Every Spy a Traitor, page 3
‘Remain here in Cannes for the rest of your holiday,’ said Emil. ‘Act normally, you’ll soon get used to that. Return to London and start your job. At some point, you’ll be contacted by a person who gives you my regards and asks if you’d like to join them for coffee and Cognac: you will do what they say. Do you follow me?’
The Englishman nodded, brushing his fair hair away from his eyes.
‘The person who contacts you will call you Archie. That is how you’ll be known to us.’
Part 1
Chapter 2
England
October 1936
Castle Avenue was a long, unbending road and in the autumn the absence of leaves from its many trees meant you could see farther ahead and into the houses, or as much as their net curtains would allow.
Number 148 was about five minutes’ walk from the Common and as he approached it most evenings Charles Cooper would spot a figure in the bay window on the ground floor, standing behind the curtain that had been pulled partially aside.
Moments later Cooper would open the gate to 148 Castle Avenue, making sure to close it carefully behind him, as instructed by his landlady. As he opened the front door – making a point of wiping his feet on the mat, also as instructed by his landlady – Mrs Carpenter would suddenly appear in the hall from her vantage point in the bay window, apparently taken quite by surprise at his arrival.
‘Oh, good heavens, Mr Cooper, is that really the time? I didn’t expect to see you just yet!’
She’d have removed the housecoat she normally wore during the day and there’d be a touch of fresh lipstick and a hint of rouge on her face.
‘I believe it’s around the time I normally get home, Mrs Carpenter.’
‘I suppose it must be, Mr Cooper, but you took me quite by surprise.’
And if he wasn’t being careful or if his guard was slightly down, Mrs Carpenter would mention a tap in the kitchen which was stiff, or bag of coal which needed to be moved or perhaps he’d care to come into her office, as she called it, for just one minute because she had to tell him what her friend had told her that very morning or…
That particular afternoon he was tired and determined to go upstairs to get changed and rest before supper. But Mrs Carpenter had already positioned herself at the foot of the stairs, as she was prone to do when she was particularly keen to have his attention.
‘If you care to come into my office, Mr Cooper, then I think I may have something most interesting for you!’
He reluctantly followed her into her office, which was in fact a room between the dining room and the front room and the presence of a desk in it made it her office. The rest of the room was taken up with an armchair and walls full of shelves displaying pottery animals.
As he entered the room his landlady picked up a silver-coloured plate from her desk and held it in front of him. Nestling among the crumbs was a letter, addressed to him in a long white envelope. She’d taken to using the plate to present post that looked important to her tenants. Cooper assumed she’d seen it in a film. She held the plate closer to him, encouraging him to take it.
‘Thank you very much, Mrs Carpenter, but you really needn’t have gone to all this trouble. You could have left it on the hall table with the other post.’
‘Well, I normally would, Mr Cooper, but have you seen the letter? It looks very important: most distinguished, I would say!’
He looked at the envelope and could see what she meant. The envelope appeared to be made of something far better quality than mere paper. It seemed to be partially made of cloth. He noticed the address was written in beautiful copperplate writing and there was a Birmingham postmark and he was as intrigued as Mrs Carpenter. She’d raised her head and was looking at him expectantly, clearly hoping he’d open it then and there.
‘It does look most important, would you not agree, Mr Cooper?’
He agreed and thanked her very much for keeping it so safe and if she didn’t mind, he’d head upstairs and he’d see her later at supper.
Mrs Carpenter’s disappointment was palpable: he could sense it behind him as he climbed the stairs to his room on the first floor, aware she was standing at the foot of the stairs.
His room was small, but it served his purposes and it did have the merit of being at the back of the house, overlooking the garden.
He removed his shoes and jacket and loosened his tie and lay down on the bed, turning on the lamp on the bedside table to read the letter more easily. Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Hardy, Davis, Carter & Hardy
Imperial Chambers
Stephenson Street
Birmingham
Dear Mr Cooper
This letter is intended to reach you in the week of your twenty-fifth birthday, which I understand to be this coming Friday, 16 October. May I wish you many happy returns on this auspicious occasion.
The purpose of this letter is to ask you to attend a meeting with myself at my office at a date not before but as soon as possible after your birthday. May I ask you to contact my secretary, Miss Penelope Frost, to arrange a convenient time. Our offices are located less than five minutes’ walk from New Street Station via the Stephenson Street exit.
I would also ask you bring with you your birth certificate and another form of identification, along with details of your bank account.
I can assure you that the matter to be discussed is very much in your interests and will be of significant benefit to you.
I would suggest that you keep the circumstances of our forthcoming meeting confidential, at least until it has taken place.
I very much look forward to meeting you.
Yours faithfully
Sydney Carter
Cooper lay back on the bed, quite awake now. He knew no one in Birmingham, he’d never been to the city and none of the names on the letter-head – Hardy, Davis, Carter or Hardy – meant a thing to him.
Then, in the abstract way that his mind wandered, he found himself thinking whether the two Hardys were related and if so how and then he re-read the letter and there was no denying that the penultimate sentence ‘…in your interests … of significant benefit to you…’ meant that it was good news. Or at the very least, not bad news.
The suggestion he keep the meeting confidential was fine by him: it wasn’t in his nature to discuss matters like this with anyone. There was no one he was close enough to with whom to discuss it. He could of course ask his mother whether she had any idea as to why a Birmingham solicitor may wish to see him – but it was some months since he’d last spoken to her and the way that conversation had gone on Boxing Day it would be many more months before he intended to do so again.
* * *
Charles Cooper was employed as reporter at Designs and Drawings, a magazine aimed at draughtsmen and designers and with a surprisingly high circulation. It was based near Fenchurch Street station and the editor was also the publisher, a perpetually tired-looking man called Charles Arthurs, always referred to as Mr Arthurs.
It was the morning after Cooper had received the letter from Hardy, Davis, Carter and Hardy and he was now standing in front of Mr Arthurs in his office, which was really a cubicle in the main office, windows on all sides enabling him to keep an eye on everyone.
‘Which day next week, did you say, Cooper?’ He was leafing through his diary, an enormous ledger-like book which took up much of his desk.
‘Any day, Mr Arthurs, though the earlier the better: we don’t go to press until the following week and—’
‘I do know when we go to press, Cooper. Is it a medical matter, may I ask?’
Cooper said no, it wasn’t a medical matter – it was something… something which had cropped up and which he’d like to deal with and—
‘If it’s an interview for another job, Cooper, I’d be most disappointed: only last month I increased your pay to one pound and fourteen shillings a week.’
Cooper assured Mr Arthurs it was not to do with another job: the pay rise had been most appreciated. It was more of a personal matter. They agreed he take the following Tuesday as annual leave.
* * *
He left the house on Castle Avenue at the normal time that Tuesday morning and the journey from Euston was very pleasant, though he was quite nervous and found it hard to concentrate on the copy of the Manchester Guardian he’d bought at the station.
Within fifteen minutes of his train arriving at New Street, Charles Cooper was facing Sydney Carter, who reminded him of Mr Arthurs with his unhealthy pallor and tired manner. Mr Carter had greeted him formally, asked him to sit down and then asked to see the paperwork Charles Cooper had brought with him, assuring him checking his identity was a necessary formality.
‘So, it is indeed you: Charles Christopher Cooper!’
He had a broad smile on his face, revealing an array of gold teeth. Charles Cooper said yes it was him, and was going to say something about it being a long time since anyone used the ‘Christopher’ but by now Sydney Carter had stopped smiling and had adopted a more business-like manner.
‘I hope you don’t mind if I seek clarification on something before we proceed to the main purpose of this meeting?’
Cooper nodded.
‘Your name is Charles Christopher Cooper, yet we understand your name was changed in 1925, I think it was to Christopher Charles Shaw. Is that correct?’
‘It is, sir, yes: Shaw is the surname of my stepfather and when I was fourteen my mother decided I should adopt his surname. But I’ve never really used it, not least because I felt it would be disloyal to my late father. So, I suppose I have two names!’
‘I see, one suspected as much. So, Charles Christopher Cooper it is then: I hope you will indulge me as I relate the circumstances that have brought us to this meeting?’
Cooper nodded. He wondered whether he should ask if he could take notes and thought of mentioning his short-hand, but the solicitor had now adopted a magisterial pose and turned on the angle-poise lamp as he opened a file on his desk.
‘You were born Charles Christopher Cooper, in Dorset, on the sixteenth of October, 1911.’
He paused and Cooper said ‘yes’ and Mr Carter said to please let him continue and only interrupt if he said something factually incorrect, which he very much doubted would be the case.
‘Your father was Christopher Alfred Cooper, your mother Marjorie Edna Cooper, née Travis. You were an only child. Your father was a schoolteacher in Bridport in Dorset. Sadly, your father was killed on active service in April 1917: the Battle of Arras, I presume?’
Cooper nodded.
‘You would have been what – five, when your father died, eh?’
Cooper nodded again and steeled himself as a familiar wave of emotion launched at him. It happened whenever mention of his father’s death cropped up unexpectedly. It made him think how different his life would have been had his father lived. He had no doubt how much happier and settled he’d have been and certainly less lonely.
‘Your mother remarried in 1920, I believe, a Thomas John Shaw, a man considerably older than her.’
‘And wealthier, sir, which I imagine is why she married him. He’s no longer wealthy and he’s quite unwell, two things my mother clearly resents.’
‘And you moved to London upon that marriage. Tell me, Mr Cooper, do you get on with your mother and step-father?’
‘I would say no, sir, I’m afraid. My relationship with my step-father has always been a distant one. He never had children and never adapted to having one around, even one as quiet as me. He prefers dogs. My mother and I… I think it is best to say that we do not see eye to eye on a range of matters. She certainly disapproves of me being a reporter. She says it’s trade: she’d have liked me to work in the City, where my step-father has connections. She’s never been terribly warm towards me. My memories of my father are remote, of course, but I’ve always remembered him as a terribly jolly character. We were always having fun.’
Sydney Carter raised a hand: he wished to continue.
‘Your father had a paternal aunt, Mathilda Dorothy Cooper. Does that name mean anything to you?’
‘Only very vaguely.’
‘Has your mother ever mentioned this aunt to you?’
‘Possibly in passing, sir, but as far as I know, my mother had little if anything to do with my father’s family after he was killed.’
‘Mathilda Dorothy Cooper never married and, of course, had no children. She lived in Birmingham, hence our involvement in this case – she was our client. She died in 1922, five years after your father. However, in 1915 Mathilda Dorothy Cooper had made a will leaving a substantial proportion of her estate to her nephew, your father. There was provision in the will that the money was left to your father per stirpes, which is one of those Latin phrases so favoured by my profession.
‘In essence, Mr Cooper, this means that in the event of your father predeceasing Mathilda Dorothy Cooper, the money intended for your father would pass through the branch of his direct descendants. That is to say, you became the beneficiary.’
Sydney Carter knew to pause for a while to allow Cooper to absorb what he was being told.
Cooper wondered whether to ask how much he was likely to inherit but Mr Carter continued.
‘But as is so often the case, Mr Cooper, matters are more complicated than that. In the case of your great aunt’s will, there was the normal legal requirement that she should be of sound mind when making it. When she died, your mother contacted us and said that by 1920, which was the last time she’d seen Mathilda Dorothy Cooper, she was not of sound mind and according to her doctor, that was indeed the case. You’ll note that your mother had kept in contact with your aunt: I suspect she was aware of her wealth and of the will. However, we were able to show that when the will was signed in 1915, Mathilda Dorothy Cooper was of sound mind.
‘Your mother was having none of this and she most ill-advisedly brought a legal action against the estate of Mathilda Dorothy Cooper: she claimed that as she was not of sound mind the money bequeathed to your father should go to her, as his heir, rather than to you, as his direct descendant. We defended the action and I’m pleased to say that we won: your mother was not only extremely embittered at the outcome, but also considerably out of pocket, given the costs she had to pay for both parties. It was an expensive action: a two-day court hearing and the costs may well account for your step-father’s diminishing wealth.
‘There was one point though on which the judge found partially in her favour: the provision of the will relating to you stated you would receive the inheritance on your twenty-first birthday. Your mother asked that this be altered to your thirtieth birthday. She told the court that she doubted you could be trusted with the money, even at the age of twenty-one. The judge held you would receive the inheritance on or after your twenty-fifth birthday.’
Sydney Carter leant back in his chair, studying the young man opposite him. ‘You knew nothing of this, Mr Cooper?’
Cooper shook his head. ‘This would have been, when?’
‘The court case was in 1923. You’d have been around twelve years of age then.’
‘Thirteen years ago, then: I know that the following year we moved from the house in Regent’s Park to Cricklewood – from a largish house in a very smart area to a smaller one in an area my mother described as suburban. She made it clear she resented the move, but I was never sure why it occurred. Now it all makes sense. Rather serves her right!’
Sydney Carter smiled broadly, the gold teeth on display once more. ‘Which brings us to why we are here today. You’re probably slightly curious as to how much you are to inherit?’
Cooper said he was, if that didn’t sound too—
‘Too mercenary? Not at all: my finance clerk provided me with a detailed account this morning, as I’d requested ahead of our meeting, and here’s a copy for you. The sum includes interest accrued over the years and is minus various permitted costs, all of which are itemised in the document I shall give you. The sum you inherit today is £357, Charles Christopher Cooper.’
As the solicitor had been talking, Cooper had thought the inheritance would be around £50, maybe somewhere between there and £100, but £357 was beyond his wildest dreams. Now he found himself unable to speak.
‘That has clearly come as a surprise to you, no doubt, Mr Cooper?’
‘You can say that again, sir: my salary as a reporter is some £86 per annum. £350 is what… more than four times my salary! I… it’s more of a shock than a surprise.’
‘You need time to think about it, Mr Cooper. My advice would be not to make any rash decisions: you don’t look like the kind of chap who would, though. We will arrange for the money to be transferred to your bank account by the close of business tomorrow. I hope that is agreeable.’
Cooper said it was and he had no idea… well, he was shocked, and of course he wouldn’t do anything rash and…
They chatted politely for a while and the solicitor said he hoped Mr Cooper didn’t think it presumptuous of him, but he’d booked a table in the Grill at the Grand Hotel, which was near the station, and he’d be able to catch his train home after that.
* * *
Sydney Carter waited until they’d finished their main course before he spoke again of the inheritance.
‘In effect, you’ve been a client of mine since 1922, though no more than a name on documents. Nevertheless, I was intrigued by you: your great aunt had been very fond of your father and I felt a quasi-parental sense of obligation towards you as well as a legal one, so much so that I wrote to your mother once a year around your birthday to enquire as to your welfare: on your eighteenth birthday I was able to allot some of your inheritance towards your university education.’
