by David Field
‘She’s on a diet imposed by Dr Browning,’ Esther advised him, ‘so dinner will probably only be a cold salad.’
‘At least it’ll be warmer than the welcome home I got last night,’ Jack muttered as he pecked Esther on the cheek and warned the children to be good.
‘I didn’t think you were coming back until tomorrow,’ Constance told him as she wrapped her arms around him and shouted an instruction to Cook to put more potatoes on to boil. ‘Esther must have been delighted.’
‘If she was, she kept it well hidden,’ Jack grimaced. ‘I was made about as welcome as a burglar.’
Constance smiled. ‘Shows how little you know about women. She feels neglected, that’s all. You men are all the same; career minded, and family comes second. Your father was like it, and the stress took him to an early grave.’
‘So, assure me that you’re not headed in the same direction,’ Jack looked down at her with a mock sternness. ‘Esther told me all about your heart attack.’
‘Even the doctor said that it was a mild one,’ Constance protested, ‘although I wouldn’t let him loose on my canary. It was indigestion, that was all, and I only stayed in bed to please Esther, who was so bossy all last week. A far cry from the shy young thing you first brought home.’
‘Esther’s never been shy in all the time I’ve known her,’ Jack protested. ‘And if she was being firm then it was for your own good.’
‘She clearly enjoyed seeing me confined to bed, anyway. And she positively refused to let me walk up to your house when the time came for me to take some gentle exercise — almost as if she had something to hide up there.’
‘What, you mean a lover or something?’ Jack joked, and Constance frowned again.
‘Don’t be vulgar, Jack. No-one could ever accuse Esther of anything like that. But she certainly didn’t want me around in your absence. Would you like sherry before we eat? So good for the digestion, I always maintain, and the last thing I need is another dose of indigestion that some quack can pass off as a heart attack.’
By the time that Jack had his portmanteau packed ready for his Sunday return to London on the mid-afternoon train, Esther was clearly edgy about something. She barely spoke a word over Sunday dinner, and was picking at her food in that way she had when something was bothering her. Jack opted for silence, rather than provoke more recrimination about the fact that he was going back to stay with his uncle and aunt, and it wasn’t until he reached down towards the hall carpet to pick up his luggage that Esther finally cracked and flung her arms around him as tears rolled down her face.
‘Sorry for being such a miserable cow this weekend, Jack, but I love you and miss you so badly when you’re away that it somehow makes me angry with you when you have to go. I know you have an important job to do and wouldn’t be leaving us if it was something you could possibly avoid, but just know that I love you and I always will. Stay safe, darling man.’
She kissed him, then tore herself away and raced into the sitting room, bawling her eyes out. Nell rushed out from the scullery where she had been drying the dinner dishes, a huge question written across her broad freckled face.
‘Is the mistress sick?’
‘No — just sick of having to say goodbye to me. Go in and comfort her, if you can, then make her a pot of tea.’
‘So how do you suggest we tackle Bow Street?’ Jack asked Percy as they sat in their usual seats on either side of the fire, awaiting the ill tidings from the kitchen. Percy thought deeply for a moment as he sucked on his pipe.
‘All my experience has been in East End stations, the same as you, so we’ll need time to adjust to the rhythm and atmosphere of a West End establishment. My preliminary thought is that we go in together, ostensibly doing a full manpower audit, and that if possible we get to know the officers in there on a personal level. The word from Special Branch is that they’ve formed some sort of unhealthy association with the soldiers from the nearby Wellington Barracks, and if there’s to be any risk to the Queen’s personal safety during her triumphant progress up the Mall towards Westminster Abbey or wherever, then it may well come from the infantry walking on either side of her open coach, or the bobbies holding back the loyal crowds.’
‘So all our efforts in the East End were a waste of time?’
‘Of course not. We at least confirmed that elements of the Met have been corrupted, and by that means whoever’s behind all this gained access to guns and uniforms. But it’s unlikely that the Diamond Jubilee procession will go anywhere near the East End, so the next stage in our investigations is to try to find out if they have anything planned for the West End, and if so — what?’
‘Wouldn’t it be simpler just to do without a procession?’
‘Then what sort of Jubilee would it be? The people want to see their Queen, Jack, and God knows they see little enough of her these days.’
‘Do we know precisely where the procession will be staged?’
‘We don’t, and I doubt that anyone does, at this stage. But if we’re able to get some useful intelligence on any plot, then we may be able to change the route at the last minute.’
‘I must admit,’ Jack said smiling, ‘that when I first joined the police, I never thought that I’d be involved in the protection of the Queen from would-be assassins.’
‘From what I can gather,’ Percy told him, ‘she may not be the main target. What they’re seeking to achieve is chaos, and there’s obviously more than one way of generating that. The assassination of the Queen is perhaps too obvious, but if they can disrupt the normal working of what passes for national security, they may be in with a chance of imposing a form of “order” of their own.’
‘And who exactly are “they”?’
Percy shrugged. ‘Who knows? There’s no shortage of disaffected groups here in London. Jewish refugees from Russia, for one. As Esther can testify, they’ve been given a hard time in our so-called English “society”. And talking of Russians, we read in the paper every day of the unrest being fomented against the Tsar by the great unwashed of his country, downtrodden for generations by the royal family, a bit like our own East Enders, who could easily be persuaded to unite with them in some sort of “world order” of the working class. I was also advised by Melville that Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany would love to see a Europe of which he’s the big boss, and popular uprisings against the existing ruling classes of nations such as England would be right up his street.’
‘It’s a long list,’ Jack agreed. ‘We only have to hope that they don’t all get their heads together. If they do, and law and order as we know it breaks down, what happens to people like you and me, who’ve dedicated our lives to the maintenance of the current system?’
Percy looked meaningfully across at him. ‘I don’t care to think about that, Jack, but since you’ve raised the subject you should keep in the forefront of your mind that what we’re doing isn’t simply in order to protect an old lady with a large family and an even larger waistline. She symbolises the society that we’re striving to maintain and uphold; when and if she goes, then so do we, and if they taught you any history in that posh school of yours, then you may recall that when the monarchy fell in France just over a hundred years ago now, a lot of heads were chopped off people whose only sin was that they looked like the old order.’
‘So we’re doing this for ourselves as well?’
Percy nodded. ‘Ourselves, and those we love, such as Esther, your children, your mother, and everyone else who’s dear to us. Including your Aunt Beattie, who even now is trying to subvert the existing order from the inside, poisoning her nearest and dearest. If she doesn’t achieve that, then there are plenty out there who’ll happily do the job for her by more direct means.’
The next morning they were welcomed into Bow Street Police Station, rather over-effusively, Percy noted, by Chief Inspector Lionel Markwell, who Jack thought more closely resembled a tin soldier from Bertie’s collection than a career-hardened senior police officer. He was st
raight-backed, moustached, and dressed in the most immaculate police uniform Jack had ever seen. Jack wasn’t sure whether to shake the proffered hand or salute as Markwell waved them into chairs ranged in front of his impressively clear desk.
‘Assistant Commissioner Doyle advised me that you were coming,’ Markwell told them with a thin-lipped smile, ‘and I feel sure that you’ll find everything in order.’
Advised you, or warned you? Percy asked himself as he replied for them both. ‘I’m sure that we will, Chief Inspector, but we’re not here in any disciplinary capacity. It’s just that the Home Secretary is very keen to ensure that you have sufficient manpower to allow a safe route through the crowds lining whichever streets are chosen for the celebratory procession. I don’t suppose you’ve been advised of the final chosen route?’
‘It hasn’t yet been fully agreed, but we can be assured of sufficient manpower, since this station is always the first choice of men leaving the armed forces, as I did myself in my day. The Met is anxious to recruit the best of those who prefer to fight on the home front against crime and disorder in our own streets, rather than prop up some unworthy Heathen tribe in a far-flung dung heap.’
‘Yes, the British Empire is rather over-extended,’ Percy agreed with a wry smile, ‘and it’s nice to meet someone with a well-developed sense of priorities when it comes to the best interests of Queen and Country.’
‘I can see that we’re going to get along famously,’ Markwell smiled broadly, ‘and I’m very proud to be able to afford you every courtesy and facility as you learn just how well prepared we are here in “A” Division, and most notably here in Bow Street. I’ve allocated you your own office on the second floor, Inspector, from which you can run your own show. As for your Sergeant here, I thought he might best benefit from sharing an office with one of my finest middle-rankers, Sergeant Brennan. Liam had a fine record with the Coldstreams out in the Sudan, and within only a couple of years of his transfer into a police uniform he’d proved his mettle in the streets as well. As you’ll be aware, some of our late-night revellers around Piccadilly Circus can get a bit out of hand, and Liam Brennan’s our first choice to send in with a diplomatic request to go home and sleep it off.’
‘The sort of late-nighters we encountered in the East End usually required a billy club to move them on,’ Percy replied, and Markwell smiled condescendingly.
‘I think you’ll find that we are able to handle matters more diplomatically here in the west, Inspector. You may wish to allow your Sergeant here to go out on patrol one day with some of our finest, in order to get the flavour of things in our Division. He’s tall enough not to look out of place among so many ex guardsmen.’
‘I’m sure he’ll look forward to that,’ Percy answered with a sidelong glance at Jack before he had time to say anything to the contrary.
Constance Enright was tired to the point of frustration of being cooped up in her own sitting room day after day. After all, she had a position to maintain in the local community, and if she were not seen in public for over a week, there were some in the Ladies’ Guild who might take that as a sign that there was a need for change in its committee, and that would never do.
It was at least a dry day, if a somewhat cold one, and she donned her best leather walking boots, adjusted her feather hat with the aid of the mirror hanging by the front door, shouted a last instruction to Cook that since she was about to indulge in a little healthy exercise, something other than chicken salad might be justified on the dinner table. Then she opened her front door and struck out boldly in her return to civilised society.
The doctor had suggested that she go no further than the crossroads, but that old fool probably knew nothing about real medicine, else he’d be practising in Marylebone rather than stuck in some country practice like Barking. Besides which, no-one could assess her health better than she could — it was her own body after all — so where would be the harm in turning right at the crossroads and walking all the way down to Esther’s? That way, she could not only prove her wrong as well, but also check for herself whether or not there had been a letter from the Bishop’s office, praising Constance’s management of the recent Harvest Festival arrangements that Esther had kept hidden from her in a misguided but well-intentioned belief that the excitement might be too much for her.
She nodded regally to those of her acquaintance who were worthy of acknowledgement as she moved sedately up Church Lane like a galleon in full sail. She wasn’t even out of breath by the time that she reached the crossroads and noted with concern that the windows of the bakery were in dire need of a good wash. If the inside was kept as clean as the outside, she concluded, then it might be a good idea to transfer their order elsewhere, before food poisoning was added to her gastric difficulties. She then became aware of the tall handsome young man who walked eagerly across her line of sight to continue his brisk progress from what had no doubt been the local station, on into Bunting Lane.
He strode like an army general leading his men into battle, Constance noted with approval. Just the sort of man that she had hoped her daughter Lucy would have met and fallen for, rather than that rather drippy architect Edward Wilton, although his income was most acceptable. The man was striding so strongly, and with such purpose in his step, that Constance was well behind him, and losing ground on him rapidly, as he approached the driveway to Esther and Jack’s house. Then Constance stopped dead in her tracks from sheer shocked disbelief.
As the man neared the driveway, Esther ran out with a very broad smile of welcome, and threw her arms wide open and ran into the man’s arms as he swung her round and round, her feet inches from the ground.
That was enough walking for one day, Constance assured herself as she lowered her head and turned back the way she had come in a very disturbed frame of mind. No wonder Esther had not wanted her mother-in-law around.
Chapter Eleven
‘You’ll find that we’re a pretty friendly lot,’ Liam Brennan assured Jack from the desk opposite his in the office that they were sharing.
Jack raised his eyes from the sheets of manpower records that had been brought down to him from the all-purpose Repository on the top floor of the impressive three-storied building that was the headquarters for over one hundred men of assorted ranks. ‘I’m told that quite a few of these live in a special accommodation block down the road,’ he replied. ‘That must make it easier for them to get to know each other.’
‘Indeed it does,’ Liam confirmed in the faint lingering brogue that betrayed an Irish ancestry. ‘But even those who live elsewhere can mix outside work, because we have a social club that we’re all members of.’
‘Sounds very cosy,’ Jack responded in a slightly disinterested tone that he hoped would provoke further confidences.
‘And so it is,’ came the responding assurance. ‘If you’re free one evening I’ll take you along there. We have a bar, and we play cards. Some of the men bring along their ladies, which is pretty unusual for a social club, you must admit, so all in all it’s a fine place to relax off duty and forget the stresses and cares of life on the beat.’
‘Your Chief Inspector Markwell suggested that I might go out on patrol with some of your men, although I suspect that it’s a bit quieter than what I got used to in Whitechapel. But for now I really should get down to examining these roster lists before I can even consider knocking off for dinner. Are there any decent chop houses in the vicinity?’
‘Heaps, but the best is “Marco’s”, around the corner in Broad Court. Most of the blokes go there, rather than eat in our canteen in the basement. It’s run by Italians, and they seem to know how to handle food — you soon get used to all the oil. But around here there are plenty of fancy tea houses and suchlike, because this part of London gets so many visitors from all over the world. It’s a bit of a pain really, ’cos they’re always asking us for directions and expecting us to speak their language. Someone must have told them all that if you’re in doubt you can always trust a
London bobby.’
‘I’d like to think you can,’ Jack replied rather shortly. ‘Now, if you’d excuse me…?’
‘Yes, sorry,’ Liam replied, then went back to reading his newspaper while Jack put his head down into the files he’d been loaned and made a big display of taking notes.
The detailed muster rolls with which he’d been supplied were of far more interest to him than the shift rosters that had accompanied them. Jack had been briefed by Percy to keep an eye open for links with the army, and they were not hard to find. Every other man enrolled into the ranks of Bow Street seemed to have begun life as a member of the armed forces, and a significant number of them had served in Guards regiments in North Africa. It was as if a police recruiting sergeant had been out to Cairo, or wherever, and persuaded entire companies of soldiers to exchange red coats for blue ones, rifles and bayonets for billy clubs and whistles. In many ways the stern training that these men would have undergone, plus the ease with which they would accept discipline after their discharge, and the natural camaraderie that came with army life, was reassuring in police recruits. But on the downside it made them more easily subverted by their ‘mates’, and more useful to an illegal organisation devoted to violent revolution.
Sitting in front of the fireplace in order to exchange notes ahead of Monday supper, Jack passed on what he’d learned to a concerned looking Percy.
‘Obviously I’ll pass that on to Melville when I make contact again on Thursday,’ Percy told him, ‘but just what proportion of the station do you think have abandoned the khaki for a police uniform?’
‘I didn’t keep exact numbers,’ Jack admitted, ‘but around a third, at a loose estimate.’
Percy frowned. ‘That’s a real worry, and you can bet that Markwell came by the same route. He’s got “Khartoum” written all over his face, and I wasn’t sure whether or not to click smartly to attention when we entered his office this morning. If there’s an unhealthy connection with the Wellington Barracks, you can be sure that he’s the driving force behind it.’
