Cat and Mouse (56 page)

He put them down on the table and smiled.

‘Where did you get all this?’

‘Various places. It took some time. The main details were circulated in an order to Colonel Cavendish, though, because he's involved.’

‘Yes, I see that.’ To Werner it was the most interesting detail of all. Next Sunday morning Charles Cavendish was due to pick up Sir Edward Carson from Craigavon at nine-thirty. He would be in his six seater Lancia, and would command a security detail of three armed soldiers. They would transport Sir Edward to Mount Stewart on the Ards peninsula, where Sir Edward would be spending the remainder of the weekend. From Craigavon, Simon estimated that Sir Edward might either take the main road through Belfast or go south via Ballynahinch, but given Colonel Cavendish's preference for country roads he might also go through Hillsborough, Drumbo, Moneyreagh, Comber, and Newtownards. But whichever way he came, he was certain to travel the last part of his journey along the eastern side of Strangford Lough between Newtownards and Mount Stewart.

So that, Werner thought, is where I should go for a drive tomorrow morning with my three young German sailors. Unless . . .

He looked at Simon curiously, while the waiter cleared away their soup plates and brought the main course.

‘You've earned your meal, at least, young man. What is it you want to say?’

Simon met his eyes calmly. He had thought this out thoroughly over the past couple of days. He had no qualms. If his guess was correct, this man with the sharp bitter face and intense blue eyes could be an instrument in his own revenge. In which case Simon would no longer be dancing to another man's tune, but would have turned the situation to his own advantage. Which was the way he liked it.

He said: ‘You're planning to kidnap Carson, aren't you?’

Werner started. Am I so transparent? He put down his knife and fork carefully before answering, with a laugh that sounded forced, even to him.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘All these questions you ask. When is he coming to Ulster, where is he going? And then the fact that you're German.’

‘I write for a Swiss newspaper. The
Neue Zuricher Zeitung
.’

‘So you tell me. But it's not what you want to know all this for, is it? People in Zurich don't want to know which roads Carson travels on.’

Werner waved a hand, dismissively, as though the point no longer mattered to him. ‘All right, perhaps not. But what possible reason could I have for wanting to kidnap Sir Edward Carson?’

‘Because it would help Germany in some way. Embarrass the British government, cause trouble to them. I expect it would lead to riots and some fighting, at least. Does Germany want that? I don't know. It doesn't really matter to me.’

Werner poured himself a glass of wine and sipped it curiously. ‘You surprise me, young Simon. I thought you were a loyal member of the UVF.’

‘Perhaps I was, a few days ago,’ Simon said. ‘Things change.’

‘So suddenly?’ Simon did not answer. ‘I see. How strange. You will tell me you are getting married next.’

‘If you mock me you'll learn nothing, will you?’

‘I suppose not.’ Werner's curiosity increased, outstripping his contempt. ‘Well, come on then. Tell me, young man. What is it that matters to you, if it is no longer loyalty to the cause of Ulster Unionism?’

‘What matters to me,’ Simon said slowly. ‘Is that whatever you do is going to hurt Charles Cavendish. Is that right?’

Werner sat back. ‘It might be, yes. I have my own reasons for that. You wouldn't understand. But if you co-operate I'll see that . . .’

‘I want to hurt him, too.’

‘Sorry?’ Werner was startled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What I say. I don't care one way or the other about Carson, I told you. But if your plan to get at Carson will damage Charles.Cavendish, I want to help you with it. In any way I can. Perhaps I can make it better.’

‘But why? I thought . . .’

‘You thought we were lovers. So we were. But all that has changed now. And when things like that change, they change absolutely. With me at least. So I want to offer you my help. But if I'm to be of any use, I have to know your plan.’

Werner sat quite silent, thinking. It was an appalling risk. Simon could easily be inventing all this, playing a part. If Werner confided in him and was betrayed he could easily be caught, locked away in an English gaol. On the other hand, Simon had guessed a lot already. And if Simon did betray Werner he'd be damned himself, by that story he had left in a sealed envelope in his hotel room, to be posted if he did not return.

Cautiously, Werner asked: ‘Is that all you want?’

‘No, not quite. If your plan is as important as I think it is, and it succeeds, I couldn't stay here. I'd want to be paid. In marks, which I could spend in Germany.’

Greedy, too. And vindictive as well. What a treasure Charles Cavendish has found himself, Werner thought. A devil in godlike form.

‘The German Empire is not poor. If you served it well it could afford to repay you.’

‘Good. And I could come back to Germany with you?’

‘Perhaps. We have not discovered yet how you could serve the German Empire.’

‘To find out about that you have to trust me with your plan.’

Quite, Werner thought. And this could be where I lose everything, to a mind sharper and more devious than my own.

For a while he said nothing. He finished the food on his plate, dabbed at his lips with a napkin, sipped his wine, and thought. When I knew him at school, Charles Cavendish was insensitive and perverted, he thought, but he was not particularly devious or underhand. Of course he tried to conceal what he did to me, but that was the end of it, really. Otherwise he was upright and honest, a perfect public schoolboy in the grip of an illicit passion. I can’t imagine him trying to deceive me with a story like this. If Simon had told Charles about me, he’d have come straight here to arrest me.

So that means it all comes from this boy’s nasty, vindictive mind. Is he telling me the truth, or not?

Thoughtfully, he asked: ‘Why did you fall out with Cavendish?’

‘That’s my business.’

‘No, it isn’t. Not if you want me to trust you by telling you my plan. I have to understand your motivation.’

Simon frowned. There’s a definite petulance in that face, Werner thought. But it’s so strong it’s frightening rather than contemptible. That poor fool Charles! Still, it serves him right.

‘It’s simple, as it always is. He cares more for his family than me. He went to visit his son and started to feel guilty, so he decided to cast me off. They never learn.’

They,
Werner thought. So there have been other victims before Charles, have there? ‘What happened to the ones before him?’

‘Accidents. One died in a fire, another fell off a ship at night. One went back to his wife but her hand had been caught in a mangle, like yours; and then he had an accident with a shotgun. They have accidents, you see. It must be unlucky to leave me.’

For the first time that evening, a smile crossed Simon’s face. Only briefly, but it fascinated and terrified Werner, more than anything that had gone before. There’s something missing in this boy’s mind, he thought. I’d be a fool to trust him. And yet . . .

‘Are you planning to kill Carson or just kidnap him?’

The waiter padded across the room smoothly on soft shoes, to clear their plates. Werner waited while he did it, then ordered biscuits and cheese and coffee. On the other hand, he thought, someone as clearly focused and maniacal as this might just be useful. And it would be poetic revenge on Charles, after all.

He made up his mind.

‘My purpose is to remove Carson, so that the UVF will believe he has been arrested by the British police or army. Then they will be bound to attack the army and police to get him back, particularly if a rumour spreads, as it will, that Carson is held in, say, Holywood Barracks.’

Simon frowned. ‘Why would a rumour spread about that?’

Werner shrugged. ‘I am a journalist, after all.’

‘So then there will be fighting, and that will benefit Germany in some way, is that it?’

‘Yes. You don't need to know how.’

‘I don't care.’ Simon thought for a moment. ‘So then you'll have to kill Carson, won't you, because if he was ever released he'd say it was all a German plot, and nothing to do with the British government at all?’

Werner nodded slightly. ‘You are very astute. Does that frighten you?’

‘Not at all.’ Again Simon smiled his unnerving, perfect smile. He poured himself some coffee. ‘So how will you do it?’

Werner patted the two sheets of paper on the tablecloth beside him. ‘That's why I asked you for these. Until you walked into this hotel I didn't even know for certain that Carson was coming to Ulster this weekend. But it seems to me that the most likely time is either over the weekend, at Mount Stewart, or on Sunday when he's on the way there.’

‘In Charles Cavendish's Lancia,’ said Simon softly. ‘Yes, why not? Do you have enough men to attack it?’

‘I do. Three, to be precise. I shall be waiting for him, somewhere along the road beside Strangford Lough. I suggest you make sure you are not in the car with them. Unless you really want to help, in which case you could be driving the car, to make sure it slows down . . .’

‘Perhaps,’ Simon said. ‘I often drive it. I could do that if you wanted, of course. But it's dangerous, a difficult thing to attack a moving car successfully, when it's full of armed men. There might be another way.’

He thought for a while. Werner lit a cigar and the smoke curled lazily up between them. An idea began to hatch in Simon's mind and he smiled as it crawled from its shell.

‘Surely it would be better if Charles could be persuaded to help us.’

‘Help us? How?’ This is a waste of time, Werner thought. The boy's afraid to be in the car and he's trying to find a way out of it.

Simon's teeth gleamed through the smoke and candlelight. ‘Oh, I think Charles could be persuaded to. He wouldn't want to, of course — in fact it would hurt him like hell, but there's no way he could possibly refuse. What you may not know about Charles, you see, is this . . .’

Deborah had sent a telegram to Charles from Liverpool, and to her relief, the Lancia was waiting on the docks in Belfast for their arrival. Charles's chauffeur, Robinson, helped them into it with their bags.

‘Good to see you back, Mrs Cavendish,’ he said. Robinson was a lean, dour young man in his mid-twenties, with a passion for anything mechanical and an intense commitment to the Ulster Volunteers. He spoke hardly at all, so Deborah was touched by the unsolicited warmth of his greeting.

‘It's good to be back,’ she said. ‘This lady is my sister, she is coming to stay.’

‘Ma'am.’ Robinson touched his cap, shut the back doors carefully behind them, climbed into the driving seat, and began to ease the long car smoothly through the tangle of carts and trolleys and passengers and suitcases at the dockside. Deborah had deliberately not mentioned Sarah's surname, and if the chauffeur knew that she was the famous escaped suffragette — the female Houdini, as the
Daily Mail
had it — he gave no sign. Anyway she had no doubts about his loyalty, or that of any of her servants. So long as Charles agreed that Sarah was welcome in his house, not a word would be spoken.

As they drove through the soft green countryside, she could feel Sarah begin to relax, even as her own tension grew tighter. By the time they turned off the lough side road and cruised up the long gravel drive towards the house, with the large trees in the parkland to their left, and the woods and pheasant runs on their right, Sarah lay back in her seat, smiling, one hand held out beside the car to feel the breeze. Deborah sat upright beside her in her blue coat and feathered hat, staring intently ahead.

Charles was not there to meet them, but he arrived at midday. By that time the butler, Smythe, had installed Sarah in a large bedroom facing south-east across the lough, the housemaid had aired her bed and lit a blazing fire, and the cook, Mrs Hubert, had prepared a pheasant stew. Charles came into the dining room as they were about to sit down to it.

‘Ah, there you are, my dear,’ he said. Deborah stood up and smiled, although inside her stomach was fluttering terribly. He was wearing khaki, as usual, with polished Sam Browne belt and riding boots, but it was the lean, cold look on his face that concerned her. He did not smile or advance to kiss her.

‘Yes. I got your telegram. You said you were bringing a guest but you did not say who.’

He glanced at Sarah. As she had promised Deborah, she smiled winningly back. ‘There was a reason for that, Charles, you see. I am . . . in need of some privacy at the moment, and Debbie was kind enough to offer it to me. I hope you don't object.’

Despite himself, Charles smiled faintly. The old, lopsided smile. It's going to be all right, Deborah thought. At least about Sarah.

‘I see I am to be asked to harbour an escaped prisoner.’

‘Yes.’

Deborah said, quickly: ‘Charles, Sarah is my sister, we have to help her. She was forcibly fed in that prison and drugged with bromide. If she had not escaped she might be dead by now. I have promised her she will be safe here — and I cannot break my word.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Without asking me?’

‘There was no time, Charles. We had to move quickly. It was an emergency.’

‘But we are asking you now, Charles,’ Sarah said, still determinedly on her best behaviour. ‘I would very much appreciate it if you could extend your hospitality to me at Glenfee for a few days at least. If you feel you cannot, then of course I will go.’

‘Where to?’ Charles asked, sardonically.

‘Oh, there are suffragette groups in Ulster. I am sure I could find one willing to put me up, if I had to. But . . .’

‘Charles, please!’ Deborah stood directly in front of him, forcing him to look at her. ‘I don't often ask things of you, but this is extremely important. If you had seen Sarah when she came out . . .’

‘I can see her now. Thin as a rake.’ He looked at his wife, and the odd, lopsided smile did not fade. To her surprise he actually seemed to be amused. ‘All right. Even if she is the black sheep of your family and behaves liked a crazed Hottentot, I suppose she is still part of it. You may stay on two conditions, madam.’