by Jack Murray
‘I could see,’ said Esther putting her hand on Kit’s.
‘I thought it was over.’ Kit was struggling to contain his emotions.
A heavy air hung over the table. None of them had the will or the strength to break the spell. Neither light nor laughter was going to lift the evening. No one was in the mood to make small talk. The only subject on their mind was Mary. Even the death of Esther’s uncle, Lord Cavendish, just a few weeks previously, seemed like a distant memory now. From time to time, Esther would think of him and a wave of grief would come, but its impact was relatively muted because she was feeling so low anyway. Finally, with some relief, they brought the evening to an early end.
Miller dropped off Esther at her hotel and then drove the two men back to Kit’s flat. Another telegram was on the floor. Kit picked it up and read it aloud. Laughing morosely, he turned to Bright and said, ‘He’s just taken my pawn with his Bishop. He must fancy his chances to do that so early in the game.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Kit walked over to the board. Looking at it for a moment, he made Serov’s move. They had now made four moves each.
‘At this stage I prefer to use the Knight or one of my pawns to mop up the advance guard of pawns. The Bishop isn’t really part of your infantry unless you intend going all-out attack. Your Knight can jump in, execute his mission, then escape.’
‘That’s good news isn’t it. If he takes you for granted, he may make some mistakes.’
Kit smiled, ‘I like your optimism. I daresay he feels he can beat me in whatever fashion he chooses. The thing of it is, he probably can. Serov doesn’t just want to beat me; it seems he wants to club me to death while he’s doing it.’
For the first time in the evening both found it possible to laugh as some men, destined for the gallows, might in the face of certain death.
-
The next morning found Spunky Stevens polishing his monocle to get a good view of the young ladies passing him and Kit on the park bench. Ensuring his eyewear was clean was imperative as Spunky had lost his other eye courtesy of German shrapnel early in the War. Invalided out of the army, he was quickly snapped up by spymaster, Mansfield Cumming. He became a vital part of Britain’s intelligence network thanks to his expansive network of former Oxbridge contacts. His genius for logistics soon made him indispensable in the organisation.
Kit looked at his old friend who was overtly surveying the territory. Spunky had long made it policy not to hide his thoughts, or indeed, intentions when it came to the opposite sex. Spunky believed in complete transparency. To the surprise of his friends, a combination of boyish charm and staggering honesty resulted in his enjoying a wide variety and high frequency of female company.
‘Tip of the iceberg, of course,’ explained Spunky to his friends. ‘You don’t get to see the dozen gals that turn me down.’
Kit looked at Spunky. This made Spunky smile and he turned to Kit and said, ‘You must understand the terrain. From this all planning and strategy, execution must follow old boy.’ His gaze followed a young lady accompanied by her mother, or governess, strolling through the park.
Sam was sitting on Spunky’s lap enjoying a spot of dog watching. Spunky gazed down at the little terrier. ‘I have a feeling that Sam is doing exactly what I’m doing. Do you ever give him the chance to meet young ladies?’
Kit laughed at this but did not answer. Instead, he asked, ‘When you’re ready Spunky, I want to get to the hospital soon.’
‘Sorry, old chap. A bit carried away there, but my word, Kit. I’m beginning to see the benefits of this move every day,’ said Spunky yet another young lady caught his one good eye. ‘Anyway, Billy Peel. An Ulsterman, been over here for yonks. Did his bit during the War. As you will have gathered, he’s a bit of a hard line socialist. Been arrested a few times. Usual thing. Trade Union marches and the like. Haven’t read many of his articles personally, but I gather he makes Marx look like a gin-swilling colonel at your local Conservative party.’
‘Sounds like a character. Do you know why he’s so hard line?’
‘Not had enough time old boy,’ admitted Spunky.
‘I understand. Thanks, I appreciate you finding out so much.’
Spunky looked at his old friend with a frown. Kit couldn’t quite read this look.
‘Look, why the interest in Peel anyway, Kit?’ asked Spunky finally.
Kit raised his hands, ‘Honestly, I don’t know. Probably I’m in a funk about the upcoming Serov catastrophe. I’m facing humiliation. My suspicion is someone like Peel will look to rain down on me seven kinds of you-know-what. Some of the things in the article were odd but I can’t explain why.’
Spunky looked at him with a half-smile, ‘I sense Kit the bloodhound is on the trail of something nefarious. Is there a fifth column in our midst?’
This made Kit roar with laughter. After a few minutes he looked at Spunky, ‘Thanks, I don’t feel I’ve been good company of late.’
‘Perfectly understandable old boy,’ replied Spunky sympathetically. ‘You’ve fallen pretty hard for her, haven’t you?’
Kit nodded in reply but said nothing more. What could he say? The aching hollowness inside him was its own answer. Spunky saw the look of pain on Kit’s face and looked away, embarrassed to intrude on such anguish.
-
Following the visit to Mary, Kit picked up an early edition of the Evening Standard from a seller outside the hospital. The lad selling the paper was barely in his teens. Kit gave him a tip and took away the paper. His attention had been drawn by the headline. It read: Trade Union Official Murdered!
He showed the headline to Esther and Bright who sat with him in the car. He read the article out loud to his companions.
‘Police are baffled by the bizarre battery of,’ Kit looked up at his friends, ‘I love the alliteration.’ Continuing with the article, ‘…a man in Oldham. Trade Union official, Herbert Yapp was on his way home from a meeting in a local working men’s club, when it is believed an unknown assailant attacked him. Police have not confirmed the cause of death, but it is believed he was murdered by a single blow to the head. Police have appealed for any witnesses.’
‘How shocking, this world seems full of ghastly murders’ said Esther.
‘Strange,’ said Bright.
‘Even stranger, Richard. Listen to this,’ said Kit. ‘Herbert Yapp had earlier attended a meeting along with other Trade Unionists in which Russian chess grandmaster Filip Serov. The visiting Russian had just given a rousing pro-communist speech...’
Kit glanced up at Esther and Bright, ‘What do you make of that?’
‘But surely, it’s just a coincidence,’ said Esther.
Kit looked inside the paper to see if there was anything more on the story.
‘I’m not sure I believe in coincidences, Esther. I wish there was more on the story.’
‘But what possible connection could Serov have to this? It’s fantastic,’ replied Bright, unable to hide his scepticism.
Kit smiled, ‘My suspicious nature. Mary would agree with me though.’
Esther laughed, ‘She would. You’re two peas in a pod, in this regard.’ As she laughed, she felt the tears sting her eyes. They all fell silent again and remained so for the rest of the car journey, lost in their thoughts, once more, for Mary.
Rather than leave Esther back to her hotel, all three returned to Kit’s flat. They were greeted with a telegram containing the next move in the chess match. After depositing their coats in the cloakroom, Kit went over to the chess board and made Serov’s move before sitting down to ponder a response.
The match was in its early stages. The pattern thus far recalled several matches familiar to Kit. All had been won by white. Although Kit was in no doubt Serov had a variation up his sleeve, there seemed little reason to depart from the classic responses. Kit made his mind up quickly and asked Harry to send a telegram to his opponent.
‘Yes sir. I don’t suppose you want me to wait for
a response.
Kit glanced up at Miller. Something in what he’d asked made him wonder. He decided not to pursue this and merely said, ‘No thanks, Harry. No need to wait.’
Miller left the apartment, watched by Kit.
Esther sat down near Kit and began to sketch him as he stared at the board. Kit, without moving, glanced at her.
‘Do I have to stay in this position?’
Esther laughed, ‘Yes, just a couple of minutes, I’m getting tired of painting watercolours in the park. A figurative study might be just the trick.’
‘You’ve never asked to paint me,’ smiled Bright.
Esther responded by making a face at him, ‘I have some ideas on that, Doctor Bright. They’ll have to wait until we’re married.’
-
In a nearby office, someone else was reading the same article with interest. Billy Peel set the Evening Standard down and gazed reflectively out the window. Peel, like Kit, did not believe in coincidences. It seemed unlikely that Serov would be implicated in such a crime, not the least because Yapp would have been on the same side of the fence, politically. In theory, anyway. He made a mental note to find out more about Yapp, and if his class struggle credentials were as strong as everyone had been led to believe.
However, the two Cheka agents presented a different proposition. Both were probably killers; Peel had suspected this from the first moment he’d met them. Bergmann was also someone who could order such an act and, probably, be capable of its execution, literally. The only question if one believed this train of thought, and Peel did, was why? What possible motive would the Cheka agents have for murdering someone who was a supporter of class struggle. This made no sense to Peel. His spider senses, which he trusted implicitly, were tingling. Whenever he sensed a story, it was the same reaction. Grabbing his coat, he went over to the office of the editor.
George Lansbury, editor of the Herald, saw Peel enter his office with something approximating dread. That he did not like Peel was not an issue. He hated most of the journalists he worked with. They were a bunch of prima donna’s in his view; always demanding to be centre of attention, always believing in a fantasy that they had an adoring public. This fantasy was, sadly, fed by the occasional supportive letters from the public. Peel was the worst, in this regard.
The problem for Lansbury was that Peel was good. There were better writers on the newspaper, but few were smarter than the Ulsterman. Even fewer matched Peel’s sense for a story and nobody had a way of sensationalising it quite the way he could.
This created a conflict for Lansbury. Like Peel, he genuinely strove for the truth. He passionately believed in the need for a newspaper to hold governments, judiciaries, and legislatures to account. In Britain, this meant the Establishment. Like Peel, Lansbury believed the Establishment sprang from the same small pond. Unlike Peel, Lansbury abhorred hyperbole and detested over-dramatizing stories. Doing so, diminished, rather than enhanced the message. However, the newspaper owners loved Peel and Lansbury’s hands were tied when it came to the diminutive Ulsterman.
‘George,’ said Peel entering without knocking.
‘Come in,’ said Lansbury, unable to hide the sourness in his voice.
Peel detected immediately the tone but, as usual, ignored it. ‘I need to go to Oldham.’
‘A little early for your summer holiday, Billy,’ replied Lansbury sardonically.
‘Very funny. I’m not sure the sun has ever shone in Oldham. Hidden behind the smoke from the mills no doubt.’
‘No doubt. Perhaps you can shine the light of truth on this mill town then. May I ask why you want to go Oldham?’
‘I want to look into the murder of the Trade Union official,’ explained Peel.
Lansbury sat up, a little surprised. ‘I thought you’d left crime behind.’
‘The victim, Herbert Yapp, met Filip Serov, earlier that day.’
‘Good God, you’re not suggesting that there’s a connection, are you? Wait a moment, Billy, you’re not going to accuse Serov…?’
Lansbury had always been highly sympathetic to the Russian government. The prospect of Peel stirring up trouble with Serov was something he was keen to avoid. He dreaded to think what scandal Peel could dredge up on Serov if he put his mind to it. His rapid reverie was thankfully interrupted by Peel before it had fully landed on what might be happening in a typical Russian orphanage.
‘No of course not,’ answered Peel, ‘but I want to find out more about the case. The police haven’t released much about the murder beyond the usual appeal for witnesses.’
The connection with Serov was new news for Lansbury. Reluctantly he had to admit, as ever, Peel’s instincts were correct in the need to follow up on what had happened. On the positive side it would take Peel away from a few days and hopefully give Lansbury one less child to worry about in the nursery. For a moment he could not stop himself fantasizing about having guard dogs patrol the perimeter of his office. The image of them snapping at the newspapermen brave enough to come to him for more space or a bigger headline gave him a warm glow.
With a wave of his hand, he agreed to allow Peel the expenses for the trip up to Oldham. It was only when Peel had left the office that Lansbury’s mood sank again, as he realised how any perceived special treatment for Peel would only increase the demands from the rest of the adolescents in the newsroom. He rubbed both his eyes with the heel of his palms.
Chapter 13
Kit stared down at the open casket. Tears streamed down his face as he gazed at the face of Mary, peaceful, beautiful, forever to sleep. The choir sang but Kit could not hear them. The music was muffled by his grief. Nothing, not even the force of his misery, could compel God to change his mind. Nothing would force an admission He had made a mistake; an acknowledgement of what Kit could plainly see: it wasn’t Mary’s time.
But it was.
The evidence was before his eyes. For once the rationalist inside him could not accept it. He looked up at the church congregation. Esther was dressed in black with a veil. She was held tightly by Bright. Like Kit, she had also refused to accept the inevitability. Had she realised earlier nothing could be done, then the healing process would have already begun. Hope is like a drug we take to lessen pain. Once it’s taken away from you, there is a price to be paid. But she would not live with the open wound. That would be Kit’s alone. The certain knowledge that he had caused her death. She had sacrificed herself for him.
For Kit, the guilt was unbearable. Strangerson’s poison dart had found its target eventually. It was poisoning his system. For how could he live through this? He was a void. A shell. He could not return from such a loss. Esther had Richard. There would be pain for some time, maybe years, to come. But time would do its job. Marriage would heal her pain and children would arrive. Perhaps they would have a girl. She would be called Mary.
He had nothing else. She was gone.
As he bent down over Mary, he sensed someone coming to stand beside him. He looked up. It was Harry. He, too, was dressed in black. To Kit’s surprise, Harry was smiling. It wasn’t the usual smile of supportive pity. The smile of someone who wants you to believe it’ll be alright. No, Harry seemed happy. He felt Harry’s hand on his shoulder. Then Harry winked at Kit. He leaned down and whispered into Mary’s ear, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll have you back soon.’
Kit woke up and sat bolt upright in the bed, breathing heavily. The room was dark, and it was still night outside. He slumped back in the bed. The sheets were cold, bathed in his sweat. The fear and the feeling of impotence took over. Alone in his room, away from prying eyes, the dam burst.
-
Kopel read over the typewritten note. He looked at Fechin and smiled benignly. On several levels, it was a surprise. Given English was only his second language, Kopel was impressed with the absence of errors. Perhaps this was a function, he thought ruefully, of the low expectations he had of the little Moscovian.
More surprising was his flourish at the end. He had named the grou
p, “The Sword of Light”. It was very evocative, and Kopel had immediately congratulated Fechin on this. Not that he cared, but he was conscious of the need to encourage Fechin from time to time.
‘Well done Fechin. I think it captures the tone and the message very well. The misdirection about Yapp is very good. The police will waste a lot of time on this one. I like the “Sword of Light”, very good.’
This seemed to make Fechin embarrassed but pleased all the same. He was desperate to please Kopel, sensing neither Daniels nor Serov liked him much. The provenance of the group’s name was clearly unfamiliar to Kopel. It would be a nice surprise for him when he realised how Fechin had added another layer of misdirection on his own initiative. It was badly needed. The fiasco in Edinburgh was still fresh. He needed to regain some esteem from his colleagues, particularly Kopel, who had doubtless been made aware by Bergmann or Daniels.
Daniels, inevitably, seemed less impressed by both the name and the idea of the note. Kopel was quick to observe his reaction. As much as Kopel respected Daniels, he certainly wasn’t a big picture man. There was a lack of panache in his comrade. Perhaps this was just as well. He took orders, he executed them, literally. What more did he need really? One last review of the note, it read:
Welcome to the Revolution. Herbert Yapp was executed yesterday. He was a traitor to the cause of class struggle.
The Sword of Light
Kopel put the note into an envelope and addressed it to Billy Peel, care of the Daily Herald. This would make a nice scoop for Peel. He’d maybe ask Bergmann to follow up separately with Peel on the progress of the chess match. It was critical that the profile of the encounter was maintained.
Over breakfast, Kopel, Bergmann and Serov discussed the progress of the game. Although Serov was glad that Bergmann had returned, meeting Kopel was a turning point in his level of enthusiasm for this trip. As much as he liked and even respected Daniels, the big Russian was not the most communicative. On the other hand, Fechin was much too talkative. None of it interested Serov. More importantly, he neither trusted nor liked the man. He guessed Fechin sensed this also and, increasingly, they avoided each other’s company. Kopel’s company was proving not only to be enjoyable but stimulating. Aside from his obvious intelligence and despite his relative youth, there was a natural gravitas. Furthermore, he was exceptionally good company. He had a fund of fascinating stories about the Revolution. They encompassed the events leading up to its onset through to the aftermath.
