by Karl Fish
Much to the crowd’s disapproval they gave up the search and went home, apart from the drunks that made light work stepping into the Poacher.
‘Nothing, Gideon. Not a dicky bird,’ Elizabeth expressed sorrowfully.
‘Lizzy, I think Wilson is right. The clouds look ominous and anyone stumbling into the marshes or caught out could harm themselves. Nathaniel and I have packed to camp out and continue searching into tonight. Heaven forbid an air-raid should come,’ he reassured her.
‘In this place, please. It’s charmed. Not one bomb, not one enemy plane has passed by since we’ve been here. It would just be Eric’s luck to miss it.’ She smiled back.
Nelly Parker placed an arm around her and guided her home, towards the Poacher. Nelly looked back at Gideon knowingly and gave him a reassuring nod.
‘What are you doing? Eric and Gemima are missing!’ Elizabeth shouted at Millicent McGregor who was aloft a ladder painstakingly hanging bunting outside of her public house. Millie failed to respond but carried on cheerily about her business.
‘Ahhhhhh!’ Elizabeth screamed in frustration and slammed the doorway as she passed into the pub. ‘What has got into you?’ she screamed at the landlady.
*****
Agatha and Eric were dehydrated and weary. Sister Harvey’s motionless body was nothing more than the shadow of its former self. The tiniest inflation of her chest still meant she was breathing but they could not tell how long she would last.
As the clouds outside turned an obstinate grey, the room’s tiny letterbox-sized porthole allowed less light in, reducing visibility, as they lay captive in the darkness. They had exhausted themselves intermittently trying to untether themselves but to little avail. Their silence was broken when the door key rattled the lock.
‘Any noise, from either one of you, and your fate will follow the Sister’s. Understood?’ Governess Dove pointed out as she entered with a jug of water, cups, a single sandwich and a needle full of the scorpion venom. First of all, she untied Eric’s gag. Held a glass of water to his lips and administered the tiniest of sips. As his mouth opened to receive part of the sandwich, she tightened the gag once more. Eric swelled his tongue and fought the restraint as much as he could as Dove secured it once more. She then moved to Aggie. This time gentler than before, she untied the gag and offered her more than just a few sips. The sandwich was held at her lips for her to consume.
‘Please, give Eric some,’ Agatha begged but instead, Dove picked up the needle and moved towards the boy’s arm. ‘No no! I’m sorry!’ Aggie begged and begged again.
‘This boy is nothing more than a hindrance to me. He is simply alive as a bargaining chip to keep you in control. Any subordination and he receives the scorpion’s kiss. Now eat!’
Aggie ate as fast as she could, although it was difficult with such a dry mouth. She was constantly looking with apologetic eyes towards Eric. He simply didn’t care. His gaze penetrated through Dove with infinite defiance.
‘Why you are so special, I do not know,’ Dove directed towards Aggie. ‘But we will find out soon enough. The Tuchhandler is coming for you.’ She laughed sinisterly.
*****
‘Ma’am, we have the men back at their posts and they are fully scrutinised,’ Colonel Malling confirmed to Wink Waverley.
‘Very good, Colonel. Amazing what you can achieve in certain circumstances,’ Wink replied, taking a swipe at his earlier insubordination as she sparked up a customary cigarette.
The phone rang on her desk and she gave it a perplexed look via her good eye before answering.
‘Send him in.’
A door opened against the padded Burgundy leather, welcoming Thompson in from his short journey across town.
‘Ma’am, Sir,’ he said and nodded on entering, sceptical of Malling’s presence.
‘What conspiracy now?’ Malling volleyed at Thompson.
Wink was in no mood for his ego and shot Malling a final warning stare. ‘Speak freely, Thompson,’ Wink ordered jovially.
Producing the two photographs of the very differing personas of Jennifer James, aka Sabine Erket, he laid them out on Wink’s desk. ‘You’re more than accustomed to this image,’ Thompson began, smirking towards the blonde tigress engaging with Malling in the original photograph.
Colonel Malling’s blood pressure rose and his crimson appearance would almost certainly increase to camouflage him against the burgundy should Thompson continue in the same manner.
‘However, what do we really know about Jennifer James?’ he continued, producing a picture of herself and her father, which The Lady James had recently provided.
‘Good grief,’ piped up Malling. ‘Is that Sir Wallace James?’ he asked.
‘That’s correct, sir. It was Sir Wallace by all accounts,’ Thompson advised.
‘I had not realised he had passed. An exceptional man. I met him and his good lady wife on several occasions. My sympathies to the family,’ Malling humbly replied.
‘That’s really just the tip of the iceberg. You see, in the original image, Lady James recognised and confirmed her daughter, beyond a doubt. The “garish coat”, as she called it, was a present from her fiancé … or fiancé to be?’
‘Wealthy individual is he? I expect so by the looks of that coat and considering the stock she comes from,’ Malling blabbed on.
‘Donald. That’s how Lady James referred to him.’
‘Donald? Lucky Donald. Donald who?’ Colonel Malling questioned.
‘Draper,’ Wink answered for Thompson looking at the young spy who duly nodded in affirmation.
‘Donald Draper – you secretive old fox.’ Malling laughed, once more missing the point.
‘That, Colonel, might actually be closer to the truth then you expect,’ Thompson advised.
‘Wait, wait, hold on. What are you suggesting about Donald Draper? He’s a company man through and through. Who’s to say who this Lady James is that you’re convincing us of –’ Malling retracted, his stupidity catching up with him.
‘Again, a good question, sir. I have her under my guard at the Department. If you have met her, sir, do you think you would be able to recognise her voice?’
Wink Waverley was already on the phone, obtaining a secure line. As she replaced the handset, a large red button lit up at its base. She snatched the handset and turned her back to the men. Several seconds of curt nodding and she revolved back to face them.
‘That discussion will have to wait, gentlemen. Credible sightings of a Luftwaffe party heading towards the Channel. We have to bunker down.’
Malling acknowledged the order immediately and opened a door to the right of the room, which Thompson had not seen before. It led directly to a cavernous concrete corridor that was lit with industrial lighting and an abundance of cables suspended below.
‘Your chance to see the Protocols first hand,’ Wink advised him.
*****
Belle was soaked to the bone. Her teeth were chattering, and her lips turning blue. The incessant rain forced her to take refuge wherever she could find it. Two hours of walking as fast as she could had exhausted her. The streets were deserted. The storm and ominous foreboding of an enemy attack found her isolated with her map as a guide to get to Whitehall. The sky was so dark now it could have been mistaken for nightfall but it was only mid-afternoon. The bright red of a telephone box shone like a beacon in the near distance. It was the first one she had seen since her rapid retreat from the station.
On entering, she sighed a relief for the shelter from the storm. She had memorised the number Thompson had provided her, in case of any emergencies. She steadied her shaking hands, still numb from the cold, and rotated the dial. It took all her efforts now as she just managed to complete the six-digit code. The pips went and her heart sank as she realised she did not have any coins to enter. She slumped into the corner sobbing through exhaustion. Sitting there with the handset loosely held within her hand swaying back and forth as her eyes began to tire, she was almost a
sleep when the distant sound of a voice awoke her.
‘Welcome to Fortnum’s. Please, dial the extension of the department you are after. One for Millinery, two for Gentlemen’s outfitting, three …’ the message continued.
‘Hello, is anyone there, hello?’ Belle called down the phone.
‘Five for Haberdashery … six … ’ the message continued.
‘No, please, help!’ she shouted.
‘Nine for home-wares, ten for … .’
Tiredness had become her when Thompson’s voice chimed through her thoughts. ‘Department Eleven. Dial for Department Eleven.’
She hooked her index finger into the hole for the number one, spun it full circle, and then repeated the process. The line crackled and then cut off to the intermittent beeps of an engaged tone.
‘No! You stupid, stupid machine. No!’ Belle erupted, hitting the handset against the glass of the booth.
‘Hello? Is anybody there? Hello?’ came the subtle man’s voice.
‘Oh yes, yes. Sorry,’ Belle replied ‘This is Belle Soames. You’ve been expecting my call.’
‘Miss Soames, how can I help?’ he replied.
‘I desperately need to talk to Thompson. I have found a giant piece of the puzzle. Repeat, Belle Soames for Thompson, most important.’
‘Very good, Miss Soames. I will send for you. Thompson is currently sheltering from the imminent air-raid but we will send a car as soon as we can. Are you safe, Miss Soames? You must find shelter. Tell me the number of the booth you are dialling from and stay where you are,’ the man replied.
Belle read out the number on the phone dial with huge relief. She slumped into her corner of the booth as the storm outside raged on. It was dark as pitch. She was wet and shivering but she did not care. She would soon be safe. She rubbed the condensation from the glass with the corner of her sleeve, peered out into the darkness, and there he was again, plastered on a brick wall. It was Lord Kitchener intently pointing his forefinger right back at her. Removing her rain-drenched coat she hung it over the telephone to dry as she took a brief moment to step outside and to reconfirm her theory.
Temporarily she left the shelter of the booth and walked towards the poster. She flashed the torch and confirmed that the eyes of RA were staring directly back at her, covering the eyes of the former officer and his dominant recruitment campaign across the city. In the darkness, they only illuminated to reveal their ominous presence.
Beneath Kitchener’s predominant digit, the word ‘follow’ illuminated in purple-blue alongside his eyes. She moved a few paces to a second poster and that one said ‘obey’. Then a few more paces to another. There must be thousands of them across the breadth of London, she thought to herself as she followed them into an underpass and out of the driving rain. At least the underpass was safer than a phone-box she thought to herself and she could still see it from here for when her car arrived. The violet beam was beginning to flicker and falter. She banged hard on its base to encourage the batteries not to die but it did not work. Her sopping wet hands slipped and lost grip sending it skidding across the rain-sodden pavement. As she scrambled to fetch it in the darkness, the lights dimmed from a black car that pulled up slowly alongside the booth. Belle watched from a distance, hidden in the darkness of the tunnel. The car slowed but did not stop, crawling along the kerb. Belle went to cry out as she saw the window wind down but spied the reflective glint of a cylindrical barrel of a gun ominously appear.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Multiple shots shattered through the glass, sparking against the metalwork and shattering the red phone booth, peppering her suspended coat as it hunched over the phone. As the coat slumped downwards, the car then sped off, without time to witness the lack of a body within it.
Belle crouched into a ball, petrified, hidden in the darkness. As the car sped off in darkness, the wing mirror clipped her elbow, sending her flailing into puddle water and without realising she was there at all. She caught a glint of the man’s spectacles as he sat in the back seat winding his window back up. She had definitely seen him before.
Chapter 51
The raiding party
Le Chat Noir was empty with the exception of the four men, Cecile, and a quarry of cats who hid in their lair far from the precipitous storm outside and flashes of lightning that sent them screeching for cover. Tiny candles in jam jars lit the table where the men sat, reflecting their faces ghoulishly as they huddled in secrecy.
‘Again, Pop,’ Nathaniel asked the giant man to repeat himself.
‘Very simple. When the van arrives, the patients embark and ’ed in here. They usually ’elp the wheelchair men in and at that point I make my presence known to them. I will split off with the driver towards Tink’s. You two,’ Pop continued, nodding towards Gideon and Nathaniel. ‘Deal with him inside ’ere. I will then deal with the other outside there.’
‘Do you expect any trouble from the patients?’ Gideon enquired.
‘By all accounts, they’re likely to help,’ Tink added. ‘We need them on-board for part two.’ Tinker then pulled out a large box with holes drilled in the side and passed it to Pop.
‘They’re so she can breathe.’ Tink pointed out.
‘Just make sure you point your torch in his face,’ Pop ordered him.
As the plans were finalised a large deep rumbling penetrated the mossy cobbles of the Steep outside and shook the café’s foundations. A jam jar toppled, spilling its tiny waxy candle onto the table. Nathaniel Noone was quick to painlessly quash it with one of his scarred hands.
‘That’s not thunder. Not as we know it,’ Gideon confirmed, stepping out of the Le Chat Noir.
Three doorbell chimes followed him as Nathaniel, Pop, and Tinker alighted from Cecile’s and looked towards the heavens. The voluminous black clouds fired silver bullets of rain at them as they struggled to see through the darkness.
‘There.’ Noone pointed to the skies. ‘It’s a raiding party.’
Through the cloud break, the rare sight of that evening’s crescent moon caught the tail of an aircraft and its ominous squat black cross. Occasionally, a beam would be directed downwards as if the aeroplanes were searching for targets and the storm was hindering progress.
‘I ain’t never seen them over these parts,’ Pop added.
‘They must be heading to London.’ Tink turned, looking to Gideon.
‘Let’s just to stick to our plan. We cannot concern ourselves with matters beyond our control,’ Gideon advised them all as they took up their positions.
‘This is not a drill! Repeat, this is not a drill,’ came Wilson Bott’s voice through a crackling static public address system. For the first time since war had broken out, the Sheriff was called into action to evacuate the streets of Ambledown. The danger had passed but nevertheless, remnants of the WI continued through gusts, rain, and the threat of bombing to complete their tasks.
*****
‘Do you hear that?’ Aggie mumbled to Eric. ‘They’re enemy planes.’
Eric, who had been fighting the gag with his tongue, just managed to release the cloth beneath his chin and took in a huge breath.
‘You’re joking! Ow’s my luck!’ he moaned.
‘Shhhhhhhh!’ Aggie continued to mumble.
With renewed vigour, Eric Peabody slid onto his side and with the energy of a landed conger eel, violently moved himself across the room and behind Aggie. Forcing the weight of his body onto hers, he started gnawing at her gag until finally it loosened and she was able to breathe easily and converse normally.
‘If Dove hears us, you’re dead,’ she whispered to him.
‘We’re both dead if we don’t get outta here,’ Eric volleyed back before continuing to gnaw behind her neck.
‘Eric, what are you doing? I can breathe now,’ Aggie asked.
Eric who now had the chain from her necklace between his teeth was awkwardly trying to manipulate it over her neck.
‘If we can hang your necklace outside, the moon will
light it up like a beacon. Someone will find us,’ he explained.
‘During an air-raid? I doubt it. And if Dove sees it first?’ Aggie questioned.
‘We’re bleedin’ dead. If she sees it first, I will be for sure. Either way, Aggie, we’re gonna die so we gotta try. I’m all ears if you have a better plan.’
Aggie had no response, Eric was right, she couldn’t see an easy way out of this either. She bent forward and wriggled in unison as Eric carefully lifted the silver chain and its magnifying glass from around her neck. Placing it between his teeth, he carefully looped it over the brass knob of the tiny rectangle window and allowed it to suspend in the alleyway outside. The storm clouds were unrelenting. Afternoon had moved into evening and the crescent moon could not penetrate through the darkness, let alone cast light into the alleyway, as the overcast shadows blanketed Ambledown, London, and the country beyond.
*****
Through concrete corridors, stairways, and suspended electrical cabling, Thompson followed Wink Waverley and Colonel Malling into a subterranean network buzzing with strategists, analysts, and many of Whitehall’s finest. There were many personnel but fewer than usual due to the recent request to guard all the protocol locations.
‘We’re one hundred feet underground and this concrete is four-foot thick,’ Malling boasted slapping a wall. ‘We’ll be safe down here.’
Moving past rooms with maps and model battleships, to rooms of men in heated strategic debate, they came to a room with frosted glass that Malling entered through. It was cavernous and far larger than Thompson had imagined.
At its centre was a huge magnified map of the City of London stretching into the home counties and beyond. Banks of desks covered in telephony exchanges with operators sporting headsets sat relaying messages inwards and outwards on their secure wire network.
‘The Protocols,’ Wink announced, moving towards the map.
