He/knew Brooks was discussing something with Beaumont, and that Salter was close to being drunk, but he was able to detach himself from all of them.
Fair, Brooks had said. Yet he had just enjoyed some minced pheasant with asparagus tips and Madeira sauce, and was now washing it down with some 1928 Chateau Yquem. It was incredible. Drummond thought back over the last months, the food he had eaten in his sea cabin after its perilous journey along the upper deck. Even the loyal Owles could not keep a certain amount of salt spray from reaching under his dish cover. Spam. Tinned sausages. And, if you were lucky, the occasional wedge of tough beef. He watched the waiter lay a dish of ice cream before him and smiled. Fair.
He thought suddenly of the girl. Sarah. A nice name. How good it would have been to be with her across the table from him. Make all those red-tabbed staff officers turn and stare. He frowned. But she probably came to places like the Savoy every week.
The head waiter came to the table.
“An air-raid warning has just been sounded, sir.” It was almost an apology.
Brooks grunted. “I see. We’ll go round to my club and talk for a while, if that suits, gentlemen?”
The bead waiter looked at Salter, whose head was lolling.
There was wine slopped over his shirt-front.
“Perhaps a taxi for the gentleman, sir?” Beaumont flashed a grin. “Just the thing.”
They left the table with Salter still dozing to await his transport.
The elderly waiter waited for Brooks and Beaumont to leave the grill room and then asked timidly, “You’re Commander Drummond, sir?” He was bent, and looked as if he rarely slept.
“Yes.” Drummond felt some of the other diners staring at him. “Is something wrong?”
“My boy, sir. He served with you …” He faltered, his hands winding and unwinding his napkin. “I saw you afterwards. At the funeral.”
Drummond looked at him and then touched his arm. “What was his name?”
“Jelkes, sir. He was a-
“I remember.” It pushed across the faces and the gleaming tables like a screen. A round-faced youth, full of fun. Could he really have been this man’s son? “Leading Telegraphist. And a good one. I’m very sorry. ” Another picture. The bomb bursting in the sea close against Warlock’s hull. The screaming splinters scything through the frail plating. The old waiter’s son had almost been cut in half.
The man said, “He always spoke very kindly of you, sir.” Beaumont’s voice was coming back, and Drummond said, “I’m glad you told me.”
“Did you enjoy your meal, sir?” Their eyes held.
“Bloody good. I hope I can come again soon.”
The waiter watched him go. He would tell her about this when he got home in the early hours.
A red-faced group captain asked sharply, “Who was that, Jelkes?”
The waiter regarded him impassively. “A gentleman, sir. Just a gentleman.”
7
During the Night
“JUST tell me this, Keith.” Beaumont leaned back comfortably in the neat canvas chair and tucked a napkin into the front of his jacket. “Do you believe in fate?”
Drummond pushed a persistent fly away from his face and tried to regain a sense of reality. The staff car in which he and Beaumont had driven from London was partly hidden beneath the shade of two great oaks, and as far as the eye could see there appeared to be nothing but open fields, neat green hedgerows and occasional clumps of trees. Beyond the nearest hedge he heard the irregular growl of heavy transport, the rarer note of a car. Otherwise there was nothing to show the closeness of the main road which headed to the West Country.
The marine driver had the car boot open and was carefully placing sandwiches on paper plates, and Drummond could see a bottle of something glistening in a silver bucket.
“Sometimes.”
Beaumont regarded him with amusement. “You’re too canny. That’s your trouble by half.”
Drummond smiled. Beaumont was obviously very pleased with himself and all that had happened in London.
He was saying, “I thought this would be a good place to stop for a bite. Almost halfway to Falmouth. I used to own quite a piece of land hereabouts, but had to let it all go for the war effort.” He grinned. “At a fair price, of course.”
The marine said, “Shall I open the bottle, sir?”
“Unless you want me to do it with my teeth.” Beaumont added sarcastically, “Be careful with it, man. The way you drive won’t have done it much good.
Drummond watched the man’s back as he stooped over the bottle. He could almost feel his resentment.
Beaumont was unconcerned. “Strange how things work out. Between ourselves for the moment, but you’ll have to know sooner or later. ” He glanced across at the perspiring marine and lowered his voice. “Nick Brooks has certainly been looking into things since we brought our catch to Falmouth. It seems there are more reasons than we imagined for mounting an attack on that Norwegian fjord.”
“I guessed as much.”
Drummond saw the merest twitch of annoyance on Beaumont’s smooth features. Like a child whose secret has come to light too soon. But it passed just as quickly.
“With the better weather on the Russian front, and Ivan trying to get his own back against the Germans, the enemy’s need of fuel is more desperate than ever. Hitler, after all, is an army man, and sees more sense in giving priority to tanks and transport than to costly, and in his eyes useless, capital ships.”
He paused as the marine handed them the plates and placed glasses on a small folding table.
Drummond asked quietly, “The big German ships are being kept at anchor because of a fuel shortage?”
It sounded like just one more myth. Wooden tanks the Germans were said to have had when their army slammed into Poland. They had turned out to be very strong indeed. Only a handful of submarines, none of which could operate deep into the Atlantic, and so on. He wondered if it had been men like Miles Salter whose optimism and lies had caused so many losses and deaths in those early days of war.
Beaumont lifted the corner of a sandwich and nodded. “Smoked salmon. A word in the right place still has some value, it seems.” He looked up again. “I know what you’re thinking, but this time it’s true. Our intelligence people and the Norwegian underground have left no doubt that the Germans are in a bad way for fuel until the winter closes down again. The big ships can still come out for something worthwhile, of course. A nice, fat, Russian-bound convoy, for instance. But the fuel will not be squandered, you can rely on that!”
The bright sunlight lanced through the wine as the marine poured it carefully into their glasses. Drummond watched Beaumont’s face as he tested it with a careful sip. What would he do, he wondered, if it didn’t suit? Send the poor marine all the way back to London for another bottle probably. But it was good to enjoy the drowsy heat, the sounds of insects and birds, and the distant rattle of a tractor. The sky was an open blue, and there was nothing, not even a vapour trail, to give any stain of the war. Just two naval officers sitting in a field, eating smoked salmon and drinking hock. He grinned, despite his normal reserve. Some war.
“That’s more like it.” Beaumont nodded at him. “Relax a bit. Take it off your back. We’ve earned a break. ” He looked across at the car where the marine was opening his Thermos and a packet of cheese rolls. “The German Navy has got a fuel dump in the same fjord as the midget submarine school.”
Just like that. Drummond stared at him, a sandwich halfway to his lips. The sun and sky, the clicking insects and cheerful birds seemed to fade away before Beaumont’s simple comment. Peace and escape, they were the myth.
He heard himself say, “And we’re going for the lot, sir?”