by N Williams
‘I know, Hayward. You realise that I'm still not convinced that this cargo is what you seem to think it is. After all, I was one of the first to see it.’
Hayward laughed. ‘Oh Henry, oh Henry. My dear brother, Henry, you are just like father, you know. You're such a pain in the arse sometimes.’ Hayward offered another cigarette and to his surprise Henry accepted.
‘Out of cigars?’ Hayward grinned. ‘Not surprised at the rate you're smoking them.’
Henry shrugged.
The two men paused and lit up.
Hayward continued, ‘I understand your scepticism, old boy, it's only natural. But we wouldn't be taking it back to dear old Blighty if the rumour hadn't spread. The Russians, French and the Americans wouldn't be chasing this thing if they didn't think it was worth it.’
‘I wish I'd never set eyes on this thing.’
‘That's your trouble, Henry, you never can walk away from a lady in distress.’
The older brother frowned as he thought back to that strange night on the Giza plateau.
After finding the boy in a state of shock, Sir Henry had taken Adelina back to the tent and reported the incident to one of the archaeologists quaffing the last of the champagne.
Perhaps the strangest thing he witnessed that evening was the remarkable way in which Adelina's face wound healed. She seemed convinced that the strange object within the pot had accelerated the healing, yet that was absolute nonsense; but for the life of him he couldn't explain it. Within an hour of the discovery, all that was left of the unsightly cut was a thin pale-blue line.
Two days of frantic digging resulted in the removal of the large pot. Surprisingly, the momentous find beneath the Sphinx hadn’t been claimed by the Egyptian authorities or mentioned again during the rest of his stay. Indeed, it wasn't even reported in any of the newspapers.
‘Had it not been for the direct involvement of the Prime Minister requesting my assistance in shipping the objects from Egypt, I’d have walked away. I came to this place to provide a point of contact for the singer, a government liaison. I never expected to be involved in such utter nonsense.’
Stopping next to the edge of the dock, Sir Henry shivered at the sight of the flies infesting the decaying body of a cat washed into a tangle between the mooring ropes. His head hurt, and the sweats seemed to be getting worse. ‘Technically it’s theft. Politically it’s sensitive, and morally it’s wrong,’ he said, wringing the perspiration from his silk handkerchief.
‘But if the contents of the pot are what the archaeologists at the site claimed them to be then there was no way they could be left in a place like that, now could they?’ Hayward countered.
It was academic now. The deed had been done within seven days of the discovery. Adelina had been sworn to secrecy and had even donated a substantial sum to the cost of removal. The secret mission was given the name, "The Nightingale Project", a respectful reference to the singer to recognise her significant contribution. Everyone, except Henry it seemed, agreed that the contents of the pot were too sensitive to be left. After the archaeologists had removed it from its resting place of indeterminable time, they sealed the entrances to the chambers as if nothing had happened.
The rumour had begun to circulate immediately, and questions had even been raised in the corridors of power. Only the P.M. and those involved in the excavation ever truly knew what was contained in that pot, and they had all been sworn to secrecy.
‘Promise me this one thing, Hayward,’ Henry said, returning to the present.
‘If I can.’ Hayward looked uncomfortable. He never liked to be pushed into making promises he knew he wouldn't keep.
‘When this is over, you'll leave all this digging around in the sand and mud to the professionals and return home to act like a gentleman.’
Clearly relieved that his brother wasn't requesting something rather more difficult to fulfil, Hayward sighed. 'I'll try to ignore antiquities in future, but you know how I just seem to trip over them or get called in to things like this for my... expertise,’ he grinned mischievously.
A shake of hands sealed the agreement and Hayward walked up the gangplank of the cargo ship.
The world was becoming ever more unstable, and the whispers surrounding the cargo within the crate had now made it vital that it be taken quickly to Britain. Adelina had organised the financial end of the operation. She had contacts in the highest of places and that was extremely fortunate because Henry certainly wasn't going to spend any of his own wealth on this foolish errand.
The ship's horn blasted twice, signalling that it was ready for the long voyage to Britain. Sir Henry silently watched his brother and Charles fuss with the cases on deck. Hayward was determined to accompany the cargo back to Liverpool, but Henry certainly had no intention of roughing it. He checked his first-class ticket for the Duchess of Dundee. It wouldn't be long now before he could rest.
He scratched at the fly bite. His cheek had swollen, and the tiny wound had begun to weep.
*
Settling down on a deckchair, woollen blanket drawn up tight around his neck, Sir Henry felt dreadful. The fly bite had obviously caused an infection and his cheek was now the size of a balloon. The ship’s doctor had attended and had insisted he wear a foul-smelling black oily poultice over the bite for the duration of the voyage.
It was cold. The sun had now set, and a mist had blown in over the Mediterranean, a contrast to the conditions earlier in the day.
He felt weak. He always felt better in the fresh air and was determined to stick it out on the deck for as long as possible. Although his cabin was well appointed he wasn't keen on spending the entire voyage in the small bed; a good dose of fresh air would do the trick. Within minutes, he had drifted off into a troubled sleep.
The sound of the foghorn woke Henry with a start.
A crewman ran past his chair towards the bow of the liner. Others were shouting orders and looking concerned.
Sir Henry slowly raised himself from his chair. He still felt weak, but now he also felt dizzy. The swelling of his cheek hadn't improved, and it was still viciously painful to touch. Simply moving his head caused sharp, stabbing pains to shoot into his scalp and down his neck. He gingerly lifted himself upright as the whole world seemed to turn upside down. Sir Henry was thrown off the chair and onto the deck as the bow of the ship seemed to lift into the air and then roll over onto its side. He frantically struggled to stop himself from falling towards the handrail, but everything went black as a vacant deckchair struck him across the back of the head.
*
Hayward Carre stepped out of his cabin still in a state of shock, gripping the yellow paper telegram.
“Duchess of Dundee lost in the Med’ - STOP - Struck by coal steamer - STOP - Over 1000 souls lost - STOP - Regret to inform - Sir Henry Carre M.P. amongst the lost - STOP."
Walking down through the narrow decks to the cargo hold where the crate was stored, Hayward felt lost. He had often joked that if Henry died before him he’d inherit the family pile in Hereford. Now it had happened he wished he’d been a little more tolerant of his older brother.
The door to the cargo hold was locked and secured by a deadbolt from the outside. A heavy-looking padlock held the bolt within the metal frame. Hayward fumbled for the key and hooked the open lock onto the protruding eye of the heavy steel bar. Inside, the roughly cut white pine board box was still securely strapped down to the large iron rings welded to the floor. Hayward absentmindedly pulled at each strap in turn; there were four that had been thrown across the crate and pulled tight to ensure it didn't move during the journey. Each strap needed slight adjustments from time to time, but Hayward was surprised to find one come away in his hand. It had not been secured at all. He checked the mounts of the strap at the floor rings. The strap hadn't come loose - it had been cut. He looked around for any sharp object that could account for accidentally severing the strap. There was nothing. All the other crates were secure, and there was nothing out of place.
Bending down to tie the loose end of the strap to the ring, Hayward groaned as everything suddenly went dark. He cursed his luck. A light swell had begun to roll the ship and the crate began to inch across the floor with each wave. The light bulb must have blown, he thought, just as he heard the faint shuffling of feet on the steel floor behind him and something cold and devilishly hard crashed down against the back of his head.
Hayward fell to the floor, stunned by the blow.
*
The man, known only to his associates as Renardi, fished for a lamp he had tied to the belt of his knee-length leather coat. He held a match against the wick and saw Hayward lying unconscious on the floor. A long and thin but deceptively heavy wooden box was strapped to the larger crate. This was one of the objects he was looking for - he was sure. He placed the lamp onto a nearby crate and set about forcing the lid off the small box. The line of nails popped under the strain of the pry-bar, and the top fell back onto the crate. Several small flies billowed from the box. Startled, Renardi coughed and spluttered some of the little midges from his mouth. They seemed to get everywhere. He quickly replaced the wooden lead-lined lid and tapped the nails back in with the bent end of the pry-bar. He quickly transferred the box to his own specially labelled crate.
One down and one to go. He had been informed he was also looking for a large ceramic pot. He had entered the hold only minutes before Hayward arrived; the door was locked from the outside by an associate, and had just cut one of the restraining straps to allow access to the top of the large wooden box. Disturbed, he had quickly hidden behind another crate and then coshed Hayward across the back of the head with the pry-bar he had found. He hadn't intended to hurt anyone but was prepared to do whatever it took to secure the objects.
Renardi forced the bar between the lid and the wooden side of the box and pushed down hard. The sound of splintering wood stopped him for a moment to check all was quiet outside. Satisfied, he began again. It was vital for his plan to work that he remove the lid without leaving signs of tampering. The wood nails gave up the fight and the wooden lid lifted off in one single piece. Renardi could see a large clay pot amongst straw and wood shavings. It was impossible for him to steal the pot without anyone knowing, but he had paid for another crate to be included on the ship's inventory. He would switch the pot to his crate and re-secure the other after loading it with weights he had shipped in his own.
He began to clear the straw from the pot when he felt something press into his back.
‘Hold it there, old chap!’
The Italian turned to see Hayward standing behind him with a revolver held out at arm’s length. Blood covered Hayward's collar, and he looked ready to collapse again.
Standing motionless, he knew he could save the situation; all he needed was a split second of distraction to take his chance. He saw the lamp at the edge of the crate to his left. He waited for the next big roll of the ship and didn't have to wait long. As the ship heaved over to port, Renardi stumbled to the left. As he did so he saw Hayward fight to keep his eyes focused and the gun level. Renardi made no attempt to stop his motion and hurtled into the crate, knocking the lamp onto the floor.
A shot rang out as Hayward fired at where he thought the man would be, but the Italian had already thrust forward and grabbed Hayward's gun hand. Hayward struggled to keep hold of the weapon, but the Italian was too strong. Another shot echoed in the hold, and Renardi felt Hayward collapse to the floor.
He had no time to waste. Renardi tucked the gun into his coat and slammed down the lid of the crate. He had to get out of there fast. The noise from the gun would bring others to investigate. He could no longer complete his task. He would have to take his chance another time. At least he had one of the objects.
The Port of Liverpool.
The gangplank of the Beaverbrook was tied off, and a wooden casket carried down towards the back of a trailer on the dockside.
A small black Edison electric car was parked nearby, the windows steamed opaque, and a trail of cigarette smoke rose from the open top half of the windshield. Within the hour, a long big-engine black Rolls Royce pulled up alongside as the trailer containing the casket was pushed towards a lorry waiting nearby.
A small woman stepped out of the rear of the Rolls as the driver opened the door.
A tall man in a knee-length brown leather coat stepped out of the Edison and stood alongside the woman. He lit a cigarette and offered one.
‘Thank you,’ she said as she accepted the smoke.
‘Won't be long now, Madam. I’m afraid there's been an incident on board. Mr Hayward Carre has been murdered, shot, and one of the objects is missing.’
‘How could that happen, which object?’ fumed the woman. ‘It must be still on the ship?’
‘I’m afraid not. It’s the Rod. We’ve looked everywhere and searched all the crew. It’s nowhere to be found. I can only surmise that it's been thrown overboard. Probably a good thing.’
Adelina pondered a moment. ‘Probably. But now I’ll have to explain the loss to some extremely powerful people. They won't be happy.’ She bit her lip as she thought of the possible consequences. ‘At least we have the...others. I take it that the other objects are still secure?’
‘Yes, madam, they’re safe.’
‘Please ensure they are conveyed to the agreed location immediately.’
This was a serious setback. She had made a promise to make the staff available at her castle within days.
The tall man nodded and walked off towards the waiting trailer. As it was driven from the dock, the Edison and the Rolls Royce tucked in behind and disappeared into the night.
*
Thirty minutes after the vehicles had left another truck pulled up onto the dock. The driver had been instructed to wait until he had seen the other leave. He was to pick up a crate and deliver the contents to London. It was a hell of a drive, but there was fifty pounds in it for him. That was more than a year's wages for him in one single job.
Directed to a loading bay, the driver pulled up and parked his truck. Fifteen minutes later a crate the size of a single bed was lowered onto the back. The straps were quickly released, and he went about the business of securing a rope to hold it to the bed of the truck.
As he threw the rope over the top, he heard a banging noise. He stopped to listen. It came again, definite thumps coming from inside the box.
The driver stood back from the box, afraid of what might be inside. He noticed that the lid wasn't fastened down. Strange, he thought, just as the lid flew open.
*
Renardi was aching all over, and he felt like shit. He had spent hours inside the box hiding from the crew. The plan had failed, but at least he was free. His stomach grumbled and felt as if it would explode. He wiped a film of perspiration from his forehead. He had a fever coming on. It wouldn't be long now, and he'd be able to rest.
The driver of the truck looked stunned.
‘Don’t panic, I’m not a ghost,’ smiled Renardi. 'Another ten pounds for you if you get me to Swansea before the morning.’
The driver grinned. ‘I think you'll be a lot more comfortable up front with me.’
Renardi still had the shipping label from the side of the crate Carre had been securing in the hold. He knew the destination of the relic was in Swansea and also knew that he was now up against the clock. If he could get to the address before the relics arrived he'd still be in with a chance of completing his mission; it was essential that he made it in time. Failure was not an option.
He settled into the passenger seat of the truck and dozed as the lorry trundled on towards South Wales.
*
The frost had begun to mist the windshield of the truck just north of Newtown, and it had steadily got worse as it trundled south along the winding country roads. Renardi had never known weather like it for May. Three days in succession the newspapers had reported night temperatures of below twenty Fahrenheit. Crops had been destroyed, and there was even
talk of shortages for the winter. Not good news at a time when the world was on the brink of war.
It seemed as if days had passed before Renardi checked the address on the shipping label. The journey south had taken several hours and had been arduous, but this was it. The warehouse was dark and looked unattended. He had made it in time.
The driver dropped him at the end of Somerset Place. The warehouse was across the road leading to the docks.
He slipped the driver the extra ten pounds. ‘Do me a favour and dump the crate.’
‘No problem sir.’
‘Do you have a screwdriver I can borrow?’
The driver retrieved a long steel screwdriver from under the passenger seat.
‘Thanks. And, if anyone asks, you never saw me, okay?’
‘Nod's as good as a wink sir,’ smiled the driver.
The truck pulled away as Renardi walked silently across the road to the warehouse. The narrow, heavy box was a hindrance, and he knew he couldn’t be caught with it in his hands. He had to find a place to hide it. Quickly scanning the area, Renardi knew he had to be quick. The area was heavily under construction. The site of new drains had been left exposed - workers having downed tools and gone home hours ago. Renardi approached the open drain and dropped the box into the hole. He jumped down next to it and pushed the box along the side of a completed section of clay pipe and covered it with soil. It was far from ideal, but it would do for the night. If all went well, he’d be able to retrieve it again before morning.
A large pair of wooden doors fronted the building, and a smaller wooden door was set into the wall above. Renardi could see a block and tackle attached to a hoist affixed above the upper door. He walked around the side of the building and found a small trade access. Only a small padlock secured it to the wooden frame.
