Shadows of War by Michael Ridpath Page B

beyond the government. Alston had been surprised by the positive attitude Hitler had to the British people, if not to their Prime Minister.
    ‘Chamberlain’s a lost cause,’ said Freddie. ‘Unless the rumours are correct and the German generals do get rid of Hitler. Then he might negotiate something.’
    ‘That will never happen,’ said Alston. ‘I know Germany. It’s inconceivable that a German general would break his oath and overthrow his commander-in-chief in wartime. Somehow we are going to have to make sure we have a government in this country that talks sense.’
    ‘The Jews won’t wear it,’ said Freddie. ‘You know, the financiers. The Rothschilds. The Sieffs. Hore-Belisha. They won’t want to stop the war. They need to protect their German cousins.’
    Alston smiled at his friend. Tall, thin, with wisps of hair plastered over a bald dome, the second Baron Copthorne looked and sounded like a dim aristocrat. He wasn’t entirely dim, but he was inclined to fall for some of the more simplistic notions of his friends. Still, he was loyal, and he was well connected: everyone liked Freddie.
    ‘Don’t worry too much about the Jews,’ Alston said. ‘This idea of a conspiracy of Jewish financiers is overblown. It’s true that some of the Jews I know in the City are concerned about what’s going on in Germany. But I don’t believe they want an unnecessary war and, more to the point, I don’t think they have the influence to insist on one.’
    ‘You should know,’ said Freddie. But he looked chastened.
    ‘So who is this girl we are going to meet, Freddie?’
    ‘Her name is Constance Scott-Dunton. She’s a friend of Marjorie’s.’ Marjorie was Freddie’s 22-year-old niece.
    ‘And are you sure we can’t get Marjorie to help us?’ Alston had met Marjorie several times and liked her.
    ‘Yes, quite sure. I did ask her, but she said no. The truth is, she was scared. She’s a sensible girl most of the time, but she can be a bit of a panicker.’
    ‘And this Constance girl isn’t?’
    ‘Not according to Marjorie. She’s game for anything, apparently. Marjorie is quite taken with her.’
    ‘Marjorie didn’t tell her what we wanted her to do?’
    ‘Oh, no. I thought we would leave that to you, once you’ve decided you like her.’
    ‘And what is this Russian Tea Rooms place?’
    ‘It’s in Harrington Road, opposite South Ken tube station. It’s owned by a Russian admiral. Admiral Wolkoff.’
    ‘I think I’ve passed it. A White Russian, I take it?
    ‘Oh, very much so. He was naval attaché for the Tsar in the last war, and stayed on in London after the revolution rather than return to Russia to be shot. Marjorie spends quite a lot of time there. She says it’s the kind of place a girl can go to unaccompanied quite happily. That’s where she met Constance.’
    Freddie was flagging as they reached Harrington Road and the Russian Tea Rooms. It was busy. Alston spotted Freddie’s niece talking to a girl with black hair whose back was to the door.
    Marjorie stood up, waved and kissed her uncle. ‘Hello, Uncle Freddie. Hello, Sir Henry.’
    She held out her gloved hand to be shaken.
    ‘This is my friend Constance. My uncle, Lord Copthorne, and Sir Henry Alston.’
    Constance was striking: pale, with a strong chin and large lively black eyes. They looked straight at Alston as they shook hands, and she smiled. Not a flicker of revulsion.
    Alston smiled back.
    ‘Have some tea,’ Marjorie said. ‘They serve it in samovars. It’s really rather exciting. You’re not supposed to drink milk with it.’
    So they sat down and ordered tea, which came in glasses contained in metal holders with handles.
    ‘Constance is a fan of yours,’ said Marjorie. ‘She has been dying to meet you.’
    ‘I wasn’t aware that I had any fans,’ said Alston, bemused.
    ‘I’ve read all your speeches,’ said Constance. ‘And Marjorie says you are frightfully clever.’
    Alston glanced at his friend’s