Death in Focus Page 11

  How did he know? Then it was obvious. She had left early with Ian. She had changed her earlier plans because of him. Now he was dead and she was changing them again. You didn’t have to be very clever to work that out. She’d had a ticket to Paris, not Berlin. She didn’t have any personal connection to Berlin. It had to be because of Ian.

  “He’s dead,” she said, and even in those two words her voice shook a little.

  “And you made a promise of some sort to him?” he asked, going on before she could answer, or lie to him. “And because he’s dead, you have to keep it?”

  “A lot of people are dead, and a lot of promises have been broken,” she replied. “Especially by people who didn’t have to keep them.”

  “Like the man in the hotel linen cupboard?” he asked.

  She felt suddenly even colder, but before she could answer he went on: “Ian knew him, you know that, don’t you?”

  Should she lie? Walter was asking questions she did not want to think of. “I don’t know…” She wasn’t going to deny it. It would be awkward and very obviously defensive. “Why?”

  “He was murdered, you know?”

  “Yes, of course I know. You don’t fall over and break your neck in a hotel linen cupboard. What has that got to do with it? Are you saying that whoever killed him killed Ian, too?” Now she was getting angry enough to look at him squarely. “And you think my going to Berlin has anything to do with that?”

  “I have no idea.” He put his hand on her wrist. It was gentle, not at all intrusive. “But two people were murdered. I want you to be safe, and not only from the police, but from whomever is doing this. It has to matter a lot for this much violence, in a bustling hotel and a train full of passengers.”

  It was true. And Ian had lied about the man in the cupboard at first. “Ian couldn’t have killed the man in the cupboard, because he was with me all afternoon. And he certainly didn’t kill himself!” She nearly choked on the words. Then she wondered why she had said them. Walter had not suggested he had.

  “Of course he didn’t kill himself,” Walter said firmly, tightening his hold on her arm a little. “And do you know when the man in the cupboard was killed?”

  She realized her mistake. “No…I suppose he could have been there since the morning…since the last time anyone had used the cupboard. I know there’s something unpleasant—”

  “Unpleasant! Yes, very unpleasant, and dangerous. Elena, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into! No one has a right to ask this of you. You don’t even know what it is, do you?”

  Yes, she did. All she had to do was deliver a message to Cordell in Berlin. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know him, or any of the embassy staff. She had lived there, for heaven’s sake! “It is a very small thing, and I’m going to do it,” she said perfectly steadily. “Please don’t treat me as if I were a child, or…or incompetent. I was very upset when Ian was killed. But I am perfectly capable of carrying on.” She took a long, steady breath. “But I am grateful for your help.”

  He sighed and leaned back in his seat, a look of resignation on his face, and a wry smile, as if he might even admire her.

  Elena drifted off to sleep, then woke with a start when the carriage door opened with a loud clang. She looked up and saw a tall guard staring at her.

  She had slipped sideways and as she straightened up her coat parted at the front. Was it her legs, too much exposed, that the guard was staring at? Or the bloodstain indelible in the fabric of her dress? She felt the color hot in her face and reached to pull the coat closed.

  The guard asked to see their passports. He looked at them carefully, then slowly raised his eyes to her face.

  “Fräulein Standish?” he said, frowning.

  “Yes.” He could not know of Ian’s death yet. Or suspect her!

  “Why are you traveling to Germany, fräulein?” He looked at her steadily, challengingly. She was very conscious of the bloodstains over the rest of her dress. Would he demand to see under her coat?

  “She’s my fiancée,” Walter said smoothly. “She will meet some members of my family for the first time. It is a little…nerve-racking, you understand?”

  The guard smiled. “Oh, yes! I remember that!” He gave a slight shrug. “Good luck, fräulein. I’m sure they will be delighted.” He gave the passports back and continued along the train.

  “Thank you,” Elena whispered, her throat tight. She was shaking, and the passport almost slid out of her hand.

  “See? It wasn’t so difficult. Just don’t forget, when you get to Berlin. Will you be all right there?”

  “Yes. Thank you. They’ll help me at the embassy.”

  “Get you a new passport? It would be wise. When they find Newton’s body, which they will have by now, there will be a search for the woman who was with him. Bound to be.”

  “Yes, I know. And the guards at the Italian border might remember me. But the embassy will help me. My father used to be the ambassador there. I’ll be all right. Thank you.”

  She should sleep again, if she possibly could. It was not an express train, or it would hardly have stopped at the small station just behind them, but Hamburg was the end of the line, so she would have to get off there. And she needed to be awake then, strong and clear-minded. At least she had money, and she knew Berlin well enough to find the embassy easily. She just needed to be there before Cordell left for the day. That was about eleven hours from now.

  She curled up on the seat, resting her head on her handbag and using her coat as a blanket. Walter straightened it and tucked it in for her. The rhythm of the wheels over the track was soothing, almost like a live thing keeping her company.

  She did sleep—exhaustion forced it on her, but it could not keep the dreams at bay. She woke many times, trying to find a more comfortable position; lying along three seats was at least a luxury she was grateful for. Sleep where you can. Mike had told her that often, when he spoke about what it was like at the front. He told her more than he did anyone else. Partly it was a matter of not burdening them. He did not want to think it was on their minds every time they looked at him. Then he would not be able to forget, when he needed to.

  “But why me?” she had asked.

  She could remember the wry, funny look on his face, as if it had been only hours ago. “Because I need to have somebody understand me,” he had said. “When it’s all over, people will want to forget. But those of us who were there never will, not completely. I need someone to forgive me when I do daft things.” Then he had laughed. “Never mind, kiddo, just be there, eh?”

  She had promised she would.

  It was Mike who was gone.

  * * *

  —

  She woke up with a start to find the train not moving, and Walter standing in front of her, shaking her shoulder gently.

  “Oh! Thank you.” She scrambled to her feet, put her coat on, and looked out of the window. The large sign said HAMBURG, and she grasped her case and handbag and went to the door, Walter on her heels. It was crowded with other people getting off.

  She heard the familiar sounds of German being spoken around her and easily fell into the pattern herself. It did not take Walter long to make the appropriate inquiries for the fastest train to Berlin, and to change some money into German currency.

  They caught the train and found seats with only a few minutes to spare. Were the trains scheduled to coincide, or was it just good luck? She had heard rumors that Adolf Hitler managed to get many things improved, and the Germans had always taken a natural pride in order. Perhaps it was by design. When things worked as they should, it created ease. Trust. Even hope.

  * * *

  —

  The train drew into Berlin a few minutes early. If the taxis were still in the same place, she would have no trouble finding one, and every driver had to know where the main embassies were.<
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  The whole station seemed to be as she remembered it. There was no time now to look for small changes, new restaurants or shops. She had just under an hour to get to the embassy before five o’clock. It should be easy, but one always had to allow for traffic jams, a queue somewhere, an official who needed to be persuaded or was in too much of a hurry to listen.

  She turned to Walter. “I can never thank you enough for all that you have done, but I need to go alone from here.”

  “I understand. Or…I don’t…but I believe you. Take care of yourself, Elena Standish!” He smiled and bent forward, kissing her lightly on the forehead, then turned and walked away, elegantly, easily.

  Within minutes he was lost in the crowd, but she had no time to miss him.

  She was both hungry and thirsty, but refreshments would have to wait. If she got to the embassy in time there would be a cloakroom where she could try to tidy her appearance a bit more.

  There were half a dozen people waiting for taxis when she reached the stand. Only four taxis were in sight. How long might she have to wait? Did it matter if she asked anyone if they were going near the British Embassy? She could wait here long enough to be late! The big rally where Scharnhorst would appear was tomorrow at midday. If she missed Cordell tonight, she might not catch him at all. Tomorrow was Tuesday; he could be anywhere then. But should she draw attention to herself? At the head of the queue was a man in a drab business suit. Everyone looked tired, more than ready to go home. What on earth did embarrassment matter?

  “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” she said very clearly. “I have an appointment for which I am late, at the British Embassy. Is anyone going in that direction? I will be happy to pay the whole fare, I just dare not miss my…meeting, please?”

  They all looked a little startled. There was panic in her voice. She had heard it herself, and she sounded distraught. Please heaven, one of them must find money more important than time?

  The silence seemed to stretch endlessly, but it was probably less than a minute. Then one of the women, the third in the queue, nodded her head.

  “I’m going that way. If you take me there, and pay the taxi, you can get the driver to take you the rest of the way in a few minutes.”

  “Thank you!” Elena was flooded with gratitude. “Thank you,” she said again, adding the German courtesy of “gnädige Frau.”

  The taxi ride seemed long, although in fact it was less than twenty-five minutes. Elena remembered the streets well enough. The driver followed exactly the same route she would have expected, first to the address the woman had given him, then from there to the British Embassy.

  There were lots of people out, shoppers, talking to one another, on foot and moving quickly. Many walked with heads down, as if not wanting to catch anyone’s attention. One old man, white-bearded, stepped aside into the gutter to allow a group of brown-shirted men in semi-uniform to go past. He kept his face averted, but moved even farther into the street to avoid being bumped by them. They took no notice of him at all.

  Two women stopped talking to each other and moved quickly in the opposite direction.

  The taxi driver muttered something under his breath, but assuming he might be speaking to her, Elena asked him to repeat it. He shook his head and drove faster.

  Outside the embassy, he stopped. She paid him what he asked and added the usual tip.

  “Thank you,” she said, and alighted quickly.

  He drove off without answering, leaving her on the pavement in her bloodstained dress, her one small suitcase containing her camera at her feet.

  CHAPTER

  11

  Roger Cordell sat alone in his office at the British Embassy in Berlin. It was a handsome room, old and spacious. Perhaps it was a little shabby, but the proportions were perfect, and it spoke of elegance and good taste. He did not want it redecorated. He was comfortable here, and so were the visitors he cared about, men with assurance who had no need of outer display.

  Did he need to attend the rally the following afternoon? Scharnhorst was an important figure in Germany, and unfortunately, likely to become more so. As Hitler increased in power, so did Scharnhorst. The man affected a sort of hysteria, winding himself up into a paroxysm of Hitler worship and the corresponding hatred of all his perceived enemies. If his persona was genuine, he was a lunatic, but if it was a calculated display, then he was far more dangerous. He was not out of control, but instead very much in it.

  Cordell had met Hitler several times in the course of his own duties as a cultural attaché. Almost everything about British culture was both familiar and pleasing to Cordell and he had no difficulty in promoting it. He was also an admirer of German culture: the greatest music in the world, the poetry, philosophy, and drama. No one else had ever created music like Beethoven. It was truly sublime. But no one else had drama and poetry like Shakespeare. He was so often quoted that even his least known works seemed somehow familiar.

  Some of German nationalism was bombastic and offensive. But after the ruinous demands of the Versailles Treaty, what else would anyone expect? Cordell had been too young at the time to grasp the full enormity of it. Fresh out of the army after four years of seeing hell brought to reality, of losing more friends than he could count, he had not had the time or emotion to insist futilely on something over which he had no control.

  When he looked back at that time, all he could remember was the final effort to get and keep a good job at the embassy, his introduction to MI6, and his agreement to serve. It was a patriotic duty, and of some immediate concern to him then. Apart from anything else, it assured him of his position in the embassy—that if he was good at it, he would not be moved around from place to place too often, and he would have his contacts. Intelligence of the sort he needed was a long job, cultivated slowly, like an Old English rose.

  Above all, it gave him the chance to provide a stable living for himself, and even more for Winifred. They needed time to get to know each other again. They had been rather newly married in 1914, still learning the intimacies of each other’s day-to-day life. That had all been swept away from them, as it had from countless others. Somehow, they had never reestablished it again. War changed everyone—some people physically, with scars everyone could see. In others, the wounds were hidden. They came in nightmares, sudden losses of self-control. Cordell had seen them in people he knew, along with the shame and confusion that came afterward. There were parts of the war that would never be over. That was why it must never happen again.

  Winifred was emotionally bruised by the loneliness, the grief she saw around her and shared with others. And, of course, he had not shared with her the horrors he had seen.

  A new start in a new place seemed the best thing. But as with so many surviving couples, it had not worked. They were familiar strangers now, playing at being husband and wife, honoring, pitying, but not sharing.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in!” he called.

  One of his assistants entered, a young man who loved German poetry.

  “What is it?” Cordell asked.

  “There is a Miss Standish to see you, sir. She seems quite distraught…says it is extremely urgent. A message from someone called Newton. Do you want me to—”

  “Standish?” Cordell asked.

  “Yes, sir. She said her father was ambassador here just after the war.”

  “Yes. Send her in. I know Charles Standish well. Very decent chap. He lost his son in the last month of the war, but he has two daughters. Bring her in.”

  At first, Cordell did not recognize the young woman who entered the room. She was quite tall and she carried herself well. Her face was a curious mixture of strength and vulnerability; it held a hint of beauty. But at the moment she looked hollow-eyed, crumpled, and she was very pale.

  It had been several years since he had last seen her. He had kept in to
uch with Charles, but not the family. He remembered the elder daughter, a dark, very striking-looking young woman, not unlike her father, but with her mother’s panache, and definitely her glamour.

  This young woman had no glamour at all. She looked exhausted. She had none of the energy that her sister always radiated.

  “Please sit down, Miss Standish,” he invited. “What may I do for you?”

  She remained standing. “I apologize for my appearance. Since I had no appointment, I was afraid I might miss you if I stopped to tidy up.”

  Had she noticed his surprise? That was clumsy of him.

  “I came as rapidly as I could,” she went on. “From Amalfi…”

  “Amalfi? Near Naples?” Had he heard her correctly?

  “Yes…”

  He started to express concern, but she continued talking over him.

  “I was traveling from an economic conference in Amalfi, in the company of Ian Newton, whom I met there. We dined together and became friends…”

  He was about to make a polite remark. He remembered Newton and knew that he was MI6. But how did Elena Standish know that?

  “On the train, Ian went to get a cup of tea,” she continued. “Somewhere along the way between Milan and Paris. I wasn’t paying attention to where. We were both going to Paris. He…” Again, she had to stop and fight for her composure. Her voice was low, and at another time might have been pleasing. “He did not return, and I went looking for him.” She said the words as if they were meaningless. “I found him in one of the other carriages. He had been stabbed and was bleeding…to death. I was there only just in time to catch his last breaths. I could not save him.” She blinked rapidly. “He told me he was with MI6, which of course I had not known. He had an urgent message to bring to you—he named you. He made me promise to deliver it.”

  Cordell was stunned. He sat motionless, staring at her face.

  Very slowly, with stiff fingers, she undid her coat, showing the creased and bloodstained dress. The brownish stains still lay there in huge, ugly marks, unmistakable once you knew what they were.