And to think, I thought he was a spy! She laughed uncontrollably while Hilda hid her relief.
Chapter 7
She felt awkward carrying the wooden box. It was not particularly heavy, but it was rather cumbersome. The Browns had given her a large shopping bag to carry it in, and a winter scarf concealed it for the journey home. By the time she reached Nethybrig Hotel it was dusk. She had already prepared her explanation for her lateness, in case she was challenged.
‘Good evening, Frau Richter.’
‘Fergus, please call me Mrs Richter. I’m not in Germany now.’
‘Can I take your bag?’
‘No, it’s all right, thank you. I’m just going to my room.’
‘Wait a moment, please. There’s a letter from Otto for you.’ Fergus fetched it from the desk and handed it to her. Sure enough, on the back of the envelope Otto had signed his name.
‘You sit down and read it; I’ll take your bag up to your room.’
‘It’s all right; I’d prefer to read the letter in my room,’ she said with a smile to show she meant no offence. She dropped the letter into the bag and grabbed the handles before Fergus offered again, her heart fluttering.
Safely in her bedroom, she hid the radio under the bed, making sure the soft pink seersucker counterpane draped down to the carpeted floor. She carefully opened the letter. She felt close to Otto as she read; his neat handwriting reminded her of Willy’s.
She heard footsteps on the landing.
‘You are back, dear. How was your visit?’ Mother entered the room and sat on the bed. Hilda held her breath as the counterpane rucked up and the bag became visible. If Mother swung her legs, her feet would collide with it – and how was she going to explain what it was?
‘Very pleasant, we had a delightful time in Inverness. But, look a letter from Otto.’
The letter had arrived at the most opportune moment. Mother''s attention now focused exclusively on her only grandchild.
‘He tells me he’s at the officer training school in Baden Baden.’
‘Going to be an officer, that’s good.’
‘He says he’s now an Untersturmführer.’
‘Oh, I see. What’s that?’
‘A second lieutenant, the lowest of the officer ranks. But he goes on to say that after a year, he will be an Oberstumführer, a lieutenant. They must have a high opinion of him.’
Madge''s fingertips tapped her knees. ‘So he’s no longer staying with his uncle?’
‘No, he’s at a military college now.’
‘He’s not going to be a doctor then, like his father?’
‘Not yet, Mother. After his training they will need doctors too. He hasn’t gone off the idea. It’s more that the nation needs a strong army, and he has to follow orders.’
‘I see. Does he say anything else?’
‘He sends his love to you and granddad. It’s a short letter. I suspect they are told how much to write.’
‘I never saw him as a soldier. Hilda, I hope he’ll be well looked after, he’s still a young man.’
‘I’m sure he’ll look after himself too.’ She swallowed hard and breathed deeply to quell her racing heart. She wished Mother would leave, but she could hardly ask her to.
‘When you reply, make sure you send our love.’
Hilda took her mother’s hands. ‘Of course I will, from both of you.’
‘Well, the meal will be another half-hour. You have a wee rest.’
‘Good idea, Mother.’
Mother left the attic and returned to the kitchen. Hilda pushed the radio further back under the bed and went down to the ground floor lounge, hoping to use the telephone. She was in luck; the room was empty.
‘Mr Dynes?’
‘Speaking. Do you have news?’
‘I have the radio and call signs,’ she said in hushed tones.
‘Whose call signs?’
‘Mine and Eicke’s.’
‘The radio, what make?’
‘Delphin 7. You know it? It has an eight-hundred-mile range.’
‘Yes, you’ll need that. Don’t transmit yet please. I need to see you.’
‘But Eicke’s expecting me to contact him soon. Don’t you trust me?’
There was silence; clearly he was considering her position. She waited, twiddling with the telephone cord.
‘Very well, Hilda, send a brief message about receiving the Delphin from the Browns, and note his reply.’
‘Of course.’
Fortunately, no one had asked who she was telephoning, this time or the times before, but she would have to think of some excuse, for that and for other things. This spying business was more complicated than she had realized; the potential for lies grew by the day.
Shortly after midnight, she opened the radio. She had a sharp pencil to hand, her bedside light was on; the hotel was as quiet as the night itself. She opened the top of the window gingerly. It resisted, and as she tugged, it made a rasping noise. She listened intently, to find if anyone had been disturbed.
All remained quiet. She placed the box on her bed and turned the set on, seeing the bulb illuminate moments later. Her codebook lay beside her on the bedside table. She took the aerial and plugged it into the back. The cable led through the open window to the stone rear wall of the dormer window. She secured her headphones, then gave her call sign.
Avalon to Muskel.
She waited for a reply. She held one earpiece in place, leaving the other ear free to focus on any hotel noises. Her stomach was in knots. She took a mouthful of water from the glass she had brought up with her for the night. How had she fallen into this espionage trap? Would she ever get out?
She dialled again.
Within twenty seconds the set came to life.
Muskel to Avalon. Greetings. Hope all well. Advise of any troop movements and airfields in northern Scotland. In January report back to Hamburg in person. Over and out.
Eicke’s message was so clear, as if he was much nearer than Hamburg. He also seemed to be a man of few words when transmitting. He was well trained. What he said was unambiguous. She replied simply that she had understood and had mastered the radio. She took the aerial down and packed the set away.
She lay awake half the night, turning his message over and over in her mind. How could she report troop movements or count airfields when she had been ordered to return in January?
Before breakfast the next morning, she telephoned Thornton to relay her conversation with Eicke. It was a cold, wet day. Hailstones fell on the roadside outside the hotel, rolling down the hill like scurrying marbles. Winter assaults like this were not uncommon in the north. Towards midday as she watched through the lounge window, a car slowly drove up, its windscreen wipers flapping vigorously. It parked just out of sight of the hotel entrance. There seemed to be two occupants, but they were very hard to distinguish. She alerted reception that they had guests and requested that everything be made ready to receive them. She made herself scarce, retiring to the kitchen where she placed a kettle of water on the stove.
From the corridor she heard familiar voices. She grabbed a towel to dry her damp hands and walked smartly through to greet Mr Dynes and Mr Thornton.
‘Fergus, three lunches please. We shall dine in the library, not the dining room.’
She led the men along the corridor to the library situated on the east wing of the hotel.
‘Stunning views,’ said Dynes, standing by the window looking quite relaxed.
‘I wish my lawn was as well kept,’ said Thornton.
They looked around the room and Dynes closed the library door.
‘You will stay for lunch, I presume?’ Hilda asked.
‘Indeed, that will be much appreciated.’
Hilda was not sure how to begin. When she did, it sounded defensive. ‘Well, you received my call. What do I do now?’
‘I don’t think Herr Eicke will be looking for a quick response. After all, he has set you off on a wild goose chase looking for troop movements,’ said Thornton, fiddling with his pearl cufflinks.
‘Do you think Eicke got any inkling of you being a double agent?’
‘I doubt that very much, Mr Dynes. The communication was not long. But my fear is that the Browns might appear, or become aware that we are meeting.’
‘Don’t you worry about the Browns. Their natural home is in London. They are employees of the German Embassy. They caught the early train from Inverness the morning after your meeting.’
‘I see. So I need not worry about them?’
‘It only takes a day for them to return, remember.’
Thornton was right. She must not let her guard down at any time.
During a light lunch of cullen skink, Mr Dynes asked to see the radio for himself.
‘That might be awkward. I can’t let you follow me up to my room in the attic. That would not be appropriate. It would arouse suspicions.’
‘I see what you mean. Have you any other suggestion?’
She was not sure why they wanted to see the radio, other than for nosiness. But who was she to question her spymasters?
‘I can bring it down concealed in a bag. If you were to wait in the car, I could come out at a safe time. I’d have to make sure I didn''t give my mother any cause for concern, or curiosity for that matter.’
There was a brief silence. Then: ‘What if we found you alternative accommodation? That would make it easier for you to send messages and avoid any suspicion,’ Thornton suggested.
‘I can’t see how that would work. My father is poorly and my mother enjoys the extra help I can give here at the hotel. I’d have to stay nearby, and that does not fit well as I have perfectly good accommodation here.’
Dynes pursed his lips. His thoughts seemed to be already turning to other matters.
‘Does your mother know about you returning to Hamburg?’
‘No, I plan to tell her after Christmas.’
The sound of footsteps put Hilda on the alert. ‘Shh, change the subject,’ she hissed.
Her mother appeared in the doorway. ‘Darling come quick, it’s your father...’
The two men stood up.
‘I think we should leave. There’s nothing more we can say today. But we will keep in touch,’ said Dynes.
‘Do stay, finish your lunch. Coffee will arrive soon. I may be able to join you later. Please stay.’
‘If you put it like that... Thank you very much,’ said Dynes, sitting down again.
‘I hope your father is all right,’ Thornton added.
‘Thank you. Excuse me, I need to go.’
She hurried to her father’s bedroom, where her mother sat holding his hand. Father looked pale and his eyes were unfocused. Mother wiped his brow with a damp cloth, and it seemed to revive him momentarily.
‘Hil...da,’ he said with difficulty. ‘I’m sorr... sorry. For...gi...’
‘Father you have nothing to be sorry for,’ she said as his voice trailed away. It had been a real effort for him to speak.
He seemed to fall into a deep sleep, and after a few moments Hilda saw he was no longer breathing.
‘Dr Graham should be here soon, darling,’ said Mother, her voice thick with tears.
Hilda laid her hand on his brow. She was reluctant to cover his face with the sheet just yet.
‘It''s too late for the doctor,’ she said softly. ‘Mother, all he''ll do is confirm what we already know.’
She looked at her father for several minutes, unable to take her eyes off his peaceful face. Only when she heard the hotel front doorbell ring did she realize there were tears in her eyes. She went to meet Dr Graham, and followed him back to the bedroom.
‘Frau Richter, I’m pleased to see you. Are you home permanently now?’ he asked.
‘Yes, for the time being, Dr Graham. May I ask you to refer to me as Mrs Richter? I am a widow living in Scotland. I do not want to complicate matters. I am sure you will understand.’
The doctor turned round to face Hilda. ‘Indeed I do. Now, your father...’
‘Yes, of course. I''m afraid it is too late.’
Retired Major James Campbell had taken his final breath that Tuesday afternoon at 1.15 p.m. Both Hilda and her mother took comfort in the knowledge that father and daughter had been reunited before he died.
The funeral followed exactly a week later. At the gathering at the hotel there were representatives of his former regiment and the town’s bankers and clergy, not to mention the regulars who frequented the hotel’s public bar most nights. The Masonic brotherhood was very well represented too. In fact most of the townsfolk attended the funeral, and Hilda could see how well respected her father had been. Although she recognized some, many were unknown to her. She moved from group to group, accepting their condolences, until she spotted the familiar face of a woman some years younger than she was herself. Her face lit up and her steps quickened as she opened her arms.
‘Vera, how kind of you to come.’
‘My condolences, Hilda.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m a married woman now. No longer Vera Caldwell. I married Tim Wild.’
‘Wild? That’s a name to conjure with.’ They both laughed.
‘It’s a Wiltshire name, Hilda.’
‘Wiltshire? My, you have travelled far. Where are you living?’
‘Tim is the manager of Randall’s shoe shop in Sauchiehall Street in Glasgow. We live above the shop, in a three-bedroomed tenement flat.’
‘And you? Are you working? It was pharmacy you were about to study, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, I’m a pharmacist in the local chemists.’
‘Local, as in Sauchiehall Street?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you must have been travelling all night.’
‘It feels like it.’ Vera smiled wryly.
‘Are you staying overnight? You are very welcome to do so.’
‘No, if you don’t mind, Hilda, not this time.’
Hilda looked at her niece. Her last sight of her had been in 1914, just after the war began; Vera had been hidden in a car heading for the Danish border. She had grown into a beautiful woman. Hilda gave her a long overdue hug.
‘Vera... I suppose you still blame me for bringing you to Germany on the eve of the war to end all wars?’
‘Now I look back on it, it was the most exciting time of my life, Hilda. But I wouldn’t do it again. I was petrified of what might happen if I had been detained as an alien.’
‘We wouldn''t have let that happen – we knew we could get you out of Hamburg. The war hadn''t even got properly under way.’
‘All the same, we were treated like cattle until we got on that boat to Harwich.’
They exchanged nervous looks; they both knew how scared they had been back in August 1914.
‘When are you going back to Germany?’ Vera asked.
‘I’ll stay here a little longer.’
‘Yes... yes, that’s a good idea.’
Mother was a few feet away, offering a plate of sandwiches to a group of men. Her eyes were glazed with tears and she looked a little lost. Hilda reached out and touched her arm.
‘Mum, here’s Vera.’
‘Ahh Vera, thank you so much for coming,’ Mother said, taking hold of Vera’s arm. Hilda gently relieved her of the sandwiches and left her in Vera''s care.
The rest of the day passed too quickly. Family and friends drifted away with good wishes and promises to keep in touch. Hilda hoped they would, for her mother’s sake.
When everyone had left, she found her mother sitting by the stove in the kitchen on her own.
‘Mum... can I ask you something?’
‘Of course, darling.’ Madge stretched out a hand, and for the first time all day Hilda felt she was fully here in the room, in mind as well as body. She still hesitated for a moment, but decided to launch straight in.
‘Before he died, Father seemed to be asking for forgiveness. Did you understand what he was trying to say?’
‘Forgiveness? No... I can’t imagine. I suppose it might have been something about his childhood or his army days. He never spoke much about either.’
‘I don’t think so. He seemed to be apologizing to me. But I have no idea why.’ Hilda dropped on her haunches beside her mother''s chair and squeezed the older woman''s hand.
‘I would put it out of your mind. You won’t find the answer now that he’s gone. Let him beg his forgiveness for whatever it was with the good Lord, who will be with him now.’
Hilda did not share her mother’s religious convictions but forbore to say so; clearly they brought comfort. She went to bed not long after it became dark, planning to immerse herself in memories of happier times, growing up in Elgin with both her parents.
As she entered her loft room, she noticed a glow from the crystal on the radio, and realized she had left it on by mistake. She took it out from under the bed, wishing there was a key to the door. She closed it firmly, placed her headphones over her ears and trailed the aerial out of the window. Her pencil and pad were by her side. She was ready. She answered the call with her code. Eicke was quick to reply.
Sorry to hear your father has died. Accept my condolences.
Her fingers trembled as she replied, mystified as to who had told him. ‘Thank you for your kind words, Muskel. Over.’ The line went dead. She waited nervously for a few minutes, but no reply came. She returned the radio to its hiding place, racking her brains over how Eicke could possibly have known of her father’s death. Then she remembered she had phoned Karl to inform him. Of course, he would have contacted Otto. How else could he have known? Unless the Browns had somehow got wind of the news – but surely that was even more unlikely?
Chapter 8
Madge was right, of course; Father’s final words would remain a mystery. Nevertheless, that did not stop them lingering and niggling in Hilda''s mind. She followed her mother''s example, eschewed the ''black for mourning'' tradition and hid her grief behind the work of running the hotel.
In the evenings they talked about Otto and his aunt and uncle; Madge enjoyed hearing how they were coping with the situation developing in Germany. Letters from Germany hinted at the hysteria gripping the nation. Anyone who fought against it was ruthlessly treated. Karl''s letters mentioned the amazing rallies; Hilda wondered if she was imagining that when he wrote the word ‘rally’ it was in slightly smaller letters. Otto had thrown himself into the army officer training and had many friends. His letters always ended with his flourishing signature and undying love.
One evening as the light faded she asked her mother to play the piano, which stood in the corner of the lounge with its lid closed.
‘I''m sorry, dear, but these days are over. I thought you would have noticed.’
Madge spread out her hands. Her fingers were more gnarled and fused with arthritis than Hilda had acknowledged. She clasped her hands together for a brief moment, massaging her fingers.
‘Then let me have a go. It’s been a while,’ said Hilda.
The oboe had always been her first instrument, but she read music well enough to adapt her skill to the piano. She found a handful of scores in the piano stool, and launched into Burlington Bertie by Harry B Norris. Madge tapped her knees to the waltz.
She played Fauré’s Pavane, and followed it with a few Scottish airs. Her mother had fallen silent, and she turned to see her sitting back with her eyes closed. She walked over to sit beside her, and her mother''s eyes fluttered open.
‘Why have you stopped? I was enjoying that.’
‘You were dozing. I haven’t played the piano for several months now. In fact I’ve only played my oboe a few times in my room since I’ve been here.’
‘I know. I’ve heard you. Mind you, you have been somewhat preoccupied.’
Hilda smiled at her mother. Widowhood had not taken her by surprise. Father had required much nursing in his final years, and that was over now. But there was clearly something on Madge''s mind.
‘Those men who visited the day your father died...,’ she asked hesitantly. ‘Can I ask who they were?’
Hilda''s heart missed a beat. ‘You mean Dynes and Thornton?’ She thought quickly.
‘If those were their names.’
‘Well, they are officials from the Home Office. They want to learn about my time in Germany. How things are over there. That sort of thing.’
‘I see.’ Madge chuckled. ‘You’ll never guess.’
‘About what?’
‘I thought they were spies,’ she said, laughing till her eyes ran with tears.
Not spies; spymasters. But that was not something to share with her mother. She laughed along with her, secretly relieved that Madge''s curiosity had been so easily satisfied.
Two days later, Hilda was in her room when a loud shout from the reception hall caught her unawares. She opened the door, and heard Fergus call her name.
‘I’m upstairs, Fergus.’
‘A visitor to see you.’
‘Coming,’ she said, glancing at her hair in the mirror before descending. She patted her head, tucking a few grey hairs away behind her ears. With each step downstairs, she nervously patted her thighs to remove unwanted flecks of dust.
A woman perhaps a decade older than herself stood in the hall. She held herself ramrod straight and wore a superior expression. What now, Hilda asked herself.
She straightened her shoulders, fixed a smile on her face and walked towards the woman with her hand outstretched.
‘Good morning, Frau Richter,’ the woman said. The superior look faded away, and she seemed a little nervous. ‘I am Miss Maureen Robertson. May I have a few moments of your time?’
‘Certainly. Do you have time for some tea?’
‘Only if you are having some yourself.’
‘Two teas please, Fergus.’
‘In the library?’ he queried.
‘Yes, that’s fine.’
Hilda''s mind raced as they walked along the corridor making small talk about the weather. The log fire in the library offered a measure of comfort, and they sat down on either side of the fireplace.
‘Forgive me,’ Miss Robertson began uncertainly, ‘for taking this opportunity to meet you. I suppose I am acting on instinct.’
‘Really?’ Hilda could not imagine what was on the woman''s mind. Miss Robertson seemed as nervous as she was. Perhaps she was a double agent too. Hilda waited to hear what she had to say, hoping her apprehension was not written all over her face.
‘I conduct the local orchestra.’
Relief flooded through her. So that''s it!’ she exclaimed. ‘I knew I had seen you before,’ she added quickly.
Fergus arrived with a trolley, its wheels jittering as it rolled from the wooden floor to the carpet.
‘I always enjoy coming to the Nethybrig. It’s such a pleasant setting, and the meals are wonderful.’
‘Thank you. Mother and her staff do their best to please the customers.’
She let Fergus pour the tea. The first sip helped her to relax. Her eyes returned to Miss Robertson.
‘I had a conversation with your mother recently, which pleased me very much.’
‘Goodness. What has mother has been saying?’
‘She told me you played the oboe beautifully.’
Her mind raced ahead. An invitation to join the orchestra must be on the agenda, but she would have to decline if she was to disappear in January.
‘Our wind section is not as strong as our brass. The addition of an oboe would make a wonderful difference. Would you be willing to join the orchestra, Frau Richter?’
‘Please call me Mrs Richter, or Hilda, but not Frau. We are not in Germany, and I am a widow.’
‘My apologies. But the orchestra?’
‘My stay here is temporary. I will be moving on early in the New Year, so I''m afraid I must decline your very kind invitation. I’d disappoint the orchestra if I joined, then left so soon. I hope you understand.’
‘Of course. I had no idea you intoned to leave Elgin. I suppose you won''t be moving to somewhere close by?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘But you''re not going until January? I mean, you will be here over Christmas?’
‘Yes, I’ll be helping my mother. As you can imagine, it will be a busy time for the hotel.’
‘Then perhaps you might need a break? Could you join us in the church for the Christmas Day service? We will be playing Handel’s Messiah.’
Hilda''s eyes closed briefly. It would be churlish to refuse, and besides, the Messiah was a piece of music she cherished, and she knew every part of the score.
‘As long as it’s clear I’m only here over Christmas, I could join you for that one performance.’
‘We’d be delighted Mrs Richter. The woodwind section will be so pleased.’
They parted on cordial terms, and Hilda attended the orchestra''s first practice session the first week of December. She was back in her comfort zone, and it enabled her to push her worries to the back of her mind. She found she was enjoying the challenge of fitting in with a new group of musicians. Elgin being the size it was, her history was not entirely unknown, and too many people called her Frau rather than Mrs; but she left it to Miss Robertson to put them straight.
Mother was pleased that she had integrated herself into the community. So too was Eicke; she sent a message informing him that troop movements were minimal and insignificant, especially around the festive period, during which she would be playing her oboe in a local orchestra.
Mr Dynes, however, was not pleased. He told her she should not have been entrenching herself in the community; she had to remain aloof and avoid drawing attention to herself. Above all, it was important she remain free from attachments. She assured him that she was not intending to find a new husband from the ranks of the musicians, but he took the view that others might be interested in meeting an eligible and talented widow. That would wreck her usefulness and place her in danger. Spies had to be alert and able to anticipate what might happen. She felt he softened somewhat when she told him Eicke seemed pleased, but she gained the impression he was anxious for her to return to Germany, in order to maximize her value to the security services. While she was in Elgin, she was marking time.
On Christmas Day the orchestra filled the chancel space of the church. The Reverend James R. Haddow led the congregation in prayer, then settled back in his pulpit to let Miss Robertson get the oratorio under way. Hilda did not learn until later that this had become a popular annual event, though it did explain why the orchestra and the four soloists were so familiar with the music. The women’s dresses were festive red, while the baritones, tenors and basses wore traditional black dinner suits. There was not a single empty seat in the house.
The performance lasted two hours, and for most of that time she was seated behind a music stand as well as behind the string section. There was a line of spotlights on the orchestra, though the pews were dimly lit.
Her first solo was O Comfort Ye My People. She played it from her seat, and as she thought about the words, she realized that to her ‘my people’ had two meanings. She played with great feeling, asking her oboe to spread the word that peace was surely still possible.
After her solos she received broad smiles from the cellist and second violins. Her performance had gone down well.
There was a fifteen-minute break during which they retired from the chancel, leaving the instruments and heading to the vestry, where they queued for the lavatory. As she stood in line, Hilda was approached by Miss Robertson.
‘Hilda, that was a wonderful performance.’
‘Thank you, Miss Robertson. I did enjoy playing it.’
‘The tone of your instrument pierced the church’s atmosphere. It was a wonderful moment. In fact, can I ask you to go to the front of the chancel, and stand in the centre of the stage, when you play I Know That My Redeemer Liveth?
‘Oh, I am sure that is not necessary. We are all playing well.’
‘Indeed we are. However, that solo comes straight after the Hallelujah Chorus. Everyone will be excited, and we need to hold the audience’s attention. I am sorry I did not realize this before today, but they would really like you to come forward to play it.’
Miss Robertson was a woman who knew her music, and how to get the best out of her orchestra.
‘Then I will, of course.’
Refreshed by cool drinks and seasonal snacks, the players filed back into the chancel to take their places after the interval.
Hilda tried not to think about her next solo as her emotions crescendoed along with the Hallelujah Chorus. As the choir sang the final notes and the music echoed around the pews, she made her way to the front of the orchestra, holding her oboe upright to prevent damage, giving herself time to compose herself. First she had to get used to the fact she could see more of the audience. She discreetly dampened the instrument’s double reed with her tongue as the orchestra played the opening bars of her solo, then she took a deep breath and began to play the glorious melody of I Know that My Redeemer Liveth. Her first note trembled, then she settled into the slower pace, which required long breaths. She seemed unable to prevent the tremor on the long notes – and then she realized why.
Out of the corner of her eye she could see into the left transept. It was as full as anywhere else in the church – but there, without a doubt, were two familiar faces. Mr and Mrs Brown were there.
It was traditional for the vicar and his wife to entertain the orchestra to sherry and hot mince pies after the performance. They all retired to the church hall, chattering animatedly; but Hilda’s thoughts were all directed at the Browns, and why they had returned. Perhaps they had never left. Perhaps somehow they had seen or overheard, her communications with Dynes and Thornton.
Her heart missed a beat when Miss Robertson told her a couple was waiting to see her in the vestry.
‘A London agent, I expect,’ said the bassoonist standing beside her.
Hilda''s fists clenched involuntarily, and she threw him a keen glance. What on earth did he know about London agents? He smiled as she stared at him. ‘Only joking, Mrs Richter. Music agents do occasionally turn up at our recitals, even this far north,’ he said.
She smiled in relief. ‘Oh, I don’t think I played that well,’ she replied.
‘You never know when fame comes knocking. That’s all I was saying.’
She made her way to the vestry and found the vicar deep in conversation with the pair.
‘Goodness, Mr Dynes. Mr Thornton too. I was not expecting either of you.’
‘No. I''m afraid I may have overreacted when we last spoke. We both enjoyed your performance this evening very much,’ Thornton said. Mr Dynes nodded his agreement, and the vicar looked from one to the other with a puzzled smile.
‘I did not see you in the church,’ Hilda replied. ‘But I did see Mr and Mrs Brown. I was not expecting them to come either, and I think I had better try to find them before they leave. Would you mind if I went to look for them? I’ll keep in touch, I promise.’
‘Of course, Hilda. Away you go,’ said Thornton. He and Dynes exchanged a brief glance. Hilda realized they would have loved to see the Browns, though meeting them face to face would have been most inadvisable – and of course they were anxious to know whether the Browns knew who they were. Their best course of action now was to lose themselves in the crowd; Hilda was glad when the vicar offered a solution.
‘A sherry, gentlemen, and a mince pie, perhaps? Come through to the church hall. I am sure there are plenty left.’
Hilda tucked her oboe case under her arm and left the vestry, wrapping her scarf round her neck against the cold. If she met the Browns outside, she would be glad of her long coat and gloves. She walked towards the hotel with her ears open. A few other people had also set off for home, and called across the street to thank her for her performance. She replied in as normal a tone as she could.
By the time the hotel came into view she had still not encountered them. She looked at her watch; it was growing late. They were sure to contact her tomorrow, she thought.
She climbed the steps to the hotel and took off her gloves. Fergus appeared right away, and gave her a quizzical look. ‘Your mother is entertaining a couple in the sitting room. I’ve just served them tea. Would you care to join them?’
‘Do you know who they are?’
‘No, not really. They''re not from round here, I’m sure about that. Mr and Mrs Brown, they said.’
‘Fergus, yes please bring me a cup of tea too. I’ll be in the sitting room with them.’
Her heart began to pound as she strode quickly through the reception hall. She found Mrs Brown in conversation with her mother while Mr Brown listened with interest.
‘Ah, here she comes, the accomplished oboist,’ said Mr Brown.
‘I had no idea that you’d be here. I was not expecting you,’ she said, willing her mother to leave the room now she knew that they were her acquaintances.
‘We had business up this way and saw the posters for the performance of the Messiah. They were on the church notice board, in the library and goodness knows where else. One of Germany’s best composers,’ said Mrs Brown.
‘Wasn’t Handel English, dear?’ asked Mother.
‘Both. Born in Germany and spent his first forty-two years in Germany. Then he came to Britain and took out citizenship. He was British for the rest of his life. Thirty-two years,’ Hilda replied crisply.
‘More German than English then,’ Madge concluded as Fergus brought a fourth cup of tea.
‘I had forgotten you played the oboe until our mutual friend mentioned it,’ said Mrs Brown, casting a meaningful glance at Madge.
Hilda took a deep breath. ‘Mother, I wonder if I could ask you... er... to...’
‘Oh, I understand. You want to talk to your friends in private. Can I take your cups?’
Mother put the Browns’ teacups back on the tray, but Hilda held on to hers.
Mother made her way out, flipping the door closed behind her with her right foot.
‘Well, as I said, this is a surprise.’
‘A pleasant one, I trust?’ Mr Brown put his hand in his pocket and brought out an envelope. ‘This is for you.’
‘More instructions?’ she responded, trying to sound businesslike.
‘Not this time. Just a little expression of our gratitude, to see you through the next week or so.’
She felt the envelope and raised her eyebrows.
‘Twenty-five pounds and ten shillings.’
‘Pounds or marks?’ she asked.
‘On this occasion pounds. The next payment you receive will be in marks. In Hamburg.’
‘I see. Thank you.’
‘No, thank you. You are doing well. You are integrating into the community, gaining its support and getting to hear the concerns of the locals. Keeping an eye on military movements too. That’s the information we need. Are they up for a fight, or just muttering?’
‘You mean you came up from London just to say that, and give me this money?’
Mr Brown narrowed his eyes. ‘Who told you we came from London?’
It dawned on Hilda that that morsel of information had come from Dynes. She thought quickly.
‘You have brought money for me. I have not seen you for several weeks. I surmised you had been in touch with your London Embassy. Of course I may be wide of the mark.’ She held her breath; would they be convinced?
Mr Brown’s expression relaxed. ‘You have a remarkable sense of logic. Just what we need in one of our promising agents. Well done.’
Hilda''s shoulders sagged with relief, and she was glad she was sitting down. ‘You mean you came here on Christmas Day just to hand over the money?’ she asked.
‘Call it a Christmas present. Yes, to give you the money, and to hear you play, but it''s disappointing that you ask so many questions. One spy does not tell another what they are doing. There is much work up here for us to do in Scotland, further north of here as well. It’s a very useful part of Britain for us.’
Mrs Brown piped up with an abrupt change of subject. ‘We were sorry to read about your father’s death.’
Hilda nodded. ‘Thank you. You read about it in the papers?’ Now she might discover how Eicke knew.
‘The Times obituaries.’
Of course. His army service. No doubt his old regiment had some kind of procedure for placing obituaries in the English broadsheets. She saw an opportunity to discover how closely the Browns were in contact with the German spymaster.
‘I suppose I had better mention his death to Herr Eicke.’
Mrs Brown did not hesitate to answer. ‘Herr Eicke already knows. He was informed of your father’s death the day after he died.’
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