Rocky Times 1939
Prelude
December 24th 1939
‘It was the best of times and it was the worst of times’ Gusoyn struggled briefly to recall who had penned the line, before reflecting that it hardly mattered under the circumstances and taking another sip of his Champagne. Oh he’d know it was coming of course, should he have been in Europe… but he’d never thought to find the classical symptoms here in a room full of Daemons. All the same, there was no mistaking the twinkle in the ladies eyes and the sparkle in their laughter, or the gentlemen puffing out their chests just that little more than usual. Expensive perfume mingling with more than a hit of machismo on the wind ‘hmmm’ he breathed deeply and savoured the heady aroma of empires collapsing and Gomorra come again.
It took war to put this particular electricity in the air; to turn normal opulence into the frenetic hedonism of Armageddon’s Eve, to send neck lines and moral standards plunging while hem lines and euphoria soared, to give people that sense of being truly alive and set them dancing on the razor’s edge. Other lines of prose presented themselves; how the prospect of a hanging concentrates the mind, it is good that war is so terrible lest we grow too fond of it, be merry afore tomorrow ye may die. But to Gusoyn it was Dickens, the name popping into his head as he knew it would eventually, that had summed it up best.
Gusoyn had no love of war, he knew full well the horrors it bought. But if thousands, tens of thousands, possibly millions were to die, well at least the world was in for a few years of superb parties. Gus was as informed as the next man and probably more so than most, but on this he trusted his nose more than any reasoned analysis, and to have spread far enough to infect daemons in Long Island… well it looked like this could be the big one. ‘All the more reason to make the most of things then’ he reasoned and drained his glass.
On the far side of the room, Sir Humphrey Appleby would have heartily concurred with the elder daemon’s view of the situation and on the prospects for a good time to, that is if he’s spared either matter a thought. Humpy was just as fond of a little hedonism as the next chap, but he did have a job to do. Having come over from London as part of a delegation with the British Purchasing Commission, he’d naturally consulted with Mister Stuyvesant on the matter of small craft for the Royal Navy, but this evening was his first opportunity to talk over more pressing matters, money, contingencies and holiday arrangements.
Teaching had long been an attractive niche for those British daemons who could summon the courage to front a classroom, particularly the ladies. So with Britain evacuating school children out from under the potentially gaseous clouds of conflict, it was only prudent to slip a few ‘non-essential’ daemons out of the UK as minders, escorts and chaperones. Much the same was happening across the channel too, and while hardly the largest daemonic migration on record, there were still arrangements to be made and Appleby had been delegated to liase across the Atlantic on behalf of the Circle and the Paris Commune.
Nell Gwyn would most likely have been a founding member of the London Circle if she hadn’t followed the Seer’s group over to America. But that was probably for the best, the British daemons were mostly from the boom of Empire and it showed. Some wag had once suggested that daemons don’t out grow their parent cultures, they out lived them, and to a child of the Restoration and a ‘Random’ Nell found the mostly middle class Georgian and Victorian ‘Bloomers’ a little starchy. She’d also had one or two glasses of Champagne more than perhaps she should have. Seeing the Seer and Humpy relax, Nell thought it time for a little fun. Collaring her carefully selected stalking horse she swept across the room and inserted herself into the conversation.
Nelly arrived just as Humpy was asking the Seer if he knew any stonemasons, and looking up to see both the twinkle in Nell’s eye and her companion, Parmineo put his millennia of tactical experience to good use. “Shipwrights yes, but no stonemasons, perhaps you might ask Michael? I need a fresh drink, anyone?” Tipping Nell a sly wink, he slipped off in search of a decanter and to find a safe vantage point.
“’Tis masons’ yer after is it now Sur Humphrey? Well you’ve come to the wrong house to find a Lodge, there’s no Orangeman here, savin’ your honour.” Collins faux bog Irish accent was thick enough to paint the Blarney Stone he’d undoubtable kissed more than once. If Nell found the Piccadilly Circus a little dull, to Michael Collins they were a red rag.
Appleby just sighed. “Seriously Michael, I do need a good stonemason, a monumental mason would do nicely, you wouldn’t know reliable chap by any chance?”
“Oh, I and sorry I am te hear it to. Would you be looking to a proper tombstone or little small memorial tablet to grace St. Pauls?” Collins wasn’t about to let go, between them Nell and Johnnie Jamison had primed him well. Michael sensibly permitted himself one good binge a quarter and he’d not let the grass grow under his feet this night. If Gwyn had started the ball rolling, whisky was leading the charge on.
“No Michael, I have a government contract to let for some stonework, sorry to disappoint you old man” said Humpy patiently. “It’s just a small spot of official business that I’d rather not take through the Commerce Department.”
“Oh and so there’ll be no call for ye celebrate the New Year with a nice formal Bust then? Such a pity…”
Nell was quite disappointed with her little jape, usually setting Collins on anyone from the London establishment, daemon or not, was guaranteed to throw off some entertaining sparks, but young Humphrey just wasn’t coming out to play. She pouted and asked “And how is the gong game these days Humpy?”
Appleby blinked “Oh, Arnold still has the record of course, none of us have ever topped his GCMG, but I picked up another MVO the other year which was quite nice…”
“For lick’n the royal arse I suppose” laughed Collins, his exaggerated accent drifting away. “You know, over here they have a game called Baseball and give out these cards in chewing gum and cigarette packets with the players picture on ‘erm. The kiddies collect the cards see, and should a lad have more than one of the same, why they trade them around to make a full set, each card being worth more or less depending on the player and rarity of it. Now it’s occurred to me your lads aught to be doing the same, four ISO to be worth a CMG, three Commanders could be traded up to Commander of the Knight soil…”
“Given the present company Michael, I find that remark in shockingly poor taste.” Humphrey’s fuse was finally starting to smolder. “And far be it for me to blacken the name of a man in drink, but as a revolutionary politician and now a slumlord, you are a fine one to talk. I did not come here to be insulted by a jumped up murderer and traitor, or mocked out of bigotry by someone with a monumental chip on their shoulder – even by Irish standards.”
“Bigotry!” exploded Collins.
“Yes, and what else should I call it Hmm? You’re obviously still an Irishman first and a daemon second. If you can’t bother to look further than the end of your nose, then you are a bigot and a bloody fool to boot. As for sneering at us for a little harmless sport we play with honours - it was a rather fine uniform Achillea dragged you out of I believe, no vanity or pride there I suppose? Just due recognition of your magnificent achievements and hard work, oh and a little theatre for the common herd – of course…”
Collins was choking too hard on his liqueur to respond before Humphrey closed the conversational door in his face.
“Yes quite different, no comparison to say a civil servant with twenty years of distinguished service, no comparison at all. Hypocrite and bigot, a well rounded modern Irish hero – more’s the pity. Go back to playing Pat the Postman for a few score decades Collins, if you manage not to rifle the letters or fiddle the petty cash, then you can criticize me and mine.” Dropping Michael, Appleby fronted Nell “And thank you Your Grace, it is always such an honour to be of service” he turned and made his way across to the bar.
+++
Too many Edwards Spoil the Broth
London
November 1940
Edward Lord Halifax, traitor, patriot, knave and knight, sat at the Cabinet Table and rubbed his eyes. “Good gracious me… this is serious?”
“Oh very serious Prime Minister, very serious indeed.” Sir Edward Bridges, the Cabinet Secretary, nodded grimly. Like many of his senior colleagues Bridges had opted to ‘fall on his sword’ and remain in place through the Coup and upheaval of 1940. Someone had to carry on and see to the country’s administration, and the ruin of reputation was a small price to pay under the circumstances.
“This was no part of the armistice or our understanding with Berlin, and what on earth he can expect to gain…”
“Sir the man may very well be unhinged; but if so that only serves to make him an extremely dangerous and influential lunatic, and I fear we have few grounds on which to refuse this loan.”
“Loan – loan, as if we shall ever see it back. I’d as soon expect to see those daubs Herr Goering ‘borrowed’ returned with thanks. You know Bridges there are times I am glad we cannot find the Crown Jewels or locate half the other items in ‘protective storage,’ useful as they would be, at least the ruddy Hun can’t get hold of them either.”
“True Prime Minister” agreed Bridges, adding silently ‘which that is why we are not looking terribly hard’ aloud he contented himself with a tired smile and the observation that “Every cloud has a silver lining Prime Minister.”
“Well find me the Sterling in this shower then” grumbled Halifax.
“Further cementing Anglo-German fellowship? suggest Bridges “Winning the good graces of at least one potential successor to Hitler, accommodating a friend…”
“Must you rub it in Eddy, now do we at least know where it is?”
“Oh yes Prime Minister – as it happens we have no end of them. The previous government commissioned two additional replicas along with those duplicate sets of Crown Regalia, and we have another that someone ah ‘left’ under King Edward’s chair just after you took office sir.”
“But we do have the original Bridges?”
“Oh yes Prime Minister - so far as we know.”
“Well that is all right then, if the Scots passed a fraud off on to Longshanks it’s hardly our fault. Where is it?”
Bridges coughed softly “Do you really wish to know Prime Minister?”
“Ah yes, quite. But I could have sworn I saw it in Westminster the other month, I was there for the St. Edwards day service and I distinctly remember...”
“No doubt you saw a stone sir,” Bridges corrected his superior gently “and normally they do indeed try to have the original in place for the major services. However under the circumstances I rather think it would have been one of the newer replicas.”
“Oh, might we fob the Huns off with one of these ‘extras’ do you think?”
“Possibly sir, but the risk should it be detected…”
“They would take it as a grave insult of course, but then if Himmler is disappointed in whatever it is he expects to find, suggesting we have slipped them a fake…” Halifax cursed softly.
“Damned if we do sir, and damned if we do not.” agreed the Cabinet Secretary.
“No, that game isn’t worth the candle. You are to see to it. Get the proper stone back under the chair, then have Dirksen and that horrid little Gestapo man of his come and collect it in person…“ Halifax looked out his window at the late November rain pelting down “…at midnight! Apologise of course, tell them it is for security, obviously we’d rather not advertise our ‘lending’ it out to the Germans and that sort of thing.”
“Very well Prime Minister, but need we go though with the theatrics sir?” asked Bridges, anticipating a chilly interview with the German Ambassador to the Court of St. James, adding “the genuine St. Edward’s Chair is down in Gloucester at present…”
“Is it indeed - Well, high time we bought it home then. London is hardly in danger of being bombed now is it?”
“Well, no Prime Minister, however-“
“No arguments Eddy, there’s good fellow. I take no pleasure in handing our heritage over to the Boche, and so I see little reason to make the experience a pleasant one for them. If the bastards want the Stone of Scone, let them take it like the thieves they are. We shall see how Herr Dirksen deals with empty seats!” Halifax chuckled. In a more serious tone he continued “Tell them all about Longshanks and the perfidious Scots, but assure them that we are complying with Berlin’s request to the best of our ability. HMG can make no promises about the Stone of Destiny or anything prior to twelve ninety, only th-“
“Twelve ninety-six Prime Minister” murmured Sir Edward.
“Just make it perfectly plain to them, we can only vouch for the stone since, as you say, twelve ninety-six, and that to the best of our knowledge ours is Coronation Stone of Scotland, and has been used by Eng-“ Halifax corrected himself “British Kings for the last 600 years. More than that we cannot guarantee.”
“You may rely upon me Prime Minister. Perhaps a signed receipt may be in order? Worded to reflect the limits of HMG’s liability and underline…”
“Ah, a splendid notion” agreed Halifax. “Of course we must have a receipt, with copies for all parties too, triplicate or quadruplicate do you think?”
“Oh, I don’t know Prime Minster, the wheels of Government do grind quite fine; Yourself, Herr Himmler, Wilhelmstrasse, their Embassy, our Embassy, Foreign Office, Home Office, Colonial Office, the Permanent PM’s file, the Crown, the Lords, the Commons, Cabinet Office, the Abby – with a copy to the Clerk of Works, at least two copies for the Customs - I doubt we can impose duty more’s the pity but having it declared Duty Free involves quite a deal of red tape…”
The PM smiled a little “I see the problem is in safe hands.”
“Thank you Prime Minister, one does try.”
“Indeed one does” smiled the PM “but don’t try too hard will you. We are allowed to be a little Bolshie, a little, there’s no call to over egg the pudding.”
“You may leave it to me Prime Minister” said Sir Edward confidently. “There are several gentleman in the FO who have made a life’s work of diplomatic obstructionism, geniuses standing on the shoulders of giants sir, and this hardly represents a challenge. We need only delay a few weeks and its Christmas, which brings us to the New Year and early January is a prime time for illness and delays. I should expect we might keep them going into March with little difficulty sir.”
“Hmm, tempting as it may be to string Berlin along, I don’t want to prolong this for ever. If there is any value to be extracted from granting this ‘request’ lets not waste it in petty nose pulling. January, early January – say the 5th.”
“The Eve of Epiphany sir? Very well then, if at all possible I shall arrange the handover to be at midnight on the…”
“No, on second thoughts, make it three in morning, let’s make it all a properly miserable and wretched experience for the rotters.”
“Yes Prime Minister” agreed Bridges solemnly.
++++
London
Sunday 6th of January 1941 3:15am
Herr Ambassador Doktor Herbert von Dirksen was no man’s fool and as a career diplomat he was alive to the various nuances that played though the strange situation he found himself in, although puzzled as to the point behind his invitation. Westminster Abby in the pre-dawn of a winter’s morning whispered with icy drafts and sounds scattered about the vaulted ceiling in odd echoes. The young thug that paced so confidently beside him seemed immune to the chilly fingers of history. The few candles that vainly tried to fill the hall with light served more to emphasise the utter darkness, a gloom that seemed to consume time and reduce mere mortals to transient dust.
On the whole Sir Edward Bridges was quite pleased with the effect, at school he’d always been good with lighting pantomimes and that sort of thing. It was just too bad this audience wouldn’t appreciate his Widow Twanky in Greek, although Dirksen might understand the third form Latin version… did the Germans still teach their legal students Latin? He’d look it up when he got home. It was curious how the darkness robbed a black uniform of its effect, the Gestapo chap was just a scarecrow picked out in silver highlights and that red armband, he looked rather like small goose-stepping puppet on a string as a matter of fact.
Helmut Gothke didn’t give a damn about his sartorial presence or much else, he was freezing. He’d have gleefully gone back and shot the flunky that collected his coat at the door, but this wasn’t Poland worse luck and Herr Ambassador, the soft fool, would make trouble over any breech of ‘manners.’ Breath puffing white clouds, he stepped up his pace in an effort to work some warmth into his limbs. Gott Straffe England!
“Good morning gentlemen” said Sir Edward in a low voice.
“Herr Bridges” returned the Ambassador curtly. “Vot is der meaning of dis?”
“Surely you jest mister Ambassador, you are here to take custody of the Stone.”
“Der Stone?”
“Why of course, the Stone of Destiny as requested by Herr Himmler for his examination… have you not been informed though your channels?”
Helmut smiled broadly, but his Ambassador looked a little lost.
“Ach so, the stone!” agreed Dirksen a fraction too quickly and a beat too late “of course, the stone.”
“Yes sir, you must understand that we… the Government can only attest it is the Coronation Stone that has been used since King Edward’s day, you will appreciate we can make no claim it is Lia Fáil or take any responsibility for the chain of custody from the Tuatha Dé Danann. Only that our stone purports to be the Stone of Scone, taken from Scotland in 1296. The Prime Minister was most insistent upon that point sir, most insistent. Should Herr Reichsführer not be – ah – satisfied with the stone’s ‘qualities’ then it is all too possible the stone he seeks is buried somewhere about Dunsinane Hill. If so and Herr Himmler would care to excavate the area, or perhaps Burnham Wood, The British Archaeological Society is at his disposal should he desire their assistance.”
Helmut’s feral grin had faded, he grunted sceptically and Dirksen let the unspoken query stand, contributing a severe frown to cover his own rapidly developing doubts as he adjusted to things.
“Mister Ambassador” Bridges studiously ignored the secret policeman “Edward the Second commissioned the first official copy before he reached London for fear the Scots would steal it back, since then there has always been at least one other for permanent display here in the Abby. He was quite wise to have done so too, by our records the stone, or rather a stone” he smiled slightly “has been stolen eleven, possibly twelve times since it was deposited here... You see unless a Monarch is going to actually sit on the throne here” he gently stroked the scarified oak of St. Edwards Chair “the Stone of Scone has always been held elsewhere… the Stuart kings used to carry it about like a good luck charm, the Georges generally kept it under the Royal Bed at Hampton Court or Windsor and Queen Victoria held it up at Balmoral, she felt the stone would feel more comfortable in its native heath, of course the railways made moving it about a great deal easier.
Presently we have two such replicas, the one you see here and another in storage, even if this were not the case finding a substitute would present little difficulty. Any mason could chip out a crude facsimile in a day; a Portuguese chap took less than a week to carve the replacement we ordered in 1916, and a fine job he did too in the time allowed. However none of these would fool Herr Himmler for a second as the replicas bear only a close resemblance to the true stone, it wouldn’t do to make them identical, good heavens no, imaging the potential for confusion! No, each of our copies have been crafted to resemble the stone then on display, rather than the genuine article. So, naturally over the years their appearance has drifted somewhat. Any real study of historical descriptions makes quite plain the gradual change in appearance, both from the Scottish original and through the various substitutes. For the last hundred years we have tried to rotate them every three months to maintain the level of uncertainty, however the Reichsführer’s scholarship in such matters is common knowledge. He asks for the Stone of Scone, for us to provide anything less would be folly. So I assure you sir, the stone you shall receive today is exactly as I have described, the Prime Minister offers his personal word as to its authenticity. If the Stone of Scone is a fake, then it is we who have been greatly deceived sir.
Diriksen looked a little askance at all this. “You say ze stone under ze throne has always been false?”
“Yes sir, in so far as a replica has been generally substituted for the original on all but State occasions” replied Bridges briskly.
“Und there are three stones…”
“Four actually sir, the original, our two substitutes and a third, rather crude effort, someone left here as a joke in 1940, but we hardly count that one.” Bridges sniffed dismissively. “You are quite welcome to take them all should Herr Himmler so desire, but we’d ask for a week or two to get another made.”
Dirksen thought for a moment “Is gut. We shall take the real stone now, and I vill ask Berlin as to the others.”
“Excellent, then if you gentlemen would care to follow me…?” Bridges led off into the gloom, walking with the stiff awkward stride that only three layers of underclothing can produce. It was a long and convoluted path to the icy stillness of Cloisters undercroft, Bridges’ kerosene lamp cast wild shadows as it flickered with the winds of passage and the crisp clicks of the German’s boots chittered between the huge Norman columns. “Here we are then - shan’t be a moment.” The Cabinet Secretary stepped around a large block of iron bound black marble, produced a substantial key and opened the well-oiled lock to an old store room partitioned out of the under hall. “You will pardon the dust.”
The storeroom was indeed heavy with the mote of ages, but otherwise empty except for three plain packing cases each about three foot square and twelve inches or so deep. One rested on a stone slab the others upon the ancient flagstones. Bridges lifted aside the empty box and kicked the bare slab beneath. “The 1940 copy, utterly crude in comparison do you see, the not even a speck of rust on the iron, hardly up to scratch. If you don’t want it I’ve half a mind to use it in my fish pond… now this is the one for you” he opened the hinged lid of the last crate in line, holding the lamp over it and stepping half backwards to let the Germans satisfy their curiosity.
Dirksen sneezed heavily, his handkerchief not appearing in time and it took him several embarrassing moments to restore his dignity, wheezing he looked at Bridges in irritation “I haf no time for Russian Dolls.”
Helmut, ignoring his superior, reached into the opening for the fine fitted oak case it held.The Gestapo agent flung open the inner box with scant regard for its finish and snorted in contempt. In truth the Stone of Kings wasn’t all that impressive, a good sized piece of sandstone, worn by weather and a looking a little shabby with great rusted iron rings at each end, scared by a groove worn between them and an inscription chiselled in Celtic style-
“Ni fallat fatum, Scoti quocumque locatum Invenient lapidiem, regnasse tenetur ibidem” declaimed Edward with fluent ease “Should Destiny prove true, the Scots shall be known as Kings by this stone – ahh loosely translated” supplied Bridges.
Having sized the initiative from the panting diplomat, Helmut insisted on being shown the other stone in storage and the three men had to troop back up to the Abby so he could confirm the deliberate identification points that distinguished the replicas from the original, and he checked over the more recent fake thoroughly too; displaying some knowledge that spoke of a more careful briefing than any Dirksen might have received. By a quarter to four the group had returned to the undercroft, the Germans satisfied and Bridges looking forward to a nice cup of Coco, a hot water bottle and a very late Sunday breakfast, mostly likely a lunch if the increasing depth of his yawns were any indication. “Well then mister Ambassador, if you would care to sign the recept” the Cabinet Secretary drew a thick wad of folded foolscap from the inner pocket of his jacket “we might all be on our way, do you have a pen?”
Herr Dirksen did not have a pen, but Helmut produced a gaudy gold Schaffer and with a triplicate flourish of signatures, the sheaf of copies were endorsed by an English civil servant, a German diplomat and witnessed by the Gestapo. Returning the pen and folding London’s share of the copies back into his pocket before wiping his eyes, Bridges held the door open politely.
The two Germans had walked though the door, Helmut even muttering a gruff ‘Danke’ before Bridges coughed pointedly and nodded to their prize still lurking in its corner. “You’re not taking it with you…?” asked the Englishman in a carefully neutral tone.
Dirskesn registered the tone before anything else, calm as Bridges’ five words were; they carried a heavy load of threat, promise and trouble. “Nine” the Ambassador responded firmly “You will lock ze door, ve shall take the key und collect it in the morning.”
“Oh?” murmured Bridges softly “Dear me, I’m most dreadfully sorry sir, but the whole purpose of our meeting at this time was to avoid public notice. If you really don’t mind leaving in our care, then the earliest we might manage is this time tomorrow. Certainly not during the day.”
“Der stone is now der property of der Reich” Helmut flourished the Gestapo’s copy of the recept. “And at our disposal it is. Ve shall remove hit as ve see fit” he quite ruined the effect but finishing with a sneeze, but the essential elements of Secret Politzi’s position were clear.
“Oh very good!” smiled the Cabinet Secetary smoothly “Very good indeed! Of course His Majesty’s Government cannot be held ultimately responsible for the property of the German State, that now falls to your embassy, but we shall take good care of it I’m sure.” Bridges was deeply gratified to see Dirksen quite distinctly kick his junior in the ankle.
“No, the Reich could not possibly impose such a task on His Majesty’s Government!” wheezed the Ambassador. “The stone shall be moved” he turned to Helmut “Mach schnell!” The conversation then descended into a flury of German that left Bridges looking on, wiping his eyes in cheerful bewilderment.
Helmut surfaced briefly to ask ‘Ein telephone bitte?”
“Sorry old boy, we don’t have a connection down here. I say, I could lock one of you in there if you’d like? Just to keep an eye on things...”
The Germans only redoubled their debate, hands started chopping in decisive motions, fingers pointed, and so Bridges fondly hoped, threats were issued. It was turning out to be quite a nice morning after all; he stifled another sneeze in his handkerchief. Eventually things turned out for the best, in Sir Edwards’s opinion anyway. The little party returned to the storeroom and the Jerries started prodding and pushing the packing crate, obviously working themselves up to moving it. Dragging it with some effort out into the middle of the room the pair made their preparations for lifting the Stone of Scone out of its case, Bridges waited until last moment before uttering another of his little coughs. “I’d not do that if I were you. Old Charlie the Second dropped it trying to play Samson to Miss Gwyn’s Delilah in sixteen seventy something or another. She might have trimmed his golden locks, but his Majesty damn near smashed the stone, we’ve had to take every precaution in moving it ever since. You’re looking at over three hundred pounds there, say a hundred and fifty kilos. Should you pick it up without the case and dash against something it will break as sure as egg, that is if you don’t drop it first.” He sniffed “I’d not want to explain that to herr Himmler.”
The barrage of muffled Teutonic cursing was music to his ears, as were the looks of fury when he swung the door half closed and offered them the ropes and porters trolley that it had concealed.
The Stone still demanded a great deal of effort to ease in its case from the outer crate and onto the hand truck; both the Germans were blowing hard by the time they rolled it out the door and began the long trek across the uneven flagstones. Taking a large wooden handspike from the shadows, Bridges locked the door, patted the looming mass of marble affectionately and strolled after the dismayed Nazi’s who had run out of the light and jammed their trolley on some unseen obstruction.
The stairs were pure torture - for the Germans. Sir Edward spent the whole time straining every diplomatic muscle to keep a straight face. Officials of the National Socialist Party were obviously not trained in the finer arts of the navvy. Neither were British Civil Servants for that matter, but one didn’t have to be a qualified critic to appreciate the situation. By the time they reached ground level Bridges had exchanged the handspike for at first caps and coats, and by the end ties, jackets and pistol belts. The Gestapo jacket did rather whiff of Cologne, but it was still a good trade. Bridges had always been meaning to get a spare magazine for his Luger, they had been rarer then hen’s teeth in the trenches.
Of course there were any number of ways to get from the undercroft out to the street, Bridges didn’t have to show them back though the nave, it just made sense. After all their car was parked at the great west door and with petrol so hard to find these days, to have driven it around to any of the rear entrances would have been a most dreadful waste. Getting it down the steps was a little awkward, although it did serve as a useful warm up for lifting the Stone into the boot of the Embassy Horch. Finally Edward himself had to give the Germans a hand over this last hurdle and call the aged verger in from his post by the door as well. Nevertheless by a little before five o’clock the Cabinet Secretary waved the sagging limousine off down off down Victoria St and he adjourned to the porter’s lodge for a cup of tea and to thank the Abbey staff, before the Ministry Daimler took him home - escorted by the usual two Humber brakes full of Blackshirts.
+++
Halifax edged away from his snuffling visitor and asked in dismay “You haven’t caught a chill have you Eddy?”
“No sir” grumbled Bridges from behind his handkerchief “cat hair.”
“Cat hair?”
“Indeed Prime Minister, you warned me sir, but I fear enthusiasm did rather get the better of me in the Abbey. I – ah - over egged the pudding sir.”
“What on earth have you been doing?”
“Well Prime Minister, you instructed me to make the exchange a ‘properly miserable’ one, and in an earnest endeavour to carry out your instructions to the limit of my poo – patchew! Your Pardon – my poor abilities I engaged in a little Chemical Warfare, I thought it fitting given the Huns started the beastly business.”
“With cat’s hair?”
“Amongst other things sir; cat hair, dust form my attic, pulverised mouse droppings, a collection of pollen I obtained from Kew, ahhh, oh, some very fine ‘stinkwood’ sawdust, shredded feathers, and a little of this and that– very effective it was too, one only hopes the rest of it all works as well.”
“Do I need to know any this Eddy?” asked Halifax with a small smile
“Well Prime Minister, in my professional opinion...” Bridges scratched his chin judiciously. “Sir, we both know that there are almost as many occasions when a Minister needs to know that which he does not know, as there are those when he clearly needs to know, or needs not to know, that of which he has no official knowledge. Were this particular case under normal circumstances, I would suggest this is one such situation when the Minister needs not know that which he needn’t know; however as no one will ever believe you did not know that which you would otherwise not need to know, and as you have expressed an interest in this knowledge I see little harm in you knowing.”
“Very well, go on then, tell me that which I needn’t need to know that I know not of.”
“Not quite Prime Minister, if I may, you have that slightly askew. In that you would not need know-“
“Eddy….”
“Very good Prime Minister. After we originally spoke on this matter, it came to mind that we were stirring up the dust of ages – if you will sir. One thing led to another and I thought to add a small twist to my interview with Herr Dirksen, with some dust of my own. You may have observed how very particular he is about the cleanliness of his person. Now I know this is all very petty sir, but it started as wicked little diversion on a Saturday afternoon no more. At first I sought to find the dirtiest kind of dust, I looked to powdered charcoal, coal dust and so forth, in the process of which created a good deal of dirty linen. Dust up the nose has its consequences. So I decided to change tack and assault his sinuses instead of his fingers. It was perhaps a little rash of me, but I thought the Army CW people might have something suitable, and well one thing led to another again sir, the next thing I up to my neck in Lewisite.”
“Lewisite!” Halifax aped for a few moments before swearing most foully “What have you done Bridges, what have you done?”
“Well sir… not a great deal…. really. I, ah, dosed the chamber we used for the Stone quite liberally with my patented dust, and placed a little Vaseline up my nostrils as a precaution. I’m afraid it worked well enough at the time, but it didn’t offer quite as much protection into the longer term as I would have liked.”
“Sir Edward” warned Halifax
“As for the rest of it, well plucking Berky-Dirky’s nose seemed to be shooting the messenger sir, it would hardly inconvenience herr Himler would it now?” Bridges gave a little shrug. “It had come to my attention that Himmler takes a rather ‘personal’ approach to his trinkets, keeping them by him in his bed chamber and so on, well sandstone is generally quite porous sir. As I had taken custody of the Stone, and its security was my responsibility, I thought the bottom of a nice warm vat of dilute Mustard-Lewisite by far the safest place to keep it. Of course I had it moved to an indifferent little trout stream I own for the last two weeks to ‘rinse off’, and I must say a spell underwater did wonders for restoring the patina after the bleaching…”
“You’ve killed us Eddy. Oh my god you have killed us all….” Halifax was aghast.
“Oh not at all Prime Minister, I was just following your instructions as to making the whole transaction as unpleasant as possible for the bastards.”
“Y… “ it wouldn’t be fair to say Lord Halifax was speechless with rage, there was far too much fear and despondency mixed in with it for any neat classification, but he did manage to stammer out “You Bloody Fool” eventually. “I..I..I told you to hand over the bloody Stone, YOU were the one saying the risk was too great to play silly games! And now… now you – we are assassinating Himmler-“ he choked. “It’s all gone, all for nothing…. Deliberately!” Now the rage came forth, as his fist crashed down on the Cabinet table Edward Halifax’s face screwed itself into a ball of white hot fury “Traitor” he spat.
“Assassinate?” Bridges sounded truly surprised by the accusation, if altogether indifferent to the rest of his master’s outburst. “Perish the thought sir. I have no homicidal intent towards that gentleman whatsoever, or at least not in the short term” he grinned. “You called me a fool sir. If we are to be both frank and personal, you are a politician, I am a humble civil servant, we are both Englishmen, patriots and on the face of facts - traitors. I appreciate the motives behind your actions sir, really I do, although I have never agreed with your basic premise. However that difference of opinion has not, nor will it ever, interfere with the discharge of my official duties or my role as your Cabinet Secretary. I may be a traitor sir, but I am many things before that.
With regards to my sagacity as per the present matter, do you take me for a moron sir? A total poltroon, incapable of reasoned thought, who just happens to have fifty gallons of Runcol in his potting shed?
That stone is harmless, utterly harmless – at a cool room temperature. Warm it a little and keep it warm for a few days, perhaps a week and it will prove irritating to the touch, the Lewisite you understand, and those who have rather more exposure will develop some nasty blisters on their sore fingers. We rather hope the Mustard element will produce a delayed reaction, one not immediately obvious. My pet boffin apparently did something awfully clever with the relative densities in the mix, I can’t say I really understand it, but come summer those who pass though a small room in which it has been kept for some time should blister up too in a minor way. YOU wanted Himmler satisfied. A superstitious, paranoid, fruitcake of the first water wanted a magical stone – well he has one. A stone that is most unhappy about being abducted. You will pardon me sir if I suggest your word probably carries less weight with that particular individual than the tea leaves in his morning cup. I am paid to carry out your bidding and to use my judgment in doing so, I assessed that there was simply too much question in the wind with regards to our Stone for the recipient to ever be content with a lump of base rock, and the potential price of his dissatisfaction was, we agreed, too high for half measures. Now at least he has a stone that does something other than require an occasional dusting.”
+++
Monday
June 5th 1944
Misses Mavis Cameron ruled her tea trolley with a rod of iron. The ‘Gentlemen’ she served had learned through painful experience in cold beverages and broken biscuits to treat her with the upmost civility. In return Mrs Cameron provided excellent service, her cups were impeccably clean, she never forgot a customer or their preference, and if she tolerated no liberties she took none either – well unless you counted treason and espionage, but no one took any great exception to that.
As a courier Mrs Cameron was discrete, convenient and secure, her tea trolley amounted to a rolling blind drop as she never distributed anything and messages were collected with the empty crockery. It wasn’t a perfect system by any means, but then Mavis never handled high grade traffic either, in Government as across the rest of Britain the Resistance had its hard core cells and high echelon sources, but they were vastly outnumbered by more casual contributors. Even dyed in the wool collaborators often tried to keep a foot in both camps; while in the Civil Service passing the word ‘down stairs’ was almost mandatory. For the vast bulk of Civil Servants who remained at their posts after 1942, ‘duty’ was a doubled edged sword. Whatever the true feelings or motivations of an individual, ‘duty,’ to carry on the Government as best could be managed, was the only really acceptable rationalisation for their collaboration with both a traitorous Quisling regime and an occupying power. Cooperation with the Resistance was also the best way to keep off the Black List.
For the Resistance and the Churchill Government in its Canadian exile, all this produced a bonanza of intelligence and not a few moral conundrums too. However checking the teeth of any specific gift horse was one thing, the intelligence still had to be collected first and for that Mrs Cameron and her sisters in char were just the ticket. Mavis herself had come to conclude that the real spies were the ones who never slipped a little something under their saucers. But that was a view she was careful never to express to her NSS handlers, quite apart from anything else, and Mavis had a son in South Africa as well as one working in Germany, she was never quite sure where the National Security Service bully boys sat themselves.
So, as far as her rigorous impartiality allowed, Mrs Cameron was always just that little friendlier with those who spared her their tea stained notes and knowing winks. Amongst that select few Sir Edward Bridges was her chief favourite, in peacetime no Cabinet Secretary would have ever patronised the communal tea cart, but, well there was a war on. Sir Eddy had not just broken with tradition, but gone so far as to meet Mavis at his office door like any junior clerk, not that she had stood for that more than once. Their relationship had warmed still further when one Wednesday Sir Edward had met his morning refreshment with an exemption certificate for her youngest lad. Mrs Cameron had no idea how he had learned of her worry and was quite flummoxed by the whole thing, but Sir Edward had been ever so nice about it all, and rushed out of the room to let her have a little cry in privacy.
Now, as every Monday, Mavis slipped a second teacup onto the tray alongside Sir Eddy’s afternoon cuppa (no milk, half a saccharine tablet) and digestive biscuit. It was just a normal ministry tea cup with a broken handle and chipped rim, but oddly heavy and sealed with a cap of typing paper. As ever Sir Edward thanks Mrs Cameron, accepting the sealed cup with a smile and the day rolled on. At half past four the Cabinet Secretary cleared off his desk, and headed for home.
The big house on Primrose Hill was depressingly empty these days, with the children gone and the staff let go. Katharine, Lady Bridges did her best heaven knew, but all the good intentions in the world struggled to make anything of the ever shrinking ration. Even so they dined early, it was warmer in bed and there was little enough on the wireless worth listening to these days. But in the brief interval between drying the dishes and plodding up stairs, Sir Edward made a brief detour out into the garden. He wasn’t going to turn any potatoes in his office clothes, yet heedless of the light rain he stripped off his jacket and rolled up his right sleeve.
Most of the garden was given over to vegetables of course, although he had kept a few flower beds by the house, but his path lead directly to the ornamental fish pond that in better times had been the centerpiece of his horticultural display. Initially he had justified retaining the fish as a food source, ‘aquatic rabbits’ he had called them, but in all honestly he didn’t much fancy carp or eating his pets. Kneeling by the pond Bridges took the illicit tea cup he had smuggled home in his briefcase and plunged it into the chilly water, turning out the cupful of ministry porridge onto the feeding stone as he felt his few remaining fish start to nibble about their meal and his fingers. Cold as the water was, Edward let his fingers linger on the slimy stone, tracing letters though the thick algae “Ni fallat fatum” he whispered.