The Shadow of Treason

by Edward Taylor

  ‘As long as it’s not your neck,’ said Vic.

  ‘Besides, if I went to the police at this stage, you two could be in trouble. And Maggie. They’d charge you as accessories, for helping me avoid arrest.’

  ‘I don’t care about that,’ said Jane.

  ‘I’d plead ignorance,’ said Vic. ‘I’ve a long history of that.’

  ‘Jane, we decided I was going to get to the bottom of all this, and that’s what I’m going to do. Nothing’s changed.’

  ‘Yes, it has! Vic and I don’t believe Paynter killed himself! Someone’s murdering witnesses!’

  ‘Well, I’m not a witness, I’m a customer, and a very good one, for all they know. I’ve got the money Vic lent me. I’ll pay them well for the whisky, and tell them my mate in Westcliff will be wanting lots more. They’ll love me.’

  Jane saw that Adam’s mind was made up. She sighed. ‘Daft bugger,’ she said. ‘And I’m in the show today – I’m going to feel so useless. Is there anything I can do?’

  Adam grinned. ‘Yes, please. Pour me another cup of tea. And make it two sugars this time. It looks like I’ll need all my energy.’

  ‘You still haven’t fixed Miss Jane’s sash window,’ Emily Hart complained.

  ‘No, well, I haven’t had time, have I?’ protested George. ‘I done her shelf and her chest of drawers, and I was just going to get to the sash, only you wanted the porch painted. Right?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Mrs Hart conceded. ‘But make sure that window’s your next job, will you. Miss Jane’ll be back here soon.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve heard from her, have you?’

  ‘Yes, she rang yesterday afternoon, during one of her breaks. Just a quick chat, you know. They’re working her very hard. The producer keeps them at it all the time.’

  ‘Still, it’s better than fixing windows. Has she let on where she’s living yet?’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s no secret. It’s just that she has to keep moving, according to who can put her up. Just now she’s staying with her friend, Victoria.’

  ‘Victoria?’

  ‘That’ll be one of the girls in the show. Vic’s got her own flat, in Notting Hill.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said George.

  ‘They start their new show next week, and then she says she’ll have more free time. I expect she’ll be back here.’

  ‘Good,’ said George. ‘I hope she likes her chest of drawers.’

  Mrs Hart sighed. ‘It’ll be a relief when she’s sleeping here again. I worry when she’s up in town all the time, with those wretched V2s coming down.’

  ‘Trouble is, they’re just as likely to hit you out here as they are in London. I read in the Mirror, more V2s have landed in the country than in the city.’

  ‘So they say. But at least, if she’s under this roof, we’ll all go together.’

  ‘That’s a bit morbid, Mrs H,’ said George.

  Emily Hart was in a thoughtful mood. ‘I don’t know, it might not be a bad way to go. The thing about these V2s is, you’d never know anything about it. One minute you’d be sitting here, the next you’d be in the next world.’

  ‘Well, I ain’t finished with this one yet, thank you very much. I got things to do. I got plans.’

  ‘Plans? What plans?’

  ‘Soon as this war’s over, I want to get back to sea-fishing. Once the beaches are open again. And Southend Pier. There should be a lot of fish about. We’ve left them alone for five years – they’ll have been breeding like rabbits!’

  Emily Hart hadn’t finished her survey of enemy weapons. ‘It was the doodle-bugs that gave me the creeps,’ she recalled. ‘The V1s.’ She shuddered. ‘Ooh, when you heard the engine cut out! And you had time to wonder whether it was going to land on you, or in the next street. It sort of made you think about mortality.’ She sighed. ‘My coffee’s cold, how’s yours?’

  George took a sip. ‘I could do with a bit more hot,’ he observed. He got up and switched on the electric kettle. ‘I’ll give us both a top-up.’

  ‘Have you heard anything from that policeman, the one who took the envelope from Mr Webber’s room? Sergeant Monk, was it?’

  ‘Yeah, it was Sergeant Monk, but no, he hasn’t got back to me. Matter of fact, I rang the nick this morning. To ask about them bits and pieces they’re still holding.’

  ‘Oh, the things from Mr Jefferson’s room.’

  ‘And that page from the register. Also, I was going to suggest they do a litmus test on that envelope. I asked for Sergeant Monk but he couldn’t come to the phone. I got a feeling he wasn’t there.’

  ‘What about that Inspector Jessett?’

  ‘They said he was tied up. No one seemed to want to talk.’

  ‘I suppose they’re all in a lather about the man who hanged himself.’

  ‘You bet they are. Not that he’ll be missed. A right villain, that Reggie Paynter was.’

  ‘Was he? D’you know anything about him?’

  The kettle had boiled, and George poured boiling water into both mugs.

  ‘I know all about Reggie Paynter,’ said George. ‘And his mates.’ He tried to tap the side of his nose, but instead hit his forehead with the teaspoon he was holding. ‘Only it’s more than my life’s worth to talk about them.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Mind you, now he’s gone, I suppose I could tell you a few things that would interest you.’

  Something in the newspaper had caught Mrs Hart’s eye, and her attention was straying. ‘It’s all right, George,’ she said vaguely. ‘Don’t say anything you might regret.’

  George’s resolve stiffened. ‘No, I’m not going to let those thugs scare me. Mind, you’d have to promise not to repeat anything.’

  But the lady’s mind was now elsewhere, and she failed to reply.

  ‘Right,’ said George, undaunted. ‘I’ll tell you.’ He launched into a long and lurid account of Paynter’s exploits, and let his coffee get cold again.

  ‘Rotten sod!’ said Jane. ‘And in a letter! He hadn’t the nerve to tell you to your face!’

  ‘Alfie’s never liked scenes,’ said Maggie. ‘He’s got less guts than a kipper.’ The two girls were eating sandwiches in the Windmill canteen, while the Accordion Aces held the stage. ‘Anyway, there it is, I’ve got the elbow. I’ve got to be out by Sunday night. And he says if ever I talk to a newspaper again, he’s got some friends who’ll give me a hard time.’

  ‘The bastard!’ said Jane. And then a thought struck her. ‘Again? Does that mean you did talk to the paper?’

  ‘Not exactly. At least, I never meant to.’

  ‘But you did?’

  ‘Well, it was this boy I met in the pub, you see. He thought I was very good in the show. Said he’d like to introduce me to a friend of his, who’s a big agent.’

  ‘You didn’t fall for that one? It’s so old, it’s got whiskers.’

  ‘Not really, I suppose. The thing was, he looks a bit like Errol Flynn. And Alfie was away. So I said he could come back to the flat for a drink. How was I to know he was a reporter?’

  ‘Weren’t you suspicious when he started asking questions?’

  ‘He never did. He was all action. But it seems he spotted Alfie’s name on some papers. Alfie’s quite well known, you know.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve heard him on the radio saying how we should all pull together.’

  ‘Then it turns out this bloke was back the next day when I was out. He talked to the neighbours. Then he wrote a spicy story for the Sunday Pictorial. They’re going to print the stuff, and somehow Alfie got to hear about it.’

  ‘Oh well, it’ll get you talked about. Can’t be bad for your career.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. I told Sandy, “Make sure you spell my name right.”’

  ‘Sandy?’

  ‘That’s the reporter. “Randy Sandy” I called him. He didn’t seem to mind. I said, “Put me down as nineteen, and say I’m fond of animals.”’

  ‘Hang on. So you did give this man an interview?’

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nbsp; ‘Only after he’d already got the story. Couldn’t do any harm then, could it? I wish they’d put more marge in these sandwiches.’

  Jane sighed. ‘Oh dear. So you’re out in the cold. And Adam and I are at Vic’s place. Otherwise you could have gone there. Anyway, I’m sure we could squeeze you in.’

  ‘That’s all right. I wouldn’t go back to Vic’s. He’s a lovely feller but I can’t take all those jokes before lunch.’

  ‘So what are you going to do now?’

  ‘I think I’ve just got time for a doughnut.’

  ‘A doughnut? D’you think VD would approve?’

  ‘If he doesn’t, he shouldn’t have them on sale here, should he? It’s all right, I’ll work it off in the can-can.’

  ‘Maggie, I meant, where are you going to live?’

  ‘For starters, I’m going back to Mum and Dad’s for a bit. Catch up on some sleep. Get made a fuss of. They’re great.’

  Maggie fetched a doughnut from the counter, picking up a packet of biscuits at the same time. Jane listened to the relay from the stage. When Maggie returned, she observed, ‘They’re into “The Isle Of Capri”. We’ve got eight minutes.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ said Maggie. ‘We’ll eat the biscuits later during the Nuns’ Chorus.’

  ‘Are you going to be dating this Sandy?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so. Turns out he’s got a steady girlfriend.’

  ‘Hard luck. Are you still going out with Phil?’

  ‘Yes. Just for laughs. You know he’s as queer as a nine-bob note?’

  ‘Well, that’s the way he comes across.’

  ‘It’s genuine. Beneath that camp exterior there’s a great big fairy queen. But he’s sweet and he’s funny and I like him.’

  ‘But you want something more than that, don’t you?’

  ‘All in good time. Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. Very soon there’s going to be thousands of big brawny blokes coming back from the Forces. I’m keeping myself available.’ Maggie bit a large chunk from her doughnut. ‘Talking of brawny blokes, how’s your man? Coping all right?’

  ‘Just about,’ said Jane. ‘It isn’t easy. He’s gone down to Essex today, still trying to find out what’s been going on. Tell you the truth, I’m worried sick.’

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ said Maggie. ‘He can look after himself, I reckon.’ She took another bite from her doughnut.

  Even in wartime, commuter trains between London and Shoeburyness, via Southend-on-Sea, were crowded at both ends of the day. It seemed that half the male population of south-east Essex, if too old for the forces and too young to retire, chose to brave the bombs and continue to earn their living in the capital, while enjoying fresh air at home.

  So mornings found the railway carriages packed with men in city suits on their way to London, reading their morning papers or playing cards. And the late afternoon saw the reverse process: this time they read evening papers or snoozed after a day at the office.

  But in the middle of the day the service, now reduced to one train an hour, was little used. The attractions of a day trip to the seaside were much reduced in those years, with Southend Pier closed and the beaches lined with barbed wire and gun emplacements, inaccessible to the public.

  At 1 p.m. Adam found little activity at Fenchurch Street Station, that most functional and least romantic of London’s railway termini. He had a scarf casually covering much of his face, as he leaned into the booking-office window to buy his day-return ticket. He was sure the police must ask booking clerks to look out for wanted men.

  However, the bespectacled little man in the booking office, who was wearing a patterned sleeveless pullover and listening to Workers’ Playtime on the radio, showed no interest in Adam. And the same was true of the few porters pushing occasional trolleys on the platform. The 1.10 for Southend was already waiting, the engine letting off sporadic bursts of steam into the chilly air. Adam easily found an empty compartment, and made himself comfortable in a corner seat by the window.

  Two minutes later a disembodied voice announced that the train was leaving, then a whistle was blown, the guard waved a green flag, and the train moved off.

  Adam intended to use the fifty-minute journey to make plans, both immediate and long term. His priority was to decide what he should do at this rendezvous with the whisky merchant. His purpose was to try and penetrate the Essex underworld and find out who killed Maurice Cooper. But how should he proceed? Should he chum up with the fellow, order more Scotch, arrange further meetings, and hope that somewhere along the line some clue might turn up, something that would lead him to the truth? Or should he put the man in an arm lock and twist until he told all he knew?

  The latter course would be morally justified, for black marketeers were criminals, but it depended on the man being unaccompanied, and less powerful than Adam. On the whole, Adam favoured the first option. But that could end in him simply going back to London with bottles of expensive whisky, and none the wiser. The thought produced a wry smile: at least Vic Dudley wouldn’t feel his journey had been wasted.

  Then there was the bigger question. He knew now that Jane Hart was the girl with whom he wanted to share his life. But how could it be possible? He felt he could prove himself not guilty of murder. But he couldn’t deny charges of stealing Adam Webber’s identity, false pretences at the Marine Research Unit, resisting arrest, and God knows what else.

  He faced prison, or life on the run. Jane had said she couldn’t tolerate the latter, though he still nursed a faint hope of enticing her to a new life in Canada. But would that be fair on either of them, with the time-bomb of possible exposure forever ticking away?

  Should he heed Jane’s plea and give himself up? That would mean at least two or three years in jail. Jane had said she’d wait for him, but a lot could change in two years. And, anyway, could he face being locked up?

  A third option had been growing in his mind, the darkest of all. He found he cared a great deal about Jane’s welfare. Would it be better for her if he got out of her life? Perhaps he should never go back to Vic’s flat. Maybe he should revert to his first plan: after all, a fugitive can travel faster on his own. Now that he had a few pounds in his pocket (which he’d somehow repay later), surely he could get to a port and smuggle himself onto a ship. Jane would be better off without him. She’d pine for a while, but she’d get over it. Eventually, she’d forget him. But would he ever forget her?

  As he pondered these things, Adam peered listlessly through the carriage window at the changing scenery moving gently past for his inspection.

  The bleak grey streets of London’s East End had given way to rows of neat suburban houses, their gardens backing onto the railway line. Normal people were getting on with their normal lives, hanging out washing, feeding the birds, playing with small children, and tending flowerbeds or vegetable patches (the British public were still being urged to Dig for Victory, by growing things you could eat). Adam envied all these folk.

  Then the train was out into open country. Here and there, the creeks and dykes of the Essex marshes were reflecting the light from a pale sun. A lot of mud banks were on view, for the tide was out in the Thames Estuary. There was little sign of human life. Sea-birds were stalking about in the low water and on the scrubland, or standing in statuesque stillness, apparently gazing into the far distance, as if awaiting some great event.

  From time to time small boats were to be seen, some upside-down among the reeds and bulrushes, perhaps abandoned.

  None of this did anything for Adam’s problems. Eventually he began to doze, half recalling his first night with Jane, and half-dreaming they were together on a beach.

  The changing rhythm of the wheels on the tracks eased Adam out of his slumber. The train was slowing down. Soon the engine stopped and let off steam, and the rural voice of a porter was heard shouting ‘Chalksea! Chalksea! This is Chalksea!’ in tones that carried a hint of pride.

  This was fair enough, for it was quite a pretty little sta
tion. There were flowerbeds at each end of the platform, and hanging baskets dangled from a few vantage points. The overhead wooden canopy seemed freshly painted and the edge of the platform was newly whitewashed. Facing the train, on the outside wall of the waiting-room, neat posters reminded travellers that Careless Talk Costs Lives, and urged them to Know Your Fire Drill.

  As Adam alighted from the train, he noticed two men getting out further along. They had long canvas sheaths slung over their shoulders, like golf bags, but these weren’t full of golf clubs. The men seemed to be carrying fishing rods, and Adam recalled that the river was not far away.

  The pair exchanged greetings with the porter, who by now was standing at the little wooden gate that led to the outside world. He waved them through: obviously they had season tickets.

  It seemed these two and Adam were the only arrivals. The guard had got out and enjoyed a brief chat with an old man who was tending one of the flowerbeds. No one had got on the train. Now the guard looked at his watch, checked that the platform was clear, gave a superfluous shout of ‘Stand clear of the doors!’, blew his whistle and waved his flag. The train ground slowly into motion again.

  As it began to move, a door at the rear of the train opened and a middle-aged man in a dark suit stepped lightly out, closing the door behind him. Ignoring an angry shout from the guard, he paused a moment to survey the scene, and then began to stroll along the platform, his rolled umbrella slanted over his shoulder like a soldier’s rifle.

  Adam didn’t see him. He was already at the barrier, fumbling in a pocket for his ticket. When he produced it, the porter said ‘I thank you’ in an affable manner. It was obviously his catch-phrase, borrowed from the radio. But there was a hint of suspicion on his face. He was wondering what this young man, obviously of military age but not in uniform, was doing in Chalksea in the middle of the day without a fishing rod.

  His unease deepened when the passenger asked the way to the Home Guard firing range. Adam had the directions Sniffer Dean had given over the phone but Sniffer wasn’t that articulate and Adam thought it wise to get confirmation.