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The Thirlmere was a Norwegian ship designed specifically for the transport of locomotives and railway rolling stock. Doubtless she had been chosen for this particular job because she was a handy vessel for a difficult cargo. But I fancied there was another reason also. She had the necessary winch gear for loading and unloading under her own steam locomotives weighing many tons. If necessary, she would be able to unload the Calboyd torpedo boat at sea. I could see no sign of this boat as I came on board. But I noticed that a cradle had been rigged up at the after end of the big well deck, and presumed that the boat had still to come aboard. Flat against the poop stood the great girder to which rolling stock was slung, and beneath it, on the well deck, eight tanks were parked shoulder to shoulder, and lashed down with thick wire hawsers. They were coated thick with grease to protect them against the salt spray. About a dozen more stood on the wharf. Presumably they had been left until after the service, so that there was room to hold the ceremony in the well deck.

It was in this deep well deck that the crowd was gathering, facing for’ard towards the bridge. Before mingling with it, I glanced quickly towards the neighbouring wharf. Two black figures were seated on the base of one of the cranes and an empty rowing boat bobbed at the foot of a wooden ladder. I felt a twinge of conscience. Beyond the Percivale Banana Company’s wharf the river curved away towards Limehouse Reach, a broad expanse of sluggish water lined with empty wharves. No traffic moved and few ships were berthed along the huddled banks. Only barges jostled each other as they strained to the turning tide.

My gaze turned to the bridge of the Thirlmere. On it stood two clergymen in their white surplices and several frock-coated gentlemen, among whom I recognised Sir James Calboyd, a young-looking elderly man, with a very shiny top hat over his silvery hair and a rather ostentatious monocle. Directly beneath the bridge the choir stood facing us, and a little to one side an elderly man sat bowed over a harmonium. Glancing round amongst the crowd, which was a queer mixture of morning-dress and sports clothes, I caught sight of Sedel’s short puffy figure. He was standing amongst a group of frock-coated individuals, but I saw that, though he was talking most of the time, his little eyes were darting here and there amongst the crowd. I moved as far away from him as I could. I fancied that if my eyes at any time met his, my disguise would be pierced at once. I had barely taken up my new position when the old man at the harmonium came to life. Then Baron Ferdinand Marburg, accompanied by the Finnish Minister, came out on to the bridge. As he reached the front of it, he removed his hat. His sleek, well-groomed hair gleamed in the sunlight. At once the buzz of conversation ceased. All eyes were fixed upon that massive, black-coated figure. Cameras clicked and the faint whirr of the news cameras could be heard. In that instant Marburg dominated the whole scene. That great head with its thick black eyebrows and square jaw was striking enough beneath the sleek black hair. But, as ever, it was the eyes that drew the gaze of everyone. For one moment those deep-set sockets were alive, as he took in the scene before him, and then the heavy eyelids had hooded them and that powerful face might have been cut in stone for all the life that showed in it.

Then the service started. It did not take long. A stirring hymn, a few prayers for Finland, and finally the dedication. And when all the deadly cargo of that ship had been dedicated to the service of God, Marburg addressed the assembly. I cannot remember what he said. In print it would not, I fancy, seem inspired. In fact, what he said was probably quite banal. It was the man himself who held that crowd spellbound. Not because his eloquence gripped them, not because he wrung tears of pity from them on Finland’s behalf, but because of the power he radiated. His great sombre voice boomed out across the bows of that ill-fated ship, even and monotonous, but with a terrible sense of the power of the speaker. I can remember only one sentence. ‘I am going to Finland myself on this ship,’ he said, ‘to see how desperate things are and what must be done.’ And the impression left was that the Russian forces would melt away at the speaker’s arrival.

And when he had finished, there was a deathly silence. It was broken by the usual British enthusiasm for cheers. And so they cheered Baron Ferdinand Marburg on his way to Germany, and I stood there silent, wondering what the hell I was going to do about it.

Two things I had discovered since I had come on board. The first was that the volunteers were, as I had suspected, Marburg’s own picked men. The second was that Marburg was sailing with the Thirlmere. That could only mean one of two things — either this was his planned exit, or it meant that his position was getting precarious. I hoped it was the latter, for then something might result from my visit to Fisher. Apart from using the statement I had given him as the basis for a story, he had promised to have copies made straight away. One was to be sent to the Chief Commissioner and another to the Air Minister himself. ‘If all this is true,’ Fisher had said, ‘there are bound to be some loose threads somewhere. There always are in any big move of this sort. No one knows anything about it, until someone turns up to give the show away, and then all the little pieces fall into place. And the loose threads, the pieces of the jig-saw, will either be in the hands of the police or in the hands of the Intelligence.’ That had seemed the best I could do. Fisher was Scot enough to be obstinate once he had got an idea into his head. I had not made the mistake of trying to plead the truth of my statement as though I needed to defend it. I had just told it simply to him and left him to judge its truth.

But as I stood on that crowded well deck, looking up at the impassive mask-like features of Marburg, I wondered whether there was not something else I could do. I felt the need for action. I felt the need to go to someone in authority — the Chief Commissioner, for instance, or a member of the Cabinet — and get them to act. But I knew that, because I could convince a man like Fisher, it did not necessarily mean that I could convince a Cabinet minister or a policeman. Fisher was a newspaper man. In him the will to believe was there, for it was a story. But anyone in authority would be unwilling to believe something that placed upon his already overweighted shoulders further responsibility. And though I felt the need for action, I knew that it was best left to Fisher. The best I could hope for myself would be that they would believe me. Action was another matter, and would only be reluctantly taken after everything had been checked and re-checked. But Fisher, with a powerful newspaper behind him, could demand action and, because of the threat of publicity, might be able to get it. I had left him in a state of growing excitement. ‘It’s terrific, Kilmartin,’ he had said, as he handed me the ten pound notes I had asked for. ‘I’ll get on to Sir John Keif — he’s our proprietor, you know. He’ll start things moving and we’ll get action in no time.’