The Yellow Room Conspiracy Read Online Free Page B

long as she was able to ride. If all five were girls it was either his fault, biologically, or his bad luck, actuarially. If true, my guess is that it was no more than a joking bargain between a couple who were marrying for love. When I knew them later they gave no hint of discontent with each other, nor with the knowledge that the inheritance must now pass through the female line.
    I regarded Lord’s as a bore. Whatever interest the cricket might have had was obscured by the social event. I can no more than have glanced at the Vereker party. They belonged to a world in which I had no prospect of moving, nor, then, any wish to.
    The war swept that world into abeyance. Unlike most of my Eton contemporaries, who were concerned to get themselves into congenial regiments, I took no special steps and let myself be hoovered up in the general mêlée of conscription. Then there was a bureaucratic hitch, which resulted in my presenting myself at a camp at Bury St Edmunds as instructed in my call-up notice, only to be told that as far as the camp was concerned I didn’t exist, and I must go home and wait for my position to be clarified. This took some weeks, with the result that I did my basic training not with the main flood of public-school leavers but with a far more heterogeneous bunch. An odd thing happened here. Having been picked on in my early days at Eton for being a Jew, I was now picked on for being an Etonian. The corporal in charge of my platoon, a sly, lively Welshman, seemed fascinated by my education. He was always bringing it up.
    â€œAnd where were you at school, lad?”
    â€œEton, sir.”
    â€œAnd they didn’t teach you to wash your neck of a morning, then? You’re a dirty soldier, aren’t you, lad?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    I didn’t mind. I made friends, including the corporal before long. Having been in the Eton OTC I could drill. I kept myself neat and obeyed orders, though it was clear that I was never going to be much of a fighting soldier, being physically inept and a hopeless shot. On the other hand I turned out to have a natural grasp of the needs and habits of military bureaucracy, and was soon able to work it to my advantage and to advise my friends on how to do so.
    Basic Camp lasted only six weeks. Its function, apart from simple training in drill and weapons, was to assess us for posting on to whatever unit we were thought suitable for. The system could be crazily haphazard, but worked for me. My mother was Viennese and I had been brought up bilingual, adding fair French by staying with families during two summer holidays. I was not bothered about getting a commission. My object was to get into Intelligence, where I thought I might be most useful. Many weird and incompatible Intelligence set-ups proliferated as the military machine expanded, and in the nature of things suitable officer-quality staff was more available than other ranks. The officer who assessed me at the camp had a memo on his desk asking him to look out for men with almost exactly my qualifications.
    â€œGood God!” he cried. “We have a round peg here, and a hole to match! I think we’re going to win this bloody war after all!”
    So I was booked for a week’s Christmas leave, then to join the Signals for a wireless course near Salisbury, where I would be interviewed by someone from the organisation which had sent the memo, and if that went well move on to a secret location. Eight days before I was due to finish at Bury I spotted Gerry in the NAAFI, alone in a corner, reading. Delighted, I went over to say hello, and when he looked up he seemed as pleased as I felt. I could see from the stiffness of his khaki that it had been issued only in the last few days. The book was Demosthenes” Philippics in Greek. No crib.
    â€œWhat on earth are you doing here?” I said. “I’d have thought you’d be in France by now.”
    â€œI may very well be. What