A Farewell to Baker Street (14 page)

“I doubt it,” he replied quietly. “I have never told Nicole or Heinrich about the diamonds. You are the only person who knows about them besides me.”

“What about if I help? I could let Heinrich know the story. He could travel to France when he is older, find the townhouse and get the diamonds. Surely there is hope,” I said in desperation.

Franz looked at me wearily
. “My friend, you forget that we are at war. Whilst I am French by birth, my son is German. Even if the war were to end soon, I cannot imagine that he would be welcomed, open-armed, by the people of Albert. They would hardly be placated by the knowledge that he was the son of Franz Descartes, who went off to live in Germany and became a Zeppelin raider. Those with long memories will know that Madame Descartes brought shame to the town by her scandalous affair with the Mayor. In any case, what right would he have to enter the house and break down the walls in search of the safe?”

In that moment I knew that I could not leave your father to die without hope. I told him that I would make contact with his family and pass on his final words. But I found myself going further, desperate to help this dying man - a stranger and an enemy of my country. “What if I find the diamonds and deliver Heinrich's birthright to him?” I ventured
.

Franz fixed his gaze on me, staring intently for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually he replied. “You cannot know what you are taking on, Peter. I am guessing that you have never travelled more than fifty miles from your farm. What do you know of the world? How would you do all of this? And why would you bother? I am dying. I have achieved what I wanted - all that I ask is that you pass on my last words to my family. I can ask nothing further. Please leave me now.”

I felt hurt by his rebuke, but was not prepared to give up. “As I see it, you have no choice. I will make contact with your family, but sometime in the future I will also try to find the diamonds and ensure that your family receive what is rightfully theirs.”

He winced in pain and for the first time I could see tears in his eyes. Away in the distance I could hear voices, English voices, getting ever closer in the morning light. “You are right,” he said at last, “I have no choice, I am a dead man. But I will make you promise me this. Should you find the diamonds and carry out your plan, you must promise me that you will sell the gems and take half of the proceeds.”

I began to interject, but he silenced me abruptly. “You must promise me this, Peter. It is my will. I want you to take half. It is only fair. It is more than I could ask of you and more than I could imagine at this time. But there is something more that you must have.”

He smiled at me and his pained eyes looked down at his chest. “The key, Peter, you must take the safe key.
It is in the locket around my neck. Now take it and promise me that you will honour my wishes.”

I hesitated at this point. But watching his eyes and mouth close slowly, I realised that his time had come. I opened his large, fur-lined overcoat and undid the silver buttons at the neck of his uniform. My hand felt for the chain around his neck and slowly I pulled out a small decorative locket with a crucifix on its lid. Opening the clasp, I pulled out a small, dark-metal key and placed this in my pocket. On the inside lid of the locket I could see a small picture of what I guessed to be you and your mother. I closed the locket and once again placed it beneath his clothes.
His eyes opened briefly and finally. I found myself whispering to him, as if somehow disturbing his sleep. “I won't let you down.”

I stood up at this point and thought I saw him smile, but realised then that he was dead. Behind me, I heard a voice cry out. I turned and saw a uniformed officer running towards me. As he reached us, I saw him look me over before glancing down at Franz. “I'm Major Davenport, Royal Army Medical Corps. Is he dead?”

“Yes, he's dead,” I answered, and struggled to hold back the tears.

The Major looked at me sympathetically. “Don't worry, son, happens to us all - both the death and the grieving. Never an easy thing to see someone die, even your enemies.”

There was much activity after that. Throughout the day various branches of the military came and went and a massive clear up operation began. I was questioned by an Army Captain, but maintained that I had run from the farmhouse after the crash and had only ventured into the woods a short time before Major Davenport had found me. All of which seemed highly plausible.

Ten days later, the crew were buried in the village churchyard, the event being attended by around 300 local people and army and navy personnel. It was a simple ceremony, with due respect given to the German airmen, in spite of the inevitable and popular hostility that many of the villagers had towards these raiders.

We were told that where any personal belongings had been found near the crash site, these would be returned to the families of the dead. I have always hoped that this was the case. In fact, if you do have in your possession the locket that Franz wore, you will now know for certain that what I have told you is the truth
. All of which would be enough of a story. But I still have much more to tell.

For the next two months, I could think of nothing else but Franz and his legacy. My brother noticed the change in me. He said that I had grown up in a short space of time. He knew that the crash had had a big impact on me, but clearly did not know why. I confided in him that I needed to get away from the farm and travel. We both knew what that meant. In short, I told him that I was going to join the army and fight in France.
He tried to talk me out of it and pointed out that I was still too young. But I would not listen and said that I would lie about my age. I was a tall lad anyway and the years of farm labour had built me up to look much older than I was.

I remained resolute in my determination to travel to France and do what I had agreed to. I managed to find out some information about the town of Albert and committed this to memory. Joining the army seemed the only option, although I had no idea what I would do if I ever made it onto French soil. Using some money given to me by Tom, I travelled to Ipswich one Saturday morning and, lying about my age, joined the armed forces. After a period of training in England, I was taken along with countless other young men across to France to face the horrors of the Western Front.

In many respects, I could not have joined the war at a worse time, given the death and carnage I experienced in the early part of 1917 in the freezing temperatures of that dreadful winter.
I do not wish to dwell on this grim period of my life for it pains me to do so and would, in any case, fill up far too many pages in the telling. Let me just say this. I realised within days of landing in France, that I could not face the prospect of weeks - let alone months - of that Hell. I heard other men talk in whispers about escaping, deserting the trenches, and hiding out in some quiet and rural part of France until the war had ended. For many this was idle banter, wishful thinking, bravado at best. For me, it became a reality.

My company was relocated first to Ypres in Belgium and, by April of that year, we received orders to move to Amiens in France. Bearing in mind my keen knowledge and love of geography, you may realise that this move excited me for two reasons. Firstly, the prospect of a company on the move gave me every hope of escaping and deserting the trenches. Secondly, our planned relocation in Amiens would place me much closer to the town of Albert
.

I am not proud of the fact that I deserted and left my fellow countrymen behind. There has not been a day go by when I have not thought about my actions and felt a tug of compassion for the good friends that died on those battlefields. But I justify it like this. I did not start the war and I have never been a violent or aggressive man. I believe in pacifism. The war was wrong and statesmen and politicians - who cared little about the millions of lives that they were about to ruin - were responsible for starting it. Let them answer to the masses. Let them stand up now and say that the war was justified and those lives were lost in a good cause. I can live with my guilt, can they?

And so it was that one evening, while we were camped along the River Somme close to the town of Abbeville and I was posted on guard duty, I was able to slip away from our position and leave my company behind.

The weeks that followed were terrifying for me. I had to avoid capture by my own side and was reluctant to move more than a few miles each night. During the day, I kept myself hidden and grabbed what I could to eat from the trees and hedgerows once the rations I had taken with me ran out.

In my second week of freedom, I had the first of many lucky episodes in France. I had come across a derelict farmhouse not far from the village of Aumont, some thirty-five miles from Albert. Inside, I found a reasonable bed, some food, clothes and boots, which I guessed had been abandoned only a short time before. I also found a map hanging on the wall of the dining room, which I removed from its frame and folded up to take with me. I felt comfortable to be changing out of my uniform, donning the attire of a French peasant farmer - in reality, not much different to my farm clothes back in Suffolk.
I buried my uniform, army boots and military papers and, most reluctantly, my rifle. I now had nothing on me to indicate who I was or where I had come from. In fact, my only real possession at that time was the small, black-metal key that I kept on a chain around my neck.

I stayed at the farmhouse for two nights, enjoying the relative comfort of my surroundings and content, for the moment, to be away from other people. But I knew that I could not stay there forever, and on the third night made plans to travel ever closer to Albert. Wrapping a number of items of food and some bed linen into a blanket, I fashioned a makeshift rucksack from some old belts and a piece of tarpaulin. It was not comfortable to carry, but it did the job and, if I were to get caught, I felt it would at least give me the appearance of a local, fleeing from the fighting. I also carried the remainder of the tarpaulin to use as a tent.

The days and nights that followed were not without incident, as I came across at least two French army patrols and spent most of my time hiding in ditches and taking advantage of whatever shelter I could find.
Occasionally I would see other travellers on the roads and footpaths, wandering almost aimlessly, displaced no doubt by the impact of war.

At least the weather proved kind, remaining largely dry until I finally came within five miles of Albert. At this point, I took refuge in a small brick-built shed on a hillside beside what remained of an extensive vineyard. This appeared to be a bad choice, for the next morning I awoke to the frantic shouting of an angry, bearded man holding a shotgun. The French that I had learnt did not enable me to readily understand or communicate with this man, although I gathered from his actions that he was less than pleased that I had slept in his property. In my frustration, I shouted back at him in English, “Please, I do not understand!”

His reaction was remarkable and all at once the shotgun was lowered and he gave me a broad grin. “Anglaise?” he mused.

I nodded, reluctant to smile back in case this was part of some elaborate trap.
But he seemed genuinely pacified and beckoning for me to follow him, turned and paced out of the shed and off up the hillside. I hurriedly gathered my few belongings together and staggered out after him, squinting in the early morning light and taking in the variety of aromas that filled the air that bright spring morning.

There can be little doubt that lady luck continued to be on my side during that brief period in France. The vineyard owner that found me was the ageing Xavier Renouf, a bear of a man who loved life and appeared to have a particular fondness for the English. I learned later that his wife, the very elegant Vanessa Renouf, was the granddaughter of an English sea captain who had settled in the region some years before. Vanessa could speak very good English and both seemed happy to take me in and feed me, proudly serving me a meal on their prized Lowestoft porcelain - a welcome reminder of home.

The elderly couple provided me with a bed that evening and seemed unconcerned about any risks they faced in sheltering me. The next day I rose early and after a welcome bath and shave came down to find a large breakfast waiting for me. Still the couple seemed unconcerned about this young, ill-clothed Englishman who was wandering around the French countryside in the middle of a war.
But on the basis that they did not appear to be in the least bit worried, I relaxed and enjoyed another good meal with them.

After breakfast, I once again thanked Madame Renouf for her hospitality and said that I would be leaving within the hour. She nodded sagely and smiled. “Peter, you are not the first British deserter to pass this way. And I doubt you will be the last. I wish you well in your travels.”

I felt some embarrassment at this, but smiled back and went off to gather my rucksack. When I said goodbye to the couple, I promised sincerely to repay them one day, and set off down the long track that led from the front of their imposing farmhouse. It was only later that I learnt how much I owed them, when I found that Xavier had hidden within my rucksack a loaf of French bread, some goat's cheese and a good bottle of red wine
.

If you are still with me, Heinrich, you will understand that I was now within a stone's throw of the townhouse and the hoped for diamonds. Emboldened by my experience with the Renoufs, I began to walk the four or five miles towards Albert in broad daylight. The route appeared to be quiet for the most part - Xavier had indicated that the Germans had pulled back from the town at least a month before, having occupied it for some time prior to that. I hoped to God that this did prove to be the case.