by H. B. Lyle
‘Gotcha!’ Bane gripped him by the upper arm and pinched hard.
Wiggins struggled and kicked but Bane dragged him away. ‘Ever so sorry to disturb, gentlemen. This evil boy has run away.’
‘Where from?’ the tall man asked.
‘St Cyprian’s, sir. He’s too stupid to know it’s just around the corner. Now, Wiggins, the Master is par-tic-u-lar keen to see you. ’E was ever so de-stressed at your absconding.’
Wiggins fought uselessly as Bane hauled him across and down the street. He looked up once, and saw the tall thin man gazing after him. Over his head, in the glass above the door, Wiggins could just make out the number: 221B.
‘He must have fallen, sir. There are no marks.’
Sixsmith’s body lay crumpled at the bottom of a dry dock.
‘Let me see,’ Kell said. From the vantage point at the top of the dock, Sixsmith was little more than a punctuation mark on a blank page.
‘It’s a good sixty feet, at least,’ the inspector said.
More, Kell thought, as they climbed into the great gouge mark in the docks. Many a huge ship had started here, slipped into the sea. And now here was Sixsmith’s body, like a wind-blown piece of confetti left after the grand depart.
‘The coroner’s been called, of course. But it looks like a broken neck – it’s a death trap this place. They’s always losing men down here, when there’s a job on.’
‘But there is no job on now.’
‘No. He hasn’t been robbed, though, sir. Wallet, money. Latchkey – it’s all there.’
‘Anything else in his pockets? Documents, letters?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Inspector!’ The word echoed around them. They craned their necks to see a constable hallowing them from above. ‘There’s a witness.’
It was dark by the time they made the Eight Bells.
‘As I told the constable,’ the excited publican said, ‘I saw a man matching that description drinking here last night.’
‘Fair hair, slight?’ Kell asked. He had to raise his voice over the hubbub of the bar.
‘He was hitting the bottle something fearful. Now can I get you anything yourselves, gents? Inspector?’ The publican grinned.
‘Not while I’m on duty, Jack.’ The inspector glanced at Kell. ‘Would you say he was the worse for wear?’
‘Up the pole, he was. A little fellow like him, wouldn’t take much. Rum, sir? Keep out this mizzle.’
Kell clicked his tongue. ‘Did he drink alone?’
‘Yes. No, hold up. There was a bloke he came in with, maybe. It were full, rammed here. Big fella, stank of Christmas.’
‘Christmas?’
‘Like an orange. If that was him. Had an Adam’s apple as big my fist. But I can’t say they drank together, as such, sir. I couldn’t swear to that. But he left alone, I know that. Lilting so he was. A half-pint pot, sir?’
‘I think it’s pretty clear, sir,’ the inspector said as he and Kell walked back to the Grand Hotel. ‘Your man, Sixsmith. Got blind drunk, stumbled out onto the quay – perhaps he wanted to go back to the office, collect something he’d forgotten – and fell into the dock. It’s not as uncommon as you might think, not around here. I’ve seen it before and I’ll see it again.’
Kell said nothing. It didn’t fit. Sixsmith wasn’t a drinker, for one thing. And it was uncommon. How many other counter-intelligence officers fell to their deaths in such circumstances?
‘Thank you for your help, Inspector,’ Kell cut him off. ‘It seems your theory fits all the facts. I will ask you to keep investigating, however. Let me know if there is any further mention of the tall man with the Adam’s apple. I will show your final report to the Minister.’
‘The Minister?’
‘Yes. I trust you’ll do a good and thorough job? And now I must find my driver and get back to London.’
Kell had nothing to gain by staying longer. As with Leyton’s body, there wouldn’t be any more evidence. Unless someone came forward who saw the deed, Sixsmith’s demise would be recorded as accidental death.
The driver sat slouched in the hotel lobby, an air of mutual mistrust hanging between him and the concierge. Kell flicked his head at the door.
‘To Whitehall. Oh, and take the Petersfield road – it should be quicker.’
The driver nodded.
Kell wrapped a muffler around his neck and cursed the day he sent Sixsmith to Portsmouth. He cursed the cold wind whistling through the motor’s cab. And he cursed the Austin’s stinking engine, filling his nostrils with the smell of petrol and burning grease. The car rattled and coughed out of town and hurtled northwards into the night. Kell massaged his temples. Leyton murdered, Sixsmith too most likely, and he had nothing to go on, no clues. Why had Sixsmith called? There was nothing of note in his digs, nothing at the yard. And what was it Leyton had discovered at Woolwich? What could he do?
These questions crowded in on Kell as the car engine roared. The faint lights of a small town prickled the darkness up ahead. ‘That’s Petersfield,’ Kell shouted. ‘Open her out, can you? I can’t stomach much more of the countryside.’
They flew down a wide high street, asleep and poorly lit, and then back into blackness. Kell pulled the driving blanket up to his throat, closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander once more.
Someone kicked him in the back. Twice, three times. He jolted awake. ‘What the hell was that?’
The car swerved wildly and the driver shouted, ‘Sir! Sir!’
Kell swivelled as the car lurched. Behind them, a black van was pressed up against the back of the car, forcing Kell to his knees, a dark shape bearing down. ‘Hurry, man,’ he called to the driver.
His hand felt his hip on instinct but of course he was unarmed. It was bloody Hampshire, for Christ’s sake. The van crunched against them once more and the car leapt forward, spurred by the bump. ‘We can distance them,’ Kell cried. He opened his door and hung out the side, pretending to draw a gun, anything to put the van off the chase.
‘A hill,’ the driver gasped. The car kicked against a slope. The van’s lights fell away.
‘We can make it.’ Kell glanced forward. The car’s headlights flashed and flailed into the night, the engine at its limit. But then it whined horribly and began to splutter.
The driver cursed. Foul smoke bubbled from the engine. Kell glanced back, then the car kicked into life again. They swerved left and right, the car rattling. The van gained on them – as if suddenly lighter. Kell, hanging from the door, watched in horror as it came alongside and swerved into the back of their car. As it did so, the road twisted violently to the right, around the cusp of a hill.
For an instant, Kell saw two grinning spectres in the cab of the van.
And then the car flew off the road into blackness.
‘You only got to Baker Street?’ Sal said for the umpteenth time.
‘I didn’t know,’ Wiggins groaned. He lay beneath the bed on his stomach, Sally by his side. The other boys left them alone; they’d heard the beating Wiggins took. It had been the third one that week, his back, arse and legs throbbed. And yet the Master still didn’t seem satisfied. It didn’t seem like he’d ever be satisfied.
Since his recapture, Wiggins had drawn a mental picture of the surrounding area. One of the other boys had a penny map and let Wiggins pore over it obsessively. He memorised everything he could. The tall man had told him to know London and know it he would. Wiggins clung on to an image of the man’s face, not kindly exactly, but not cruel either. Trustworthy. The man had liked the trick with the chalky boots, just like Doc Rogers at the bone shop – always chalky boots when he came back from visiting his sister. Wiggins remembered things like that, details.
He remembered anyone who gave him a tanner, too. Wiggins had stuffed it in his mouth the minute Bane nabbed him. Now it nestled in his pocket. Something to hold on to.
‘I’m gonna run again, Sal,’ he said quietly. ‘I can’t stay.’
Sal nodded, a
filthy red curl falling across her face. ‘Wait for coal day,’ she said. ‘I’ll run a dodge.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Just be ready – coal day, remember.’
This time Wiggins knew where he was going. A boy had told him about the empty railway sidings up past Paddington Station. The map was in his head now, he’d remembered its every cut and cross, all the street names. He’d hated his mother for teaching him to read, but now he realised what power it gave him; he could see a way clear, on the pages of a map. He wouldn’t be nabbed again.
Coal day arrived and still Sal hadn’t told him the dodge.
‘Be ready, is all, by the doorway there.’
The Master had most of them arraigned in the classroom, as usual, although no learning took place. He would walk up and down in silence, examining each of the boys in turn. You weren’t allowed to move. Every now and then he smiled, and that was worst of all. You knew you were in for a beating then. In the dorm, Bane was supervising the ‘cleaning’. This involved kicking and cuffing the boys as they scrubbed the grime-encrusted floorboards and walls and windows. Sal was in the dorm while Wiggins tried to avoid the Master’s eye in the classroom.
Wiggins sat perfectly still. Only the muscles in his calves twitched. Bane’s voice tailed off in the background. In the silence, Wiggins heard the great creak of the coal-hole cover opening. The Master heard the coalman too and went out to speak to him. At that moment, Bane let out a great scream that echoed throughout the building.
‘Master!’ he shouted. ‘Master.’
The boys scuttled to the classroom door in time to see the Master rush past. ‘What is it now, Bane?’ he called as he loped along the corridor.
This was his chance. Wiggins shot through the door. From behind him, he heard the Master cry out in horror.
‘A girl?’
Wiggins scuttled past the kindly coalman.
‘Go on my son,’ the black-faced titan cried.
He made the street and tore right up Marylebone Road, then left and right again. He took tiny backstreets and alleyways, dived under wheeling cabs, risked a horseshoeing, all to make good his escape, to find the sanctuary of the train station. Finally, he gathered the courage to look behind him. No one had followed, not the Master, not Bane. Sally had revealed her secret. She had saved him.
‘Is he all right?’
‘Broken bones, but alive.’
‘Thank God for that, Russell. We’re in trouble. Have you left word for Jones?’
‘We still can’t reach him, sir. Should I go to Harwich myself?’
Kell sat back in his chair and ran his hands across the desk. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Give me a moment, please.’
The driver had survived the crash. Kell, hanging from the door, had been thrown clear and had come to in a mulberry bush. Their attackers hadn’t lingered but it took Kell an hour to find help. He’d left the driver with a local quack, commandeered a police car, and taken a train from Petersfield back to Waterloo. Now, mid-morning, he was facing an entirely new fate.
He was a target. The service was a target. Someone was trying to clear up the whole lot, even him. He’d have to speak to Sir Edward, organise a police guard. Humiliating enough, but not as bad as being attacked, being at war, and not even knowing the enemy.
‘Sir.’ Russell poked his head round the door. ‘An urgent telephone call.’
‘What about?’
‘It’s the Hampstead police, sir. It’s about your wife.’
6
‘I never want to see you again.’
‘Won’t you miss me?’
The warden grunted. He turned away from the counter and went off in search of the few possessions Wiggins had on him when he was arrested. Wiggins felt like a seven-year-old once more. Prison did that to you.
After he’d escaped St Cyprian’s, thanks to Sally, he had taken his tanner and his new-found knowledge of the area and raced up to the railway lines at Paddington. He’d lit on a deserted archway and made a camp for himself. That first night, as he picked at a rotting orange he’d scavenged from the gutter, young Wiggins listened out for the trains, rattling to and from the station. At some point, when the night was at its blackest, they stopped.
The next morning, alone, he ventured out and bought a penny bun for breakfast. The station concourse teemed with people. Wiggins scooped up a mislaid shawl, a half-eaten chicken pie and five par-smoked cigarettes. He realised that no one saw him, that if he were careful he could ghost through the day without attracting any attention, feeding on the flotsam and jetsam of London’s traffic. But he wanted one man to notice.
Wiggins still had nothing to his name, he reflected, as he regarded his scant belongings in the warden’s box. No job, no home and now an ex-con to boot.
The warden placed the lonely objects on the counter with an unhurried grace quite at odds with his lumbering gait and red-faced panting.
‘You’ve got card-sharp hands and no mistake, Mr Potts.’ Wiggins nodded. ‘Were you once in Monte Carlo? Or perhaps the penny game at Margate?’
‘I can still have you up before the governor,’ Mr Potts nodded gravely. He passed Wiggins a pencil and a sheet of paper. ‘Sign here.’
Wiggins mentally checked off each item. A shilling. Check. A British Library ticket. Check. Notebook. Check. A red enamelled eight-pointed star with gold trim, origin unknown. Previous owner presumed to be one Jacob Lepidus, deceased. Check. A battered gold, oft-pawned pocket watch that loses two minutes a day. From the Doctor. Check. And one business card, crumpled and water-damaged but the number still legible: Kell, Whitehall 412. White’s.
‘Ta-ra, Mr Potts.’ Wiggins grinned. ‘Stay away from those tables.’
‘I never play for money,’ the warder called after him.
Wiggins pulled his cap close over his eyes and strode down Brixton Hill. Pale sun bounced off puddles, the London planes rustled green despite the grime. Wiggins took a left and worked his way through the urban cottages and ugly new terraces of south Stockwell. Every now and then he pulled Kell’s card from his pocket. He’d known good officers and bad in the army, been demoted by some of the good ones and promoted by the bad – the rank made no difference to him, only the pay. Kell had an air of competence, but then this was the easy part; all those Sandhurst-trained haw-haws had the confidence, the expectation, of command. What they didn’t have was the brains to go with it, nor even the common sense or animal cunning to realise their own limitations, or the wisdom of their subordinates.
At the approach of the river near Battersea he cut down a small cul-de-sac of railway cottages, cloaked by the billowing smoke of a matchstick factory. A wall ran directly across the end of the road. Sulphur caught in his nose, an acrid tang wafting over the smoke, but he didn’t hesitate. Keeping his pace even and quick but not hurried, he stepped into the front garden of the final house, took two long strides and pushed up off the window sill. He leapt onto the wall and easily hauled himself over and onto the grass verge beyond.
A scrub embankment rose up to meet the train tracks. He hustled along, ducking slightly as a train neared on its way into town. Glancing up, he could see the passengers crammed against the windows, swaying. Wiggins made his way to the huge splayed tangle of tracks at the junction south of Nine Elms. He checked his watch. Unless the timetables had changed in the last six months, he’d be fine. He sat beside a large bush, a major signal fifty yards up the line, and waited.
After a number of expresses screamed over the points en route to London, a slithering train of six carriages rolled slowly from the other direction and came to a halt at the signal. Wiggins stepped out, glanced towards the guard’s van, then pulled himself up onto the footplate. He opened a door to one of the compartments and climbed in.
‘Morning, madam.’ He tipped his hat to the only occupant of the compartment, an old woman dressed in a pile of coats. Wiggins sat down opposite. Their compartment had a door on each side, but no connecting corridor, along with the rest of
first class.
The woman frowned. ‘This is the eight-thirteen to Shoreham-by-Sea, isn’t it? The express?’ she said eventually, eyeing the window.
‘I hope so, madam.’
The train lurched into life and within minutes they found themselves steaming southwards. Wiggins checked his watch again, nodded and closed his eyes for a snooze.
An hour or so later, the train slowed to a stop in the middle of nowhere. Trees and foliage filled the view on either side. Wiggins snapped open his watch, checked in both directions, then quickly pushed open the door.
He tipped his cap once more. ‘Cheerio, madam.’
‘Wait, young man. I’ll need your help with my luggage.’ The woman gestured to a large case on the overhead rack.
Wiggins hesitated. ‘But this isn’t Shoreham.’
The woman looked at him as if he were the greatest fool in Sussex. ‘This is the non-stop?’
‘Believe me, madam, you don’t want to get off here.’
Wiggins dropped to the ground and waited for the signals to change. The old lady peered down at him, puzzled and also, he thought, secretly excited. She had a glint in her eye and at least an hour’s worth of scandalised anecdote to share over lunch.
The train left him as he pushed through the tangle of undergrowth and out into the open fields. He’d made the walk before – westward from the points – and each time something about the emptiness of the countryside unnerved him. Nevertheless, after forty minutes of hard hiking he approached a small, well-appointed cottage. He slowed as he reached the wild blackberry bushes that protected the cottage’s rectangular garden. Picking a hidden spot proved easy, and he settled down to observe for a few minutes.
Wiggins had first waited for him twenty-six years ago, though he didn’t know his name then, only his address. In the days after his escape from St Cyprian’s, Wiggins – keeping an eye out for Bane – had stood watch on 221B Baker Street and hoped for another tanner from the tall man.
‘Got another test for me, mister? Anything you want for a tanner?’ Wiggins jumped out at him one morning.
