The Suicide Club by Andrew Williams

Author:Andrew Williams
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781848545878
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

October 1917

We go on again tomorrow. With a great success, and good weather for a few more weeks, we may still clear the coast and win the war before Christmas. It is not impossible, but it is pouring again today.

Diary of the Director of Military Intelligence, Brigadier General John Charteris, 8 October 1917

13

Chequers

THE ENVELOPE HAD been burning a hole in Hankey’s pocket for hours, but now he was free to open it he was reluctant to do so. He had carried it to a bench in the formal garden below the house. Beguiled by the evening sunshine, he sat for a few precious minutes and listened to the cawing of the rooks, in the parkland trees at his back, and the lazy snipping of a gardener, on his knees between the low box hedges. After the talk of war, the planning for tomorrow and next year, he was touched by the sense of a centuries-old order, by the symmetry of the Tudor house, its tall brick chimneys and mullioned windows, its square garden beds of rose and lavender and lichen-yellow flags.

It was late on their second day at Chequers, and this was the only waking moment of peace he’d been able to enjoy. Men with great decisions to make should spend time sitting and reflecting in places such as this, he thought, and listen for a still small voice. This prime minister loved the open air, he loved to walk, but his mind never seemed to be at rest. They had followed a path into the Chiltern hills the day before and argued about war policy every step of the way, so absorbed in their differences they missed the turn back to the house. Mr Lloyd George was a subtle man, devious when he wanted to be – which was quite often – but he trusted too much in heat to generate great light. Soon he would notice that his Cabinet secretary was missing from the conference and summon him back to the sounding seat on his right.

Contemplating the envelope and tilting it to and fro in the late evening sun like a mirror, Hankey could make his titles and the honours for his service march across the paper. With a sigh he ran his nail under the leaf and drew out a single sheet of paper. Captain Cumming had a remarkably fine hand for an old sailor with thick knuckles and a passion for engines and ropes. The Whitehall Court address of his Secret Service Bureau was embossed at the top, and it was dated yesterday, the twelfth of October.

My Dear Sir Maurice,

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