Question: who was that man in the shadows watching me?
Only now do I sense the after-shock, feel my nerves set on edge. The Zeppelin, the bombs, the dead bodies, the screams. Seeing Blanche again, being with her, made me push everything else to the back of my mind, including that strange meeting in Exeter Street – part of the madness and horror of the night. Was somebody trying to frighten me? A warning? Vandenbrook was in Folkestone, in theory – but I can’t believe that he’d ever try anything so self-destructive, so against his best interests. I’m his only hope.
I sit here and re-run the seconds’ glimpse I had of him sprinting away. Why do I think of Jack Fyfe-Miller? What makes me think that? No – surely mistaken identity. But, this much is clear, someone was waiting outside the Annexe, saw me dash out and followed me as I ran towards the bombs . . .
Last night as we lay in each other’s arms we spoke.
ME: I still have the ring – our ring . . .
BLANCHE: What are you trying to say, my darling?
ME: That, you know, maybe we should never have broken off our engagement. I suppose.
BLANCHE: Am I meant to read that as a re-proposal of sorts?
ME: Yes. Please say yes. I’m a complete fool. I’ve missed you, my love – I’ve been living in a daze, a coma.
Then we kissed. Then I went and took the ring from the card pocket inside my jacket.
ME: I’ve been carrying it with me. Good luck charm.
BLANCHE: Have you needed a lot of luck, since we split up?
ME: You’ve no idea. I’ll tell you all about it one day. Oh. Perhaps I should ask. What about Ashburnham?
BLANCHE: Ashburnham is a nonentity. I’ve banished him from my presence.
ME: I’m delighted to hear it. I just had to ask.
BLANCHE [putting ring on]: Look, it still fits. Good omen.
ME: You won’t mind being Mrs Lysander Rief? No more Miss Blanche Blondel?
BLANCHE: It’s better than my real name. I was born [Yorkshire accent] Agnes Bleathby.
ME [Yorkshire accent]: Thee learn summat new every day, Agnes, flower. Happen.
BLANCHE: We’re all acting, aren’t we? Almost all the time – each and every one of us.
ME: But not now. I’m not.
BLANCHE: Me neither. [Kissing renewed fiancé] Still, it’s just as well that some of us can make a living from it. Come here, you.
I’ve drafted out a telegram – I’ll call in at a telegraph office on the way to the Annexe. Everything’s changed now.
DEAR VANORA SAD NEWS STOP YOUR AUNT INDISPOSED SUGGEST POSTPONE LONDON TRIP STOP ANDROMEDA.
At a halfpenny a word that’s probably the wisest seven pennies I’ve ever spent.
15. A Dozen Oysters and a Pint of Hock
Lysander timed his walk to the Annexe from Trevelyan House and discovered that, at a brisk pace, it took him slightly more than five minutes. He felt briefly pleased at the economies of time and money such proximity to his place of work would supply, but then abruptly reminded himself that his days in the Annexe must, surely, be nearly over. Matters were coming to a head, and fast – still, he had one more trick left to play.
As he sauntered up the Embankment, past Cleopatra’s Needle, about to cross the roadway to the Annexe, he saw Munro coming towards him. Too many impromptu meetings, he thought – first Fyfe-Miller, now Munro. Anxiety must be building in Whitehall Court.
‘Well, what a coincidence.’
‘Cynicism doesn’t suit your open, friendly nature, Rief. Shall we have a coffee before your daily grind begins?’
There was a coffee stall under Charing Cross Railway Bridge. Munro ordered two mugs and Lysander lit a cigarette.
‘Quite a raid last night,’ Munro said.
‘Why can’t we shoot down something that big? That’s what I don’t understand. It’s vast. Sitting up there in the sky, lit up.’
‘There’s only one anti-aircraft gun in London with a range of ten thousand feet. And it’s French.’
‘Couldn’t we borrow a few more from them? The Zeppelins will be back, don’t you think?’
‘Let others worry about that, Rief. We’ve got enough on our plate. Actually, I will try one of your “gaspers”, thank you.’
Lysander gave him one and he lit it, then spent a minute picking shreds of tobacco off his tongue. He wasn’t really a practised smoker, Munro, it was more of an affectation than a pleasure.
‘How are you getting on?’ he asked eventually.
‘Slow but steady –’
‘– Wins the race, eh? Don’t go too slow. Any suspects?’
‘A few. Better not single anyone out, just yet – in case I’m wrong.’
He saw Munro’s jaw muscles tighten.
‘Don’t expect us to tolerate your due caution for ever, Lysander. You’re there to do a job, not sit on your arse sharpening pencils. So do it.’
He was suddenly very angry for some reason, Lysander saw, noting the patronizing use of his Christian name.
‘I’m not asking for your tolerance,’ he said, trying to seem calm. ‘I’ve got to make this enquiry look as boring and routine as possible. You wouldn’t thank me if I scared someone off or presented you with the wrong person all for the sake of gaining a day or two.’
Munro seemed visibly to regain his usual mood of thinly disguised condescension as he thought about this.
‘Yes . . . Well . . . I understand you sent for Osborne-Way’s claims from the War Office.’
‘Yes, I did.’ Lysander concealed his surprise. How did Munro know this? An answer came to him at once – Tremlett, of course. Munro’s eyes and ears in the Directorate of Movements. Eye and ears, rather. He would keep Tremlett’s divided loyalties very much in mind from now on. ‘Osborne-Way potentially knows everything that was in the Glockner letters, he’s –’
‘You had no right.’
‘I had every right.’
‘Andromeda’s not Osborne-Way.’
‘We can’t be complacent; we can’t risk easy assumptions.’
He could see Munro’s anger returning – why was he so on edge and quick-tempered? He decided to change the subject.
‘I saw Florence Duchesne the other day.’
‘I know.’
‘Is she still in London?’
‘She’s left I’m afraid.’
‘Oh. Right. I was rather hoping to see her again.’ Lysander felt a brief but acute sadness at this news – maybe something had been lost there. For some reason he thought of her as his only true ally – they seemed to understand each other; they were both functionaries following orders from a source neither of them knew or could identify. Their strings were being pulled – that’s what linked them . . . He looked at Munro, puffing at his cigarette like a girl. He decided that attack was the best means of defence, now.
‘Are you telling me everything, Munro? Sometimes I find myself wondering – what’s really going on here?’
‘Just find Andromeda – and fast.’ He threw some coins on the counter, gave him a hard smile and walked away.
Lysander went back to the Annexe with a plan forming in his head, slowly taking shape. If Munro wanted action, then he would give him action.
Tremlett was waiting for him outside Room 205 and seemed unusually chirpy – ‘Nice cuppa tea, sir? Warm the old cockles?’ – but Lysander looked at him suspiciously now, wondering what Tremlett might have gleaned from their trip to the south-coast hotels. On reflection it seemed unlikely that he’d make the connection with Vandenbrook; Lysander had never told him what he was doing, making Tremlett wait outside each time. But he was no fool. Would he have passed on the details of their journey to Munro, in any event? Probably – even if he couldn’t explain it. Was that what was making Munro and Fyfe-Miller so jumpy? Did they have a sense that he was ahead of them, was unearthing facts that they had no inkling of? . . . The unanswered questions piled up and yet again Lysander felt himself sinking in a quagmire of uncertainties. He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a booklet of pre-paid telegraph forms. He’d give them something that would make them think again.