, his voice hoarse with tiredness.

## He rose wearily to his feet and rubbing his red-rimmed eyes, walked unsteadily round the cases and across to the bench.

## "There is enough power in each one of those to blow this place to kingdom come," he smiled as he admired his handy work.

## "How are we going to move them?" Johnson uttered irritably.

## George reached out and, with his forefinger, gently touched each block in turn. Then turning them over repeated the process.

## "They are O.K." he muttered with relief. "We'll wrap them in that cotton waste and then put them in these sacks of wood pulp that should disguise the smell well enough."

## Horace Johnson hadn't noticed the smell at first, but now the distinctive smell of moth balls was noticeable.

## "What you frightened of," he joked. "Moths?"

## George looked at him; he was not amused.

## " You can cart them out of here in the back of a wagon," he replied.

## They wrapped the blocks and placed them in the sacks, making sure they were well surrounded by the wood pulp. The sacks were then taken out through the door and placed on a cart which was then wheeled across the yard to the loading bay; finally the sacks were loaded into the back of one of the wagons.At the far end, partially obscured by a row of tall vats, was the small cobbled yard leading to the iron gates. From beyond the gates could be heard the sound of angry voices.

## George looked anxiously at Johnson.

## "You're best out of this place; they've called in the police." George looked over his shoulder at the wagon.

## "Yu'v nowt to worry about. That will be at Charnwood tomorrow. It's being delivered personally to Mr. Ibreac.

## The mention of Ibreac's name reminded George that he had not heard of Rosemary's whereabouts or whether she was alright. Over the last four days he had been too preoccupied to give it a lot of thought, now he began to fret. Suddenly he wanted to get back and find out the latest news.

##

## Charnwood House.

## Ibreac felt himself begin to tremble uncontrollably; he clutched his hands tightly and could feel beads of sweat forming on his brow. The strain of the last thirty minutes had been almost more than he could with stand. How he had managed to control his feelings he did not know.

## He stood there, grinding his heels into the soft gravel as he watched the departing motorcar disappear towards the main gate. He marched across the meadow towards his tiny house, where he had hidden McDowell. He racked his brains trying to think if he had said anything that might betray him. Satisfied that he had not, he felt partially relieved as he turned the key in the lock and let himself in.

## Four days had passed since the first news of the rising. McDowell had demanded copies of all the national newspapers and had spent his time scouring through them relentlessly, sometimes rejoicing, sometimes fuming. Now, as news of the battle from Dublin unfolded, he seemed more relaxed, contented, as though every thing was going according to plan. He reminded Ibreac of a Siamese cat he had once owned and how it had tormented its prey until, finally, destroying it. McDowell had that self same look on his face, satisfied yet still inscrutable and unpredictable.

## He looked up as Ibreac entered. His slightly bemused expression changing and hardening, the lines of his jaw tightening as he observed Ibreac's demeanour.

## "What's happened?" he growled. There was the merest hint of panic in his voice indicating the strain he was under.

## "I've just had a visit from a Major Broughtman," announced Ibreac.

## McDowell uncoiled himself from the chair in which he had been sitting, the papers dropped to the floor. He scratched his furrowed brow, as though trying to recall the name.

## "He tried to make out that he was involved with the meeting, kept asking about what precautions we were taking for the safety of the participants."

## "And is he involved with the meeting?" demanded McDowell.

## "Not according to the list that I've seen."

## "How is it that he spoke to you?" McDowell pulled nervously at the scarf he wore round his neck.

## "He apparently asked to speak with the controller of the house, but he's in London with the Duke today. After being shunted from pillar to post he finally arrived in my small office."

## "What did you tell him?"

## Ibreac shuddered at the tone of McDowell's voice.

## "I told him that when the meeting was held, a detachment from York would be sent down," he looked nervously at McDowell "That was right, wasn't it?" He could see the lines on McDowell's face relax slightly.

## "What did he say to that?"

## "He then asked various questions about who was attending."

## McDowell's face tightened again.

## "It's alright I told him that I didn't know, and any rate the meeting had been postponed from the twelfth."

## McDowell's eyes popped open, "and has it?"

## "No!" assured Ibreac, inwardly pleased that for once he had given his leader a nasty surprise. "But he seemed satisfied with that and left."

## McDowell smiled and looked admiringly at the young man. "Well done."

## "There was just one other thing," said Ibreac as if an after thought. "He mentioned Bagworth and that he had been to Cross Keys and did I know the whereabouts of a Mrs. Rosemary Kemp."

## McDowell sat back into his chair and studied his boots for several minutes. He would glance in Ibreac's direction occasionally, as though weighing him up.

## "I am no longer concerned about Bagworth," he spoke as thinking out loud. He looked up and stared intently at Ibreac.

## "We have no idea if Bagworth has told the woman anything," he paused, "I'd be surprised but it's not something we can risk."

## He rose to his feet and began gathering his things together. He stopped and once again stared into space as though gathering his many thoughts.

## "I've got to go York and give final instructions to our friends. You know where this Kemp woman is? I'll leave it in your hands."

## He reached the door before turning.

## "Just make sure you do it properly. Remember what you have to lose.....that should make it easier- for you. An accident....a fire." He laughed sardonically. "Yes! You have a liking for fire....don't you?"

## Chapter Forty

## Charnwood Almshouses

## Rosemary sat and looked at the old woman. She could barely remember Mrs. Stanley. The old woman had said very little since her arrival. It had been fortunate that Mathew Stanley, the old woman's grandson, who worked on the estate as a groom, had been there for it was doubtful if Mrs. Stanley would have let them through the door. She had viewed them with deep suspicion, hardly acknowledging Ibreac's perfunctory greeting.

## Almost a week had passed; the old woman had accepted Rosemary's presence under sufferance. It was not that Mrs. Stanley was bad tempered by nature, but the stroke she had suffered six months previously, had left her with a partly paralysed left arm and a speech impediment. This got worse, the more bad tempered she became, Rosemary had done her best to help but this only made the old woman even more bad tempered.

## Now she was attempting to bake bread. Rosemary found herself in an almost impossible position. She could do nothing right; her offer of help had been refused abruptly and sitting there watching the old woman struggle only made things worse. She would have gone for a walk if it had not been raining.

## The old woman cried out with frustration as the dough she had been kneading slipped from the table onto the floor. Rosemary reached down and, gathering it up, replaced it an the table. The two women sat and looked at each other, tears began to stream down the wrinkled leathery face of the old woman.

## Cautiously Rosemary walked across to the stove and poured out a cup of strong tea and placed it close enough for the woman to reach but not so close that the cup of scalding liquid could be smacked from her hand, as had happened previously. Mrs. Stanley's eyes followed her everywhere. Rosemary stood by the table and looked down at the dough, then she looked across to where the old woman now sat, Suddenly a look of indifference crossed Mrs. Stanley's face as she shut her eyes and let her head sink forward on to her chest. Do as you like, her face had said.

## It was some time later when the sound of horses being halted and the cry of Mathew Stanley as he dismounted and tethered them, reminded Rosemary of her childhood. She remembered well how her father and brothers had come into the yard with a dozen mares, and how her mother had clung onto her arm to keep her out of harm's way,

## Mathew's expression was one of surprise as he opened the door and smelt fresh bread.

## "My, that smells good."

## A tall, barrel chested man of no more than Rosemary's age, Mathew had the raw good humour of a man who feared nothing on two legs and very little on four. His self confidence stemmed from the fact that he was good at his job and demanded little from life other than what he had already had. A bachelor who, whilst keen to find a wife, was quite happy to bide his time. Attracted to Rosemary as soon as they had met, he was immediately on his guard when he saw that she was pregnant.

## He greeted his grandmother.

## "Have you had a good day?" he called, looking admiringly at the row of loaves that sat neatly on the table.

## "You've been busy." He grinned mischievously and winked in Rosemary's direction for he knew full well that it had been Rosemary who had done the baking. His grandmother merely nodded in Rosemary's direction.

## Seating himself down at the table, he accepted gratefully the mug of tea that Rosemary offered. Standing beside him the aroma of horses, leather and good sweat made her think once again of happier days. She cradled her stomach and longed for George.

## "So's she let yer help her," he remarked.

## Rosemary smiled and nodded in agreement.

## "It's her pride you know, she can't forget all them years when she was housekeeper across at Charnwood. She never use to be like this," he added apologetically.

## "I do understand," replied Rosemary softly.

## "What are you whispering about?" barked the old woman. She glared at them both. "She's a married woman you know."

## "Grandmother!" protested an embarrassed Mathew.

## "Well you can see that can't you?"

## Mathew reddened to the roots of his thick hair.

## "What you come here for any rate?" persisted his grandmother.

## "There is a shoot this weekend, a lot of guests they tell me. Sent me off to see if you will come up and give them a hand."

## "You fool!" shouted the old woman. "A...g great h.. help I'll be," she spluttered, as she tried to wave her bad arm at him.

## Mathew said nothing, but looked at his riding boots. "It was a fool thing to ask."

## "Take her," waved the old woman in disgust.

## "Would you come?" he asked politely, hardly expecting her to accept. "It's only light work." He looked at his grandmother. "This isn't exactly a bed of roses."

## Rosemary looked undecided, she was expecting George any time. "I don't know.....What if someone comes for me while we are away."

## "We'll be back an Sunday night, so whoever it is... wont have long to wait."

## "Very well .... When do you want to leave?"

## "Now....if you are ready."

##

## Ibreac stood at the end of the lane leading to the almshouses. If he'd had a choice he would have preferred to have been anywhere, but here. He could feel the tension building up inside him. The prospect of killing another human being was something he had never expected to face. He had no objection to McDowell, or any of his cronies getting blood on their hands, but he felt that it would not do his cause any good. Now McDowell had manoeuvered him into an impossible position as he still needed McDowell and his kind. One day it would be different, but that day had not yet arrived.

## The smoke rose from the chimney, curling upwards into the late evening sky until it blended with the gathering clouds. There was a penetrating silence only disturbed by the occasional bird song. He had not thought how he was going to accomplish the deed. He stood there racking his brains, but nothing would come. He was tempted to leave but knew that was only putting it off, and he feared McDowell. To disobey him was a dangerous thing; people had had accidents from which they had not recovered.

## He walked slowly towards the little cottage. It began to rain. The heavy stick he carried gave him a modicum of confidence. The cottage was several hundred yards from the nearest building, surrounded as it was by a low wooden fence, now covered with undergrowth. He pushed open the wicker gate and walked towards the front door. He could feel his heart thumping against his rib cage, his mouth was dry, his hands felt sweaty.

## He raised his stick to the door, when suddenly it flew open.

## "What do.... YOU.... want?" Perhaps it was the impediment but the way she spoke made him feel the lowest form of dirt. He longed to reach out and throttle the old crone. He stretched himself up and looked down at her contemptuously.

## "Fetch me the girl?" he demanded.

## She had a funny lop sided look. Ibreac shut his eyes and clenched his fists with exasperation.

## "What girl?" replied the old woman. He felt that his brain was about to explode inside his head, the pressure was becoming unbearable; it throbbed. The stupid bitch was pretending, of that he was sure.

## "Mrs. Kemp...you stupid old woman..."

## "Don't you call me stupid," and with that she tried to slam the door shut. He put his knee against it and pushed. She had no strength to resist and tumbled back against the table. He shoved the door back and looked quickly round the tiny kitchen.

## "Who do you think you are?" she spluttered.

## "Where's the girl?" he screamed, panic beginning to eat away at his self control.

## The old woman looked at him; slowly she began to smirk derisively. "You've still got those grandiose ideas of yours." She began to cackle with laughter.

## "Stop it.. You wicked old cow!" He clamped his hands over his ears to shut out the sound of her voice, to shut out the torments of his childhood.

## She stood there, her- mouth open in a toothless laughter, her finger pointing at him.

## Something burst inside his head; he reached forward and grabbed her by the front of her shawl.

## "Where's the girl?"

## She looked at him defiantly, unafraid, "Wouldn't you like to know?"

## He began to shake her like a rag doll, her head jerked back and forth.

## "Tell me, bitch," he screamed. Her mouth opened and her tongue lolled out, her eyes shut, and she sagged against him. He let her go and she fell to the floor. He looked at her lying there, indifferent, uncaring. Her eyelids flickered, he knelt beside her and, lifting her up by her shawl, began to twist it, slowly choking her.

## "Tell me."

## There was the sound of desperation in his voice, but the old woman didn't care, she opened her mouth and spat full into his face. He rose from the floor, consumed with blinding hatred. Suddenly he smiled cruelly. In her befuddled mind she began to be frightened; death didn't worry her, but there was something terrible about the way he looked.

## With great deliberation he began to pile things against her: clothes, blankets, and her books, until she was almost buried beneath them, and couldn't move. He then left and was gone for what seemed an age. When he returned, he held in his hand a metal can, which he began to empty onto the floor and over the piles of clothes that lay upon her. The smell of coal tar filled the kitchen; she began to scream, but no sound came forth.

## He stood at the doorway. The rain had stopped and the clouds let through the late evening sunlight that streamed in over his shoulder. From his pocket he pulled a match which he struck against the door frame; it flickered. She could see the expression on his face, shutting her eyes, she waited.

## Ibreac held the match until it nearly burnt his fingers, as though having doubts. He flicked it onto the pyre, and turning quietly shut the door and left. Fire was such a clean thing, he thought.

## He stopped at the end of the lane and watched as the flames began to flicker up against the window panes of the kitchen. It was then he began to feel sick; he vomited into the hedge beside him, and began to run, and run, blindly and uncaring.

## McDowell was just about to enter through the low gate that led to Ibreac's house when he observed the young man approaching. He smiled to himself. Ibreac looked terrible, which he found amusing and could hardly stop himself from laughing out loud. Ibreac reached him and leant against the rough stone wall; he was almost at the point of collapse and there were signs of vomit an the front of his jacket. He had been crying for his eyes were red rimmed and glassy.

## McDowell had been fond of the young man, but now as he stood there, he felt a cold emptiness, disgust and contempt for the weak pervert. The young man had almost served his purpose; soon he would be redundant and ready to be disposed of. That time had not yet arrived, until then the play must go on, and the young man had one more act to perform.

## He forced a look of concern onto his face and putting his arm round the young man's shoulders, guided him through the gate. .

## "You did it then?"

## Ibreac looked at him nervously, he nodded. McDowell smiled confidently.

## Killing, took people different ways; personally he found it exhilarating, the young man didn't. He could feel Ibreac shaking.

## "You've done well."

## Ibreac gave him a sickly smile.

## "It won't be long now... just over a week." McDowell studied his face closely. "A few days away might do you the world of good. It must have been very harrowing?"

## "It was," whispered the young man.

## "A nice trip to the sea side will do you the world of good, and at the same time you can take the orders down to the Welsh Miners."

## ******************

## The shock of old Mrs. Stanley's death in the fire was short lived. They had received the news on Sunday afternoon, as they were preparing to leave for Granby, another part of the Duke's estate. The local policeman had cycled into the stable yard at Thursby and given the news to Mathew's father, the head groom. A stoical man who showed little emotion, but behind those grey eyes, felt the pain and the loss as much as any man. He and Mathew had left immediately, forbidding Rosemary to accompany them.

## They returned several. hours later.

## "An accident," Mathew said, "she must have collapsed and brought the oil lamp down on her.... I hope she died quickly," he added as an after thought.

## It upset Rosemary far more; she felt guilty for having left the old woman alone. Perhaps if she had been there..Who knows?

## Mathew's enquiry, about her future, left her in, a quandary. Really she wanted to go back to Cross Keys but was afraid to do so. A cold shiver went through her for she suddenly felt as though she was adrift in an open boat being swept downstream, further and further away from those she knew and loved.

## "You can stay here at Thursby; there's plenty of room. I'm sure they wouldn't mind up at the house.....at least until your husband comes to fetch you,"

## The thought of George made her long for him even more. Oh hurry, she prayed.

## "We'll leave a message for him with the folk at Granby,"

## She reluctantly agreed, and didn't notice how pleased Mathew appeared.

## Chapter Forty One.

## Hunting Lodge Cavern.

## Since returning from Sheffield George, had spent much of his time on the estate. He had returned to the lodgings that Kairda had found for him, expecting news of Rosemary. There was nothing, only a brief note that Ibreac had arranged for him to work on the estate. It gave him the opportunity to work at the lodge without attracting suspicion.

## This had suited George admirably, that is, until he found that both Ibreac and McDowell had disappeared. The sacks of explosives were due to arrive very soon and Ibreac was not there to meet them. As luck would have it, he had recognised the wagon he had last seen in Dobson's yard, as it was about to enter the long driveway that led to the main house. It only took minutes for the sacks to be unloaded and safely hidden in one of the outhouses behind Ibreac's cottage.

## He had waited, with ever increasing frustration, for Ibreac to return, as he was desperate for news of Rosemary. He had a mind to wait until they appeared before setting the charges but realised that this would not help in the long run, so he decided to get on with the job.

## For days now he had virtually lived inside the cavern. There were few estate workers to bother him. Most of them had volunteered and gone to the France, leaving only the old and the very young, who had their work cut out minding their own business without worrying about a wounded charity case.

## He was intrigued to know the full extent of the cavern, and, having found a couple of long fishing poles near the edge of the lake, he had taken them down through the cellars and lashed them together with a lantern tied to one end. Carefully, he had manoeuvered the poles through the holes and into the cavern below thus he had been able to search every corner. The cavern was like a misshapen bottle, narrow at the top and swelling out into a huge subterranean cathedral below. He was positioned high up in the neck of this bottle and was satisfied that the soft sand stone strata would allow him to dig a short tunnel, high up in the cavern, and above the stone face that formed a barrier for the lake outside. Far below he could hear the sound of running water, indicating that the barrier was allowing the lake to drain slowly through into the cavern.

## Carefully lowering himself back down into the cavern, he had located the source and had placed one of the explosive blocks near to the drain. By adjusting the fuses he would not only cause the lodge and everyone in it to crash into the cavern but by fracturing the barrier, the lake would cascade down, sweeping all before it.

## His judgment had been vindicated; George rose to his feet, and wiped his forehead as he had been sweating profusely. He climbed out of the tunnel he had just dug through the narrow gully, and crouched down against the rock face, feeling pleased with his efforts. The tunnel cut through the soft sand stone soil would now enabled him to go in and out of the cavern without going near the lodge.

## The tunnel had brought him out near to the edge of the lake, a short track separating him from the water. It was nightfall, a large luminous moon sat low in the sky casting shadows across the quiet waters. It looked so peaceful, strange that on such a night he should be planning the destruction of so many people. He pushed the thoughts from his mind determined that he would not allow the morality of it to effect his determination. Only one thing counted, to survive and find Rosemary and then to start a new life away from all these people. Yet, he could not shake the deep and pervading fear that he would not be allowed to walk away from this alive; he knew too much. He had made his plans. He had every intention of dying but only on his terms.

## His watch told him that he had only three hours left before it began to get light. He turned and crawled back into the tunnel; he had one job left to do and that was to block the doorway leading to the catacombs.

## With a small lamp tied securely to him, he found the hand holds that he had cut in the smooth water-washed sides of the cavern. Slowly he picked his way back to the stalactite. Once again he examined the charges he had fitted to it, only the detonators needed fitting now.

## Two hours later, shaking from the exertion of piling the rocks back down into the entrance, he finally locked the cellar door and made his way carefully outside. At the back of the lodge was a steep embankment which he climbed, pulling on the roots of trees that protruded from the ground. A narrow path led across the rock escarpment that separated the Lodge from the lake. He dropped down onto the track just as the sky began to lighten in the east and began walking quickly along the water's edge that would eventually lead to the small stone hut in which the original explosives were stored.

## About twenty yards from the hut stood an oak tree, its great limbs reached up into the sky. From the upper limbs, shielded by a canopy of leaves, George had a clear view across the edge of the lake and into the tunnel he had just dug, yet from the ground it was impossible to see. By placing the detonating mechanism inside the entrance to the tunnel and fitting a small target to it, he would be able to use a telescopic sighted rifle, and a specially prepared bullet to strike the target , thus detonating the charges with him safely several hundred yards from the cavern.

## The stone hut lay amongst the trees and he was confident it could be reached in seconds. Then, through the door and down into the shaft. From a distance it looked like any other stone hut, used in the past by numerous people: charcoal burners, woodsman, and keepers. Only when you got inside did you realise that it concealed the remains of an old limestone workings.

## Wary of the explosive inside, he eased the door and peered cautiously into the darkness. His eyes quickly became accustomed to the gloom. There piled almost to the roof` beams lay the lethal cases covered with sacking. He examined the floor carefully before advancing towards the stack. With almost infinite care he began to lift the sacking. He sniffed the air, like a dog seeking the scent. He knelt as in prayer and smelt again. He repeated this procedure several times until he was satisfied. He rose and stared intently at the case that lay at his feet. How ironic, he thought, here he was trying desperately to save his skin and if, within the next few seconds, he made a mistake he would be atomised in the resulting explosion.

## Carefully he traced out his steps making absolutely sure that nothing could catch his feet when the time came. He moved back to the case and stood there breathing deeply as though about to perform some athletic fete. He reached down and grasped the case firmly and began to lift it clear of the ground. For a moment it did not move, he winced anticipating that final moment before oblivion. Then it came free and he moved back through the darkness. He had almost reached the wall when he felt the sacking against his hand, it had snagged on the case. Sweat was now running down his face and arms and over his hands as gently he lifted the case higher and felt the sacking slip onto the floor. Keeping close to the wall he worked his way round until he was above the shaft. Again he felt his nerves screaming as he lowered the case down onto the ground, placing it tight up against the wall.

## The clips on the case were still well greased and released the lid without trouble. Moving away, he lit his davey lamp and then examined the gelignite. The wax had deteriorated but not as much as he had first thought.

## He began to unwind the rope from around his waist and tied the lamp to it. He lowered it into the shaft, and could see the hand holds. The shaft was about fifteen to twenty feet deep and narrow. As he climbed down his shoulders brushed each side and he had trouble squeezing by. The bottom was surprisingly clean, none of the usual debris or the remains of small animals. He knelt down and peered into the tunnel; it was just wide enough for him to squeeze through but he would need to widen it, that is, if he could find a successful way out. The floors and wall had been rubbed smooth; he moved along the passageway as it began to slope downwards and he felt that it was swinging to the left. Not what he wanted at all, as he was heading back towards the lake.

## The ground beneath his feet was beginning to get wet and muddy. He lifted the lantern, and saw that the roof of the tunnel had risen quite appreciably; there appeared to be what looked like a shelf. He reached up but could not quite grip the edge. Raising his foot, he placed it on a rock, jutting out of the wall and levered himself up. As he did so the rock moved. He managed to grip the edge as the rock fell out of the wall. Like a stopper coming out of a bottle, rocks and water began to pour out into the tunnel.

## "God damit!" exclaimed George. "Another drain from the lake."

## Thrashing violently with his legs, he just managed to wriggle up onto the ledge above. He looked over, where the hole was now at least six feet across and getting bigger, as white water poured out filling the tunnel. He could no longer see the tunnel at all, it was filling with rocks and water. He lay there watching the level rise. He was entombed.

## The pressure inside his head became greater; it felt like a gigantic vice gripping his brain. He opened his mouth to relieve the pressure but it was no good. The head of water above him must have been enormous, like a huge hydraulic pump the air pressure got greater and greater. He felt his nose begin to bleed. Lights flickered before his eyes as he rolled over desperately seeking relief; his world glazed and he felt that he was back in the bunker. The bloody eyes of Sergeant Gage reared above him, his chest hurt. The thick, stubby fingers of the dead sergeant reached out and gripped his throat; he couldn't breath; he opened his mouth to scream but heard nothing, just the roar of the water below. Suddenly it was silent, a lovely perfect silence, no pain. He felt himself floating; it was all so peaceful. He shut his eyes and felt nothing.

## Was it the sound of a woman screaming, or that of a high pitched whistle, he couldn't tell. He opened his eyes. He moved cautiously, feeling something fluttering against his face. It was cold and fresh. There was the sound again; air was rushing in through the cracks and fissures above, turning the place into a huge organ. It was as if someone was whistling into a bottle and fluctuating it up and down.

## Water, he remembered, and, touched his clothing, it was dry. The lamp was barely flickering. How long had he been there, he had no idea. The lamp would not have lasted more than four hours. He passed his hand across his face where the congealed blood made breathing difficult.

## Sitting up he realised where he was. He felt trapped and yet he could see the lamp was still alight. Gripping it tightly, he held it out over the edge and then peered down into the tunnel. The water had almost gone, drained into the dark recesses of the earth below. The jagged hole whence it had come remained, rocks spewing untidily from its mouth.

## George lowered himself down on to the tunnel floor. The sound came from the jagged hole. Breathing a sigh of relief he ducked down and crawled through the hole and into the cavern beyond. It had acted as a large underground tank that had filled slowly over the years from the lake, until George's foot had broken through releasing thousands of gallons of water. Inside he could see water beginning to cascade down into the tank once again. It might take weeks before it reached the tunnel. In the meantime it could offer a way out.

## He crawled back to the bottom of the shaft. It was obvious why the tunnel walls were so smooth; this must have happened before, sweeping all before it. From his sack of tools he retrieved a handful of nine inch iron nails and a heavy club hammer. These would give him a foot hold in the tank, and enable him to climb its polished sides.

## It took several attempts before he found what he was looking for, a small crack through which the air was flowing into the tank. Balancing on the nails, which he had driven into the rock, he enlarged the crack until it was large enough for him to squeeze through. It was exhausting work. He became dizzy and light headed, but forced himself to go on. At last he saw daylight, sinking down in the entrance he was too tired to push aside the brambles concealing the entrance. As far as he could judge it was nearly midday. He had been in these accursed tunnels for over twenty four hours.

## He lay there until he felt sufficiently rested to fight his way through the brush, hoping and praying that it would lead him to the road and his escape. He was worn out by the time he collapsed on the road side. He estimated that the track where he had arranged to meet Kairda was about a mile further down the road. He would stay out of sight watching for her approach. The arrangement was that she drove out here each evening just before sunset to him, that's if he was there. He would then hide beneath the canvas cover in her little dog cart until they had reached the safety of Mrs. Cogens's yard.

## Chapter Forty Two

## Grassmoor School.

## Regardless of his polite manner, the man irritated Kairda. She had seen him before but could not recall where. At first it seemed a coincidence that their paths crossed, but it had been every day this week. A small man with dainty feet, but strong hands, that's how she thought of him. Each morning, on her way to school, he would be there. Walking slowly through the trees that surrounded the recreation ground, until they met outside the school. He would smile, raise his hat, and give her a polite good morning. The same would be repeated in the evening. After a few days she felt sure he was watching her.

## It was she who made the first move. He was approaching in his usual manner, the late afternoon sunshine surrounding him in an angelic halo. She stood and waited for him to reach her. He raised his hat.

## "Are you from these parts?" she enquired boldly.

## He looked taken a back by her brashness.

## "I beg your pardon?"

## She repeated her question.

## "No I'm just visiting."

## "Where are you staying?" she persisted.

## "With my brother....he lives over there." He indicated the far side of the recreation ground.

## She looked at him directly, her eyes half closed as though focusing on some distant object.

## "I know you," she said accusingly. "you were the driver who nearly ran me down in Doctor Broughtman's motor car." She continued to study him suspiciously. "On leave are you?"

## Alexander Broughtman smiled indulgently. He was about to tell her that he was an engineer, but changed his mind. It was time for him to take control of the conversation.

## "I'm convalescing," he touched his shoulder. There was a flicker of sympathy from her. He opened his mouth as though about to continue, but hesitated. She waited for him to speak.

## "I'm looking for a friend of mine .... I believe you know his wife."

## Kairda looked curious. "What's her name?"

## "Mrs. Kemp... Rosemary Kemp."

## She looked away, out across the recreation field, as though trying to recollect the name, but in reality doing her best to calm herself. Who was this man?

## She looked back at him and noticed that he had been watching her intently, studying every line in her face.

## "Why do you think I know this Rosemary Kemp?"

## "I was about to call at their farm at Cresswell when I saw you leaving in your little cart. As there was no one there, I assumed that you might know where they are now living."

## "I'm sorry, I can't help you," Kairda replied abruptly. "I was only calling to collect some old clothes that might suit the poor down at Gladstone Terrace. Like you, I found the place locked and barred."

## With that she walked off, leaving him standing there by the trees.

## He sat down and continued to watch her until she disappeared from view. Later, as he made his way back to his brother's house, he saw her again, although he didn't recognise her, disguised as a young man, her long hair tucked firmly up into the cap she wore. She drove the small dog cart out onto the Warsop road that led to the eastern hills.

## It was a pleasant evening and as the cart jolted its way over the gravel road, Kairda's mind wandered back to her childhood in County Sligo. Only her mother remained these days, her father having died from typhoid ten years ago. The house they lived in was near the shore: a pretty house, Kairda had always thought. She prayed quietly to herself that it would always remain so, her peaceful haven in these troubled times.

## She had reached the gully, and looking ahead, was startled to see George. She was still nearly a mile from the rendezvous yet there he was sitting against tree, half hidden by some bushes. She slowed the cart down and manoeuvered it closer.

## "Holy Mother, just looks at the state of you!"

## George's eyes flew open; he looked round bemused unsure of his whereabouts. He blinked and focused on Kairda sitting above him.

## "You're all covered in mud."

## He staggered to his feet, blindly holding on to the tree trunk for support. He looked exhausted. She got down from the cart and lifted from it a hamper. She had guessed that he might be hungry. The sight of them eating by the road side on this pleasant summer evening would not arouse suspicion. She spread a cloth out on the ground and began laying out bread cheese and pickles, there was little else to have other that a small piece of meat that Mrs. Cogens had given her. There was some fruit and also a jug of ale.

## George lay down in the long grass almost too exhausted to move. He had removed his jacket, but his shirt and trousers were covered in dry, encrusted mud as were his hands, face and hair. It lay upon him like a mask.

## "Here have something to eat," she reached across with a piece of bread. He rolled over and took it from her and began to eat ravenously.

## "Where were you last night?" Kairda asked indignantly.

## He pointed downwards, meaning he had spent the night underground, but continued eating.

## "Why are you here and not down there?" she said pointing further down the road.

## He lifted the jug to his mouth and drank deeply, then wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve.

##

## "To protect myself." He placed the jug beside him. "I'm not like you. I don't have a passionate desire to kill myself. It's alright setting these charges, but I don't intend to go up with it, and neither do I intend to be caught afterwards."

## Kairda sat and watched him eat. In some ways he was so ordinary that he was almost invisible. Then again he would suddenly rise up and assert his will on everybody involved.

## "Are they back yet?" he asked referring to McDowell and Ibreac. "Are you sure you have no idea where Rosemary is being kept?"

## There were times when Kairda's heart went out to him. His love for the girl was so plain to see but she still resisted the temptation to tell him.

## "No....they should be back in a day or so." Kairda felt she had to change the subject, "Why did you volunteer for this?"

## George looked at her and smiled cynically, "Volunteer!" He looked down as though thinking about it. ,

## "I suppose I did...although I wasn't given much of a choice, orders are orders."

## "You don't strike me as being the typical Prussian officer, for a start you don't wear a monocle." She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, a smile playing across her lips.

## He screwed his face up. It was remarks such as these that seemed to take that awful tension out of the atmosphere. It gave every thing a sense of normality,

## "I'm not.... that's the trouble. They didn't appreciate my talents and I spent my time digging holes in the ground. This is a challenge." He sat up and scrutinised her through half closed eyes. "What were you told?"

## Kairda drew breath.

## "McDowell's planned a series of diversionary attacks here on the main land, mainly against the railways, to keep the British busy while the insurrection took place in Ireland." That bland look had come into her face once again. "Destroying Charnwood Lodge was an opportunity that could not be missed."

## "Do you believe them?"

## Kairda didn't answer straight away.

## "Yes, I do"

## "Why?" he asked accusingly.

## "Because McDowell is a priest."

## George shot upright; he sat up and crossed his legs,

## "Is he? Now that does surprise me...A catholic?"

## Kairda frowned.. "Yes.. Why?"

## "Because he is in love with you....if he is capable of such a thing."

## Kairda laughed scornfully. "Don't be foolish."

## George merely shrugged his shoulders. Kairda could feel that quiet confidence oozing from him; that inner strength, that ability to view things dispassionately; to weigh up the balance and make up his mind, regardless.

## "You don't trust them?" she asked.

## "Its all been so easy really.... Do you remember me asking you why they had bought a thoroughbred when a cart horse could have done this job,"

## She nodded.

## "If this meeting is so important, why are there no guards? There's been nobody."

## "Why should there be?" protested Kairda. "It's not supposed to exist. The Trade Union Congress is meeting in Sheffield on Saturday the 13th. Al1 the major unions will be attending, so the presence of these men in the area will not be unusual. The Lodge is an hour's drive from Sheffield. They will drive in on Friday morning, have the meeting, and would have been back in Sheffield by evening."

## George didn't look convinced.

## "I cant see what you are worried about," insisted Kairda. "The rising is going well."

## "Is it?" He looked grim and reaching across took her hand. "Kairda, with all the luck in the world, your country doesn't stand a chance."

## Kairda bridled and pulled her hand away. "What do you mean?"

## "The only chance they have got, is to put up such a fight and take every thing the British throws at them and then hope that there will be such an outcry from America that the British will be forced to give way, if they want to keep America's support."

## Kairda found his dispassionate logic irritating, even if she privately agreed.

## She rose to her feet and taking hold of his jacket began to shake it vigorously. "Look at the state of your clothes....You'll need to clean the mud off your skin. We can't go into town with you looking like that."

## Retreating to a small stream that sprang from the cliffs behind them, forming a small pool, George stripped off his clothes. He tossed them out for Kairda to beat while he squatted in the pool and scrubbed the mud from his body. By the time he had dried himself on his shirt, Kairda had managed to get the worst of the mud off his jacket and trousers.

## He climbed into the back of the cart and squeezed himself into the small carrier. Kairda looked down at him as he lay there looking up at her.

## "I'm sure we'll find out where Rosemary is when we get back," she said. She could not resist the feeling of compassion that flowed through her at the open expression of delight that filled his face. Like a little boy being promised a sweety, she thought.

## 

## Chapter Forty Three

## The Cogens's household.

## As soon as they entered, George and Kairda could feel the tension. It lay upon the people present like a heavy, depressive blanket. Mrs. Cogens sat at the table, her large tear-filled eyes looked beseechingly at both of them, praying that they might be the bearers of good news. Her hands twisted a white handkerchief into ribbons. Her husband crouched over, looking deeply into the flames of the fire. Only Jack Taggart, although his face was sad, looked at least composed.

## "What in God's name has happened?" Kairda looked anxiously at George as she spoke.

## Lips set tight, he waited, his eyes searching their faces for confirmation of what he had second guessed already.

## "It's the boys in Dublin," reported Jack, his voice flat and despondent. "They've surrendered to the British troops. It's all over."

## Kairda stood there, as though made of stone, her eyes seeing some far horizon. Her dream rapidly disappearing,

## "Where are they now?" she whispered.

## "Kilmaiham Gaol."

## She turned and looked back to where Jack sat, as though seeing him for the first time, her face a mixture of anger and concern.

## "What news of Uncle Henry and Pearse?"

## A quick, sudden look of guilt crossed the Waggoner's face, and then it was gone. His eyes widened as though fresh thoughts had entered his mind.

## "They're in gaol."

## George walked across the room, conscious of eyes following him, as though he had no right to be there. He squatted down onto a stool and looked first at Jack and then Kairda.

##

## He's hiding something, he thought, but saw Kairda has not noticed.

## "And the others?"

## Jack nodded, no one had escaped..

## "Does McDowell know?" George was the least affected, yet he still felt the tension, even if for different reasons. Taggart shook his head.

## "Hadn't he returned yet?" George looked accusingly at the others.

## "He'll be back tonight," answered Cogens.

## "And Ibreac?"

## No one replied for just at that moment the Cogens's young son entered. He had been sent upstairs to keep watch on the street below.

## "That bloke's back"

## With that Kairda seemed to wake from her trance, crossing to George and pulling him to his feet.

## "You must leave."

## "Who is this man?"

## "I'm not sure....claims to be a friend of Thomas Kemp."

## He pulled himself free of her grip and clattered his way up the stairs, only to re-appear a few minutes later.

## "I've seen him before." He turned on the lad. "Has he been round here often?"

## "Now and again."

## Once again Kairda caught him by the arm. George was surprised for she appeared near to panic...

## "You must not be seen leaving here." She began pushing him. "Out through the back and across to Mullin Street. You should be able to reach your lodgings unseen."

## George was reluctant to leave; he was determined to face McDowell and Ibreac and force them to tell him where Rosemary was being kept.

## Kairda was now physically dragging him across to the back door; gone was that self assured confidence. He became afraid that she might do something stupid.

## "Alright ...alright, I am going," he said.

## Having got George out of the house, Kairda relaxed a little. The sound of Mrs. Cogens placing a metal bucket with a white towel wrapped casually round the handle, against the front door step, added to her relief. It would act as a warning to others not to approach the house. The bucket, with its white cloth, could be seen well before anyone got near the house.

## The boy returned upstairs to keep an eye on Alexander Broughtman now seated amongst the trees.

## Kairda sat listening to Jack relate the events of the past week. His words of gallantry, of how her countrymen had fought, of how they had left many soldiers dead and wounded on the streets of Dublin until eventually they were forced to evacuate the burning Post Office. For all his fine words Kairda still had that sinking feeling that he was not telling them everything.

## It was almost dark by the time the boy came down and the bucket brought in. Both McDowell and Ibreac arrived shortly afterwards.

## McDowell looked tired and drawn, his face gaunt with heavy grey bags beneath his eyes. Kairda, having experienced McDowell's evil temper, tensed herself for the explosion she felt sure would erupt as Taggart related the events of the past week. When he ended, McDowell remained seated, his hands resting on each knee, his head sunk forward. He had sat like this since arriving and only on occasions did Kairda see his knuckles whiten as he listened to Taggart.

## They sat and waited. Finally he rose to his feet and looked out over their heads, as though about to address some vast audience, his eyes fixed on some distant unseen object. Then he blinked, and looked at each of them in turn searching their hearts and souls for any weaknesses. Kairda felt her self quiver, his charisma was formidable.

## "This changes nothing ...we go on."

## There was an audible sound of relief, as though a great weight had been lifted from them, the decision had been made, they were committed, the challenge was there, they had thrown the gauntlet down at the feet of the world. They would not be defeated. They exchanged glances; the feeling of despair had been exchanged for one of expectation.

## Kairda felt drained and exhausted, and had left the men talking in the front parlour. She had wished them goodnight and had gone upstairs to bed, but could not sleep. Later, putting on her dressing gown, she came down to get a warm drink, hoping that it might settle her. From the kitchen where she sat, a door connected with the front parlour, but it was no longer used, a large dresser obscured it in the kitchen.

## The men could be heard clearly speaking. She took little notice of what was being said for the news that Pearse, Uncle Henry and the others had surrendered, weighed heavily on her.

## It was a shock that after all these months, the mention of Pearse's name still made her heart flutter; she rebuked herself for being a romantic fool, but prayed that they would be safe, even if it were in prison.

## Suddenly the sound of James McDowell's voice penetrated her thoughts.

## "Shot?" The word struck her as though it had been a physical blow. Taggart's voice was low and muffled the words difficult to hear. McDowell's on the other hand were clear.

## "Are you sure?" he questioned. "All ready...... The fools."

## Kairda rose to her feet intending to join them, She felt flushed at what she had heard and apprehensive. Instead she went to the dresser and, leaning against, it placed her ear to the edge of the hidden door.

## McDowell was still talking. "As I've said....this changes nothing .... Jack you'd better get off and pass the word through."

## The sound of chairs scraping across the wooden floor muffled Jack's reply. Kairda remained where she was, with only a thin dressing gown to cover her night dress. No matter how much she wanted to know what was going on, she was too embarrassed to join them. The sound of the front door shutting and footsteps returning made her crane forward. She felt foolish, like a child on the landing above, listening to grown ups below.

## The sound of hands being clapped together made her jump. Ibreac's voice came through.

## "Can it be true?"

## "Yes it is," replied McDowell; he sounded excited, as though he had heard good news.

## "Incredible!" he said. There was the sound of glasses being filled.

## "Raise your glass, my dear friend, I give you a toast to General Maxwell, the Commandant General of the British forces in Ireland."

## Kairda went rigid; she couldn't understand, and strained to hear more. She felt frightened and could feel pins and needles in her arms,

## "We couldn't have wished for any thing better."

## "Are you sure that Taggart was right?" said Ibreac,

## "Quite sure....he was certain that Pearse and Henry Wilson had been executed yesterday morning."

## Kairda rammed her fist into her mouth and bit her knuckles till she drew blood. She pulled her dressing gown up over her head as she tried to muffle the dull moan that came from within her. She slid to the floor, as the scream of anguish fought its way out of her lungs and became a strangled gurgling sob. She lowered her head, her hair cascading over her as tears filled her eyes and flowed freely down her cheeks. She lifted her head and let the tears flow .

## Pearse and Uncle Henry dead...no it couldn't be true.

## She fought hard to remain silent. The sound of laughter echoed from next door. She couldn't believe her ears, was there something she had not understood? Was this a fiendish nightmare that she would wake from? Why was McDowell so pleased that not only had the rising failed but the leaders had been shot.

## Once again the voices could be heard.

## "I give you another toast." It was Ibreac. "To, you James...without you ....all this would not have come to pass ...How did you know they would be executed?"

## Kairda pressed closer to the door, every word was now precious.

## "I didn't," pronounced McDowell, "All you can do is lay the ground work, and create the circumstances ."

## The sound of a chair creaking.

## "But this is beyond belief; just imagine the reaction in Ireland. The British will have completely misjudged the people, you wait and see; this will suit our plans admirably, and by the time this is over we will have Irishman hanging from every lamp post through out the country."

## From within Kairda swelled a feeling of deep anger and shame. She, a true God fearing Irishwoman, had been part of this evil conspiracy. She felt muddled and confused, her heart filled with frustration, for even now she did not understand what McDowell's ultimate object was to be. To turn man against man and have their blood running in the gutters of this land but for what reason?

## Her thoughts went out to Pearse, slumped at the foot of that grey stone wall, his life blood flowing from his veins; in some obscure way she longed to have been there with him, to have stood and shared his pain. But she was here, hiding, a coward, while her compatriots had stood and fought bravely.

## She fell forward onto her knees as she reached out to grasp a chair, and caught sight of herself in a mirror that rested on the floor against a wa1l. She hardly recognised herself, her copper hair falling in wet ringlets across her red, puffy face. Her night clothes and dressing gown had fallen open revealing her body, like a naked savage animal about to spring. She observed herself as though looking at a stranger. She lowered her eyes and stared at her breasts and then her thighs. Her dreams and fantasies were gone for ever. She was only left with ice cold hatred. She shut her eyes and remembered George's words

##.......McDowell is in love with you......

## She would get her revenge by turning his love against him and draw from this evil genius his inner most secrets,

## Chapter Forty Four

##

## In the half light of pre-dawn, Kairda sat at the head of her bed. Her arms wrapped tightly round her knees as she tucked herself into a tight ball. She looked at the rumpled bedclothes spread out before her, hypnotised by the blood stain that marked the end of her virginity. She cocked her ear sideways and listened to the front door closing..... McDowell had left.

## In her mind's eye she could see him walking jauntily up the road pausing momentarily at the corner to look back, pleased no doubt with his conquest, she thought.

## She had given much, becoming in her own mind, no better than a common prostitute. She still had her life, unlike her beloved Pearse and Uncle Henry. They had been prepared to stand and show their true colours, even if it meant being shot down like rats. They were infinitely better than she and those creatures that surrounded her.

## Great waves of despair rolled over her, but no more tears, she had cried herself dry; only revenge was left. Even as she felt her sore aching flesh, she smiled to her self with satisfaction. McDowell believed she was now his, to do with as he felt like. How wrong he was to be proved for she had succeeded in drawing from him his inner most thoughts.

## She unfolded her legs and lay down on the bed, shutting her eyes. She recollected that momentary look of surprise when he had found her in his bed. He seemed uninterested in her mumbled explanation, saying nothing as he quickly undressed and slid in alongside her his tentative kisses, his gentle touch, turning quickly into violent lovemaking. He took her harshly and unrelentingly, caring only for his own pleasure, until with a gasp he collapsed down beside her. She lay there unmoving, staring into the dark recesses of the room.

## She rolled over, ignoring the pain that came from inside her, and, laying her head upon his naked chest, began reciting Byron's 'She walks in Beauty'. To her surprise he joined in,

## "What made you leave the church?" she had asked.

## She'd felt him stiffen as though the question had surprised him, then lifting his arms above his head she had felt him relax.

## "Because I became the disciple of another,"

## Satan, she thought.

## "Have you ever read the works of Marx and Engels" he asked.

## She shook her head.

## "Never mind, you will one day," he'd sounded confident. She remembered how soft and melodious his voice had become and began to understand how persuasive he could be. He went on,

## "Their philosophy of equality is unsurpassed. I couldn't believe my eyes as I read their words. They were inspirational, the answer to all the poverty and injustice that riddles this world." He began to sound elated, "and then I had the honour and privilege to meet Lenin in 1903 and from that moment I knew where my path lay. The Bolsheviks were the answer, only they had the true way."

## He laughed mockingly, "Christianity was dead from that moment."

## "Is that what you are trying to do....create a new religion?"

## She knew that he was not, but anything to keep him talking.

## He moved away from her. She trembled for fear of having said the wrong thing, but he swung over her and stared down at her.

## "This is more than a religion; this is a whole new order, a way of life." His eyes shone with a fervour that she had not seen before.

## "It sounds wonderful," she'd said. "Tell me about it." She looked away into the darkness of the room, for she had begun to feel his hypnotic power and had to resist it.

## "Do you feel it also?" his voice caressed her senses. "That overwhelming power. It consumes every thing in this world."

## She took a deep breath, which he must have mistaken for passion, for she felt his arms tighten round her.

## "Yes ... I want to be part of it," she whispered.

## He spoke and she listened, his words silken and persuasive. She forced herself to think of Pearse and that cold grey wall, for it would have been so easy to be captivated by this man.

## "How is this to be created?" she asked.

## "By destroying this whole rotten system we live in and from the ashes will rise a new Phoenix."

## "Is that what we are doing?"

## "In part."

## "And destroying the lodge and all those in it. Will that do it?"

## He fell silent and although she could not see him clearly she felt he was suspicious. She reached up and kissed his lips.

## "Please," she begged, "I need to understand."

## "It was destined to happen." He moved into a more comfortable position.

## He spoke as though she no longer existed as a person, but as an appendage of himself.

## "Ireland is a country of martyrs," he laughed quietly as though that had been a secret joke. "I was in Dublin, helping with the 1913 strike, at the same time trying to infiltrate the Irish Republican Brotherhood. They welcomed me with open arms. Then in 1914, they declared war on the British Government. Did you ever hear of any thing so ridiculous?"

## Kairda had lain there, biting her lip, as she listened to her countrymen being ridiculed, McDowell continued.

## "I convinced them that I could get the Germans to help, and so they sent me to Berlin. At first the Hun didn't seem to give a damn, then out of the blue I got a message to meet Lenin again."

## She felt him quiver with excitement.

## "Can you imagine how I felt? It was as if I had been called to the mount. We met in a garden just outside Berlin. There were five of us: Lenin and myself, a German woman called Rosa Luxembourg and another; I can't remember his name. Then there was this Prussian. He looked so out of place, so incongruous, stiff and rigid. The perfect example of everything we hated yet Lenin treated him with respect and subservience. His name was Karl Malinin: he was Head of German Intelligence. This was the ringmaster and we were his performing seals or so he thought. He would supply us with money and materials provided that Lenin created revolution in Russia and forced the Tsar to sue for peace, and the Brotherhood went ahead with the rising and caused enough trouble to keep the Americans out of the war. This was the chance we had all been waiting for."

## She could feel his grip tighten.

## "Both Lenin and I saw the opportunity. The arrogance of Malinin in assuming that we would do his bidding was breathtaking. We agreed, but only to achieve our own aims. I had spent years creating within the unions, small but efficient groups of men, who would, when the time came, be ready to strike and carry all the working people of this country with them; men placed in vital positions, in every walk of life, ready to strike."

## "But what about the Rising?"

## He smiled at her, surprised that she should mention it. "Like lambs to the slaughter, they were betrayed from the very beginning." Kairda felt blood rush to her face; it made her skin crawl. It was hard to believe that this man was so contemptuous that he was admitting to her that her countrymen had been condemned from the start. He went on as though she had not interrupted him, his voice now cold and bitter.

## "They were not the only ones who were betrayed. The Welsh Wizard, Lloyd George, had begun to weave his evil spells." His voice rose, now filled with contempt and hatred. "Persuading and cajoling our so called compatriots to betray the very cornerstone of our principals; To condemn thousands of their fellow workers to a life of servitude, forcing them to give away the liberties that they had fought for so long. It had to be stopped."

## He looked fervently at her. "You do understand."

## She forced a smile. "What about Ibreac?"

## "It was Ibreac who told me about the meeting." He sounded excited, like a young boy revealing a secret. "He told us and became our spy in the enemy's camp."

## McDowell leaned across and, reaching into his coat pocket drew out a packet of cigarettes. He lit one, watching the grey blue smoke curl up into the darkness above them.

## "Ibreac, dear, foolish Ibreac," His voice softened. "He wanted so much to play a vital part. At first it suited us admirably...... Ibreac is a lost soul, who lives in a fantasy world. Did you know that Ibreac is in fact his Christian name? His name is Ibreac Stuart and he believes that he has the legitimate right to the throne of England, believing that he is a direct descendant of Charles Stuart, and that the present Royal family are usurpers."

## Kairda laughed, "I don't believe it."

## "My dear....it's true," he said. "He's obsessed with it. It was he who told us of this final meeting where these traitors would meet and the one man who could persuade them to do Lloyd George's bidding."

## "Who is that?"

## He looked at her, creasing his eyebrows. "Haven't you guessed?" He was buoyant and full of his own cleverness. "It's the King...."

## Kairda felt a cold shiver go through her naked body.

## "My God! - and Ibreac is going to assassinate him."

## "I thought about it, but dismissed the idea. A good thing considering the state he was in having disposed of the Kemp woman"

## "She's dead?"

## Kairda dreaded to think what George would do when he found out. He would blame her and then....Of all the men involved, she was sure that, George had the greatest capacity for violence, of that she was positive; there had been a cold bloodedness about him that had frightened her. She had no doubt he would have killed her on that first day and buried her beneath the oak trees. What was that he had said when told that he was to blow up the lodge?

## Why use a thoroughbred when a cart horse would do the job.

## "Where does the Shoemaker fit in?" she asked.

## "Malinin insisted on him coming across. Didn't trust us I suppose, but then it was a small price to pay considering how useful he has become."

## "You don't know how he will react when he hears about Rosemary's death, or are you keeping that a secret as well."

## "On the contrary, I want him to know."

## "He will go berserk; he will tear Ibreac limb from limb."

## "Not Ibreac!.......He will kill the man he thinks caused his beloved Rosemary's death. A man whose precise description he will have. The man both Ibreac and myself will be escorting to the meeting."

## "The King!"

## "The Shoemaker will never recognise him. He's never seen him, except for perhaps the occasional state photograph. We will of course do our utmost to defend the King, but alas the madman will be too much for us. The best we will do is to kill him afterwards, but too late to save the King."

## "And what of Ibreac?" asked Kairda.

## "He will play out his fantasy for a little while, and then will suffer an unfortunate accident."

## Kairda, took a deep breath, an idea was beginning to form in her mind.

## "Do you want me to tell George about Rosemary?"

## She remembered the look on McDowell's face.

## A feeling of loneliness came over her. She was filled with a consuming desire to go home, back to the little house by the sea-shore, but first there were things to be done. She had mixed thoughts, but she wanted revenge, that was foremost, and if it meant sacrificing innocent people, then so be it. She continued to lie there contemplating what had to be done. Later a great weariness came over her; it was still early. Reaching out she pulled the cover over her and fell asleep.

## 

## Chapter Forty Five

## George Bagworth's lodgings Tuesday 9th May

## Kairda entered the small kitchen. George was seated at the table, polishing a pair of shoes. He glanced up before resuming his cleaning.

## Kairda moistened her lips and sat on the other side, leaving the table between them.

## "I've news of Rosemary," she said quietly.

## He looked up, his face alight with expectation, only to fade when he saw the expression on her face. He didn't speak, but stared at her, unblinkingly, waiting.

## "There's been an accident," she spoke slowly and carefully so that her every word would be understood.

## Still he said nothing; he placed the boot and brushes on the table, and placed his hands, palms downward, on its scrubbed surface. Kairda shivered involuntary, there was something terribly threatening in that simple action.

## "What happened?" he said ominously.

## She hardly recognised his voice.

## "There's been a fire."

## "Go on," his voice thickened, his eyes never wavered. She could feel the tension, it was becoming unbearable.

## "I'm sorry, George," she blurted out. "She's dead."

## George reared back against the chair as though he had been struck physically. The colour drained from his face. His mind heard the words but he couldn't comprehend them.

## Rosemary dead, it couldn't be true.

## Then he felt the pain, it started from deep within him, it was real and intense. He had never experienced it before; his breathing became laboured; his heart pounded, his throat was tight as though he had food poisoning. He slipped from the chair onto his knees, wrapping his arms tightly round his waist, endeavoring to ease the dreadful weight that seemed to fill his stomach; he wanted to vomit, but could not. He wanted to cry but again tears would not come. He raised his head and looked at Kairda, as she sat perched on the edge of a kitchen chair, nervous and edgy, fear written on her face unsure of how he was going to re-act,

## Why, thought George. Rosemary had never done anybody any harm, all she wanted out of life was peace and her home. More important, she had been carrying his child. He felt his face burning with rage at the thought of his unborn child. Suddenly the release came, he began to sob, tears flowing down his cheeks, as he placed his forehead upon the cold stone floor and rocked back and forth.

## Strangely, for although Kairda felt for him, she could only think of her own loss. You're not the only one, she thought. She was being cruel, she knew that, but she felt almost pleasure at seeing him suffer. The image of Pearse lying there had hardened her heart... McDowell's treatment of her and now this. They had brought it on themselves. She felt no pity.

## He got to his feet. "How did it happen?"

## Kairda shuffled her feet; this was the moment she had dreaded.

## "There was a fire."

## "An accident?" suggested George, he sounded bewildered, perplexed.

## "Not really."

## The lines round his mouth deepened, his lips twisted aggressively.

## "What do you mean ...not really?" His face reddened.

## "I'm not sure that I want to be the one to tell you." She watched apprehensively as his face darkened, the veins in his neck stood out. "You lose your temper too quickly."

## "What happened?" He scowled and his eyes narrowed menacingly.

## "If I tell you, do you promise not to hurt me?"

## He had begun to pant again.

## "Alright.. I promise.... Now tell me...quickly." There was the sound of panic in his voice.

## "She was killed, by the Duke's cousin." George rose to his feet. Kairda reared back.

## "Stop, you promised."

## "How did it happen?" his voice barely a whisper, was filled with venom.

## She hesitated, recalling what McDowell had told her.

## "The man's a drunkard, and was thrashing his horse. Rosemary, she was living above the stables, heard the noise and came down and tried to stop him. It appeared that he hit her with his whip and in doing so, knocked an oil lamp over, and started a fire."

## "Was there no one to save her?"

## At this Kairda hesitated. The look of total despair on George's face, forced her to feel for him, yet the memory of McDowell's betrayal only fuelled her desire for revenge.

## "There was, but in the struggle she fell against the stable wall and they were too busy getting the Duke's cousin out to bother with her."

## George went pale, the tip of his tongue moistened his lips. It was as if he had turned to stone.

## "Who were these men?"

## At this point McDowell had told her to say that she didn't know. Instead Kairda took a deep breath. This was the moment of her revenge.

## "McDowell and Ibreac."

## She watched him as he rose from his chair, every nerve in her body tingling. What would he do? Would he believe her?

## She watched him; he seemed in a trance; he moved like a puppet, stiff and jerky, as he began to gather his things together, dragging out his battered suitcase.

## "What are you going to do?" she asked. Was he was running away?

## "I'm going back to the farm." He rammed his few belongings into the case, and slammed it shut.

## "Is that safe?"

## He laughed and looked at her contemptuously.

## "I'm not really interested anymore; there's not much point is there?"

## "And then what?"

## "I shall get the rifle; I shall find this cousin of the Duke and kill him. When I have done that I shall find McDowell and Ibreac and do the same to them,"

## He slumped down onto a chair; he looked at her, his eyes filled with a gaunt haunted look. "After that....?" he left the question unanswered.

## Kairda felt both elated and sympathetic, for George was doing exactly what she had planned, and yet she could not help feeling for him.

## "What about the lodge and the meeting?" He looked at her astounded.

## "Do you think I care about your meeting? Do you think I would lift a finger to help you people again:" He pointed his finger at her. "There's only one thing I am interested in and that is finding those bastards and putting them in hell."

## "Do you know where to find them?" She could read doubt in his face. "No, you don't."

## She now reverted back to the instructions that McDowell had given her explaining exactly what he planned to do and where he would be on the 12th May. George sat there listening impassively; he closed his eyes as though shutting out the world. He shuddered, shaking the memory of the past from him. Opening them, he studied Kairda. She held her breath, for she could read in his face that he knew where the blame lay originally. He looked away as though it didn't matter any more, it wouldn't bring Rosemary back.

## He had listened to her; his chief desire was to get these men in the sight of his rifle. He accepted that, in going through with the plan, he would in fact do just that. It would draw them into his web. He was confident that the charges would demolish the lodge, and rupture the wall allowing the water from the lake to flood down into the cavern. What that might trigger he did not know neither did he care. He had to go through with it, otherwise McDowell might escape.

## "Right, let's go," he said.

## Other than going to school, the fear of being seen forced Kairda to wait until nightfall, before leaving her lodgings. So it was nearly midnight by the time they left the safe house and drove quietly out of Grassmoor and across the moors to the farm, keeping a wary eye out for the patrolman. There was no moon and the night was dark. It took them nearly two hours to arrive there.

## George dismounted, and told Kairda to wait. The night was cold; she shivered and wished she had put on a heavier coat. She sat there waiting. There was a strange, eerie feeling about the place. A door banged, and she jumped. Something rustled in some straw nearby and she gasped when an owl hooted and flew off into a distant tree. Shadows moved and she wished he would hurry up.

## At last she heard the front door opening and saw his dim outline coming across the yard. His arms were full; she could just make out the long shape of a rifle, which he placed in the back of the cart, followed by a bundle of other items. She heard the clatter of tools. She watched him carefully place across his shoulders a small satchel, which he held carefully as he climbed into the cart.

## She flicked the reins and the pony moved off. He said nothing, but she felt his hand on her arm as they reached the gate. She looked across to where he sat. He had twisted round and was looking back at the farm house, quiet and deserted in the darkness. He stayed looking back for several minutes before resuming his seat.

## "Well that's it." His voice was filled with so much sadness, as if once again there would be no returning, that Kairda was tempted to reach across and say how sorry she was, but she knew it would only make things worse.

## They made their way slowly through the darkened streets of North Cresswell relieved that no one was in sight, or appeared to hear them. Out across the valley bottom and up through the gully, they rode in silence. Kairda could feel herself shivering with apprehension. Surprisingly, George sitting along side her seemed relaxed, his legs dangling over the edge of the cart. This only seemed to make things worse until eventually she could hardly hold the reins. Quietly he reached over and took them from her.

## "Is this what it is like when you go into the trenches?" Kairda asked, she laughed nervously, feeling foolish that she should have asked such a question.

## He snorted under his breath.

## "Not really .... It's far noisier." Then as if he had thought again. "A little bit, I suppose."

## It made her feel better, she relaxed. Away to the east a tiny glimmer of light appeared low on the horizon.

## In a strange way her remark about the trenches served to clear his mind of any doubts he might have had. He knew now who his enemies really were. He stole a glance at the girl beside him, there were doubts still lingering in his mind. Basically he was a soldier once again; he coughed, clearing his throat.

## "I'll make my base in the cavern. I'll feel safer there," he said sarcastically, "The meeting , on Friday, will start at about nine in the morning. McDowell and his party will come down from the house along the road. Tell him that the road will be mined just after the fork. He is to stop the car as he approaches the fork and make out that the path that lies on his right hand side is a short cut to the lodge. From then on I will direct them."

## "How will you do that?"

## George found that amusing.

## "Don't you worry about that, things will begin to happen. They will be directed like sheep into the pen."

## He turned and thrust his face close into hers. "Do you understand? Repeat what I have just said."

## She repeated what he had said. She found it very difficult to understand him. At first he had seemed a mild, quiet, introverted man, content to stay where he was, on the farm with Rosemary. Now he was the complete opposite; in command of the situation without caring what others thought; only interested in achieving his own aims.

## They reached the point on the road where she had met him before and he told her to pull in. He unloaded his equipment and placed it amongst the bushes just off the road.

## "I want you to get some sketching materials and be out here painting this evening. Just settle down and sketch. If I want to give you a message I shall be here, otherwise be back here the following evening."

## With out waiting for her reply, he ducked through the bushes and gathering his equipment and disappeared out of sight.

## 

## Chapter Forty Six

## Wednesday 10th May 1916

## Kairda felt exhausted by the time she arrived back, and she still had a day's schooling ahead of her. Breakfast was a hurried affair. She gathered her things together and began walking across the recreation field towards the school. It was several minutes before she noticed that someone was keeping pace with her. She sneaked a sideways look; it was Alexander Broughtman. At first she pretended not to see him, but he persisted, and was still there when she arrived at the school gate. She had almost entered before he called her by name,

## "Miss Brandon....I need to find Mrs. Kemp, I have an important message for her cousin, Sergeant George Bagworth,"

## The mention of George's name caused Kairda to hesitate. She felt flushed, glad that her face was partially obscured behind the stone pillar that formed the entrance into the playground. She felt flustered and was sure that the man would have noticed. She paused there for a second before answering him.

## "She has left the farm... and before you ask. I don't know where she has gone. As far as this Bagworth you speak of, I wouldn't have a clue who he is, or where he is." She didn't look at him for fear of his reading her true thoughts.

## He came round the pillar and stood by her. Suddenly a great weariness came over her and she yawned, raising her hand to cover her mouth. .

## "You're looking tired, Miss Brandon.... have you been working too hard?" he asked. .

## She frowned. "That's none of your business." With that she walked quickly into the school.

## Alexander Broughtman remained standing by the school entrance until Kairda disappeared from view. He swung round and walked briskly back across the recreation ground. He felt angry and frustrated, certain in his own mind that the jig-saw now fitted together. He could not at first understand why Donaldson refused to believe him. He refused to believe, at first, that the policeman would allow their mutual dislike of each other to colour his judgment, but now Alexander was not so sure.

## His request for help from the local constabulary had been politely refused; the nagging fear that Donaldson was involved sent a crawling sense of fear up his spine. He had had doubts, especially after speaking to them at Charnwood, but no longer. He was now left entirely on his own.

## Watching the teacher's house had consumed time, which was now becoming precious; it was the only direct connection he had for he was sure she was involved, but it had produced little. Up ahead, at the edge of the recreation ground, he watched the young lad bringing out the pony, a blanket thrown across its back. It was tethered to a short halter so that it could graze. As Alexander approached, deep in thought the pony backed its way across Alexander's path. He raised his hand and idly slapped the pony's haunch, and watched as it moved out of his path.

## Alexander looked at the palm of his hand, and then at the pony. It's lathered with sweat, he thought. He moved over to where the animal stood and looked it over. It looked in good condition, no sign of sickness. It's been worked hard to get this lathered, he observed. He checked his pocket watch....8.45 am.

## "Where the hell have you been to get like this?" he asked. The pony continued to graze. Alexander remembered how tired the school teacher had looked.

## He thought about it, eventually turning and walked quickly in the direction of his brother's house:

## The motor bike was heavy as he wheeled it out of his brother's garage. There was a compulsion inside him to ride across to Cross Keys. He had a tight feeling in the pit of his stomach as he looked down the track that led to the farm. Nothing stirred; it was just as he had seen it before. He let off the brake and coasted down the track, his feet splayed out balancing the bike as he negotiated the ruts. He turned off the engine as the bike swept through into the yard.

## He stopped and surveyed the scene. One of the stable doors were open. Cautiously he manoeuvered the bike towards it, not knowing what to expect. It was empty. He rested the bike up against the whitewashed wall. There wasn't a sound to be heard. He sat still trying to think whether the door had been open on his last visit.

## Eventually he removed his goggles, hanging them on the handle bars, and walked cautiously across to the farmhouse. He tried the door, it was locked. He followed the wall round to the small garden where he had gained entry before. The door had not been repaired; grasping the handle he pushed his shoulder against and opened it.

## Once inside he went straight to the cellar door. There was no lantern. He rummaged through the drawers until he found a candle which he lit with matches he had brought. The trunk lay at the bottom of the ladder. He lowered himself down and knelt beside it.

## Placing both hands on the lid, he paused with baited breath, and then he lifted the lid. The rifle was the gone. The uniform had been lugged from the trunk and then pushed back in with out any care. Alexander reached in and felt round. The satchel of bullets was also missing.

## His mouth felt suddenly dry; a momentary sense of panic swept over him; events were moving and he didn't feel in control of the situation. He scrambled to his feet and climbed quickly back into the kitchen. He searched the house, room by room, pulling the furniture aside and emptying the drawers, desperate to find any c1ue.Upstairs,he tipped out the dresser and pulled it away from the wall. The leather satchel with Bagworth's papers and the medal case had gone. He crouched down by the wall, chewing his fingers, he needed to think clearly; what could they possibly be intending to do.

## He was clear in his mind now that Bagworth was the Shoemaker. With the rifle gone, he had to assume that someone was to be killed. If he assumed the meeting was to go ahead and that Lloyd George was to attend then he had to also assume that the Shoemaker was here to assassinate the Minister of Munitions before he had a chance of speaking to the union leaders.

## Strangers could be excused for thinking that Timothy Broughtman was the elder, when in fact Alexander was nearly three years his senior. Within the family it was thought that Timothy took after his father, Judge Joseph Broughtman K.C. Alexander, on the other hand, he had taken after their mother, a teacher of art and an avid supporter of the local theatre.

## Timothy had taken a serious view of life and had regarded Alexander's decision to come down from Oxford before his finals as verging on a criminal act. Alexander, taking himself off to South Africa, had infuriated his brother beyond measure, if only because Timothy had been jealous and envious of his brother's courage; something he had lacked. His course was charted from the very beginning while Alexander had drifted from place to place never settling in one place for very long.

## Timothy sat and listened. He could hear his brother moving about upstairs. The sound of something heavy being dropped irritated him.

## "What's he doing, up there?" he demanded looking accusingly at his wife who sat at the far end of the table.

## "He's having a difficult time," offered Vera sympathetically.

## Timothy neither understood, nor in fact cared what difficulties Vera might be referring to. As far as he was concerned the sooner Alexander got himself sorted out the better. He was on the verge of telling the women folk to clear away the things when Alexander arrived. He had changed into a grey worsted suit.

## "Going somewhere?" asked Timothy as he placed his daily paper down and rose to his feet.

## Alexander merely nodded as he helped himself to what was left.

## "Well I've no time to sit around," grumbled the Doctor. "Not like some people."

## He walked round and pecked his wife's cheek. "I have a surgery of sick people waiting."

## Alexander appeared not to notice. Seated at the table he began to read the newspaper, whilst eating. Vera remained silent, eventually reaching across, she took hold of the silver coffee pot.

## "Coffee?" she asked.

## He did not reply, he seemed mesmerised by something he had read in the paper. Vera stared at him alarmed, for instead of his usual ruddy complexion, his face had turned a grey, pasty colour as though he was about to be sick. Vera placed the coffee pot back on its stand and rising to her feet moved to his side.

## "What's the matter?.....You look awful."

## He looked up, his eyes round and glassy, his mouth full of uneaten food. He swallowed and began coughing,

## "My God," he spluttered. "I don't believe it."

## "What's happened?"

## He lifted the paper for Vera to read. She could see his finger indicated the court circular column. She read,

## "...His Majesty King George will inspect troops stationed at York and afterwards will be a guest this weekend at Charnwood House..."

## Vera looked back at Alexander, his face was now white as though he had seen a ghost.

## "It's the King," his voice husky and hardly audible. "They're going to assassinate the King."

## Alexander felt a great weight fill his stomach; he felt hot. He shut his eyes and could feel tears of frustration and anger welling up. He had never felt so helpless, so completely alone. This frightened him more than anything else he had ever experienced. Did this run deeper than he could ever imagine; was Donaldson merely the tip of the iceberg and did this run into the very roots of British power and Government? Just what was going on?

## Vera's voice began to penetrate his consciousness.

## "Alex.. What's the matter ?..You look terrible."

## He studied her several seconds before leaving the table. Crossing to the dining room door he turned the key and locked it. Then returning to the table he sat down and took hold of her hands.

## "This Friday.. the 12th May.. Lloyd George, along with Field Marshal Earl Kitchener, is going to address a secret meeting of the Trade Union Congress. This meeting is to be held at Charnwood. As far as I know, Lloyd George intends to persuade them to accept legislation which will suspend democracy as we know it. It will put the entire country under Military control. I think he intends to ask the King to help persuade them. Lloyd George has to keep this a secret. It has to be a fait acompli; otherwise there would be all hell to pay."

## He paused, there was something else, and it just didn't make sense. McDowell was involved, of that he was sure. So why hadn't the man let the cat out of the bag, exposed them to the workers. It would have been bound to have caused just the sort of chaos that he wanted. Unless he was playing a deeper game, far higher stakes. He suddenly remembered the meeting in the garden outside Berlin,

## The Shoemaker had been sent to kill the King. He looked down at Vera's hands

## "If the ordinary workers knew what was going on, then their leaders wouldn't dare go." suggested Vera.

## "That would still cause tremendous chaos, just the sort of thing that certain people would like."

## "What if they read about it in the newspapers? The leaders could say -that it was a pack of lies and very likely they would be believed, but then they wouldn't go near the place."

## Alexander's head shot up, but then his face collapsed.

## "It's no good, most of the newspaper owners are cronies of Lloyd George and it wouldn't get past the censor."

## "What all of them?"

## Slowly a smile spread across his face.

## "No, not all of them."

## 

## Chapter Forty Seven.

## The Offices of the Daily Herald. 10th May 1916.

## Alexander Broughtman watched as the cigarette smoke spiraled up into the nicotine stained ceiling.

## Sidney Maxton, editor of the Daily Herald sat at his desk, the cigarette grasped between the tips of his thumb and fore-finger. He puffed at it nervously, sending tiny clouds of cigarette smoke into the air, like a steam engine struggling to climb its way up a steep gradient. It increased the further into Alexander's epistle.

## The two men had been acquaintances, if not friends, since their university days, and had started out in life working for the same newspaper, before their political differences, and Alexander's craving for foreign parts, had lead to the parting of the ways.

## Alexander had never felt the same desire to help his fellow man as Alfred had, he'd been far too selfish. Viewing life from a different perspective did not prevent him from respecting the other man's integrity. Sidney was a true idealist, only desiring to create, through the pages of his newspaper, a society fit for all men, a country fit for heroes.

## "Bastards!" The outburst forced Alexander back from his daydreams. Sidney's fat stomach shook with rage, so much so that the editor's chair seemed on the point of collapse. The small man turned the page and continued to read.

## "Bastards." he repeated.

## Alexander had spent several hours composing the document that the editor was now reading. Unsure of Maxton's politics these days, but remembering how excited he had become at any reports of injustice to the working man, Alexander had sprinkled the facts with a few exaggerations; it was working.

## "I don't believe it," Sidney said wiping his bald head with a large handkerchief, Alexander held his breath.

##

##

## "Are you sure about this?" asked the editor pointing an accusing finger at the papers in his hand.

## "Quite," said Alexander confidently.

## Sidney Maxton rose to his feet, his chair crashing into the wall behind. Stepping from behind his cluttered desk he kicked the wastepaper bin out of his way, its screwed up contents flying in all directions.

## "They are actually going to allow Lloyd George to virtually tear up the Magna Carta?"

## A slight exaggeration thought Alexander, but the end often justified the means.

## "Full disbandment of all trade unions, labour conscription as well as military. Military tribunals to replace the civil courts. I can't believe it," exclaimed Maxton, his face red enough to burst.

## He snatched at the packet of cigarettes lying on the desk and rammed one into his cigarette holder before lighting it.

## "Why is it we have never heard even a whisper of this?" He looked at Alexander accusingly, a hint of distrust in his tight round eyes.

## "It's not the sort of thing they are going to shout from the roof tops...is it? They will argue that measures, such as these, are necessary in time of war, but these are going too far......print this, and of course it will be denied. There'll be a 'hoo ha' but you're used to that; but it will be shelved and they will never dare bring it out again. They will have to move far more carefully in future, because the man in the street will know,"

## Broughtman watched Maxton fidget with the end of his cigarette holder. He daren't mention about the King's involvement. He leant forward to emphasise his point.

## "If you don't print this and those unionists go back and tell their members to fall in line. Lloyd George will go to Parliament and he'll get it rubber stamped through without so much as a whimper from anybody."

## Broughtman walked away from the newspaper office relieved. He had not felt like this since finding the rifle at the farm and dismantling the telescopic sight. It evened up the odds. The news should be on the streets tomorrow, Thursday, and he had just one other thing to achieve before he could feel reassured that he had successfully blocked any attempt that the Shoemaker might make. At least this gave him time to catch the man.

## It was unfortunate that he did not realise just how far McDowell's organisation extended. Otherwise he would not have felt quite so confident.

## Sidney Maxton personally supervised the typing of the document and watched carefully as the linotype operator set the type. He then escorted it to the make up men, who made the paper maches forms, before it ended up in the stereotyping room where the metal plates were cast. The operators and machinists watched this procession, intrigued and concerned as to what this headline contained. It wasn't until the plates were fastened onto the giant rollers and Maxton had returned to his office that one of them wandered across and quietly read the paper maches forms. The man in question was one of McDowell's men. He read the forms, and then went quietly back to a corner, tucked right away in the back of the printing shop, where he kept a cupboard. He squatted down beside it and waited. He was head of the small cell of printers who would be ready to take over the paper on hearing of the explosion at Charnwood. This would be reported through the teleprinter upstairs. He knew that if the news broke onto the streets in the morning, not one of the trade union leaders would come within a mile of Charnwood.

## The printing room was quiet; the men were eating their supper before commencing the first run. It was now he had to act. Taking a small dark coloured bottle from the cupboard he moved stealthily along the back of the vast machines that waited like sleeping giants for the rollers to start moving. The operator sat against the machine, hunched over, reading. He made no sound as the sand bag hit him behind the ear. He rolled off his stool and fell to the floor; his attacker stepped over him. Removing the glass top from the bottle, his attacker began to pour sulphuric acid carefully across the top edge of the plate It hissed and steamed as the plate and its precious news dissolved into an unrecognisable mass.

##

## It took George several hours to move all his equipment, down through the tunnel, across the tank, which was now beginning to fill once again, and up the shaft, until at last he felt secure inside the stone hut. The mound of explosive, that he had said was dangerous and unstable, lay untouched. Slowly and carefully he began to examine it. The outer layers of wax paper had begun to dissolve on many of the sticks that were exposed to the air, but the inner sticks were still dry and consequently could be used, provided he was careful. It took him most of what was left of the night to separate them. The early morning mist that lay across the lake, gave him the cover he needed as he moved through the trees and approached Charnwood House. He moved quickly and silently as he traced out the route that he would need to force McDowell to follow, marking out where he would lay his charges. There was no time now; it would have to wait until nightfall. He now made his way round the lake's edge until he arrived at the gully entrance.

## He removed the brush that obscured the tunnel entrance and on his hands and knees began crawling slowly in, feeling his way along the tunnel floor until he reached the cavern entrance. He lay there panting; the sound of water rushing far below was all that could be heard. On his side, he reached round and found the wires that he had carefully strung across the cavern, and slowly pulled them back to where he had left his pack. Securing the wires, he drew from his pack a cylindrical lead container. Inside it, zinc plates were fastened, insulated from the lead by small pieces of mica. There was a hole several inches in diameter across in the top half of the container. George lay down on the tunnel floor and by squinting through the hole and looking out of the gully entrance, could see the oak tree that lay beyond the lake. With meticulous care he now began placing rocks under and around the container until the hole was lined up with the tree. From his pack he retrieved a small bottle of acid, which he placed in the top half of the container, level with, and visible through the holes. Finally he fastened the thin wires carefully, one to the lead container and the other to a rod attached to the zinc plates. Again. with infinite care, he placed more rocks around the container. It was vital that when the bullet from his gun, passed through the hole, shattering the acid bottle, the container did not fall over but allowed the acid to pour down into the bottom of the lead container, creating an electric battery. The current that would pass through the wires, would detonate the charges in both the stone tree and the wall retaining the lake. Satisfied with his work he retraced his steps back to the hut where he unwrapped the rifle and made his way to the oak tree. Slinging the rifle across his back he began climbing into the branches and waited until the sun had burned the last vestige of the mist away.

## George sat and looked out across the lake. It was so peaceful and tranquil that it seemed impossible that, within twenty four hours, he would cause so much death and destruction. For a moment he hesitated as though having second thoughts, but then he remembered Rosemary and all that he had lost. An intense feeling of hatred rushed through- him. He looked about him; he would get great pleasure in turning this green and pleasant land into their own private hell.

## Through the telescopic sight he could make out the lead container and the white paper sleeve that he had inserted into the hole. He would not miss this shot; once again he felt hot blood flowing through his veins as he relished the prospect of revenge.

## He moved further up the tree until he was shielded from the ground. Laying along one of the great limbs, that formed a natural rest, he placed the rifle carefully into the fork of a branch and looked through the sights. He spent nearly an hour drilling and fixing the rifle into position so that it would be held rigid. It would need an earthquake to cause the tree to vibrate, and that would not happen until after he had fired. Satisfied with his work, he released the rifle and lowered it and his equipment to the ground. The sun was well up and he now retreated into the stone hut in case a passing gamekeeper or forester came by. He did not stay in the hut but instead went down into the shaft and along to a recess where he had made his camp. By the light of a lamp he checked his ammunition. Two soft nose bullets, which were strong enough to break the acid bottle but nothing else. The remainder were high powered explosive bullets. This done he arranged the blankets that he had brought and settled down to sleep until evening.

## 

## Chapter Forty Eight.

## Thursday l1th May 1916.

## Doctor Timothy Broughtman held the newspaper between the finger and thumb of his right hand, as though it were something too disgusting to mention. With his left hand he wrestled with the front door catch, his intention being to cast the offending item into the dustbin.

## "I won't have this socialist rubbish in this house." His strident voice brought Vera into the hall from the dining room.

## "I think Alexander has ordered it, my dear," she suggested tentatively, reaching out to take the Daily Herald from her husband's grasp.

## There was a loud clattering on the stairs as Alexander descended. He seemed excited and walking quickly across the hall snatched the paper from their hands and with a brief... "Thank you.".. disappeared into the dining room.

## By the time Timothy and Vera had entered, Alexander had filled his breakfast plate, and had settled himself down at the table. Opening the paper he proceeded to read.

## "Something important?" Vera asked.

## "Mm!" Was all she got back?

## She watched as he scrutinised the front page column by column. His brow furrowed as he searched unsuccessfully. He frowned even more as he turned the page still anticipating to finding what he was searching for. By now Vera could see deep lines of concern etched on his face as he began to rustle through the pages.

## "What are you looking for?" muttered his brother, eating a slice of toast and marmalade.

## Alexander fought back the sense of panic and anger that had begun to fill him. He had been confident that Sidney Maxton would have printed the document. He had searched the paper from end to end but there was no sign of it.

## "Your breakfast is getting cold," reminded Vera tersely.

## "I'm sorry....I'm not hungry any more." He pushed his chair back and left the table. He needed to think. Once in the hall he gathered his hat and coat and went out.

## What a mess. He had been positive that once the trade unions had read that report they would never have come near Charnwood. No trade unionists, no meeting, no King. Well that's what should happen.

## Now there was nothing to stop the meeting from going ahead. What he could not understand was the casual manner in which it had been arranged. During his visits to Charnwood he had seen no preparation, no extra police. The local police had no idea of what was going on, of that he was certain, because his visits to the local authorities and his warnings had been ignored.

## The more he thought about it, the more he felt that the whole affair had McDowell's stamp on it, recalling his brush with him outside Lincoln prison. If the place was swarming with troops he doubted if the Shoemaker would come near, but there was little time. The meeting was due to take place in the morning.

## If the place was swarming with troops, he thought again. He turned and began to walking quickly back towards the house.

## Timothy had gone to attend to the sick. Alexander found Vera in the kitchen, going through a shopping list with the housekeeper.

## "Does Timothy still have his uniforms?" asked Alexander.

## "I assume so... I haven't thrown them out."

## "Good.... I'm going to need them."

##

## Back in his room, Alexander retrieved a small attaché case from the top of the wardrobe. In it he kept his tools, various implements that enabled him to enter and leave premises with or without the owners' permission; also a collection of pens and inks.

## Having found University not to his liking. He had been forced to learn a trade. Consequently he spent several years apprenticed to an engraver, in the offices of a newspaper. It was here that he had met Maxton again. He found the work interesting but decided when the opportunity to move upstairs came along, to take it and became a journalist. It was only later that he found that his training as an engraver could be turned to other things....such as forging.

## As well as pen and inks, he had, sometime previously, obtained several sheets of war Ministry paper, along with other blank sheets of paper that enabled him to copy various permits and passes.

## It took him several hours before he was satisfied with his handiwork. He gathered up his rejections and buried them deep in the coals of the fire, which would be lit later.

## Now for the uniforms.

## Later, Alexander opened the throttle, releasing the clutch and drove the motor cycle down the road towards Nottingham. Dressed as he was, in his brother's kaki uniform, as well as his top coat and cap, less any insignia or badges, he hoped that he would pass for an army dispatch rider. He covered the twenty miles in just over an hour, eventually drawing to a halt outside the gates of Brassington training camp, home of the Sherwood Foresters. He released the clutch and coasted across the road and through the gates. Finally coming to a halt at the foot of the steps leading to the Guard Room. He parked the motor cycle and ensuring that his goggles remained firmly over his eyes marched up the steps and into the guard room.

## The sergeant, a tight weasel of a man, sat behind a small table, Alexander approached and coming smartly to attention, saluted.

## "Orders for the Commanding Officer from the General Officer, Northern Command, York...... Sergeant."

## "Right, give them here," demanded the sergeant. "He'll take them over to the Adjutant."

## The sergeant indicated a heavy built corporal who was positioned in the corner of the hut.

## "Beg you pardon, Sergeant," stated Alexander. "But the orders are that I'm to deliver them to the adjutant personally."

## The sergeant bristled and looked at him suspiciously. He began fingering the written authorisation that Alexander had handed to him.

## "Very well," he said not entirely convinced. He eyes flicking) up and down Alexander scrutinising his uniform, which hardly complied with King's Regulations. Alexander had banked on the fact that because dispatch riders were required to travel in all weathers there was a degree of flexibility allowed in their uniforms.

## "Corporal, show this rider to the Adjutant's office" ordered the Sergeant.

## Brassington was an old territorial camp, and was laid out in a traditional fashion. Alexander eased the revs down as he rode passed squads of raw recruits who were being drilled, marched and counter marched across the vast wind swept parade ground to the sound of raucous orders. Around the square were wooden, single story buildings. Alexander drove past these, eventually stopping outside the only brick building on the camp. He parked and approached the double doors leading into the building. Two soldiers in full equipment, rifle and pack, stood guard.

## He drew a deep breath as he entered the building. The orders that he had in his satchel had taken him hours to write. He only had General Arthur's signature, the General Officer commanding York, to go by and was relying on the fact that almost all orders were typewritten. These, having been handwritten supposedly by General Arthur himself would add weight to their contents.

## The Adjutant's office was near the far end of the passageway. Even under dire circumstances,, orders would always go through the Adjutants office before arriving on the command officer's desk.

## Alexander saluted and handed the satchel to the Sergeant Major seated in small office next the Adjutants.

## "Orders for the Commanding officer from York," Alexander stepped back against the thin wooden partition and waited. From there he could hear what was being said in the office next door.

## "Colonel Thompson in London until Monday," he heard the adjutant say.

## "You'd better open them, Sir," he heard the Sergeant Major reply. "It could be important. Especially as it is handwritten."

## "You're right," he heard the sound of the envelope being opened and paper being taken from it. Alexander waited,

## "Good God!" the adjutant exclaimed. "We are to take the entire battalion, men and equipment, and re-deploy to the grounds of Charnwood house by 2200 hours tonight."

## "Yee Gods, begging your pardon Sir, but whose idea is that?" He heard the Sergeant major ask. There was a pause,

## "It's signed by General Arthur himself."

## "Right!" Alexander heard footsteps approaching the office door. He stepped away from the wall.

## "Orderly," bellowed the Sergeant Major. With that he turned and saw Alexander still standing there. "What are you waiting for?"

## "Nothing Sergeant Major. I take it there is nothing to go back to York."

## Alexander could just make out the phone in the Adjutant's office being cranked, and orders being issued.

## Alexander left and parked up under the trees that ran by the parade ground. From there he could watch the proceedings. All hell was breaking loose. Men were running in all directions. Soon heavy wagons began to assemble, into which tents and field kitchens were placed. Away on the far side he could see two armoured cars being prepared, that was a bonus as far as he was concerned. He spotted boxes of ammunition being loaded.

## The orders were being carried out to the letter.

## The platoons and companies began to fall in. They were in full marching order, helmets, rifles and marching packs. As soon as they were mustered and numbered off they began the long march to Charnwood. With luck it would be midnight by the time they reached there. The pioneers would have arrived earlier and erected the camp ready for the foot weary troops.

## Alexander stood where he was until he was sure that this time his plans would not go astray.

##

## It was nearly noon by the time George entered the yard of the estate farm. A couple of the lads saw him and nudged each other and smiled.

## "Got lost did you?" One mocked.

## George pretended not to hear but walked quickly through the yard and into the stables. Joe the head lad was rubbing one of the hunters down. He looked up as George entered.

## "Where you been?" he asked, his tone of voice not unfriendly.

## George pointed to his stomach and pretended to vomit. Then pretending to put something in his mouth, he spat viciously onto the ground.

## "Food poison?" suggested Joe, and George nodded back in agreement. He then walked round the partition and began to harness up the small grey.

## "What yer doing?" asked Joe, peering round the corner.

## George looked at him lopsidedly and pointing to the low stone wall indicated that he would carry on with his work. Joe merely nodded and went back to rubbing down his charge.

## It took George nearly an hour to get back to the hut, he had secreted a small bale of hay, and also a sack of fine soil, inside the wagon under a canvas. He secured the reins to a low branch and went inside. Slowly and carefully he carried the sticks of gelignite that he regarded as safe and placed them in amongst the straw and soil.

## To the casual observer it would have appeared that George was making his way round to the various dry stone walls that he was to repair. Stopping for a few moments and then making his way onto the next. He seemed to re-arrange the carefully constructed cairns of stones that everybody found so amusing. Taking certain stones down and placing them so that always a low flat stone seemed to project from the top of the cairn.

##

## It was mid-afternoon when he finally reached the wall that lay just out of sight on the far side of the parkland that stretched from the Charnwood House itself, almost to the lake's edge. A narrow un--made road wound its way across the parkland and forked close by the stone wall, one way leading to the Hunting Lodge via the far side of the 1ake, the other cutting through the forest. This track was not used a great deal and was in a bad state of repair. It would lead eventually to the stone hut and the big oak tree in which George would be waiting.

## The yard was empty when he returned. He quickly stabled the small grey and made his way back across the parkland and into the trees keeping well out of sight. He had completed his preparations.

## Ever since she had watched George disappear into the caverns beside the Warsop road Kairda had been plagued with doubts. As far as she was concerned she had played her part; her responsibilities were over. She could now consider her own position. How long it would last, was debatable, but of one thing she was certain , for the next few weeks, perhaps months, all hell would break loose, and she had no intention of being around to see it, or worst still, being involved in .

## Over supper that night, she shared her worries with the Cogens and between them they decided that it would be best if they took a holiday in Ireland. They would catch the earlier train for Liverpool and the Ferry.

## 

## Chapter Forty Nine.

##

## Friday 12th May 1916.

##

## George became aware of sounds coming from the far side of the lake almost as soon as he had emerged from the shaft into the stone hut. He eased open the door and peered out through the trees. He had expected to feel a great rush of adrenalin, that tight sense of stress and nervous energy. Instead it felt almost an anti-climax. It was no different from any other day he had spent amongst the trees. Except for that metallic sound coming from across the lake.

##

## It was still dark, although there was just a glimmer of light in the sky. The animals scurried away to the safety of their burrows at the approach of a new day. He moved stealthily through the trees, reaching the tall oak, just as dawn broke.

## He climbed and reaching his perch looked out towards the gully. A shallow mist obscured the entrance and through the fog appeared several triangular shapes. It was from amongst these shapes that the metallic noise came. Slowly the mist began to lift, George whistled through tightly clenched teeth. He watched as the mist dissolved, revealing the neat lines of bell tents. It was difficult to count them but a quick count reached at least fifty and there appeared to be many others around the far side of the rock promontory. Say another fifty, he thought. At least eight men to a tent, which means something like an entire battalion had arrived during the night. The gully entrance was now completely obscured by them. He would have to rely on the measurements he had taken yesterday and fire blind.

## It was the only way, for it would be madness to try and get through the tents. Any rate, even if he could it would mean that he would be unable to complete, what he regarded as the more important part of his mission. The disposal of Rosemary's murderers. No he would still be able to destroy the lodge from this position.

## He climbed down from the tree and began to work his way slowly through to his next firing position. The wall was dismantled, and squinting through the scope he could clearly see the fishing line stretched tightly across the wooden bridge over which the cars would travel. The charges, he had laid, were small and tightly packed, so that as soon as the first car had hit the line and had crossed; the second car would cause the bridge to collapse preventing those behind from crossing.

## Leaving the wall. he worked his way back to his second firing position This charge would cause the large beech tree to fall across the main track leading to the hunting lodge, leaving them no other option but to travel down the smaller track which led past the oak tree, where he would be waiting.

## He went back and collected the rifle from the hut and, strapping it across his back, went to the oak tree. With utmost precision he placed the rifle into the cradle he had made the previous day, and screwing the spring clamps above it, eased the levers down until the rifle was held rigidly in place. Now he must wait.

##

## McDowell felt unusually nervous this morning. Suppressed excitement, he thought, not fear. Today was to be the greatest in their lives; all over the country small groups of men were rising, washing and shaving, going through the normal functions of life as though this was to be another ordinary day, but it wasn't. Before nightfall their world and that of millions of other people in this country would be changed.

## He stationed himself by the small gateway, where the trade unionists, traveling from Sheffield would arrive. Soon afterwards Ibreac appeared accompanied by two of the keepers who would guide the various motor cars along the narrow road which skirted around the side of the main house and eventually lead out across the park land to the hunting lodge down by the lake.

## McDowell dressed as a Police Inspector had naturally taken control of the situation, checking that the keepers knew their instructions, and ensuring that they clearly understood the importance of avoiding idle gossip.

## "The secrecy of this meeting is of the utmost importance....is that understood," he ordered

## The two keepers nodded gravely in reply.

## Turning to Ibreac he studied the young man. Ibreac could hardly stop himself from shaking. McDowell pondered on the situation.

## "Go back to the main house and find out quietly, how the Duke is this morning."

## Ibreac looked at him puzzled. McDowell merely smiled quietly. The Duke would, of course, accompany the King on his journey to the Hunting Lodge. This had to be prevented; consequently McDowell had taken the precaution of organising enough crushed, highly toxic laburnum pods to be mixed in amongst the Duke's breakfast tea leaves to ensure that even if he only received a small dose, it would be sufficient to leave the old man sick for several days.

## Sending Ibreac to find out the state of the Duke's health would keep the young man busy and his mind off the forthcoming events.

## Pulling his pocket watch out, he squinted at the time. He replaced it and walked out to the road way where the keepers were waiting. The first motor car would be arriving very shortly.

##

## Kairda and the Cogens family had been up since before dawn. It did not take a deal of persuasion for her to convince them that their going to Ireland at this moment was not an act of betrayal but one of common sense. Since the defeat of the Republicans, Irish people in general had been viewed with suspicion. If the next few days went according to plan it would be exceedingly dangerous to stay. Eventually it was decided that she, along with Mrs. Cogens and the boy would go, leaving Mr. Cogens to look after their house and belongings.

## They moved quickly and silently, gathering clothes and those belonging that were either too precious to leave, or were needed. They sat eating breakfast in silence. There was a tension in the air and it was a relief when finally Mr. Cogens rose and said they were ready to leave.

## The quickest route was to go to Nottingham where they could catch a train direct to Liverpool. The streets were silent as they left. They climbed the rise that would take them on the long road south.

## They reached the outskirts of the city just before noon, and were waiting as a column of armoured cars went by. A goggle clad rider on a motorbike drove by and glanced idly in their direction. Fifty yards on he stopped and looked back. Swinging the machine round he came back to where they were waiting in the cart.

## He drew up along side them and removed his goggles.

## Kairda peered down from the cart. It was Alexander Broughtman; he looked at her mockingly.

## "You see those armoured cars," he said indicating the column that was fast disappearing. She said nothing.

## "They are going to Charnwood." Her heart stopped. "I don't know what your friends are up to but whatever it is, they are in for one hell of a shock,"

## He pulled the goggles down over his eyes.

## "I wouldn't like to be the Shoemaker today," he said, and with that he moved off.

## Kairda didn't waste a moment but urged the cart and all in it across the road and down towards the railway station. Suddenly from behind her she heard Broughtman's voice calling her.

## "That's it Miss Brandon, very wise, get yourself out of here while you still have a chance."

## She didn't stop. How had they found out? What would happen to George?

## He would be trapped and would need her help.

## At the Midland Station, they unloaded their belongings and with the help of a porter trundled them through to the platform. She watched as the luggage was placed into the guards van, and at the last moment moved her suitcase to one side and replaced it back on the platform.

## "I'm going back," she said.

## "You'll not be able to help him," grunted Mr. Cogens.

## "He will need me. I might be the difference between success and failure...... Will you take me."?

## "Yer a fool.... But if you want to get yourself killed so be it." With that he picked up the case and bidding his family goodbye walked back to the cart.

## ********

## George moved the branch aside. From his position close by the lake he could make out the full extent of the camp spread out on the far side. Although they were obscuring his view of the gully this was not his greatest concern.

## How quickly would they react once the explosion occurred? That's what really worried him. Those close to the gully could even be caught up in it. There would be a natural tendency in the first few seconds for the other troops to rush to their aid, giving him longer to deal with Rosemary's killers. If they realised straight away from where the explosion had been triggered, he would still have several minutes before they reached this side of the lake.

## Those coming from the direction of the main house had already been informed that quarrying was due to start in the Matheson Quarry nearby. So the subterranean explosion and the sounds that followed would be thought, to come from the Quarry. It would not be until they reached the lake that they would realize what had happened, and then it would be too late.

## He had already heard the sound of keepers shooting rabbits away to the west. People at the main house hearing his gunfire would think it was the keepers. Climbing back up into the oak, he could now make out that three cars had arrived at the hunting lodge. The occupants would now be around the roaring fire that had been lit in the big room, directly above the catacombs. Two more vehicles were expected.

## Peering through his spyglass, he saw movement down at the southern end of the lake, the direction from which the trade unionist would appear. There were more arriving. He continued to wait. The only car to come from the north end, from the direction of Charnwood house, had arrived some minutes before. A small man with flowing white hair had dismounted, closely followed by a tall military man. Lloyd George and Kitchener had arrived.

## Slowly and deliberately George descended from the tree. It had begun.

## Ibreac stopped his pacing and looked down the long flight of stairs that led to the driveway below. McDowell stood at the rear of the black shining Rolls Royce. He appeared perfectly at ease. The great coat that he wore over his uniform did appear to be a little out of place, but nothing had been said. A second Rolls Royce moved, quietly into position behind the first. The chauffeurs of both vehicles remained in their seats.

## Dressed as he was in formal wear, it would be Ibreac's duty to accompany the Royal Motorcar. He would be required to perch precariously on the small seat at the rear of the vehicle. Alongside him would be the Royal detective. The seats were so precarious that any sudden movement would cause a loss of balance. He could now see McDowell speaking to the Royal chauffeur. He appeared to be giving him instruction on which direction to take.

## Ibreac glanced at his watch. The King accompanied by the Duke had been expected to leave at ten o'clock precisely; it was now ten past.

## There was movement behind him; he glanced over his shoulder. Appearing through the Georgian doors was the King accompanied by his secretary; the Duke was not with him.

## He watched as the King descended the stairs. What was going to happen? Where was the Duke? McDowell stood on the far side of the vehicle and stared straight into Ibreac eyes and smiled, everything was going according to plan. Ibreac relaxed and watching the footman open the door of the Rolls Royce for the King. He then moved down the stairs and took up his own position.

## It was normal procedure for the King to be accompanied where-ever he went. As the Duke was not here, would it be the King's secretary? Ibreac watched. No the King was apparently going to travel alone, with his secretary traveling behind with the other staff.

## Every thing seemed ready to move off. The royal chauffeur put the great car into gear and it began to move. McDowell was still standing beside the car. It turned slowly and he walked beside it, keeping pace. Just as it approached the end of the driveway, he opened the front passenger seat and slipped in alongside the chauffeur. Ibreac felt the detective move hesitantly beside him. The policeman said nothing. Slowly the vehicles began to move down through the parkland towards the lake.

## As they approached the bridge spanning the deep-sided stream. Ibreac saw McDowell lean across to the chauffeur and say something. The Rolls Royce accelerated perceptibly. Ibreac tensed himself and tightened his grip .The car jolted as the front wheels rose onto the bridge. The detective beside him lost his balance and reached out to steady himself. At the same time Ibreac seemed to lose his balance and hit the detective's shoulder preventing the man from saving himself. The detective slipped and fell from the car. Whether he was heard was debatable for at that same moment, a sharp crack was heard from beneath the Rolls Royce.

## The bridge jolted beneath them, but they were across. There were cries from behind them, as the detective struggled to get out of the stream and the second Rolls Royce plunged through the fractured bridge, its main support having been destroyed.

## The Royal Rolls Royce did not stop. The King looked round and noticed for the first time that his detective was no longer there. Instead he was looking down the barrel of heavy service revolver that Ibreac was holding. It was similar to the one that McDowell had jammed into the ribs of the chauffeur. McDowell felt intoxicated, it was falling into place far more smoothly than he had ever expected. Such was his euphoria that he could not remember if he had heard the dull thump of the catacombs being destroyed. Soon the lake would be in view and all would be revealed.

## George checked the measurements and positions for the umpteenth time. He was firing blind but was confident that he would hit the target. His mouth was dry; he took a swallow from his water bottle. Resting himself gently down on to the limb of the tree, he placed his eye against the view finder and adjusted the focus for the last time. He went through the procedure once again. He would fire; the bullet shattering the acid bottle would allow the acid to flow down across the plates generating an electric current. The first to detonate would be the filigree tree holding up the roof of the cavern, upon which the catacombs rested, and then would come the charge at the base of the wall holding the lake. It would be over in seconds

## All he could see, through the view finder, was the blank side of a kaki coloured tent. He took his eye away and saw troopers moving back and forth throughout the camp; once again he put his eye against the view finder. He began breathing in and out rhythmically; the morning air was still. This was the culmination of a year's work; he had suffered and lost many things but now was the time, as gentle as a feather, he squeezed the trigger and fired.

## For a moment nothing appeared to happen. He stayed motionless, his face against the bough of the tree seeking any vibration that might occur. He looked up; sounds of activity were coming from the camp. Through the glasses he could see men running back and forth, it was difficult to tell if they had located the source of the shot. Suddenly the tent that had been blocking his view, collapsed exposing the gully entrance. It was an opportunity he could not miss. Quickly he produced his second soft headed bullet and slipped it into the chamber. This time, through the sights, he could see the tiny white dot. It was still in place, his first shot had missed.

## Shaking and squeezing himself to stay calm, he checked his sights, all correct. The troops were still milling around like a dis-organised rabble. He forced himself to think clearly. He lay there, his eye never leaving the white dot. He squeezed and fired a second time. The bullet struck the rock wall, half an inch too high. He had missed a second time, not realising that the scope had been tampered with. He didn't have time to strip it down for he could see men pointing in his direction.

## Un-clipping the rifle, he snatched it from its cradle and scrambled down the tree. Moving swiftly through the undergrowth he arrive at his second firing position. Through the sights, he no longer needed the telescope, the tree stood out bold and clear; there would be no missing this target. Out of the corner of his eye he could just make out McDowell and the Royal party moving down towards the junction.

## He fired and watched the small spurt of smoke issue from the base of the tree. It shuddered for a moment and seemed poised undecided whether to fall or not. George held his breath. Slowly it toppled out across the track, blocking the road to the Hunting Lodge, leaving McDowell no option but to head down towards him.

## McDowell had heard the shots, and strained to hear the sound of falling masonry. His heart pounded, it had all taken so long and now the time had arrived. He kept his eye firmly on the chauffeur, the man was of medium stature, and McDowell felt, would not present a problem. What surprised him was the small neatly bearded figure that sat rigidly upright, his arms out stretched, supported on a black ebony and silver handled walking stick. There had been no exclamation, no outcry. The King had initially swung round with surprise ; he took in a deep breath as though controlling his senses but seeing the heavy revolver at his head, had sat back calmly as if this were a afternoon drive but his eyes never moved from McDowell.

## McDowell appeared to ignore him, but having caught sight of those sea blue eyes, steady and cold, had felt seeds of doubt crawl through the dark recesses of his mind. They had almost reached the junction; when he spotted a tall beech tree begin to topple. He shouted but the chauffeur was already braking.

## McDowell drove the gun barrel hard into the chauffeur's ribs, and heard him cry out in pain.

## "Down there," he ordered, pointing to the rough track.

## He felt elated, according to the plan, this meant the lodge had collapsed, yet he had heard nothing.

## He did not hear the third shot, only the crash of something tearing its way into the Rolls Royce. The sound of tortured metal came from beneath the bonnet. Smoke bellowed from the engine and the motor car staggered to a halt.

## "What's happened?" screamed Ibreac.

## "Be quiet," ordered McDowell. Glancing back surprised. He caught sight of the King's grim expression and that unblinking look. The merest trace of a smile played across the King's lips.

## There was silence. What the hell was Bagworth up to. McDowell felt exposed; the thought of Rosemary came into his mind.

## Away, in the direction of the lake, he could hear the sound of men's voices raised in anger. He opened his door and got out. Keeping the chauffeur covered, he moved quickly round to the driver's side and wrenched open the door.

## "Get out."

## The chauffeur, moving cautiously, left his seat. He watched McDowell all the time, his hands were shaking. McDowell pushed him towards the rear door.

## "Open it," ordered McDowell contemptuously. The chauffeur did as he was told.

## Ibreac in the meantime had slipped down and was standing on the far side, his gun trained on the King, who still sat there motionless, as though made of stone. McDowell moved back and with a wave of his gun ordered the King to dismount.

## "Get out, it's time to go for a walk."

## "How dare you speak to his Majesty in that manner?" protested the chauffeur.

## He would have said more, but McDowell drew back his gun and pistol whipped him. The man staggered back but did not fall. He straightened up; the blood pouring from his torn mouth ran down his uniform. McDowell was surprised at the man's courage. He looked back at the King.

## "Get out," he repeated.

## Slowly the King turned his head and looked McDowell full in the face.

## "Go to hell!"

## The expression left McDowell speechless, until he remembered that the King had been a seafarer for many years.

## He felt the hot flush of anger rush to his face. He was tempted to shoot him there and then, but that wasn't what he wanted.

## He stepped back, his lips turning up in a evil smile. Grabbing hold of the chauffeur he pulled him down until his head was jammed up against the motor car. Then he kicked the poor man in the groin. The chauffeur cried out and in doing so allowed McDowell to ram the barrel of the gun into his mouth.

## "Get out," he said, looking once more at the King.

## The colour drained from the King's face.

McDowell laughed as he saw the seafaring King mouth an obscenity.

### The King shuffled painfully across the seat and reaching the doorway raised himself slowly. With great difficulty, he limped from the car. Ibreac ran round and grabbed his arm. The King tried to shake himself free, but Ibreac had too strong a hold on him.

### Releasing the chauffeur, who sank to the ground, McDowell moved and took hold of the king's other arm and together they began to pull him, unceremoniously, towards the trees. After a few paces McDowell stopped and, looking at the King , smiled.

### There is something that needs to be done." he said.

He turned and walked back to where the chauffeur lay. Placing the gun against the man's head he calmly shot his brains out, as though putting a dog out of its misery. As he swaggered back the King looked sick and on the point of collapse, the fight drained from him. Grabbing his arm, McDowell whispered softly. That was just in case you might have thought we didn't mean business." What do you intend to do?" The King spoke softly, somewhat resigned." I should have thought that was obvious," chided McDowell. "It's not so much what, but how." They began walking through the trees. About a hundred yards on they came to a small clearing on the far side of which Bagworth stood waiting They stopped and released the King.

"Walk," ordered McDowell. "It's time to meet your maker."

### The King hobbled forward, leaning heavily on his stick. He had not seen the figure on the far side. Slowly he crossed the opening looking right and left. Suddenly Bagworth appeared almost beside him.

"That's the man who killed Rosemary," McDowell's voice echoed ghostly across the open space.

George worked the bolt of the rifle savagely. He heard the bullet enter the chamber. He moved across to where the King stood close by to a shallow gully. As he got closer George studied the man in front of him. A small man, medium built but robust, dressed in a morning suit, his silk hat clamped firmly on his head. There was something about the man that he had seen before. For a moment he stared at the man's gloved hands grasping his walking stick. He lifted his head and looked at the grey bearded face, a strong face, a face that he had seen before. The eyes, round sea blue eyes that now flashed defiantly. From the depths of each of their minds flashed memories, to the King, distant and vague, one amongst a thousand. To George a single strong memory of a day in hospital when, strapped in a wheel chair, he had been given a medal by this man, the most powerful monarch in the world. It clicked inside his head, this was not the foul drunken creature who had murdered his Rosemary, this was the Emperor King. He had been tricked; his loss, his despair had been turned against him forcing him to become a common murderer.

## "Who are you?" croaked the King, his voice hoarse and strained

## George wanted no more of this lying, no more deceit. It was pointless; he had lost the only thing worthwhile, the only honest person in this whole charade. What would happen in the next few hours was unknown to him; he had his plans but would they succeed; he didn't know and moreover he didn't care. He needed to reclaim his dignity.

## "My name is Richard Kahn. I am a commissioned officer in the Prussian guard sent here to sabotage your war effort and prevent the Americans from entering the war by assisting the Irish in their fight for freedom." He spoke in German.

## "And now you are to become a murderer, an assassin." Although the King had understood, he replied in English.

## "I am a soldier," protested George angrily. "They told me you had murdered the woman who was to be my wife."

## "They were lying to you."

## "Yes....I realise that now," out of the corner of his eye George saw McDowell raising a heavy revolver.

## "If I don't kill you, he will," George spoke softly, indicating McDowell's presence. With that he moved slowly backwards, shifting the rifle from one hand to another

## The colour drained from the King's face, he stood motionless, watching his every move.

## George lifted the rifle to his shoulder and lined up his sight. "When I say drop, drop to the ground."

## Defiance flared in the King's face and he shook his head angrily.

## Damn the old fool's pride, it could cost him his life, thought George. He moved his feet as though about to kick the King, and swung his body from the waist, keeping his shoulders rigid, and at the same time squeezing the trigger. The King flinched and stumbling dropped to his knees. George in his minds eye he saw the bullet whisper past the old man's beard, kissing his cheek like some distracted lover. The King cried out and fell sideways into the gully.

## McDowell smiled, there was a flash of supreme success on his face, as, for a fraction of a second, he stood his arm lifted in salute. The soft nosed bullet shattered his teeth and exploded inside his mouth. The back of his head burst outward, spraying his brains upon the surrounding hedgerow. He whirled like a dervish before falling to the ground.

## A high pitched scream rose to a hysterical howl as Ibreac appeared from behind a screen of undergrowth, his hands and face covered in McDowell's blood.

## George worked the bolt and a fresh bullet entered the chamber, keeping low he rushed to where Ibreac stood and rammed the butt of the rifle into young man's stomach. The youth folded, clutching his stomach

## George felt no mercy as he pointed the rifle at Ibreac's head.

## "It was you who killed her," he screamed.

## Ibreac looked at him through pain-filled eyes.

## "No" he pleaded, crawling painfully to his knees; he clawed at the ground pleading for mercy. "I didn't kill her."

## "Was it McDowell?"

## "No," cried Ibreac. George, filled with anger, raised the rifle. "She's not dead, she's alive."

## George was dumb struck. "Alive?" he mouthed.

## He began to turn, as from the far side of the clearing came the sound of gunfire. George cried out as he felt the rifle torn from his grasp, a bullet shattering the stock. Ibreac screamed again; George looked back and saw the youth stretched out on the ground, blood running from a wound in his chest, thick viscous blood gushed forth draining the life out of Ibreac; his screaming became a strangled rattle.

## The sound, like a huge wasp passing close by his ear, forced George to dive into the nearby bushes, he rolled and rolled. The bullets tearing at the shrubbery above him.

## Crouching low to the ground, George crabbed his way through the undergrowth, bullets so close that they tore pieces from his clothing; it was a miracle that he was not hit. The gun-fire was deafening as though the entire army was after him. He staggered to a halt, and lay gasping in amongst the roots of giant tree; his clothing tattered and soaked in mud. He could hear the thud of bullets ricocheting amongst the branches above, the noise, deafening.

## The firing eased and gradually through the trees he began to make the sound of someone calling.

## "Bagworth.....do you hear me...?"

## It was a shock to hear his name called.

## "Shoemaker," the voice sent a shiver down his back. "There's no escape. You are surrounded. There's an entire battalion around here. Would you rather be shot to pieces like a rat in a trap, or at least have the dignity of a trial and a firing squad. There is no other choice."

## He eased onto his stomach; it was there, the hut, so near and yet across twenty yards of open ground. He needed to reach it to stand a chance. Raising himself to his feet, he paused and then keeping low, ran for his life. He concentrated on the door, he was going to make it; it was as if he were surrounded by a swarm of hornets.

## He dived forward just as a bullet grazed his back searing him as if it were a red hot poker. The door was stiff but the pain and fear gave him super-human strength for he forced it. He screamed as he felt a bullet slice through the flesh of his leg muscle, the pain almost paralysing his leg. Frantically he pushed the door shut, dropping the steel bar across. He lay there panting as he listened to the bullets thud against the walls, watching the mound of explosive that was stacked beside him, praying that a bullet did not penetrate the thick door.

## "Cease fire," screamed the voice. Who was this man who seemed to know him so

## The shaft, he had to reach it. Ignoring the pain, he dragged himself across the earth floor, and pushed away the cover concealing the shaft. Dangling his legs over the edge, he eased himself into the shaft until his feet rested on a ledge. His fingers were numb as he struggled to reach the matches in his pocket. Time was slipping by; he had to get on. He gripped the matches and struck several, they flared burning his hand. He cried out letting them go, dropping them to ground narrowly missing the trail of black powder he has prepared. With a choking cry of frustration and pain he brushed the rapidly fading matches onto the trail, and with relief watched it flare and began its journey across the floor. He ducked down into the tunnel below. He had wasted valuable seconds. The powder box would ignite; its intense heat and the carefully stacked wood that surrounded it would melt the thin lead pipe that concealed a stick of gelignite. This he estimated would give him just enough time to reach the underground tank and safety, before the explosion.

## "Keep your men under cover," Broughtman shouted, waving the elderly infantry captain to keep down. "He's cornered now, but we must still be careful."

## The captain looked at him disapprovingly. "My men are not cowards," he protested.

## "Let's hope they are not fools either,"

## A sergeant wriggled into view.

## "We have reached the far side," he reported.

## "Good," Broughtman was relieved. "He's not going anywhere."

## "There is smoke coming from the hut," pointed the sergeant, "The place is on fire."

## Both Broughtman and the infantry captain rose to their feet, and, looking through their glasses, examined the hut.

## The thick limestone walls of the hut compressed the explosion, compacted it, and held it, until the force could not be contained any longer. Converting the large lime stones into thin shafts of arrow shaped rocks they exploded outward with volcanic force, tearing all before them into pitiless shards of flesh and wood and earth.

## Suddenly Broughtman was conscious of a shuddering sensation running through his feet the hut in front of him appeared to grow. There was a sudden crack followed by a roar. He dropped his glasses and stared transfixed at the fire ball,

## "My God! Get down," he screamed. The fire ball came upon them with the force of a hurricane. He felt the skin on his face burn with an intense heat. He saw the flesh on his hands peel away as he raised them to protect his face. He fell forward onto the ground. The ground itself was on fire. The sounds about him were those of hell. The crackling and hiss of fire, the demented cries of dying men and the overpowering smell of burning flesh.

## Inside the tunnel, George reached the entrance to the tank, just as he felt the earth shudder. Throwing himself forward, through the hole, he plunged into the water filled tank. It saved his life; the water that surrounded him saved his lungs from being burnt from the intense heat filling the cavern above him. Even after he rose, the air was scalding hot. He struck out and reaching up grasped the edge that would lead to the tunnel. He had to get into it before the roof of the tank collapsed. His fingers refused to grip; forcing himself up he managed lift himself onto his elbows. He could hear the roof above cracking; rocks began to fall into the water behind him, any one of them large enough to fracture his skull. With what seemed infinite slowness, he wriggled into the safety of the tunnel. He was on his stomach, thrashing about, trying to gain those last few inches when the rock landed on the back of his leg.

## His leg cracked and snapped like a piece of dried wood, his knee joint wrenched from its socket. The pain filled his head and he screamed, fighting to stay conscious.

## He was trapped, unable to move, he had no hope of escape with a broken leg. It was all over. He lay, his head in the dust, and sobbed; so near and yet so far. Rosemary was alive, he dug his fingers into the rock floor with frustration, and felt himself move. He did it again and again. He moved a fraction. With tantalising slowness he began to drag himself along the tunnel to the cavern beyond.

## At first he was not conscious of the dust falling. Soon it got into his eyes and mouth. It became hard to breath; he choked, and began to suffocate. Through the cloud of dust, he could just make out the cavern ahead but he was drowning in dust. Gage and the miners were to have their revenge after all. He was to die the same way as they did.

## He felt something touch his fingers, then his hand, something was gripping his wrist. He could feel himself being pulled. He choked but slowly he was being dragged clear.

## "Oh! Glory. You're alive," gasped Kairda as she heaved him clear of the tunnel and they fell back into the cavern.

## "My leg....it's broken," he screamed.

## "We've got to get out of here," through dust filled eyes he could just make her out. "There's no time to waste.....Quick get your arm round my shoulder."

## "Thank God you are here," George gasped. "I was a dead man back there."

## As they slowly dragged themselves across the floor to the waiting trap outside, she could not help but think how right he was. To the world he was now a dead man. There would be no going back. It was time they went and saw her mother and the little white house by the sea shore in County Sligo.

## "It's all over now," Kairda whispered as she cradled him in her arms, carefully cleaning the dirt from his eyes. "Let's go home."

##

### Here Endeth the Lesson

### Charnwood Park Early Spring 1973

### In the beginning the two books had been a complete mystery to Stella. The whole affair being an intriguing adventure The diary was in English but the other book was black and had a faded eagle engraved into the leather cover. This was in German and it wasn't until much later during her university life that the books began to take on a more serious effect on her life.

### Her university studies had enabled her to slowly but surely realise that the two books had to be protected. The two things had counter balanced each other , the books helped her studies and her studies allowed her to unravel the books. By then she began to realise that the letter containing the old man's instructions were clear and precise. The letter had told her of this place and where to hide the books, Somehow or other she became convinced that the information he had given her was genuine, it had been a slow process. Carefully and with great caution she had done what he asked. This was all done by letter, starting with the shaft and the cavern, and on each occasion she reported her progress. She could tell he was old and tired It was almost as though he had handed the baton on to her before he had died. Finally the books arrived, first the diary and then sometime later the Black Book. Both had been sent from Ireland.

### Both books were in code, a subject that she beginning to have knowledge of as she had been given the cipher, now she was able to open the secret of the Rubicon Crossing

### She sat there looking at her typewriter, studying the last few lines of the analysis that she had completed. She had moved back up into the cabin as the winter had been too cold to stay down in the cavern for any length of time. But she always very careful and made certain that her information was returned to its hiding place when-ever she finished for the day. The old man's desire to tell his story before he died was justified in itself, and it did explain a lot.

### The King had fallen into a gully and had been saved from the carnage that raged above him. He was eventually rescued and returned safely to Charnwood House.

Without the King, both Lloyd George and Kitchener swiftly vacated the hunting lodge , but neither of them managed to persuade the trade unionists to agree to the more radical elements of the Welshman's plan and, without the unions compliance, Lloyd George dared not attempt to put it through Parliament. They went their separate ways and soon after Kitchener left for Russia aboard the H.M.S Hampshire, which was sunk with the loss of all souls in June 1916.

### It had taken several months before Richard Khan, alias George Bagworth, could be smuggled out of England, disguised as a dying nun, and for he and Kairda to reach her mother's house on the sea-shore in County Sligo. His talents were put to good use, firstly by the Irish Republican forces and, after partition, by the Irish Free State, ending up in command of ordinance. For services rendered he was issued with one of the first Irish passports in the name of Richard Brandon. He and Kairda eventually married, and had a son who they called Stephen.

### Stella was relieved to be able to explain to her grandmother, Rosemary, that the man she had truly loved all those years ago had not died as she thought but then again he had never been able to reveal himself to her either.

### The struggles he had had in crossing through the lines, and establishing himself in the coalfields of Nottinghamshire before setting forth on his final journey was in fact a side show,

### Richard Khan, aka George Bagworth, aka Richard Brandon, call him who you like .His story was contained more or less in the diary.

### The Black Book on the other hand was another matter. How that had come into her possession was something of a mystery; she had always assumed that the two items , the diary and the black book had been given to her by either the old man , Richard Brandon, or his son Stephen. They had been posted separately the diary from Dublin, but the Black Book from a place deep in the south, called Tralee. However since the old mans death, Professor Stephan Brandon had only occasionally referred to the diary hoping to eventually write his father's story, never once had he referred to the other book, as though he was unaware of its existence

### She had been with the department for over ten years and had learnt to be suspicious of the obvious, yet she had observed that with interest.

Shortly after, the Kaiser had abdicated and left for exile in Holland in Nov 1918. Karl Malinin , the now ex head of Prussian Intelligence had watched as a group of soldiers struggled with the iron safe, which they placed securely into the back of his large open tourer Mercedes Benz. It was nearly dark by the time he and Ammerson ,his trusted retainer, drove out of the confines of the War Ministry and headed for the eastern border. Their eventual destination unknown and whether they ever reached it, is still a mystery for they were never heard of again.

### The Black Book was obviously Malinin's Bible and was his grand plan in controlling society; this has been followed by many major countries to this day .

### The Black Book code was not just an ordinary code it had been layered into a series of many codes that told the story, but each layer explained only a limited amount. Only when all the layers had been deciphered was the philosophy revealed and it was this that laid the ground work for espionage across the world.

### War especially, Total War, in Malinin's mind was not just a matter of armies facing each other; it was far more than that.

### Having started life as a minor professor of philosophy and a reservist Officer in the Prussian Guard. He had been fortunate to meet with a like minded and ambitious officer , a Colonel Ludendorf who had persuaded his superiors that the Prussian Intelligence Service needed to be expanded so that it was superior to anything that might exist elsewhere Malinin was appointed head of this new organisation.

### The Franco -Prussian War had supplied a war chest of monumental proportions They had soaked the French dry , something in the region of 300 million in gold. The Kaiser was persuaded to finance this service generously

### In the first decade of the 20th century, the underlying political atmosphere was volcanic and into this melting pot Malinin cast his nets realising that to find out who ones opponents were it was necessary to become one of them; To be at the forefront of financing the clubs and societies which spawned this opposition. First within Prussia but soon the tentacles extended beyond the borders into Russia, France, the Mediterranean Countries, and also England Ireland and soon the USA.

### All this Malinin recorded in his own code within the black leather book, now lying in Stella 's hands.

### She sat there deep into the night; what she held in her hand was potentially a Pandora's Box.

### She had spent the last dozen years studying many if not all of the intelligence services through out the world, and she realised that her present position within academia gave her the possibility to use her new knowledge to great effect and with every possibility of enhancing her position in life. Should she go down that road; did she have the mental and intellectual strength to withstand the trauma that would envelope her?

### Christmas Eve..1973

### The restaurant was one of the best that Dublin could offer. It had a nice quiet comfortable ambience where people could dine and feel totally relaxed but there was that feeling of delicious luxury..

### Stella had felt obliged to splash out on a new dress and she had spent most of the afternoon in the hairdressers. She felt that her male companion was suitably impressed.

### The lighting was soft and flattering

### She could feel that Stephan Brandon was dying to ask the question.

"Well what did you find out?"

### Such a simple question.

### She had spent months trying to wrestle with that simple question.

### What had she found out?

"Just that you are the son of Kairda and Richard Brandon and my paternal grandfather was also Richard Brandon ."

### She paused to gather her thoughts. She had made her mind up.

"And that a Prussian Officer prevented the assassination of George V and neutralised a Bolshevik revolution.

"Was that my father?"

### She looked at him thoughtfully, but said nothing.

"Well? "He demanded.

"Who knows?" She felt in a teasing mood." Either way, what ever this Prussian Officer had done, the King had presented him only a few months previously with this "

### Slowly she pushed across the table a small velvet covered box .

### He opened it and looked down at the Victoria Cross.

"Well that's an interesting puzzle. You should write a book about it."

### She smiled, "Perhaps I will. In the mean time, are you going to order? I am starving."

