It was in the company of Robert Nathan, with her arm through his elbow, that Mrs Gregson skirted Trafalgar Square, en route to a small suite of offices just off the Strand. There was yet another war rally on in the square, addressed by famous authors, among them Kipling and Wells. As always, a recruiting office had been set up. A year or two previously there would have been a snake of enthusiastic men at its door, falling over each other to serve. With conscription in place, there were far fewer customers offering to do their bit. Most men were content to wait for the summoning envelope through the door rather than rush to be shipped off as a green replacement to France. Few had any illusions now about the outcome of charging German machine guns at dawn.
The aim of the rally was mostly to try to keep morale high, especially in the aftermath of the film The Battle of the Somme, which had been seen by twenty million people. Its depiction of trenches and the dead had backfired as propaganda. People now appreciated why the lads on leave came back with those long, empty stares and were plagued by nightmares. They understood why they sought out the company of other soldiers, because only those who had experienced the front could relate to each other.
‘Something for the maimed and blinded?’ asked a Salvation Army officer, stepping in front of them. Nathan put some coppers in his tin. ‘You’re a Christian gent, sir,’ the man said, before moving on.
The White Feather girls, the Shameladies, were also in evidence once more, although in smaller numbers than at the start of the conflict, when men of serving age had to swat them away like flies. As they passed them, some examined Nathan’s face closely, trying to decide if he should be presented with the symbol of cowardice. There was talk of the conscription age being raised to fifty-one and some of the more aggressive women were already pre-empting that by targeting older men. But whenever the Shameladies received one of Nathan’s just-you-dare scowls, they invariably walked off in search of a more suitable victim.
Nathan pointed at a barrage balloon rising into the winter sky behind St Martin-in-the-Fields, its wrinkled envelope slowly plumping as it consumed the gas being fed along its umbilical. ‘Remember the rides at Vauxhall?’ he asked. ‘You ever do that?’
Mrs Gregson nodded. There had once been two tethered hot-air balloons on the Embankment and for thrupence you could take a ride in the gondola and have a wonderful view up and down the Thames before sinking slowly back down to earth. They had disappeared within days of war being declared. ‘Tobias took me. It was all terribly exciting. It seemed so daring at the time.’ She nodded at the inflatable, which had been joined by a saggy companion, its folds like elephant skin, to the north of the square. ‘I assume those aren’t for pleasure rides?’
‘Noooooo,’ Nathan said slowly, as if he knew more than he dare let on. ‘Just some trials by Balloon Command, I believe.’ He gave what he obviously thought was a reassuring smile and patted her gloved hand. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
Mrs Gregson bristled at the new patronizing tone, and wondered if they were to defend against the German bombers they all knew were coming eventually. But she didn’t press him.
‘Robert, thank you for finding out the information about the German. I could have gone to Churchill, but . . .’
‘Think nothing of it. Just pulled a few strings. Glad to be able to help.’
Nathan had examined the file on Von Bork and, although Mrs Gregson was not allowed to see it, he had given her an outline explaining why the man might have a lingering grudge against Watson and Holmes. Apparently the latter, in particular, had been instrumental in dismantling and discrediting Von Bork’s spy ring. So, it was possible he had blocked the release of Watson as some form of petty retribution. Now she had this information, she felt compelled to act on it. If the German were intent on doing him harm, Mrs Gregson had to find a way to counter him, even from afar. She owed it to her friend to explore every avenue to keep him alive, no matter how madcap.
‘You know Kell tells me there was a request recently to exchange your Miss Pillbody? For one of our boys in Berlin.’
‘She is not my Miss Pillbody,’ Mrs Gregson corrected with a shudder. ‘As you well know her name is Brandt. Ilse Brandt. And she is a monster. A She Wolf. And I would have thought we’d be glad to see the back of her.’
Ilse Brandt, a member of the Sie Wölfe group of female spies specially trained in Germany for infiltration into Great Britain, had almost killed Holmes and Watson out on the treacherous sands off Foulness in Essex. She had been apprehended and Mrs Gregson had fully expected her to be shot at the Tower, given the trail of bodies she had left across England. Then the Germans shot Edith Cavell for spying and it was decided that Britain’s right to moral outrage – and the propaganda value of the poor nurse – might be blunted if they, in turn, executed Ilse Brandt.
‘Did they agree?’ she asked. ‘To exchange her?’
Nathan shook his head. ‘No. The authorities are biding their time. There are several cases of civil murder against her – an old, defenceless woman in Essex, for one. My guess is they’ll wait until after the war and hang her.’
Mrs Gregson was still analysing how she felt about that when an excited voice boomed through a megaphone from the fringes of the meeting behind them, and a dozen skittish pigeons took off, skimming over their heads. ‘Stop the war! Sue for peace! No more killing!’ Nathan turned and looked at the young man, who was barely of conscription age. It was a peace protestor, perhaps even a ‘conchie’ who would refuse when his call-up papers came. There was a time when the mob would have lynched him, but his tirade was simply cut short when two policemen bundled him away, one of them kicking the youth’s ankles as they went.
‘I was wondering if we could try dinner again, without the excitement of the windows being blown in,’ Nathan said once they resumed their walk. ‘The Café Royal perhaps?’
There was something about the hopeful gleam in his eye that made her hackles rise. She tried not to show her resentment at the usual problem of a quid pro quo raising its head. She had thought Nathan above the ploy of getting her information and expecting dinner – or more – in return. ‘Perhaps tea,’ she said. ‘Might be more appropriate this time.’
‘Tea? I was hoping that . . . well, Mrs Gregson, the thing is . . . Georgina . . . I hope you know . . .’
It was her turn to squeeze his hand. How bizarre that even the most eloquent of men become tongue-tied when it came to discussing their emotions, she thought. Of course it could be worse, he could put his feelings into poetry, as was the current vogue. That would be intolerable. ‘Robert. Not now, eh? We have business to attend to.’ She gripped his forearm, steering him to the right. ‘Here we are. First floor.’
‘Of course,’ he muttered. ‘Bad timing. Story of my life.’ He gave a staccato laugh.
Once through the street door, they began to climb the wooden stairs. ‘Please don’t think me ungrateful,’ she said.
‘I never would,’ Nathan replied, with a slight pout that suggested he thought just that.
‘It’s just that I have to focus on one thing at a time. My personal life isn’t important right now. What matters is getting my friend Major Watson out safely.’
‘And once you have achieved that?’
‘A celebration might be in order,’ she said gaily.
‘Splendid.’
But not necessarily with you, poor Robert, she added to herself.
They had reached the door of a small set of offices. Nathan rapped the pane of glass with his umbrella handle and they entered. The bulk of the room was hidden by a screen of oak panels topped with stippled glass, the entrance guarded by a solitary, elderly clerk who looked at them over pince-nez. ‘Sir? Madam? What can I do for you? I am afraid the editor is at lunch.’
‘No matter,’ said Mrs Gregson briskly. ‘I am sure your good self will suffice. My name is Gregson, this is Mr Robert Nathan, late of the Indian Army, now a senior member of the Wartime Constabulary. We wish to see your subscribers’ list.’
The clerk frowned, moving his bald head from side to side with great deliberation. He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut as he did so. ‘I’m afraid that is impossible. The British Beekeeper’s Journal does not simply hand over private information willy-nilly.’
‘I am pleased to hear it,’ said Mrs Gregson. ‘But there is nothing willy or, indeed, nilly about this.’ She took a half-step to one side to cede the stage to Nathan.
The SSB man approached the clerk’s desk, leaned over it and produced an identity card of some description from his inside pocket. ‘I am afraid this is a matter of national security, sir. One that comes under the DORA regulations.’
The clerk visibly flinched. He pursed his lips, as if sucking a particularly astringent dose of sherbet powder. ‘I see.’
‘It is but one subscriber we need to access the details of,’ said Mrs Gregson with abundant reasonableness. ‘We are fairly sure this chap wouldn’t be without his copy of the British Beekeeper’s Journal. I assure you, the source of this information will go no further than these four walls.’
Nathan nodded solemnly to show his complicity.
The clerk sighed and pushed his chair back, preparing to rise and fetch the documents. ‘Very well. What is the name of this subscriber?’
Mrs Gregson smiled at her victory and said, with all the flourish of a magician at the twice-dailies removing a rabbit from the hat. ‘A Mr Sherlock Holmes.’