by Jack Murray
‘So, Serov will find out I’ve taken his Bishop. His Queen will no doubt exact revenge on his behalf,’ said Kit, indicating the move on the second chess board.
Miller waited until Kit had finished before handing him the, ‘You should see the latest news sir.’
Kit glanced down at the headline, ‘Good lord,’ said Kit spinning the newspaper around so that Esther and Bright could read also. It read: Another Murder by Irish Republicans.
‘Who on earth are this group anyway, Kit?’ asked Bright.
‘Honestly, I have no idea,’ admitted Kit, equally mystified. ‘I’ve not had much to do with Ireland over the years.’
‘Did you know this chap Forbes-Trefusis? Cracking name by the way, Sir Montagu Forbes-Trefusis,’ read out Bright, ‘Never any chance he was going to be a dockworker.’
Kit ignored the gallows humour and said, ‘I’ve met him, but didn’t really know him very well. I heard he was a bit of a fanatic at the start of the War. If I remember correctly, he lost a boy in France, poor chap. Not been the same since. None of us are, I suppose,’ added Kit absently.
Bright studied Kit but didn’t ask what he meant. He didn’t need to. As a doctor during the War, he‘d seen too much of the damage wrought on bodies and minds exposed to the conflict. Nobody who had been in France, and lucky enough to return, came back the same person. There had been moments when he thought he’d lose his mind also such was the stress of trying to repair the awful injuries. Esther rested her chin on Bright’s shoulder and read the story.
‘There seems be nothing but bad news in the papers these days. Always some murder or another. I would’ve thought people had had their fill of it.’
Kit directed his attention away from the chess board for a moment and gazed at Esther. Her comments had been general, but it made him recall the recent murder of the Trade Union official and his conversation with Spunky. The fact that Peel was reporting on both the chess match and the murders was a connection that had put Kit’s senses on alert.
He couldn’t explain why this should be so, but he knew something felt peculiar. The Irish republican involvement might be something Spunky could shed light on. Impatient, as ever, to know, he rose from his seat to go to the phone. He dialled a number. A minute later he was through.
‘Hello, yes, this is Lord Kit Aston. Can you get me Spunky please?’
In the background he heard Bright snort. He sneaked a quick glance and saw Esther looking at him askance. As he was holding on with no one else on the line, he pretended to talk with someone.
‘What do you mean he can’t come now?’
In the background Bright was now coughing with laughter. Esther seemed very concerned. She leaned over to Bright, ‘Let me get you a drink darling, are you alright?’
‘Fine, really,’ said Bright frowning at Kit who smile was beaming.
Spunky finally took the call.
‘Hello Spunky, it’s Kit. I was calling to find out more about these murders by Irish republicans. What’s going on? There hasn’t been much about the murders themselves in the papers and even less about why they think there’s an Irish connection.’
After a few moments when Spunky was speaking, Kit added, ‘I see, yes, I’d love to know more. Thanks, Spunky and apologies for interrupting your evening. Is she anyone I know, by the way?’
As he said this he glanced at his friends and winked. This caused Esther and Bright to laugh. Both could hear a voice reply but the sound was indistinct. It was enough to make Kit laugh.
Finally, Kit said, ‘Oh, I see, it’s your book club, is it? What are you reading? Fanny Hill?’
-
Cheltenham was a pleasant change from Birmingham. In fact, reflected Serov, just about anywhere would’ve made a pleasant change. It had been an agreeable drive down with Kopel. They had passed through some beautiful green countryside which Kopel had called the Cotswolds. If Serov didn’t know better, he would have sworn that Kopel was an anglophile such was his knowledge of the history and culture of the land he was spying on.
Although he would never have admitted this to Kopel, Serov had enjoyed reading the novels of Jane Austen. While he detested the inequality of the world depicted by Austen, he enjoyed them as entertainments. They contributed enormously to his study of the English language. As he walked past the Regency buildings, his memory of the books he devoured growing up came alive. It felt like he was in her world.
The sun was shining now, and the air felt clean as he walked through the historic centre of Cheltenham. Once again, he was struck by the absence of true poverty and depravation he was used to back home. Perhaps he could speak to Kopel of this. The Latvian Russian had been stationed in England for a few years now. He seemed able to reconcile an interest in the country with a desire to see it move along the lines prescribed by Marx. There was bound to be an alternative narrative for a country which, ostensibly, had no great need to change.
He passed a newspaper seller. Beside him, on a billboard was a big headline: Another Murder. In this regard, Serov noted, England was no safer than Russia. He continued his stroll back to the hotel thankful to have an afternoon off from visiting Trade Union officials and party members. This was, perhaps, another topic to broach with Kopel. He was tiring of the treadmill of matches in the morning followed by factory visits followed by meetings. Daniels and Fechin seemed to have more free time than him.
Although he felt completely confident in his ability to beat Aston, it wasn’t something to leave to chance. Preparation time would be welcome. As he thought about this he paused and looked around him. The street was noisier than the big cities in Russia. There were more cars on the roads and more people in the streets. It was warmer, obviously that helped. But the people also seemed more alive. All around there were street sellers and buskers making music.
They had an energy he did not recognise in his home country. As much as he would love to have put this down to the quiet desperation of the proletariat trying to survive, the evidence was of something else, and it bore little relation to what he was hearing at the meetings. In fact, no relation at all.
-
‘I haven’t a clue why these letters are being sent to me, Chief Inspector,’ said Peel, once again in Chief Inspector Jellicoe’s office.
Jellicoe didn’t immediately respond to Peel. Instead, he studied him closely. Silence was an interrogation tool he often used as it usually opened up a suspect more effectively than direct questioning. Unfortunately for Jellicoe, Peel either knew what he was doing or employed similar techniques himself. Silence hung in the air like cigarette smoke, a lingering, unwelcome presence. Jellicoe suspected Peel’s protestations of innocence were true, and yet he knew there had to be a reason why “The Sword of Light” was using Peel as their contact. It was clear Peel did not know why, but there would come a time when he would.
The question remained who or what was “The Sword of Light”? A deranged individual, an Irish republican group operating in Britain, or something else? Aside from the letter there were no leads save for the odd choice of murder method.
Peel understood Jellicoe’s dilemma. The Chief Inspector’s suspicion arose as much from his lack of leads as anything untoward he may have done. He felt a degree of sympathy for Jellicoe. There was probably a lot of pressure on him now to make progress in the case and it wasn’t being helped by the publicity he had created. It said something for Jellicoe that he had not reproached him for gaining such a scoop.
After a long silence, Peel said, ‘I won’t publish this, but so as I’m clear, you’re saying you have no other leads aside from the letters and the murder weapon. Correct?’
‘Correct,’ acknowledged Jellicoe.
‘I’ve spoken with a lot of people who are on the fringes of Irish nationalism. No one’s heard of this group. Worse, they’ve no idea who might have created it.’
Jellicoe looked at the Ulsterman and thought for a moment.
‘This is not for publication. We’ve been pushing hard on
informants in the Irish community, here and Dublin. It’s the same response: this group is new. No one knows who’s involved. They seem to have appeared magically out of thin air. Either that or people are afraid to speak.’
‘And there’s no link between Yapp and Forbes-Trefusis?’ asked Peel
‘No link that we can find.’
‘I can’t publish the medieval lance?’
‘No.’
Peel smiled and began to rise. ‘Sorry. One more thing. Presumably the crosier was stolen. Did it come from a Roman Catholic church?’
Jellicoe looked surprised by the question and then laughed, ‘I don’t think my answer will shed much light on that. It was stolen from a Russian Orthodox church, would you believe? A Russian flag was tied around it. I suppose that’s why we’re a bit confused.’
Peel still didn’t believe in coincidences.
-
Kopel, Daniels and Fechin sat together in Pittville Park in the heart of Cheltenham. Facing them was the Pittville Pump Room with its colonnade of Ionic columns. On the lawn facing the pump room were families enjoying an unusually sunny January, late in the afternoon.
‘It’s a beautiful building, isn’t it?’ remarked Kopel.
Daniels and Fechin each had no opinion on the subject. Rather than risk silence, Daniels offered a truthful if not effusive response, ‘Yes’.
Kopel glanced at Daniels and smiled. Daniels shrugged. Kopel decided against further small talk and returned to business. The walk in the park had been a last-minute idea to bring the team together again. The dressing down he’d given to Fechin was still festering. Kopel realised the need to build bridges again. As useless as he was, Fechin still had an important role to play.
‘I’ll join you tonight,’ said Kopel, ‘I want to make sure everything goes to plan.’ Daniels noted how Kopel looked at Fechin as he said this. The unfortunate Fechin had spent most of the day sulking following the rather public demolition at the hands of Kopel. To help rebuild the small Moscovian’s dented confidence, Kopel entrusted him with a small task.
‘Off you go Vassily, we’ll see you back at the hotel,’ added Kopel with a smile and a good humour he certainly wasn’t feeling toward Fechin. He would have a word with Bergmann about his choice of personnel when the opportunity arose. The thought of Bergmann stopped him for a moment. He wondered if he’d ever have that conversation. If things went as he planned…
Chapter 20
Fechin welcomed the chance to be away from the others. The reaction of Kopel to his error over the letter struck him as disproportionate. The mistake clearly lay with Kopel for not being more open about his plans. The anger and humiliation he’d felt earlier was, however, slowly dissipating. What remained was an open wound. It was always him. The hangover of humiliation has a physical dimension. Fatigue seeped into his bones like water in a cloth. A part of him wanted to get back to the hotel and shut himself away in a room. Instead, he had more work to do tonight. The thought of what lay ahead perked him up.
Another source of energy was his hatred of Daniels. It had grown in direct relation to the level of degradation he had undergone. If there was a way he could get even with the big thug, he would. As he drove through the early evening traffic, he considered all his options. There weren’t many, he realised.
Arriving at his destination he stepped out of the car at Shipley’s Garage. Greeting him was the eponymous garage owner, Ernest Shipley. Like Fechin, Mr Shipley was made to smaller dimensions which were in inverse proportion to the extent of his meanness. A good day for him was one in which he could put one over on an unsuspecting member of the public. Visitors to Cheltenham, he found, were always particularly entertaining targets. Occasionally heaven provided rich bounty in the form of a foreign visitor. Today it seemed as if the creator was smiling on him. One look at Fechin suggested someone from outside Britain. He guessed Slavic.
Unfortunately for Shipley, his essentially ill-natured personality was all too visible to anyone that met him. For this reason, Shipley’s business was not in robust health. However, for an owner with no dependents, nor likely to breed any, it was enough.
‘Good evening,’ said Shipley with a smile that revealed a set of teeth which were, if anything, in worse condition than their owner. Even Fechin found himself recoiling.
‘Good evening,’ replied Fechin not bothering to smile. There was no reason to. He and the man before him were hardly likely to be exchanging Christmas cards this year.
Shipley’s smile became even wider when he heard the accent. He had guessed correctly. It took a considerable effort to stop himself rubbing his hands together. With something approaching glee he asked, ‘How can I help you sir?’
Fechin pointed to the car, ‘I need to fill up my petrol can. I also need a second petrol can. Have you one I could buy?’
‘So, my friend, you have one in the car to fill and one you want to buy, is that correct?’
Shipley’s appeal to friendship was always likely to fall on deaf ears with the disgruntled Fechin who merely contented himself with a nod of the head. For the next few minutes Shipley made himself busy filling the empty can for Fechin. Then he brought out another metal can.
Fechin took one look at the can in Shipley’s hand. It had seen better days. Thirty years ago, it would have seemed an old can. A recent attempt at painting it could not hide the patches of rust. Shipley opened it so that Fechin could see and, more importantly, smell the contents. Although the cost seemed higher than other places he had visited, Fechin did not care as it was Kopel’s money. He made sure to get a receipt, however, just in case Kopel demanded proof of how the money had been spent.
Shipley waved goodbye to Fechin, grinning widely. The little Russian ignored him, happy to be away from the garage owner. The drive back to the park was mercifully quick as the smell of the gasoline began to permeate the inside of the vehicle. Catching sight of his companions standing outside the park, Fechin pulled over to let them in. Both Kopel and Daniels recoiled as they climbed into the car.
‘What on earth is that smell?’ demanded Kopel.
‘The owner spilled some of the petrol,’ said Fechin uncertain if this was true or not. However, it seemed plausible and this was enough. With everyone aboard, the three men set off towards Gloucester.
-
Gloucester Cathedral was originally founded as an abbey by the Normans. Following the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIII re-founded the abbey as a cathedral. The dissolution had proved a boon to the royal coffers. To ensure the loyalty of major aristocratic families, Henry VIII created numerous offices for Bishops, in the aftermath of his break with Rome, using money appropriated from Rome to provide pastoral direction for his flock. The beneficiaries of these rewards tended to be royal bureaucrats rather than men with genuine vocations. One such office was the Bishop of Gloucester.
The current incumbent was John Gordon. This was a man, much like his predecessors, whose calling lay in understanding political and administrative exigencies rather than any great interest in the spiritual well-being of the diocese. Gordon was not altogether apathetic towards his episcopal responsibilities. It was a job, albeit a job which gave him a very high quality of life without requiring much by way of exertion in return.
Gordon liked to visit the cathedral, on his own, from time to time. He would sit in the nave at the same pew near the back. He used this time, not to pray, but to meditate. Over recent years he had become very interested in Buddhism. This epiphany had occurred after reading Sir Edwin Arnold’s poem on the life of Buddha, The Light of Asia. A private amusement for him was to quote from this poem in sermons to his Christian flock.
The cathedral was dark save for the glow of candles. The only sounds were echoing footsteps of the remaining visitors shuffling along the aisles drinking in their surrounds and the peace and presence of the divine. Gordon didn’t need to close his eyes. What remained of the light and the muffled sounds resonating around him wove a hypnotic spell. Sometimes he would
fall asleep for several minutes such was his immersion in the moment. On this occasion, his nap was more a consequence of the chloroform rag held to his mouth than psychophysical relaxation of his senses. It was sleep from which he would never awake.
Acting as lookout, Kopel motioned to Daniels and Fechin to pick up the limp body of the cleric. They followed Kopel through a side entrance to the cathedral, where the car was parked. Less than a minute later they were driving off at great speed.
‘He looks dead,’ said Fechin looking down at the unconscious Gordon, beside him in the back of the car, ‘How much did you give him?’.
‘Enough to knock out a male rhino,’ responded Daniels who was driving.
‘The smell in this car would’ve knocked him out,’ noted Kopel sourly, glancing at Fechin. In truth it was overpowering. Even with all the windows open, little could counteract the soporific effect of the fumes.
They made a short drive to a farm near Cheltenham racecourse. Previous scouting by Daniels had established the presence of some outbuildings which lay empty and unused. Daniels drove straight into one such building. Fechin leapt out of the car, propelled by a need for fresh air, and shut the large gates of the barn. Returning to the car he helped Daniels drag the prone prelate into the middle where there was a supporting pillar. Gordon was tied to this as if he were at a stake.
Fechin gazed down at the comatose cleric.
‘Shall we try to wake him?’
‘Good luck,’ replied Daniels, not bothering to look at Fechin.
‘No leave him,’ said Kopel with finality. ‘Vassily, bring the petrol.’
Fechin walked over to the car and opened the back. He took out the rusty can and carried it over to the stake.
Kopel nodded at Fechin, who proceeded to empty the contents of the rusty can liberally over the soon-to-be-former Bishop. The men stepped back from the stake. Intent on showing his trust in Fechin, Kopel handed him a box of matches. He nodded over to Bishop John Gordon. Fechin lit a match and threw it towards the body.
