Текст книги "A Farewell to Baker Street"

Автор книги: Mark Mower

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

I began to interject, but he silenced me abruptly. “You must promise me this, Peter. It is my will. I want you to take half. It is only fair. It is more than I could ask of you and more than I could imagine at this time. But there is something more that you must have.”

He smiled at me and his pained eyes looked down at his chest. “The key, Peter, you must take the safe key. It is in the locket around my neck. Now take it and promise me that you will honour my wishes.”

I hesitated at this point. But watching his eyes and mouth close slowly, I realised that his time had come. I opened his large, fur-lined overcoat and undid the silver buttons at the neck of his uniform. My hand felt for the chain around his neck and slowly I pulled out a small decorative locket with a crucifix on its lid. Opening the clasp, I pulled out a small, dark-metal key and placed this in my pocket. On the inside lid of the locket I could see a small picture of what I guessed to be you and your mother. I closed the locket and once again placed it beneath his clothes. His eyes opened briefly and finally. I found myself whispering to him, as if somehow disturbing his sleep. “I won’t let you down.”

I stood up at this point and thought I saw him smile, but realised then that he was dead. Behind me, I heard a voice cry out. I turned and saw a uniformed officer running towards me. As he reached us, I saw him look me over before glancing down at Franz. “I’m Major Davenport, Royal Army Medical Corps. Is he dead?”

“Yes, he’s dead,” I answered, and struggled to hold back the tears.

The Major looked at me sympathetically. “Don’t worry, son, happens to us all – both the death and the grieving. Never an easy thing to see someone die, even your enemies.”

There was much activity after that. Throughout the day various branches of the military came and went and a massive clear up operation began. I was questioned by an Army Captain, but maintained that I had run from the farmhouse after the crash and had only ventured into the woods a short time before Major Davenport had found me. All of which seemed highly plausible.

Ten days later, the crew were buried in the village churchyard, the event being attended by around 300 local people and army and navy personnel. It was a simple ceremony, with due respect given to the German airmen, in spite of the inevitable and popular hostility that many of the villagers had towards these raiders.

We were told that where any personal belongings had been found near the crash site, these would be returned to the families of the dead. I have always hoped that this was the case. In fact, if you do have in your possession the locket that Franz wore, you will now know for certain that what I have told you is the truth . All of which would be enough of a story. But I still have much more to tell.

For the next two months, I could think of nothing else but Franz and his legacy. My brother noticed the change in me. He said that I had grown up in a short space of time. He knew that the crash had had a big impact on me, but clearly did not know why. I confided in him that I needed to get away from the farm and travel. We both knew what that meant. In short, I told him that I was going to join the army and fight in France. He tried to talk me out of it and pointed out that I was still too young. But I would not listen and said that I would lie about my age. I was a tall lad anyway and the years of farm labour had built me up to look much older than I was.

I remained resolute in my determination to travel to France and do what I had agreed to. I managed to find out some information about the town of Albert and committed this to memory. Joining the army seemed the only option, although I had no idea what I would do if I ever made it onto French soil. Using some money given to me by Tom, I travelled to Ipswich one Saturday morning and, lying about my age, joined the armed forces. After a period of training in England, I was taken along with countless other young men across to France to face the horrors of the Western Front.

In many respects, I could not have joined the war at a worse time, given the death and carnage I experienced in the early part of 1917 in the freezing temperatures of that dreadful winter. I do not wish to dwell on this grim period of my life for it pains me to do so and would, in any case, fill up far too many pages in the telling. Let me just say this. I realised within days of landing in France, that I could not face the prospect of weeks – let alone months – of that Hell. I heard other men talk in whispers about escaping, deserting the trenches, and hiding out in some quiet and rural part of France until the war had ended. For many this was idle banter, wishful thinking, bravado at best. For me, it became a reality.

My company was relocated first to Ypres in Belgium and, by April of that year, we received orders to move to Amiens in France. Bearing in mind my keen knowledge and love of geography, you may realise that this move excited me for two reasons. Firstly, the prospect of a company on the move gave me every hope of escaping and deserting the trenches. Secondly, our planned relocation in Amiens would place me much closer to the town of Albert .

I am not proud of the fact that I deserted and left my fellow countrymen behind. There has not been a day go by when I have not thought about my actions and felt a tug of compassion for the good friends that died on those battlefields. But I justify it like this. I did not start the war and I have never been a violent or aggressive man. I believe in pacifism. The war was wrong and statesmen and politicians – who cared little about the millions of lives that they were about to ruin – were responsible for starting it. Let them answer to the masses. Let them stand up now and say that the war was justified and those lives were lost in a good cause. I can live with my guilt, can they?

And so it was that one evening, while we were camped along the River Somme close to the town of Abbeville and I was posted on guard duty, I was able to slip away from our position and leave my company behind.

The weeks that followed were terrifying for me. I had to avoid capture by my own side and was reluctant to move more than a few miles each night. During the day, I kept myself hidden and grabbed what I could to eat from the trees and hedgerows once the rations I had taken with me ran out.

In my second week of freedom, I had the first of many lucky episodes in France. I had come across a derelict farmhouse not far from the village of Aumont, some thirty-five miles from Albert. Inside, I found a reasonable bed, some food, clothes and boots, which I guessed had been abandoned only a short time before. I also found a map hanging on the wall of the dining room, which I removed from its frame and folded up to take with me. I felt comfortable to be changing out of my uniform, donning the attire of a French peasant farmer – in reality, not much different to my farm clothes back in Suffolk. I buried my uniform, army boots and military papers and, most reluctantly, my rifle. I now had nothing on me to indicate who I was or where I had come from. In fact, my only real possession at that time was the small, black-metal key that I kept on a chain around my neck.

I stayed at the farmhouse for two nights, enjoying the relative comfort of my surroundings and content, for the moment, to be away from other people. But I knew that I could not stay there forever, and on the third night made plans to travel ever closer to Albert. Wrapping a number of items of food and some bed linen into a blanket, I fashioned a makeshift rucksack from some old belts and a piece of tarpaulin. It was not comfortable to carry, but it did the job and, if I were to get caught, I felt it would at least give me the appearance of a local, fleeing from the fighting. I also carried the remainder of the tarpaulin to use as a tent.

The days and nights that followed were not without incident, as I came across at least two French army patrols and spent most of my time hiding in ditches and taking advantage of whatever shelter I could find. Occasionally I would see other travellers on the roads and footpaths, wandering almost aimlessly, displaced no doubt by the impact of war.

At least the weather proved kind, remaining largely dry until I finally came within five miles of Albert. At this point, I took refuge in a small brick-built shed on a hillside beside what remained of an extensive vineyard. This appeared to be a bad choice, for the next morning I awoke to the frantic shouting of an angry, bearded man holding a shotgun. The French that I had learnt did not enable me to readily understand or communicate with this man, although I gathered from his actions that he was less than pleased that I had slept in his property. In my frustration, I shouted back at him in English, “Please, I do not understand!”

His reaction was remarkable and all at once the shotgun was lowered and he gave me a broad grin. “Anglaise?” he mused.

I nodded, reluctant to smile back in case this was part of some elaborate trap. But he seemed genuinely pacified and beckoning for me to follow him, turned and paced out of the shed and off up the hillside. I hurriedly gathered my few belongings together and staggered out after him, squinting in the early morning light and taking in the variety of aromas that filled the air that bright spring morning.

There can be little doubt that lady luck continued to be on my side during that brief period in France. The vineyard owner that found me was the ageing Xavier Renouf, a bear of a man who loved life and appeared to have a particular fondness for the English. I learned later that his wife, the very elegant Vanessa Renouf, was the granddaughter of an English sea captain who had settled in the region some years before. Vanessa could speak very good English and both seemed happy to take me in and feed me, proudly serving me a meal on their prized Lowestoft porcelain – a welcome reminder of home.

The elderly couple provided me with a bed that evening and seemed unconcerned about any risks they faced in sheltering me. The next day I rose early and after a welcome bath and shave came down to find a large breakfast waiting for me. Still the couple seemed unconcerned about this young, ill-clothed Englishman who was wandering around the French countryside in the middle of a war. But on the basis that they did not appear to be in the least bit worried, I relaxed and enjoyed another good meal with them.

After breakfast, I once again thanked Madame Renouf for her hospitality and said that I would be leaving within the hour. She nodded sagely and smiled. “Peter, you are not the first British deserter to pass this way. And I doubt you will be the last. I wish you well in your travels.”

I felt some embarrassment at this, but smiled back and went off to gather my rucksack. When I said goodbye to the couple, I promised sincerely to repay them one day, and set off down the long track that led from the front of their imposing farmhouse. It was only later that I learnt how much I owed them, when I found that Xavier had hidden within my rucksack a loaf of French bread, some goat’s cheese and a good bottle of red wine .

If you are still with me, Heinrich, you will understand that I was now within a stone’s throw of the townhouse and the hoped for diamonds. Emboldened by my experience with the Renoufs, I began to walk the four or five miles towards Albert in broad daylight. The route appeared to be quiet for the most part – Xavier had indicated that the Germans had pulled back from the town at least a month before, having occupied it for some time prior to that. I hoped to God that this did prove to be the case.

Luckily, I encountered no soldiers of any kind and by late morning I stood on the outskirts of the town. I do not know what I expected to see at that point, but the sight I was faced with came as a big surprise. The area had been heavily shelled, with numerous buildings levelled and debris scattered all over. So bad was the damage left by the fighting, that I could scarcely work out the layout of the town compared to what I had learned back in Suffolk.

This was without doubt the lowest point of my journey so far, as I imagined that the townhouse in which your family had lived all those years before had been raised to the ground by the artillery shells. If this was the case, all of my efforts would have been in vain and my quest would be over. I stopped to rest at a large white gatepost that stood proudly and alone amidst the rubble of a former home, a large residence, judging by the size of the plot. Occasionally I would see local people coming and going through what remained of the town, none of them paying much attention to me. I am sure that they had more pressing concerns.

Having eaten some of the bread and cheese given to me by Xavier, I made my way into what remained of the town, still unsure what to do. I felt confident that I had reached the part of the town in which the house had stood, although I could not be sure. But as I scoured the buildings and rubble in desperation, my gaze centred on the remaining two stories of an impressive townhouse standing close to a small orchard. The walls of the house were dark blue and in an earthenware pot to the right of the main doorway I could see a single topiary tree. This had to be it .

My pleasure at finding the house was short-lived. The front door was locked and as I walked around the property on the side nearest to the apple orchard, I could see that very little of the building was still standing behind the front wall of the house. Without much thought for the dangers I faced, I began to climb over the mountain of debris. I felt strangely uneasy walking on what remained of the interior fittings and beautifully crafted furniture – one moment stepping over a child’s wooden horse, the next climbing up and over what looked like a large marble fireplace.

I am able to recollect that scene with incredible clarity as I write these words to you. And I am sure that you will understand how elated I was when, towards the rear of the house, I looked down amid the debris and saw beneath my feet the metal casing of a small green box. Dusting off the front of the box with my sleeve, I could see a maker’s name etched clearly in one corner and realised with joy that I had indeed found a safe. With the collapse of the interior walls of the house, the safe that had lain hidden for so many years, had finally been exposed – and only I knew of its existence.

I checked to make sure that no one was watching me, aware suddenly of the vulnerability of my situation. I tried to move the safe, thinking that it may be better to try and open it elsewhere. But even though the casing itself was less than one foot square, I could not move it at all and it remained fixed firmly among the brick rubble. I had to take a chance and open it there and then having come this far.

With some trepidation, I removed the key chain from around my neck and held the small safe key in my hand. I was a little surprised to find that it fitted the lock tightly and precisely and turned with relative ease – so well engineered was the lock, that I heard only a faint clicking sound as the mechanism released the bolts around the door. Gripping the small recessed handle above the keyhole, I lifted the door open very slowly until it would open no more and rested in its upright position. At first, I could see nothing inside, but as my eyes raced eagerly around the inside of the safe I saw a small, velvet-covered case, about five inches wide, tucked away in the bottom left-hand corner. I removed the case with both hands, gently rubbing its red velvet covering with my thumbs and realising as I turned it around that it was exquisitely made. The hinges and clasp of the case were made of gold and the expensive velvet on the lid was embossed with the initials ‘F G D’. Jean Descartes had clearly planned your father’s inheritance with every last detail in mind.

I confess that I could not resist the temptation to open the clasp of the case to see what lay inside. But I was not prepared for the remarkable sight that greeted me. The case contained dozens of diamond stones, of various sizes, shining and glistening like stars in the night sky. I lifted the case closer to get a better look at the gems and marvelled at the way the light on the cut stones created a rainbow of colours against the deep, blood-red silk lining of the case . I had never seen anything so mesmerising or so precious and understood in that moment how passionate and dedicated Jean Descartes must have been in his work.

Having finally found the diamonds, I realised that my adventures were far from over and now had the difficult task of thinking about how I might escape from France and get back to England. I even wondered if it was such a good idea to return to my homeland, given that I was now a deserter and faced the very real risk of being shot by my own side. I did not know what to do for the best and decided that I would try to find a safe haven until I could make firmer plans. But fate was to intervene once more.

For the first few days after leaving Albert, I began again to travel at night, sleeping where I could during the day and surviving on whatever food and water I could lay my hands on. I decided to head away from any land held by the Germans, but progress was slow and my initial caution meant that I could only travel a few miles each night. Despite my best efforts to avoid detection I was eventually caught one evening as I stumbled across a camp set up by a detachment of four British soldiers close to the village of Martinpuich. The man that discovered me hiding in a ditch was Private David Harker, a young soldier from Essex who was to save my life and provide me with a way of escaping France .

It happened like this. Harker continued to point his rifle and shouted at me to climb out of the ditch. He was nervous and I could see the rifle shaking. His three colleagues immediately joined him. They pulled me bodily from the trench, kicking and punching me until I passed out. When I came around I could see that the four had searched my rucksack – the contents were scattered in the mud and they were passing round the opened bottle of red wine. As I had passed out face down, lying on my chest, they had not searched me in person and I could still feel the case of diamonds pressing into my ribs, hidden within an inside pocket of my thick smock.

I felt drowsy and weak. My chest ached and I could taste blood in my mouth . One eye was swollen and I had some trouble focusing on the four as I came around. In view of the beating I had just received, I decided to come clean and admit that I was British and a deserter, thinking (accurately as it turned out) that this might at least prevent them from searching me. They were surprisingly sympathetic to the news, at one point passing me the wine and offering me a cigarette. The oldest of the four, a sergeant referred to only as ‘Simmo’, explained that they would have to turn me in. “Orders is orders,” he said, “...can’t have you running around the countryside scaring the Germans now, can we?”

Harker explained that they were the only survivors from their original Essex company. As a result of their earlier service, they had been moved into logistics, driving a couple of two-ton Guy trucks, supplying troops at the front with much needed ammunition and supplies. Their only concern now was to sit out the war, avoid being killed and to return home to their loved ones. Simmo said that they were heading for the town of Arras the next morning, and would hand me in to a senior officer at that point. I had no choice but to go along with their plans .

That evening, Simmo built a small fire and over some food and hot tea we chatted about our various experiences of the war. I told them my background, but was careful to avoid telling them much about my movements in France and was more content to listen to their stories. Feltham and Price were single men and gardeners by trade; both had worked on a large private estate on the coast near Harwich. Simmo was also from Harwich, but married with four children. He seemed to have done a variety of jobs in a colourful and highly amusing career. Harker was the closest to me in age and had grown up in Maldon, cut off from most of the world and devastated by the exodus of working men to the battle trenches of western France. His parents had both died when he was in his teens and his only close relative was a distant great-uncle, who was serving in the Royal Navy.

The next morning, the soldiers roused me at dawn with a cup of black tea. Thirty minutes later, we climbed into the trucks heading for Arras . I rode in the second of the vehicles, between Simmo and Harker. For the most part, the journey was uneventful and we made reasonable progress in spite of the poor state of the village roads we encountered. By this stage I had grown to like both men and the three of us laughed together as Simmo told us stories about his days back home, working as a baker.

I cannot readily recollect where we were when the first explosion turned the truck ahead of us onto its side. Simmo hit the brakes hard and Harker and I shot forward. I was dazed, cracking my head on something inside the cab. I remember Simmo shouting loudly at both of us to get out of the truck and the sound of rapid machine gun fire outside. Harker jumped down from the vehicle, and then reached back in, grabbing me by my left arm and pulling me down, roughly, from the cab. I fell headlong and heavily onto the ground below at the same time as a second explosion lifted our truck off the ground and deposited it away from us to the right. I looked up briefly, to see Harker drop to his knees and then fall to one side holding his stomach. At that moment I passed out.

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I came round to find myself in strange circumstances. The air was choked with thick black smoke from our burning truck, but I could hear no sounds other than the crackles from the fire near to me. Little remained of the first truck, which was, by this time, a burnt-out blackened shell. Beside me lay the body of Harker. His face was turned towards me and his eyes were staring, blankly, without emotion. I rolled him onto his back, realising that he was dead, shot through the chest by the machine gun fire. About fifteen feet in front of me, I could see the body of what looked like Price, similarly twisted and motionless.

I was fearful that our attackers were still close by and did my best to crawl, firstly behind the burning truck, and then into a thicket of bushes on the edge of some woods. I waited there, cold and weak, hiding for about an hour, until I was certain that no one else was around. I was not sure why the Germans had left without checking that we were all dead. Perhaps they had and wrongly assumed that I had also passed away.

Walking over to the first truck, I was shocked to see Feltham’s charred remains, his body still sat at the wheel of the overturned truck. Nearby, Price was also dead but not burned. I guessed that he had managed to escape from the vehicle, but had been shot in the head. Despite my searches, I could not find Simmo.

I held no grudges against the four British soldiers, recognising that not so many weeks before, I would have been forced to do what they had done and arrest any suspected deserter. In the aftermath of the attack, I decided to bury Harker and Price in a shallow grave, having first removed their few remaining belongings, intent on returning these to their families if I could. But as I thought more about this, I realised, from what Harker had said the previous evening that nobody but a distant relative was going to miss his death. I did not wish to dishonour the man, but realised that his unfortunate death had provided me with a good opportunity to escape my present predicament. I changed into Price’s uniform and boots, which fitted me well, and put all of the men’s papers and possessions into my pockets. I then buried the pair in the woods, marking the grave with a crude cross that I assembled from two pieces of wood and some wire I salvaged from the remnants of the truck. From that point on, I assumed the identity of David Harker, a soldier from Maldon in Essex.

This transformation proved to be easier and more fruitful than I could have imagined. As Harker’s company had been largely wiped out during the Battle of the Somme, I imagined there would be few, if any, that would remember him. Even if they did, I could always claim to be a different David Harker – it was not such an unusual name. Given that Harker’s great-uncle was serving in the Navy, I also imagined that communications with him were likely to be infrequent if they existed at all.

I walked throughout that night on towards the town of Arras, as the Essex men had originally planned. On arrival at the town and the British defences, I presented myself to a senior officer and explained what had happened, identifying myself as Private David Harker and handing him Price’s papers and possessions. I also told him that to my knowledge I was the only surviving member of my company. From that point on, I was attached to a new company, fighting thereafter in both France and Italy. And all the while, I fought as David Harker and carried with me your father’s diamonds.

I hope that you will indulge me a while longer Heinrich, as I still have some further elements of the story to share.

My final months of the war were spent in Holland, running food supplies to troops and civilians. During this time, I met a Dutch girl called Katerina Plokker, who I very quickly fell in love with. With the end of the war, we made plans to marry and I decided that I would continue to live in Holland, fearful that any return to England might risk the exposure of my secret past. In December 1918, Katerina and I married in Giethoorn and moved into a small house given to us by her father. The marriage was well attended by Katerina’s family. I stuck to my story, that the only close relative I had was a great-uncle, who was still serving in the British Navy.

Katerina and I continued to live happily together in Giethoorn, among the waterways and reed beds of our rural home and on 15th January, 1920 we were blessed with a son, Gerald. During this time, I began to visit the diamond dealers in Jodenbreestraat and the canal houses along the Amstel River in Amsterdam. I was cautious at first, taking only a few of the gems with me on each visit and selling these to produce a steady income. This also gave me the perfect alibi at home – as far as Katerina and her family were concerned, I was a genuine diamond dealer, carrying on the profession I had started before the war, having sold the two remaining trawlers of the Harker family fishing business.

In the two years that followed our marriage, I learnt more and more about the diamonds that I kept locked away at home. Most were of an exceptional quality – testimony indeed to the knowledge and expertise of Jean Descartes. But gradually, as I realised their true worth, I began to sell more and more of the diamonds, in Amsterdam and beyond, and always with the same degree of caution. I never sold more than a couple at one time and always visited new dealers during each trip. In this way, I was able to sell all of the diamonds without drawing any unwanted attention to myself. I kept detailed accounts of each transaction and deposited the money that I made from these in various bank accounts.

Katerina believed that I was making a modest, but comfortable, income from my business dealings. In part this was true, as we lived off only a tiny fraction of the income that I made. And from my share of the diamond money, I began to reinvest the capital in other precious stones and a number of diamond mines, turning each investment into a tidy profit. In less than two years, I was an extremely wealthy man, but was determined to ensure that I never spent more than half of the original proceeds from the diamonds, as I had promised Franz.

By December 1920, with all of the diamonds sold and all of my accounts up to date, I realised that the total proceeds from the sale of the gems had reached a staggering amount of money – the equivalent of £80,000. It was only when I worked out the amount in British currency, that I could appreciate what a legacy Jean Descartes had left his son. And from my reinvestment of half that amount, I had amassed even more money.

At this point, I took another important decision. Supported by Katerina, I decided to move back to England, to raise Gerald as an Englishman. I had enjoyed my time in Holland, but did not feel it could ever be my real home. I missed my family back in Suffolk, although I realised that it would never be possible for me to make contact with them again. They would know of my desertion and probably believed that I was now dead. I was prepared to risk exposure at this point, knowing full well that the diamonds had been sold and confident that whatever happened to me, I had made more than adequate provision for my family and could also now arrange for you and your mother to inherit the equivalent of £40,000.

Throughout the early part of 1921, I made the necessary arrangements for us to move from Holland to England and in March we moved into our new home – Trimingham Manor – in Surrey. All of our assets have been transferred into British bank accounts without any problems. To this day, Katerina knows nothing about my real past or the story I have shared with you.

In recent months, I have been trying to learn of your whereabouts in Germany, assisted by my legal advisor, Barrington Henshaw. This has not been easy as I am sure you will appreciate, given the continuing problems caused by the aftermath of war and the ongoing political upheaval in your country. However, with Henshaw’s help, I was able to discover that you still lived in Hamburg, albeit at a new address. I was also saddened to learn that your mother, Nicole, died a couple of years back from influenza – I hope that you will accept my most sincere condolences.