Season Of Darkness (40 page)

“I’ve an appointment later this afternoon with my dentist,” he explained. “In the meantime, he suggested I apply a hot compress to the sore place and that is what I am doing. So, Mrs. Devereau, what do you have for me today? Better news than last time, I hope.”

“Much, much better. This will clear up your toothache.”

Clare handed him the envelope containing the photographs. Grey dropped his hot cloth and gave an uncharacteristic whoop of delight.

“So that’s it. That’s what Herr Heydrich was fishing for. Splendid. Well, well. I admit I’m surprised. It’s not what I expected. So much for purity of mind and body. I thought he was after some egghead in the camp who had developed a new super bomb or some such thing. Far from it.”

“Do you think the pictures are genuine?” asked Clare. “It
would be quite easy for somebody to impersonate the man in question. Just stick on a wispy moustache, give your hair a monk’s cut, add wire rimmed glasses and there you are.”

“It doesn’t really matter if they are fake or not. If you pit two male wolves against each other in a struggle to be alpha male wolf, one or the other will be injured, even killed, and that is precisely what we want. It is up to Herr Heydrich how he deals with this material. An ambitious man is Reinhard Heydrich, with his oh-so-Aryan features. We know that he keeps secret files on everyone in Herr Hitler’s high command.” Grey rubbed his hands together in glee. “There will be squabbling in the den. Let us hope for very fierce squabbling.”

“What is our next step?”

“We will make photographs of all of this correspondence and our little Happy Family snaps and then hand them over to their intended recipient, Dr. Beck. I shall set our own chappie to keep a very close eye on the good man. He is bound to take some action when he receives this material. That in turn should provoke a reaction in the mole. It would be very valuable for us to take the spy into our tender custody.”

“What if Dr. Beck decides to keep this to himself?”

“I am gambling on my judge of human character, my dear Mrs. Devereau. The doctor is no fool. He knows that these pictures could be very valuable to the Allied cause. He will be compelled to do something with them. I want you to make it obvious that he is receiving this package.”

He placed the compress against his jaw again, which muffled his voice.

“We heard that Dr. Beck’s student, Otto Schreyer, is dead. He had a most unexpected heart attack. Very unexpected. No medical history, not quite forty. Quite tragic. The authorities are saying that he must have surprised a thief who was looking for money or drugs or some such. His office was ransacked.
I want you to make sure Dr. Beck knows about it.”

“He will be upset. I had the impression he and Schreyer were good friends.”

“That was unfortunate for the young man.”

“Why would Heydrich have him killed?”

“I don’t think it was him. I’d say Herr Himmler must have sniffed out where the photographs were. He must be in a panic to recover them before they are, shall we say, shared. I’d bet my boots it was he who had Schreyer eliminated.”

“According to his letter, he didn’t see those photographs.”

“Quite true but a mere technicality to our suspicious Gestapo friends.” Grey drummed his fingers on his desk. “Good, good. This is working out very nicely. Good work, Mrs. Devereau.”

“I can’t claim to have done very much, really sir.”

“Quite so. But it does go on the credit side, not the debit, doesn’t it? We can let our own man at the camp know that we’re on the move. He must be on his toes.” He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and took out a piece of paper and an envelope. He scrawled out a note, put it in the envelope, licked it sealed, and addressed the front.

“Please deliver this as if it were part of the regular mail.”

Clare took the envelope, saw the name, and looked up at Grey in surprise. He smiled.

“Good. If you didn’t suspect that he was our chappie, probably nobody else in the camp would guess either.”

He turned his attention back to the photographs. “My goodness, some of these positions look remarkably athletic, don’t they?”

Clare went straight back to the camp. When she got there, Major Fordham was addressing the general assembly. He had just finished telling them they would be transferred to the Isle of Man by the first week in September. Even though they
already knew what was in store, most of the internees became very agitated at the news. They knew change wasn’t always for the better. However, some of them who had wives already on the island were able to reassure the rest that it was a much better situation than the one they were currently in. Clare had waited outside the gate with her sack of letters. When he had finished, the major greeted her with relief.

“Poor fellows. How can they trust us? We could be sending them to a forced labour camp for all they know. Reassure them, will you, Mrs. Devereau?”

Private Nash opened the gate, calling out, “Post delivery. Post delivery. Come and get it.”

Momentarily distracted, the men buzzed around her.

Dr. Beck was among them and he gave Clare his usual warm greeting.

“Anything for me?”

“Yes, Doctor. If you will wait just a minute, I need to speak to you.”

She finished handing out the post, then drew the doctor to the side. She was holding the package underneath her arm.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, but I thought you would want to know. One of your students from the Berlin Institute has died. A Dr. Otto Schreyer.”

Beck gasped. “Otto? Surely not. He is a young man. What happened?”

“An apparent heart attack. But he was also the victim of a break-in at his office. He may have surprised the thief.” She looked at Beck. “I wonder what a thief would think to find in an analyst’s office? Surely not drugs.”

Beck shook his head. “We kept no such things. Poor Otto. He showed so much promise. I had no idea he had such a weakness.”

Clare murmured sympathetically. She glanced around. Most
of the others had drifted off to read their mail or to share with each other.

Clare handed Beck the package, making sure it could be seen. “This is for you.”

“Thank you.”

Still shocked by what she’d told him, Beck showed little interest in the package.

“I believe it’s from the London Institute,” said Clare, feeling like a hypocrite as she tried to tempt him. “Perhaps it’s the papers you’ve been hoping for.”

Beck opened the package and started to read Schreyer’s letter. Clare pretended to be paying attention to the other internees, some of whom wanted to share parts of their letters with her. She saw Beck open the envelope containing the incriminating photographs. He didn’t reveal much reaction but she supposed that was his training. A psychoanalyst can’t indulge in his own personal feelings. She called out to him in German.

“Is everything all right, Doctor?”

Quickly, he stuffed the photographs back into the envelope. “Not exactly.”

Hoeniger was on the fringes of the group, and Beck beckoned to him.

“Hans, where is Father Glatz?”

“In his tent.”

Beck nodded at Clare. “Thank you, Mrs. Devereau,” he said politely, and clutching the package as if it were on fire, he hurried off to the priest’s tent.

“Did he receive bad news?” the seminarian asked Clare. “He seems upset.”

“One of his former students has died suddenly.”

“What a shame. I shall go and see if I can be of help.”

He too went off to the tent. The internee whom Grey
referred to as “our chappie” hadn’t yet shown up to receive his mail. Clare dropped it off at his tent, then returned to the hut. She sat down at the rickety table. The game was afoot. Except it wasn’t a game. It was in deadly earnest and the stakes were very high indeed.

Beck patted the seminarian on the shoulder. “I’d like a private talk with Father Glatz if you don’t mind, Hans.”

“Not at all. I believe Kurt is expecting me to show up for a game of chess. He thinks he can trounce me.”

“No chance of that,” said Beck.

Hoeniger bowed himself away and left the two of them together. Beck sat on one of the cots and Glatz pulled up a canvas chair.

Beck took out the letter from Schreyer and handed it to the priest to read.

Glatz grimaced. “Are there photographs?”

“Indeed there are.” He handed over that envelope as well. “And worse, my dear Philipp, I heard just now from Mrs. Devereau that Otto has died. A completely unexpected heart attack.” Beck’s professional calm demeanour was disappearing. He was becoming very agitated. “Am I to accept his death as a coincidence, or is it related to the situation he describes? The woman says her husband discovered she has the photographs, so I presume she has also revealed what she did with them.”

“Is she alive?”

“I have not heard otherwise.” He looked at the priest. “I am quite at a loss as to what to do. I consider all case notes, whether mine or those of a student of mine, to be completely confidential. I have always considered the nature of the analysis to be as sacrosanct as the confessional. However, this material is another matter. It is quite subversive and concerns men with whom we are now at war. Does that release me
from all obligations? The woman in question, the analysand, is not a soldier. Should I respect her privacy regardless? I was Otto’s supervisor and therefore she is nominally under my protection. I have never had a situation quite like this before. I would most value your advice.”

The priest studied his hands. “With all due respect, Bruno, our situations are not exactly the same. I am bound by canon law and I am exempt from criminal law. I have priest-penitent privilege. In equivocal cases I would consult with the Holy See. Each situation would be judged on its own merit. You are not so exempt. Your decision to keep your own counsel is a professional one, not a religious one.” He indicated the package sitting between them on the side table. “If the subject of these photographs was anonymous, would you be so eager to hand them over to the authorities?”

Beck shrugged impatiently. “But he is not anonymous.”

“He is breaking the law; surely you cannot countenance that?”

“I realize sodomy is on the criminal code in both Germany and England but frankly, if the act is between consenting adults, I am not inclined to interfere.”

“Come, Bruno. It is you who are being a generalist. The participants shown in the photographs, except for the main actor, appear to be quite young, barely pubescent. Even more serious an offence.”

“But they are beyond the reach of British justice. Are you suggesting I should send all of this to Herr Hitler? They might be executed. In Nazi Germany, capital punishment is on the statutes for such men, whatever age. We know that homosexuals are being imprisoned under the most brutal of conditions.”

“If that man were to be executed, or disgraced even, it might be of benefit to the Allies, don’t you think?” Father Glatz
pulled at his lip. “You know what I would advise, Bruno? I would advise you to sleep on it … No, I am quite serious. Nothing will be altered by one more day, and in the morning you may be clearer in your mind as to what you want to do.”

Beck had been about to protest, but he nodded. “You know, I do believe you are right. What I need to do is to turn the problem over to my unconscious mind. Perhaps I shall have a dream that will give me some direction.” He pointed at the package. “I wonder if you would mind if I left the thing with you. I’m sure I would be tempted to examine the notes in the middle of the night if it sits beside me and—” Just as he said that, the flap of the tent was lifted and Hoeniger came in.

“Oh sorry, Father, I didn’t know you were still here.”

“That’s all right, Doctor Beck and I are finished, are we not?”

“Yes.” Beck turned to the young man who was hovering on the threshold. “I think a game of chess will clear my mind. It helps me to focus on something other than the current problem. Did you defeat young Bader?”

“I did. He was reckless.”

Beck chuckled. “I would have bet on it. Come then, Hans. I am cautious to a fault. Let’s see what you do with that.”

The priest took the package and stashed it in the little cupboard beside his bed.

“Wait one minute and I will come with you.”

He put his arm over Beck’s shoulders and guided him out of the tent.

T
HE DAY SEEMED TO BE TAKEN UP WITH ENDLESS RED
tape, reports being the bane of a police inspector’s existence. Tyler couldn’t even claim greater priority as there were no new developments in the murder cases. Arthur Trimble was nowhere to be found. The lorry was missing as well. Tyler repeated the “hold if seen” warning to other stations and set the available constables to renew their follow up in Whitchurch. He kept another man on watch at Trimble’s cottage. He was afraid he may have acted too soon and frightened the man off.

He’d gone back to confront Lambeth, but his father-in-law was adamant he had nothing to do with Trimble on Thursday morning. He also said that Trimble occasionally drove down to London to see a friend. No, he didn’t know what her name was. Maybe it was more than one friend. Tyler could do nothing else at the moment but fume.

When he finally finished what he had to do, it was late. Sergeant Gough had waited for him and on him, bringing him fish and chips for his tea. At ten o’clock, he sent Gough off home, and he walked slowly across the dark street to his own house. He let himself in, relieved that Vera had already gone to bed. Janet was at her friend’s house and Jimmy’s room was empty. God knows where he was. Tyler wished Alice Thorne was on the telephone but of course she wasn’t. As always, his anxieties about his son hovered in his head like so many midges. He was going to have a talk with him tomorrow if it was the last thing he did. He contemplated calling
Clare, but it was late and it seemed too furtive to phone from his own house. For a moment, the yearning to be with her was almost overwhelming.

He didn’t want to lie beside Vera in the marital bed, so he made up the couch for the night. Eventually he fell into a restless sleep.

He was at the station and the intercom telephone was ringing but when he lifted the receiver it was dead. He jiggled the hook, trying to summon Gough, but there were all sorts of complicated buttons that he had to press and nothing was working. The bloody thing kept on ringing
.