The Jubilee Plot

by David Field

  The following morning Percy took great delight in striding to the front desk of the Scotland Yard headquarters in Whitehall, accompanied by a very apprehensive Jack, and carefully unfolding a letter bearing the crested letterhead of Her Majesty’s Government and the personal autograph of Home Secretary Sir Matthew Ridley at its foot. He placed it on the counter under the glass partition, smoothed it flat as if it were a dress handkerchief, then asked if it might be conveyed to Chief Superintendent Bray without delay. Jack smiled to himself as they took a seat where indicated, and Percy had barely whistled himself into his fifth rendition of ‘Ta Ra Ra Boom De Ay’ when a voice bellowed out from the first-floor landing as its owner hurried down into the lobby with a murderous look on his face.

  ‘I don’t know how you managed it, but don’t expect any warm welcomes!’ Chief Superintendent Bray warned them.

  ‘Nice to meet up with you again too, sir,’ Percy replied with a smirk. ‘You remember my nephew, Sergeant Jackson Enright?’

  ‘Not as well as I remember you,’ Bray snarled. ‘This letter orders me to provide the pair of you with office space and access to our facilities here, but one foot over the line and you’ll both be back out in the street — understood?’

  ‘Loudly and clearly,’ Percy smiled back infuriatingly. ‘Now, my man, if you’d be good enough to show us where we can begin work, we won’t detain you any longer.’

  Bray’s face coloured a deep red from his neck upwards as he turned his head towards the front desk and yelled a command. ‘Show these two up to one of the spare offices on the fourth — preferably next to that smelly lavatory that keeps getting blocked. Only the one office between the pair of them — no need to afford them any luxury.’

  ‘You were pushing both our lucks there, weren’t you?’ Jack said with a grin as the uniformed constable escorted them up the main staircase.

  ‘Probably not — and in any case the pompous old fart had it coming,’ Percy replied, grinning. ‘Remember that we’re about as welcome in here as a bacon curer in a synagogue. Eyes front, keep that smile on your face, and let’s get on with what we came here for.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘Is the Sergeant expectin’ yer?’ the constable at the front desk asked Percy, who shook his head with a smile.

  ‘It wouldn’t be a “spot inspection” if he was, would it, lad?’ he said, and the young constable smiled back politely in acknowledgment of the logic of that.

  ‘Only he’s down at the storage yard, conducting a stock check,’ the constable advised Percy, who nodded and enquired if it was ‘still up Shoe Lane, on the right?’ The constable nodded. ‘You’ve been here before?’

  Percy smiled reminiscently. ‘Many times, wearing the same uniform as you. And I’m bound to observe that this front entrance was much cleaner in those days, because we were ordered to keep it that way. To judge by the grit at the front door, you’ve allowed a good deal of Fleet Street to blow in since my days here. You might want to put a brush across it before I return.’

  Uncertain whether to rush outside immediately with a broom, or remind Percy that he took his orders ultimately from Inspector Greaves and not some unknown middle-aged investigator from the Yard, Constable Bradford simply smiled weakly again, then breathed a sigh of relief as Percy walked back out into the noise and confusion of Fleet Street.

  Percy turned right, then right again up Shoe Lane, where he carefully ducked under the archway a few yards up on the right that led up a narrow alleyway towards the ‘E’ Division equipment store. He tutted at the wide-open door and the lack of anyone guarding it, then strode into what appeared to be the main storeroom at the back, drew his ‘special issue’ service revolver, and stuck it under the startled nose of the grizzled grey-haired man who sat at a desk, his head down studying several ledgers in front of him.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ he blasphemed and Percy grinned reassuringly.

  ‘Not quite but thank you for the promotion. “Inspector Enright” will suffice at this stage, but it looks as if I got here not a day too soon. I could have been anyone and I was able to walk right in here and catch you unawares.’

  ‘I were concentratin’ on these stock records,’ the man explained in a tone of justified irritation, and Percy put the revolver back in his inside jacket pocket as he allowed his grin to turn into a warning grimace.

  ‘Trying to find several stolen uniforms, plus an entire paddy wagon?’

  ‘Beg yours?’

  ‘You are Sergeant Cameron, to judge by your stripes.’ Percy nodded at the man’s tunic sleeve. ‘Or does “E” Division run to more than one Sergeant?’

  ‘No, I’m ’im,’ the man replied. ‘Hector Cameron, Sergeant First Class.’

  ‘First Class by rank, but Third Class by performance, it would seem,’ Percy muttered to himself.

  ‘Afore yer ask if it were me what led that raid on that jewellers, let me tell yer — like I’ve told every other nosey fellow what’s enquired — that it were nowt ter do wi’ me, an’ I were at ’ome the night it ’appened.’

  ‘Home being?’

  ‘Twenny-seven Plough Court, up the road there. It goes wi’ the job.’

  ‘And one of the duties that goes with the job involves responsibility for this storehouse, correct?’

  ‘Yeah — so what?’

  ‘The “so what”, Sergeant Cameron, is that while you were responsible for everything in here, someone managed to steal an entire police wagon and a selection of police uniforms, one of which, we can only assume, was adorned with sergeant’s stripes. There can’t be too many of those lying around, if you’re the only sergeant attached to Holborn.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Cameron advised him with a smirk of triumph.

  ‘Then who’s the other one?’ Percy demanded.

  ‘There ain’t none at the moment, ’cos we’re waiting fer a replacement fer Dick Birkenshaw, what retired a couple o’ months back. It were ’is uniform what went missin’ a week or so afore it musta bin used fer that robbery.’

  Percy’s face set in a stern expression. ‘How can you be sure that it was missing a week or so before the robbery?’

  ‘’Cos I were doin’ me job proper, an’ I made a note that it were missin’ at the time. I’ve still got the note ’ere somewhere, if yer give me a mo ter find it.’

  ‘You mean that it’s still here?’ Percy demanded in sheer disbelief, and Cameron nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘Bloody right it is. I keeps proper records in ’ere, I’ll ’ave yer know.’

  ‘Did you by any chance pass on this vital piece of intelligence to Inspector Greaves?’

  ‘No, why should I?’

  ‘You mean that your Standing Orders don’t require you to report any missing equipment to your superior officer?’

  ‘Yeah they do, but I were already in trouble about that wagon, so I kept it ter meself.’

  Percy nearly gasped in disbelief, then reminded himself that this man was so stupid that he was worthy of further interrogation.

  ‘So what got you into trouble regarding the wagon?’

  ‘Well, it weren’t my fault if it were a cold day, was it? We’d given the wagon a new coat o’ paint, an’ rather than shift it back indoors while it were still wet, which would’ve meant gettin’ our ’ands dirty, we left it in the yard out there. There were a stiff wind blowin’, an’ we figured it’d be dry by mornin’. ’Cept when mornin’ came, some bastard ’ad nicked it. The way the Inspector went on about it, yer’d’ve thought I pinched it meself.’

  Percy hastily converted his chortle into a cough, trying desperately not to allow the moronic loss of so much police property, with its tragic sequel, to appear to be an occasion of amusement. It was time he sought a more mentally endowed person to question, so he left Sergeant Cameron with a stern assurance that he’d be speaking more about this to his Inspector, before walking swiftly back up Shoe Lane with his head bent forward against the aggressive late October drizzle and returning to Divisional Headquarters in F
leet Street, where he demanded an immediate audience with Inspector Greaves.

  ‘What possessed you to promote such an obvious cretin to the rank of Sergeant?’ he demanded as he shook his head in response to the proffered tea. Inspector Greaves took his time pouring his own before looking back up at Percy.

  ‘Are we talking about Hector Cameron?’

  ‘How many sergeants have you got?’ Percy fired back. ‘Cameron told me he was the only one stationed here at present, although given his obvious lack of ability in the matter of stores record keeping, perhaps he can’t even count up to two.’

  Inspector Greaves looked puzzled. ‘Sergeant Cameron is excellent at counting, and for that matter all the other duties that are devolved to him. Before the unfortunate events of recent weeks I would have accounted him the most intelligent man on my force. He had an exemplary record as a constable, and I didn’t experience a moment’s hesitation in promoting him when I did, almost two years ago now, since when he’s done nothing to make me regret my choice.’

  ‘You mean apart from being totally incapable of explaining the loss of an unspecified number of police uniforms — one of them that of a sergeant — and an entire paddy wagon?’ Percy replied incredulously.

  Greaves nodded. ‘Inexplicable, I grant you. As I said, until those losses I would have ranked Hector Cameron as one of the most astute officers in “E” Division.’

  ‘God knows what that says for the rest, if you’re referring to the man I met earlier this morning,’ Percy remonstrated, before taking the time to think it through. ‘Can you think of any reason, short of corruption, why such an able officer could demonstrate such base incompetence in the most fundamental of duties?’

  ‘Not really,’ Greaves conceded, ‘although I can’t bring myself to conclude that it must have been corruption. Cameron’s a dedicated officer, and I can only put it down to his son’s ill health.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Percy said as he extracted his notebook, to a frown from Greaves.

  ‘I hope this isn’t going to go on record,’ Greaves said in an almost pleading tone, ‘given Hector’s previous unblemished record, but he has a son aged about eight years old who was recently diagnosed with some sort of chest ailment that requires nursing, a special diet and certain medications. Hector Cameron married later in life, to a woman not much younger than him, and Jamie’s their only child, and deeply adored by them both. They’re desperate not to have to consign him to some sort of sanatorium, and I think that the constant need to ensure that the boy is properly nursed and looked after has led to mental strain that occasionally causes him to be lax in his duties.’

  ‘You mean that there have been other incidents than the stores losses?’

  Greaves shook his head. ‘No, there was only that one unfortunate series, and I must plead guilty to having covered up for Hector at the time. Now that you’re here to assess our readiness for the Jubilee celebrations next year, I have to bring to your attention our urgent need for another sergeant to replace one who retired recently. That way I can assign Hector Cameron to other duties that may enable him to spend more time sharing the nursing duties with Sarah — his wife.’

  ‘We don’t yet have the finalised route for the Queen’s Jubilee procession,’ Percy told him, ‘but hopefully she won’t be coming any further north than the Abbey, so you’ll only need to maintain a full street presence to marshal the crowds that will be heading down through Grays Inn Road and Drury Lane. The poor bastards in “A” Division will, as usual, cop the worst of it, in return for the privilege of policing Westminster.’

  ‘But you’ll support my request for a new sergeant?’ Greaves pressed him, and Percy gave him the benefit of a grimace.

  ‘You might want to think in terms of two new sergeants, Inspector, because I have a sneaking suspicion that your existing one may be for the high jump when I submit my final report.’

  As he stepped out once again into the clamour of Fleet Street, Percy gave serious thought to what he had just been told. An exemplary officer who’d been uncharacteristically lax in his duties might have had a lot on his mind regarding ill-health in the family, but he might also have been bribed or threatened. How else to explain how he’d managed to part with police property that had been put to good use in the brutal raid on a gem merchant’s late at night? Had someone taken timely advantage of random acts of carelessness on the part of someone not known for their inattention to duty, or had the failure to adequately guard the police store on two separate occasions been pre-planned with a man on the ‘inside’ who’d been willing to assist, for whatever reason? And who was to say that the uniforms and the wagon hadn’t been taken on the same occasion, given that the person responsible for their security couldn’t account for their disappearance?

  Plough Court was some way up Fetter Lane, with its bustle of wagons coming and going with deliveries in and out of the many newspaper and other publishing offices than lined its pavements. As he turned in through the narrow entrance to the Court, the contrast was remarkable. For one thing there was no vehicle noise, only the excited chatter of urchins playing some sort of street game in their ragged hand-me-downs. The dust of the urban laneway had been replaced by damp mud, and the faint smell of human waste that hung in the air suggested that the dampness might be coming from inadequate privies.

  He found number twenty-seven on the second floor of a tiled tenement staircase, and as he approached its door it swung open, seemingly of its own accord, and a nervous looking woman appeared surveying him with suspicious eyes. She was in her early forties, so far as Percy could tell, and her clothes were best described as ‘once stylish, but badly worn from incessant housework’. Percy tried his best smile.

  ‘Mrs Cameron?’

  ‘Who’s askin’?’

  He extracted the police badge from his pocket and held it high in the air, registering the sudden look of apprehension on the woman’s face. She appeared to be as respectable as her circumstances allowed and should therefore have had no reason for discomfort at the arrival of a Scotland Yard Inspector, but from the expression on her face he might as well have been a murderer on the prowl.

  ‘I’m Inspector Enright from Scotland Yard, and I’m visiting your husband’s station for the day, assessing its readiness for the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee next year. I spoke to your husband earlier today, and I learned that you have a sick child. It may be that the Yard could assist with any medical expenses by means of its Welfare Fund, if the circumstances are appropriate.’

  ‘Yer just ’ere ter spy on ’Ector, aren’t yer, like the others?’

  ‘What others, Mrs Cameron?’

  ‘Yer know damn well what others. Them as told ’im ter keep ’is gob shut.’

  ‘I know nothing about that, Mrs Cameron — “Sarah”, isn’t it? — let me assure you.’

  ‘It’s “Mrs Cameron” ter you, an’ yer’ll get nowt outer me.’

  ‘If I might come in for a moment and see your child?’ Percy insisted in what he hoped was a persuasive tone, ‘I can report back to the Yard, and we might then be able to make some money forthcoming…’

  ‘’E ain’t in there,’ Sarah Cameron advised him bluntly with a backward shake of her head towards the set of rooms behind her as she simultaneously stepped forward to prevent Percy proceeding any further. ‘Our Jamie’s wi’ a neighbour what looks after ’im while I does the cleanin’ afore the nurse comes durin’ the afternoons. I were on me way ter see ’ow ’e’s goin’ when you turned up.’

  ‘Please don’t let me stop you,’ Percy offered reassuringly. ‘I’ll just wait here until you get back, and then I won’t keep you long. I just need to see Jamie, that’s all.’

  ‘Please yerself,’ Mrs Cameron replied as she slipped past him on a faint cloud of stale sweat and headed down the staircase, looking up once on her way down, as if checking to make sure that Percy was honouring his undertaking not to enter her home. He stood there reflecting on what life must be like for a couple with an only
child born late in their lives who was crippled by consumption, or something like it, then he came swiftly to attention as he heard a faint noise from beyond the open door.

  It sounded like the plaintiff cry of a small child, and he strained his ears in the hope that it would be repeated. After a delay of some thirty seconds he was rewarded by the sound of a weak voice calling ‘Ma!’, and the realisation hit him that he’d been lied to. Jamie Cameron wasn’t being looked after by a neighbour at all — he was here in the tenement, so why had his mother slipped downstairs on the pretence that she had to look in on him?

  He learned why after waiting for fifteen frustrating minutes at the top of the landing outside her front door. His ears caught the sound of several footsteps entering the tenement from the lane, and Sarah Cameron reappeared, bustling somewhat out of breath up the second flight of stairs, accompanied by two men. One of them was tall and thin, and wearing a heavy waterproof coat over what looked like workman’s attire, while his companion was noticeably much shorter, and bareheaded, revealing a thin fluff of gingery hair that made his head look like an orange billiard ball.

  ‘That’s ’im,’ Sarah Cameron advised the two men, and the taller of them approached to within a foot of Percy, who clenched his fists in preparation for a fight.

  ‘Yer was askin’ about young Jamie?’ the man demanded, making it sound vaguely indecent.