In Camera

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘There’s something else,’ Sheila said. ‘Wooden. A round box.’

  ‘The top of a small keg of powder,’ Keith said.

  ‘I believe you’re right.’

  Paul cut the stitches. The sheepskin had hardened but they broke it apart. Inside, three objects were wrapped separately in more sheepskin.

  When the last wrappings were forced open, Paul sat back. ‘One flintlock pistol,’ he said disgustedly. ‘I thought they went in pairs. And two fancy sword-hilts. Why only the hilts and not the whole sword?’

  ‘Go on digging,’ Keith told the girls. ‘But you won’t find sword-blades. The Scots didn’t make good blades. They were imported from Soligen by the bundle. But the Czar would probably have ordered good Damascus blades from Spain.’

  ‘But I don’t understand,’ Paul said. ‘Surely a Czar wouldn’t order just one pistol and send his envoy all this way for it. He’d’ve ordered at least one pair, probably more.’

  Deborah was digging with the crowbar. ‘Blame your ancestor,’ she said. ‘If he had a trod after him – a posse – for a fortnight, he and his pals would have wanted to be armed with the best quality pistols they could lay hands on. If there’s anything else here, I can’t find it,’ she said.

  ‘That makes sense,’ Paul said. ‘I wish it didn’t.’

  ‘There’s somebody coming,’ Sheila said.

  Keith dropped his discarded jacket over the ‘arms’.

  A figure stumbled through one of the openings. ‘It’s Ian,’ Deborah cried. ‘Ian, what’s happened to you?’ She hurried towards him, scrambling over the tumbled stones, but stopped suddenly as she realised the state he was in. He had been into a bog over his knees and sweated through the rest of his clothes and he was panting as though he had never breathed before. Blinded by the sweat in his eyes he had stumbled over a rock and skinned his hands and knees.

  Keith helped him to find a seat. ‘Tell us whenever you’re ready,’ he said.

  Ian breathed deeply for a full minute and then, between deep gasps of air, told them in brief the story of their followers and of the ambush. ‘I don’t think he can see here from there,’ he finished, ‘but he might have moved and I couldn’t chance it. I had to come a long way round.’

  Sheila began to shake. ‘He’s come for me,’ she said. ‘God! That woman wasn’t with him?’

  ‘Stay cool,’ Ian said. ‘Dora’s being held and the man’s a good mile off. We won’t let him get you.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Deborah said.

  Paul held out his hand. ‘Give me your radio,’ he said. ‘I’ll climb as high as I can and see if your pals in the Vauxhall aren’t in range yet.’

  Ian handed over his radio. Paul scrambled up to where Keith had sat earlier and then climbed cautiously along and up the crumbling wall. He tried every channel. ‘No good,’ he said at last. ‘Frankly, I reckon your set’s on the blink. I’m not even getting an atmospheric hiss. I’m coming down.’ He descended cautiously.

  ‘We have a problem,’ Keith said. ‘I think we hike out cross-country and go for help, leaving the vehicles to be collected later.’

  ‘No way,’ Paul said. ‘Point one, Ian’s friends in the Vauxhall may be armed but with what? Pistols? If they show up and Munster hears them coming they could walk into an ambush set by a man with an automatic weapon. And, point two, for the first time we know where Munster is. Let him get out from under and there may be no stopping him. We don’t know who his target is, but your country gets visited by a hell of a lot of big shots from all the countries in the world. For Christ’s sake, he could trigger World War Three.’

  Ian nodded.

  ‘Well, all right,’ Keith said. ‘But how?’

  ‘You don’t have that pistol with you,’ Paul said. It was a statement rather than a question.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You picked a hell of a time to stop carrying it. Okay, so we go in unarmed against an armed man. Your cops have been doing it for years.’

  ‘We’re not exactly unarmed,’ Keith said. He lifted the flintlock pistol, pulled out the ramrod and inserted it into the barrel.

  ‘That thing?’

  ‘It’s killed before. And,’ Keith said, ‘it’s still loaded. The tallow in the sheepskin seems to have kept it nicely greased. The flint’s sharp and well set. But the only ball we have for it is still up the spout.’ He searched his pockets and found a paperclip with which he probed the touch-hole. ‘The powder seems dry enough. Of course, I’ve only got one shot with it, if that, so we’ve got to plan with care. I wouldn’t back myself to hit a man at more than about thirty yards. His cut-down Ruger won’t be very accurate at that range and he’s only got small-bore capability; but he’s got a lot of it, and even a two-two Long Rifle bullet can kill if it finds the right place.’

  ‘You’d better give it to me,’ Paul said. ‘I’m trained in pistol marksmanship under combat conditions.’

  ‘My job,’ Ian said.

  Deborah shook her head dumbly.

  ‘Have either of you ever fired a flintlock before?’ Keith demanded. ‘I thought not. The delay would confuse you and you wouldn’t know what to do in the event of a misfire. What’s more, you two seem to have dressed for a picnic.’ He looked with disdain at Paul’s pale slacks and Ian’s white shirt and bandage and then glanced down at the muted clothes which he wore out of the habit of years. Keith liked to be ready for an impromptu stalk or a seat in a pigeon-hide at any time. ‘Even out of the corner of his eye, he couldn’t fail to notice you. And you couldn’t swap clothes with me. You’re both fatter than I am.’

  ‘Not fatter,’ Ian said. ‘Thicker.’

  ‘Your word, not mine.’

  ‘Dad, this is crazy,’ Deborah said. ‘You can’t do it! What do you think Mum would say if she knew?’

  ‘Consider it said. Now, would you rather that your Sergeant took it on? Or that we let somebody else be assassinated?’ Deborah was silent. ‘Right,’ Keith said. ‘We’ll take our time – I want the sun in his eyes. Let’s synchronise our watches. Then I want to see if that keg can produce some fine, dry powder to prime the flashpan. After that, here’s what we do . . .’

  *

  From behind a half-tumbled piece of stone wall, perhaps the remains of a former sheep-pen, Keith and the Sergeant looked out at the killing-field.

  ‘You can make out his head above and to the right of the pale stone,’ Ian whispered.

  ‘Well done,’ Keith said softly. A whisper carries further than a murmur on still air. ‘You’ve a good eye for country. And you were right about the sun being behind him. If he turns it’ll be right in his eyes. You know what to do?’

  ‘You’ve told us all fourteen times. You’re sure you can manage?’

  ‘Provided you hold his attention.’ Keith looked at his watch. ‘We’re running out of time. Get back to your car.’

  Ian nodded and set off, crawling through dead ground and then jogging round behind the swell of a low hump. His personal midges followed him and he was regretting ever leaving city streets.

  A shallow stream brought Keith closer to the sheiling. Crawling was difficult, with the flintlock pistol to be kept dry and safe. The trigger-guard had been broken off at some time and he was none too sure that the half-cock position would be reliable.

  The course of the stream turned where it came up against an outcrop of rock. This was probably as close as he could get for the moment. He raised his head cautiously and then held still, studying the ground. He was still sixty yards from his target, too far for a shot even if the pistol fired.

  He chose the next part of his route with care. He wanted to move silently and from behind Munster, but he wanted to stay low so that the descending afternoon sun would not throw his shadow forward into the man’s peripheral vision.

  Then there was nothing to do but wait and hope that his nerve would hold. At first the temptation to slap at the midges was almost overpowering but, as the cold water round his ankles cooled his bloodstream, the burni
ng of the bites died away. He could feel the sun on his back, but his feet were cold.

  From nearby, a cock grouse took fright and lifted, crying ‘Go-back, go-back.’ Its low flight took it almost over Munster’s head. Keith froze, head down, certain that the man would read the sign of another’s presence as he himself would have done. But when he risked a cautious look, the man had not turned his head.

  He checked the pistol again. There was another factor which he had not mentioned when discussing the plan. If the ball were locked into the barrel by corrosion, the pistol would almost certainly burst. He very much hoped that he could get close enough to Munster to bluff him. Or perhaps he could clobber him with the butt – which, it seemed, had already served that purpose at least once, two centuries earlier. Given half a chance, Keith decided, he would drive him into the peat like a nail.

  His watch told him that something should be happening. He held his breath and listened. Faintly on the still air came the sound of the Land Rover. It was still a long way off. Keith peered cautiously through a chink in the wall. Too soon to come out of cover. Munster was moving, getting ready for the massacre.

  The sound grew, slowly. The Land Rover would be in sight within a minute or two. Keith looked in the opposite direction. Ian’s car came out of the dip and bounced along the rough track.

  With his attention divided between vehicles approaching on both fronts, Munster would surely not think to look behind him. Keith rose and, feeling naked, set off over the heather. Fifty yards. Forty-five.

  The Land Rover came over the crest, roaring. It held to the ruts. The driver, if any, was invisible.

  Keith was running, his noise drowned. Forty yards. Thirty-five, thirty.

  The Land Rover swerved off the track, climbed a boulder and rolled gently onto its roof. The stone which had been holding down its accelerator fell off. The engine slowed to a tickover and died.

  Keith ran, as he thought, from heather onto grass; but it was green algae and weed covering a stagnant puddle of bog. He was slowed, splashing loudly. Ian’s car was still a hundred yards off, its engine noise not yet loud enough to cover the splash. Keith was still twenty yards from the sheiling, his feet sinking. Munster half turned, saw him and began to swing the converted rifle.

  Ian, from his car, saw the puff of smoke from the flashpan but there was no sound of the shot. The pistol had misfired.

  Keith saw the muzzle of the automatic weapon settle on him and knew that he was dead. There was nothing for it except to go through the drill, knowing that it would take a second or two. And he did not have a second, let alone two. He re-cocked the pistol and closed the flashpan. As if in a bad dream, his feet were held and every movement seemed to take an hour. Munster screwed up his eyes against the sun.

  Impelled by instinct or by reasoning faster than conscious thought, Ian put his head out of the car window and raised his voice until it cracked. ‘Dora!’ he yelled. The sound echoed back from the hillsides.

  It was Dora Braddle’s reputation for infallibility that had brought Munster to her in the first place. He had lifted her money on an impulse, but on consideration he had wondered whether the move had been a wise one. Ever since, he had been expecting that formidable lady to appear, bent on revenge and restitution. He looked round for a moment.

  Keith turned the pistol on its side and gave it a sharp slap in the hope of drifting a pinch of powder through the touch-hole to re-prime the flashpan. He was the focus of Munster’s attention again. The small muzzle was settling on his belly. He took quick aim and pulled the trigger. The action snapped loudly.

  As the first bullet grazed Keith’s right ribs, the pistol fired. The ball took Munster through the upper chest. The rest of the short burst went high.

  Keith struggled forward, dragging his boots out of the sodden peat. But Munster was not down. Spitting blood, he was bringing up his weapon again. Keith threw himself forward and tried to sink.

  Paul Cardinal arrived, racing down the track in the wake of the Land Rover and vaulting over the stonework to smash Munster down. He picked up the converted rifle and tossed it out onto the heather.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked Keith.

  Keith dragged himself to the wall, spitting peat and acid water, and climbed over. ‘I think I just died,’ he said. ‘But I’m alive now.’ He pulled up his shirt. The wound was barely a scratch. He let his shirt hang. ‘He only hit me once,’ he said. ‘I never count the first three or four.’

  Munster was lying, half propped against the stones. Blood from his mouth was streaking his chin while a stain was spreading over his shirt. They knelt down on either side of him.

  ‘Who was your client?’ Keith asked him.

  Munster slowly shook his head and coughed more blood.

  ‘He’ll never tell you that,’ Paul said. ‘They never do. But . . . who was your target?’ he asked Munster. ‘Tell me that and we’ll try to get you to hospital.’

  Munster was struggling to speak.

  Ian’s head appeared above the wall of the sheiling. Then Sheila and Deborah arrived, panting, from the other direction.

  ‘Yes, who?’ Ian said.

  Munster fought for breath. He made a sound like the purr of a cat. Then there was another rush of blood, his eyes rolled and he was limp.

  ‘I think he’s gone,’ Paul said. ‘If not, he won’t tick more than a minute or two. He was trying to make a word. President, maybe?’

  ‘Or Prime Minster?’ said Keith.

  Deborah had turned her back on the scene but she was calm. ‘Prince somebody?’ she suggested.

  ‘Could be,’ said Paul. ‘Or maybe he was just asking us to promise him something. Maybe we’ll never know.’ He looked up. ‘Here come your friends, galloping to the rescue after the danger’s past.’

  The blue Vauxhall was bumping along the track. Ian went to meet the other officers. ‘This is how you hold the egg,’ he said.

  Nobody saw Paul Cardinal go; but when the first flush of excitement was over, they saw that he had gone. With him went Ian Fellowes’s car and the flintlock pistol.

  Chapter Nine

  A week had gone by. Much of the first pandemonium had abated. With the assassin dead, police activity had been reduced to sporadic enquiries in the hope of identifying his client; a concentrated effort towards prosecuting Dora Braddle, Mary Bruce and all their cronies; and ceaseless bickering at a high level as to who had been dilatory or negligent or, alternatively, rash and impetuous in his duties.

  The general attitude of the police was that Sergeant Fellowes had scored a triumph; also that Keith’s shooting of Raymond Munster had been fully justified and should be supported when the matter came eventually to the inevitable Enquiry. The only dissenting voice had been that of Detective Superintendent McHarg, who had done himself no good in the process and was understood to be deep in the bad books of the ACC (Crime).

  Keith and Deborah were working together, at the upstairs workbench at Briesland House, on an old but beautiful hammer-gun, the internal lockwork of which had been sadly neglected. Using porous pads which had been impregnated with a mild abrasive, they were patiently removing all traces of corrosion from the tiny parts when Molly appeared in the doorway.

  ‘You have a visitor,’ Molly said. She was smiling the special smile that usually meant a surprise. She stood aside. ‘Mr Hall.’

  Robert Hall walked diffidently into the room and stood in his habitual droop.

  ‘But you’re dead,’ Keith said stupidly.

  Deborah, startled into carelessness, let a mainspring slip out of the spring-vice and flip across the room.

  Hall stooped to recover it. ‘Not very,’ he said. ‘I can’t use that as an excuse for letting you down. I came to apologise. And to ask if the job was still open.’ Unconsciously, he picked up a pad and began to polish the spring in his fingers.

  ‘It could be open,’ Keith said. ‘I took on a youngster. He starts next week, and so does the contract. But he was going to need far more supervision t
han I’ll have time for. I could use you both. First you’d have to explain. Sit down.’

  ‘This I’ve got to hear,’ Molly said.

  Hall gave her his shy smile. ‘You have the chair, Mrs Calder,’ he said. ‘I’m quite used to standing at a bench.’

  ‘So why didn’t you turn up?’ Keith asked.

  ‘Were you kidnapped, Mr Hall?’ Deborah put in.

  Hall shook his head. His moustache drooped less as he smiled. ‘Please call me Bob,’ he said. ‘It’s what I’ve always answered to. No, I wasn’t kidnapped. I was obeying orders.’

  ‘Whose orders?’ Keith said.

  ‘I don’t know the whole story. But I can make guesses at most of it. Have you seen today’s papers?’

  ‘Not to do more than glance at the headlines. We’ve been busy.’

  Hall put down the now shining spring and scratched his moustache thoughtfully. ‘About a month ago, you probably saw that the research laboratory of a pharmaceutical manufacturer had come up with a new drug. It won’t cure anything, but it helps to restore the body’s immune system and so suppresses the symptoms of AIDS, among other diseases, and prevents it progressing. This morning’s papers announced that J and D Pharmaceuticals of Glasgow had taken over the firm, lock, stock and barrel, in the teeth of strong competition from America and Germany.

  ‘The man who gave me my orders called himself Smith and he wouldn’t say who he was working for. But I saw his car. It isn’t difficult to find out who owns a particular car if you know the registration number. The car belonged to J and D Pharmaceuticals. So while I was under orders to lie low, I thought I might as well lie low in Glasgow and do a little digging.’ He shrugged. ‘I can be as nosey as the next man at times.

  ‘The chairman of J and D was in Switzerland, raising additional finance, but it was common knowledge that a takeover battle was going on. I think that he was the target. The vice-chairman was known to be dead against the deal.’

  Keith remembered the last sound made by the dying Munster. ‘What’s the chairman’s name?’ he asked.

  ‘Prescott.’