by H. B. Lyle
So said Holmes.
Wiggins squinted down Oxford Street, checked the corners at Berners and Wardour. Milton loomed large in his mind – poor, club-footed Milton. And the sisters, too, Mavis and the little one – what of them? Kell had urged him not to blame himself; Milton had died through his own treachery. And yet … A pair of sailors sauntered past, bright neck tattoos on show. Wiggins leant down and handed his evening newspaper to a ragged child. ‘Back of the Metropole Hotel, they’ll give you ha’penny for it.’
The child took the paper. ‘Ponce,’ he said, and ran off.
Wiggins smiled as the boy stopped at a safe distance and folded the paper carefully under his arm.
‘Always with the newspapers. Why?’ Peter said from the sweet-shop doorway.
‘Information.’
‘Huh! Does fish seek information from fisherman? Foxes from hounds?’
They resumed their walk down the clogged street as Peter went on. ‘Look at all these fools, buying, buying, buying – a fever. Happy life cannot be bought off shelf, wrapped in paper bag.’
‘What are we doing here then?’ Wiggins pointed to the sweet bags Peter had just bought.
Peter laughed. ‘I am human, it is true. I love sweets.’ He thrust an open bag at Wiggins.
‘H, H!’ Wiggins whipped round at the voice. ‘Over here.’
‘Emily?’ Bill’s widow, Emily Tyler, was suddenly before them. She stood arm in arm with a tall, barrel-chested older man.
‘I can’t believe it, here on Oxford Street.’ She smiled.
Wiggins grinned tightly at Emily and avoided Peter’s eye.
‘I thought you might have come. After. I wanted you to,’ Emily went on.
Wiggins glanced at her companion.
‘We’re going to John Lewis,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t you visit?’
‘I couldn’t,’ he said at last.
‘Sorry, this is Robert. Robert, H.’
Wiggins looked Robert up and down and nodded slowly.
Robert frowned. ‘Have we met?’
Emily placed a hand on his arm. ‘Won’t you come to see me, H? Here’s my new address.’
Wiggins looked down at the card in astonishment. ‘Are you marrying again, already?’ He stopped himself saying anything more. Peter sucked so hard on his sweet that Wiggins could hear. Robert was a copper – and like Wiggins, Peter knew police when he saw it.
‘Sorry, Em, I got to go. Be happy.’
He turned, pulling Peter by the arm.
‘H?’ she called after him.
Wiggins and Peter carried on towards the park. He barged his way through the crowds – the women in their dresses and straw hats, the men with hands tucked into waistcoats, elbows jutted. Seeing Emily, her face full and well fed, her clothes neatly pressed and a new man on her arm, enraged him. So soon. Bill not in the ground six months. Would no one honour his name?
Peter plucked at his arm. ‘Down here.’ He pointed to a side street just before the park. ‘Good friends?’ he asked
Wiggins took a breath. Peter’s hand was on his shoulder now. Not altogether friendly. It didn’t do to have pals in the police, not where Peter came from.
‘She was an old friend.’ Wiggins forced a grin. ‘I had her a few times. She was tasty once. Him, I don’t know. Her bloke, I guess. A rozzer.’
‘Yes, I think so.’ Peter nodded. ‘This is kind of policeman I don’t like. Alive.’ They walked on for a few moments. ‘But I understand. We cannot control old loves. It is not always nice to meet girls we used to know. Would you like an Unclaimed Baby?’ He held up a baby-shaped sweet. ‘I like to bite head off first,’ he said, then did so.
‘Don’t go too deep.’
‘Why?’
‘If you are in middle, you can do nothing,’ Peter said as they crossed Park Lane. They were on their way to a demonstration.
A great mob horseshoed Speakers’ Corner. Key chains jangled, heavyset men sighed and mopped their brows. Wiggins strained to hear. Trade-union rights, better pay, holidays, the usual. The speaker was from the Socialist Party, but over the last few weeks he’d heard a Labour Party speaker, a Communist, trade unionists and various self-proclaimed revolutionary anarchists. They all banged on about the same things, with varying degrees of anger. Not that he disagreed with what they said, it was just cloud-cuckoo in his experience. What employer’s going to give the workers two weeks off a year? There’s plenty of people out of work who want in, Wiggins knew, and so the bosses always get to choose.
‘They are scared of police,’ Peter said. ‘But there is no need to be afraid, they don’t have guns. So we come here, we help, we show people how to fight.’
Wiggins eyed the ranks of bobbies lining the park.
‘The police hate us. They are paid by the government, they hate anything that threatens change,’ Peter went on. They jostled through the demonstrators, keeping Park Lane to their right as they moved forward.
‘Where are the others?’ Wiggins looked around.
‘Ha! Don’t worry.’
A new speaker ascended the small stage. He made some crack about Eton boys running the government like a school canteen. Laughter broke out, verging on hysteria, like a booze-soaked music hall halfway through the last house. Wiggins glanced again at the police cordon. ‘Did your lot shoot that copper up Tottenham way?’
Peter shrugged.
‘Arlekin probably, I don’t know. There are many plans. We need money to do our work. Arlekin directs us.’
The crowd surged forward. Wiggins held his breath. ‘What’s he like?’ he tried, thinking of the boot marks in the cottage.
Peter grinned. ‘You will see, my friend, soon. You are like hungry bear.’
Wiggins pushed up on his tiptoes and glanced back. Flags and banners fluttered like sails, red and yellow, bearing pictures of hammers and miners and mills and a star or cross, even a steam train.
‘Where’s our banner?’
Peter smiled but said nothing.
‘What do the red stars mean?’ Wiggins probed, emboldened by the crowd.
Peter nodded. ‘The star can be symbol. A movement, a brother hood. But don’t ask Yakov. Too many questions, he’ll stab you in your liver.’
‘He owes me, cos of Mikhail.’
‘Sure, but you never heard of an unpaid debt?’ Peter shook his head. ‘You, a bailiff.’
But I believe in paying my debts, Wiggins did not say. He thought of Bill lying dead on the hard frozen earth of Tottenham. Arlekin must be the mastermind behind the Tottenham job. Peter, he knew, dabbled in more than demonstrations – you don’t carry a Mauser for nothing. But Peter took his orders from Arlekin. Even when Yakov, Peter and the others spoke in Russian, Wiggins could hear the respect in their voices, the reverence for this man Arlekin. He was the man Wiggins had to find. And kill.
He’d killed men before, on the battlefield, in fear and anger and confusion. And then there was the other thing. It was a different matter with time on his hands and nerves and calculation. But death had stalked him all his life. And if he couldn’t kill for Bill, what could he do?
‘Look at them. British,’ Peter sneered. ‘How well behaved you are. Your government bleeds you dry for order and Empire, and no one creates trouble, no one fights, in name also of order. Workers die in factories, poisoned or maimed, servants wait on masters for little more than a meal. My friend Nikolai, he is mad now because of where he worked. And yet, everyone accepts.’
Wiggins said nothing as the Russian went on. ‘Powerful men will always hold on to power and call it by any name they can – order, history, country – anything but chaos, they say. But it is power they want. All their silly schools and their silly games.’
‘Don’t knock cricket,’ Wiggins said.
‘I do not know this game, so maybe I am wrong, but for rest I speak truly. You British can fight but only for order. You don’t fight real enemies – you fight poor in India, in Africa, everywhere. You need to fight at home. Look.’ He swept
his hand towards the growing numbers of policemen. ‘Back home, we don’t fight because they shoot us, but your police have no guns. That is why we are here. This is what Arlekin wants. Me, Yakov, this is what we do.’
‘So more of us should be like Yakov?’
Peter snorted. ‘Bloody British. Never serious. You people rule world.’ He shook his head.
‘Where is Yakov anyway?’
‘He is near,’ Peter said. ‘Stay close.’ The crowd moved again and the atmosphere shifted. The police linked arms. A shout rang out, then another, and soon the mob swayed.
‘Now!’ Peter broke clear and ran towards the police. He flung a stone at the line. Then Yakov appeared from the throng and threw a brick. More Russians emerged to fling missiles at the police. Yakov showed himself again, carrying a flaming bottle. He tossed it into the uniformed line. As the cops split apart, the bottle smashed in a stunning fireball. Wiggins saw shock, fear, then rage in the faces of the policemen.
They held for a moment, and then in a single charge they broke towards the rabble, truncheons drawn. Wiggins drove his fist into the face of the first copper he encountered, who was bearing down on Peter. A battle of fists and boots, of stray rocks and flagpoles, ensued. The peal of panicked police whistles broke the air. Wiggins felt his blood pump fast and, despite fighting the police, his heart surged in excitement and a strange kind of release. He took a strike to his arm and a kick to the shins but he felt ten years younger. All around him ragged, malnourished demonstrators fought with all they had. One swung a discarded police helmet around his head, a makeshift mace.
Wiggins saw Yakov gesture at Peter.
‘Come.’ Peter grabbed Wiggins by the arm. ‘We must go. Horses will be here soon. Our work is done.’
Five of them – Wiggins, Yakov, Peter and two others – ran across Park Lane and through Mayfair towards Curzon Street. Peter laughed as they slowed down, out of view. ‘Ura!’ he shouted, and then turned to Wiggins. ‘Success.’
‘What was in that bottle?’
‘Vodka.’
‘Smart.’
‘Yakov’s,’ Peter said as they hurried towards Shepherd Market. ‘When you have chaos in your heart, you can create chaos around you.’
A shrill whistle cut through the air. Up ahead, a phalanx of policemen appeared. They spread out across the street as they grew closer, reinforcements destined for Hyde Park.
Wiggins gestured to an alley on the right. ‘Cut down there, quick. It’ll take you to Green Park.’
Yakov and his friends jumped to it but Peter hesitated as the police approached. ‘I’ll be all right,’ Wiggins shouted. ‘I’m ex-army. Run.’
Peter grinned. ‘Sambrook Street, when you’re out. Arlekin will thank you. We have plans.’
‘Go.’ Wiggins charged at the police, roaring.
As he plunged into the coppers, throwing punches with abandon, he knew he was one step closer to the man behind Bill’s death.
‘Anything new?’
‘A minor riot in Hyde Park yesterday afternoon.’ Russell jumped up from his desk. ‘But that’s only a rumour.’
‘Not that – I meant, any calls?’ Kell snapped.
‘Nothing, sir. Are we expecting news? Will we redeploy?’
Kell glared at the fool before him but did not reply. He slammed the door and dropped into his chair. The vehicle-registration people had failed to get back to him. It was all very well legislating a system of registration – the fuss it had kicked up at the time, he remembered, the attack on freedom – but if no one could find the files, then what was the point? Freedom reigned through incompetence. The story of the British Empire, he thought as he regarded a new pile of memoranda.
‘When will we hear news of German activity?’ ‘Where is the proof?’ ‘Cabinet loath to commit money.’ ‘Anxious to see progress.’ The phrases repeated until Kell spotted a new one. ‘Many other officers willing to undertake such work, if it is deemed necessary.’ If it wasn’t bad enough to be run off the road and have his house under police guard, they were now threatening him with the sack. And all because he couldn’t find an enemy to justify increasing the resources – resources needed to find and root out that very enemy in the first place. He threw the papers down in exasperation.
‘I’m going out,’ he growled as he left the office.
‘Where, sir? Perhaps I can help,’ Russell called out, but Kell had already gone.
‘I’m interested in taking a set for the summer.’
‘Indeed, sir. Always nice to meet a new gentleman. Unmarried, I take it?’
Kell nodded.
‘It is one of our more, er, popular rules, you understand?’ the commissionaire lisped. ‘Have you visited the Albany before, sir?’
‘How many sets do you have empty?’
‘Just the three at present, two on the ground and one on the second floor.’
‘Show me the second, if you could.’
‘As you wish, sir.’ The commissionaire disappeared into a back office and returned with a huge garland of black keys. He gestured for Kell to follow him up the stairs. Kell covered his nose as they did so, for the commissionaire let out small gusts of wind from his gigantic backside with each step.
‘What of the neighbours on this corridor – who lives here?’ Kell pointed. He guessed, from Wiggins’s description of the window, that the set they were looking for was two down from the door the commissionaire now opened.
‘Ah well, sir, I can’t give you names, I’m afraid – we pride ourselves here at the Albany on our discretion. The gentlemen like to feel they can retain their privacy. This is not a club after all, sir, this is an apartment block.’
‘Quite,’ Kell muttered as they stepped into an empty sitting room. ‘I meant purely the kind of people, you understand? What one might expect from those either side?’ He wandered over to the large sash windows and peered down into the courtyard.
‘A careful man, I see that, sir, and wise. This set is distinguished by nobility on one side, and the City on the other.’ The commissionaire gestured with his head each way.
‘And beyond that?’
‘Over there is a musical gentleman, puts on concerts and the like – very high class, so I’m led to believe.’
‘Oh no,’ Kell groaned theatrically. ‘I can’t abide noise. Especially music.’
‘Don’t worry yourself on that account, sir, for he does not play. He is the organiser, the promoter of concerts, not a musician. And he is often away on the Continent and such. He is in Brussels as we speak, I believe, and not due back until Monday.’
Kell looked out of the window once more. ‘I suppose when one lives in London, one must put up with all sorts. What should I do if I want to take them?’
‘You must write to the committee, sir, with references and the like, care of here.’
‘I will think on it. I once knew a chap who ran an orchestra and said he lived here, I wonder is it him? Very big man, enormous hands.’
‘Not him, sir, no indeed. The monsieur is a fine, delicate fellow.’
Kell raced back to his office. Ignoring Russell, he squeezed the door shut, wound the telephone and shouted into the horn: ‘Get me the classified desk at the Evening Star.’ He rat-tatted his hand on the desk – they had him! The music promoter must be the gentleman Wiggins saw in the car with Milton’s killer; he matched the description. And he wasn’t home until Monday, time enough to gather evidence, to break—
The door burst open and Ewart strode in.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ He waved a piece of paper in Kell’s direction. ‘A message from Scotland Yard.’
Kell stood up. ‘Sir?’
‘You’re bringing shame on the department, Captain Kell.’ Ewart didn’t hide his irritation. ‘First some cock and bull story about a road accident in Hampshire, then a new body in the Thames and now this?’
‘What, sir? The body I’ve explained. If anything, it shows the efficacy of our work, not—’
�
�You are skating on ice, thin, thin ice. The Commissioner is hounding me for more information on the body – he thinks it’s some lower-class robbery, so the devil knows why you’re interested – and now there’s trouble at Curzon Street Police Station which is apparently connected with you.’
‘Curzon Street?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Russell appeared at Ewart’s elbow. ‘A call from the Deputy Commissioner came through. I did try to tell you, but you said you were busy.’
‘Luckily Russell had the presence of mind to put it through to me. Where’s my German intelligence, Kell? I want hard facts, not flimflam – did you follow up on the note about the cyclist?’
‘An academic, sir, cursing in German to avoid offence – not, I think, a spy.’
‘I’m not sure how much I care for what you think, Captain. Russell, how about you?’
‘Well, er, perhaps on this occasion Captain Kell has a point, sir.’
Ewart tossed the note on the desk. ‘Very well. But you’re hanging by a thread, Captain. This can’t go on for ever. The Ministry is full of able men.’
When he was gone, Kell glared at Russell. ‘Thank you for your unqualified support, Lieutenant.’
‘What’s happening at Curzon Street, sir, is it an operation?’
Kell swiped the telephone message from the desk. ‘How the hell should I know?’
‘You came in the back?’
‘Why did I have to?’
‘I don’t want to blow my cover.’
‘You called me, remember.’ Kell looked for a place to sit but there was none. Wiggins sat hunched on the police-cell bunk, gently touching a blossoming black eye. ‘What happened?’
‘Best not say.’ Wiggins coughed. ‘I need you to get me out.’
‘Is that the only reason?’
To Kell’s surprise, Wiggins laughed. ‘There speaks a man who’s never been in stir. We’re doing all right.’
‘You think? I have two agents dead, a policeman on my doorstep and my only agent in the field’s in a police cell. I’m about to lose my job, at best, and at worst some unknown foe will attack me and my wife.’
