begun to mobilize its little army. There would be fighting, but would Russia join in?
Walter went to the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, which was not in the fields but in Trafalgar Square, the busiest traffic junction in London. The church was an eighteenth-century building in the Palladian style, and Walter reflected that his meetings with Anton were giving him an education in the history of English architecture as well as information about Russian intentions.
He mounted the steps and passed through the great pillars into the nave. He looked around anxiously: at the best of times he was afraid Anton might not show up, and this would be the worst possible moment for the man to get cold feet. The interior was brightly lit by a big Venetian window at the east end, and he spotted Anton immediately. Relieved, he sat next to the vengeful spy a few seconds before the service began.
As always, they talked during the hymns. “The Council of Ministers met on Friday,” Anton said.
Walter knew that. “What did they decide?”
“Nothing. They only make recommendations. The tsar decides.”
Walter knew that, too. He controlled his impatience. “Excuse me. What did they recommend?”
“To permit four Russian military districts to prepare for mobilization.”
“No!” Walter’s cry was involuntary, and the hymn singers nearby turned and stared at him. This was the first preliminary to war. Calming himself with an effort, Walter said: “Did the tsar agree?”
“He ratified the decision yesterday.”
Despairingly, Walter said: “Which districts?”
“Moscow, Kazan, Odessa, and Kiev.”
During the prayers, Walter pictured a map of Russia. Moscow and Kazan were in the middle of that vast country, a thousand miles and more from its European borders, but Odessa and Kiev were in the southwest, near the Balkans. In the next hymn he said: “They are mobilizing against Austria.”
“It’s not mobilization-it’s preparation for mobilization.”
“I understand that,” said Walter patiently. “But yesterday we were talking about Austria attacking Serbia, a minor Balkan conflict. Today we’re talking about Austria and Russia, and a major European war.”
The hymn ended, and Walter waited impatiently for the next one. He had been brought up by a devout Protestant mother, and he always suffered a twinge of conscience about using church services as a cover for his clandestine work. He said a brief prayer for forgiveness.
When the congregation began to sing again, Walter said: “Why are they in such a hurry to make these warlike preparations?”
Anton shrugged. “The generals say to the tsar: ‘Every day you delay gives the enemy an advantage.’ It’s always the same.”
“Don’t they see that the preparations make the war more likely?”
“Soldiers want to win wars, not avoid them.”
The hymn ended and the service came to a close. As Anton stood up, Walter held his arm. “I have to see you more often,” he said.
Anton looked panicky. “We’ve been through that-”
“I don’t care. Europe is on the brink of war. You say the Russians are preparing to mobilize in some districts. What if they authorize other districts to prepare? What other steps will they take? When does preparation turn into the real thing? I have to have daily reports. Hourly would be better.”
“I can’t take the risk.” Anton tried to withdraw his arm.
Walter tightened his grip. “Meet me at Westminster Abbey every morning before you go to your embassy. Poet’s Corner, in the south transept. The church is so big that no one will notice us.”
“Absolutely not.”
Walter sighed. He would have to threaten, which he did not like doing, not least because it risked the complete withdrawal of the spy. But he had to take the chance. “If you aren’t there tomorrow I’ll come to your embassy and ask for you.”
Anton went pale. “You can’t do that! They will kill me!”
“I must have the information! I’m trying to prevent a war.”
“I hope there is a war,” the little clerk said savagely. His voice dropped to a hiss. “I hope my country is flattened and destroyed by the German army.” Walter stared at him, astonished. “I hope the tsar is killed, brutally murdered, and all his family with him. And I hope they all go to hell, as they deserve.”
He turned on his heel and scurried out of the church into the hubbub of Trafalgar Square.
Princess Bea was “at home” on Tuesday afternoons at teatime. This was when her friends called to discuss the parties they had been to and show off their daytime clothes. Maud was obliged to attend, as was Aunt Herm, both being poor relations who lived on Fitz’s generosity. Maud found the conversation particularly stultifying today, when all she wanted to talk about was whether there would be a war.
The morning room at the Mayfair house was modern. Bea was attentive to decorating trends. Matching bamboo chairs and sofas were arranged in small conversational groups, with plenty of space between for people to move around. The upholstery had a quiet mauve pattern and the carpet was light brown. The walls were not papered, but painted a restful beige. There was no Victorian clutter of framed photographs, ornaments, cushions, and vases. One did not need to show off one’s prosperity, fashionable people said, by cramming one’s rooms full of stuff. Maud agreed.
Bea was talking to the Duchess of Sussex, gossiping about the prime minister’s mistress, Venetia Stanley. Bea ought to be worried, Maud thought; if Russia joins in the war, her brother, Prince Andrei, will have to fight. But Bea appeared carefree. In fact she looked particularly bonny today. Perhaps she had a lover. It was not uncommon in the highest social circles, where many marriages were arranged. Some people disapproved of adulterers-the duchess would cross such a woman off her invitation list for all eternity-but others turned a blind eye. However, Maud did not really think Bea was the type.
Fitz came in for tea, having escaped from the House of Lords for an hour, and Walter was right behind him. They both looked elegant in their gray suits and double-breasted waistcoats. Involuntarily, in her imagination Maud saw them in army uniforms. If the war spread, both might have to fight-almost certainly on opposite sides. They would be officers, but neither would slyly wangle a safe job at headquarters: they would want to lead their men from the front. The two men she loved might end up shooting at one another. She shuddered. It did not bear thinking about.
Maud avoided Walter’s eye. She had a feeling that the more intuitive women in Bea’s circle had noticed how much time she spent talking to him. She did not mind their suspicions-they would learn the truth soon enough-but she did not want rumors to reach Fitz before he had been officially told. He would be mightily offended. So she was trying not to let her feelings show.
Fitz sat beside her. Casting about for a topic of conversation that did not involve Walter, she thought of Ty Gwyn, and asked: “Whatever happened to your Welsh housekeeper, Williams? She disappeared, and when I asked the other servants, they went all vague.”
“I had to get rid of her,” Fitz said.
“Oh!” Maud was surprised. “Somehow I had the impression you liked her.”
“Not especially.” He seemed embarrassed.
“What did she do to displease you?”
“She suffered the consequences of unchastity.”
“Fitz, don’t be pompous!” Maud laughed. “Do you mean she got pregnant?”
“Keep your voice down, please. You know what the duchess is like.”
“Poor Williams. Who’s the father?”
“My dear, do you imagine I asked?”
“No, of course not. I hope he’s going to ‘stand by her,’ as they say.”
“I have no idea. She’s a servant, for goodness’ sake.”
“You’re not normally callous about your servants.”
“One mustn’t reward immorality.”
“I liked Williams. She was more intelligent and interesting than most of these society women.”
