Set in stone, p.7
Set in Stone, page 7
part #10 of Robert Goddard Series
Fuchs’ undoing had been refinements in US Army code-breaking techniques, which had enabled them to start decoding messages sent from the Soviet Embassy and consulates in the United States to Moscow. Fuchs’ name had cropped up in several of these. This was not revealed at the time, of course. If it had been, anyone with a good reason to fear their name might also have cropped up would have been running scared. They would have been distinctly uneasy, anyway. Where one goes, another may follow. And Klaus Fuchs was going to prison for fourteen years. It was not an appetizing prospect.
Henry Arnold, the security officer at Harwell, was hard hit by the Fuchs affair. It was a slight on his professional competence, as well as a personal betrayal. He was about to receive another blow, however. On 28 July 1950, with Fuchs five months into his prison sentence and the memory of his treachery still fresh in the minds of his former colleagues, Cedric Milner departed on a fortnight’s leave. He let it be known that he was planning a walking holiday in the Black Forest. The following day, he drove onto a cross-Channel car ferry at Dover and left England, never to return. Ten days later, the Soviet news agency, TASS, announced his defection to the Soviet Union. It paid tribute to him as a vital contributor to the Soviet atom-bomb project. Fuchs had not been alone.
Since Milner was never tried or interrogated, and never volunteered any details of the ‘contribution’ that warranted TASS’s fulsome words, it has never been known for certain what information he passed on, or when, or how. Inferential evidence can be found in the transcript of Fuchs’ MI5 interrogation, in which Fuchs refers to questions from his Soviet controllers about technical matters he had not realized they had any knowledge of and which only somebody else on the scientific staff at Harwell could know of. Most crucially, Fuchs was asked in 1947 to gather information on the tritium bomb. Tritium was the key to the development of the hydrogen bomb, the so-called ‘superbomb’. Fuchs was surprised, because he had told them nothing about it. Somebody else had.
That somebody was surely Cedric Milner. Within weeks of his arrival in the Soviet Union, he was assigned to the Arzamas-16 H-bomb plant, where he remained until the successful Soviet H-bomb test of 12 August 1953, which took place only nine months after the US H-bomb test at Eniwetok Atoll. His mission, however you define it, had been accomplished.
But here mystery intrudes. How did Milner know so much? His grasp of superbomb principles seems to have exceeded Fuchs’, despite his junior status and lack of apparent day-to-day involvement in that area of work at Harwell. It was a mystery that troubled Henry Arnold, who began to fear there might be more than two rotten apples in the Harwell barrel. Perhaps he had been collaborating with an as-yet unidentified third traitor. The authorities seemed happy to forget about Milner. Since he had eluded them they did not propose to admit he was important. Hard on the heels of the Fuchs affair, it was an embarrassment they didn’t need. They therefore did their best to imply that his real value to Soviet Intelligence was slight.
Arnold was having none of this. The Milner enigma worried him. He instructed his deputy, Duncan Strathallan, to conduct—
Turn over enough stones and sooner or later you’ll find something. You used to say that about looking for the facts in a difficult case. So maybe you’d have been proud of me. Here I was, suddenly confronted by proof of what I’d already begun to suspect about Otherways. Everything really was connected with everything else. Rainbird already knew that, of course. It was the connection that drew him to the house, not its architectural foibles. It was a glimpse he’d had—and was determined I should have, too—of the invisible threads that strung themselves between the people who had lived there. I sensed this wasn’t the only such thread. And I wondered if it was even the strangest, though it was certainly strange enough. I read on, seeking the answer I knew I wouldn’t get.
Arnold was having none of this. The Milner enigma worried him. He instructed his deputy, Duncan Strathallan, to conduct a thorough inquiry into Milner’s activities at Harwell and his life before arriving there. Strathallan recalls the inquiry as fascinating but frustrating.
“Understanding Milner was like trying to grasp a bar of soap you’ve dropped in the bath. Every time you think you’ve grasped hold, it slips through your fingers. There was plenty of tittle-tattle about him cuckolding a few husbands at Harwell, but nothing—not even a wee hint about him working late or alone, or being seen in places he shouldn’t have been, or always taking a bulging briefcase out through the gate: the sort of stuff you might expect to pick up after the event in a case like this. What’s more, the man was either no Communist at all or the most crypto-kind you ever came across. Fuchs had been a party member in Germany before the war. Nunn May had all but gone round with a sandwich board denouncing capitalist imperialism. Man, it was there in their bones. It took the brain power of MI5 to overlook it. But, as for Milner, there was nothing. He wasn’t even pink, let alone red. That thing Churchill said about Russia—a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma—well, that was Milner to a ‘I. And I never got past the enigma, let alone the mystery and the riddle.”
Strathallan’s conclusion, much to Arnold’s chagrin, was that Milner’s motives were as unknowable as the damage he had done was unquantifiable. He did believe he had been working alone, though. That was one comfort. Arnold stopped looking for a third man. Shortly afterwards, in May 1951, Burgess and Maclean of the Foreign Office defected. “That made our efforts at Harwell look like a sick joke,” says Strathallan. “You spend your time stopping up a hole only to find you’ve been working in a colander all along.”
Pressed for his assessment of Milner, Strathallan says he thinks treachery rather than the purpose served by treachery was what appealed to him. “You can see it in his sex life and in that business of his sister-in-law’s murder. He was a traitor by nature. He enjoyed it. I take some consolation from doubting he’ll have enjoyed his life in Russia, though. In the end, he was a traitor to himself.”
And how important a traitor was he? “We’ll never know,” says Strathallan. “But considering how much sooner the Russians developed the H-bomb than the experts said they’d be able to, my feeling is…very important.”
Milner left Arzamas-16 in 1956 and took a teaching post at the University of Moscow, where he has remained ever since. He does not give interviews to, nor answer letters from, Western journalists. He is not known to associate with the likes of Philby and Blake. He is not, in any real sense, known at all. He has succeeded, more completely than any of the other subjects of this book, in concealing not only what he gave away but why he gave it away. He is the traitor’s traitor, to be trusted with no secret—save his own.
I put the book down and looked across the lawn at the house. The sun had gone in again, behind stubborn midsummer clouds. It was colder than it had been, though dusk was still a long way off. The air was scarcely moving. Why had Strathallan bought the place? Why hadn’t Fisher mentioned the fact in his chapter on Milner? Just how many secrets did Other ways hold? It looked, at that moment, in the mild grey light, as if it might hold an infinity of them, slowly revolving in its circles of stone.
I went indoors then, and made my way up to the second floor room where Strathallan’s junk had been stored. Junk it certainly looked for the most part: pots of paint and stiffened brushes; fishing rods and bait boxes; old raincoats and galoshes; gumboots and waders; battered suitcases and dented trunks; a rusting zed-bed; a fraying dog basket. I wondered where Lucy had found the hoarded copy of the Sunday Times Magazine among all this and tried a suitcase at random. It held the late Mrs Strathallan’s old skirts and cardigans, to judge by their style. Another held several years’ worth of something called Army Quarterly. It seemed odd, having kept such stuff, to leave it behind. He might as well have thrown it away. It was almost as if he couldn’t bear to keep it near him but couldn’t bear to be rid of it, either. Or maybe Otherways was where he thought it belonged.
I was interrupted by the telephone, and in a way I was grateful for the distraction. There was something indecent about rooting through a stranger’s possessions, even if he had discarded them. Matt had it right there.
“Hello?”
“Norman here, Tony. Finished the Milner chapter?”
“I’ve only had the book a couple of hours.”
“Time enough, I’d say.”
“All right. I’ve read it.”
“Splendid. Bit of an eye-opener, isn’t it?”
“In a sense, but—”
“Wonder if I could have it back. I’m in the Whipper-in at Oakham. Why don’t you join me for a drink?”
He was at the farthest table from the bar, perusing a colour- illustrated handbook on British trees over an orange juice and the remains of a sandwich. I bought a drink and joined him, plonking Seven Faces of Treason down at his elbow.
“I thought you were more into birds than trees, Norman.”
“But where do birds roost, Tony? That’s the point. Actually, I enjoy knowing more about the world around us than the average blinkered citizen. You could say I’ve devoted my retirement to it.”
“Retirement from what?”
“Does it matter? I’ve tried to forget. Retirement is both a euphemism and a misnomer, anyway. I was made redundant. But I’ve no intention of being redundant.”
“Well, I suppose being able to tell a rowan from a mountain ash is useful.”
“Very droll.” He sat forward in his chair and tapped the cover of Seven Faces of Treason. “What are your thoughts on this?”
“One is that you already know the answer to the question it was bound to raise in my mind. Why did Strathallan buy Otherways?”
“An investment for when he left the service, I assume. Milner wrote to his solicitor from Moscow, instructing him to sell the place and to offer it first to his former colleagues at Harwell at a discounted price. Not so generous, really, when you consider that the proceeds could never legally be passed on to him.”
“But Strathallan went for it?”
“Yes. He’d recently married. Mrs Strathallan had private money, I believe. As to why, I suppose it must have seemed like a good deal. Didn’t turn out that way, though.”
“Why not?”
“Tragedy and misfortune.” He smiled. “They tend to hunt as a pair.” He paused to sip his orange juice. “You haven’t thanked me, by the way.”
“For the loan of the book? You were pretty insistent, as I recall.”
“That’s not what I meant. You recently suffered a bereavement.”
“So I did.”
“I’ve never been married, so I can only speculate about what it’s like to lose a beloved wife. I assume she was beloved?”
“Yes. She was.” And you were, Marina. Never doubt that, even though I may yet give you cause to.
“Well, I imagine it’s difficult to think about anything or anyone else.”
“It is.”
“But you have, haven’t you? Today, I mean. You’ve thought about Otherways.”
“True.” Something in the mystery of the place had excited me, had given me a purpose. And Rainbird, damn him, had realized that.
“So, perhaps I’ve done more for you than any of your condoling friends.” He smiled again. “Or perhaps you think I’m overstating the case.”
“What about Strathallan?” I was eager to change the subject. Rainbird’s delusion of intimacy wasn’t something I wanted to encourage in any way. “ “Tragedy and misfortune,” you said. Care to elaborate?”
“Not so fast, Tony. You must understand I had to go to great lengths to assemble the knowledge you seem to expect me to dispense with a free hand.”
“I suppose you’ve had the time.”
“We all have the same amount of time. The difference lies in how we use it.”
“And how have you used it?”
“I familiarizing myself with the history of Otherways and the people who’ve lived there.”
“Why…exactly?”
He shrugged. “It presented itself as an obvious subject for study when I moved to the area.”
“Why did you move here?”
“That brings us back to birds. There are ospreys on Rutland Water, you know. It really is a fascinating habitat.”
“I’m beginning to realize that.”
“Quite so.” The smile came and went again. “Now, largely thanks to my lengthy researches in the archives of the Rutland Mercury, I can tell you that Duncan and Jean Strathallan moved to Otherways when he left Harwell in 1952. He set himself up as a small-time sheep farmer, on land that’s now underwater. Their daughter, Rosalind, was born at Otherways in 1955. Strathallan was a prominent protester against the coming of the reservoir, but had about as much success as Canute at holding back the water. In the midst of all that, one fine day in the summer of 1976, young Rosalind committed suicide.”
“Good God. How?”
“Paracetamol and whisky. Found dead in her car in a lay-by near Uppingham.”
“Do we know why?”
“We do not. She’d just finished a degree course at Leeds and was due to be married that autumn. Everyone seemed to think she was looking forward to the wedding and to moving to London with her husband-to-be. If she’d changed her mind about getting married, she would surely just have called it off. Suicide suggests altogether deeper trouble. But there was no mention of any at the inquest. The coroner called it an ‘unaccountable tragedy’.”
“Otherways seems to attract them.”
“It does, doesn’t it? That and coincidences. Such as the identity of Rosalind Strathallan’s fiancé. He gave evidence at the inquest. You’ve already come across him, actually.” Rain bird’s downward glance at the cover of Seven Faces of Treason was enough to tell me who he meant a fraction of a second before he spoke his name. “Martin Fisher.”
Remember the aerial photograph of the area around Stanacombe you bought shortly after we moved in? The pattern of fields and lanes was there to be seen, but also visible were the shadows of other lapsed boundaries and forgotten ways from hundreds, maybe thousands, of years ago. I thought of that skeleton of history buried none too deep in the soil when Rainbird spilt the latest of his secrets about Otherways. How many more there were that even he had failed to glean I didn’t know. But that there were more I didn’t doubt.
“You’ll admit I’ve been generous,” Rainbird said, grinning at me ingratiatingly as we emerged from the Whipper-in into the gathering dusk. “And you’ll agree one good turn deserves another, I’m sure.”
“What do you want?” I started walking smartly across the market place towards the car, which I’d parked immediately behind Rainbird’s Morris Minor.
“I need a go-between.”
“Between you and who?”
“Strathallan. I’m afraid I rather rubbed the old fellow up the wrong way. To the extent that he wouldn’t give me the time of day now.”
“But it’s not the time of day you want from him.”
“No. It’s James Milner’s confession, penned in the condemned cell at Leicester Prison in November 1939.”
“What makes you think Strathallan has it?”
“Study of character and deductive reasoning. Plus his shifty reaction to my questions about it.”
“Daisy seems a more likely candidate.”
“Oh, I think it was addressed to her. But I think she passed it on to Strathallan after the death of his daughter.”
“Why?” We reached the cars and stopped. When I looked round at Rainbird, I found him smirking at me.
“I’ll tell you why if you succeed in getting hold of the confession. If the confession doesn’t tell you itself, that is.”
“I don’t think I’ll be racing up to Scotland with that as an incentive, Norman.”
“Oh, you will, believe me.”
“I don’t even know where the man lives.”
“I do.” His smirk broadened.
“I still won’t be going.”
“Just let me know when you change your mind.”
“I’m not going to change my mind.”
“Yes you are. You just need time. You can’t leave it alone any more than I can. I recognize the signs.”
“I’m mildly curious, that’s all.”
“That’s all I was. At first.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, must be off.” He climbed into his car and started the engine. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.” Then he pulled away, waving goodbye to me as he vanished round the corner. Doubtless he wasn’t in the least discouraged by the fact that I didn’t wave back.
I drove back to Otherways, then walked down to the Finches Arms. I didn’t like to admit as much to myself, but the prospect of spending the night alone at Otherways made me nervous. There was nothing I was specifically afraid of. It was just an empty house with an unfortunate history. But still I felt in need of some Dutch courage—and the deep sleep that several drinks seemed to promise.
The promise wasn’t fulfilled. I stumbled back to the house through a moonlit night and went straight to bed, falling instantly asleep. But I didn’t stay that way. Even saying that much confers a sense of order on what was much more bewildering than I can properly describe. I dreamed. Or did I? The most disturbing aspect of my Otherways dreams was their lack of unreality. Some part of your dreaming mind knows what’s going on all the time, doesn’t it? Some stubborn, rational monitor keeps it all in check. But not at Otherways. My dreams there dovetailed themselves into my waking thoughts. There was no straight dividing line between them.
I was woken by a noise and was conscious just too late to guess what it might have been. But I couldn’t dispel the notion that it had been a human voice, somewhere in the house—a cry or a laugh. I hadn’t been in any state to set the alarm. I lay still, my senses alert, ears cocked and heard it again. A moan, a murmur—something.
I rose and went out onto the landing, walking slowly and carefully. A milky splash of moonlight had cast giant shadows of the balusters on the wall adjacent to the stairhead. The rest of the landing was a gulf of blackness. Except for a yellow rectangle of light around the closed door of Matt and Lucy’s bedroom. I moved towards it.
