court order from a Judge in chambers here which authorizes Rear Admiral Garth Travers to make formal identification, so let’s get on with it.”
A uniformed attendant appeared at that moment. “Is one of you gentlemen Brigadier Ferguson?”
“That’s me,” Ferguson told him.
“Professor Manning is waiting. This way, sir.”
The post-mortem room was lit by fluorescent lighting that bounced off the white-lined walls. There were four stainless-steel operating tables. Baker’s body lay on the nearest one, his head on a block. A tall, thin man in surgeon’s overalls stood waiting, flanked by two mortuary technicians. Travers noted with distaste that they all wore green rubber boots.
“Hello, Sam, thanks for coming in,” Ferguson said. “This is Garth Travers.”
Manning shook hands. “Could we get on, Charles? I have tickets for Covent Garden.”
“Of course, old boy.” Ferguson took out a pen and laid the form on the end of the operating table. “Do you, Rear Admiral Travers, formally identify this man as Henry Baker, an American citizen of St. John in the American Virgin Islands?”
“I do.”
“Sign here.” Travers did so and Ferguson handed the form to Manning.
“There you go, Sam, we’ll leave you to it,” and he nodded to Travers and led the way out.
Ferguson closed the glass partition in his Daimler so the driver couldn’t hear what was being said.
“A hell of a shock,” Travers said. “It hasn’t sunk in yet.”
“Leaves us in rather an interesting situation,” Ferguson commented.
“In what way?”
“The location of U180. Has it died with him?”
“Of course,” Travers said. “I was forgetting.”
“On the other hand, perhaps the Grant girl knows. I mean she lived with him and all that.”
“Not that kind of relationship,” Travers told him. “Purely platonic. I met her just the once. I was passing through Miami and they happened to be there. Lovely young woman.”
“Well let’s hope this paragon of all the virtues has the answer to our problem,” Ferguson said.
“And if not?”
“Then I’ll just have to think of something.”
“I wonder what Carter will make of all this.”
Ferguson groaned. “I suppose I’d better bring him up to date. Keep the sod happy,” and he reached for his car phone and dialed Inspector Lane.
At precisely the same time Francis Pamer, having made a very fast trip indeed from London in his Porsche Cabriolet to his country home at Hatherley Court in Hampshire, was mounting the grand staircase to his mother’s apartment on the first floor. The house had been in the family for five hundred years and he always visited it with conscious pleasure, but not now. There were more important things on his mind.
When he tapped on the door of the bedroom and entered he found his mother propped up in the magnificent four-poster bed, a uniformed nurse sitting beside her. She was eighty-five and very old and frail and lay there with her eyes closed.
The nurse stood up. “Sir Francis. We weren’t expecting you.”
“I know. How is she?”
“Not good, sir. Doctor was here earlier. He said it could be next week or three months from now.”
He nodded. “You have a break. I want to have a little chat with her.” The nurse went out and Pamer sat on the bed and took his mother’s hand. She opened her eyes. “How are you, darling?” he asked.
“Why, Francis, what a lovely surprise.” Her voice was very faded.
“I had some business not too far away, Mother, so I thought I’d call in.”
“That was nice of you, dear.”
Pamer got up, lit a cigarette and walked to the fire. “I was talking about Samson Cay today.”
“Oh, are you thinking of taking a holiday, dear? If you go and that nice Mr. Santiago is there, do give him my regards.”
“Of course. I’m right, aren’t I? It was your mother who brought Samson Cay into the family?”
“Yes, dear, her father, George Herbert, gave it to her as a wedding present.”
“Tell me about the War again, Mother,” he said. “And Samson Cay.”
“Well, the hotel was empty for most of the War. It was small then, of course, just a little colonial-style place.”
“And when did you go there? You never really talked about that and I was too young to remember.”
“March nineteen forty-five. You were born in July, the previous year, and those terrible German rockets kept hitting London, V1s and V2s. Your father was out of the army then and serving in Mr. Churchill’s government as a Junior Minister, just like you, dear. He was worried about the attacks on London continuing so he arranged passage on a boat to Puerto Rico for you and me. We carried on to Samson Cay from there. Now I remember. It was the beginning of April when we got there. We went over from Tortola by boat. There was an old man and his wife. Black people. Very nice. Jackson, that was it. May and Joseph.”
Her voice faded and he went and sat on the bed and took her hand again. “Did anyone visit, Mother? Can you remember that?”
“Visit?” She opened her eyes. “Only Mr. Strasser. Such a nice man. Your father told me he might be coming. He just appeared one night. He said he’d been dropped off in a fishing boat from Tortola and then the hurricane came. It happened the same night. Terrible. We were in the cellar for two days. I held you all the time, but Mr. Strasser was very good. Such a kind man.”
“Then what happened?”
“He stayed with us for quite a while. Until June, I think, and then your father arrived.”
“And Strasser?”
“He left after that. He had business in South America, and the war in Europe was over, of course, so we came back to England. Mr. Churchill had lost the election and your father wasn’t in Parliament anymore, so we lived down here, darling. The farms were a great disappointment.”
She was wandering a little. Pamer said, “You once told me my father served with Sir Oswald Mosley in the First World War in the trenches.”
“That’s true dear, they were great friends.”
“Remember Mosley’s black shirts, Mother, the British Fascist Party? Did Father have any connection with that?”
“Good heavens no. Poor Oswald. He often spent the weekend here. They arrested him at the beginning of the War. Said he was pro-German. Ridiculous. He was such a gentleman.” The voice trailed away and then strengthened. “Such a difficult time we had. Goodness knows how we managed to keep you at Eton. How lucky we all were when your father met Mr. Santiago. What wonderful things they did together at Samson Cay. Some people say it’s the finest resort in the Caribbean now. I’d love to visit again, I really would.”
Her eyes closed and Pamer went and put her hands under the cover. “You sleep now, Mother, it will do you good.”
He closed the door gently, went downstairs to the library, got himself a Scotch and sat by the fire thinking about it all. The contents of the diary had shocked him beyond measure and it was a miracle that he had managed to keep his composure in front of Carter, but the truth was plain now. His father, a British Member of Parliament, a serving officer, a member of government, had had connections with the Nazi Party, one of those who had eagerly looked forward to a German invasion in 1940. The involvement must have been considerable. The whole business with Martin Bormann and Samson Cay proved that.
Francis Pamer’s blood ran cold and he went and got another Scotch and wandered around the room looking at the portraits of his ancestors. Five hundred years, one of the oldest families in England, and he was a Junior Minister now, had every prospect of further advancement, but if Ferguson managed to arrange the recovery of Bormann’s briefcase from the U-boat he was finished. No reason to doubt that his father’s name would be on the Blue Book list of Nazi sympathizers. The scandal would finish him. Not only would he have to say goodbye to any
