by Andy Emery
‘Yes, it is. It was dark I suppose.’
‘I’m not totally convinced by Mr Flaherty’s story. We will look into his background. And I will straight away send constables to the scene of the abduction, to question all the residents they can raise, in the hope that someone saw or heard something.’
‘Very good.’
There was a knock at the door. A constable slipped in and handed Cross a note. He waited for the bobby to leave and then unfolded the piece of paper. He scrutinised it for a minute, then peered over at Gedge.
‘That infernal man. Claude Rondeau is a… I suppose I’d call him an acquaintance of mine. This note is from him, vouching for you. You must have made a big impression on him in the limited time since you met him.’
‘Maggie must have got him a message.’
‘And then he must have sent this round here immediately. He has a gang of urchins he uses to run errands for him on occasion. He is an unusual man. Unique, probably. He is at once a very useful character to know, and a very dangerous one for an official like me. Not personally, but because of some of the people and organisations he is linked to. I don’t need to bore you with this. The point is, from anyone else, this note wouldn’t be worth the paper it’s written on. He hardly knows you and he doesn’t even know the details of the case. But from Rondeau… Well, I was about to release you anyway. But do not on any account leave the area.’
‘Why would I, when I’m relying on you to find my daughter?’
‘Indeed. I gather you’re not staying with Mrs Gedge?’
‘No. I have a room at the Admiral Jervis inn.’
‘I know it. You should go and reassure your wife that the matter is in our hands now. I’m going to hold on to Mr Flaherty a while longer. I want a colleague of mine to talk to him. Belt and braces, you know. Unless we have cause to bring him into custody, I’ll ensure he is escorted home later.’
16
The Intelligence Department (ID) of the War Office was located at 16-18 Queen Anne’s Gate, midway between the Houses of Parliament and Buckingham Palace; at the heart of London, and, therefore, of the empire. In a plush second-floor office, Major Hugh Garland picked a piece of lint from his trouser leg as he waited in the office of his boss, Colonel Maurice Paxton, Deputy Director of Military Intelligence. Paxton had only recently taken over in the role, moving across from another branch of the War Office. He had a rather abrupt manner, which meant Garland was never totally at ease in his presence, and the sudden demand to see him was an additional concern.
Garland had been something of a prodigy; excelling at school and university, and again rising to the top of his class at Sandhurst. He had been one of the youngest men ever to reach the rank of major in the British Army. He was extremely good at organising information, which was vital to the role of the ID, but he also had a practical bent, unusual for one of the staff at Queen Anne’s Gate.
Paxton burst into the room, blaring out an order to his secretary to set up some sort of meeting. He slammed the door shut, strode past Garland and thumped a file of papers down on his desk.
Garland realised that another man had entered in Paxton’s wake: a slim middle-aged man with a long face and a limp. He silently removed his bowler and sat on a chair at the side of the room. Was it Garland’s imagination, or was the newcomer staring at him?
Paxton planted his backside onto his desk chair, and only then seemed to notice Garland’s presence. He peered at the younger man as if wondering what he was doing there. Then it registered.
‘Ah, Garland. I’ve been taking another look at your report from a while ago. The man Gedge.’
The previous year, Garland had prepared a brief for the ID on the extraordinary goings-on in Afghanistan, centring on the renegade Colonel Felix Bellhouse and his use of Captain Lucas Gedge as a new kind of intelligence agent. Gedge had been unofficially licensed by Bellhouse not only to collect intelligence and to disrupt the activities of the Russians and their Afghan allies in any way he could, but even to carry out assassinations where it was believed necessary.
‘Really? Yes. An extraordinary story, what went on in Afghanistan. Thank god there’s a bit more realism now in Simla. But there’s been renewed interest? Can I ask if more information has come to light, sir?’
Paxton sighed. He always had a florid complexion, and Garland thought the ginger hair and moustache accentuated the appearance of high blood pressure.
‘Not particularly, Garland, no. The fact is that others are asking us to look into this. Our elders and betters, as it were.’ He briefly glanced up, as if looking to the heavens. ‘Their interest is in Gedge himself. He was no ordinary soldier. His exploits bordered on the unbelievable. They seem to think we made a mistake in just letting him fade into obscurity.’
‘Well, as you know, he was considered something of an embarrassment. After he was cashiered, he seemed to want to leave the world of violence behind. There was always a danger that if he revealed any of what happened it could be a problem for the government, but frankly it was considered that nobody would believe him even if that did happen.’ Garland glanced at the unannounced stranger to his right, and was unnerved to see a sardonic smile playing across the man’s sallow features.
‘Oh, I’m not worried about that. The world has moved on. The point is that it’s possible that he could still be useful to us now, and they want us to find him and sound him out about re-joining the service.’
‘He’s been out of action for over a year. His skills will have declined, surely?’
‘Not completely lost, though. Between us, whether that’s the case or not, this seems like a fool’s errand. Nevertheless, we will have to make some attempt at following up. And we are already keeping tabs on his movements.’
‘I see. How long has that been going on?’
Paxton shifted in his seat. ‘I apologise, Garland. I should have introduced Inspector Naseby of the Special Branch.’ He indicated the other man, who rose stiffly from his chair, and extended a hand to Garland.
‘Garrett Naseby, Major. Nice to meet you.’
‘Likewise, I’m sure.’ Garland detected a touch of the Irish brogue in Naseby’s voice, which reminded him of something. ‘Your unit was set up to combat the Fenians, I believe?’
‘That’s right, Major. We were called the Special Irish Branch then. I know what you’re thinking, but set a thief to catch a thief, as they say. These days our remit has expanded somewhat. To get to the point, we intercepted a letter that Gedge sent to his wife from Italy, a couple of months back. Three weeks ago he landed at Wapping, having got a boat over the channel. We’ve been keeping an eye on him.’
Paxton broke in. The pained expression on his face suggested that he didn’t appreciate being excluded from the conversation in his own office.
‘Evidently he took his sweet time returning from the subcontinent after that affair. But now he’s back, apparently wanting to play happy families. I’m putting you in charge of making contact with him. Keep a watch on him first, choose your moment carefully.’
‘To be honest, I would think he’ll want nothing to do with us, sir.’
‘You’ll have to try and charm him. If that doesn’t work, we may have to use other forms of persuasion. Ultimately, if those up above want this, we’re going to have to follow through. Understand?’
‘Of course, sir.’ He looked at Naseby. ‘But what is the role of Special Branch?’
‘Oh, we’ll just fade into the background, Major. Sounds like you’re the one in charge now.’ Again, that annoying smile.
‘Here’s his wife’s address,’ said Paxton. ‘I’ll leave the rest to you. Please let me have a report on your progress in a couple of days’ time. Now I have some other matters I need to discuss with Naseby.’
As Garland returned to his own office on the ground floor, his mind went back to the time when he had crafted the report on Gedge. As he had been in India on other business, he had spent time in Simla, the town in the Himalayan foothills
that was the home of the Intelligence Branch in India, or IBS. It was supposedly an outpost of the ID in London but, as he found out, it had become dangerously detached, in its attitudes and methods. His investigations there, and particularly a series of interrogations of Captain Gedge, together with research back in London, had enabled him to build up a picture of the man who had “gone rogue” at the behest of Colonel Bellhouse. A picture, but perhaps only a partial one.
During those interviews, in a dusty and sweltering cell, Gedge’s world had been turned upside down. While not antagonising his hosts, Garland had been forced to disabuse Gedge of his belief in an imminent Russian invasion of India, through Afghanistan. It was this prospect, of the Russian forces sweeping down through the foothills, that fuelled the bellicosity and unreliability of the IBS. As far as the ID was concerned, the intelligence did not support such a view of Russian intentions. Despite sabre-rattling for political effect and the taking of some small frontier towns, the Russians had not put in place arrangements for either the supplies or the lines of communication required for the movements of large armies.
Gedge discovered that he had been surviving alone in desert conditions, harassing the enemy, and killing them when necessary, based on a fraud. It almost seemed as though all his training and previous army experience had led to what should have been the pinnacle of his career, and then it all turned out to be a mere mirage. But the grief he clearly felt seemed to be offset by a certain detachment; something that had been apparent throughout his army life. It meant that he had never developed many long-term friendships or spent much time carousing, but it also contributed to his success in the job.
Ultimately it was decided that while Gedge had to be cashiered and released from the army, no other punishment should be meted out. Colonel Bellhouse, meanwhile, would face the ire of the army prosecutors at a court martial. Garland had thought that Gedge would be able to re-assimilate into civilian life, perhaps by focusing on a craft or specialist skill. On the other hand, how could he be guided down such a path?
Gedge had seemed receptive when Garland raised these ideas, but the army was not about to get involved in any retraining schemes. When he last saw Gedge, he was taking the train for Delhi, on the first leg of his journey home to England.
From what Paxton said, it sounded as though that journey had taken rather longer than he’d estimated.
Sitting down at his desk, Garland could hear the dull whirring sound of the printing presses working away in the basement. He avoided going down there whenever possible, as it was a dirty and dingy place. But it was an important part of their operation. Possessing their own presses meant that the necessarily confidential reports they produced could be handled more securely than with an outside printer.
He had the nagging feeling that his latest project was going to be a wild goose chase. Gedge was hardly likely to want to return to the fold, and what would be the point of trying to compel him to do so? At the same time, during their interviews, he had developed a grudging respect for the man, and he would be intrigued to catch up with him again.
17
Gedge walked back up to Barnet Grove, told Maggie what had happened at the police station, and immediately left again for White Lion Street. He would need help if he was to find Hannah, and the Rondeau household was where he was most likely to find it. He put his earlier prevarication over working with Rondeau, and his awkward conversation with Polly the previous day, to the back of his mind. He’d hoped that Rondeau would be in, and was relieved when Darius, who answered the door, confirmed it. Indeed, the old man was just behind the Parthian, and threw up his hands at the news of Hannah’s abduction.
In the drawing room, they were joined by Polly. The friction between her and Gedge evaporated, and she placed a consoling hand on his shoulder before sitting down. Darius prepared tea for all of them: spicy, clear and served in coloured glasses rather than cups. They all drew round to listen to Gedge’s retelling of events. As he spoke, Rondeau looked stern, while Polly gripped the arm of her chair tightly, and Darius remained impassive.
As he finished his tale, Gedge realised that his left hand was trembling, shaking almost.
‘Lucas, are you alright?’ said Polly. ‘Your hand…’
‘Don’t worry. It happens from time to time, especially during stress. I’ve had the problem since I was captured and tortured in Afghanistan. I get bad dreams as well. Last night, for example.’
‘Well, this is certainly a time of stress. Isn’t there anything you can take for it?’
‘Only strong drink or drugs.’ He held up his hand to forestall the inevitable response. ‘But I know that isn’t the way to go. I learnt that the hard way. I believe I have it under control, or had done up until now. I don’t want to make a fuss, anyway, there are plenty of ex-army men who have it far worse than me.’
Rondeau nodded. ‘I have heard of the terrible effects of war and other traumas on the mind and spirit. Effects that seem to go unacknowledged. I will look into it further. But at least know you have our support.’
‘Thank you, Claude, I appreciate that. And I also thank you for the note you sent to Inspector Cross. But perhaps we can get back to the matter at hand. I’ve told you all I know. To say the position regarding Ackerman has changed is something of an understatement. I’m not too proud to say that I’ve come to you for help.’
Rondeau leaned forward. ‘Lucas, I am sure I speak for all of us when I say we will do anything we can.’ The Parthian nodded.
‘Of course, Lucas,’ said Polly. ‘One thing, though. From what you’re saying, you have no qualms about our actions to rescue Hannah being independent of the police’s approach?’
‘That’s a good question. First of all, Polly, I want to apologise for my reluctance to get involved when we recently spoke. For the last year, I’ve been intent on avoiding anything to do with my previous life in the military, anything violent. But now, with everything at stake, I am certain that my skills are needed to get Hannah back. For that purpose at least, I am prepared to do anything necessary. If I had to do it alone, I would, but your help will be invaluable. I’m also sure that together we can be more effective in saving my daughter than the police would be. And perhaps I was too hasty in dismissing the idea of helping your cause in a more active way.’
‘Future plans must be put aside,’ said Rondeau. ‘For now, we must think only of how best to help your daughter. Clearly, Ackerman has targeted her deliberately. Although we have accepted that he is aware of me, how he was able to so quickly identify your daughter and execute a plan to take her, I cannot yet imagine.’
‘Yes, that’s something I’ve pushed to the back of my mind. But you’re right. How could he have known about my presence here, and of my daughter’s movements?’
‘The disappearance of Mr Frowde is another blow, and raises the dark possibility that he has also fallen victim to Ackerman. We cannot know that yet, but Frowde may have had information that would be useful to us.’
Polly smiled. ‘We do know something about Frowde that neither the police nor our adversaries will be aware of, unless he has let something slip. I didn’t tell you this yesterday. There wouldn’t have been any point if you weren’t going to be part of our work.’
‘What’s that?’
‘He rented two sets of rooms. The address he gave out, where he normally slept and kept all the accoutrements of living, and another secret place, where he stored materials relating to the more delicate aspects of his investigations.’
Rondeau got up and removed a small painting from the wall, revealing a safe. He opened it and extracted a key.
‘Yes, there must be a good chance that his bolt-hole remains unsullied. And he left this key with me as insurance against just this sort of eventuality.’ He gave the key to Gedge. ‘It is apparently a single room, tucked away above a coffee shop in Bethnal Green.’
18
Hannah dimly recalled being blindfolded and bundled into a hansom. She had felt so weak a
nd drowsy, barely able to put one foot in front of another, let alone offer any resistance. On the trip, she remembered orders barked by a male voice to the cab driver, and the occasional higher-pitched words of a woman. She had no clear idea how long they had been travelling, before she was ushered out and then jostled up a few steps, into a building, then up two flights of stairs. She stumbled part-way up and was roughly jerked back to her feet. A door in front of her was opened. She was shoved inside and thrown onto what turned out to be a bed with a mean, thin mattress. She felt wiry fingers working to bind her wrists to the frame of the headboard behind her, and then a piece of foul-smelling material was placed over her mouth and nose, and she blacked out.
When she came to, the blindfold was still in place and her arms ached dreadfully. Although she was no longer in a stupor, she felt as tired as though she’d been awake for days. She stifled the urge to scream, to try and alert someone to her predicament. Then she thought of her father, and the violence and killing that he’d seen, and the nightmares that he still had, and told herself not to be such a silly thing. If she made too much of a nuisance of herself, they might punish her in some way, even kill her. Better to keep quiet for now, and see what she could learn about her situation. Keep her powder dry, as her father might have said.
Her legs were not tied up, and she wriggled about, stretching and flexing, to get some blood moving through her veins. The movement felt good.
She heard something from across the room, and tilted her head. Someone was giggling, likely at her.
‘Who’s there?’
The giggler seemed to find it hard to get any words out. ‘Hello. I’m sorry, my name’s Esther. You’ve made me laugh with that funny wriggling. I never thought I would laugh again.’
