Percy Crow

by Daniel Kemp

  “Bang on target, David.”

  “Right, that established, let's start at the beginning.” He was briefly interrupted by Rupert.

  “Before that, David, any pink gins needed? I think it could be a long night!”

  I refused, as I was hoping to drive back home later, but that decision could have been influence by the absence of my penchant. The Angostura bitters with Plymouth gin that Rupert placed on the table, was a cocktail I had no inclination for.

  “I will try to avoid parts of this brief that I'm sure you have already discovered, but if I overlap then forgive the waste of time it may appear to be. It's just so we all know where we're at, or as the Americans might say; reading from the same page. Normally I avoid Americanisms but they do sometimes have a usefulness.” He sipped his cocktail as did Rupert, only his was finished in one gulp.

  “Percy was taken to Grange Manor, home of Lord Cecil Montague of Monmouth, God damn his soul, in 1910. He stayed there until 1929 when there was an almighty row but what started that row Percy would never say when he came to us in '52. He landed back in the UK in 1930 and promptly bought that house in Gibson Square. Our assumption was that he got the money for that from Montague. Again, Percy was unforthcoming! The people then at 6, and I'm naming no one here, Harry, there's no blame to attach to anyone in this, did some ferreting around. Percy opened an account at Lloyds Bank in Upper Street, Islington at the same time, depositing, and hold on to your hat here, one million pounds sterling. God knows what that's the equivalent of in today's money!”

  “Sorry, bit slow at the moment. Why obviously Montague's money?” I asked.

  But my question was ignored.

  “Up until that date, Percy had enjoyed life at Grange Manor. That's where Charlie Reilly fell in love with him, and he fell in love with several others. Most, if not all, the children at that place were illiterate. Not much education around for the poor in the early years of the twentieth century, so I guess they clung to each other. Here Percy learned to read, write and do simple mathematics. Montague even supplied religious instruction. Now can you believe that!”

  “Did he learn photography at Montague's home, David?” I thought I might have an answer to the reason behind the disagreement that happened in 1929.

  “He did, Harry. Montague had quite a reputation with a shutter! He exhibited and lectured, both in Dublin and London on that very subject. Why do you ask?”

  My hesitation came from an innate suspicion of magnanimity. Openness within the secret world was not a common event that I'd experienced before. It was Rupert who came to my defence as he leant across the table and made another cocktail for himself. David refused a refill.

  “He's wary of us, David. I would be if I was in his seat.”

  “I am, but I'm not stupid. I need you as much, if not more, than you need me. The Somersets, the people who owned the farm in Wales from where Percy was taken to Ireland, were booked on a transatlantic crossing in 1930, but I wouldn't be at all surprised to find that the family are buried in the cemetery adjoining the house in Cork. I'm betting that Cecil Montague and Oliver Somerset knew each other, rather well and worked a child prostitution ring together.”

  Rupert sat back with an audible crunch with David going the opposite way. He now leant heavily on the table with both arms outstretched in front of him.

  “Think I might have another, Rupert,” he exclaimed, reaching for his empty glass.

  “Where did that come from, Harry?” David asked.

  “A friend of George is doing some research on some photos I have, David. She's surprised me in many ways,” I replied.

  “Harry Paterson, you're a communist spy who hides photographs from his loyal comrades.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, David, but look on the bright side. If you don't know then neither will Jimmy Mercer. He likes to be called Jimmy, by the way. But I can't imagine him liking to be second in anything.” I smiled for the first time that evening.

  “As an aside, but I'll throw it unto the spinning wheel now, Mr Howard Jimmy the second offered to pay me at the end of my investigations, can't remember the phrase he used, oh yes I can; at the time of closure.”

  “Did he, indeed! When was that inducement made, Harry?” Rupert had entered the interrogation.

  “Last time we spoke. It was when I accused him of your crime of breaking and entering.”

  “Very unethical on his part, Harry, as you're one of us.”

  “I'll have to check my bank statements to see if the stipend is still being credited. Otherwise might well fly the Stars and Stripes from a protruding chimney back home,” I smiled, not meaning a word of it.

  “Traitor!” Rupert shouted, banging his empty glass on the table. Then the all-knowing smile lit up his face.

  “It would be a benevolent act on your part if you were to share any other knowledge that this anonymous friend has uncovered, or how you came by the photographs, you mentioned,” David emphasised the s at the end of the word, photograph.

  “She's good, as is George, David. I think seven have been identified.”

  “Maudlin's photos, are they, Harry?”

  “A direct hit again, David.”

  I thought about making a reference to David's accuracy being like that of an army specialist sniper, but the comparison was too close to his distant relative for the metaphor not to cause offence. I shied away from it, opting for a drink instead.

  “Got any Scotch on board, Rupert, old chap?” Suddenly I needed that drink.

  “Might be able to drag some aboard from some sunken chests, young man,” he smilingly replied.

  “Would you enlighten us as to why Maudlin had an interest in Percy Crow, Harry?”

  “I only wish I knew, Rupert, but I don't. Mrs Squires, the cook come housekeeper at Eton Square found some old photos in his collection that intrigued me, so I went looking. George helped me at first, as now does his girlfriend. Mrs Squires is our in-house researcher and Serena is our gofer.”

  “A good collection by the sounds of things. Nothing written or spoken about him that you can recall?” David asked.

  “Not a bean, old chap,” I lied, not mentioning the Eton Square party where George had overheard Maudlin and Phillip speaking his name.

  “But you asked if Percy was a photographer as well. Why was that?”

  “I did, yes. Wondered why he was set up in London in that profession, that's all.”

  “It seemed a plausible cover to SIS at the time, Harry. Stop trying to distract me, Paterson. Where did those other intriguing snapshots take you and your case officers then? Were there any of Maudlin on a beach somewhere, with a sombrero shading his no doubt handsome face while sipping piña coladas surrounded by an entourage of beautiful servile women?”

  I had no choice but to deliver up the places, names and possible events that Mrs Squires, George, I and now Sophie had discovered. It wasn't that I distrusted either David or Rupert, it was just my natural constraint when dealing with bureaucratic authority. I was particularly rebellious when young. The death of Aaron William's son and my suspicions over Crowther's confession about the Drogheda hospital fire, along with my last revelation regarding the previous owners of Lady Lamb's farm, were new to David, the rest were not. But he made no mention of Percy having a sister and nor did I.

  I remembered Rupert's words about concentrating on the girl in the photo and it instantly came to me; it was Rachel. That's what drove Percy into carrying out his bloody trail of vengeance. I glanced in Rupert's direction, but if he'd missed David's omission nothing showed on his face. He was, however, a renowned strategist and I remained wary. There were now two reasons for Maudlin's distaste of Percy, the possible complicity of a revered institution in the murders that had been committed, added to the exploitation of children for sexual self-gratification. But where was Paulo's reason for telling Katherine in all of this?

  “It seems to me, gentlemen, that when Percy signed his transfer papers we unleashed a torrent of revenge, as
perhaps a way of a signing-on fee. In essence we were either complaisant or downright evil. So, when you say there's no blame to attach to personnel in the service at that time it's entirely true, David. If Percy murdered one or many, and I'm inclined towards the latter, we were his willing accomplices, paying him from the public purse. It's not looking nice from where I'm viewing the carnage!” I paused, and digested the glass of Bells I had been poured. The fiery acidity bruised my throat but it never took away the ache in my right knee. It needed shifting.

  “I'm in need of a smoke, gentleman, and as I know neither you indulge in that sinful recreation, I propose a break whilst I go topside and refresh my lungs.”

  Outside, in the evening air, I battled with the thought of having to disclose Serena's father's involvement in the Panama connection, knowing full well that the subject had to be raised in the near future. Was it purely of a financial nature or was it far more threatening? At the precise moment when I had decided to return, Serena messaged me.—My heart is missing you as much as my body is. That's not a good sign, H. Is it?

  Chapter Twenty-Three: The Second Hour

  “When it came to the photograph that we're all after, how did Meredith Paine substantiate Percy's claim that it was indeed someone high up, being well connected? Who was the subject matter, David? He could have been lying about the whole thing,” I said.

  “That's very true, Harry. And you've backed me into a corner haven't you?”

  “While you're there, David, care to enlarge on Percy's contribution to the national treasures at all?”

  “I'll do one at a time, and I really, really cannot go into too much fine detail at this or any future time, Harry. You'll just have to trust me on that, and bide your time. The way you're going it won't be long, but that's how it has to be.” He interrupted his missive, studying Rupert, as if he was seeking permission to continue.

  “Percy quoted two names.” That sentence came out as if his speech had been befogged by lack of sleep. Having regained his confidence, after that split-second of indecision, he continued.

  “One, the subject matter of the photo as you put it, and the other; the person who introduced that man into Montague's circle of depravity. I'll deal with that second man first. I know that Rupert broached this. I'll probably repeat some of what he said as well as adding some more detail.” He emptied his glass before he began.

  “The man in question was a serving army officer, not in ours I hasten to add, although he would have been welcomed, but in the Canadian army. He was related by blood lines to our Royal Family. Now I know you will not stop until you've found that name, so I'm going to save you the effort. His name was Louis, Eugène Ferguson-Blythe. In later life he gained a prized position in his native country of Canada, but I'm not besmirching that office. Nor him! We know nothing about his sexual preferences but we do know, through Paine's enquiries, that he confirmed the fact of the subject's visit to Grange Manor in 1917, Harry. So, although the act could not be validated, one of the participants could be placed at the scene by verifiable evidence. Put quite simply, neither Meredith, nor the government of the day, could afford to gamble, having to accept what Crow said at face value. Add that to what Percy had in his back pocket about Germany's wartime rocket and submarine capabilities and that of the Soviets, with their new ambitions for nuclear propelled subs, his enrolment could not be denied. No matter the cost.” A subdued look descended on David's countenance, making him look almost apologetic.

  “Percy never revealed his intentions of revenge, nor did we ask. It was something we turned our faces from, and still do, Harry.” He glared at me, as though I'd dragged him across the barbed wire at The Somme, and left him hanging for the opposing gunners' target practices.

  “What did Percy do for us? An interesting question, Harry, but no easier than your first. My straightforward answer is; I don't know. I'm aware of very little of his input. All that there is will presumably be lodged somewhere in the Home Office basement, behind twelve inches of steel no doubt. I can tell you one thing though. I was told he warned us of the mass breakout at the Maze Prison in County Down, Northern Ireland, before it happened!”

  “Interesting, but not as important as is Louis, Eugène Ferguson-Blythe. Could he have been related to our own Dicky Blythe-Smith by any chance, David?”

  “Can't say on that count, Harry, but the name is different and not uncommon. I'd be surprised if there was a connection. We'd all have known if old Dicky was of blue blood. He would have made Chief a lot sooner than he did if that was the case. Good at pulling strings from I can gather, was DBS.”

  “I see! How about any mention of Percy's source about the Maze breakout in that file, David?”

  “No, it wasn't in any file that I saw, Harry. I was told two years ago when I was still at the Home Office by a member of Sinn Féin; the serving minister in our Westminster Parliament for Belfast East.”

  “And one Jimmy Mercer told me, that Percy's name never flagged up on any CIA database when the whole of the IRA must have known of it. He is stringing me all right, isn't he? And it's a long rope he's holding, dangling me from it as well.”

  It was until that point that I firmly believe the CIA knew nothing about Percy. How stupid could I be!

  “The only conclusion I can reach from that, David, is that Mercer never believed I'd contact you! Unbelievable!” I exclaimed, as I castigated both myself and Mercer.

  “Oh, I'd believe it if I was you, Harry. There's more players in this game than in the whole of the Chinese Army's table tennis league. Be warned, my young impatient friend.” It was Rupert who added the caveat.

  “If my memory serves me right, that prison break was not long before Percy was found hanged, Rupert?”

  “Three days to be precise, Harry. A coincidence, you think?”

  Of course it wasn't, and all three of us knew it.

  “I take it that you know the beneficiary of Percy's last will and testament, Harry?” Rupert asked the question but it was David that answered it.

  “We're all pussyfooting around here, of course he does. Which throws up the inevitable supposition of Charlie being gifted Percy's safe deposit key where his picturesque treasure was hidden. We asked at that branch of Lloyds but pulled a fat zero. Could have changed his identity, or opened one anywhere, but open one I'd bet my life on.”

  “Why didn't Charlie come a knocking on our back door with a for sale sign?” asked Rupert, whose thoughts seemed to be less free-flowing as the pink gins were swallowed.

  “Did you not tell me that Charlie lived in a rather palatial mansion in Germany at the time of his death, Rupert? Perhaps he hammered down a door other than ours and reaped the benefit from their open purse.”

  “Where's that mind of yours going, Harry?” David asked as though he'd only just realised I was there.

  “Haven't a clue, David, lost track of it back in June in a certain pub that you know of, but my body is going home! I need to think. Before I forget, and the thought disappears out of sight altogether, would you be so kind as to elaborate on an unanswered question of mine regarding the money deposited by Percy? Why did it have to emanate from Montague, gentlemen?”

  “Sorry, Harry, must have missed that question in all the excitement. Yes, it did and what's more Percy never stopped extorting money. The why is in the end result. By mid-1952 Montague's finances were in rapid meltdown. He faced three legal actions from separate major creditors, with none of his friends leaping in to the rescue. The Times newspaper ran a full report on his woes, detailing all his debts and creditors. Apparently he never even owned the piss-pot under his bed. Everything he had was mortgaged as far up to hilt of the sword on the family coat of arms. Fell on it, sword that is, on a rainy day in February. There's nothing good about that month other than there's only twenty-eight days in it for most of the time, is there?”

  Rupert added a simulated clapped applause. It was inaudible because his left hand held yet another dram of pink gin, and by the look of his glaz
ed eyes, I doubted if he was capable of raising his glass to salute the dead. I wondered if there were two bunks further forward, as David's physical build was not conducive to lifting the heavier Rupert into any rubber boat then depositing him ashore.

  “In what year was that February, David?”

  “I953, Harry!”

  “And Percy's signing-on ceremony?”

  “He formally met with Meredith Paine on the sixth of January 1952,” with a certain degree of reluctance David announced.

  “Just so I'm fully in the picture here, what date was the fire at Grange Manor?” I asked.

  It was Rupert who answered.

  “Twenty-ninth of March 1952, Harry!” He sounded very sober, to my surprise.

  “Thank you, for all of that. It cleared a lot up. Now I must bid you farewell, gents. Senhores, boa noite.” I used a Portuguese phrase I had learned from Serena to say goodnight.

  “Before you leave your linguistic skills hanging from the deck over our heads,

  Harry, I hope you appreciate the need for the babysitting at your London home and the ones I've authorised for George Northcliffe's girlfriend's address. Best get her under our umbrella for the time being, because as you know, no one hands them out when the heavens open up, hurling snarling cats and barking dogs at us.”