“Eden is who Diana is dining with tonight,” I said. Eden was head of the Foreign Office, and Diana had told me her father had arranged the meeting.
“Yes, and she will be welcomed cordially, as a gesture of friendship to Lord Seaton. But the die is cast. Eden will listen, offer wine and promises to look into the matter, and promptly forget about it. I’m sorry to bring you such poor news, Captain. I wish it were otherwise. Now, get some rest and find this killer.” Masterman extended his hand, and we shook. He walked away, Flowers and Morris on either side.
I was alone on the path, the faintest of lights lingering on the western horizon. To the east, the heavens were pitch black.
CHAPTER THIRTY — ONE
I ate, hardly noticing what was on my plate. My pint glass was empty and I didn’t remember drinking a drop of the ale. People and conversation flowed around me but I didn’t hear a thing.
I had been told one of the greatest secrets of the war, and it was too enormous to even think about. Now I understood all of Cosgrove’s cautions and warnings, and the worry he must have felt, with me nosing around and asking all the wrong questions. Tomorrow I’d visit Inspector Payne and get back on track, asking the right questions, the ones that didn’t implicate the Millers.
And if Masterman’s secret wasn’t enough, I had Diana to worry about. From what he told me, her punishment for speaking out was benign, at least. But Diana wouldn’t see it that way. She wasn’t one to sit things out in a training camp. Would her superiors dress it up as an honor, or would she be told why she was being sent away? The former, I figured. The kind of Brits behind this weren’t big on the honest truth when an artful lie would do.
One secret protected lives, and perhaps hastened the day when the Allies would liberate the extermination camps. The other kept the true face of the killings in those camps quiet. The news was full of Nazi atrocities, which was good for morale and the war effort. But now that I thought about it, the papers and the BBC would routinely mention the suffering of Poles, Danes, Czechs, and others under the ruthless German occupation, but never Jews as a group, even as they were being herded into gas chambers in ever-increasing numbers.
Politics. The British Empire keeping their own occupied peoples from revolt. There were millions of Arabs for them to govern, and damn few Jews in the Mideast. Why rock the boat? Especially with the Suez Canal and vast oil fields to worry about. I knew I’d take Masterman’s secret to the grave, but Roger Allen’s machinations were not worth the honor of secrecy.
I got another pint, took it back to my seat and wondered how Diana was doing at her dinner with Anthony Eden of the Foreign Office. Perhaps they were having soup, discussing mass murder intently, Eden nodding, seeming to agree with everything Diana said as he savored the hot broth. It didn’t bear thinking, so I took a drink, remembering to taste it this time, and began to leaf through the scrapbook Rosemary Adams had given me. I’d barely remembered to take it from the jeep after my encounter with Masterman. The first few pages were from early in Sam Eastman’s career: old, yellowed newspaper clippings and the occasional memo on police stationery. A childish hand soon grew into a graceful cursive, Rosemary’s penmanship a marked improvement on that of her brother Tom, who was more given to underlines and exclamation points.
“May I join you, Billy?” I nearly jumped as Kaz dropped his bag on the floor and set his whiskey down, a grin of obvious pleasure lighting his face.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, surprised and happy as he slid in next to me.
“Ignoring a ridiculous order,” he said, downing a healthy slug of whiskey. “Those MPs were foolish enough to think that simply putting me on a train in Newbury would stop me from getting off at the next station and taking the return train here. It serves them right.”
“Glad you’re back, Kaz,” I said, raising my glass to him. “But remember it’s not just those MPs you have to worry about. It’s MI5. Cosgrove’s bosses obviously want this handled their way.”
“Which MI5 boss gave you that message?” Kaz asked.
“The guy we saw at Bushy Park,” I said. “He laid down the law, pretty much the same story Cosgrove gave us. My guess is he wasn’t sure if the major had given us the message before he had his attack.”
“The fact that he came to be sure the message was delivered is interesting,” Kaz said. “Did he have a name?”
“Yeah. Mr. Smith.” We laughed, and I thought how easy it was to lie to a friend who trusted you.
“Did he say anything else?”
I filled Kaz in on what Masterman had told me about Diana, and my own observations about how the BBC never mentioned Jews specifically as victims of the Nazis. I figured the closer I stayed to the truth, the easier the lie would be. And Diana had nothing to do with the Millers, so there was really no reason to keep it from him.
“He told you all this for what reason?” Kaz said, suspicion edging his voice.
“I think people who keep secrets for a living like revealing those that they can,” I said, steering damn close to my own truth. “Maybe Cosgrove told him about Diana. Maybe he’s sympathetic to the truth about the camps. Who knows?”
“What you said about the BBC is certainly true. When I was with the Polish government-in-exile we obtained a classified government report. The BBC and the Foreign Office determined that saving the lives of Eastern European Jews would not be seen as a desirable war aim by the British public. Their public stance was to refer to Poles exclusively, not Polish Jews, for instance. The Foreign Office was wary of Jews exaggerating the extent of atrocities and using public opinion for their own ends.”
“Like not being murdered by the hundred thousands,” I said.
“Yes, but remember, in the First World War, there were fantastic stories of German atrocities in Belgium, which turned out to be fictitious. The British government was seen as untrustworthy, and their credibility suffered. Perhaps they now are too careful with stories of atrocities.”
“Kaz, we don’t even have the right words for what’s happening in those camps. Atrocities happen when all self-control is lost, bloodlust is up, and men are crazed with violence. These camps are planned, industrial murder. You know that, you’ve seen the same eye witness reports I have. I don’t think these Foreign Office diplomats understand what’s really happening.”
“Or worse yet, they do,” Kaz said. That silenced both of us. Kaz toyed with his empty glass, then left to get another. I watched him melt into the crowd at the bar, mostly civilians among a smattering of uniforms. British Army, mostly, with a few American airmen and GIs for good measure. There were even two Negro soldiers throwing darts with the locals. One of the locals was Ernest Bone, from the sweet shop. He gave me a nod of greeting from across the room.
Kintbury was a small village, off the beaten track, too undistinguished to be allocated to any unit, black or white, for leave. I wondered if there’d be trouble, but everyone was going about their own business. Maybe these were guys who liked the quiet of a rural village, and the kind who left well enough alone. Whatever the reason, I appreciated the low murmur of voices, the agreeable laughter, and the sharp tang of the ale. Sometimes, you have to take what satisfaction you can get.
“What’s all this?” Kaz asked when he returned, looking at the scrapbook.
“A scrapbook Rosemary and Tom Eastman put together when they were kids,” I explained. “I thought there might be a clue as to anyone who had a grudge against their father, Sam. A long shot, at best.”
“They must have been proud of their father,” Kaz said. He took the book and began leafing through it from the beginning. “Did you ever keep a scrapbook of your father’s cases?”