Then suddenly, as we waited for Symonds' second report on Mitchell, an old case fell into our laps. Sir Anthony Blunt, Surveyor of the Queen's Pictures, international art historian, and former wartime senior officer for MI5, confessed in April 1964 to having spied for Russia throughout the war. It brewed up in late 1963, when MI5 were informed by the FBI that an American citizen, Michael Whitney Straight, had told them that Blunt had recruited him for the Soviets while they were both at Cambridge University in the 1930s. Arthur Martin flew over to interview Straight, who confirmed the story, and agreed to testify in a British court if necessary.
The question of how to handle the Blunt case was considered at a series of meetings in Hollis' office. The management saw it as a dreadful embarrassment. In the everlasting game of inter-Secret Service rivalry, the fact that MI6 had harbored proven traitors, but thus far MI5 had not, was of enormous importance to the Service's prestige in Whitehall. Hollis, in particular, craved the respect of mandarins in the Cabinet and Home Office, and feared the effect the Blunt case would have on MI5's status. Beyond this, there was a terror of scandal. Hollis and many of his senior staff were acutely aware of the damage any public revelation of Blunt's activities might do to themselves, to MI5, and to the incumbent Conservative Government. Harold Macmillan had finally resigned after a succession of security scandals, culminating in the Profumo affair. Hollis made little secret of his hostility to the Labor Party, then riding high in public opinion, and realized only too well that a scandal on the scale that would be provoked by Blunt's prosecution would surely bring the tottering Government down.
Arthur and I had simple motivations. We wanted to get our hands on Blunt as soon as possible, to see if he could shed any light on the question of further penetration of MI5. A trial involving Straight would in any case be unlikely to succeed, and would delay, if not jeopardize entirely, our chances of ever gaining his cooperation. The decision to offer Blunt immunity was possibly the only decision of note concerning the penetration of MI5 where all parties agreed, and after the matter had been cleared with the Attorney-General, Blunt was confronted by Arthur Martin and almost immediately admitted his role as Soviet talent spotter and spy.
A few days after Blunt confessed, I was buzzed by Hollis' secretary early one evening and told to come to the DG's office at once. Hollis and F.J. were sitting on either side of his desk, looking solemn; Victor Rothschild was standing at the window staring out across Green Park.
"Hello, Victor," I said, a little surprised that he had not warned me of his visit to the building.
"Thank you for coming, Peter," he replied in a brittle voice, turning to face me. He looked distraught.
"I have just told Victor about Anthony," said Hollis, interrupting quickly.
Little wonder Victor looked devastated. Blunt and he had been close friends for nearly thirty years, first at Cambridge, and then during the war, when both men served inside MI5. After the war their careers took them on different paths. They were both men of extraordinary gifts in an increasingly gray world, and their relationship remained close. Like Blunt, Victor also fell under suspicion after the Burgess/ Maclean defections. He had been friendly with Burgess as an undergraduate, and had originally owned the lease on a house off Welbeck Street, No. 5 Bentinck Street, where Blunt and Burgess both lived during the war. But while the suspicions against Victor swiftly melted, those against Blunt remained, particularly after Courtney Young interviewed him in the mid-1950s.
Victor's main concern, as soon as he was told the truth, was how to break the news to his wife, Tess. He knew as well as I did that news of Blunt's treachery would, if anything, have a more traumatic effect on her than on him. I had got to know Tess Rothschild well since first meeting Victor in 1958. She was a woman of great charm and femininity, and was closer to Blunt in many ways than Victor had ever been. She understood the vulnerable side of his character, and shared with him a love for art. In the 1930s she moved in that same circle of gifted left-wing intellectuals who studied in Cambridge, partied in London, and holidayed at Cap Ferrat, as the world tottered into World War II.
When war broke out, Tess Mayer, as she then was, joined MI5, where she served with great bravery and distinction alongside her future husband. During this period, she too had rooms in No. 5 Bentinck Street along with Blunt and Burgess. Tess' other roommate was Pat Rawdon-Smith, later Lady Llewellen-Davies. Tess was well aware of MI5's doubts about Blunt after the Burgess/Maclean defections, but she defended him to the hilt. Both she and her husband, Victor, knew how it felt to be innocent, yet fall under suspicion through having been friendly with Guy Burgess. To her, Blunt was a vulnerable and wonderfully gifted man, cruelly exposed to the everlasting burden of suspicion by providence and the betrayals of Guy Burgess.
"Anthony used to come back tight to Bentinck Street, sometimes so tight that I had to help him into bed," she used to say. "I would have known if he was a spy..."
Victor realized that we would need to interview Tess now that Blunt had confessed, but he dreaded telling her the truth.
"That is why I asked you up to Roger's office," he said quietly. "I think it would be better if the news came from you."
I knew that he needed to get away from Leconfield House, and gather his thoughts alone.
"Of course," I said, as gently as I could, suggesting that I bring Evelyn McBarnet as well, since Tess knew her.
A few days later Evelyn and I took a taxi over to St. James's Place. We were shown up to Victor's study, a light, scholarly room overlooking Green Park, and stamped with his extraordinary character-paintings, scientific diagrams, musical instruments, books ancient and modern, and on the wall a huge self-designed slide rule. There was also a piano, on which Victor played jazz with great skill and elan. Victor was ill-at-ease, and I could tell that Tess sensed something was wrong. After a few minutes, Victor said I had some news for her, then slipped out of the room.
"Is there anything wrong, Peter?" she asked nervously.
"It's Anthony," I told her, "he has confessed at last."
"What to? You are not saying he was a spy?"
"Yes, I am, Tess."
For a second she raised her hand to her mouth as if in pain; then she let it slip gently onto her lap. I told her the story as best I could: of how he had admitted being recruited in 1937, a year or two after Philby, Burgess, and Maclean, and how he had given a long and detailed account of his espionage activities throughout the war. Tess did not cry; she just went terribly pale, and sat hunched up and frozen, her eyes staring at me as she listened. Like Victor, she was a person for whom loyalty in friendship was of surpassing importance; to have it betrayed shook her, as it had him, to the core.
"All those years," she whispered, "and I never suspected a thing."
I began to understand for the first time the intensity of feelings which had been forged in the crucible of those strange, long-ago years in Cambridge in the 1930s.
The Blunt confession had a drastic effect on Arthur's behavior. After years of toil, here finally was proof that he had been right all along. From the beginning he suspected Blunt, even though many people in the office, like Dick White, who had been close friends with Blunt during the war, initially doubted that it was possible. Arthur became even more driven, even more difficult to handle. He had the look of a man who could smell red meat, a ravenous, voracious manner as he collected his ancient scalp.