Wilde was worried. ‘How sure are you that you can’t be traced back to this house?’
‘Impossible,’ Tallulah said.
‘But you are linked to the club – and so is Mimi. They must know that. I’ve even seen Lord Templeman’s photograph on the wall.’
There was a brief lull. Was it his imagination or did a knowing glance pass between Harriet and Tallulah? ‘Did I say something?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Tallulah said. ‘Just a little in-joke. The thing is, you see, apart from Mimi no one at the Dada knows my real name – which happens to be Matilda Calderwood if you’re even vaguely interested. Tilly Calderwood to my family. And the only address I ever used is now rubble. I still pick up my mail at the shop next door, and my ration book is still tied to that address. Don’t worry, professor.’
‘It’s my job to worry. Worrying might just keep us alive. For the moment, I’m leaving you.’
‘To do what?’ Harriet did not seem happy.
‘You want this story out there in the world? I’m going to do what I can.’
‘Yes, but where are you going? Wherever it is, I’m coming with you.’
‘You’re still at risk. You have said yourself that the Athels are everywhere. They killed your father… they tried to kill you.’
‘And you, too, Tom. So we’re both in danger. Well, I’m not hanging around here kicking my heels.’
Wilde was about to say something else, but Harriet was already putting on one of Tallulah’s oversize jackets and it seemed pointless to argue.
The air in the newsroom was thick with the stench of tobacco smoke and sweat, and desks were covered with the detritus of the evening’s efforts – early editions, discarded copy paper, over-flowing ashtrays and stained mugs. It had been a hard night for Ron Christie, but every night was like that these days. The Blitz might be history, but the war was balanced on a knife edge on all fronts. News came from every continent, and too much of it was bad.
As night editor, he had to take split-second decisions on the value of new copy long after the editor had gone off to some dinner party with the great and the good. In peacetime, the night editor’s decisions were tough enough, but with the wartime scarcity of newsprint, it was a great deal more difficult, for the paper was down to four tightly packed broadsheet pages, including advertisements. For a story to get in, an important one might have to be dropped or, at the very least, cut to one or two short paragraphs.
But eventually the last edition was out. Normally he would slump back and enjoy the company of the late men over a glass or two of whisky or a cup of tea before making his way home to the warmth of the marital bed in Dulwich. Tonight, though, Tom Wilde was here again, in the company of a young woman, and he had parked them in the conference room to wait for him.
He stretched his arms and yawned, then said a few goodnights to the departing subs and joined his visitors. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Tom. Bit of a panic on,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry. And I’m sorry to be such a bloody nuisance again.’
‘That’s what friends are for, or so I’m told. Anyway, perhaps you’d introduce me.’
‘Yes, this is Harriet Hartwell. Harriet, my old friend Ron Christie.’
They shook hands.
Christie narrowed his gaze. ‘I recognise you, don’t I? You’re the girl in the picture at the Dada Club.’
‘Got it in one, Ron,’ Wilde said.
‘Well, well, so you found her. Are you going to tell me what this is all about? You know you didn’t even give me a clue when you were here before.’
‘For the moment, there’s a great deal I can’t tell you.’
Before leaving the house, they had discussed in detail how they were going to play this. There would be no mention of the Duke of Kent or his flight to Sweden, and certainly no mention of the Stockholm meeting or Harriet’s part in it. ‘Whatever Templeman or Eaton may have told you about me, Tom, I can promise you I am not going to spill the beans about Georgie’s mission. Believe it or not, I am a loyal Englishwoman.’ And so the focus would be on Coburg and the story he had to tell, but without naming him at present. How much would have to come out about the way he came to England would be decided at a later date.
‘That’s not a very encouraging start,’ Christie said.
‘Please,’ Harriet said. ‘Just listen, then make up your mind. Many lives are at stake here.’
Wilde cut in. Once again, Harriet was not helping her cause by her imperious tone. ‘What I can tell you is that we have a story that we want you to publish,’ Wilde said.
‘Well, the paper always likes a story. That’s why we’re here. Something to do with the Dada Club, is it?’
‘No, it’s a bit darker than that.’ He exchanged glances with Harriet. ‘I’ll tell it.’
Christie listened without saying a word. When the testimony was complete, there was a full minute’s silence. Then Christie said, simply, ‘And the provenance of this story?’
‘Trust me, Ron, it’s true. This comes from a German who has defected and is now in Britain. He is a hunted man, though, and for the moment, I can’t tell you exactly who he is – or where he is. I beg you to understand.’
Christie had been lounging against a noticeboard. Now he took a seat on the other side of the conference table, dug a crumpled cigarette packet from his shirt pocket, removed the last cigarette, and tossed the empty pack in the bin. Then he lit up. ‘I’m sorry, it’s my last one. Came in with two packets, now they’re all gone.’
‘I don’t smoke,’ Harriet said.
‘Look,’ Christie said, as calmly as always, ‘do you not see the problem with this from a newspaper’s point of view? If – and this is a big if – we were to publish a story like this, we would also have to publish its provenance. Without names, dates, pictures, the whole shebang, the story would be utterly worthless.’
‘So tell me exactly what else you need from us so that we can discuss it and work out what’s to be done.’
‘I don’t want anything from you. I’m only the night editor of this paper. You have to get a story like this past the editor himself and, in this case, the proprietor, too. They are the big cheeses. Then there are the Ministry of Information men. Decisions like this are not taken by the likes of me.’
‘Are you saying this would have to get past the censors?’
‘Of course, Tom – there’s a war on. Don’t be naïve.’
‘But thousands – hundreds of thousands – of innocent people are being murdered every day,’ Harriet said. ‘Don’t you understand?’
Christie saw the tears streaming down her cheeks. He thought of his own son out in Libya, putting his own life on the line to fight the wretched Nazi criminals, and his heart went out to her. ‘Yes, of course I understand. And for what it’s worth, I believe every word you two have told me. But it’s not worth a light without the say-so of others a great deal more powerful than myself. You have to take this story to the government, perhaps even Churchill himself.’
He saw his two visitors looking at each other helplessly.
‘This just brings us full circle, Ron,’ Wilde said.
‘I’m sorry, truly I am – but I’m trying to be honest with you. Look, Tom, Miss Hartwell, I’m not saying what you ask is impossible. I can certainly fix up a meeting between you and the editor, but he will demand every detail of how you got this story and he will want access to your source – and even then he will not make the decision alone.’
‘Let us think about it,’ Wilde said.
‘What school did your editor go to?’ Harriet’s question came out of nowhere.
Christie’s face betrayed his bewilderment. ‘What an extraordinary question.’
‘Well?’
‘As a matter of fact I happen to know that Mack went to Athelstans, though God knows what that has to do with anything.’
‘And you, Mr Christie?’
‘I’m a grammar school boy.’ He turned to Wilde. ‘Tom, what is this?’
Wilde shrugged helplessly.
Harriet was already turning away. ‘Oh, Tom, it’s hopeless, don’t you see? The Athels… they’ll never let this happen.’
As they prepared to mount the Rudge in front of the dark Fleet Street building, Wilde found himself wanting to put an arm around her and comfort her, but knew it was a bad idea. Then, just as he stepped away from her, she fell into his arms, sobbing like a child. He stroked her hair and held her tight, just as a father might do with a distraught daughter.
‘I have one more idea,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s a long shot, but it has to be worth a try.’